Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

discussion of policy, without the restrictions his presence would have put on the conversation.

“Let’s deal with a more pleasant subject,” a feminine voice said. “Our broadcasts should stress to the people that for the first time in the history of Russia we will be truly in the position to lead the world! For fifty years the Communists attempted to convert nations into adopting their system, and largely they were turned down. Those countries that did become Communist either did so at the point of the Red Army’s bayonet or under the stress of complete collapse such as in China. But tomorrow, and the New Russia? Freed from the inadequacy and inefficiency of the bureaucrats who have misruled us, we’ll develop a productive machine that will be the envy of the world!” Her voice had all but a fanatical ring.

Someone else chuckled, “If the West thought they had competition from us before, wait until they see the New Russia!”

Paul thought he saw someone, a shadow, at the side of the clearing. His lips thinned and the .38 Noiseless was in his hand magically.

False alarm.

He turned back to the “conversation” inside.

Kirichenko’s voice was saying, “It is hard for me not to believe that within a period of a year or so half the countries of the world will follow our example.”

“Half!” someone laughed exuberantly. “The world, Comrades! The new system will sweep the world. For the first time in history the world will see what Marx and Engels were really driving at!”

Back at the hotel, toward morning, Paul was again stretched out on the bed, hands under his head, his eyes unseeingly staring at the ceiling as he went through his agonizing reappraisal.

There was Ana.

And there was even Leonid Shvernik and some of the others of the underground. As close friends as he had ever made in a life that admittedly hadn’t been prone to friendship.

And there was Russia, the country of his birth. Beyond the underground movement, beyond the Soviet regime, beyond the Romanoff Czars. Mother Russia. The land of his parents, his grandparents, the land of his roots.

And, of course, there was the United States and the West. The West which had received him in his hour of stress in his flight from Mother Russia. Mother Russia, ha! What kind of a mother had she been to the Koslovs? To his grandfather, his father, his mother and brother? Where would he, Paul, be today had he as a child not been sent fleeing to the West?

And his life work. What of that? Since the age of nineteen, when a normal teenager would have been in school, preparing himself for life. Since nineteen he had been a member of the anti-Soviet team.

A star, too! Paul Koslov, the troubleshooter, the always reliable, cold, ruthless. Paul Koslov on whom you could always depend to carry the ball.

Anti-Soviet, or anti-Russian?

Why kid himself about his background. It meant nothing. He was an American. He had only the faintest of memories of his family or of the country. Only because people told him so did he know he was a Russian. He was as American as it is possible to get.

What had he told such Westerners, born and bred, as Lord Carrol and Derek Stevens? If he wasn’t a member of the team, there just wasn’t a team.

But then, of course, there was Ana.

Yes, Ana. But what, actually, was there in the future for them? Now that he considered it, could he really picture her sitting in the drug store on Montez Street, Grass Valley, having a banana split?

Ana was Russian. As patriotic a Russian as it was possible to be. As much a dedicated member of the Russian team as it was possible to be. And as a team member, she, like Paul, knew the chances that were involved. You didn’t get to be a star by sitting on the bench. She hadn’t hesitated, in the clutch, to sacrifice her favorite brother.

Paul Koslov propped the Tracy, the wristwatch-like radio before him, placing its back to a book. He made it operative, began to repeat, “Paul calling. Paul calling.”

A thin, far away voice said finally, “OK Paul. I’m receiving.”

Paul Koslov took a deep breath and said, “All right, this is it. In just a few days we’re all set to kick off. Understand?”

“I understand, Paul.”

“Is it possible that anybody else can be receiving this?”

“Absolutely impossible.”

“All right, then this is it. The boys here are going to start their revolution going by knocking off not only Number One, but also Two, Three, Four, Six and Seven of the hierarchy. Number Five is one of theirs.”

The thin voice said, “You know I don’t want details. They’re up to you.”

Paul grimaced. “This is why I called. You’ve got to make⁠—or someone’s got to make⁠—one hell of an important decision in the next couple of days. It’s not up to me. For once I’m not to be brushed off with that ‘don’t bother me with details,’ routine.”

“Decision? What decision? You said everything was all ready to go, didn’t you?”

“Look,” Paul Koslov said, “remember when you gave me this assignment. When you told me about the Germans sending Lenin up to Petrograd in hopes he’d start a revolution and the British sending Somerset Maugham to try and prevent it?”

“Yes, yes, man. What’s that got to do with it?” Even over the long distance, the Chief’s voice sounded puzzled.

“Supposedly the Germans were successful, and Maugham failed. But looking back at it a generation later, did the Germans win out by helping bring off the Bolshevik revolution? The Soviets destroyed them for all time as a first-rate power at Stalingrad, twenty-five years afterwards.”

The voice from Washington was impatient. “What’s your point, Paul?”

“My point is this. When you gave me this assignment, you told me I was in the position of the German who engineered bringing Lenin up to Petrograd to start the Bolsheviks rolling. Are you sure that the opposite isn’t true? Are you sure it isn’t Maugham’s job I should have? Let