und still again.

There were two of them, not three as he had always dreamed. As three
had come for his father, more than two decades before.

His father had been a rightist deviationist, so the papers had said, a
follower of one of whom Josip had never heard in any other context
other than his father's trial and later execution. But he had not
cracked under whatever pressures had been exerted upon him, and of
that his son was proud.

He had not cracked, and in later years, when the cult of personality
was a thing of the past, his name had been cleared and returned to the
history books. And now it was an honor, rather than a disgrace, to be
the son of Ljubo Pekic, who had posthumously been awarded the title
Hero of the People's Democratic Dictatorship.

But though his father was now a hero, Josip still expected that knock.
However, he was rather bewildered at the timing, having no idea of why
he was to be under arrest.

The first of the zombi twins said expressionlessly, "Comrade Josip
Pekic?"

If tremor there was in his voice, it was negligible. He was the son of
Ljubo Pekic. He said, "That is correct. Uh ... to what do I owe this
intrusion upon my privacy?" That last in the way of bravado.

The other ignored the question. "Get dressed and come with us,
Comrade," he said flatly.

At least they still called him comrade. That was some indication, he
hoped, that the charges might not be too serious.

He chose his dark suit. Older than the brown one, but in it he felt he
presented a more self-possessed demeanor. He could use the quality.
Five foot seven, slightly underweight and with an air of unhappy
self-deprecation, Josip Pekic's personality didn't exactly dominate in
a group. He chose a conservative tie and a white shirt, although he
knew that currently some frowned upon white shirts as a bourgeois
affectation. It was all the thing, these days, to look proletarian,
whatever that meant.

The zombis stood, watching him emptily as he dressed. He wondered what
they would have said had he asked them to wait in the hallway until he
was finished. Probably nothing. They hadn't bothered to answer when he
asked what the charge against him was.

He put his basic papers, his identity card, his student cards, his
work record and all the rest in an inner pocket, and faced them. "I am
ready," he said as evenly as he could make it come.

They turned and led the way down to the street and to the black
limousine there. A