The difference
is, I had the opportunity. I'm in Switzerland."

"Switzerland!" Number One roared. "You've defected. I knew you were a
traitor, Pekic. Like father, like son! A true Transbalkanian would
remain in his country and help it along the road to the future."

The younger man looked worried. "Well, yes, sir," he said. "I thought
about that. But I think I've done about as much as I could accomplish.
You see, these last few months, protected by those 'can do no wrong'
credentials, I've been spreading this message around among all the
engineers, technicians, professionals, all the more trained, competent
people in Transbalkania. You'd be surprised how they took to it. I
think it's kind of ... well, snowballing. I mean the idea that
politicians aren't capable of running industry. That if the United
Balkan Soviet Republics are to ever get anywhere, some changes are
going to have to be made."

Number One could no more than glare.

Josip Pekic, rubbed his nose nervously, and said, in the way of
uneasy farewell, "I just thought it was only fair for me to call you
and give a final report. After all, I didn't start all this. Didn't
originate the situation. It was you and Kardelj who gave me my
chance. I just ... well ... expedited things." His face faded from
the screen, still apologetic of expression.

Zoran Jankez sat there for a long time, staring at the now dark
instrument.

It was the middle of the night when the knock came at the door. But
then, Zoran Jankez had always thought it would ... finally.

* * * * *

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