Trofim's Rival: Nikolai Koltsov Imagines the Gene
Trofim's Rival: Nikolai Koltsov Imagines the Gene — a biography. 10 illustrated pages, narrated, free to read on Wonder People.
Page 1
The hand-sledge had carried the four crates all the way up without complaint, but the slope down to the frozen river was glazed with ice, and the moment the runners tipped over the crest it bolted. Nikolai lunged for the rope and missed, his pince-nez whipping off its ribbon as he stumbled. Maria was already running, boots skidding, shouting for Vanya to cut round the far side. The boy dropped his tin pail and flung himself flat across the lower crates, clinging as the sledge bucked over a frozen rut and gathered speed toward the fence at the riverbank. Nikolai caught up on the left runner and hauled his whole weight sideways; Maria slammed into the right side with her shoulder, boots scrabbling for purchase on the ice. Together the three of them dragged against the runaway load, heels digging furrows in the snow, until the sledge shuddered, tipped, and stopped a hand's width from the splintering fence posts, glass crates rattling but unbroken.
Page 2
The crack came like a pistol shot somewhere behind the wall, and then the water was simply there, black and freezing, spreading across the tile floor ankle-deep before anyone could shout. 'The pipe's gone!' Koltsov bellowed, already splashing toward the tanks. Maria grabbed the nearest axolotl jar in both arms and shoved it into Vanya's chest. 'Up the ladder, now, don't drop it!' Vanya scrambled, pail forgotten, boots slipping on the wet tile, clutching the glass to his ribs. Pyotr hauled himself across on his peg leg, cane hooked under the heaviest tank, hefting it waist-high with a grunt that shook his whole frame. Hand to hand they passed the butterfly cases up the rungs, water climbing past their boot-tops, sparks hissing faintly where the lamp wiring dipped low near the baseboard. Koltsov braced the ladder's foot against the current, pince-nez swinging wildly, shouting directions. The attic swallowed tank after tank into its dry warm dark, until the last case cleared the final rung just as the water kissed the socket below.
Page 3
The furnace roared, waist-high and glowing orange through its iron door, heat pressing against every face in the shed. The bald giant hooked two gathers of molten glass from the crucible with his rod, turning his whole body as he drew the strands long and thin, winding them in mirror twists around a second iron rod braced between two trestles. Koltsov leaned close, counting the turns aloud, while his wife steadied the trestle with both hands so it would not rock. Then the tipped ladle on the bench slid, spilling a tongue of molten glass across the planks with a hiss and a curl of smoke. Vanya dropped his coal bucket, snatched up the sand pail instead, and ran, flinging sand across the spreading glass before it could reach the dry straw beneath. Pyotr never paused his winding, shouting over his shoulder for the boy to mind his feet, and Maria stamped out a last smouldering edge with her boot heel while the spiral cooled, twin and perfect, around the rod.
Page 4
The market roared beneath the leaning tower, stalls crammed wheel to wheel, and Nikolai held the brass microscope high above the haggling crowd while a coal merchant squinted at its lenses. Maria pressed coins and a folded ledger into the merchant's palm, sealing the trade with a firm handshake before he could change his mind. Vanya scrambled between legs and baskets dragging a coil of rope twice his height, while Pyotr hefted sacks of coal onto his shoulder as if they weighed nothing. Then a barrow toppled somewhere down the lane, and a wall of frozen herring slid loose, burying the crated spiral under glittering fish. Pyotr dropped his sacks and threw himself against the crate, heaving it sideways with a grunt. Nikolai scrambled to dig at the other end, flinging herring aside two-handed, while Maria grabbed the rope from Vanya and looped it fast round the crate to drag it clear before the next barrow could spill. Vanya slipped twice on the icy fish but kept hauling, shouting at passersby to mind their boots.
Page 5
The porter's trolley hit a frost-ridge in the planking and the crate, taller than Vanya and roped in straw, lurched sideways and began to slide. Nikolai lunged and missed, his gloveless fingers raking empty air as the crate tipped toward the black gap between platform and carriage. Maria screamed his name and grabbed his coat sleeve to keep him from pitching after it. Then Pyotr swung his hawthorn cane in a low arc and the brass hook caught the rope binding dead center, the whole weight jerking him forward onto his peg leg with a grunt that shook the platform boards. He hauled back, boots scraping, and the crate swung clear of the gap and crashed safe against his apron. Steam rolled over them from the waiting locomotive, taller than any of them, hissing white. Nikolai seized the rope to steady it while Maria pressed both palms flat against the crate's side. Vanya was sent running back down the platform to the tanks, his yellow scarf streaming, turning once to wave through the steam before he vanished into it.
Page 6
The carriage bucked hard crossing the viaduct, iron wheels screaming on the curve, and the lurch threw everyone sideways against the bunks. The coarse grey seed-bag, slung loose across the lean man's chest, split at the seam and spilled a flood of pale sprouted wheat across the compartment floor, grains rolling under both bunks and under the crated glass spiral wedged against the wall. He dropped to his knees at once, scrabbling after them with both hands, cursing under his breath. The tall bearded man set down his lantern and knelt too, sweeping grain into a cupped palm, while the short woman unclipped her brass magnifier lanyard so it would not swing into the mess and began gathering kernels into her shawl held out like a basket. The huge bald man braced his peg leg against the crate to stop it sliding further and reached down with his cane's brass hook to drag stray wheat within reach. Lamplight swung wildly with the train's motion, throwing long shadows as four strangers worked together on their knees, grain by grain, saving both the seed and the glass.
Page 7
The sledge had seemed tame on the flat quay, but the ramp down to the river ice tipped it forward and it bolted, runners shrieking, straight toward the granite mooring ring between the red columns. The tall man lunged after it, boots skidding, pince-nez flying off its ribbon, but his gloved hands closed on empty air. The sledge struck the ring with a crack that echoed off the frozen Neva, and one glass strand split end to end, a white fracture line running its whole length. The bald giant threw himself down on the ice, pinning the crate before it slid further, while the short woman dropped to her knees beside the broken strand, already unspooling copper wire from her jacket pocket. The lean young man in the leather coat knelt opposite her, holding the two cracked edges steady with chapped hands while she wound the wire in tight turns, her breath steaming, her fingers raw from cold. The tall man crouched over them, shielding the work from the wind with his coat, murmuring instructions neither of them needed.
Page 8
The rope ran taut from the podium's iron rail up through the pulley they had lashed to the chandelier's chain, and the man-high spiral turned slowly in the air above two hundred upturned faces. Pyotr hauled hand over hand, his great forearms knotting with the strain, bracing his peg leg against the podium's base. "Hold there, hold!" Koltsov called, steadying the model's base with both hands as it swung past his head. But the slip-knot Lysenko had tied gave a sudden lurch, the rope hissing through the pulley, and the spiral swung wide into the crystal chandelier with a shattering crash. Glass rained down with the shards of the model itself, bursting across the parquet in glittering ruin. Maria lunged forward and dragged Koltsov back by the coat as splinters scattered past his boots. Lysenko dropped to his knees amid the wreckage, grabbing uselessly at falling fragments, his face white with horror at what his careless knot had done.
Page 9
The shed glowed red from the waist-high crucible, its mouth taller than a man's knee, heat rolling off it in waves. Lysenko hauled the bellows chain hand over hand, arms shaking, driving the fire hotter while sweat cut tracks through soot on his face. Pyotr gripped the long tongs, drawing a fresh molten strand from the crucible, his forearm muscles cording as the glass sagged dangerously toward the floor. "Hold it level, man, it is dropping!" he bellowed, and Lysenko lunged forward, bracing the rod's far end against an iron post to stop the sag. Maria knelt at the bench, bending a length of stiff wire into the exact double curve of the surviving strand, checking it against the original shard again and again. "Match this twist precisely," she said, thrusting the template at Koltsov, who crouched beside her comparing angles by lamplight, calling corrections across the shed. Sparks spat as the new strand cooled and held its shape at last. Nobody slept; by the grey hour before dawn two matching spirals lay cooling side by side on the sand-covered bench.
Page 10
Snow squeaked underfoot as they hauled the tripod across the square, its three wooden legs splayed taller than Vanya would have stood, and drove the spiked feet into the fresh drift until it held firm. Pyotr lifted the rebuilt spiral, man-high, cradling it against his chest, grunting as he swung it clear of a drift, and set its iron base into the tripod's crown while Koltsov scrambled to brace the swaying rod with both hands and Maria crouched to lash it fast with wire, her chapped fingers twisting quickly before the knot could slip. Vanya ran in circles stamping down the snow so the legs would not sink further, his pail banging against his knee. The low sun cleared the roofline of the cathedral and ran gold along both mirrored strands at once. Lysenko reached into his seed-bag, pulled out a fistful of sprouted wheat, and flung it scattering across the snow; pigeons dropped from the cornice in a clattering wheel around his boots. He did not wait to admire the spiral — he turned up his collar and walked off along the frozen quay without looking back.
About this story
- Audience: general readers
- Format: 10 illustrated pages, narrated, free to read on Wonder People
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