She frowned at him. "Mr. Dickson isn't an agent of the West. He's an
American journalist."
"Surely you can't believe he has no connections with the imperialist
governments."
"Certainly, he hasn't. What sort of meeting do you think this is? We're
not interested in Western propaganda. We're a group of intellectuals
searching for freedom of ideas."
Ilya Simonov was taken back once again.
* * * * *
Colonel Ilya Simonov dismissed his cab in front of the Ministry and walked
toward the gate. Down the street the same plainclothes man, who had been
lounging there the last time he'd reported, once again took him in, then
looked away. The two guards snapped to attention, and the security agent
strode by them unnoticing.
At the lieutenant's desk, before the offices of Kliment Blagonravov, he
stopped and said, "Colonel Simonov. I have no appointment but I think the
Minister will see me."
"Yes, Comrade Colonel," the lieutenant said. He spoke into an inter-office
communicator, then looked up. "Minister Blagonravov will be able to see
you in a few minutes, sir."
Ilya Simonov stared nervously and unseeingly out a window while he waited.
Gorki Park lay across the way. It, like Moscow in general, had changed a
good deal in Simonov's memory. Everything in Russia had changed a good
deal, he realized. And was changing. And what was the end to be? Or was
there ever an end? Of course not. There is no end, ever. Only new changes
to come.