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Jan. 15th, 2008 10:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gone_byebyeThe office in which the President of the Russian Federation was meeting with several foreign diplomats was old, but well-cared-for, a room that bespoke dignity and tradition to a degree even the destructive regimes of the past had been unwilling to entirely destroy. The waiting room attached to it was not quite so dignified, having been refinished in the past few years, but it tried. Admiral Matochkin rather liked it. There was something refreshing about its desperate desire to match up to the old office next door, its repainted walls and too-clean carpet seeming almost to beg for the approval of the past. No, he had no objection to sitting there and waiting for Antonov to finish his meeting; Matochkin was a patient man, and what did not happen now would happen eventually.
He could not make out the sounds of the foreigners' voices beyond the fact that they were speaking. The door was too thick, the old office's walls too hung with drapery- any number of things. Another man might have listened harder, or tried to snoop. Matochkin saw little point to it. He would find out what he needed to know in good time. For the moment he pressed his thumbs together and waited, humming tunelessly to himself because a man must do something while he waits if he is not to fall asleep.
When the door opened to let the diplomats out Matochkin was already on his feet, and by the time their eyes were on him he was saluting. There were greetings and shaking of hands and farewells, as there always are; there were polite words exchanged and hopes expressed, and promises given- Matochkin did not listen very closely to those, even the ones he spoke. Once you have learned to deal with men of government you come to understand how much of any promise is only formula. But the forms must be obeyed, and so he spoke and they spoke and it was as it should be, and then they were gone.
Matochkin turned then to President Antonov. "Is everything finished?" he asked.
"For the day, yes," said Antonov, a thin man with thinning hair and tired grey eyes. "The Canadians were insistent beyond belief. They'll want to speak to you tomorrow about this."
"They will all want to speak to me," said Matochkin, "unless I'm very much mistaken."
"Well, yes," said Antonov. "Officially, they will. But the Canadians have specifically asked for you."
Matochkin considered that, and then shrugged. "As they like. It won't change anything. Did you tell them what we had agreed upon?"
"Oh, yes-" Antonov picked up a few of the papers on his desk and began rearranging them with long, pale fingers. "That we insist upon our sovereignty, that the methane cladrates are as vital to our future as air and water, that this is no more than our right- all of those things. But they kept insisting."
"I thought as much," said Matochkin with some satisfaction at being proved right. He kept it out of his face. "The policy stays the same, though- yes?"
"Yes, yes, officially the supernatural does not exist, the events in the United States have been the result of mass hysteria and not replicated anywhere else, we do not intend to integrate madness into national policy, it all stays the same," said Antonov. "They found that frustrating, I think. Most of their arguments hinge upon the supernatural elements of the Polar regions, and without it they have no ground on which to stand."
"Of course," said Matochkin. "That was the point from the beginning, wasn't it? We will have what we deserve, just as I told you. Do not waver, Mr. President."
"But-"
"Do not waver, Mr. President," Matochkin repeated, a flicker of irritation rising in the back of his mind for the first time all day. "Has the policy steered you wrong yet?"
"No, we-"
"Then stay the course, exactly as we agreed," said Matochkin. "Ignore the nonsense they put in front of you. Argue them only on the points that require no proof. They can't match us there."
Antonov started to speak, but his words stopped in his throat.
"As I said. Mr. President, when this is done, I promise you that all of it will pay off beyond your wildest imagination."
"I don't know..." Antonov looked down at his papers again. "Yevgeny, what if-"
"They can't stop us, Mr. President," said Matochkin. "No matter what they ask of us about the Sukhoy Nos voyage, history will bear out what I have been saying. We will have what we are reaching out our hands for even now."
Antonov's expression was a grateful one, and the rest of the conversation came down to specifics of what to tell the Canadian diplomats in the morning, and what they might concede and what was to be kept in reserve. But none of it made much difference, so far as Matochkin was concerned. He had said all he was going to say already.
He had given the order to launch the Sukhoy Nos on its Polar voyage an hour ago.
He could not make out the sounds of the foreigners' voices beyond the fact that they were speaking. The door was too thick, the old office's walls too hung with drapery- any number of things. Another man might have listened harder, or tried to snoop. Matochkin saw little point to it. He would find out what he needed to know in good time. For the moment he pressed his thumbs together and waited, humming tunelessly to himself because a man must do something while he waits if he is not to fall asleep.
When the door opened to let the diplomats out Matochkin was already on his feet, and by the time their eyes were on him he was saluting. There were greetings and shaking of hands and farewells, as there always are; there were polite words exchanged and hopes expressed, and promises given- Matochkin did not listen very closely to those, even the ones he spoke. Once you have learned to deal with men of government you come to understand how much of any promise is only formula. But the forms must be obeyed, and so he spoke and they spoke and it was as it should be, and then they were gone.
Matochkin turned then to President Antonov. "Is everything finished?" he asked.
"For the day, yes," said Antonov, a thin man with thinning hair and tired grey eyes. "The Canadians were insistent beyond belief. They'll want to speak to you tomorrow about this."
"They will all want to speak to me," said Matochkin, "unless I'm very much mistaken."
"Well, yes," said Antonov. "Officially, they will. But the Canadians have specifically asked for you."
Matochkin considered that, and then shrugged. "As they like. It won't change anything. Did you tell them what we had agreed upon?"
"Oh, yes-" Antonov picked up a few of the papers on his desk and began rearranging them with long, pale fingers. "That we insist upon our sovereignty, that the methane cladrates are as vital to our future as air and water, that this is no more than our right- all of those things. But they kept insisting."
"I thought as much," said Matochkin with some satisfaction at being proved right. He kept it out of his face. "The policy stays the same, though- yes?"
"Yes, yes, officially the supernatural does not exist, the events in the United States have been the result of mass hysteria and not replicated anywhere else, we do not intend to integrate madness into national policy, it all stays the same," said Antonov. "They found that frustrating, I think. Most of their arguments hinge upon the supernatural elements of the Polar regions, and without it they have no ground on which to stand."
"Of course," said Matochkin. "That was the point from the beginning, wasn't it? We will have what we deserve, just as I told you. Do not waver, Mr. President."
"But-"
"Do not waver, Mr. President," Matochkin repeated, a flicker of irritation rising in the back of his mind for the first time all day. "Has the policy steered you wrong yet?"
"No, we-"
"Then stay the course, exactly as we agreed," said Matochkin. "Ignore the nonsense they put in front of you. Argue them only on the points that require no proof. They can't match us there."
Antonov started to speak, but his words stopped in his throat.
"As I said. Mr. President, when this is done, I promise you that all of it will pay off beyond your wildest imagination."
"I don't know..." Antonov looked down at his papers again. "Yevgeny, what if-"
"They can't stop us, Mr. President," said Matochkin. "No matter what they ask of us about the Sukhoy Nos voyage, history will bear out what I have been saying. We will have what we are reaching out our hands for even now."
Antonov's expression was a grateful one, and the rest of the conversation came down to specifics of what to tell the Canadian diplomats in the morning, and what they might concede and what was to be kept in reserve. But none of it made much difference, so far as Matochkin was concerned. He had said all he was going to say already.
He had given the order to launch the Sukhoy Nos on its Polar voyage an hour ago.
