Time Will Run Back

Chapter 12

PETER kept his own notes on the Kansas trip. On the day of their return Bolshekov reported his findings to a special meeting of the Politburo. That evening Peter was called in to give an independent account to his father.

“There are a lot of things in your report,” said Stalenin, “that Bolshekov did not tell us. I like your thoroughness. Perhaps you weren’t completely miseducated after all.”

He started to wander off into reminiscences, and talked of the weekly reports he used to receive about Peter from Bermuda. For the first time Peter saw clearly what until now he had sensed only vaguely. At each meeting his father was a little less brutal, a little more human, a little less sure of himself. This was a symptom, Peter now concluded, of the old man’s physical deterioration.

Stalenin suddenly broke off his reverie. “How are you coming on with my handwriting?” he asked.

Peter wrote several Stalenin signatures.

“They are still not perfect,” said his father, “but they’ll do as a start. Here!” He pushed several legal decrees at Peter: “Sign these with my signature....

“We’ll begin now,” Stalenin continued as Peter was signing, “to alternate the imitation with the real thing. After a while I’ll have you sign my name to all decrees. Then if anything happens to me your forgery will already have established its authenticity.” He grinned.

He got up and closed and locked the door which, like all the doors in his office, consisted really of two doors with an air space between, to prevent eavesdropping. Then he led Peter over to the safe, turned the combination, and opened the heavy steel door. He took a key from his breast pocket, opened a little steel drawer in the upper left-hand corner of the safe, and carefully drew out two phonograph records. He carried one over to a phonograph by the wall, and turned it on.

It was Stalenin’s voice.

“Comrades and citizens of Wonworld,” it began. “I told you on my last public appearance on May Day that the mounting pressure of work upon me would prevent me from making any further public appearances. This pressure has now grown to a point where I am forced to deputize more work than ever. I have therefore asked my son, Peter Uldanov, to sit as my deputy in meetings of the Politburo and on other occasions, and to make public announcements in my name of whatever new policies or decrees I find necessary. I shall, of course, be more active than ever as your leader...”

The record went on for about fifteen minutes. It ended in a rousing appeal for more work, more loyalty, more austerity, and more sacrifices.

“I have marked this Record X,” Stalenin said. “It is to be broadcast immediately on the entire Wonworld network... if I should get a stroke that incapacitates me. Here is the announcement to precede it.” He handed Peter a script. It began by declaring that His Supremacy, Comrade Stalenin, No. 1 Citizen and Leader and Dictator of Wonworld, had a most important announcement to make....

“And here,” said Stalenin, more solemnly, “is Record Z. It is to be broadcast immediately... in the event of my death. You would have to act quickly, before Bolshekov got the news.”

He put it on. It announced that his doctors had warned Stalenin that a continuation of his work would destroy his health; that he was therefore resigning as Wonworld Dictator, and that he had appointed Peter Uldanov to succeed him, under the title of Stalenin II. He urged all his supporters and every citizen of Wonworld, including every member of the Politburo, to rally round Stalenin II. He was glad to announce, he continued, that he had the loyal support of Bolshekov in this plan, and that it was, in fact, Bolshekov who had originally suggested to him that Peter Uldanov would be the ideal successor. “The next voice you hear,” concluded the record, “will be that of your new Dictator. The Dictator has abdicated; long live the Dictator!”

“Did Bolshekov really suggest that?” Peter asked, astonished.

Stalenin stared at him incredulously. “Of course not. That was put in to forestall any effort by him to unseat you.”

Peter looked at him admiringly. “You think of everything.”

Stalenin put the records back carefully in the drawer, locked it, and locked the safe. “Burn this combination into your memory,” he said to Peter. “You will be the only one to know it besides myself: 8—2—7—5...” He made Peter try it three times, first repeating the numbers to him as Peter turned the knob, then making Peter open the safe twice from memory. “Here is a duplicate key for the small safe drawer. Guard it with your life. I have left orders with Sergei that you are the first one, and the only one, to be notified in case either of these things happens to me. I think Sergei is trustworthy: I saved his mother from one of Bolshekov’s firing squads.

“And now,” he continued, “about your living quarters. The only safe place for you to live is right in this building. I have had the apartment below mine prepared for your occupancy. One room is being soundproofed, like this one, and in that you may have a piano.”

“That is wonderful of you, father—”

Stalenin cut him short. “You are never to use it for more than an hour a day. The room will be ready within a week.”

He took his pipe from his desk and began leisurely to fill it. “Tomorrow we have a hurdle to take. I am going to arrange your election to the Politburo. It may not be easy. The Politburo has to vote on it. You remember No. 7—Petrov? He is sixty nine; his health hasn’t been too good. I have persuaded him to hand in his resignation tomorrow on the promise that he can retire in grand style in the country. He is to propose you as his substitute. Of course he will vote for you. I will recommend that you be admitted only at the bottom—as No. 13. That means that everybody below Petrov would automatically be promoted one number. Counting mine, that ought to mean eight votes for you. And we can certainly count on Adams. Even Bolshekov may not think it good politics to vote against you....”