'Let's see.' Marchuk turned back to Arkady. 'You disagree with the conclusion that we leave the loose ends for the boys in Vladivostok?'

'No.'

'Then with what?'

'Only . . . ' Arkady searched for precision, 'the facts.'

'Ah.' For the first time the man in the oatmeal sweater sat up, as if he had finally heard a word in a language he understood.

'Excuse me,' said Marchuk. 'Seaman Renko, this is Fleet Electrical Engineer Hess. I have asked Comrade Hess to contribute his able mind to our meeting tonight. Explain to him and to me how you can disagree about the facts and agree with the conclusion.'

The Polar Star hadn't seen the fleet in six weeks and wouldn't see it again for another four. Arkady wondered where Hess had been hiding, but he concentrated on the question at hand.

'Zina Patiashvili died on the night of the dance,' Arkady said. 'Since she was not seen below decks on her way to her cabin, she probably either went to some other compartment in the aft house or, as the third mate says, onto the stern deck. However, when someone faints they drop, they do not take a running start so that they can flip over a rail that would have come up to Zina's ribs. There are characteristic marks to drowning, none of them present with Zina, and when they open her lungs in Vladivostok they'll find no saltwater. The characteristic marks present on the body - the lividity on the forearms, calves, breasts and belly - only result after death, from being on all fours for a period of time, and the bruises on the ribs and hips could not come from resting against a rail, but from being packed viciously against hard protuberances. She was killed on the Polar Star and stowed on board. As for the puncture of the belly, it was done with the single stab of a sharp knife. There were no scratches or sawing, and there was little bleeding. The facts are that before being thrown over she was stabbed to prevent her from floating to the surface. Another proof that the cut was not made by a net bringing her up was that she was thirty fathoms down on the sea bottom, long enough for slime eels to penetrate the puncture wound, enter her, and nest in her.'

'There's nothing in your report about eels,' Marchuk said to Slava. Fishermen hated slime eels.

'More?' Arkady asked.

'Please.'

'Her co-workers state that Zina Patiashvili was a ceaseless toiler, yet the Americans say that she appeared at the stern rail every time, day or night, that the catcher-boat Eagle delivered a net. Often that coincided with Zina's watch, which meant that she dropped her work whenever she cared to and was gone for half an hour at a time.'

'You say Soviets lie and Americans tell the truth?' Volovoi asked as if uncertain about a distinction.

'No. Zina spent the entire dance in the company of the Americans from the Eagle, dancing with them and talking to them. I do not think a woman runs to a stern rail in the middle of the night or in the rain to wave to a boat of men; she runs to wave to one man. The Americans are certainly lying as to who that might be.'

'You mean one of our boys was jealous?' Marchuk asked.

'That would be slander,' Volovoi stated, as if this disposed of the question. 'Of course, if there were derelictions in the galley, if any worker gave less than her full time, there will be a stern rebuke.'

'Water?' Marchuk lifted a bottle to Volovoi.

'Please.'

Bubbles danced in The Invalid's glass. There was an ominous curve to Marchuk's smile, but the words would stay Soviet, level and businesslike.

'The problem,' Marchuk defined it, 'is the Americans. They will watch to see whether we conduct an open and forthright investigation.'

'We will,' Volovoi said. 'In Vladivostok.'

'Naturally,' Marchuk said. 'However, this is a unique situation and may require a more immediate effort.' He offered The Invalid a cigarette. All this was still within the bounds of Soviet discussion. Sometimes there were immediate crises, such as at the end of each month when the month's quota could be fulfilled only by turning out cars with three wheels. The equivalent on a fishing boat was to meet the tonnage quota by turning the entire catch, foul or fresh, into fishmeal.

'The doctor agreed with Comrade Bukovsky,' Volovoi pointed out.

'The doctor,' Marchuk said, trying to take the suggestion seriously. 'The doctor was even wrong about the time of death as I remember. A good doctor for the healthy, not so good with the ailing or dead.'

'The report may have some flaws,' Volovoi conceded.

Full of regret, Marchuk addressed himself to Slava. 'Excuse me, the report is shit.' To Volovoi he added, 'I'm sure he did his best.'

The last Russian ship the Polar Star had seen was an off-loader that had taken three thousand tons of sole, five thousand tons of pollock, eight thousand tons of fishmeal and fifty tons of liver oil in exchange for flour, hams, cabbage, cans of film, personal mail and magazines. Arkady had been part of the crowd on deck that day. He hadn't noticed any tiny fleet electrical engineer riding the block and tackle.

Under his muff of hair Anton Hess's face was half forehead, the other features squeezed into a southern hemisphere of rounded brows, sharp nose, broad upper lip and dimpled chin, all lit by two amiable blue eyes. He looked like a German choirmaster, someone who had collaborated with Brahms.

Still using the measured tones of Soviet authority, of facts reluctantly stated, the first mate had decided to take the offensive.

'Seaman Renko, for our information, is it true you were dismissed from the Moscow Prosecutor's Office?"

'Yes.'

'Is it also true that you were expelled from the Party?'

'Yes.'

There was a sombre pause suitable for a man who had confessed to two incurable diseases.

'May I be blunt?' Volovoi begged Marchuk.

'Please.'

'From the start I was against the involvement of this worker in any inquiry, especially one involving our American colleagues. I already had a dossier of negative information on Seaman Renko. Today I radioed the KGB in Vladivostok for more information, not wanting to judge this seaman unfairly. Comrades, we have a man with a shady past. Exactly what happened in Moscow no one will say, except that he was involved in the death of the prosecutor and in the defection of a former citizen. Murder and treason, that is the history of the man before you. That's why he runs from job to job across Siberia. Take a look - he has not thrived.'

True, Arkady admitted. His boots, crusted with scales and laced with dried slime, were not the footwear of a thriving man.

'In fact,' Volovoi went on, as if only the greatest pressure could bring the words to his lips, 'they were looking for him in Sakhalin when he signed on the Polar Star. For what, they don't say. With his kind, it could be any of a million things. May I be candid?'

'Absolutely,' said Marchuk.

'Comrades, Vladivostok will examine not what happened to a silly girl named Zina Patiashvili but whether we as a ship have maintained political discipline. Vladivostok will not understand why we involve in such a sensitive inquiry anyone like Renko, a man politically so unreliable that we don't let him ashore in an American port.'

'An excellent point,' Marchuk agreed.

'In fact,' Volovoi said, 'it might be wise not to let any of the crew ashore. We reach Dutch Harbor in two days. It might be best not to give them port call.'

At this suggestion, Marchuk's face darkened. He poured more water for himself, studying the silvery string of liquid. 'After four months' sailing?' he asked. 'That's what they've been sailing for, that one day in port. Besides, our crew is not the problem; we can't stop the Americans from going ashore.'

Volovoi shrugged. 'The representatives will report to the company, yes, but the company is half Soviet-owned. The company will do nothing.'

Marchuk screwed out his cigarette and produced a smile that had more irony than humour. Etiquette seemed to be wearing thin. 'The observers will report to the government, which is American, and the fishermen Will spread tales to everyone. The tale will be that I hid a murder on my ship.'

'A death is a tragedy,' Volovoi said, 'but an investigation is a political decision. Any further on-board investigation would be a mistake. On this I must speak for the Party.'

In a thousand communes, factories, universities and courtrooms, the same words could have been spoken at that same instant because no serious meeting of managers or prosecutors was ever complete without someone finally speaking for the Party, at which point the niceties of debate would come to an end and the cigarette smoke would be cleared by that decisive, ineluctable word.

Only this time, Marchuk turned to the man on his right. 'Comrade Hess, do you have anything to say?'

'Well,' the fleet electrical engineer said, as if he had just thought of something. His voice had a timbre like a woodwind with a cracked reed, and he talked directly to Volovoi. 'In the past, comrade, everything you say would have been correct. It seems to me, however, that the situation has changed. We have a new leadership that has called for more initiative and a more candid examination of our mistakes. Captain Marchuk is symbolic of this young, forthright leadership. I think he should be supported. As for Seaman Renko, I also radioed for information. He was not charged with either murder or treason. In fact, there is a record of him being vouched for by a Colonel Pribluda of the KGB. Renko may be politically reckless, but there has never been a question of his professional abilities. Also, there is an overriding consideration. This is a unique joint programme we have undertaken with the Americans. Not everyone is happy that Soviets and Americans are working together. What will happen to our mission? What will happen to international cooperation if a story spreads that any Soviets who fraternize with Americans will have their bellies slit and be thrown overboard? We should show a sincere and genuine effort now, not only in Vladivostok. Third Mate Bukovsky has great energy, but he has no expertise in this area. None of us do except for Seaman Renko. Let us proceed with more confidence; let's find out what happened.'

For Arkady this was curious, like watching the dead rise. For once The Invalid hadn't ended the debate.

Volovoi said, 'Sometimes the ugly rumour of the moment has to be overlooked. This is a situation to be contained, not stirred up or publicized. Consider: if the Patiashvili girl was murdered, as Seaman Renko insists, then we have a murderer on board our ship. If we do encourage an investigation on board, whether run intelligently or ineptly, what will be this person's natural reaction? Anxiety and fear - in fact, a desire to escape. Once in Vladivostok that will do him no good at all; a proper investigation in our own port will find him already in our hands. Here, however, the situation is different. The open sea, American boats and, most dangerous of all, an American port. Premature zeal here will prompt desperate acts. Wouldn't it be possible, even logical, that a criminal fearing exposure would abandon his group during its turn in Dutch Harbor and try to escape Soviet justice with the claim that he was seeking political asylum? Isn't this what prompts so many so-called defectors? Americans are unpredictable. As soon as a situation becomes political it gets out of hand, a circus, the truth vying with lies. Of course in time we would get the man back, but is this the right line for a Soviet ship? Murder? Scandal? Comrades, no one would argue that this crew does not, under normal circumstances, deserve a port call after four months' hard work at sea. However, I would not want to be the captain who risked the prestige and mission of an entire fleet so that his crew could buy foreign running shoes and watches.'

After such immaculate spadework by The Invalid, Arkady thought the issue was buried again. Hess, however, answered immediately.

'Let's separate your concerns. An investigation on board creates an abnormal situation, and an abnormal situation prevents a port call. It seems to me that one concern can resolve the other. We're a day and a half from Dutch Harbor, which is time enough for us to reach more definite conclusions about this poor girl's death. If it still seems suspicious in thirty-six hours, we can then decide not to allow the crew a port call. If not, let them have their well-earned day on shore. Either way, no one escapes and there will still be a full investigation waiting when we return to Vladivostok.'

'What about suicide?' Slava asked. 'What if she threw herself overboard, down the well, or wherever?'

'What about that?' Hess asked Arkady.

'Suicide is always a borderline issue,' Arkady said. 'There's the suicide who names fellow criminals before locking the garage door and starting the car. Or the suicide who paints "Fuck the Soviet Writers Union" on the kitchen wall before putting his head in the oven. Or the soldier who says, "Consider me a good Communist" before he charges a machine gun.'

'You are saying that the political element is always different,' Hess said.

'I will determine the political element,' Volovoi said. 'I am still the political officer.'

'Yes,' Marchuk said coolly. 'But not the captain.'

'On such a delicate mission - '

Hess cut Volovoi off. 'There's more than one mission.'

There was a pause, as if the entire ship had veered in a new direction.

When Marchuk offered Volovoi a cigarette, the lighter's flame lit a fan of capillaries spreading in the first mate's eyes. Exhaling, Volovoi said, 'Bukovsky can do another report.'

'Bukovsky and Renko strike a good balance, don't you think?' Hess asked.

Volovoi hunched forward as consensus, the goal of Soviet decision-making, rolled over him.

Marchuk changed the subject. 'I keep thinking about that girl being on the bottom, about the eels. Renko, what were the odds a net would find her? A million to one?'

Arkady's participation in the meeting had been an order, but also an honour, as if a toe had been invited to the deliberations of the brain. Marchuk's question was a gesture of that inclusion.

'A million to one is about the odds that Comrade Bukovsky and I will find anything,' Arkady said. 'Vladivostok has real investigators and real laboratories, and they know what to find.'

'The inquiry here and now is what matters,' Marchuk said. 'Report the facts as you find them.'

'No,' Arkady said. 'I agree with Comrade Volovoi; leave this for Vladivostok.'

'You're reluctant, I understand,' Marchuk sympathized. 'The important thing is you can redeem yourself - '

'I don't need to redeem myself. I agreed to spend a day asking questions. The day is over.' Arkady started for the door. 'Comrades, goodnight.'

Marchuk got to his feet, stunned. Stupefaction turned into the rage of a powerful man whose good intentions had been betrayed. Meanwhile, Volovoi sat back, scarcely believing this turn of fortune.

'Renko, you say someone killed this girl and you won't find out who?' Hess asked.

'I don't think I could - and I'm not interested.'

Marchuk said, 'I'm ordering you.'

'I'm refusing.'

'You forget you're speaking to your captain.'

'You forget you're speaking to a man who has spent a year on your slime line.' Arkady opened the door. 'What can you do to me? What could be worse?'

Chapter Nine.

Wind had rolled the fog back into one dense bank. Arkady was crossing the deck intent on bed when he saw his cabinmate Kolya at the rail. A clear night always brought Kolya on deck, as if the moon were lit only for him. His hair curled up around a wool cap while his long nose pointed towards phenomena.

'Arkasha, I saw a whale. Just its tail, but it went straight down, so it was a humpback.'

What Arkady admired about Kolya was that even though the botanist had been chased off land he went on collecting scientific data. He had the courage of a monk willing, in spite of his meekness, to be tortured for his beliefs. Shining in his hands like a little French horn was his prize, a highly polished, old-fashioned brass sextant.

'Are you done with the captain?' he asked.

'Yes.'

Kolya had the delicacy not to ask any more questions, such as, Why didn't you tell your friends you were an investigator? Why aren't you an investigator now? What did you find out about the dead girl? Cheerfully he said, 'Good. Then you can help me.' He gave Arkady a watch. It was plastic, digital, Japanese. 'The top button lights the read-out.'

'Why are you doing this?' Arkady asked.

'It keeps the mind alive. Ready?'

'Okay.'

Kolya put his eye to the sextant telescope and sighted on the moon, swinging the index arm along the arc. As he had once explained to Arkady, sextants had the charm of being archaic, simple and complicated all at the same time. In essence, a pair of mirrors mounted on the arc brought an image of the moon down to the horizon, and the arc marked how many degrees off a right angle with the horizon the moon was at that precise instant.

'Mark.'

'10:15.31.'.

'22:15.31.' Kolya corrected to nautical hours.

As a Young Pioneer, Arkady had once performed celestial navigation. He remembered being surrounded by nautical almanacs, sight-reduction tables, scratch paper, charts and parallel rules. Kolya did it all in his head.

'How many almanacs have you memorized?' Arkady asked.

'Sun, moon and Ursa Major.'