At the far end of the table the Nameless One got to his feet. All the arguing stopped dead. He was not truly name- less, of course, but he insisted on using his unpronounceable Tadzhik tribal name, so the Russians jokingly called him the Nameless One. What he thought of the joke, no one knew; he neither smiled nor complained.
Ah, thought the General Secretary, now a little clear thinking will enter the discussion. I was wondering how long he would remain silent. But he suppressed a shudder as he nodded acknowledgment at the Nameless One. The man was uncanny, frightening in the way that a snake frightens: inspiring a terror that goes far deeper than rational under- standing. None of the men around the table was a stranger to force or violence. But for an Asian to reach the inner counsels of Mother Russia took a special sort of cold, ruthless ambi- tion.
"It is clear," he said in his icy, quiet, slightly sibilant tone, "that we face a crisis of will." The Nameless One was neither tall nor imposing from the standpoint of physical size. His face was thin, with a slightly Oriental cast to the glitter- ing, hypnotic eyes. His ears were slightly pointed, his hands long and thin and graceful.
"The peoples of the Soviet Union urgently need the coal that our scientists have discovered in Antarctica—especially if we are to continue selling natural gas to the West in return for hard currency. The Americans desire that coal, also, for their own needs and markets. Our strategic deterrent force is matched by their missiles. Our antimissile network of satel- lites is incomplete, and so is theirs. We are in a stalemate, unless . . ."
He let the word hang while the ministers and military 335 officers leaned forward on their chairs.
"Unless," he went on, "we are prepared to steel our- selves for the next step."
Marshal Prokoff nodded firmly. "Put the bombs in orbit."
"Exactly," agreed the Nameless One.
"But that would be a violation of a treaty that we solemnly ..."
The General Secretary rapped his knuckles on the table- top. "That treaty was signed more than three decades ago. The world is very different today."
"Yes, but—"
"We have no choice," said the Nameless One, with infinite calm. "If we are not prepared to keep the Americans from attacking us, we will lose everything. The orbiting bombs will be a threat that the Americans—and the Chinese, as well—cannot ignore."
The discussion went on well into the night. But at least, the General Secretary thought gratefully, it is a discussion and not a brawl.
The Nameless One did most of the talking.
It was nearly midnight in Selene before Kinsman got to the hospital. He looked in on Baliagorev in the intensive-care unit. Jill Meyers was there and they wound up having coffee together in the hospital's tiny automated cafeteria.
The place was deserted. They took their steaming mugs from the dispenser and sat at the nearest table- It wobbled on uncertain legs.
"Damned place always smells of antiseptics," Kinsman grumbled. "And the light panels are too bright—glaring."
Jill laughed tiredly. "Yeah, boss, how about that? I'd look a lot better in candlelight."
"You look fine, kid. Tired but happy." It was true. There were dark fatigue circles under her eyes, but Jill was smiling.
She slumped back in her plastic chair. "It's been a long day, but a good one. I think Baliagorev will make it."
