"This new policy of yours." Josip's voice was diffident.
"You mean overtaking the steel production of the West, by utilizing
_all_ methods of production?" The commissar's voice dropped. "I warn
you Comrade, the germ of this idea originated with Zoran Jankez
himself. We are old comrades and friends from back before the
revolution."
"I'm sure you are," Josip said pessimistically, and suppressing an
urge to bite at the skin of his thumb. "However ... well, I'm not so
sure Number One will admit your program originated with him. At least,
it hasn't worked out that way in the recent past when something
soured."
The other bug-eyed. He whispered, "That approaches cynical treason,
Comrade."
Josip half nodded, said discouragedly, "You forget. By Comrade
Jankez's own orders I ... I can do no wrong. But so much for that.
Now, well, this steel program. I'm afraid it's going to have to be
scrapped."
"Scrapped!" the Commissar of the Transbalkanian Steel Complex stared
at his visitor as though the other was rabid. "You fool! Our steel
progress is the astonishment of the world! Why, not only are our
ultramodern plants, built largely with foreign assistance, working on
a twenty-four hour a day basis, but thousands of secondary smelters,
some so small as to be operated by a handful of comrade citizens, in
backyard establishments, by schoolchildren, working smelters of but a
few tons monthly capacity in the schoolyard, by--"
* * * * *
The newly created State Expediter held up a hand dispiritedly. "I
know. I know. Thousands of these backyard smelters exist ... uh ...
especially in parts of the country where there is neither ore nor fuel
available."
The commissar looked at him.
The younger man said, his voice seemingly deprecating his words, "The
schoolchildren, taking time off from their studies, of course, bring
scrap iron to be smelted. And they bring whatever fuel they can find,
often pilfered from railway yards. And the more scrap and fuel they
bring, the more praise they get. Unfortunately, the so-called scrap
often turns out to be kitchen utensils, farm tools, even, on at least
on occasion, some railroad tracks, from a narrow gauge line running up
to a lumbering project, not in use that time of the year. Sooner or
later, Comrade Broz, the nation is going to have to replace those
kitchen utensils and farm tools and all the rest of the scrap that
isn't really quite scrap."
The commissar began to protest heatedly, but Josip Pekic shook his
head and tried to firm his less than dominating voice. "But even
that's not the worst of it. Taking citizens away from their real
occupations, or studies, and putting them to smelting steel where no
ore exists. The worst of it is, so my young engineer friends tell me,
that while the steel thus produced might have been a marvel back in
the days of the Hittites, it hardly reaches specifications today.
Perhaps it might be used ultimately to make simple farm tools such as
hoes and rakes; if so, it would make quite an endless circle, because
that is largely the source of the so-called steel to begin
with--tools, utensils and such. But it hardly seems usable in modern
industry."
The commissar had gone pale with anger by now. He put his two fists on
his desk and leaned upon them, staring down at his seated visitor.
"Comrade," he bit out, "I warn you. Comrade Jankez is enthusiastic
about my successes. Beyond that, not only is he an old comrade, but my
brother-in-law as well."
Josip Pekic nodded, unenthusiastically, and his voice continued to
quiver. "So the trained engineers under you, have already warned me.
However, Comrade Broz, you are ... well, no longer Commissar of the
Steel Complex. My report has already gone in to Comrades Jankez and
Kardelj."
* * * * *
The knock came at the door in the middle of the night as Aleksander
Kardelj had always thought it would.
From those early days of his Party career, when his ambitions had
sent him climbing, pushing, tripping up others, on his way to the top,
he had expected it eventually.
Oh, his had been a different approach, on the surface, an easygoing,
laughing, gentler approach than one usually connected with members of
the Secretariat of the Executive Committee of the Party, but it made
very little difference in the very long view. When one fell from the
heights, he fell just as hard, whether or not he was noted for his
sympathetic easy humor.
The fact was, Aleksander Kardelj was not asleep when the fist pounded
at his door shortly after midnight. He had but recently turned off,
with a shaking hand, the Telly-Phone, after a less than pleasant
conversation with President of the United Balkan Soviet Republics,
Zoran Jankez.
For the past ten years, Kardelj had been able to placate Zoran Jankez,
even though Number One be at the peak of one of his surly rages, rages
which seemed to be coming with increasing frequency of late. As the
socio-economic system of the People's Democratic Dictatorship became
increasingly complicated, as industrialization with its modern
automation mushroomed in a geometric progression, the comparative
simplicity of governing which applied in the past, was strictly of
yesteryear. It had been one thing, rifle and grenades in hand, to
seize the government, after a devastating war in which the nation had
been leveled, and even to maintain it for a time, over illiterate
peasants and unskilled proletarians. But industrialization calls for a
highly educated element of scientists and technicians, nor does it
stop there. One of sub-mentality can operate a shovel in a field, or
even do a simple operation on an endless assembly line in a factory.
But practically all workers must be highly skilled workers in the age
of automation, and there is little room for the illiterate. The
populace of the People's Dictatorship was no longer a dumb, driven
herd, and their problems were no longer simple ones.
Yes, Number One was increasingly subject to his rages these days. It
was Aleksander Kardelj's deepest belief that Jankez was finding
himself out of his depth. He no longer was capable of understanding
the problems which his planning bodies brought to his attention. And
he who is confused, be he ditchdigger or dictator, is a man
emotionally upset.
Zoran Jankez's face had come onto the Telly-Phone screen already
enraged. He had snapped to his right-hand man, "Kardelj! Do you
realize what that ... that idiot of yours has been up to now?"
Inwardly, Kardelj had winced. His superior had been mountingly
difficult of late, and particularly these past few days. He said now,
cajolingly, "Zoran, I--"
"Don't call me Zoran, Kardelj! And please preserve me from your
sickening attempts to fawn, in view of your treacherous
recommendations of recent months." He was so infuriated that his heavy
jowls shook.
Kardelj had never seen him this furious. He said placatingly, "Comrade
Jankez, I had already come to the conclusion that I should consult you
on the desirability of revoking this young troublemaker's credentials
and removing him from the--"
"I am not interested in what you were _going_ to do, Kardelj. I am
already in the process of ending this traitor's activities. I should
have known, when you revealed he was the son of Ljubo Pekic, that he
was an enemy of the State, deep within. I know the Pekic blood. It was
I who put Ljubo to the question. Stubborn, wrong headed, a vicious foe
of the revolution. And his son takes after him."
Kardelj had enough courage left to say, "Comrade, it would seem to me
that young Pekic is a tanglefoot, but not a conscious traitor. I--"
"Don't call me comrade, Kardelj!" Number One roared. "I know your
inner motivation. The reason you brought this agent provocateur, this
Trotskyite wrecker, to this position of ridiculous power. The two of
you are in conspiracy to undermine my authority. This will be brought
before the Secretariat of the Executive Committee, Kardelj. You've
gone too far, this time!"
[Illustration]
Aleksander Kardelj had his shortcomings but he was no coward. He said,
wryly, "Very well, sir. But would you tell me what Josip Pekic has
done now? My office has had no report on him for some time."
"What he has done! You fool, you traitorous fool, have you kept no
record at all? He has been in the Macedonian area where my virgin
lands program has been in full swing."
Kardelj cleared his throat at this point.
Jankez continued roaring. "The past three years, admittedly, the
weather has been such, the confounded rains failing to arrive on
schedule, that we have had our troubles. But this fool! This
blundering traitorous idiot!"
"What has he done?" Kardelj asked, intrigued in spite of his position
of danger.
"For all practical purposes he's ordered the whole program reversed.
Something about a sandbowl developing, whatever that is supposed to
mean. Something about introducing contour plowing, whatever nonsense
that is. And even reforesting some areas. Some nonsense about
watersheds. He evidently has blinded and misled the very men I had in
charge. They are supporting him, openly."
Jankez, Kardelj knew, had been a miner as a youth, with no experience
whatsoever on the soil. However, the virgin lands project had been his
pet. He envisioned hundreds upon thousands of square miles of maize,
corn as the Americans called it. This in turn would feed vast herds of
cattle and swine so that ultimately the United Balkan Soviet Republics
would have the highest meat consumption in the world.
Number One was raging on. Something about a conspiracy on the part of
those who surrounded him. A conspiracy to overthrow him, Zoran Jankez,
and betray the revolution to the Western powers, but he, Zoran Jankez,
had been through this sort of plot before. He, Zoran Jankez, knew the
answers to such situations.
Aleksander Kardelj grinned humorously, wryly, and reached to flick off
the screen. He twisted a cigarette into the small pipelike holder, lit
it and waited for the inevitable.
It was shortly after that the knock came on his door.
* * * * *
Zoran Jankez sat at his desk in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, a
heavy military revolver close to his right hand, a half empty liter of
sljivovica and a water tumbler, to his left. Red of eye, he pored over
endless reports from his agents, occasionally taking time out to growl
a command into his desk mike. Tired he was, from the long sleepless
hours he was putting in, but Number One was in his element. As he had
told that incompetent, Kardelj, he had been through this thing before.
It was no mistake that he was Number One.
After a time he put a beefy hand down on the reports. He could feel
the rage coming upon him. Of late, he realized, there most certainly
had developed a plot to undermine his health by constant
frustrations. Was there no one, no one at all, to take some of these
trivialities off his shoulders? Must he do everything in the People's
Democratic Dictatorship? Make every decision and see it through?
He snapped into the mike, "Give me Lazar Jovanovic." And then, when
the police head's shaven poll appeared in the screen of the
Telly-Phone, "Comrade, I am giving you one last chance. Produce this
traitor, Josip Pekic, within the next twenty-four hours, or answer to
me." He glared at the other, whose face had tightened in fear. "I
begin to doubt the sincerity of your efforts, in this, Comrade
Jovanovic."
"But ... but, Comrade, I--"
"That's all!" Number One snapped. He flicked off the instrument, then
glowered at it for a full minute. If Jovanovic couldn't locate Pekic,
he'd find someone who could. It was maddening that the pipsqueak had
seemingly disappeared. To this point, seeking him had progressed in
secret. There had been too much favorable publicity churned out in the
early days of the expediter scheme to reverse matters to the point of
having a public hue and cry. It was being done on the q.t.
But! Number One raged inwardly, if his police couldn't find the
criminal soon enough, a full-scale hunt and purge could well enough be
launched. There was more to all this than met the eye. Oh, he, Zoran
Jankez had been through it before, though long years had lapsed since
it had been necessary. The traitors, the secret conspiracies, and then
the required purges to clean the Party ranks still once again.
The gentle summons of his Telly-Phone tinkled, and he flicked it on
with a rough brush of his hand.
And there was the youthful face of Josip Pekic, currently being sought
high and low by the full strength of the Internal Affairs Secretariat.
Youthful, yes, but even as he stared his astonishment, Zoran Jankez
could see that the past months had wrought their changes on the
other's face. It was more mature, bore more of strain and weariness.
Before Jankez found his voice. Josip Pekic said diffidently, "I ... I
understand you've been, well ... looking for me, sir."
"Looking for you!" the Party head bleated, his rage ebbing in all but
uncontrollably. For a moment he couldn't find words.
Pekic said, his voice jittering, "I had some research to do. You see,
sir, this ... this project you and Kardelj started me off on--"
"I had nothing to do with it! It was Kardelj's scheme, confound his
idiocy!" Number One all but screamed.
"Oh? Well ... well, I had gathered the opinion that both of you
concurred. Anyway, like I say, the project from the first didn't come
off quite the way it started. I ... well ... we, were thinking in
terms of finding out why waiters were surly, why workers and
professionals and even officials tried to, uh, beat the rap, pass the
buck, look out for themselves and the devil take the hindmost, and all
those Americanisms that Kardelj is always using."
Jankez simmered, but let the other go on. Undoubtedly, his police
chief, Lazar Jovanovic was even now tracing the call, and this young
traitor would soon be under wraps where he could do no more damage to
the economy of the People's Democratic Dictatorship.
"But, well, I found it wasn't just a matter of waiters, and
truckdrivers and such. It ... well ... ran all the way from top to
bottom. So, I finally felt as though I was sort of butting my head
against the wall. I thought I better start at ... kind of ...
fundamentals, so I began researching the manner in which the
governments of the West handled some of these matters."
"Ah," Jankez said as smoothly as he was able to get out. "Ah. And?"
This fool was hanging himself.
The younger man frowned in unhappy puzzlement. "Frankly, I was
surprised. I have, of course, read Western propaganda to the extent I
could get hold of it in Zagurest, and listened to the Voice of the
West on the wireless. I was also, obviously, familiar with our own
propaganda. Frankly ... well ... I had reserved my opinion in both
cases."
* * * * *
This in itself was treason, but Number One managed to get out, almost
encouragingly, "What are you driving at, Josip Pekic?"
"I found in one Western country that the government was actually
paying its peasants, that is, farmers, not to plant crops. The same
government subsidized other crops, keeping the prices up to the point
where they were hard put to compete on the international markets."
Young Pekic made a moue, as though in puzzlement. "In other countries,
in South America for instance, where the standard of living is
possibly the lowest in the West and they need funds desperately to
develop themselves, the governments build up large armies, although
few of them have had any sort of warfare at all for over a century and
have no threat of war."
"What is all this about?" Number One growled. Surely, Lazar Jovanovic
was on the idiot traitor's trail by now.
Josip took a deep breath and hurried on nervously. "They've got other
contradictions that seem unbelievable. For instance, their steel
industry will be running at half capacity, in spite of the fact that
millions of their citizens have unfulfilled needs, involving steel.
Things like cars, refrigerators, stoves. In fact, in their so-called
recessions, they'll actually close down perfectly good, modern
factories, and throw their people out of employment, at the very time
that there are millions of people who need that factory's product."
Josip said reasonably, "Why, sir, I've come to the conclusion that the
West has some of the same problems we have. And the main one is
politicians."
"What? What do you mean?"
"Just that," Josip said with dogged glumness. "I ... well, I don't
know about the old days. A hundred, even fifty years ago, but as
society becomes more complicated, more intricate, I simply don't think
politicians are capable of directing it. The main problems are those
of production and distribution of all the things our science and
industry have learned to turn out. And politicians, all over the
world, seem to foul it up."
Zoran Jankez growled ominously, "Are you suggesting that I am
incompetent to direct the United Balkan Soviet Republics?"
"Yes, sir," Josip said brightly, as though the other had encouraged him.
"That's what I mean. You or any other politician. Industry should be run
by trained, competent technicians, scientists, industrialists--and to some
extent, maybe, by the consumers, but not by politicians. By definition,
politicians know about politics, not industry. But somehow, in the modern
world, governments seem to be taking over the running of industry and even
agriculture. They aren't doing such a good job, sir."
Jankez finally exploded. "Where are you calling from, Pekic?" he
demanded. "You're under arrest!"
Josip Pekic cleared his throat, apologetically. "No, sir," he said.
"Remember? I'm the average Transbalkanian citizen. And it is to be
assumed I'd, well ... react the way any other would. The difference
is, I had the opportunity. I'm in Switzerland."
"Switzerland!" Number One roared. "You've defected. I knew you were a
traitor, Pekic. Like father, like son! A true Transbalkanian would
remain in his country and help it along the road to the future."
The younger man looked worried. "Well, yes, sir," he said. "I thought
about that. But I think I've done about as much as I could accomplish.
You see, these last few months, protected by those 'can do no wrong'
credentials, I've been spreading this message around among all the
engineers, technicians, professionals, all the more trained, competent
people in Transbalkania. You'd be surprised how they took to it. I
think it's kind of ... well, snowballing. I mean the idea that
politicians aren't capable of running industry. That if the United
Balkan Soviet Republics are to ever get anywhere, some changes are
going to have to be made."
Number One could no more than glare.
Josip Pekic, rubbed his nose nervously, and said, in the way of
uneasy farewell, "I just thought it was only fair for me to call you
and give a final report. After all, I didn't start all this. Didn't
originate the situation. It was you and Kardelj who gave me my
chance. I just ... well ... expedited things." His face faded from
the screen, still apologetic of expression.
Zoran Jankez sat there for a long time, staring at the now dark
instrument.
It was the middle of the night when the knock came at the door. But
then, Zoran Jankez had always thought it would ... finally.
* * * * *