credit with them. But more than the transport, you have put costs on us already, not your fault, but costs. The gate was to be our fortune. Now it is a danger. A loss. We require something else to sell. Can be idea, design, anything.’
‘Or you could stay here and work a few years,’ said someone else, sounding helpful.
Carlyle stared at them, thinking frantically, cold inside. ‘There are some useful features in my space suit… .’
‘Already examined,’ said Jong crisply. ‘It is quite backward.’
It would be, being Eurydicean. Shit.
She flapped a hand at her embroidered satin pyjamas. ‘Clothes pattern?’ A polite titter from the women, a rustle as they shifted comfortably and complacently in their big skirts.
She ran her hand along the utility belt she’d left on under her top. There must be
‘What is that screen for?’ she asked.
‘Entertainment and education,’ said San Ok. ‘We all watch it after dinner.’
‘Would you be interested in some new entertainment?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Jong.
‘If it was edifying as well as entertaining,’ said San Ok. ‘Not immoral or decadent.’
Carlyle took the card out. ‘All classical,’ she said. ‘Very edifying.’ She hoped it was. She thumbed through the catalogue, tiny titles flickering past.
Looked up, smiling. ‘Here is a good example. “
‘Brezhnev?’ said Jong, interested. ‘The friend of the Great Leader?’
‘The very same,’ said Carlyle, winging it.
San Ok stood up, clapped, and indicated to everyone that they should put on their translation headphones if they didn’t speak American. After a bit of fiddling about with the card and the interfaces, the big screen lit up with a picture of the interior of a vast room, lit by torches and a blazing fire, over which a pig on a spit turned. Bear furs, swords, and Kalashnikovs hung on the walls among oil-painted portraits of Marx, Engels, and Lenin. Twenty or so shadowed figures in fur cloaks sat around a huge oaken table, quaffing wine, feasting and talking. At the head of the table sat a burly giant of a man, his face stern and scarred, but sensitive and intelligent withal. Through a distant, creaking doorway a tall, thin-featured knight came in, and the tale began.
Our workers idle in the factories
and bodge their jobs. The managers
think plan fulfillment is but a game
and planners are their foes. The farmers let
crops rot and tractors rust. Our warriors
fight bravely; but on far-flung fronts—
Angola and Afghanistan—
wreak havoc on our men. America
presses on us hard, its empire vast
now reaching into space, and from above
spies on us even now. In time to come
its missiles threaten us, its laser beams
may stab us in the back, deterrence gone.
Our intellectual men, and women too
are dissidents or hacks. Our bloody Jews—
their bags half-packed for Israel—
have lost all gratitude for what we’ve done
on their behalf. Timber, oil, and gold
are all we sell that willing buyers find, aside
from MiG and Proton and Kalashnikov—
aye, these sell well! But for the rest
our manufactured goods are crap, a standing joke
in all the markets of the world. The Lada—
for saying such stuff as this!
but publishing abroad that was their crime,
their plain insanity. In another time
your insolent crossing me would’ve had your gob
opened and shut by nine-mil from behind
as well you know. Let us speak freely… .
They hearken to, on shortwave radio that turbulent priest, Pope Wojtyla,
and bide their time. The Bulgars hard
oppress their Turks. The Czechs
bounce currency abroad and Semtex too
and do protest too much their fealty.
The Magyars boast themselves
the happiest barrack in the People’s camp.
Our Germans seethe
with discontent at that dividing Wall.
As to our brother Serbs, what can I say?
Their house of cards may topple any day.
We must learn (as Lenin said) to trade,
to reckon and account, in roubles hard
as dollars are, not in worthless chits.
Our factories must feel the chilling blast
of competition fierce, and strengthened thus
go forth into the world, where we must make
our peace with other lands, and first America,
mightiest in arms. Let’s not provoke
