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“Versatile,” Molotov echoed, watching the Furry. It had been looking at the secretary, but its alarmingly lifelike eyes returned to him when he spoke. “Amazing,” he murmured. “The Americans are foolish to use so much of this valuable technology in something to amuse children. They are, in some ways, very much like children themselves.”
“My cousin writes that a Canadian actually invented the Furries, though they’re being made in the United States,” his secretary said.
“Canadians. Americans.” Molotov shrugged. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other. There are no big differences between them, the way there are between us Russians and the Ukrainians, for instance.” He warily eyed the Furry. Sure enough, it was eyeing him, too. “Turn it off, Pyotr Maksimovich.”
“Certainly, Comrade General Secretary.” His secretary wasn’t about to tell him no. When he used the control again, the Furry yawned, waved good-bye, said one last thing in English (“That means, ‘Good night,’ ” Molotov’s secretary said), and closed its eyes. It truly might have been falling asleep.
“I hope your children enjoy it,” Molotov said. He had to repress the urge to sidle around his secretary’s desk as he finally went on into his office. It is only a toy, a machine, he told himself, nothing but plush and plastic and circuits programmed to perform one way or another. He was a thorough-going rationalist and materialist, so that should have been self-evident truth. And so it was-when he forced himself to look at it rationally. When he didn’t… When he didn’t, the devil’s grandmother might have animated the Furry.
Sitting down at his desk, going through paperwork-all that seemed a great relief. He’d done it every day for years, for decades. Getting up for some tea and a couple of little sweet cakes dusted with powdered sugar was routine, too. The more he stuck to routine, the less he had to think about the Furry and what it implied. So much technology, casually lavished on a toy! The USSR had stolen the same technology from the Race, and could have matched the Furry-but any economic planner who dared suggest such a thing would have gone to the gulag the next minute.
Molotov wondered how many Furries would be imported into the Soviet Union, and what sort of demand for such fripperies they would create among the majority who would not prove able to get their hands on them. He shrugged. He cared very little whether or not people clamored for consumer goods. What sensible planner would? The Red Army got what it needed. The Party got what it needed. If anything happened to be left over after that, the people got it. Unlike the capitalist Americans, we have our priorities straight, Molotov thought smugly.
After a while, he glanced at the clock. It was after ten. Zhukov and Gromyko should have been here on the hour. Molotov tapped one finger on the desk. Most Russians were hopelessly unpunctual, but those two had learned to come and go by the clock, not by their own inclination. Where were they, then?
Almost as soon as the question formed in his mind, he got the answer. Squeaky English came from the anteroom. Molotov’s secretary’s Furry had captured the head of the Red Army and the foreign commissar no less than it had ensnared Molotov himself. He went out to the anteroom and said, “Good morning, Comrades. Have you begun your second childhoods, to play with toys instead of conducting the business of the Soviet Union?”
Gromyko said, “It is a clever gadget, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. It is also a funny gadget, if you speak English.”
Zhukov nodded. Delight glowed on his broad peasant features. Plainly, he would sooner have gone on fooling around with the Furry than dealing with state business. He said, “I’m going to get some of these… for my grandchildren, of course.”
“Of course,” Molotov said dryly.
With obvious regret, the diplomat and the soldier allowed themselves to be led away from the American toy. Even as Zhukov sat down in front of Molotov’s desk, he said, “That’s a damn fine toy, no two ways about it.”
“There are always two ways about everything, Georgi Konstantinovich,” Gromyko said. “The second way here is that the Americans waste so much energy and technological expertise on this piece of frivolity when they could be using them to some advantage on their own defense.”
“All right, something to that,” Zhukov allowed. “But a little fun’s not against the law every now and then.” He still sometimes thought like a peasant, all right.
Molotov said, “Can we forget the toys for the time being and discuss our plan of action for China? That was, if you will recall, the reason we were to assemble here today. Had I known of the Furry in advance, I assure you I would have put it at the head of the agenda.”
His sarcasm seemed to get through where nothing else had. Instead of blathering on about the stuffed animal, Zhukov said, “Mao’s done better than we thought he could, hasn’t he?”
“Indeed,” Molotov said.
“Now the question is, has he done too well for his own good?” Gromyko said.
“Exactly so, Andrei Andreyevich-exactly so,” Molotov agreed. “If he keeps giving the Lizards as much trouble as he has lately, how soon will they start using explosive-metal bombs to suppress him?”
“Too many of those bombs used already, all over the world,” Gromyko said.
“If the Lizards do start using explosive-metal bombs, they may not get rid of the whole People’s Liberation Army, but they’re liable to wipe out the leadership cadres,” hukov said.
“You are right, Georgi Konstantinovich, and that is not desirable,” Molotov said. “We want the People’s Liberation Army to remain a thorn in the side of the Race for years-indeed, for generations-to come.” He turned to Gromyko. “Andrei Andreyevich, I want you to work closely with Japan and the United States. If all three powers express their displeasure at the use of explosive-metal weapons in China, that may well give the Lizards pause.”
“I shall do my best to arrange a joint declaration, Comrade General Secretary,” Gromyko replied. “Too many sovereignties have already used too many explosive-metal bombs, as I said a moment ago.”
“It bears repeating. We should also emphasize it with the Race,” Molotov said. “And I believe we should make it less urgently necessary for the Race to have to think about using explosive-metal bombs in China.” His gaze swung back to Zhukov. “Do you understand what I mean, Comrade Marshal? Do you agree?” He wished he could simply give Zhukov orders, but the head of the Red Army would have had an easier time giving him orders than the other way round.
Zhukov grunted now. “You want us to stop sending the People’s Liberation Army the German rockets that let them take out tanks and helicopters and airplanes.”
Molotov, for once, did not grudge a smile. “Exactly!”
“Mao will pitch a fit,” Zhukov predicted. “This isn’t the first time we’ve sold him down the river.”
“And it may not be the last, either,” Molotov replied with a shrug. “Is weakening the People’s Liberation Army not what seems best for the Soviet Union and for the world as a whole?”
He waited. If Zhukov said no, he would have to backtrack, and he hated the idea. But, after another grunt, Zhukov said, “Yes, I suppose so. The Chinese will still keep the Lizards in play. They just won’t be able to do such a good job of it. If the Lizards didn’t have explosive-metal bombs, I’d answer differently. Of course, if the Lizards didn’t have explosive-metal bombs and the technology that goes with them, they’d still be stuck on Home.”
“The world would be a different place,” Gromyko said musingly. “Better? Worse? Who can guess?”
“Who indeed?” Molotov said. He thought the Soviet Union would have survived the attack the Nazis were unleashing in 1942 when the Race arrived, he hoped the Soviet Union would have survived, but he was anything but certain. Would anyone have tried flying into space by these early days of 1966 if the Lizards hadn’t shown it could be done? He doubted that.
“No point to such airy-fairy questions,” Zhukov said. “We can only deal with what is, not with what might have been.”
Gromyko’s heavy eyebr
ows came down and together in a frown; he didn’t care to be casually dismissed like that. But his voice showed none of his annoyance as he asked, “If we make it harder for the Chinese to annoy the Lizards, shall we find some other way to make their lives interesting?”
“What have you got in mind?” Molotov asked.
“When we launched those missile warheads loaded with ginger at the Race’s Australian settlements, the results were highly disruptive-and highly entertaining,” the foreign commissar observed.
But this time Zhukov spoke before Molotov could: “Nyet. We got away with it once, but that is no guarantee we could do it twice. And the hot water we would land in if we got caught… Nyet.”
Reluctantly, Molotov nodded. “I agree with Georgi Konstantinovich. Smuggling ginger is one thing. Bombarding them with it is something else if we get caught: an act of war.” Gromyko sulked. He didn’t show it much-he never showed anything much-but he sulked. Molotov would much sooner have backed him than Zhukov. That would have enhanced his own power and diminished the marshal’s. But he would have no power at all if the USSR went the way of the Greater German Reich. Survival first, Molotov thought. Everything else afterwards, but survival first. He’d lived by that rule for three quarters of a century. He wondered how much further he could go.
Monique Dutourd turned to-turned on-her brother with even more annoyance than usual. “Isn’t there anything you can do?” she demanded.
“Me?” Pierre didn’t just shake his head. He laughed in her face. “If I tried to get Auerbach out of the Lizards’ prison, do you know what would happen? I’d end up back inside it myself, that’s what. No thanks, little sister.”
He was likely right, worse luck. Even so, Monique said, “It’s not fair. The American got me up to Tours, and now he’s locked away.”
“I notice you don’t say anything about his girlfriend,” Pierre remarked.
