tall and gaunt—about two inches taller than Peter himself. Even more striking than his high cheekbones and prominent nose were his eyes. They were a distinct green.
Next came His Highness No. 3, Adams, a shrewd-looking Yankee below average height, thin and wispy. But there were humor and good-nature in his wizened face, and Peter liked him immediately. There was also something vaguely reminiscent about Adams that Peter could not quite identify.
He followed his father around the table.... No. 4, Marshal Zakachetsky, head of the Army.... No. 5, André Giraud, Commissar of Provinces.... No. 6, Ivan Orlov, Commissar of Propaganda and editor of the New Truth .... No. 7, Nickolas Petrov, “our oldest member.”... No. 8, Vladimir Kilashov, Commissar of State Security, and head of the secret police.... Peter began to lose track of the names.
He did keep track of the Soviet Republic from which each member originated. Adding his father’s identifications, he counted eight Russians, one American, one Frenchman, one German, one Englishman and one Argentinean.
Stalenin took his seat at the top of the table, and waved Peter to a chair at the bottom. All sat down.
The Dictator filled his pipe and began to tell the Politburo the story of his son’s life. He concealed few outward facts, but his tone was now heavily derisive.
“And so,” he concluded, “when his mother died a year ago, I had to decide his fate. Should he be kept on the island for the remainder of his life, a burden to himself and an ideological menace to Wonworld?? Or should he be exterminated? Or should we try, belatedly, to turn him into a Marx-fearing Communist and a useful member of society?”
A dozen pairs of eyes turned on Peter as if he were some strange, newly discovered kind of animal.
“I decided on the last, and have brought him here. I am wondering, Your Highness”—Stalenin was addressing Bolshekov—“whether I can place him in your care? Would you be able to give him a little of your own time for a while, to make sure that he gets started right? Later we could hand him over to the right teachers and have him report to both of us regularly, so that we can watch his progress—or lack of progress.”
“When do you want me to begin, Your Supremacy?”
“As soon as possible.”
Bolshekov turned to Peter. “Report to my office at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” “One thing more,” continued Stalenin. “I don’t want this young man to get any favors whatever simply because he happens to be my son. Whatever he gets or doesn’t get is to depend solely on himself. You will notice that I have given him simply the status of a Proletarian. However, it might be embarrassing, during the period of his education, to have a Proletarian wandering in and out of the Kremlin offices, where he would be constantly stopped by the guards. So beginning tomorrow morning, No. 2, before he gets to your office I will see that he gets the temporary status and uniform of a Deputy.”
He looked sternly at Peter. “It will depend on how rapidly you learn, whether you will be allowed to keep that status.”
Chapter 7
SO!” said Bolshekov. He looked Peter up and down. “You know absolutely no history, absolutely none?”
Peter nodded.
“Well, that can only be made up by giving you a list of books to read. But I will sketch in the general outlines, so that you can get your bearings. Our histories, like our calendar, are divided roughly into two parts: B.M. and A.M.—Before Marx and After Marx. This, for example,”—pointing to a day calendar on the wall—“is the Year of Our Marx 282, which means 282 years after His birth. Certainly you learned at least that in the Communist schools before you were eight!”
Peter nodded again.
“But this is the older division. Our recent writers divide history into three great periods: Ancient History, the Dark Ages, and Modern History. Ancient History is all that period, of which practically nothing is now
Next came His Highness No. 3, Adams, a shrewd-looking Yankee below average height, thin and wispy. But there were humor and good-nature in his wizened face, and Peter liked him immediately. There was also something vaguely reminiscent about Adams that Peter could not quite identify.
He followed his father around the table.... No. 4, Marshal Zakachetsky, head of the Army.... No. 5, André Giraud, Commissar of Provinces.... No. 6, Ivan Orlov, Commissar of Propaganda and editor of the New Truth .... No. 7, Nickolas Petrov, “our oldest member.”... No. 8, Vladimir Kilashov, Commissar of State Security, and head of the secret police.... Peter began to lose track of the names.
He did keep track of the Soviet Republic from which each member originated. Adding his father’s identifications, he counted eight Russians, one American, one Frenchman, one German, one Englishman and one Argentinean.
Stalenin took his seat at the top of the table, and waved Peter to a chair at the bottom. All sat down.
The Dictator filled his pipe and began to tell the Politburo the story of his son’s life. He concealed few outward facts, but his tone was now heavily derisive.
“And so,” he concluded, “when his mother died a year ago, I had to decide his fate. Should he be kept on the island for the remainder of his life, a burden to himself and an ideological menace to Wonworld?? Or should he be exterminated? Or should we try, belatedly, to turn him into a Marx-fearing Communist and a useful member of society?”
A dozen pairs of eyes turned on Peter as if he were some strange, newly discovered kind of animal.
“I decided on the last, and have brought him here. I am wondering, Your Highness”—Stalenin was addressing Bolshekov—“whether I can place him in your care? Would you be able to give him a little of your own time for a while, to make sure that he gets started right? Later we could hand him over to the right teachers and have him report to both of us regularly, so that we can watch his progress—or lack of progress.”
“When do you want me to begin, Your Supremacy?”
“As soon as possible.”
Bolshekov turned to Peter. “Report to my office at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” “One thing more,” continued Stalenin. “I don’t want this young man to get any favors whatever simply because he happens to be my son. Whatever he gets or doesn’t get is to depend solely on himself. You will notice that I have given him simply the status of a Proletarian. However, it might be embarrassing, during the period of his education, to have a Proletarian wandering in and out of the Kremlin offices, where he would be constantly stopped by the guards. So beginning tomorrow morning, No. 2, before he gets to your office I will see that he gets the temporary status and uniform of a Deputy.”
He looked sternly at Peter. “It will depend on how rapidly you learn, whether you will be allowed to keep that status.”
Chapter 7
SO!” said Bolshekov. He looked Peter up and down. “You know absolutely no history, absolutely none?”
Peter nodded.
“Well, that can only be made up by giving you a list of books to read. But I will sketch in the general outlines, so that you can get your bearings. Our histories, like our calendar, are divided roughly into two parts: B.M. and A.M.—Before Marx and After Marx. This, for example,”—pointing to a day calendar on the wall—“is the Year of Our Marx 282, which means 282 years after His birth. Certainly you learned at least that in the Communist schools before you were eight!”
Peter nodded again.
“But this is the older division. Our recent writers divide history into three great periods: Ancient History, the Dark Ages, and Modern History. Ancient History is all that period, of which practically nothing is now
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