Petrov nodded. One thing the Great Lysenko had learned early in his researches was the effect of physical trauma on the adaptation process. It was as though there were two levels of healing at work within all organisms -- a short term healing process for injuries and a long term healing process to adjust to permanent environmental changes. Unfortunately, the human body had the same outlook as a factory worker with a liter of vodka in his belly. Short-term needs overrode all else. Any serious injury to an experimental subject would halt the Lysenko Adaptation process as quickly as a mountain halted any aircraft foolish enough to try tunneling its way through.

"Therefore, Comrade Chief Scientist, your inability to keep order in this camp has wasted 40 prime samples of genetic material. Not only prime samples, but those into which we had already pumped a great deal of time and many millions of rubles."

"I am afraid so, Comrade."

Petrov's respect for the fat fool raised a notch at his admission of culpability. He decided to put off disciplinary measures until he had more facts. "Well, there is no sense trying to milk a goat that has been turned into stew, is there? Let me see the parade ground."

"This way, comrade!"

The camp director led the way around the side of the headquarters, through another high fence, and into a cleared area. The s.p.a.ce did indeed look like an army parade ground. Lying on the ground around the inner gate were heaped the bodies of numerous men and women, their features and limbs contorted by death struggles and frozen in place by the cold. The bodies were nude beneath a light covering of snow, which somehow made their deaths even more obscene.

"They are as they fell?" Petrov asked.

Sermentov quickly nodded. "We knew that Moscow would send someone to investigate. Save for removing the wounded, the scene has not been touched."

Petrov knelt down and brushed snow from one of the faces that gazed sightlessly skyward. The woman had been about the age of his Marina when he had married her. If she had not been so skinny -- protruding ribs and flat b.r.e.a.s.t.s showed the effect of the current experimental cycle -- she would have looked even more like his dead wife.

d.a.m.n the Ministry of Agriculture! Why can't they just grow enough food to feed all of us?He wondered as he rose and turned away in disgust. His baleful glare as he turned to face the camp director was not lost on that worthy. The look left no doubt, if there had ever been one, that the investigation was about to begin in earnest.# En route to Moscow some four hours later, Grigoriy interrupted his boss's introspection to ask, "What are you going to do with Sermentov, Comrade Chief Inspector?"

"I don't know," Petrov replied somberly. In fact, he had been pondering that very subject. The man had failed to take precautions against rioting because he had failed to recognize that even the most committed citizen could lose his fervor if forced to do naked calisthenics in a snowstorm. That had been a grave error in judgment. To make it worse, the Zagorsk project had been in operation for more than six months, meaning that those 40 people had survived the initial winnowing process. Sermentov's oversight had cost the state dearly, and the state did not suffer failure gladly.

"Did you see any evidence that the experiment at Zagorsk is bearing fruit?" Grigoriy asked, again breaking into his thoughts.

"None, so far."

"We had more than a thousand people in this particular group when we began. You would think we would have started seeing results by now."

"Not necessarily. The process is often long and arduous, especially when dealing with something as basic as the body's intake of nourishment."

"In the west they say that Lysenkoism is a fraud, Comrade."

The comment, seemingly from out of the gray sky, caused Petrov to turn sharply toward where his aide sat bundled in furs. "In the west they say many things which are not true."

"Haven't you ever wondered about it, though?" Grigoriy asked as he returned Petrov's intent gaze.

"Wondered about what?"

"Whether there is such a thing as the Lysenko gene?"

The comment shocked Petrov down to the toes that had yet to warm themselves under the car's inadequate heater. "Whom have you been listening to?" he demanded.

The younger man suddenly grew cautious. "No one in particular, Chief Inspector. You just hear talk sometimes..."

"Out with it, Comrade! Who has been spreading these lies?"

"Some of the younger biologists have idly speculated on the subject from time to time," came the weak response.

Petrov's features froze into a cold mask. He knew how the Pope-in-Exile must feel upon learning that one of his cardinals is an atheist.

"The Great Lysenko proved that the process of environmental adaptation some fifty years ago.

Only fools and imperialists question the matter any longer. You are, I hope, neither of those."

"Of course not, Comrade Chief Inspector!"

"Then you will prove yourself by telling me exactly what these 'young biologists' have been saying."Petrov studied his young aide's discomfort with professional interest. Even if Grigoriy did not believe in Lysenkoism, how could he be so foolish as to utter such a heretical comment in Petrov's presence? Another possibility suddenly occurred to him. Could it be that his young aide was an agent provocateur for the KGB? In that case, he must report this conversation at the earliest possible moment.

"They wonder why our success rate is so low."

"Low or not, we do have our successes!"

"But is Lysenko Adaptation at work, or merely natural selection? Think about it, Comrade. We take several thousand healthy people from the general population, we feed them reduced rations for a year, and in the end, most have perished from malnutrition. Who survives such treatment? People who began the experiment with low rates of metabolism. Why do they survive? Because they need fewer calories than those who die. Then we take them from the camps and force them to breed together. Is it any wonder that the children who result inherit their parents' low metabolism rate?"

"You are parroting imperialist propaganda, Grigoriy Borisovich," Petrov warned. "The Great Lysenko did not invent a program of animal husbandry for humans. I want the names of those who have who have filled your brain with this nonsense, Grigoriy."

"I cannot tell you that, Chief Inspector. The comment was made in confidence."

"You are harboring an enemy of the people, Comrade Sokolov. I demand to know who he is!"

Petrov knew the look of petulance that returned his glare. "I'm sorry, but I cannot tell you."

"I warn you, Grigoriy, that this matter is not over."

That was the last either of them spoke until the Zhil stopped for inspection before entering the Kremlin.

"Chief Inspector Petrov to see you, Comrade Director," the svelte blonde secretary said while Petrov waited in his boss's outer office.

"Send him in," came the tinny reply from the intercom box.

"s.p.a.ciba, Lilya," Petrov said as he walked around the desk and opened the tall door leading to the inner sanctum.

"It was nothing, Comrade Chief Inspector," the secretary replied as she returned to her typing.

Petrov noted that the ribbon in her typewriter produced bold black letters on paper that was as white as new fallen snow. Rank hath its privileges, he observed to himself.

"Ah, Vladimir Ivanovich," the Director said. He stood and put out his hand to Petrov as the chief inspector approached the desk. "How is your son?"

"The same, Comrade Director."

"Well, please let me know if there is anything we at the inst.i.tute can do."

"You have done too much already."

"Nonsense. Mischa is a Hero of the Greater Soviet Union. Nothing is too good for him.""Thank you, Comrade Director."

"Now, then. What happened at Zagorsk?"

Petrov launched into the report he had been mentally preparing since the first moment he'd looked into the sightless eyes of that poor woman on the frozen ground outside Sermentov's headquarters. He summarized the situation for his superior, and then reviewed the casualty list. The director's lips became progressively thinner as he listened, a sign of his growing anger. By the time Petrov had finished his damage a.s.sessment, his superior's normally pleasant features had a definite scowl on them.

"Is the program still viable? Do we have sufficient subjects to continue?"

"We have enough subjects to finish the program, Director. The number is still above worst case projections."

"You still don't like the Zagorsk project, do you?"

"The Director is well aware of my feelings on the subject," Petrov replied coldly.

"It may help you to know that some of the senior staff agree with you. However, the Minister for Agriculture has a voting majority on the politburo, so what are we to do?"

"I understand the political realities, Director."

"But you wish you didn't have to worry about them."

"That is a question which I will prudently not answer, Director."

"What of Sermentov?" the director asked, returning to the subject at hand.

"He should be replaced immediately."

"You say that rather quickly, considering who the man's patron is."

"He is stupid. Our task is hard enough without adding the handicap of stupidity to our problems."

"How was he stupid?"

"The subjects reached the Third Stage more than a month ago. He should have known they were dangerous and taken extra precautions. He did not. When trouble did break out, his guards acted inappropriately."

"They acted in accordance with doctrine."

"I stand by my opinion, Comrade Director. There was never any real danger of the subjects escaping the camp. The most they might have done was enter the headquarters compound. They were naked in a snowstorm. Where could they have gone?"

"Are you going to recommend that Sermentov be placed on experimental status?"

Petrov shook his head. "He is stupid, but not criminal. I do not care whether you make him senior staff member in charge of sewage disposal, or award him adacha where he can spend his retirement years counting trees. Just get someone to Zagorsk who can properly run a Lysenko Program."

"It shall be as you say, Comrade Chief Inspector. Now, what else is bothering you?"The question surprised Petrov. "Excuse me, Director?"

"Vladimir Ivanovich, I have known you too long not to recognize the symptoms. What else do you wish to discuss?"

"My aide said something disturbing on the trip back."

"Young Grigoriy Sokolov? What did he say?"

Petrov reported the conversation verbatim. To his surprise, the director did not seem disturbed. He listened with both elbows propped on a writing table even more ornate than Petrov's own.

"Do you think young Sokolov has been irretrievably damaged by this corruption he has been spouting?"

"Grigoriy has many faults, Director. He is lazy, he believes himself to be Stalin's gift to women, and he sometimes seems to go out of his way to irritate me. Still, I am used to him and do not wish to take the time to train another aide."

"If the situation is as he reported, you have nothing to fear. We will have security watch his movements for a while and find out who it is that has been spewing this filth. Remember that we were both young and foolish once ourselves."

"Da, Comrade Director."

"You look tired, my old friend. Why not go home to your hero son? The written report can wait until tomorrow."

"Thank you, director. I believe I will."

"Good. See you in the morning, Vladimir Ivanovich."

Petrov lived in the corner apartment on the ground floor of an old apartment building off Tverskaya.

As befitted his rank, his apartment was the best situated in the building. Not only did its location help keep it warm in winter; it also obviated the need to climb stairs on the all-too-frequent occasions when the lift was broken. It also had the advantage of its own small cellar.

As the last gray light of day filtered down through low clouds, Petrov wearily climbed the few steps leading to his apartment. Despite a near absence of crime -- a testimony to the efficiency of the Moscow Militia -- his door was constructed of heavy metal and bore a large, bra.s.s lock. Both were signs that the occupant was high in the party hierarchy, or at least a citizen favored by the state.

"Elena Borisnova, I am home," he called out as he entered. Elena was the nurse and housekeeper the inst.i.tute had provided him and Mischa. She lived in her own small apartment just one flight up and spent her days with his son.

"Ah, Chief Inspector, you are early. The sun is still in the sky."

"Such as it is," he sighed. "How was Mischa today?"

"I believe that he is improving, Comrade Petrov. I truly do."

Petrov frowned. Elena was as efficient a nurse as he'd had, but her constant optimism depressedhim. He regarded her with a hard look.

"See for yourself!" she sputtered. "I think he recognized me today."

Petrov stopped in the hall to remove his furs. It had been three years since the first telegram had arrived ordering Mischa to report to the inst.i.tute for genetic evaluation. The occasion had not been a cause for great concern. All citizens of the Greater Union received a similar summons on their twentieth birthday. It was a preselection process aimed at improving the success rate in the camps.

Nor had Petrov been overly alarmed when the second telegram arrived. That one had ordered Mischa to take an extended series of genetic evaluations. All it had signified was that specialists had determined that he might be predisposed to carry the Lysenko gene.

The arrival of the third telegram had caused Petrov to consider the unthinkable. He had considered obtaining an exemption for his son. As a high official of the inst.i.tute, it would have been simple enough to do. Indeed, the children of high party officials were routinely given what the average soviet citizen could only dream of -- a lifetime exemption from biological experimentation.

He had carefully broached the subject with his son and had been surprised by the forceful reaction.

How, Mischa had asked, could he become a famous biologist like his father if it became known that he had refused to serve the state when called?

So it was that Flight Officer (Experimental) Mikhail Petrov had received orders to report to a Lysenko Camp for inclusion in "experiments vital to the well being of the Greater Union." The project was not one that belonged to the Inst.i.tute, but rather, one run by the Air Force. Current aircraft were limited in performance by the limitations of the men and women who flew them. Mere mortals could not react fast enough to control an aircraft at speeds more than Mach 1, nor could they withstand all the gee forces the planes produced without blacking out. Nor could unaided human lungs breath the rarefied air where the jet fighters flew. The Soviet Saint had often reminded his marshals that soldiers too enc.u.mbered by artificial devices were at the mercy of the enemy when those devices failed. So it was that the air force had been trying to breed a better pilot for more than two decades.

Petrov remembered seeing his son off that morning at the Byelorussia train station. That had been the last time his son had been whole of body and mind in his presence.

In the second month of Mischa's stay at the southern Lysenko Camp where he had been a.s.signed, the air force had herded some two dozen experimental subjects into an alt.i.tude chamber without oxygen masks. The plan had called for a one minute run up to 10,000 meters simulated alt.i.tude in order to put stress on the subjects' hearts and lungs. It was a routine stress exercise the air force had done a thousand times before. It had not been routine this time.

This particular day had been a particularly humid one and ice had formed in the valve that allowed atmospheric pressure back in the chamber. Thus, nothing had happened when the test technician punched the repressurization b.u.t.ton. Another valve, this one in the emergency repressurization system, had been rusted into uselessness and never been replaced. It had taken seven full minutes to restore air to the tank. By that time only two of the subjects still lived. One of those had been Mischa Petrov.