“Where are you going?” she asked hesitantly. “Can’t you stay and—”
“I have to get back to the Urals.” Sherikov grinned at her over his bushy black beard as he headed out of the room. “Some very important business to attend to.”
Thomas Cole was sitting up in bed when Sherikov came to the door. Most of his awkward, hunched-over body was sealed in a thin envelope of transparent airproof plastic. Two robot attendants whirred ceaselessly at his side, their leads contacting his pulse, blood-pressure, respiration, body temperature.
Cole turned a little as the huge Pole tossed down his briefcase and seated himself on the window ledge.
“How are you feeling?” Sherikov asked him.
“Better.”
“You see we’ve quite advanced therapy. Your burns should be healed in a few months.”
“How is the war coming?”
“The war is over.”