It was Bahagorev. A wisp of a man, feather-frail. But his voice was like iron. He was pale, face seamed with age. A dozen tubes and wires connected to various parts of his body. Someone had cranked his floater bed up to a sitting position,

One of the consoles that the nurses had wheeled in was a videocassette recorder, Kinsman saw. The Russian reached toward it.

"Don't! You'll pull your IV loose!"

"Then take it away!" Baliagorev roared. "When I want to be entertained by brainless videotapes, I will tell you. Where is Dr. Meyers? Where is she?"

Pushing his way through the remaining knot of nurses and the young doctor, Kinsman said, "She'll be here shortly, sir. I'm Chet Kinsman, the commander here. I'm glad to see that you're feeling so strong."

"Bah! I feel miserable," Baliagorev snapped, in impecca- ble English. "How would you feel, wired up like a mario- nette?"

"Well, I ..."

The Russian shook his head. "I am a simple man. I can accept the fact that my countrymen regard me as a revisionist fool. I can accept the fact that my own heart has turned traitor on me. I can even accept the fact that I am surrounded by Yankees who have all the cultural sensitivities of a Latvian smuggler. All I want is to see Dr. Meyers. Why can't this one simple request ..."

"Here I am, Maestro."

Kinsman turned and saw the others clear a path for Jill. Behind her strode the Russian doctor, Landau. Both of them had funny expressions on their faces: happy, but —embarrassed?

"Ahhh, Jilyushka, my ministering angel. Where have you been?" Baliagorev's tone changed completely. He went from truculence to grandfatherly sweetness in an eyeblink.

Jill grinned at him. "You know, Maestro, there are other patients in this hospital, and—" 372

"Nonsense! You were off in some corner kissing this bearded oaf."

Landau's face went beet-red. Jill giggled. Kinsman turned to the other nurses and said quietly, "I think the emergency is over."

They started filing out of the room, whispering among themselves.

"Don't you go," Baliagorev called to Kinsman. "I have a request to make of you."

Kinsman stopped at the open door and looked back at the Russian.

"I should like to stay here in the American sector, rather than return to Lunagrad. At least for a while."

Kinsman did not know whether to laugh or frown. "I thought we Yankees had the cultural sensitivities of Latvian smugglers."

Completely unflustered, Baliagorev answered, "When you have spent as much time as I have in the tyrannical grips of hospital orderiies and nurses, you learn that there is really only one way to treat them—with contempt. However," his tone softened, "I sincerely wish to remain here,"

"Well . . ."There's something crafty about this old man, Kinsman realized. "May I ask why?"

Baliagorev shifted his gaze to Landau momentarily, then looked back at Kinsman. His eyes were ice-blue. "Put it down as the whim of an old man. The women here are much prettier. The nurses at Lunagrad are awful—huge beasts, ungainly, hopeless."

"That's not true," Landau murmured.

"Bah! Why should I hide it? I want political asylum. I was seeking asylum in France when my countrymen arrested me and carted me to a hospital in Siberia. A psychiatric hospital! That is where my heart broke."

Kee-rist! Just what we need. Kinsman kept his eyes off Landau as he replied, "This is a very touchy time to ask for political asylum, you know."