One of the zombis shifted his feet. "We did nothing except obey
orders."
Kardelj grimaced in sour amusement. "I can imagine," he grunted.
"Milka, you see too many of those imported Telly shows from the West.
I suspect you see yourself as a present day Transbalkanian G-Man."
"Yes, Comrade," Milka said, and then shook his head.
"Oh, hush up and get out," Kardelj said. He flicked the cigarette butt
from its holder with a thumb and took up a fresh one from a desk
humidor and wedged it into the small bowl. He looked at Josip and
grinned again, the action giving his face an unsophisticated youthful
expression.
"You can't imagine how pleased I am to meet you, at last," he said.
"I've been looking for you for months."
Josip Pekic ogled him blankly. The name had come through to him at
last. Aleksander Kardelj was seldom in the news, practically never
photographed, and then in the background in a group of Party
functionaries, usually with a wry smile on his face. But he was known
throughout the boundaries of the State, if not internationally.
Aleksander Kardelj was Number Two. Right-hand man of Zoran Jankez
himself, second in command of the Party and rumored to be the brains
behind the throne.
The zombis had gone, hurriedly.
"Looking for me?" Josip said blankly. "I haven't been in hiding.
You've made some mistake. All I am is a student of--"
"Of course, of course," Kardelj said, humorously impatient. He took up
a folder from his desk and shook it absently in Josip's general
direction. "I've studied your dossier thoroughly." He flicked his eyes
up at a wall clock. "Come along. Comrade Jankez is expecting us. We'll
leave explanations until then."
In a daze, Josip Pekic followed him.
Comrade Jankez, Number One. Zoran Jankez, Secretary General of the
Party, President of the U.B.S.R., the United Balkan Soviet Republics.
Number One.
Josip could hardly remember so far back that Zoran Jankez wasn't head
of the Party, when his face, or sculptured bust, wasn't to be seen in
every store, on the walls of banks, railroad stations, barber shops,
or bars. Never a newsreel but that part of it wasn't devoted to
Comrade Jankez, never a Telly newscast but that Number One was brought
to the attention of the viewers. His coming to power had been a quiet,
bloodless affair upon the death of the Number One who had preceded
him, and he had remained in his position for a generation.
* * * * *
Josip Pekic followed Aleksander Kardelj in a daze, through a door to
the rear of the desk, and into a somewhat bigger room, largely barren
of furniture save for a massive table with a dozen chairs about it. At
the table, looking some ten years older than in any photo Josip had
ever seen, sat Zoran Jankez.
He looked ten years older, and his face bore a heavy weariness, a
grayness, that never came through in his publicity shots. He looked up
from a report he was perusing and grunted a welcome to them.
Kardelj said in pleasurable enthusiasm, "Here he is, Zoran. Our
Comrade Josip Pekic. The average young citizen of Transbalkania."
Number One grunted again, and took in the less than imposing figure of
Josip Pekic. Josip felt an urge to nibble at his fingernails, and
repressed it. He had recently broken himself of the smoking habit and
was hard put to find occupation for his hands when nervous.
Zoran Jankez growled an invitation for them to be seated and Kardelj
adjusted his trousers to preserve the crease, threw one leg up along
the heavy conference table, and rested on a buttock, looking at ease
but as though ready to take off instantly.
Josip fumbled himself into one of the sturdy oaken chairs, staring
back and forth at the two most powerful men of his native land. Thus
far, no one had said anything that made any sense whatsoever to him
since he had been hauled from his bed half an hour ago.
Zoran Jankez rasped, "I have gone through your dossier, Comrade. I
note that you are the son of Hero of the People's Democratic
Dictatorship, Ljubo Pekic."
"Yes, Comrade Jankez," Josip got out. He fussed with his hands,
decided it would be improper to stick them in his pockets.
Number One grunted. "I knew Ljubo well. You must realize that his
arrest was before my time. I had no power to aid him. It was, of
course, after my being elected to the Secretary Generalship that he
was exonerated and his name restored to the list of those who have
gloriously served the State. But then, of course, you bear no malice
at this late date. Ljubo has been posthumously given the hero's
award."
It wasn't exactly the way Josip knew the story, but there was little
point in his objecting. He simply nodded. He said, unhappily,
"Comrades, I feel some mistake has been made. I ... I have no idea--"
Kardelj was chuckling, as though highly pleased with some development.
He held up a hand to cut Josip short and turned to his superior. "You
see, Zoran. A most average, laudable young man. Born under our regime,
raised under the People's Democratic Dictatorship. Exactly our man."
Zoran Jankez seemed not to hear the other. He was studying Josip
heavily, all but gloomily.
A beefy paw went out and banged a button inset in the table and which
Josip had not noticed before. Almost instantly a door in the rear
opened and a white-jacketed servant entered, pushing a wheeled
combination bar and hors d'oeuvres cart before him. He brought the
lavishly laden wagon to within reach of the heavy-set Party head, his
face in servile expressionlessness.
Jankez grunted something and the waiter, not quite bowing and
scraping, retreated again from the room. Number One's heavy lips moved
in and out as his eyes went over the display.
Kardelj said easily, "Let me, Zoran." He arose and brought a
towel-wrapped bottle from a refrigerated bucket set into the wagon,
and deftly took up a delicate three-ounce glass which he filled and
placed before his superior. He took up another and raised his eyebrows
at Josip Pekic who shook his head--a stomach as queasy as his wasn't
going to be helped by alcohol. Kardelj poured a short one for himself
and resumed his place at the heavy conference table.
Jankez, his eyes small and piggish, took up a heavy slice of dark
bread and ladled a full quarter pound of Danube caviar upon it. He
took up the glass and tossed the chilled spirits back over his palate,
grunted and stuffed the open sandwich into his mouth.
[Illustration]
Josip's eyes went to the hors d'oeuvres wagon. The spread would have
cost him six months' income.
Number One rumbled, his mouth full, "Comrade, I am not surprised at
your confusion. We will get to the point immediately. Actually, you
must consider yourself a very fortunate young man." He belched, took
another huge bite, then went on. "Have you ever heard the term,
expediter?"
"I ... I don't know ... I mean think so, Comrade Jankez."
The party head poured himself some more of the yellow spirits and took
down half of it. "It is not important," he rasped. "Comrade Kardelj
first came upon the germ of this project of ours whilst reading of
American industrial successes during the Second World War. They were
attempting to double, triple, quadruple their production of such war
materiel as ships and aircraft in a matter of mere months. Obviously,
a thousand bottlenecks appeared. All was confusion. So they resorted
to expediters. Extremely competent efficiency engineers whose sole
purpose was to seek out such bottlenecks and eliminate them. A hundred
aircraft might be kept from completion by the lack of a single part.
The expediter found them though they be as far away as England, and
flew them by chartered plane to California. A score of top research
chemists might be needed for a certain project in Tennessee, the
expediter located them, though it meant the stripping of valued men
from jobs of lesser importance. I need give no further examples. Their
powers were sweeping. Their expense accounts unlimited. Their
successes unbelievable." Number One's eyes went back to the piles of
food, as though he'd grown tired of so much talk.
Josip fidgeted, still uncomprehending.
While the Party leader built himself a huge sandwich of Dalmatian ham
and _pohovano pile_ chicken, Aleksander Kardelj put in an enthusiastic
word. "We're adapting the idea to our own needs, Comrade. You have
been selected to be our first expediter."
If anything, Josip Pekic was more confused than ever. "Expediter," he
said blankly. "To ... to expedite what?"
"That is for you to decide," Kardelj said blithely. "You're our
average Transbalkanian. You feel as the average man in the street
feels. You're our what the Yankees call, Common Man."
Josip said plaintively, "You keep saying that, but I don't know what
you mean, Comrade. Please forgive me, perhaps I'm dense, but what is
this about me being uh, the average man? There's nothing special about
me. I...."
"Exactly," Kardelj said triumphantly. "There's nothing special about
you. You're the average man of all Transbalkania. We have gone to a
great deal of difficulty to seek you out."
Number One belched and took over heavily. "Comrade, we have made extensive
tests in this effort to find our average man. You are the result. You are
of average age, of average height, weight, of education, and of
intelligence quotient. You finished secondary school, worked for several
years, and have returned to the university where you are now in your
second year. Which is average for you who have been born in your
generation. Your tastes, your ambitions, your ... dreams, Comrade Pekic,
are either known to be, or assumed to be, those of the average
Transbalkanian." He took up a rich baklava dessert, saturated with honey,
and devoured it.
Josip Pekic and his associates had wondered at some of the
examinations and tests that had been so prevalent of recent date. He
accepted the words of the two Party leaders. Very well, he was the
average of the country's some seventy million population. Well, then?
* * * * *
Number One had pushed himself back in his chair, and Josip was only
mildly surprised to note that the man seemed considerably paunchier
than his photos indicated. Perhaps he wore a girdle in public.
Zoran Jankez took up a paper. "I have here a report from a journalist
of the West who but recently returned from a tour of our country. She
reports, with some indignation, that the only available eyebrow
pencils were to be found on the black market, were of French import,
and cost a thousand dinars apiece. She contends that Transbalkanian
women are indignant at paying such prices."
The Party head looked hopelessly at first Josip and then Kardelj.
"What is an eyebrow pencil?"
Kardelj said, a light frown on his usually easygoing face, "I believe
it is a cosmetic."
"You mean like lipstick?"
Josip took courage. He flustered. "They use it to darken their
eyebrows--women, I mean. From what I understand, it comes and goes in
popularity. Right now, it is ultra-popular. A new, uh, fad originating
in Italy, is sweeping the West."
Number One stared at him. "How do you know all that?" he rasped.
Josip fiddled with the knot of his tie, uncomfortably. "It is probably
in my dossier that I have journeyed abroad on four occasions. Twice to
International Youth Peace Conferences, once as a representative to a
Trades Union Convention in Vienna, and once on a tourist vacation
guided tour. On those occasions I ... ah ... met various young women
of the West."
Kardelj said triumphantly, "See what I mean, Zoran? This comrade is
priceless."
Jankez looked at his right-hand man heavily. "Why, if our women desire
this ... this eyebrow pencil nonsense, is it not supplied them? Is
there some ingredient we do not produce? If so, why cannot it be
imported?" He picked at his uneven teeth with a thumbnail.
Kardelj held his lean hands up, as though in humorous supplication.
"Because, Comrade, to this point we have not had expediters to find
out such desires on the part of women comrades."
Number One grunted. He took up another report. "Here we have some
comments upon service in our restaurants, right here in Zagurest, from
an evidently widely published American travel reporter. He contends
that the fact that there is no tipping leads to our waiters being
surly and inefficient."
He glared up at his right-hand man. "I have never noticed when I have
dined at the Sumadija or the Dva Ribara, that the waiters have been
surly. And only last week I enjoyed _cigansko pecenje_, gypsy roast,
followed by a very flaky cherry _strudla_, at the Gradski Podrum. The
service was excellent."
Kardelj cleared his throat. "Perhaps you receive better service than
the average tourist, Zoran."
Jankez growled, "The tourist trade is important. An excellent source
of hard currencies." He glowered across at Josip. "These are typical
of the weaknesses you must ferret out, Comrade."
He put the reports down with a grunt. "But these are comparatively
minor. Last week a truck driver attached to a meat-packing house in
Belbrovnik was instructed to deliver a load of frozen products to a
town in Macenegro. When he arrived there, it was to find they had no
refrigeration facilities. So he unloaded the frozen meat on a
warehouse platform and returned to Belbrovnik. At this time of the
year, obviously in four hours the meat was spoiled." He glowered at
Kardelj and then at Josip Pekic. "Why do things like this continually
happen? How can we overtake the United States of the Americas and
Common Europe, when on all levels our workers are afraid to take
initiative? That truck driver fulfilled his instructions. He delivered
the meat. He washed his hands of what happened to it afterward. Why,
Comrades? Why did he not have the enterprise to preserve his valuable
load, even, if necessary, make the decision to return with it to
Belbrovnik?"
He grunted heavily and settled back into his chair as though through,
finished with the whole question.
Aleksander Kardelj became brisk. He said to Josip Pekic with a smile,
"This is your job. You are to travel about the country, finding
bottlenecks, finding shortages, ferreting out mistakes and bringing
them to the attention of those in position to rectify them."