rom
Josip to the two. He said disgustedly, but with mild humor oddly
mixed, "What's the matter, did these hoodlums frighten you?"

Josip fingered his chin nervously. "Of course not."

One of the zombis shifted his feet. "We did nothing except obey
orders."

Kardelj grimaced in sour amusement. "I can imagine," he grunted.
"Milka, you see too many of those imported Telly shows from the West.
I suspect you see yourself as a present day Transbalkanian G-Man."

"Yes, Comrade," Milka said, and then shook his head.

"Oh, hush up and get out," Kardelj said. He flicked the cigarette butt
from its holder with a thumb and took up a fresh one from a desk
humidor and wedged it into the small bowl. He looked at Josip and
grinned again, the action giving his face an unsophisticated youthful
expression.

"You can't imagine how pleased I am to meet you, at last," he said.
"I've been looking for you for months."

Josip Pekic ogled him blankly. The name had come through to him at
last. Aleksander Kardelj was seldom in the news, practically never
photographed, and then in the background in a group of Party
functionaries, usually with a wry smile on his face. But he was known
throughout the boundaries of the State, if not internationally.
Aleksander Kardelj was Number Two. Right-hand man of Zoran Jankez
himself, second in command of the Party and rumored to be the brains
behind the throne.

The zombis had gone, hurriedly.

"Looking for me?" Josip said blankly. "I haven't been in hiding.
You've made some mistake. All I am is a student of--"

"Of course, of course," Kardelj said, humorously impatient. He took up
a folder from his desk and shook it absently in Josip's general
direction. "I've studied your dossier thoroughly." He flicked his eyes
up at a wall clock. "Come along. Comrade Jankez is expecting us. We'll
leave explanations until then."

In a daze, Josip Pekic followed him.

Comrade Jankez, Number One. Zoran Jankez, Secretary General of the
Party, President of the U.B.S.R., the United Balkan Soviet Republics.
Number One.

Josip could hardly remember so far back that Zoran Jankez wasn't head
of the Party, when his face, or sculptured bust, wasn't to be seen in
every store, on the walls of banks, railroad stations, barber shops,
or bars. Never a newsreel but that part of it wasn't devoted to
Comrade Jankez, never a Telly newscast but that Number One was brought
to the attention of the viewers. His coming to power had