"And the Communists have butchered the Russian language, too, along with everything else. It's just like them, to set up a place so secret that they don't dare think about it themselves, and then give it a name like that. The old Russians would have called it Atomnii-gorod and would have had scientific congresses meeting there every six months."
Swanson agreed. "They need more cover. I got a lot out of those photographs, but even without me, the place would have shown up. I suppose General Coppersmith has given you all the evidence."
Dugan turned to Sarah. "Did he?"
Sarah sipped her tea from a Japanese cup and looked up at Dugan through the steam. He did not sound as though he meant the question, so she just said:
"I've given you the basic briefing."
Swanson turned to her. "Did you tell him about the N.K.A.R.?"
Dugan intercepted the question. "She mentioned it, but since she does not speak Russian, she may have missed some of the terms. That's Narodnii Kommisariat Atomnovo Razvitiya—"
"I know that much," said Sarah. "People's Commissariat of Atomic Development."
"But why N.K. when all the other commissariats have been turned into ministries?" asked Dugan. He stretched out his legs, leaned back, looked through his pale amber glass, and acted like a man who was prepared for long scientific discussions. Swanson, too, relaxed and said he supposed that they did not want to change the number of constitutional ministries. By leaving the secret agency with the old-fashioned name, they could publish their formal governmental structure in good faith.
While Dugan was talking, Sarah studied him. He was of middle height. There was a quaint mobility to his face, a quickness of expression which made her suspect that in his early childhood some warm-hearted quickly responsive woman had taught him the rudiments of human relationships. He was acting a role, but it was a role which he enjoyed acting. He was talking, smiling, agreeing, dissenting, frowning, smiling again, all in turn. Who was she to say that this was not the real, the true Dugan? People were not their dead selves but their live selves. Yet in the case of a man like Dugan, there must be alternative selves, other personalities patterned to the occasion and the culture. Dugan-the-Japanese must have been just as believable as Dugan-the-American; Japanese must have liked him because he was Japanese; otherwise he would have been found out and killed. How could she like a man who existed only by virtue of his own command, who played perpetually on a stage of make-believe? What was he, anyway? Dugan was no name for a man with black hair, black eyes, olive skin — or was it? Was he a Turk or a Greek, an Italian or an Egyptian, or (wildest chance of all, this) simply an American?