t and
imposing and winding up simply--grim.

Yes. Josip Pekic knew where they were going now.

* * * * *

The limousine slid smoothly on its cushion of air, up the curved
driveway, past the massive iron statue of the worker struggling
against the forces of reaction, a rifle in one hand, a wrench in the
other and stopped before, at last, the well-guarded doorway.

Without speaking, the two police who had come to his room opened the
car door and climbed out. One made a motion with his head, and Josip
followed. The limousine slid away immediately.

Between them, he mounted the marble stairs. It occurred to him that
this was the route his father must have taken, two decades before.

He had never been in the building of the Ministry of Internal Affairs,
before. Few Transbalkanians had, other than those who were employed in
the MVD, or who came under the Ministry's scrutiny.

Doors opened before them, closed behind them. Somewhat to Josip
Pekic's surprise the place was copiously adorned with a surplus of
metal and marble statues, paintings and tapestries. It had
similarities to one of Zagurest's heavy museums.

Through doors and down halls and through larger rooms, finally to a
smaller one in which sat alone at a desk a lean, competent and assured
type who jittered over a heavy sheaf of papers with an electro-marking
computer pen. He was nattily and immaculately dressed and smoked his
cigarette in one of the small pipelike holders once made _de rigueur_
through the Balkans by Marshal Tito.

The three of them came to a halt before his desk and, at long last,
expression came to the faces of the zombis. Respect, with possibly an
edge of perturbation. Here, obviously, was authority.

He at the desk finished a paper, tore it from the sheaf, pushed it
into the maw of the desk chute from whence it would be transported to
the auto-punch for preparation for recording. He looked up in busy
impatience.

Then, to Josip Pekic's astonishment, the other came to his feet
quickly, smoothly and with a grin on his face. Josip hadn't considered
the possibility of being grinned at in the Ministry of Internal
Affairs.

"Aleksander Kardelj," he said in self-introduction, sticking out a
lean hand to be shaken. "You're Pekic, eh? We've been waiting for
you."

Josip shook, bewildered. He looked at the zombi next to him,
uncomprehendingly.

He who had introduced himself, darted a look of comprehension f