own varieties, the only countries thathave adopted our system have done it under pressure from outside--not bytheir own efforts. Not by the will of the majority."
Colonel Simonov said flatly, "You seem to think that Marxism will neverdominate the world."
"Marxism!" the other snorted. "If Marx were alive in Russia today, FrolZverev would have him in a Siberian labor camp within twenty-four hours."
Ilya Simonov brought forth his wallet and opened it to his policecredentials. He said coldly, "Let me see your identification papers. Youare under arrest."
The other stared at him for a moment, then snorted his contempt. Hebrought forth his own wallet and handed it across the table.
Simonov flicked it open, his face hard. He looked at the man. "KonstantinKasatkin."
"Candidate member of the Academy of Sciences," the other snapped. "Andbearer of the Hero of the Soviet Union award."
Simonov flung the wallet back to him in anger. "And as such, practicallyimmune."
The other grinned nastily at him. "Scientists, my police friend, cannot bebothered with politics. Where would the Soviet Complex be if you took tothrowing biologists such as myself into prison for making unguardedstatements in an absent-minded moment?"
Simonov slapped a palm down on the table. "Confound it, Comrade," hesnapped, "how is the Party to maintain discipline in the country if highranking persons such as yourself speak open subversion to strangers."
The other sported his contempt. "Perhaps there's too much discipline inRussia, Comrade policeman."
"Rather, far from enough," Simonov snapped back.
The waiter, at last, approached and extended a menu to the securityofficer. But Ilya Simonov had come to his feet. "Never mind," he clippedin 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 drinkin his own apartment.
* * * * *
The old, old town of Prague, the _Golden City of a Hundred Spires_ was asalways the beautifully stolid medieval metropolis which even a quarter ofa century and more of Party rule could not change. The Old Town, nestledin a bend of the Vltava River, as no other city in Europe, breathed itscenturies, its air of yesteryear.
Colonel Ilya Simonov, in spite of his profession, was not immune tobeauty. He deliberately failed to notify his new office of his arrival,flew in on a Ceskoslovenske Aerolinie Tupolev rocket liner and spent hisfirst night at the Alcron Hotel just off Wenceslas Square. He knew that asthe new manager of the local Moskvich distribution agency he'd havefairly elaborate quarters, probably in a good section of town, but thisfirst night he wanted to himself.
He spent it wandering quietly in the old quarter, dropping in to theage-old beer halls for a half liter of Pilsen Urquell here, a foamingstein 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 Viclavske Namesithe entertainment center of Prague. Ate an open sandwich here, somecrabmeat salad there, a sausage and another glass of Pilsen somewhere elseagain. He was getting the feel of the town and of its people. Of recentyears, some of the tension had gone out of the atmosphere in Moscow andthe other Soviet centers; with the coming of economic prosperity there hadalso come a relaxation. The _fear_, so heavy in the Stalin era, had fallenoff in that of Khrushchev and still more so in the present reign of FrolZverev. In fact, Ilya Simonov was not alone in Party circles in wonderingwhether 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 themonce dropped.
But if Moscow had lost much of its pall of fear, Prague had certainly goneeven further. In fact, in the U Pinkasu beer hall Simonov had idly pickedup a magazine left by some earlier wassailer. It was a light literarypublication devoted almost exclusively to humor. There were variouscartoons, some of them touching political subjects. Ilya Simonov had beenshocked 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 theissue.
Across the heavy wooden community table from him, a beer drinker grinned,in typically friendly Czech style. "A good magazine," he said. "You shouldsubscribe."
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 itsplace, gave the police agent's saucer a quick mark of a pencil, andhurried on again. In the U Pinkasu, it was supposed that you wantedanother beer so long as you remained sitting. When you finally staggeredto your feet, the nearest waiter counted the number of pencil marks onyour 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 goby," he said. "What a man wouldn't have dared say to his own wife fiveyears ago, they have on TV today."
"I'm surprised the police don't take steps," Simonov said, trying to keephis voice expressionless.
The other took a deep swallow of his Pilsen Urquell. He pursed his lipsand thought about it. "You know, I wonder if they'd dare. Such a casebrought into the People's Courts might lead to all sort of public reactionthese days."
It had been some years since Ilya Simonov had been in Prague and even thenhe'd only gone through on the way to the ski resorts in the mountains. Hewas shocked to find the Czech state's control had fallen off to thisextent. Why, here he was, a complete stranger, being openly talked to onpolitical subjects.
His cross-the-table neighbor shook his head, obviously pleased. "If youthink Prague is good, you ought to see Warsaw. It's as free as Paris! Isaw a Tri-D cinema up there about two months ago. You know what it wasabout? 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 ... thisfilm supported the, ah, Old Bolsheviks?"
"Of course. Why not? Everybody knows they weren't guilty." The Czechsnorted deprecation. "At least not guilty of what they were charged with.They were in Stalin's way and he liquidated them." The Czech thought aboutit 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, hecouldn't have surprised the Russian more.
Ilya Simonov had to take control of himself. His first instinct was toshow his credentials, arrest the man and have him hauled up before thelocal 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 localautonomy and the Czech police just didn't enjoy their affairs beingmeddled with unless in extreme urgency.
Besides, this man was obviously only one among many. A stranger in a beerhall. Ilya Simonov suspected that if he continued his wanderings about thetown, he'd meet in the process of only one evening a score of persons whowould talk the same way.
Besides, still again, he was here in Prague incognito, his job to tracethe sources of this dry rot, not to run down individual Czechs.
But the cinema, and TV! Surely anti-Party sentiment hadn't been allowed togo this far!
He got up from the table shakily, paid up for his beer and forced himselfto nod good-bye in friendly fashion to the subversive Czech he'd beentalking to.
In the morning he strolled over to the offices of the Moskvich Agencywhich 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 inPrague and elsewhere in Czechoslovakia. The Czechs, long before the Partytook over in 1948, had been a highly industrialized, modern nation. Theyconsequently ha
d their own automobile works, such as Skoda, and theirmodels were locally more popular than the Russian Moskvich, Zim andPobeda.
Theoretically, the reason Ilya Simonov was the newly appointed agency headwas to push Moskvich sales among the Czechs. He thought, half humorously,half sourly, to himself, even under the Party we have competition andpressure for higher sales. What was it that some American economist hadcalled them? a system of State-Capitalism.
At the Moskvich offices he found himself in command of a staff thatconsisted of three fellow Russians, and a dozen or so Czech assistants.His immediate subordinate was a Catherina Panova, whose dossier revealedher to be a party member, though evidently not a particularly active one,at least not since she'd been assigned here in