Read Online A World of Difference by Harry Turtledove - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Harry Turtledove
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uncultured old American son of a pig beat us down.” Despair lay on him, heavy as gravity.
“They may have been first, Sergei Konstantinovich, but we were better,” Valery Bryusov said, trying to console him. “They are eighty kilometers east of where they should be, and across the chasm from us. They will not have an easy time returning.”
Tolmasov only grunted.
He looked through the window. Seeing out only by way of monitors was one thing for which he emphatically did not envy
Athena
. Television, to him, was not quite real. It could lie so easily that even the truth became untrustworthy. Glass, now, a man could trust, streaks, smears, and all.
To the eye, the country reminded him of the Siberian tundra where
Tsiolkovsky
’s crew had trained. It was gently rolling land, with patches of snow here and there. From a distance, the plants looked like plants; Tolmasov was no botanist. Some were dark green, some brown, some yellow.
He did not see anything moving. He had set
Tsiolkovsky
down well away from the buildings he saw in the landing approach. It was not that he wanted to, or could, keep the landing secret—as well keep sunrise hidden! But if the Minervans came to him, he would have an easier time meeting them on his terms.
He got out of his seat and walked over to the closet full of warm clothes. “What’s the temperature outside, Katerina Fyodorovna?” he asked.
She checked the thermometer. “One above.”
“Brr!” Shota Rustaveli gave a theatrical shiver. The five Russians, even quiet Voroshilov, laughed at him. A degree above freezing—that was weather to be enjoyed, not endured, Tolmasov thought.
“It
is
early afternoon, at a season that is the equivalent of May, in a southern latitude that corresponds to Havana’s,” Dr. Zakharova pointed out, and Tolmasov felt his mirth slip. Russian summer was brief, but it was there. On Minerva, the weather did not get a whole lot warmer than this.
“Thank you for coming to my defense, Katerina, in these bleak circumstances,” Rustaveli said. The doctor murmured something. So did Tolmasov, under his breath. Where had the Georgian learned to sound like a courtier from some perfumed court and, worse, to do it so well?
The colonel drew calf-length felt
valenki
over his feet and put his arms through the sleeves of his quilted
telogreika
. The rest of the crew, except for Lopatin and Voroshilov, crowded around to do likewise.
Next to the jackets, boots, and prosaic thermal underwear hung six full-length sable coats, for bad weather. Bryusov ran a loving hand down one of them. “Here is something the Americans cannot match,” he said.
“And here is something else,” Oleg Lopatin added. He had opened a locked cabinet not far from the protective gear. He started passing out weapons and brown plastic magazines.
Tolmasov took his gratefully. Even though it was the new model AK-74 with small-caliber, high-velocity ammunition and not the AK-47 he had trained with, a Kalashnikov was a Kalashnikov: a good friend to have if the going got rough.
“How long shall we wait for the natives to come to us before we start looking for them?” Rustaveli asked as all of them but Lopatin and Voroshilov stood in front of the airlock. Doctrine was two people on
Tsiolkovsky
at all times, one of them able to fly the ship, and Lopatin was backup pilot.
They went through the lock two by two, Tolmasov and Bryusov first. The pilot stood on
Tsiolkovsky
’s left wing and stared out at a world not his own. The view was broader than the one from the windows, but not much different—boring, barren, superficially familiar terrain. A thrill ran through the colonel all the same. He had been in his teens when Buzz Aldrin had first set foot on the moon. Well, Aldrin was envying him today.
The lock’s outer door came open behind him. Katerina and Rustaveli emerged and looked around. The Georgian tugged his jacket tighter around him. Tolmasov smiled to himself.
Rustaveli was carrying
“They may have been first, Sergei Konstantinovich, but we were better,” Valery Bryusov said, trying to console him. “They are eighty kilometers east of where they should be, and across the chasm from us. They will not have an easy time returning.”
Tolmasov only grunted.
He looked through the window. Seeing out only by way of monitors was one thing for which he emphatically did not envy
Athena
. Television, to him, was not quite real. It could lie so easily that even the truth became untrustworthy. Glass, now, a man could trust, streaks, smears, and all.
To the eye, the country reminded him of the Siberian tundra where
Tsiolkovsky
’s crew had trained. It was gently rolling land, with patches of snow here and there. From a distance, the plants looked like plants; Tolmasov was no botanist. Some were dark green, some brown, some yellow.
He did not see anything moving. He had set
Tsiolkovsky
down well away from the buildings he saw in the landing approach. It was not that he wanted to, or could, keep the landing secret—as well keep sunrise hidden! But if the Minervans came to him, he would have an easier time meeting them on his terms.
He got out of his seat and walked over to the closet full of warm clothes. “What’s the temperature outside, Katerina Fyodorovna?” he asked.
She checked the thermometer. “One above.”
“Brr!” Shota Rustaveli gave a theatrical shiver. The five Russians, even quiet Voroshilov, laughed at him. A degree above freezing—that was weather to be enjoyed, not endured, Tolmasov thought.
“It
is
early afternoon, at a season that is the equivalent of May, in a southern latitude that corresponds to Havana’s,” Dr. Zakharova pointed out, and Tolmasov felt his mirth slip. Russian summer was brief, but it was there. On Minerva, the weather did not get a whole lot warmer than this.
“Thank you for coming to my defense, Katerina, in these bleak circumstances,” Rustaveli said. The doctor murmured something. So did Tolmasov, under his breath. Where had the Georgian learned to sound like a courtier from some perfumed court and, worse, to do it so well?
The colonel drew calf-length felt
valenki
over his feet and put his arms through the sleeves of his quilted
telogreika
. The rest of the crew, except for Lopatin and Voroshilov, crowded around to do likewise.
Next to the jackets, boots, and prosaic thermal underwear hung six full-length sable coats, for bad weather. Bryusov ran a loving hand down one of them. “Here is something the Americans cannot match,” he said.
“And here is something else,” Oleg Lopatin added. He had opened a locked cabinet not far from the protective gear. He started passing out weapons and brown plastic magazines.
Tolmasov took his gratefully. Even though it was the new model AK-74 with small-caliber, high-velocity ammunition and not the AK-47 he had trained with, a Kalashnikov was a Kalashnikov: a good friend to have if the going got rough.
“How long shall we wait for the natives to come to us before we start looking for them?” Rustaveli asked as all of them but Lopatin and Voroshilov stood in front of the airlock. Doctrine was two people on
Tsiolkovsky
at all times, one of them able to fly the ship, and Lopatin was backup pilot.
They went through the lock two by two, Tolmasov and Bryusov first. The pilot stood on
Tsiolkovsky
’s left wing and stared out at a world not his own. The view was broader than the one from the windows, but not much different—boring, barren, superficially familiar terrain. A thrill ran through the colonel all the same. He had been in his teens when Buzz Aldrin had first set foot on the moon. Well, Aldrin was envying him today.
The lock’s outer door came open behind him. Katerina and Rustaveli emerged and looked around. The Georgian tugged his jacket tighter around him. Tolmasov smiled to himself.
Rustaveli was carrying
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