martinet sent down from the
central offices. They were beginning to relax in his presence.

In fact, they relaxed to the point where one of the girls didn't even
bother to hide the book she was reading during a period where there was a
lull in activity. It was Pasternak's "Doctor Zhivago."

He frowned remembering vaguely the controversy over the book a couple of
decades earlier. Ilya Simonov said, "Pasternak. Do they print his works
here in Czechoslovakia?"

The girl shrugged and looked at the back of the cover. "German publisher,"
she said idly. "Printed in Frankfurt."

He kept his voice from registering either surprise or disapproval. "You
mean such books are imported? By whom?"

"Oh, not imported by an official agency, but we Czechs are doing a good
deal more travel than we used to. Business trips, tourist trips,
vacations. And, of course, we bring back books you can't get here." She
shrugged again. "Very common."

Simonov said blankly. "But the customs. The border police--"

She smiled in a manner that suggested he lacked sophistication. "They
never bother any more. They're human, too."

Ilya Simonov wandered off. He was astonished at the extent to which
controls were slipping in a satellite country. There seemed practically no
discipline, in the old sense, at all. He began to see one reason why his
superior had sent him here to Prague. For years, most of his work had been
either in Moscow or in the newly opened industrial areas in Siberia. He
had lost touch with developments in this part of the Soviet Complex.

It came to him that this sort of thing could work like a geometric
progression. Give a man a bit of rope one day, and he expects, and takes,
twice as much the next, and twice that the next. And as with individuals,
so with whole populations.

This was going to have to be stopped soon, or Party control would
disappear. Ilya Simonov felt an edge of uncertainty. Nikita Khrushchev
should never have made those first motions of liberalization following
Stalin's death. Not if they eventually culminated in this sort of thing.

He and Catherina drove to her meeting place that evening after dinner.

She explained as they went that the group was quite informal, usually
meeting at the homes of group members who had fairly large places in the
country. She didn't seem to know how it had originally begun. The meetings
had been going on for a year of more before she arrived in Prague. A Czech
friend had taken