A metamorphosis came over Natasha. Light glowed not only in her eyes but from her face. Like a woman who has arrived in sable, she slowly removed her fishing jacket and scarf, gave them to Dynka and then pulled the comb from her hair so that it cascaded softly down.

'Ready?' Arkady asked.

'Absolutely.' Her voice had softened, too.

They made an unlikely pair, he had to admit: the Party's model member and a troublemaker from the slime line. As he led Natasha between tables to the floor she met astonished glances with a gaze at once imperious and serene.

Soviet dancers don't expect much room to dance in; there's always an attendant amount of bumping, like ballbearings in a bottle. It's a good-humoured aspect of the dance, especially one in the middle of the ice sheet with an Arctic wind frosting the portholes. For all her size and strength, Natasha seemed to float in Arkady's arms, her hot cheek tentatively touching his.

'I apologize for my boots,' she said.

Arkady said, 'No, I apologize for my boots.'

'You like romantic songs?'

'I am helpless before romantic songs.'

'So am I.' She sighed. 'I know you like poetry.'

'How do you know that?'

'I found your book.'

'You did?'

'When you were sick. It was under your mattress. You're not the only one who knows where to look.'

'Is that so?'

He pulled back for a moment. There was a frightening lack of embarrassment in her eyes.

'It wasn't even a book of poetry,' Arkady said. 'Just some essays and letters from Mandelstam.' He didn't add it was a gift from Susan.

'Well, the essays were too intellectual,' Natasha admitted, 'but I liked the letters to his wife.'

'To Nadezhda?'

'Yes, but he had so many other names for her. Nadik, Nadya, Nadka, Nadenka, Nadyusha, Nanusha, Nadyu-shok, Nanochka, Nadenysh, Niakushka. Ten special names in all. That's a poet.' She laid her cheek a little more firmly on his.

Slava and his sax leaned into 'Dark Eyes', extracting amber from sap. Dancers revolved slowly under the revolving ball. There was a cavelike quality to the low ceiling and flickering lights that eased the Russian soul.

'I have always admired your work on the factory line,' Natasha confided.

'I've always admired yours.'

'The way you handle the fish,' she said. 'Especially the difficult ones like hake.'

'You cut the spines off so . . . well.' He wasn't good at this, Arkady thought.

She cleared her throat. 'That trouble you had in Moscow? I think it's possible the Party made a mistake.'

A mistake? For Natasha that was like saying black might be white, or an admission that there might be grey.

'Oddly enough,' he said, 'this time it didn't.'

'Anyone can be rehabilitated.'

'Generally after they're dead. Don't worry; there's life outside the Party. It's unbelievable how much life there is.'

Natasha fell contemplative. Her train of thought seemed much like the Baikal-Amur Mainline, with whole sections unfinished and tunnels going off in mysterious directions. Poetry, fish, the Party. He wondered what she would come up with next.

'I know there's someone else,' Natasha said. 'Another woman.'

'Yes.'

Was that a sniff he heard? He hoped not.

'There had to be,' she finally said. 'There's only one thing I ask.'

'What's that?'

'That it's not Susan.'

'No, it's not Soo-san.'

'And it wasn't Zina?'

'No.'

'Someone not on board?'

'Not on board and far away.'

'Very far away?'

'Oh, very,' he assured her.

'That's good enough.' She rested her head on his shoulder.

Well, Arkady thought, Ridley was right. This was civilized, maybe the acme of civilization, these fishermen and fisherwomen waltzing in boots on the Bering Sea. Dr Vainu clung to Olimpiada like a man rolling a boulder. Keeping a straight-armed, semi-Islamic distance, Dynka danced with one of the engineers. Some men were on the floor with men, some women with women, just to keep in practice. A few had taken the time to pull on fresh jerseys, but most of them had come as they were, in the spirit of a rare, impromptu event. Arkady also enjoyed the dance because now he had some idea of Zina's last hours on earth. There was a nice aptness to ending up with Natasha here, as if Zina herself might come dancing by.

'He's here.' Natasha stiffened.

Karp was moving slowly along the benches at the rear of the cafeteria, perfectly at ease, simply sorting out figures in the dark. Arkady steered Natasha towards the stage. 'Kolya would like to dance with you,' he said.

'He would?'

'If you see him, you should give him a chance. He's a bright man, a scientist, a botanist who needs to come down to earth.'

'I'd rather help you,' Natasha said.

'Then half a minute after I'm gone turn out the stage lights for just a few seconds.'

'This is still about Zina, isn't it?' Natasha's voice sank. 'Why are you so involved?'

Arkady was startled into an answer. 'I hate suicide.'

There was something newly liberated about Shtva, as if the saxophone were a divining rod that had located his soul. While the third mate wailed, Arkady and Natasha reached the galley door.

'She didn't kill herself?' Natasha asked.

'No.'

'Karp killed her?'

'Now that's the strange part. I don't think he did.'

The galley was a narrow gamut of steel sinks, stacked trays as dented as war shields, towers of white soup bowls, industrial ranges under hanging pans of wash-tub size. The realm of Olimpiada Bovina. Cabbage bathed in boiling water, either being prepared for breakfast or being reduced to glue. A paddle stood upright in a mixing bowl of hardening batter. Arkady was aware he was following the same path Zina had taken the previous dance seven nights before. According to Slava she had removed a plastic bag from a pot. What was in the bag? Why plastic? Then the next witnesses placed her on deck. Arkady opened the door to the corridor just enough to see Pavel anxiously sucking on a cigarette and watching for anyone leaving the dance. A moment later, 'Dark Eyes' ended amid shouts of 'Lights!' and 'Off my foot, you bloody bastard!' At once Pavel stuck his head inside the cafeteria while Arkady slipped out of the galley and down the corridor.

Who else but Kolya Mer would be at the rail taking in all the pleasures of rain turning to a wet, stinging snow that angled under a lowering fog? He grabbed Arkady as he ran past.

'I wanted to tell you about the flowers.'

'Flowers?'

'Where I picked them.' Bare fingers peeked out of Kolya's cut gloves.

'The irises?'

'I told Natasha I got them along the road outside the store in Dutch Harbor. Irises actually grow higher up. I saw you check my notebook, so you know I found them on the hill. I saw you going up after the American.' Kolya took a deep breath for courage. 'Volovoi asked.'

'Volovoi ran into you on the hill?'

'He was looking for you. He even said he was going to take my samples away unless I told him. I didn't, though.'

'I didn't think you did. Was he alone?'

Say no, Arkady thought. Say that First Mate Volovoi was with Karp Korobetz and we'll go together to Marchuk right now.

'I couldn't tell in the fog,' Kolya said.

Karp would be coming on deck any second, Arkady thought, unless he was already on his way below decks to block him from the forward part of the ship.

Kolya was staring straight up. 'Like tonight. The snow will stop and then it will really get thick. I miss the sextant.'

'It's not very useful without stars,' Arkady said. 'Go inside. Get warm. Dance.'

Only because he was away from the dance, Arkady heard the change in pitch. The reverberation of the screws was deeper, which meant the Polar Star was slowing down. But the stream of glittering flakes created the illusion that the factory ship was rushing forward like a sleigh. Underfoot, he felt the tremor of the engines and the cracking of ice under the plate of the prow. Overhead, snow swayed on the booms and gantries, coating the antennas, directional rings and radar bars so that they shone in a lamplight intensified by the plane of fog directly above. If the senses were anything to go by, the Polar Star was flying between two seas, one above and one below.

The sound of boots scurried across the deck behind him. Ahead, someone else descended the stairs from the bow. Arkady slipped through the fishing net that surrounded the volleyball court. Snow on the mesh had turned it into a gauzy tent of ice that trembled in the wind. The deck lamp was a blur. Through this screen he watched the two figures converge and talk. He should have picked up a knife in the kitchen. The volleyball apparatus had been taken down. He couldn't defend himself with a pole; there wasn't even a ball.

First one figure and then the other entered the court after Arkady. He expected them to spread out but they stayed together as they crept forward. The bottom of the net was tied to cleats, tied and frozen; no exit there. Maybe he could climb the net like a monkey? Not likely. The deck was icy. If he knocked one down, perhaps both would fall.

'Renko? Is it you?'

The other silhouette lit a match. In a darting flame Arkady could see two faces with gnomish brows and anxious smiles with gold teeth. Skiba and Slezko, Volo-voi's two slugs.

'What do you want?' Arkady asked.

'We're on your side,' Slezko said.

'They're going to get you tonight,' Skiba said. 'They don't want you to see morning.'

Arkady asked. 'Who is "they"?'

'You know,' Slezko said in time-honoured Soviet fashion. Why say more?

'We still know how to do our jobs,' said Skiba. 'There just hasn't been anyone to report to.'

The match went out. In the wind, the net billowed like sails of ice.

'There's no discipline, no vigilance, no line of communication any more,' Slezko said. 'To speak frankly, we're at a loss.'

Skiba said, 'You must have done something that set them off because they're searching the entire ship for you. They'll cut your throat in your cabin if they have to. Or on deck.'

'Why are you telling me?' Arkady asked.

'Reporting, not telling,' Slezko said. 'We're just doing our duty.'

'Reporting to me?'

Skiba said. 'We've thought about this a lot. We have to report to someone, and you're the only one with the experience to take his place.'

'Whose place?'

'Volovoi's, who else?' Slezko said.

Skiba said, 'We think that you might come from the appropriate organ anyway, the way you act lately.'

'What organ would that be?'

Slezko said, 'You know.'

I know, Arkady thought. The KGB. It was insane. Skiba and Slezko were happy to inform on him as an enemy of the people while Volovoi was alive. Once he was dead, however, they were like guard dogs thrown into confusion. Allegiance wasn't what they craved so much as a new fist on the leash. Well, a farmer sowed corn, a shoemaker made shoes, informers needed a new Volovoi. They had simply changed Arkady from victim to master.

'Thank you,' Arkady said. 'I'll keep your advice in mind.'

'I don't understand why you don't just hold them in custody,' Skiba said. 'They're only workers.'