"I mean the Party has been rejected. With the exception of China and
Yugoslavia, both of whom have their own varieties, the only countries that
have adopted our system have done it under pressure from outside--not by
their own efforts. Not by the will of the majority."
Colonel Simonov said flatly, "You seem to think that Marxism will never
dominate the world."
"Marxism!" the other snorted. "If Marx were alive in Russia today, Frol
Zverev would have him in a Siberian labor camp within twenty-four hours."
Ilya Simonov brought forth his wallet and opened it to his police
credentials. He said coldly, "Let me see your identification papers. You
are under arrest."
The other stared at him for a moment, then snorted his contempt. He
brought forth his own wallet and handed it across the table.
Simonov flicked it open, his face hard. He looked at the man. "Konstantin
Kasatkin."
"Candidate member of the Academy of Sciences," the other snapped. "And
bearer of the Hero of the Soviet Union award."
Simonov flung the wallet back to him in anger. "And as such, practically
immune."
The other grinned nastily at him. "Scientists, my police friend, cannot be
bothered with politics. Where would the Soviet Complex be if you took to
throwing biologists such as myself into prison for making unguarded
statements in an absent-minded moment?"
Simonov slapped a palm down on the table. "Confound it, Comrade," he
snapped, "how is the Party to maintain discipline in the country if high
ranking persons such as yourself speak open subversion to strangers."
The other sported his contempt. "Perhaps there's too much discipline in
Russia, Comrade policeman."
"Rather, far from enough," Simonov snapped back.
The waiter, at last, approached and extended a menu to the security
officer. But Ilya Simonov had come to his feet. "Never mind," he clipped
in disgust. "There is an air of degenerate decay about here."
The waiter stared at him. The biologist snorted and returned to his paper.
Simonov turned and stormed out. He could find something to eat and drink
in his own apartment.
* * * * *
The old, old town of Prague, the _Golden City of a Hundred Spires_ was as
always the beautifully stolid medieval metropolis which even a quarter of
a century and more of Party rule could not change. The Old Town, nestled
in a bend of the Vltava River, as no other city in Europe, breathed its
centuries, its air of yesteryear.
Colonel Ilya Simonov, in spite of his profession, was not immune to
beauty. He deliberately failed to notify his new office of his arrival,
flew in on a Ceskoslovenskè Aerolinie Tupolev rocket liner and spent his
first night at the Alcron Hotel just off Wenceslas Square. He knew that as
the new manager of the local Moskvich distribution agency he'd have
fairly elaborate quarters, probably in a good section of town, but this
first night he wanted to himself.
He spent it wandering quietly in the old quarter, dropping in to the
age-old beer halls for a half liter of Pilsen Urquell here, a foaming
stein of Smichov Lager there. Czech beer, he was reminded all over again,
is the best in the world. No argument, no debate, the best in the world.
He ate in the endless automated cafeterias that line the Viclavské Námesi
the entertainment center of Prague. Ate an open sandwich here, some
crabmeat salad there, a sausage and another glass of Pilsen somewhere else
again. He was getting the feel of the town and of its people. Of recent
years, some of the tension had gone out of the atmosphere in Moscow and
the other Soviet centers; with the coming of economic prosperity there had
also come a relaxation. The _fear_, so heavy in the Stalin era, had fallen
off in that of Khrushchev and still more so in the present reign of Frol
Zverev. In fact, Ilya Simonov was not alone in Party circles in wondering
whether or not discipline had been allowed to slip too far. It is easier,
the old Russian proverb goes, to hang onto the reins than to regain them
once dropped.
[Illustration]
But if Moscow had lost much of its pall of fear, Prague had certainly gone
even further. In fact, in the U Pinkasu beer hall Simonov had idly picked
up a magazine left by some earlier wassailer. It was a light literary
publication devoted almost exclusively to humor. There were various
cartoons, some of them touching political subjects. Ilya Simonov had been
shocked to see a caricature of Frol Zverev himself. Zverev, Number One!
Ridiculed in a second-rate magazine in a satellite country!
Ilya Simonov made a note of the name and address of the magazine and the
issue.
Across the heavy wooden community table from him, a beer drinker grinned,
in typically friendly Czech style. "A good magazine," he said. "You should
subscribe."
A waiter, bearing an even dozen liter-size steins of beer hurried along,
spotted the fact that Simonov's mug was empty, slipped a full one into its
place, gave the police agent's saucer a quick mark of a pencil, and
hurried on again. In the U Pinkasu, it was supposed that you wanted
another beer so long as you remained sitting. When you finally staggered
to your feet, the nearest waiter counted the number of pencil marks on
your saucer and you paid up.
Ilya Simonov said cautiously to his neighbor, "Seems to be quite, ah,
brash." He tapped the magazine with a finger.
The other shrugged and grinned again. "Things loosen up as the years go
by," he said. "What a man wouldn't have dared say to his own wife five
years ago, they have on TV today."
"I'm surprised the police don't take steps," Simonov said, trying to keep
his voice expressionless.
The other took a deep swallow of his Pilsen Urquell. He pursed his lips
and thought about it. "You know, I wonder if they'd dare. Such a case
brought into the People's Courts might lead to all sort of public reaction
these days."
It had been some years since Ilya Simonov had been in Prague and even then
he'd only gone through on the way to the ski resorts in the mountains. He
was shocked to find the Czech state's control had fallen off to this
extent. Why, here he was, a complete stranger, being openly talked to on
political subjects.
His cross-the-table neighbor shook his head, obviously pleased. "If you
think Prague is good, you ought to see Warsaw. It's as free as Paris! I
saw a Tri-D cinema up there about two months ago. You know what it was
about? The purges in Moscow back in the 1930s."
"A rather unique subject," Simonov said.
"Um-m-m, made a very strong case for Bukharin, in particular."
Simonov said, very slowly, "I don't understand. You mean this ... this
film supported the, ah, Old Bolsheviks?"
"Of course. Why not? Everybody knows they weren't guilty." The Czech
snorted deprecation. "At least not guilty of what they were charged with.
They were in Stalin's way and he liquidated them." The Czech thought about
it for a while. "I wonder if he was already insane, that far back."
Had he taken up his mug of beer and dashed it into Simonov's face, he
couldn't have surprised the Russian more.
Ilya Simonov had to take control of himself. His first instinct was to
show his credentials, arrest the man and have him hauled up before the
local agency of Simonov's ministry.
But obviously that was out of the question. He was in Czechoslovakia and,
although Moscow still dominated the Soviet Complex, there was local
autonomy and the Czech police just didn't enjoy their affairs being
meddled with unless in extreme urgency.
Besides, this man was obviously only one among many. A stranger in a beer
hall. Ilya Simonov suspected that if he continued his wanderings about the
town, he'd meet in the process of only one evening a score of persons who
would talk the same way.
Besides, still again, he was here in Prague incognito, his job to trace
the sources of this dry rot, not to run down individual Czechs.
But the cinema, and TV! Surely anti-Party sentiment hadn't been allowed to
go this far!
He got up from the table shakily, paid up for his beer and forced himself
to nod good-bye in friendly fashion to the subversive Czech he'd been
talking to.
In the morning he strolled over to the offices of the Moskvich Agency
which was located only a few blocks from his hotel on Celetna Hybernski.
The Russian car agency, he knew, was having a fairly hard go of it in
Prague and elsewhere in Czechoslovakia. The Czechs, long before the Party
took over in 1948, had been a highly industrialized, modern nation. They
consequently had their own automobile works, such as Skoda, and their
models were locally more popular than the Russian Moskvich, Zim and
Pobeda.
Theoretically, the reason Ilya Simonov was the newly appointed agency head
was to push Moskvich sales among the Czechs. He thought, half humorously,
half sourly, to himself, even under the Party we have competition and
pressure for higher sales. What was it that some American economist had
called them? a system of State-Capitalism.
At the Moskvich offices he found himself in command of a staff that
consisted of three fellow Russians, and a dozen or so Czech assistants.
His immediate subordinate was a Catherina Panova, whose dossier revealed
her to be a party member, though evidently not a particularly active one,
at least not since she'd been assigned here in Prague.
She was somewhere in her mid-twenties, a graduate of the University of
Moscow, and although she'd been in the Czech capital only a matter of six
months or so, had already adapted to the more fashionable dress that the
style-conscious women of this former Western capital went in for. Besides
that, Catherina Panova managed to be one of the downright prettiest girls
Ilya Simonov had ever seen.
His career had largely kept him from serious involvement in the past.
Certainly the dedicated women you usually found in Party ranks seldom were
of the type that inspired you to romance but he wondered now, looking at
this new assistant of his, if he hadn't let too much of his youth go by
without more investigation into the usually favorite pastime of youth.
He wondered also, but only briefly, if he should reveal his actual
identity to her. She was, after all, a party member. But then he checked
himself. Kliment Blagonravov had stressed the necessity of complete
secrecy. Not even the local offices of the ministry were to be acquainted
with his presence.
He let Catherina introduce him around, familiarize him with the local
methods of going about their business affairs and the problems they were
running into.
She ran a hand back over her forehead, placing a wisp of errant hair, and
said, "I suppose, as an expert from Moscow, you'll be installing a whole
set of new methods."
It was far from his intention to spend much time at office work. He said,
"Not at all. There is no hurry. For a time, we'll continues your present
policies, just to get the feel of the situation. Then perhaps in a few
months, we'll come up with some ideas."
She obviously liked his use of "we" rather than "I." Evidently, the staff
had been a bit nervous upon his appointment as new manager. He already
felt, vaguely, that the three Russians here had no desire to return to
their homeland. Evidently, there was something about Czechoslovakia that
appealed to them all. The fact irritated him but somehow didn't surprise.
Catherina said, "As a matter of fact, I have some opinions on possible
changes myself. Perhaps if you'll have dinner with me tonight, we can
discuss them informally."
Ilya Simonov was only mildly surprised at her suggesting a rendezvous with
him. Party members were expected to ignore sex and be on an equal footing.
She was as free to suggest a dinner date to him, as he was to her. Of
course, she wasn't speaking as a Party member now. In fact, he hadn't even
revealed to her his own membership.
As it worked out, they never got around to discussing distribution of the
new Moskvich aircushion jet car. They became far too busy enjoying food,
drink, dancing--and each other.
They ate at the Budapest, in the Prava Hotel, complete with Hungarian
dishes and Riesling, and they danced to the inevitable gypsy music. It
occurred to Ilya Simonov that there was a certain pleasure to be derived
from the fact that your feminine companion was the most beautiful woman in
the establishment and one of the most attractively dressed. There was a
certain lift to be enjoyed when you realized that the eyes of half the
other males present were following you in envy.
One thing led to another. He insisted on introducing her to barack, the
Hungarian national spirit, in the way of a digestive. The apricot brandy,
distilled to the point of losing all sweetness and fruit flavor, required
learning. It must be tossed back just so. By the time Catherina had the
knack, neither of them were feeling strain. In fact, it became obviously
necessary for him to be given a guided tour of Prague's night spots.
It turned out that Prague offered considerably more than Moscow, which
even with the new relaxation was still one of the most staid cities in the
Soviet Complex.
They took in the vaudeville at the Alhambra, and the variety at the
Prazské Varieté.
They took in the show at the U Sv Tomíse, the age old tavern which had
been making its own smoked black beer since the fifteenth century. And
here Catherina with the assistance of revelers from neighboring tables
taught him the correct pronunciation of _Na zdraví!_ the Czech toast. It
seemed required to go from heavy planked table to table practicing the new
salutation to the accompaniment of the pungent borovika gin.
Somewhere in here they saw the Joseph Skupa puppets, and at this stage,
Ilya Simonov found only great amusement at the political innuendoes
involved in half the skits. It would never had one in Moscow or
Leningrad, of course, but here it was very amusing indeed. There was even
a caricature of a security police minister who could only have been his
superior Kliment Blagonravov.
They wound up finally at the U Kalicha, made famous by Hasek in "The Good
Soldier Schweik." In fact various illustrations from the original classic
were framed on the walls.
They had been laughing over their early morning snack, now Ilya Simonov
looked at her approvingly. "See here," he said. "We must do this again."
"Fine," she laughed.
"In fact, tomorrow," he insisted. He looked at his watch. "I mean
tonight."
She laughed at him. "Our great expert from Moscow. Far from improving our
operations, there'll be less accomplished than ever if you make a nightly
practice of carrying on like we did this evening."
He laughed too. "But tonight," he said insistently.