The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  * * * *

  Hank pressed the advantage. “Right. You’d never overthrow them then.”

  “On the other hand,” Georgi muttered uncomfortably, “we’re not interested in giving you Americans an opportunity that would enable you to collapse the whole fabric of this country and its allies.”

  “Look here,” Hank said. “In the States we seem to know surprisingly little about your movement. Just what do you expect to accomplish?”

  “To make it brief, we wish to enjoy the product of the sacrifices of the past fifty years. If you recall your Marx”—he twisted his face here in wry amusement—“the idea was that the State was to wither away once Socialism was established. Instead of withering away, it has become increasingly strong. This was explained by the early Bolsheviks in a fairly reasonable manner. Socialism presupposes a highly industrialized economy. It’s not possible in a primitive nor even a feudalistic society. So our Communist bureaucracy remained in the saddle through a period of transition. The task was to industrialize the Soviet countries in a matter of decades where it had taken the Capitalist nations a century or two.”

  Georgi shrugged. “I’ve never heard of a governing class giving up its once acquired power of its own accord, no matter how incompetent they might be.”

  Hank said, “I wouldn’t call the Soviet government incompetent.”

  “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.

  She laughed and shook her head. “No microphones.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We know. We have contacts here in the hotel. If the KGB had to put microphones in the rooms of every tourist in Moscow, they’d have to increase their number by ten times. In spite of your western ideas to the contrary, it just isn’t done. There are exceptions, of course, but there has to be some reason for it.”

  “Perhaps I’m an exception.” Hank didn’t like this at all. The C.I.A. men had been of the opinion that the KGB was once again thoroughly checking on every foreigner.

  “If the KGB is already onto you, Henry Kuran, then you might as well give up. Your mission is already a failure.”

  “I suppose so. Will you have a chair? Can I offer you a drink? My roommate has a bottle of Stolich
naya vodka which he brought from the boat.”

  There was an amused light in her eyes even as she shook her head. “Your friend Paco is quite a man—so I understand. But no, I am here for business.” She took one of the armchairs and Hank sank into another opposite her.

  * * * *

  “The committee has decided to assist you to the point they can.”

  “Fine.” Hank leaned forward.

  “Tomorrow your Progressive Tours group is to have a conducted tour of the Kremlin museum, Ivan the Great’s Tower, and the Assumption Cathedral.”

  “In the Kremlin?”

  She was impatient. “The Kremlin is considerably larger than most Westerners seem to realize. Originally it was the whole city. The Kremlin walls are more then two kilometers long. In them are a great deal more than just government offices. Among other things, the Kremlin has one of the greatest museums and probably the largest in the world.”

  “What I meant was, with the space emissaries there, will tours still be held?”

  “They are being held. It would be too conspicuous to stop them even if there was any reason to.” She frowned and shook her head. “Just because you will be inside the Kremlin walls doesn’t mean that you will be sitting in the lap of the extraterrestrials. They are probably well guarded in the palace. We don’t know to what extent.”

  Hank said, “Then how can you help me?”

  “Only in a limited way.” She pulled a folder paper from her purse. “Here is a map of the Kremlin, and here one of the Palace. Both of these date from Czarist days but such things as the general layout of the Kremlin and the Bolshoi Kremlevski Dvorets do not change of course.”

  “Do you know where the extraterrestrials are?”

  “We’re not sure. The palace was built in the Seventeenth Century and was popular with various czars. It has been a museum for some time. We suspect that the Galactic Confederation delegates are housed in the Sobstvennaya Plovina which used to be the private apartments of Nicolas the First. It is quite define that the conferences are being held in the Gheorghievskaya sala; it’s the largest and most impressive room in the Kremlin.”

  Hank stared at the two maps feeling a degree of dismay.

  She said impatiently, “We can help you more than this. One of the regular guide-guards at the facade which leads to the main entrance of the palace is a member of our group. Here are your instructions.”

  They spent another fifteen minutes going over the details, then she shot a quick glance at her watch and came to her feet. “Is everything clear…comrade?”

  Hank frowned slightly at the use of the word, then understood. “I think so, and thanks…comrade.” He, as well as she, meant the term in its original sense.

  He followed her to the door but before his hand touched the knob, it opened inwardly. Paco stood there, and behind him in the corridor was Char Moore.

  The girl turned to Hank quickly, reached up and kissed him on the mouth and said, in English, “Good-bye, dollink.” She winked at Paco, swept past Char and was gone.

  Paco looked after her appreciatively, back at Hank and said, “Ah, ha. You are quite a dog after all, eh?”

  Char Moore’s face was blank. She mumbled something to the effect of, “See you later,” directed seemingly to both of them, and went on to her room.

  Hank said, “Damn!”

  Paco closed the door behind him. “What’s the matter, my friend?” he grinned. “Are you attempting to play two games at once?”

  * * * *

  The morning tour was devoted to Red Square and the Kremlin. Immediately after breakfast they formed a column with two or three other tourist parties and were marched briskly to where Gorky Street debouched into Red Square. First destination was the mausoleum, backed against the Kremlin wall, which centered that square and served as a combined Vatican, Lhasa and Mecca of the Soviet complex. Built of dark red porphyry, it was the nearest thing to a really ultramodern building Hank had seen in Moscow.

  As foreign tourists they were taken to the head of the line which already stretched around the Kremlin back into Mokhovaya Street along the western wall. A line of thousands.

  Once the doors opened the line moved quickly. They filed in, two by two, down some steps, along a corridor which was suddenly cool as though refrigerated. Paco, standing next to Hank, said from the side of his mouth, “Now we know the secret of the embalming. I wonder if they’re hanging on meathooks.”

  The line emerged suddenly into a room in the center of which were three glass chambers. The three bodies, the prophet and his two leading disciples flanking him. Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev. On their faces, Hank decided, you could read much of their character. Lenin, the idealist and scholar. Stalin, utterly ruthless organization man. Khrushchev, energetic manager of what the first two had built.

  They were in the burial room no more than two minutes, filed out by an opposite door. In the light of the square again, Paco grinned at him. “Nick and Joe didn’t look so good, but Nikita is standing up pretty well.”

  Trailing back and forth across Red Square had its ludicrous elements. The guide pointed out this and that. But all the time his charges had their eyes glued to the spaceship, settled there at the far end of the square near St. Basil’s. In a way it seemed no more alien than so much else here. Certainly no more alien to the world Hank knew than the fantastic St. Basil’s Cathedral.

  A spaceship from the stars, though. You still had to shake your head in effort to achieve clarity; to realize the significance of it. A spaceship with emissaries from a Galactic Confederation.

  How simple if it had only landed in Washington, London or even Paris or Rome, instead of here.

  They avoided getting very near it, although the Russians weren’t being ostentatious about their guarding. There was a roped off area about the craft and twenty or so guards, not overly armed, drifting about within the enclosure. But the local citizenry was evidently well disciplined. There were no huge crowds hanging on the ropes waiting for a glimpse of the interplanetary celebrities.

  Nevertheless, the Intourist guide went out of his way to avoid bringing his charges too near. They retraced their steps back to Manezhnaya Square from which they had originally started to see the mausoleum, and then turned left through Alexandrovski Sad, the Alexander Park which ran along the west side of the Kremlin to the Borovikski Gate, on the Moskva River side of the fortress.

  Paco said, “After this tour I’m in favor of us all signing a petition that our guide be awarded a medal, Hero of Intourist. You realize that thus far he has lost only two of us today?”

  Some of the others didn’t like his levity. They were about to enter the Communist shrine and wisecracking was hardly in order. Paco Rodriquez couldn’t have cared less, being Paco Rodriquez.

  The stilyagi girl had been correct about the Kremlin being an overgrown museum. Government buildings it evidently contained, but above all it provided gold topped cathedrals, fabulous palaces converted to art galleries and displays of the jeweled wealth of yesteryear and the tombs of a dozen czars including that of Ivan the Terrible.

  * * * *

  They trailed into the Orushezhnaya Palace, through the ornate entrance hall displaying its early arms and banners.

  Paco encouraged the harassed guard happily. “You’re doing fine. You’ve had us out for more than two hours. We started with twenty-five in this group and still have twenty-one. Par for the course. What happens to a tourist who wanders absently around in the Kremlin and turns up in the head man’s office?”

  The guide smiled wanly. “And over here we have the thrones of the Empress Elizabeth and Czar Paul.”

  Unobtrusively, Hank dropped toward the tail of the group. He spent a long time peering at two silver panthers, gifts of the first Queen Elizabeth of England to Boris Godunov. The Progressive Tours assembly passed on into the next room.

  A guard standing next to the case said, “Mr. Kuran?”

  Without looking up, Hand nodded.

  “Follow me, s
lowly.”

  No one from the Progressive Tours group was in sight. Hank wandered after the guard, looking into display cases as he went. Finally the other turned a corner into an empty and comparatively narrow corridor. He stopped and waited for the American.

  “You’re Kuran?” he asked anxiously in Russian.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re not afraid?”

  “No. Let’s go.” Inwardly Hank growled, Of course I’m afraid. Do I look like a confounded hero? What was it Sheridan Hennessey had said? This was combat, combat cold-war style, but still combat. Of course he was afraid. Had there ever in the history of combat been a participant who had gone into it unafraid?

  They walked briskly along the corridor. The guard said, “You have studied your maps?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can take you only so far without exposing myself. Then you are on your own. You must know your maps or you are lost. These old palaces ramble—”

  “I know,” Hank said impatiently. “Brief me as we go along. Just for luck.”

  “Very well. We leave Orushezhnaya Palace by this minor doorway. Across there, to our right, is the Bolshoi Kremlevski Dvorets, the Great Kremlin Palace. It’s there the Central Executive Committee meets, and the Assembly. The same hall used to be the czar’s throne room in the old days. On the nearer side, on the ground floor, are the Sobstvennaya Plovina, the former private apartments of Nicholas First. The extraterrestrials are there.”

  “You’re sure? The others weren’t sure.”

  “That’s where they are.”

  “How can we get to them?”

  “We can’t. Possibly you can. I can take you only so far. The front entrance is strongly guarded, we are going to have to enter the Great Palace from the rear, through the Teremni Palace. You remember your maps?”

  “I think so.”

  They strode rapidly from the museum through a major courtyard. Hank to the right and a step behind the uniformed guard.