"Then you'd be wrong," the other said. "Progress had been made but
often in spite of the bureaucracy, not because of it. In the early
days it wasn't so obvious, but as we develop the rule of the political
bureaucrat becomes increasingly a hindrance. Politicians can't operate
industries and they can't supervise laboratories. To the extent our
scientist and technicians are interfered with by politicians, to that
extent we are held up in our progress. Surely you've heard of the
Lysenko matter?"
"He was the one who evolved the anti-Mendelian theory of genetics,
fifteen or twenty years ago."
"Correct," Georgi snorted. "Acquired characteristics could be handed
down by heredity. It took the Academy of Agricultural Science at least
a decade to dispose of him. Why? Because his theories fitted into
Stalin's political beliefs." The underground spokesman snorted again.
Hank had the feeling they were drifting from the subject. "Then you
want to overthrow the Communist bureaucracy?"
"Yes, but that is only part of the story. Overthrowing it without
something to replace the bureaucracy is a negative approach. We have
no interest in a return to Czarist Russia, even if that were possible,
and it isn't. We want to profit by what has happened in these years of
ultra-sacrifice, not to destroy everything. The day of rule by
politicians is antiquated, we look forward to the future." He seemed
to switch subjects. "Do you remember Djilas' book which he wrote in
one of Tito's prisons, "The New Class"?"
"Vaguely. I read the reviews. It was a best seller in the States some
time ago."
Georgi made with his characteristic snort. "It was a best seller
here--in underground circles. At any rate, that explains much. Our
bureaucracy, no matter what its ideals might have been to begin with,
has developed into a new class of its own. Russia sacrifices to
surpass the West--but our bureaucrats don't. In Lenin's day the
commissar was paid the same as the average worker, but today we have
bureaucrats as wealthy as Western millionaires."
Hank said, "Of course, these are your problems. I don't pretend to
have too clear a picture of them. However, it seems to me we have a
mutual enemy. Right at this moment it appears that they are to receive
some support that will strengthen them. I suggest you co-operate with
me in hopes they'll be thwarted."
For the first time a near smile appeared on the young Russian's face.
"A ludicrous situation. We have here a Russian revolutionary
organization devoted to the _withering away_ the Russian Communist
State. To gain its ends, it co-operates with a Capitalist country's
agent." His grin broadened. "I suspect that neither Nicolai Lenin nor
Karl Marx ever pictured such contingencies."
Hank said, "I wouldn't know I'm not up on my Marxism. I'm afraid that
when I went to school academic circles weren't inclined in that
direction." He returned the Russian's wry smile.
Which only set the other off again. "Academic circles!" he snorted.
"Sterile in both our countries. All professors of economics in the
Soviet countries are Marxists. On the other hand, no American
professor would admit to this. Coincidence? Suppose an American
teacher was a convinced Marxist. Would he openly and honestly teach
his beliefs? Suppose a Russian wasn't? Would he?" Georgi slapped his
knee with a heavy hand and stood up. "I'll speak to various others.
We'll let you know."
Hank said, "Wait. How long is this going to take? And _can_ you help
me if you want to? Where are these extraterrestrials?"
Georgi looked down at him. "They're in the Kremlin. How closely
guarded we don't know, but we can find out."
"The Kremlin," Hank said. "I was hoping they stayed in their own
ship."
"Rumor has it that they're quartered in the _Bolshoi Kremlevski
Dvorets_, the Great Kremlin Palace. We'll contact you later--perhaps."
He stuck his hands in his pockets and strode away, in all appearance
just one more pedestrian without anywhere in particular to go.
One of the younger boys, the ham who had first approached Hank, smiled
and said, "Perhaps we can talk a bit more of radio?"
"Yeah," Hank muttered, "Swell."
* * * * *
The next development came sooner than Henry Kuran had expected. In
fact, before the others returned from their afternoon tour of the
city. Hank was sprawled in one of the king-sized easy-chairs, turning
what little he had to work on over in his mind. The principal
decisions to make were, first, how long to wait on the assistance of
the _stilyagi_, and, if that wasn't forthcoming, what steps to take on
his own. The second prospect stumped him. He hadn't the vaguest idea
what he could accomplish singly.
He wasn't even sure where the space aliens were. _The Bolshoi
Kremlevski Dvorets_, Georgi had said. But was that correct, and, if
so, where was the _Bolshoi Kremlevski Dvorets_ and how did you get
into it? For that matter, how did you get inside the Kremlin walls?
Under his breath he cursed Sheridan Hennessey. Why had he allowed
himself to be dragooned into this? By all criteria it was the
desperate clutching of a drowning man for a straw. He had no way to
know, for instance, if he did reach the space emissaries, that he
could even communicate with them.
He caught himself wishing he was back in Peru arguing with hesitant
South Americans over the relative values of American and Soviet
complex commodities--and then he laughed at himself.
There was a knock at the door.
Hank came wearily to his feet, crossed and opened it.
She still wore too much make-up, the American sweater and the flared
heel shoes. And her eyes were still cool and alert. She slid past him,
let her eyes go around the room quickly. "You are alone?" she said in
Russian, but it was more a statement than question.
Hank closed the door behind them. He scowled at her, put a finger to
his lips and then went through an involved pantomime to indicate
looking for a microphone. He raised his eyebrows at her.