Adam Roberts - Yellow Blue Tibia

‘Isn’t that funny, though?’ said Stalin.

‘Very, comrade.’

Finally Stalin settled his tun-shaped body in a chair by the windows, and lit a cigarette. Adam Mikhailovitch sat. The rest of us remained standing. Adam glanced around anxiously and leapt back to his feet. ‘No, no,’ said Stalin, ‘sit down, all of you.’

We all sat.

There was a single bird somewhere outside in the garden, chirruping over and over, like a squeaky wheel.

Stalin was quiet for a long time, staring into the smoke produced by his cigarette as if answers to many mysteries were written there. Then he coughed heartily and said, ‘Comrades, I imagine you are curious why I have sent for you.’

We, of course, said nothing. Each of us vied with the other in adopting the most solicitous posture; sitting forward in our chairs, leaning a little, putting our heads to one side.

‘I have learnt many things in my time,’ said Stalin. ‘And there is one thing I have learned above all. Nothing is so efficacious in advancing the cause of universal Communism as struggle . When the people have an enemy against which to unite, they are capable of superb heroics. When they lack such an enemy they become slack, they fall prey to counterrevolutionary elements, and generally backslide. The Great Patriotic War has surely taught us this above all! We all here remember the thirties — do we not?’

We murmured in agreement. Each of us, I am sure, trying hard to make our murmurs as non-specific as a murmur might be. Remember the thirties? The difficulty was not remembering the thirties. The difficulty was ever being able to forget the thirties.

‘It took the most strenuous efforts by the politburo to hold the country together during those years,’ Comrade Stalin said, smilingly. ‘Enemies without and traitors within, and the people loose, loose like a — like—’ He gazed out the window, as if searching for a suitable simile. Eventually, he went on. ‘Loose. I had to be stern, then. I’m a naturally loving man. It’s my nature to be loving. But sometimes love must be hard , or the loved ones become themselves weakened. Severity was the only way to preserve the revolution. But the war — the war gave us a proper enemy. Gave us something to unite against . Hitler’s declaration of war saved Communism. And now we have won the war.’

‘Hurrah,’ said Sergei, but not in a loud voice.

Stalin’s smile widened. ‘Victory was a necessary result of the advanced Soviet science of war, and of the fact that the high command,’ and he dipped his head, and we all understood he was referring to himself, ‘the fact that the high command more thoroughly understood and was able better to apply the iron laws of warfare, the dialectic of counter-offensive and offensive, the cooperation of all services and arms, that modern warmaking requires. But most of all. Most of all… with the Nazis we had a threat against which the entire country could unite. Now, I ask you, is there a similar enemy now against which we may continue to preserve that unity? I ask you.’

And it seemed he was genuinely asking us, for he paused. My throat dried at this. Did he expect us to answer? Eventually Ivan Frenkel spoke up. ‘America?’ he hazarded.

‘Of course,’ boomed Stalin. ‘Of course America! Only yesterday Zvezda reported that the American government machine-gunned workers in New York. Killed hundreds. Of course America. But I do not find that America unites the people in hostility, the way the German threat did.’

We said nothing. Nikolai Nikolaivitch fumbled a new cigarette from its box, and by doing so made it clear how trembly his fingers were.

‘Besides,’ said Stalin, with force, ‘I give America five years. Do you think that defeating America will be harder than defeating the Germans? The Nazi army was the most modern and best equipped in the world, and we made short work of them . And now our weapons are even stronger; our troops battle-hardened and our morale high. I can tell you, comrades, that America will fall within five years.’

‘Tremendous news,’ said Sergei, in a loud, brittle voice.

‘Indeed,’ we all said. ‘Excellent. Superb.’

‘But it is my duty,’ said Stalin, ‘to consider longer-term futures than a mere five years. It is my duty to ensure that the revolutionary vigour is preserved long into the future. And this is where you can help me. Yes, you, science fiction authors. Once the west falls, as it inevitably will, and the whole world embraces Communism, where then will we find the enemies against which we can unite, against which we can test our collective heroism? Eh?’

This was a tricky question — tricky in the sense that it was not immediately obvious which answers were liable to provoke official displeasure. We pretended to ponder it. Fortunately Comrade Stalin did not leave us to stew.

‘Outer space,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘Space will provide the enemies. You , comrades, will work together — here, in this dacha. All amenities will be provided. I myself will visit from time to time. Together we will work upon the story of an extraterrestrial menace . It will be the greatest science fiction story ever told! And we will write it collectively! It will inspire the whole of the Soviet Union — inspire the whole world! It is, after all, the true Communist arena. Space, I mean. Outer space is ours! That is your task, comrades!’

He got to his feet. He moved slowly, but with force. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘But I shall return shortly, and I look forward to hearing what you have come up with! Soon, my friends, I shall return to you!’

That, naturally, was the last we saw of Stalin. We were left to our own devices, more or less, except for Malenkov, a senior party figure who stayed for a week or so to ensure that we did nothing foolish. By foolish , he told us, he meant ‘anything liable to disappoint Josef Vissarionovich’. We were as eager as was he to avoid this possibility.

At that evening’s first evening meal we chattered excitedly, and drank too much. It was the drink that meant we talked more freely than otherwise we might have done. Several military personnel, and of course Malenkov, were there the whole time, watching us, listening to what we said.

‘Do I understand?’ said Sergei. ‘Do I understand what exactly we are to do? Presumably this work we are to compose is to be more than just a story.’ He was appealing to Malenkov, but that man only smiled and said, ‘General Secretary Josef Vissarionovich explained this to you himself, did he not?’

‘Well, yes—’

‘Then surely you have all the information you need.’

‘More than just a story,’ said Nikolai Nikolaivitch. ‘A story, yes, but obviously not just a story. Comrade Stalin made it plain that what we decide will act as a social glue — that people, in short, will believe it, and organise on a mass scale to make it real.’

‘There is one great merit in the idea,’ I said.

‘Come, Konstantin Andreiovich,’ said Sergei, wagging his head, ‘only the one ?’

‘The plan has very many merits, of course,’ I said, hurriedly. ‘But I am struck by one in particular. To unify the people against a human enemy — against Germans, Americans, Jews — necessarily involves us in a form of in humanity. For these enemies are human beings, after all.’

‘Germans?’ said Rapoport, disbelievingly.

‘All human beings are surely capable of being brought within the healthy body politic of a Communist collective,’ I said.

‘The perfectibility of humanity,’ said Frenkel, sourly.