"Yes, the air is mostly good and clear," Boris agreed, sipping his tea. "There are forests and relatively few people. On some days we see dark clouds, industrial smog, but it blows"--he pushed his large hand through the air--"away to the ocean. Thank God."
"Don't you miss your own country at all?" Cheryl asked.
"At certain times of the year perhaps. When the leaves turn brown and fall like pieces of burned paper. Yes, we feel sad then." Deep vertical creases appeared in his cheeks as he smiled. "But it is beautiful here too! Mountains, lakes, forests. And it has one tremendous advantage over Russia."
"Oh? What's that?"
"No KGB. At least here we are not spied on and followed everywhere. Vida is a good place to live and work. We feel safe and protected--look, let me show you!"
He wanted her to see the unbroken range of peaks to the north and east. Their slopes were thickly wooded and dusted lightly with the first snow of the season. To Cheryl they seemed to form an impregnable barrier, shutting out the rest of the world. But no barrier was impregnable to the climate.
"Mount Jefferson, South Sister, Huckleberry, Diamond Peak, Bohemia Mountain." Boris rhymed them off proudly like favorite grandchildren.
"What work are you doing?" Cheryl asked him.
Boris stood with his thumbs hooked into his belt, his chest swelling under a dark-brown woolen shirt with embroidered pockets. "1 write and study and do research. I've been cataloging the plant life along the McKenzie River, collecting specimens. There are hundreds, it's so fertile and varied." He leaned toward her. "Up to now I have classified one hundred and twenty-six different species."
"I didn't know you were a botanist," Cheryl said in surprise.
"No, I'm not, strictly speaking. I was a microbiologist, though much of my work for the Hydro-Meteorological Service was concerned with the conditions in rivers and lakes, how a change in climate might affect them and vice versa. That meant examining the soil, fauna, and flora in order to understand the complex interaction between them and the natural water supply, in particular the process of eutrophication."
"Is there any sign of eutrophication in the McKenzie River?" Cheryl asked, vaguely uneasy.
But the big Russian shook his head unhesitatingly. "No. No trace at all."
That was something to be thankful for. Eutrophication indicated that the biological oxygen demand of underwater plants and animal life was exceeding the water's capacity to provide it. This led eventually to stagnation--the lake or river turning into a foul-smelling swamp. This was what had happened in the Gulf of Mexico.
Regretfully, Cheryl had to refuse the invitation to stay for dinner. She had to drive back to Eugene and prepare for an early start in the morning. There were two Earth Foundation groups in the general area to visit, one at a place called Goose Lake in southern Oregon, the other over the border in California.
A soft mellow dusk was falling as she was preparing to leave. The firelight threw dancing shadows along the crammed bookshelves, and Boris went across to the large pine chest in the corner, its row upon row of brass handles winking like fireflies. He beckoned to her, and Cheryl sensed a certain reluctance or indecision, as if he couldn't make up his mind about something.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, sliding open one of the drawers and taking out a rigid sheet of plastic. She saw that it consisted of two wafer-thin sheets pressed together and held by metal clips. Between them the stem and leaves of a plant were spread out on display, sealed from the air.
Boris switched on the desk lamp so that she could see better. Cheryl held the plastic sheet in her spread fingertips and bent forward into the light. The leaves were about two inches in length, heart-shaped, with a fine tracery of darkish-green veins.
"I'm not sure. It looks a bit like knotweed. You know, the generic species
"You mean it
"Also many other species that are three, four, even five times bigger than normal."
Boris took the plastic sheet from her fingers. Its surface caught the reflected glare of lamplight, illuminating his face from below and giving him the appearance of a giant in a fairy tale. He carefully replaced it and silently slid the drawer shut.
The driver kept looking in his mirror to make sure. Skinny little runt of a guy in the funny black robes at the back of the bus hadn't moved a muscle in over two hundred miles. Just sitting there, straight up, stiff as a board, eyes shut tight behind those crummy wire specs.
