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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
18 December, 1935 to 23 December, 1935

"Tsar Trek"

(Being the eighth section of the diary of Amelia Bourne-Phipps, currently a long way from the Songmark Aeronautical Boarding School for Young Ladies, as she’s heading out with her friends on a diplomatic mission to Vostok, the only "Unoccupied" piece of Tsarist Russia in 1935. Amelia writes as always in the never-popular Lexarc School Shorthand, which she hopes folk this far east of Siberia are unlikely to know …)

Sunday 18th December, 1935

Dear Diary – I have written from some interesting places in this past year and a half, but this looks like it might quite take the biscuit. I am looking out at the gas flares of the refinery across the bay, over the streets and rooftops of "Benzeenagorod" as this city is semi-officially called by the locals (Some say "Petrologorod").

Our flight from Spontoon to Tkiatko Island yesterday was long but uneventful, and indeed Molly and I spent much of it asleep after Lars’ wonderful party which we had left almost at dawn after taking necessary Precautions, complete changes of costume and in my case a thorough removal of fur dye. But I digress. We were quite well rested when the big Sikorski landed in the harbour, taxiing up past lines of oilers tied up on the quays and a grim and elderly Imperial Russian Navy cruiser watching over them at the entrance as it has done since 1917.

The cabin crew did not seem too enthusiastic about our destination, and warned us to have all our papers ready, and not to "get smart" with the officials, who are famous worldwide even amongst other police and bureaucrats for their lack of humour. Spontoon is a friendly and popular holiday destination, but Vostok is not – and they hardly seem to be trying.

It is a good thing Maria is coming here as an invited guest of the Government who deeply respect and admire her Uncle Il Puce, as I shudder to think what Customs would be like for an average customer! Theykept us nearly an hour, asking us all sorts of questions, including some that might have been simple mistranslations or random demands just to throw us off guard. ("Will no one help the widow’s son?" – what sort of question is that?) There were questions about our politics, which I had no trouble with, being a staunch King and Empire girl. The one on religion was easy enough, as I could quote Church of England attendance both at home and on Spontoon. Molly had the hardest time, not being able to give any religious references (the Vostokites associate atheism with Bolshevism) though wisely refrained from mentioning her "Church" on Casino Island, the Temple of Continual Reward. The officials would either be prejudiced against that establishment because they have never heard of it, or even worse if they have. Her Macao passport held up to scrutiny, which gives me confidence in my own "second face" should I ever need to use it.

Maria of course sailed through and Tatiana seemed to have her papers all in order. She whispered that the officials had been debating whether Molly was Jewish – which she is not, but it is a hard thing for a girl to disprove. Having that prejudice just because Trotsky and Vladimir Illych Lemur were, and were Bolsheviks, hardly seems to hold water considering that Ioseph Starling himself is not! I hardly think "better safe than sorry" applies when a rule that could have the Red Bird himself strolling through Customs along with his trusty minister Comrade Bearia, is hardly safe at all.

Anyway, the four of us at last were through and were after a long wait reunited with our baggage. We spent the time looking at the list of things that are forbidden to import or possess. Happily our baggage had not included any "Scurrilous or seditious writings, films, records, Edison cylinders, drawings, photographs, oleographs, monographs, mimeographs, holographs, pantographs, zoetrope slides, engravings or embroidery" as it looked as if folk had taken everything apart down to the seams. I am glad my Krupmark dress stayed with the cleaners on Casino Island, I hardly like the idea of the officials pawing over it.

We were introduced to our official guide, a very elegant young Borzoi called Olga Kuriyakin. She is dressed for the season here – a waterproof fur cape and rather nice practical high boots, of the polo style. Her English is quite flawless, better I must say than Maria’s, let along Molly’s. With a bow and a sweep of her hat, she welcomed us to Vostok, announcing it as a stern shield for the Pacific against the tidal wave of Red barbarism and hoping we understood the reasons for the thorough questioning on the borders. She noted with pride that in the last week alone, Customs had spotted, detained and shot on the spot six definitely suspected Bolshevik infiltrators.

I could see Tatiana behind her looking daggers already – it has not taken her long to lose her poise. Happily she kept her snout shut, or Olga’s count of infiltrators terminated would very probably have now reached seven. We followed her without incident to a big black official saloon car, and off to the hotel. It is quite a place, the "Novy Moskva Hotel" – built in 1910 in the grand style with the money from the first oil boom. From what I have read, Vostok was developed just in time from its current rulers’ perspectives – the oil wells opened at the start of the century, just when the Navy was switching away from coal and needed somewhere to resupply the fleet. Having a military fuelling station led to a naval base, then the facilities attracted trade and industry – where twenty years earlier there had been only a few prison camps and fishing villages, by 1917 the economy was booming and the export trade was opening up to the rest of the Pacific.

Our rooms are basically part of Maria’s suite – in fact they are nothing but chambermaid’s cots handy for Maria’s grand room; comfy enough and equipped with massive feather quilts. Maria is looking distinctly happy now, and obviously takes delight in the luxury – something we are short of in our Songmark dorms, which are Spartan in the extreme. One almost forgets what she gave up to come to Songmark – a carefree life of balls and parties enlivened by enough dashing escapades with motor-boats, motor bicycles and high-powered aircraft to make her Uncle lose the last of his head-fur.

Despite all the luxury, Tatiana keeps finding fault. She looked through all the rooms like a huntingdog, and meaningfully pointed out that in every chandelier, one of the bulbs is not working. Rather petty, I thought, we have quite enough light anyway.

A restful night’s sleep had us all ready to see the sights – alas, Benzeenagorod is no Casino Island, and by the scent from the refineries it almost rains petrol – every puddle has a rainbow sheen of pollution. It is rather as Helen describes the oilfield towns of Texas, except that it rains here. The streets are well laid-out and tidy, the people heavily and soberly dressed and a policeman standing vigilant on most major corners – a perfectly respectable looking city, in fact. Our translator Olga was at the door as soon as we opened it, indeed she almost fell into the room when Tatiana jerked the door open. Rather prompt service, I must say.

Breakfast was rather fine, on the Continental lines with pastries that Maria and Molly fell upon like starving troopers, with a big samovar of tea steaming away on the table. I went for more wholesome fare, therebeing a hefty loaf of totally tar-black rye bread and some local butter. I noted Olga rather looking down at her snout at such a rustic choice, though the other staff seemed very pleased and hastened to cut me more with something like a culinary hacksaw. It is very tasty I must say, and no doubt perfect for those on a reducing diet – just chewing and digesting it would consume most of the calories.

Tatiana whispered when Olga was out of earshot, that Olga was muttering about my being "Ny Kultorny", or uncultured. Well! Just because one has caviar available, hardly means one needs to eat it at every breakfast. I recall at Hendlesham Castle two years ago meeting the Marquis of Clackmarrickshire, who makes it a rule to breakfast on plain water and oat porridge every day. The old hound is ninety and still rides to hunts and runs his estates in person, so there can be nothing much wrong with plain diets for even the highest in the land.

Our itinerary today, Olga explained, was to view the splendid city (her words) of this Free Russian Province and meet the Foreign Affairs secretary Count Domodevo for luncheon. The rest of the suggested week’s diary she passed to Maria, who nodded sagely and ticked off her approval. Breakfast over, off we went for a limousine tour of the finer parts of the city. We head over tomorrow to see the court in the capital of Tsarogorod, on Romanov Island. Molly wonders if we are being investigated carefully before we are let out into the main area as they do on Ellis Island, under the famous Statue of Usury. She has mentioned it has sometimes taken a fortune in bribes to get some of her Father’s Associates cleared through Immigration.

The actual sights, one might get better described from the official handbook, as we had a real "Baedeker tour" of the standard famous bits of the industrial town. All the streets we went on were well- maintained, with a small army of sweepers (there is no unemployment allowed, Olga tells us) and indeed the rest of the population seemed quite well-dressed, if a little thin. Tatiana whispered they have strict local dress laws in the main cities and anyone found being down-at-heel in public is sent off to work camps to make new boots and such for richer people to wear. I assume she exaggerates.

A rather wearing afternoon kicking our heels outside the office of the Foreign Affairs Minister while Maria chats with him. The Minister has laid hold of a diplomatic Russian/Italian translator, so there would be little point in us listening in on the conversation anyway. We passed the time looking through the brochures of local scenery, of which we could at least admire the pictures. It is a very different sort of island to Spontoon, more like Rain Island with its great forests of cedars and Pacific Redwood shrouded in mist and rain. The weather looks just like home, as does much of the scenery unless one counts the onion domes on the churches.

Although we have looked hard for two days, we have seen no sign of Vostok’s famous natives, the Sasquatch ape-like folk who appear in all the books. But then, by all accounts they prefer a rustic life in the highlands and rarely mix with folk of other species. Molly whispered there must be a lot of girls wanting to collect that final tick box in their secret diaries, with very little chance of ever filling it even if they get here. Certainly, I have never seen any of the Sasquatch folk on Spontoon, and we are only ten hours flight away.

Back at the hotel, we were glad of a hot shower to wash the scent of petrol fumes out of our fur.Interestingly, Tatiana only became talkative once the doors were shut and the shower running full blast. She had been sounding me out earlier as to my politics – and though I may be a hopeless case in terms of being a convert, she seems to trust me an atom or so more than Molly or Maria. Anyway, she was rather sniffy about all the heavy industry we had seen, and mentioned "Potempkin villages" which folk used to build like film-sets to impress the Tsar on his rare visits. I can hardly believe in a Potempkin Petrol refinery, the sight and scent is just too unmistakable to fake. Besides which, the Vostokites obviously have to get their fuel from somewhere.

Tatiana is unconvinced – and as I pointed out, she is bound to give the place a bad review whether it istrue or not – I may not be much into politics, but I can imagine Comrade Starling’s reaction if Tatiana reported Vostok was a thriving and prosperous nation full of contented citizens who love their rulers.

Tatiana’s ears went right down at that idea – possibly the next travel guide she would get to write would be theguidebook for the lowest level of a Siberian lead mine.

Monday 19th December, 1935

Back on our travels – and quite an experience! An early breakfast (Nimitz Sea caviar again) and out to the harbour. Being an island group with little flat land, it makes sense to rely on sea-planes for internal flight; looking on the map one can see that every point is within twenty miles of the coast or a respectable lake. I would have sworn the aircraft we took off in was a Short "Cockle", but all the signs and instruments were in Russian and our guide told us it was of entirely local manufacture. Perhaps they think design patent laws, too, are part of some sinister Bolshevist plot.

The short cut across Tkiatko Island was stunning, with deep wooded valleys cloaked in massive primordial forest trees, and glimpsed down through the mist into deep gorges full of roaring torrents. The islands are certainly well-off for hydro power, having a dozen big dams marked on the map and five more rapidly under construction. When I think of the trouble the engineers on Casino Island go to in squeezing a few more watts of power from their bio-reactors, the scale of the Vostok projects makes their efforts look silly. We saw few signs of habitation in the centre of the island, apart from a few plumes of smoke rising where villages and logging camps lie deep in the forest – but a wood of two hundred foot redwoods can hide an awful lot from the air. Maria looked down and commented that one could conceal a complete factory town down there, and went into a reverie about hidden aircraft assembly-lines in the pine forests and mines turning out world-beating designs day and night unknown to their enemies. I was tempted to playfully slap some sense into her with a wet towel as we frequently have to do at Songmark, but she is now an Ambassador and I doubt it would be proper etiquette.

A breathtaking swoop down a wooded valley at two hundred miles an hour followed, our pilot loudly singing what sounded to me like a drinking-song – and then we were out over the straits heading to Romanov Island where the smoke of Tsarogorod could just be seen in the distance. I fear our guide Olga is no pilot; she was gripping the seat and praying loudly while the rest of us had our snouts pressed tight to the windows wishing we were in open cockpits with the slipstream in our fur. Aircraft of the future, I am certain, will have only the cheap seats hidden away like steerage passengers deep in the fuselage, while the first-class tickets ride in the splendid fresh air and sunshine above the clouds on open-air seating.

Tsarogorod at last! By ten in the morning we had to go through Customs all over again, as Olga explained, the Bolsheviks have been known to impersonate regular passenger transport. Molly had the foresight to bring along a ham sandwich and munch it in front of the officials, which probably cut half an hour off our processing time. As I told my own questioners, I am still a King and Empire girl, not having radically changed my politics or religion since Saturday.

I must say, although a petrol refinery is a jolly useful thing for Vostok to have, it is better kept in Benzeenagorod rather than the capital, which is a lot nicer without one; when it rains here one need not worry about lighting a match. Olga showed us to a waiting black limousine (do the Government have any other colours?) and we were whisked off to the Baikal Prospekt Hotel. It was really very like the Novy Moskva Hotel we had just left – great sweeping marble staircases, high rooms that look impossible to heat, and our own bedrooms obviously servant beds in Maria’s suite.

Maria gave a most contented sigh and fell luxuriantly backwards onto the main bed, which was thankfully just as deep and soft as it appeared. Had she done that on one of our beds, she would have definitely regretted it. Looking at our schedule, we are to meet the effective day-to-day ruler Admiral Verechagin tomorrow, and possibly Maria might be presented to the Grand Duchess herself.

From the newspapers we have read here (or rather, looked at the pictures while Tatiana gives her highly flavoured translation) the "Grand Duchess" is not some grim and terrible old lady as one might expect, but not much older than we are! Being the last survivor of her family has had the same effect as for many a subaltern in the Great War, who at the end of an attack found themselves effectively in charge of the remains of the brigade. And both have ended up with a decidedly "take no prisoners" approach.

There is no pleasing Tatiana – again, she silently pointed out that in all our rooms there is one light bulb that is not working. This seems awfully important to her, somehow. I explained that it was better than having all the dead ones in one room with no light at all, but she did not seem to take the point. Possibly it is a local Vostok tradition from before they built all those dams, reminding everyone of the need to save energy.

Tuesday 20th December, 1935

A red-letter day, which proved to be red in more ways than one. Dressed in our best, we trooped out behind Maria to the (ever-present) black limousine. Do Ambassadors ever get to walk anywhere? We had been hoping for a chance to wander around town on our own and practice our Russian – I have memorised a dozen or more useful phrases, and am starting work on understanding the likely replies.

Quite a sight; we headed towards the Ural Hall, a big new red-brick commercial building where the Admiral contracts a lot of his day-to-day business. I noticed that unlike in Benzeenagorod, there seemed to be some folk with leisure time to be spectators, at least they were watching the streets intently while smoking odd paper cigarettes or reading newspapers. Maria pointed her horns at them and nodded to me significantly – what it did signify, I had to wait till later to ask.

We arrived there to find a junior aide being most apologetic, and through Olga announced that the Admiral was unexpectedly delayed – we would have gone straight in, but protocol dictated we enter after him. Just as we were turning away from the building – the world seemed to turn upside down. All I knew at first was a roaring noise and a sensation as if someone was breaking planks over my head – some time later I picked myself out of a flower bed with my ears ringing and the stink of smoke everywhere. I could see Maria and Helen getting to their feet – and Tatiana lying flat, not moving.

Dear Diary: the Vostoknikites do not all seem pleased to see us. As we were told later, someone had substituted a set-piece "Salad Russe" dessert for twenty pounds of Kropotkinite, a high explosive favoured by the classical Nihilists for its exceedingly faint scent making it difficult to detect. Had we gone in on time after the Admiral – it would have been a major coup for whoever planned it, and instead of a state banquet it would have made a hash of us.

But first things came first – though I was stone deaf for the minute, our first-aid training kicked in and I checked over Tatiana, finding some minor flesh wounds and a nasty lump on the head. Maria and Helen were making Olga comfortable, then we headed into the building to do what we could for the folk inside.

Oh my. It is just as well we have had realistic accident and first-aid drills, and went about doing what we could before the place filled up with Agents and trained doctors (happily there is a hospital just two streets away.) The aide we had been chatting with had taken a direct hit in the head with a splinter – there was nothing we could do for him, and had to leave him to work on the others.

It was half an hour before my hearing started to come back, and we took stock. About thirty folk of various predator species surrounded the building, all of them lean and tough-looking; more could be seen sifting through the wreckage. If this is the sort of thing they have to put up with, it would explain a lot about the attitudes on Vostok!

I’m not sure what the locals must think of us – from all the films I have seen, Ambassadors are suave and sophisticated types most at home in a glittering crowd of dignitaries. When the Admiral did arrive flanked with a dozen fierce-looking Cossack wolverines, it was to see Maria and the rest of us soaked in the casualties’ blood and busily applying tourniquets and squeezing pressure points on our "patients". The local doctors took over from us, and we followed the Admiral back across the street to a hopefully bomb-proof cellar while the area was secured. It is quite the end of our formal dresses, I fear.

Admiral Verechagin is a most imposing gentleman, a tall and gaunt wolf with half of his right ear missing, a casualty of the 1905 war with Japan that really put Vostok on the strategic map. He speaks very good English, having actually attended Dartmouth Naval College as a cub and been on various ill-fated liaison missions for the Imperial Navy. From the biographies we swotted over before leaving Spontoon, he was in these waters taking charge of the supply routes from the Americas supporting the White Russian forces when the final collapse came at Vladivostok and the last convoy sailed. "The Last Convoy from Vladivostok" is a popular subject for paintings and statues over here, and seems as much a piece of national pride as the Boers’ Great Trek; young nations have to manage with whatever history they can get hold of.

Anyway, the Admiral apologised profusely and swore somewhat savage vengeance on the villains who had done this – commenting gallantly that it would have been bad enough to attack his loyal forces, but far worse to target such lovely young ladies on a peaceful mission. (Flattery will get you everywhere. But I didn’t hear him mourning much about any of the servants, some of whom had been quite as pretty as any of us. And though our mission might be peaceful, anything he arranges through Maria with her Uncle might well not be.) The upshot was, he offered us rather a change in the schedule he had planned – for one thing, the Bolsheviks have obviously got hold of the timetable rendering it dangerous, and for another he commented that it had been drawn up to suit more conventional diplomats. Maria volunteered us right away, rather liking the sound of it – instead of diplomatic galas, being attached to some of his Irregular forces, who see a lot more of the islands than any Palace-dweller.

(Later) The doctors have news of Tatiana, who is rather concussed but should be back with us in a few days. Olga is sadly rather more seriously injured (fractured skull) but they have every hope she will make a full recovery. Still, it leaves us without any translators.

I am writing this as we hurriedly pack our field knapsacks at the Baikal Prospekt Hotel, as the Admiral hopes to give the revolutionaries the slip by getting us out of Tsarogorod and amongst irreproachably loyalist folk before nightfall. What little finery we had with us that did not get ruined today, is being shipped back to Spontoon – we are not going to want silk dresses where we are going. I for one am glad of it – though I could wish it had a happier cause. This trip may be more interesting than I thought.

Wednesday December 21st, 1935

The shortest days in this part of the world definitely seem to have a lot packed into them. This time last year we were exploring the secrets of South Island, just Helen and me against the watchful Spontoonies. Today was rather different, but equally memorable.

I am writing this from a rather less luxurious "suite" than the last few nights in grand hotels – we are deep in the forest in a military camp, a basic but quite well-built complex of a dozen huts about twenty miles from the outskirts of Tsarogorod. Finding a translator was not as hard as we feared; we have been introduced to Starpom * Alex Gregorvich, a young Armoured Marines officer who grew up in the shipping trade and speaks what I believe is Russian with a strong Rain Island accent. He is grateful for the chance to practice his English, as the Rain Island trade collapsed completely when for some reason Vostok decided that having close links with an anarcho-syndicalism based regime was probably a bad idea.

Molly and Maria are out and about exploring the camp – the troops are a rather wild-looking lot, Siberian loyalists who chose to go into exile rather than face life (or more probably death) under Comrade Starling’s regime. Sergeant Alex tells me there are scattered units from all over the vastnesses of Russia who made it here in the Revolution or filtered out in the confused months just after. There are Siberian irregular troops like these who are named after some local version of a Cornish Pasty, there are Cossack units who he says will surprise us greatly, and a whole mini "Foreign Legion" of assorted folk who gathered here in strange circumstances and stay for the pay and the chance to do some serious Red-hunting. It is a good thing Tatiana has not yet rejoined us.

We arrived here this morning after a rapid midnight departure from Tsarogorod in the back of an Army lorry, hopefully throwing pursuit off our tails. Sergeant Alex showed us around the rather nicely constructed camp – everything looks definitely over-engineered, but he assures us the climate is rather savage at times when the typhoons collide with the winds off Siberia. The roofs are held down with one-inch steel cables tied to boulders a yard across – I would think that was being overcautious except that one of them snapped in a storm last week. There is a bath-house and sauna, a cook-house and store, a general briefing and radio hut and eight accommodation blocks, one of which we have to ourselves. A big porcelain stove keeps the place warm, and there is definitely no shortage of firewood around here.

I am not too sure what orders these folk have concerning us – and to look at them, they are not exactly parade-ground soldiers – bears, wolverines and two Siberian Tigers, all looking in rather prime condition,  unlike the somewhat gaunt citizens of Benzeenagorod. Possibly the petrol fumes back there depress the appetite. Only two of them are female, but they are the biggest and fiercest bears I have ever seen – it seems this group attracts dedicated folk, no average troopers apply to join. They were introduced to us as Privates Svetlana and Natalia, who are the sole survivors of their old regiment after a Bolshevik crewed destroyer torpedoed the troop ship and they spent twenty hours in the icy water. I can see this regiment is not short of motivation.

The cleaning, cooking and other household tasks are done by Natives, the "Djilaguns" who live in the forest. From what we hear, the government has difficulty getting folk in the deep woods to pay taxes, mostly since they use barter and have very little actual money – so they pay "tax" in the form of labour, which is a perfectly good and Feudal way of doing things. It explains how Vostok managed to afford so many big dams and the like, if they avoid wage bills! The Djilaguns we have seen are mostly rodents of various sorts, and we have yet to see any of the Sasquatch folk. I would like to talk with them, but unfortunately their language is nothing like Spontoonie, and the only other thing they speak is (reportedly) very bad Russian.
 
(Later) A quiet evening, listening to the troops singing in the other huts, with the occasional soft tread of the sentries patrolling outside while we gather round the stove. Folk here take their security seriously. I suppose Helen is Tailfast now – I have told Molly and Maria about the Midsummer ceremony, though not about the participation of the "Natives of no Island". My tail drooped somewhat – even if I had not lost my Tailfast necklace at Lars’ party, I would have to take it off today. Having six months of being Tailfast has been a wonderful experience, although I have hardly been a perfect Tailfast girl. At least I am now "free" that way, though I could not blame Jirry if he looked elsewhere next Midsummer!

      (* "Sergeant" in Russian – Editor’s rough translation.)

Thursday 22nd December, 1935

A strenuous day, from dawn to dusk we have been on patrol with the squads, looking for signs of Bolshevik raiding parties. Sergeant Alex is really in his element in these woods being a pine marten – he can absolutely blend into the woods and stay without moving a whisker for an hour. Unfortunately, as he points out, the Reds have pine martens too. It is a rather awkward problem they face with Bolshevik infiltrators, who do not wear uniforms and look like anyone else – any logging party or group of fishermen might not be what they seem.

Anyway, it was a fine trip through the misty woods carrying light packs. We three were all issued with old but very clean Mosin-Nagant long rifles of Great War vintage, in case we did come under attack. A bit of practice on these would certainly be appreciated, but right now we are trying to stay quiet and keep our ears open. We are well-supplied all round, for luncheon there is a sort of crescent-shaped pasty they call a "Pelmeni" – a Siberian speciality that I rather liked.

Sergeant Alex translated what some of the troops were saying, that the Reds would really like to get their teeth into the Pelmeni around here. I suppose that’s like the odd phrase Molly has used about her family business squeezing out competition and "eating their lunch." Still, I wish Tatiana was back; though one could not quite trust her version it would at least be a second opinion.

There was little to see, though we covered a lot of territory and checked several million pine trees before we returned to camp. The Djilaguns serving the camp had been very prompt, and after dinner (kebabs of some game animal, and an awful lot of spiced cabbage, plus a loaf apiece of black bread) we had a real Russian treat, as they had got the sauna all ready for us!

The two lady troopers Svetlana and Natalia were in there already – Maria got to practice her basic Russian, but it was extremely basic and a long way short of a real conversation. We started off in our bathing-costumes, but the two bears were in nothing but their fur, and soon followed suit. Unlike what we have heardof group baths in Japan, this is not a mixed event, which privately I thought was something of a disappointment. My opinions that way seem to have changed a lot in the past year, having seen acres of very fine fur displayed on Spontoon and come to appreciate the view – certainly it would shock my chums at St. Winifred’s.

Anyway, it was a most refreshing experience and steamed the mud off most effectively, though the cold pool plunge was perhaps more bracing than I had expected. Maria says they traditionally finish with a roll in the snow, but it rarely snows much in Vostok and outside is currently mud. Not quite the same effect.

Friday 23rd December, 1935

Tatiana is back! She arrived in an army lorry after breakfast, very relieved to see us. Maria comments quietly that in Tatiana’s experience, folk who get driven out in the woods with armed soldiers are hardly ever heard of again – especially in her position. Still, she is back and doing her best to look cheerful about being surrounded by dedicated counter-revolutionaries on an island of such.

We immediately headed off on a long exploration towards the coast, some ten miles away. The two tigers went ahead, moving almost silently despite their size. Just when I was about to privately agree with Tatiana that this whole mission might be a "Potempkin village" or wild goose chase planned just to impress us, they actually did find something. A deflated rubber raft had been hidden near the shore, though there were no pawprints surviving anywhere near it – Sergeant Alex explained that it would have had no scent when it was dragged up the beach fresh from the water, but rubber dries out and smells quite powerful after a few days. I rather doubt fishermen use rubber rafts around here, or they feel the need to hide them. Shipwrecked survivors use them, but they tend to be bright safety colours of orange or yellow, not midnight black and without even a serial number to identify them. So – somewhere on this coastline are two or three infiltrators, probably folk Tatiana would be very happy to meet and pass on her information to. I noticed Tatiana looking at the boat and then out towards the horizon with a definitely calculating gaze.

Maria had the same idea, and whispered that although she may be our Songmark school chum, we were official guests of Vostok, and ought to stop her by any means short of blowing her cover. I must say, Maria is really coming into her own on this trip, and not just because she is the one whose name is on the official invite – the rest of us are just the supporting party "Maria Inconnutia + 3", and along for the ride.

The general impression we got was the boat had been there two days, which could put the intruders anywhere within forty miles even if they were still on foot. However, we had to check the obvious and headed South along three miles of rocky beaches and narrow trails coast to the nearest Djilagun village. It was a fascinating place indeed, about thirty houses sheltering behind a rugged crag, all built of rough stone and heavily carven wood with roofs of cedar tiles. The only sign of civilisation was a tiny church with an onion dome about the size of some engine cowlings we have seen, and a single brass bell hardly big enough to wear as a helmet. Looking at it, one got the impression that it could have been salvage from an unlucky ship, as the village seems too poor to really afford even that luxury. The combination of rocky shores, frequent thick fogs and a definite shortage of lighthouses have given Vostok a bad reputation for shipping, and unlike Spontoon the Government are not so keen on inviting all visitors.

I must say, our friends were a bit rough about making their enquiries with the natives – I know there are unfriendly forces about, but as a matter of common courtesy the least the troops could do was to unfix bayonets when searching people’s houses. We met the "Hetman" of the village, an elderly muskrat with one of the odd oriental straw hats one sees the Djilagun folk sporting. He swore they had seen no strangers for a month, and indeed by land the village is half a day’s walk from any sort of motor road. I think Sergeant Alex could at least have thanked him for the information.

We hurried back to our camp, to radio out our findings. It might have been a coincidence, but just an hour later there were aircraft heading towards the beach, though I doubt they have a chance of seeing much in these woods. Just before dark, something very strange flew over indeed – an airship. But it was no ordinary cigar-shaped airship; it was flattened rather like a pumpkin seed with engines on stub wings at the sides, very like one of the fighter dirigibles we had in the Great War. Fascinating! The overall colour was dull silver, quite without markings, and it must have easily been doing sixty miles an hour. Even my crudest Flying Flea models could beat that (albeit in a dive) but sixty is awfully speedy for a gasbag.

Tatiana’s ears went right down and she growled something in Russian that sounded very impolite. Evidently she recognises this design, and is not inclined to sneer at it. Maria commented that the Vostokites seem to be well on top of things, except for that blast at the Ural House when the Bolsheviks nearly got us. Our Red chum looked around for eavesdroppers, bristled her fur somewhat and asked in a rather snooty tone if we had realised the whole affair was a set-up. None of the ranking nobility were even scratched, only workers were killed and injured for whom they care nothing (she says) and real Bolsheviks do not make timing mistakes like that (she says) – they would have handled the job efficiently. But by sacrificing a few hapless Workers the Tsarist government have made willing dupes of us – that is, even more willing than before. I would normally say everyone is entitled to their opinion, but in Tatiana’s case I am starting to think of making an exception.

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