He takes just one step toward the doorway of the little sitting room—he's hungry, and there may be something in the cramped little kitchen's cupboards to raid; or maybe he'll just go to prove the point that he isn't anxious, and as if he isn't reliant on what Rutyer does or doesn't ask for and does or doesn't tell him. But the envelope successfully hooks and stalls him. Stood there, half twisted round, Ralston judges first it and then Rutyer with an impatient twist of his mouth.
The record player's needle bumps off the end of it's track and cedes to whisper soft scratching as Ralston snatches the envelope off him. He tears promptly into it.
It's not the easiest thing to interpret. It takes a certain amount of knowledge of medicine and all the nomenclature thereof, the jargon, the subtleties. To say nothing of the fact that it is in German, and rather clearly not originally so - the long sentences, full of dependent clauses resting precariously on elaborate participial phrases, hinting at its Russian origin. Something translated, evidently, for East German allies.
But a clever mind will be able to dig into what this document is really about. It is about a procedure to give Talent to the Talentless. A secret Soviet procedure that has proven ineffective on those born without it - but rather more so for those who, for whatever reason, malady or trauma or deeds done during the war, had lost theirs.
Byerly pulls out another cigarette as Ralston reads and reclaims his prior seat. Watches his face.
There are a slew of Germans working for the defense ministry, most of them forcibly relocated after the war lest they fall into the hands of the Soviets—to say nothing of the proliferation among the ranks of the Americans. And while it's rare to deal with documentation in the language (being somewhat gauche to advertise the level to which everyone is cheating off the Third Reich's homework), there's a certain cadence to notes in translation that leaps off the page. It's strange to recognize it so readily in Russian turned German as he does in German turned English. The novelty of it almost overrides the annoyance inherent in frustrated urgency.
Almost.
It takes him some minutes to work it out. His frown deepens as he goes. Privately, the sensation of something cold like a corpse's hand clamps slowly down on the back of his neck. Click, click, click: the gentle whisper of the record turning.
When he at last looks at Byerly, there's something pale and furious animated in Ralston's face.
"If it's not - " He gives an easy shrug. "Then there will be some dishonest researchers with much to answer for."
He stands, then. Walks over to the record player. Lifts it up and turns it over. It's likely this meeting will conclude soon enough, but even so - good to have music playing, in the case of surveillance.
"My level of honesty, good Ralston, perhaps exceeds yours."
His face is doing something. He can feel it, but can't parse exactly what it is—just some prickle across the top of his scalp and a hum in the ears that threatens to overpower the scratch of the reset needle and the opening notes of the next piece of music.
(What it looks like is the face of a corpse with a slit throat, bloodless and staring.)
He folds the papers over along opposite as the ones they'd originally been packed in. It's not real. He is certain. Even if the researchers think otherwise. Even if they're sending papers to East Germany on their behalf. It must be. Otherwise—
"I wouldn't be here if it were."
Only maybe he would. After all, what does anyone know about the work Michael Ralston once did when he was still a magician? Fine work, maybe, but clearly nothing important enough to escape censure. It has been secret before< and likely had remained so after. For what use would there have been in explaining the particulars to anyone after? It would have been like explaining having been a champion runner and having both feet cut off in the present tense. Pointless.
If it were? What, if Byerly were honest? Or if it were true? An odd thing to say. Why wouldn't he be?
He sets the thought away. What's more important is that Byerly knows that he's found the right bait. The hook may not yet be fully set, but the fish is fascinated.
"I suppose there's only one way to find out," Rutyer replies easily. And he holds out his hand for the papers back.
For a split second—so narrow a filament of time, it might not even exist (and yet does; it is as concrete a reality as this room is, or the series of rooms in the neighboring apartment, or the ones which are arranged in some similar fashion in the building across this street, or apartments elsewhere in the world with sitting rooms and faintly dusty smelling upholstery and a record player sawing on)—it seems as if Ralston might not return the papers. And then his hand jerks out, shoving the packet abruptly back at Rutyer.
What good would holding on to them do? What an absurd impulse.
"Smith or the Americans?" Should bite more than it does. "You still haven't told me."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The record player's needle bumps off the end of it's track and cedes to whisper soft scratching as Ralston snatches the envelope off him. He tears promptly into it.
no subject
But a clever mind will be able to dig into what this document is really about. It is about a procedure to give Talent to the Talentless. A secret Soviet procedure that has proven ineffective on those born without it - but rather more so for those who, for whatever reason, malady or trauma or deeds done during the war, had lost theirs.
Byerly pulls out another cigarette as Ralston reads and reclaims his prior seat. Watches his face.
no subject
Almost.
It takes him some minutes to work it out. His frown deepens as he goes. Privately, the sensation of something cold like a corpse's hand clamps slowly down on the back of his neck. Click, click, click: the gentle whisper of the record turning.
When he at last looks at Byerly, there's something pale and furious animated in Ralston's face.
"This isn't real."
See. He can sound certain too.
no subject
He stands, then. Walks over to the record player. Lifts it up and turns it over. It's likely this meeting will conclude soon enough, but even so - good to have music playing, in the case of surveillance.
"My level of honesty, good Ralston, perhaps exceeds yours."
no subject
(What it looks like is the face of a corpse with a slit throat, bloodless and staring.)
He folds the papers over along opposite as the ones they'd originally been packed in. It's not real. He is certain. Even if the researchers think otherwise. Even if they're sending papers to East Germany on their behalf. It must be. Otherwise—
"I wouldn't be here if it were."
Only maybe he would. After all, what does anyone know about the work Michael Ralston once did when he was still a magician? Fine work, maybe, but clearly nothing important enough to escape censure. It has been secret before< and likely had remained so after. For what use would there have been in explaining the particulars to anyone after? It would have been like explaining having been a champion runner and having both feet cut off in the present tense. Pointless.
no subject
He sets the thought away. What's more important is that Byerly knows that he's found the right bait. The hook may not yet be fully set, but the fish is fascinated.
"I suppose there's only one way to find out," Rutyer replies easily. And he holds out his hand for the papers back.
no subject
What good would holding on to them do? What an absurd impulse.
"Smith or the Americans?" Should bite more than it does. "You still haven't told me."