ant, Comrade," said Sophia coldly. "I am here
to volunteer."

"But a woman."

"There is nothing in the law which says a woman cannot volunteer."

"We don't make women volunteer."

"I mean really volunteer, of her own free will."

"Her--own--free will?" The bull-necked man removed his spectacles,
scratched his balding head with the ear-pieces. "You mean volunteer
without--"

"Without coercion. I want to volunteer. I am here to volunteer. I want
to sign on for the next Stalintrek."

"Stalintrek, a woman?"

"That is what I said."

"We don't force women to volunteer." The man scratched some more.

"Oh, really," said Sophia. "This is 1992, not mid-century, Comrade.
Did not Premier Stalin say, 'Woman was created to share the glorious
destiny of Mother Russia with her mate?'" Sophia created the quote
randomly.

"Yes, if Stalin said--"

"He did."

"Still, I do not recall--"

"What?" Sophia cried. "Stalin dead these thirty-nine years and you
don't recall his speeches? What is your name, Comrade?"

"Please, Comrade. Now that you remind me, I remember."

"What is your name."

"Here, I will give you the volunteer papers to sign. If you pass the
exams, you will embark on the next Stalintrek, though why a beautiful
young woman like you--"

"Shut your mouth and hand me those papers."

There, sitting behind that desk, was precisely why. Why should she,
Sophia Androvna Petrovitch, wish to volunteer for the Stalintrek?
Better to ask why a bird flies south in the winter, one day ahead of
the first icy gale. Or why a lemming plunges recklessly into the sea
with his multitudes of fellows, if, indeed, the venture were to turn
out grimly.

But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The
bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of
gushing emotions, his worldliness. _Pfooey!_

It was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved,
the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth,
the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move. No
one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume no
one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there was
nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted to
return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers
with their vapid faces or the Comrades with their cautious, sweating,
trembling, fearful non-decisions, not the higher eche