aid nothing.

"One thing," his chief said. "The origin of this, ah, _club_ which turned
into a tiny underground all of its own. Did you detect the finger of the
West, stirring up trouble?"

"No." Simonov shook his head. "If such was the case, the agents involved
were more clever than I'd ordinarily give either America or Common Europe
credit for. I could be wrong, of course."

"Perhaps," the police head growled. He eyed the bottle before him but made
no motion toward it. He wiped the palm of his right hand back over his
bald pate, in unconscious irritation. "But there is something at work that
we are not getting at." Blagonravov seemed to change subjects. "You can
speak Czech, so I understand."

"That's right. My mother was from Bratislava. My father met her there
during the Hitler war."

"And you know Czechoslovakia?"

"I've spent several vacations in the Tatras at such resorts as Tatranski
Lomnica since the country's been made such a tourist center of the
satellites." Ilya Simonov didn't understand this trend of the
conversation.

"You have some knowledge of automobiles, too?"

Simonov shrugged. "I've driven all my life."

His chief rumbled thoughtfully, "Time isn't of essence. You can take a
quick course at the Moskvich plant. A week or two would give you all the
background you need."

Ilya laughed easily. "I seem to have missed something. Have my
shortcomings caught up with me? Am I to be demoted to automobile
mechanic?"

Kliment Blagonravov became definite. "You are being given the most
important assignment of your career, Ilya. This rot, this ever growing
ferment against the Party, must be cut out, liquidated. It seems to fester
worse among the middle echelons of ... what did that Yugoslavian Djilas
call us?... the _New Class_. Why? That's what we must know."

He sat farther back in his chair and his heavy lips made a _mout_. "Why,
Ilya?" he repeated. "After more than half a century the Party has attained
all its goals. Lenin's millennium is here; the end for which Stalin purged
ten millions and more, is reached; the sacrifices demanded by Khrushchev
in the Seven-Year Plans have finally paid off, as the Yankees say. Our
gross national product, our per capita production, our standard of living,
is the highest in the world. Sacrifices are no longer necessary."

There had been an almost whining note in his voice. But now he broke it
off. He poured them still another drink. "At any rate, Ilya, I was wi