Granin's Visit

“Right on time.” Johann Krauss chuckled to himself, watching with amused detachment as the truck crawled to a halt only a few hundred yards from the main gate. Predictably, the balaclava clad guard stepped down from the truck and began poking around under the hood, and true to his impatient nature, Granin chose to make the last leg of the journey on foot.

And true to his nature, Krauss leaned nonchalantly against the side of the guard station, making idle chatter with the man on duty and polishing a deep crimson apple on the front of his garish white mink coat.

The sun was warm on his face, and he shut his pale blue eyes against it to soak it all in. Wunderschön. Just standing in the bright light of morning was a rare and delicious treat.

“Open the gate, Boris.” He commanded, not bothering to move as the gates creaked open. There was no reason to move. Let the world come to him.

The old German smiled at Granin’s footsteps grew closer, and turned his head to examine the inventor through the thick iron bars of the gate. It seemed as though Aleksandr had gained weight, or it could have been an illusion created by the bulky coat he wore to keep away the winter chill.

“Isn’t the universe a strange thing?” He called. “Just ten minutes ago, you were cursing and sweating and dreading your morning meeting with Colonel Volgin, and thinking that perhaps the kiss of Vodka could take the brutal edge from the Colonel’s words…” He paused, drawing himself upright, and starting toward the gate. Granin was predictable, in that sense, enough so that Krauss felt sure enough to speculate on the scenario. “And the universe provides.”

Krauss motioned to the small, red-capped bottle protruding from the hip pocket of his coat.

“Comrade Aleksandr, how have you been? Good, I hope. Have you lost weight? You must have!” Krauss tilted his head. No, Granin was definitely a few pounds heavier than on his last visit. “Colonel Volgin is in a meeting with Major Ocelot at the moment…” he grinned at the truth of the matter, holding out the bottle to the inventor in an offering of good nature. There was no reason to be discrete, not when all of Groznyj owed him favors.

“So I thought that perhaps I could… show you around… until the Colonel is free?”

Granin felt a geniune smile grow on his face. His eyes touched the bottle, then the other man's face. "Comrade Johann. It's always a pleasure. The weather here seems to agree with you." He'd been told once that it was prudent to beware of Germans bearing gifts, but then... how could that cover anyone with vodka?

He took the bottle and examined it. Not bad, though keeping it in a pocket had made it warmer than it should have been.

"I would indeed enjoy a... walk around the base while the Colonel is busy. May he be busy for the next several hours." Granin stuffed his papers into his deep coat pockets and paused. "You're sure he's with the Ocelot kid, not that bastard Sokolov?"

“It’s a dreadful thing, being shut up in my office for tedious hours on end. I expected more snow over night, but the sun was a wonderful surprise this morning that I just had to find an excuse to enjoy it. Good for the soul.”

Krauss smirked at Granin’s words. “Walking around, ja. That’s good for the soul too. I’m certain the Colonel engaged for a while. You know how he is, once he gets his mind wrapped around an idea.”

Such as the idea that Sokolov’s inventions were more worthwhile than Granin’s. Sokolov. He scowled at the mention of the name. What a distasteful little coward. He shook his head; there were better things to discuss.

The Major started off, hands balled in the small of his back, an almost stereotypical gesture of a German officer, strolling along with mirror-polished jackboots as though he owned the world.

In essence, he did. His world consisted of everything within the fortress walls, and he was a mere betrayal and murder away from owning all that, too.

“So… may I make another assumption? You are here…” He paused for a moment, as though the thought needed actual consideration. “To beg money from Volgin for your projects.”

He only smiled at Granin’s stony glare.

“Right now, there are seven rocket-propelled hovercraft patrolling the mangrove swamp some five or six miles from here. My point to telling you this, mein comrade? I financed the cosmonaut’s project out of pocket. There are always alternate routes…”

Granin stopped in his tracks at the other man's words. "I do not beg." It was insulting. He was honoured by his country.

Funding, though... even a brief mention of it would have made his feet move again. Funding could make his dream into a reality. Funding could let him show up that pathetic Shagohod, not that it would take much.

Of course, the entire idea was clearly ridiculous. There was a world of financial difference between money for a relatively small-scale project like those personal flying devices and a... a personal armoured nuclear device. And yet... And yet.

"Funding a project like mine takes very deep pockets, Comrade. Very deep pockets indeed. Mother Russia does not believe in my vision, and even Colonel Volgin, with all the money in his Legacy, I think even he flinches at the cost."

"But if you can fund it..." Granin knew it was useless to get his hopes up, but they rose despite his best efforts. "It will be a masterpiece. It would give us an overwhelming advantage over everyone else. It would stomp the Shagohod into dust."

Granin paused and took a steadying breath. He could remember when Volgin had called himself "Comrade," had appeared to offer funding beyond belief. Then he'd gotten what he wanted. The funding dried up, and the electric maniac had begun to call him old and worthless, calling his dreams of Metal Gear nothing but the ramblings of a man well on his way to senility. Sokolov said it couldn't be done, and the visionless Volgin believed him. Granin knew he had to be cautious. Men got what they wanted and suddenly became blind to the future.

"Should you have the funding, what would you gain from it, Major Krauss? An invitation into politics, perhaps? A position over Colonel Volgin?" A return ticket to West Germany? That would be most devestating, and even mentioning the possibility would be dangerous indeed. But Krauss had defected once: what stopped him from doing so again?

Caution. It was what he needed. Granin knew that intellectually. Ah, but the prospect of funding was so very tempting...

Krauss shook his head, dismissive of Granin’s doubting. “What would I gain from this?” He laughed. “Well, you said it yourself: an overwhelming advantage over everyone else.”

The German only smiled pleasantly as they made their way passed a group of guards, whom sprang to salute, but he only waved them away.

“My pockets may be a bit shallow for your projects, but I have many friends. Many wealthy friends, exiled in Brazil. Many wealthy friends who know the location of unimaginable amounts of gold bullion and money that is property of the former Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei.”

The Major sighed contently, letting it all soak in: his intentions were to fund Granin’s project through generous donations of Nazi gold.

“Mother Russia may not believe in your vision, but I have friends who are quite desperate. And I know what you are thinking -- why on earth would we hand over such super weapons to exiled Nazi war criminals? It’s lunacy! But what is saying you couldn’t take their money and run, hmm? You did say is would give us an overwhelming advantage over everyone else…”

Even though that second part was the farthest thing from his intentions, he nodded seriously.

He stopped, giving his words time to settle, watching a crow fly overhead, a black smear against the clear blue sky. Nonchalantly, he tossed away the apple he’d been fiddling with, and turned back toward the East Wing. “We should talk further in my office…”

Granin looked around. Suddenly, the near-empty courtyard looked crowded. "Yes. Your office..."

Having funding was more important than who the funding was coming from, yes? And certainly, they would have the advantage over any such men once Metal Gear was finished.

Still, how did one trust a man with those kinds of connections, who'd already defected from one country? One didn't. But what was he to do? Colonel Volgin had said 'no' more times than a two-year old. Granin couldn't confide in anyone: Colonel Volgin would have them both shot for this sort of back door deal, certainly. Major Raikov would tell Volgin without doubt. The Ocelot boy was just that: a boy.

No, there was no one else... no one below Major would do, and he didn't have the connections for anyone above, or he'd already have his money. So. What was more important: the funding or the risk?

Granin hadn't been honored three times by playing it safe.

He smiled. "Why are we out here when we could be inside drinking?" he asked in a voice that was perhaps a little louder than normal. He wanted funding, and if it came from enemies of Russia, even enemies of the entire world, so be it. Funding was funding, and the motherland would benefit through the betrayal of despised men.

What would they need... "Metalworkers, eventually," he muttered. "Perhaps I could bring on a few more scientists for the details... We'll need nuclear material, but that should be simple enough, plenty to be found right here in Russia..." Granin's mind grew distant as he contemplated the necessities, and his feet pulled him along without any conscious intervention.

“Drinking. Of course.”

It was all easier than it should have been. Johann had planned to coerce, convince, even blackmail and threaten Granin into accepting his most gracious offer. Yet, the old man was already prattling on about what he would need without even agreeing to the conditions.

It was always a good sign when people did that. A commonly used practice of distracting themselves from the treachery and treason at hand, and focusing on the positive aspects.

“Scientists, you say?” Krauss tilted his head, thinking seriously about something for a moment: the best way to bait Granin along. “Just imagine it, Aleksandr. One day soon, Sokolov will be begging you for a job. Groveling on his knees, even.”

Sometimes, it was almost too easy, and he laughed softly as he held the door for the inventor. “After you, my good man. You are our guest, are you not?”

The halls of the East Wing were blessedly deserted, not that it honestly mattered to the German. No one would question a few innocent drinks with a comrade.

And the East Wing was also blessedly warm, so much so that Krauss pulled of his heavy coat and ushanka and sighed in contentment. Content, at least, until he saw the houseplants withering in the corner of the lobby.

“Verdammte Scheiße! We can build battle-ready nuclear equipped walking tanks, but we can’t assign someone to water the fucking plants! God damn it, those were expensive!”

"I won't give him one," snapped Granin. Not unless he needed something particularly demeaning done. "Everyone knows he wants to run off to America. Let him work on something with them. I'm sure he'll become a rich capitalist dog someday, hawking some useless invention on American soil. A shoe polisher, or something to clean their toilets."

Granin pulled the papers out of his pocket before taking his own coat off and hanging it over his arm. He pulled one out of the rest as they walked, ignoring the plants. His work was far more important than plants, but all people had their little eccentricities. "Tanks," he spat out and shook his head. "This, Johann. This is nuclear warfare without the tank. Sokolov's project is nothing. It needs three miles-- three miles! And it can't be rough terrain, no, they almost need an airport to launch. That is the past: nuclear silos and airplane drops. This, Comrade. This is the future..."

Granin paused. "But perhaps you see the future more clearly than the Colonel. Your 'friends,'" Nazi scum that they might be, "are in Brazil. How soon would you be able to speak with them about this proposal? How much will they be willing to... invest?" he asked, disliking the taste of the word. "And you... You must have questions for me."

It was just too funny when Granin was upset; he like a bulldog snarling and slobbering and guarding his favorite squeaky toy, complete with the jowls. The German said nothing of his mental image, however humorous he found it, but thought it proper to voice his agreement.

“Filthy Americans anyway. I loathe having them about, especially the one with the hornets; the Cobra soldier.” He gestured, as though to suggest insects in flight. “And the young one. The one who defected yesterday. Too quiet, makes me think he’s plotting something. Now, the woman who defected as well…The Joy…” Johann trailed off, finding nothing negative to say about her. Oh, quite to the contrary.

Krauss pulled a set of keys from the pocket of his jodhpurs, searching for a moment before he found the right one for the heavy oak door at the end of the hallway. The view was much nicer when he kept an office on the second floor, but the stairs were almost too much for his bad hip on some days, and the elevators were so often out of service.

“Come in, sit down,” He gestured to a cozy leather chair opposite a lavish wooden desk, “and don’t step on the rug, it’s wolf skin. From Bavaria.”

He hung his coat on the rack near the door, before reluctantly taking Granin’s as well-- the inventors drab wool coat was honestly not fit, he mused, to hang beside the fine white mink wrap.

“Isn’t it ironic,” Krauss began, shutting the door and locking it again, “that when I first met Colonel Volgin, over twenty years ago when my unit was captured by the Red Army; I was a Standartenführer with the Waffen-SS, Colonel, that is, in the German army… and he was but a mere Major? Oh, I was promised so many things upon my announcement to defect and spy upon the Fatherland.”

Sighing, he flopped down in his chair on the other side of the grand mahogany desk. “Now here we are, I am but a mere Major, and he is the Colonel.” There was only a hint of resentment in the German’s voice, he thought he hid it rather well. “Yevgeny has a way of breaking every promise he makes.”

Silent for a moment, the Major leaned back in his chair, snuggling in and trying to get comfortable. “Now, you have asked me a question. A very good question, comrade Granin, albeit misinformed. You asked when I will be able to speak with my old friends in Brazil about funding. What you meant to say is, ’when will we be able to speak to my old friends in Brazil about funding,’ and that all depends on how quickly you can pack your suitcase for a well-deserved vacation to beautiful, sunny Brazil.”

"It... remind me of when Volgin came to me," said Granin, feeling slightly out-of-place in the luxurious office. Of course, the military got the best, that was always known, but... to see such opulence as this seemed... wrong, somehow. Colonel Volgin, with his personal access to wealth, did not show such ostentatious extravagance.

Of course, it was beside the point, and Granin shook his head to clear it of his misgivings. "He promises the world, but I think he does not know how to keep his promises. Some of my weapons--" Granin sighed. Science was the reason why a man could be a Colonel at all-- without advanced communications and weaponry, he was rotting in some peasant village. "It does not matter. He does not provide me funding any longer, and the future will march on without him."

"As for your friends... Could we not meet them in... Cuba, perhaps?" A good Communist country, and should they be betrayed-- who trusted a German? One without Vodka, that was-- the police would be more willing to help. "Clearance to Brazil seems as though it would be difficult to obtain." Meeting the man's contacts would be difficult enough for Granin. He'd have to hold his bile down when they met. Funding from slime seemed much better when one didn't have to face the slime in person.

But funding was funding. He had to keep reminding himself of that. "I will ask the Colonel today."

He put the bottle on Krauss' desk and cast his eyes around the room for some glasses. The only ones he saw were expensive-looking crystal, and judging by what else was in the room, they most likely were expensive; Granin didn't want to touch them. Better to let Krauss find something to drink from. "Shall we have a drink, Comrade? To celebrate the beginning of a mutually agreeable partnership."

“Will you please retrieve two of those glasses there, on the table by the window? It only seems right to drink from hand-engraved Hungarian crystal paid for in full courtesy of the Philosopher’s Legacy.” The German grinned widely, folding his hands in his lap. “As a matter of fact, nearly everything in this room was paid for by the Legacy. The Colonel had so much money lying around collecting dust in banks all over the world that sometimes I see fit to do him a favor, and relieve him of a bit of it, here and there.”

So much, in fact, that it was never missed, or questioned, and in the rare few times over the last twenty years that it had been noticed, the good Major had only seen fit to upgrade defenses in ill-guarded territories. That was always an excuse Volgin liked to hear.

Idly, he pondered the notion of shutting the blinds, but that would be far too obvious, and there was no need for it. Besides, the morning sun was nice, spilling in through the thick glass and dotting the wooden floor.

Yet, something was missing.

“Motte? Wo ist mein liebes Kätzchen?”

On the book case near the corner, a fat white Persian cat raised its head, stretched out after a long nap, and came bounding across the floor and into Krauss’s lap at his call.

“This is Motte,” he offered, scratching the purring fur ball’s head. “Useless, except she makes an excellent lap warmer. Go on and pour the vodka, I’m afraid I’m horribly informal on such matters.”

Krauss waited for Granin to get settled again, smiling pleasantly. “Now. This is what you will tell Colonel Volgin: you have been contacted by the Cuban government to help them with a very special project -- make something up. Something creative. You’re good at that, sort of thing. And wouldn’t it be wonderful to take along an ambassador of good will from the Brezhnev faction, and further our influence around the world? I'm over-due for a vacation anyway.”

"It is a very... nice cat, I'm sure." Granin didn't care for cats. Or dogs, or birds, or fish. He preferred the company of robots and weapons and scientists, or, if absolutely necessary, other people in general.

Granin poured the vodka into the glasses and passed one across the table. "If you have such access to the Legacy, why not fund the project yourself?" Perhaps such an expenditure would be noticed by the Colonel? It sounded as though Krauss knew how to take as much as he needed without arousing suspicions, but... it would be a lot of money, after all.

Granin stared at the vodka for a moment. Given everything else in the room, it was probably an expensive bottle. He should drink it slowly.

"It will be simple enough to say such a thing to the Colonel. He only half-listens to what I have to say these days." Still, it would be lying to a man who had the power to crush anyone who he even thought was about to betray him. Granin drank quickly and poured himself another glass of the colourless brew. "Do you want me to mention your name? It seems too obvious, but if I don't, he might not choose to have you come."

He'd have to lie to get the Colonel to let them both out of the country. A dangerous proposition, but it would be worth the risk. He downed his second shot. Damn Volgin for pushing him to this. Damn Sokolov for taking the Colonel's ear...

"Do your friends have names, Johann?" He hoped it wasn't anyone too hateful. Of course, there were some other good Germans out there. Some who had been enemies and were now... well, perhaps not quite friends, but definitely peers. "I wonder... do you think you might convince some once-German scientists to work on this project? Say... Werner von Braun?"

After all, if he wasn't going to be able to work with his compatriots on the project, he might as well try for some of the best the world had to offer. Besides, von Braun had designed the V2. That was a significant achievement for its day, and even if it wasn't as impressive as the entire concept behind Granin's project, he'd probably have some interesting contributions to the project.

Of course, he'd gone to America, too. Still, Granin mused as he poured a third helping of vodka, it was better to be American than Nazi...

“Comrade Granin, I’m afraid your projects are much more expensive than a trinket here or there, carefully disguised as something critical to the survival of Groznyj.” Krauss laughed softly, picking up his glass. “I would have offered a toast to progress, but it is good to see you are enjoying the drink.”

There was always the hope that the inventor would be far too sloshed to speak with Volgin in the afternoon, a valid possibility with the vigor he perused the vodka.

“Simply tell the Colonel that Major Krauss bravely offered a military escort in and out of the country. He’ll laugh, and have some snide comment prepared about how I don’t do anything with bravery, and that I must have some ulterior motive. Just shrug, and say that I mentioned a vacation, and how you think I damn well deserve one for handling the arrival of the first four Cobra soldiers.”

The Major nodded in agreement with his words, eyeing the vodka that chilled his crystal drinking glass.

“I’m afraid I cannot reveal the names of my friends yet… they are only criminals by circumstance, that they were on the loosing side. Good men, all of them, as far as soldiers go. None of those sick bastards who served in the extermination camps. I don’t keep that sort of company.”

Reflexively, he downed his alcohol.

“If anyone ever calls me out on my decision to defect, all I need to mention were those… places. Hell on earth. I had nothing to do with that; I knew nothing of their existence. Just makes me sick all over to think…”

The Major shook his head, shaking those unpleasant thoughts away.

“Herr von Braun, you say? Oh, yes, I knew of Herr Doktor Braun. I was the spy who gave the Cobra Unit the exact coordinates of his laboratory and rocket installations.” Krauss chuckled, reminiscent. “It was probably for the best, I hear he reached safety shortly after…”

Volgin, Volgin, Volgin. All it would take was one word out of place... And Sokolov might be there, listening for that one word, it was just like him to do that. It was politics, and normally Granin felt it was in Russia's best interests. "You handled the Cobras entry entirely, did you? I see why it was done so well. I would have thought he'd have given it to his lover, of course. He plays favourites too much..."

Granin drank, then poured again for both himself and the Major.

"I am glad that your friends were not a part of that. My work belongs to Russia, but it puts my mind at ease to know that they were not a part of the... Final Solution, as I've heard it called." They'd still come onto Russian soil, they'd still brought their tanks to Leningrad, but... that could be forgiven, if not forgotten. It had been a time of war, after all. And now, the war was with the Americans, and Granin had several friends over there.

"Von Braun... Yes, and he is in America too. He's in charge of getting them to the moon. Pity he did not come to Russia for sanctuary, but if he would be interested in the work... If he thought he could help his countrymen..."

Granin frowned. He had to be more focussed. "I will miss this place, if not some of the people here... How long will we need to be gone? To arrange this meeting, to discuss..." Granin felt his words slipping away. "To discuss the work, and what will be needed..."

Granin poured himself a sixth glass, then paused and stared at it. He didn't even remember his fifth. "I will need to speak with him and I should not be drunk," he said ruefully. He should not have drunk those first four so quickly. He should have been more polite and given a toast. But then, he shouldn't have been turning himself into a drunken sot several days a week for the past three months either. It was Sokolov's fault, and Volgin's fault. He'd become a dispicable man, hadn't he... Granin stared at the glass a moment more, almost accusingly, before he shrugged and drained it.

"The Colonel would find it suspicious if I did not go to speak with him. I will have to beg again for his money and his favour. But... maybe this will be the last time I have to grovel in front of the bastard and his pet, don't you think? And when my work is complete, we will... we will..."

"What will we be doing? I think you won't be just a Major after that, Major Krauss." Granin raised an eyebrow, then smiled. The motherland would be most pleased with his work when they brought it back. "Do you think I might recieve another Order for service to Russia...?"

“His lover.” Krauss smirked. “Another fine and upstanding coward. But I honestly don’t mind him so much.” The German couldn’t find a fault with Raikov for his preferences nor habits -- desperate times called for desperate measures. He was probably better off with the Colonel wrapped around his little finger. A boy like Raikov wouldn’t survive too long in any military without careful consideration and protection from the powers that be.

“The latest rumor is that he bedded the Ocelot Major.” He only trailed off, shaking his head; Granin was certainly not interested in Groznyj gossip, and Krauss was not interested in pondering the idea of colleagues and comrades in bed together.

At least, not with Granin sitting across from him.

“So the Americans are going to the moon then? I say let them, and nothing would make me happier than to send them our space man on loan. Maybe they’ll shoot him into orbit and forget to bring his happy ass home.”

Johann eyed Granin carefully over the rim of his crystal glass, fingers scratching the soft underbelly of the lazy purring cat that occupied his lap.

The inventor was entirely sloshed, much to the German’s amusement.

“Oh, I’m certain you’ll receive three, no four medals for your wonderful contributions to Mother Russia. And I? Colonel Krauss has a very nice ring to it, don’t you agree? Yes! So let’s see those blue prints now, shall we? It's all such fascinating work... I have so many questions and not the slightest idea of where to begin.”

It would be entirely too easy to make Granin disappear into the Cuban jungle, never to be seen or heard from again, and he mused over the notion of mentioning it to Volgin later, in private.

"Yes, what will the Americans do on the moon? Declare it their own? Create a cheese factory? Hah. Useless endeavour." Granin leaned back in the chair, tilting his head back and then blowing out. No, the moon held no interest for Granin. The Americans would grow bored of it: such a young country was bound to have too short an attention span to do anything worthwhile.

Raidenovich and the boy-Major? Wasn't the world strange... Pretty Tanya had told him such tales about Volgin's lover, and Granin doubted that a leopard could change his spots. But enough thoughts of sex in the heirarchy. He had better things to talk about.

Back to the matter at hand. "The plans, yes." Granin smiled and put one sheet of paper on the desk between them, careful to move his glass before putting it down. He had copies, of course, but this... this was the original. The first. One day, he was sure it would be an historic document. It would go in a museum with the works of Aristotle and Galileo.

Granin had not practiced a speech about his work, but it couldn't be too difficult to tell the Major about it. It was, of course, too much to expect the man to understand the technical details, but the practical details were ones that anyone could understand. Anyone who could think of the future, at any rate. "Its offensive capabilities will be second to none. Nuclear weaponry is the weapon of the future, and my Metal Gear-- ours? Its armament will differ depending on what we attack. As I have said, it will be able to launch full scale nuclear warheads across the world, as a matter of course, but more useful to us," he said, raising a hand to jab repeatedly at the relevant portion of the design, "is the capability to load it with 'mini-nukes.' What is the use of capturing territory through nuclear threat if you cannot keep it, yes?"

"Defensively, it is... it will be no slouch." Granin smiled. "You see this? Each joint will be covered with a sort of armour plating, like knights in old times. But like a... like a bee, it will have a sting. Shooting a single soldier with a missile is overkill, and a waste of ammunition, so we should find another way. If a soldier gets too close, the Metal Gear can be changed, nearly instantly..." He pulled another drawing and placed it on top of the other. "Spikes. The armour pulls away from the legs and the spikes appear from under them. They are attached with chain, and will shoot out in all directions, piercing through skin and pulling the victim into close range." He put the top draft away, leaving only the simplified version.

"For movement, I have modelled it off of the most advanced thing on earth: the human body. Two legs allow it to move over any terrain, just as a tank, but unlike a tank, it can climb nearly any grade of hill, or even mountain. It cannot be disabled by a rock travelling into the assembly. It is the perfect weapon-- the ultimate weapon, Metal Gear!"

Granin leaned forward and grinned, more at his work than at the man on the other side of the desk. "Does that give you a place from which to start?"

“Interesting.”

He hid his interest well, with a raised eyebrow and a hint of a smirk. It was very fucking interesting, a walking tank, nuclear equipped, and if it did what Granin said it could… it would be very useful to certain friends exiled in the Brazilian rainforest.

“I think my friends will be impressed. It seems…” Krauss stopped. It seemed that the… Metal Gear… as Granin called it, would be a very impressive weapon of revenge. Perhaps even great enough to march to Berlin and tear down that damnable wall. “It seems very technologically advanced, even for Groznyj Grad.” He corrected, nodding, skimming over the blueprints.

The German didn’t know a damn thing about rocket science, engineering, science fiction, whatever this was called, and he didn’t care to know… but it was all very nicely drawn, and labeled in detail. The aesthetics were not so bad either, if he was interpreting the drawings correctly.

“Reminds me of a dinosaur.” He offered finally, “how can it balance on those little bitty feet?”

Granin watched Krauss eagerly for a moment, feeling a little disappointed when the man didn't seem as excited as he should have been. This was the kind of weapon that could unite the world-- what you couldn't defend against, you had no choice but to join with.

When the man spoke, Granin siezed on his words. "Advanced? This place doesn't know what advanced means," scoffed Granin. He pounded a fist on the desk for emphasis. "This is beyond simply advanced for Volgin and Sokolov. It's... it's... this is... it's an atomic bomb, while they're busy making spears and mud-huts."

"As far as how it will stand? The materials are to be a composite of steel and..." He paused, then sat back again. "They are very strong and light, and the... 'toes,'" Granin pursed his lips at the pathetic euphamism, "will make adjustments, moving in and out of the base of the foot casing. The base will be heavier than most of the top of it. Of course, the heaviest parts are ammunition. You cannot significantly change the weight of weapons-grade Uranium and Plutonium!"

Although, he had his ideas on that too-- something to defeat even the atomic bomb. Of course, no one had begun to develop or even research it yet, and Granin had no doubt it was years in the future, but... what he wouldn't give to be the designer of that piece of history...

“Hmm.” Krauss sat back in his chair, idly twisting a piece of flaxen hair between his fingertips while thinking. “Toes.” He smirked, the very essence of the word was comical. “A tank with toes. I like it.”

The German took a long drink from the glass on his desk, wincing slightly at the volatile nature of the fluid.

“I like it, but my friends will not. Not without proper presentation. Charts, graphs. Numbers, on brightly colored papers. Germans, we are fine people of high aesthetic standards.”

The Major picked up Motte, with a low grown of protest from the feline, and set the cat down on the carpet. With an undignified shake of her furry head, she slinked to the sunlight creeping in through the window glass and flopped down unceremoniously.

“I have standards.” He smiled, slightly. “A drink between comrades, that is nothing. But in the presence of old friends, on business? There are certain things which I will require of you, Aleksandr. Mainly, that you don’t get so soused you fall asleep before you tell them why your invention is so wonderful. Is that so much to ask, hmm?”

Opening the main drawer of his desk, he pulled out a writing pad and pen, and set to work scribbling down a few notes.

“What will this fine machine of yours be powered by? Diesel fuels? Or the uranium itself? And how will it be piloted? Will it even be piloted, or do you think it will be fully robotic?”

"It is not a tank," said Granin with a frown. Why was it that people had to put everything into little places they understood? If this were a tank, he'd be no better than Sokolov and his useless Shagohod...

Sokolov. Granin began to reach for the vodka again, then stopped himself, hand closing in thin air and returning to the arm rests on the overtly expensive chair. "I have had few enough reasons to stay sober recently," said Granin with a strained semi-smile. "What is a man without work? Barely a man at all. A man begging for scraps at the table... I could have given him everything, if it weren't for Sokolov... he politicked to get a top position only to entice the Americans, not to help mother Russia... a traitor to everything..."

He shook himself to break his melancholy mood.

Pictures and charts? What sort of pretty pictures did they want? A child's science project? A crayon-coloured resume? "I am no artist. I am no businessman to make a case. I am a weapons designer. What numbers would I give? A picture of dead men on a field, numbers of cities destroyed in battle? A chart showing cities that could be taken peacefully as opposition fled before us? I am certain it would be an exponential curve, but it shows nothing to anyone." He shrugged. "If you wish numbers of men it will take to construct, to research, to plan-- those numbers I can give you. If you wish the amount of power above what something like the Shagohod can give, of course I have those in my office." He was a man of science, and an engineer. He could not have designed this glorious project had he not justified it to himself. He had even justified it to others in the international community.

"At any rate, we cannot harness nuclear power safely in small enough quantities to make uranium a viable power source. Diesel is not powerful enough, and far too heavy, for much of its purpose. It is powered by rocket-grade fuel, bipropellant of course. The initial plans call for liquid oxygen and kerosene, using the NK33 design, but it might be changed over time. Diesel will be used as a secondary power source: still important, but not for the main movement of the Metal Gear."

Granin's eyes closed for a moment and he considered the idea of having his work pilot itself, but after a moment, designs of computers larger than the nuclear weapons appeared on its back. He laughed. "A pilot will be necessary, my friend. There will be test pilots who will beg to be the one in the history books. We will need someone who knows their way around a cockpit... intelligent, with very quick reflexes and superior judgement. It carries two. One as the pilot; the other to monitor weapons systems. It will be too complicated to deal with both systems at once."

“These reports and numbers… do you have copies with you today? Whatever numbers you have. Anything. Give me anything.” Krauss leaned back in his chair, sighing, exasperated. Granin was so mentally exhausting. Dull. “I’m a Christmas ham. Baste me.”

He perked up when the inventor mentioned the fueling system, and materials. “Rocket fuels. Something I’ve been forced into learning a bit about. The house blend is nitrogen tetroxide, though it would seem far to volatile and difficult to handle for your delicate purposes.”

Quite volatile in fact, corrosive and prone to spontaneous combustion. Maybe that was why the cosmonaut requested it. Or demanded, more accurately.

“Kerosene, then.” The German shrugged. “Whatever makes it work, I suppose.” He refrained from asking the how and why, and decided he was better off remaining ignorant of the subject. It was all so dull.

The Major took down a few more notes on the paper before glancing up at Granin. “Also, do you have any conceptual drawings of this…Metal Gear? I’m curious to see the finished product, rather than just the skeleton.”

Granin shook his head. "Comrade, I had no idea that you would be offering me this. The Colonel is far too busy to be bothered with numbers that aren't related to his immediate goals. It is useless to carry such things around. Most of my work is in my office." Granin would have someone make a few copies for the Major, but he could not simply conjure them into his hands. "And no one would find be able to find them under everything," he added after a strange vision of some soldier rifling through his papers suddenly flashed through his mind.

"Now, drawings... I sent a complete one to Dr. Emmerich. I am certain I could find an additional one for you. Unless..." He pulled out all the papers he'd brought and began looking through them, ignoring Krauss for a moment. Hm, the one about the rocket fuel was here.. "Nitrogen tetroxide is a bipropellant, it needs to be combined with something else, although it's efficient enough. But liquid oxygen is more efficient for the weight, which is a big consideration in a project like this one," he said absently. "Though I suppose hydrogen peroxide might be an acceptable substitution if we cannot solve the cooling problem... Of course, in that case we might as well go to the tetroxide/hydrazine mixture..."

"Ah. Here." He pulled out one of the sheets, the one with the more detailed drawing. "This is more artistic, better for your purposes,hm?"

“Hydrazine.” Krauss mumbled, more to himself than Granin. “Nitrogen tetroxide and hydrazine. Yes, that’s the word.” He winced, visibly. “Works nicely for flame throwers and jetpacks and hovercraft. Lethal stuff.”

He perked up when Granin produced a sketch of the finished product, sliding it across his desk and studying it with intense curiosity. “Dare I say it…this is quite the work of art, your Metal Gear. It’s unlike anything I have ever seen before, and I have seen quite a great deal in all my years.” Smiling slightly, he looked up at Granin. “Very pretty. I sincerely hope it does all the things you claim it will…but I have faith in you, comrade.”

Letting his eyes linger over the finished sketch for a few moments longer, the old German could only hope that faith was not misplaced.

“Now.” Krauss sat back, sighing warily. “There is so much work to be done, and so little time to do it in. You will return to me in a week with all the information you have. Everything, I want to see it. Between then and now, I shall set to writing letters to any friends who may wish to contribute funding.” Pausing, he leaned back in his chair, then laughed softly. “Volgin will be expecting you. Expecting you to come groveling for your money like a dog… surprise the Colonel by informing him of wealthy business men in good, comrade-communist-Cuba who wish to invest in your project. Just like we talked about, and a proper military escort.”

The Major smirked slightly, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “When you are finished with him, please mention that I would very much like to speak with him, and I shall be in my office most of the morning attending to stacks of very important paperwork.”