Yellow Blue Tibia (2 page)

‘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.

‘Not Germans,’ insisted Rapoport.

‘But against
this
threat - a perfectly unhuman enemy - the whole of humanity could unite. We would have that,’ I paused, for I had been about to say
paradox
, but instead I said, ‘that dialectical synthesis: a
fully peaceful
world that is simultaneously united in a great patriotic
war
!’

‘Peace,’ said Sergei. And then, in a high-pitched voice, ‘Comrade, will there be a war?’ And then, rapidly, in a lower voice, ‘No, comrade! But there will be such a struggle for peace that not a stone will be left standing.’ He laughed at his own joke. It was an old joke.

‘I think that Konstantin Skvorecky is correct,’ said Kaganovich. ‘We have the chance to perform a massive public good. And what have we ever actually achieved, as writers? What are we ever likely to achieve? As
science fiction
writers? Escapist junk, mostly. Missions to other worlds? Sentient comets? Clouds of black spores that soak into the atmosphere and make the trees come to life and walk around on sap-filled tentacles? Junk, all of it. This, however,
this
could be something
worthwhile
.’

‘I have a problem,’ said Nikolai Nikolaivitch Asterinov, getting to his feet. ‘I have a problem, that I wish to share with this, our science fiction writers’ collective. We are to concoct a race of aliens against which humanity can unite. Spacefaring aliens, no?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Then this is my problem. We know the party line. The philosophy of the party has always been that capitalistic Western fantasies of launching rockets to other planets will always be doomed by the internal contradictions of the competitive inefficiency of capitalism itself.
Only
the combined and unified effort of a whole people would be able to achieve so monumental an achievement as interstellar flight. No capitalist race could ever achieve something as sophisticated as interstellar flight; only communists could do this. Now, how can it be that these evil aliens are able to build spaceships and fly across the void? Surely they are not communists?’

‘Sit down,’ said Sergei. ‘You’re making a fool of yourself.’

‘In
Three Who Made a Star
,’ said Nikolai Nikolaivitch, still standing, the - what were they called?’

Three Who Made a Star
was one of my novels: an alternate history in which World Communist Revolution had taken place in first-century Judea. I spoke up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The aliens they meet, in that novel. The ones with the three legs, and the spaceships made of spittle?’

‘The Goriniks.’

‘They. They were a socialist race, were they not? And you, Frenkel, in your Arctic story, the beings who live under the ice . . .’

‘Stop this,’ said Sergei, loudly. ‘Sit down, Nikolai Nikolaivitch. You’re making a fool of us, before our distinguished comrades.’

Asterinov looked around him, settled his gaze on Malenkov, and settled back into his chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Too much wine. Too much wine.’

One other thing I particularly remember from that first evening together, as the alcohol was drunk, was how clearly the grandiose nature of our ambitions manifested. Were we despised writers of pulp science fiction?
By no means:
rather, we were the inheritors of Pushkin and Tolstoy, of Homer and Shakespeare. ‘We shall write a new
Iliad
,’ announced Nikolai Nikolaivitch. ‘We shall write mankind’s greatest epic of war!’

‘We have just finished a war,’ I pointed out, in a glum voice.

War never finishes,’ said Frenkel. ‘How could war finish? What is there apart from war?’

The unspoken answer to his question rubbed a silence into the conversation like salt in a cut. Eventually, after a long pause, Frenkel went on. ‘Life is war, life is struggle, we all know that. And hard as the last war was, can we honestly say it was harder than the thirties?’ He was so drunk that, despite the fact that Malenkov was still sitting in the corner of the room eyeing us thoughtfully, Frenkel essayed an impression of Stalin himself, purring his rs like a Georgian. ‘Surely, comrades, you remember the thirties?’

Kaganovich laughed. Nobody else did.

‘It is in the nature of Marxism itself,’ said Frenkel, in a heavy, yokel voice, ‘in the very fabric of dialectical materialism, that life
consists
of conflict, of enemies all about us who cannot be appeased and who must be destroyed. After war comes - not peace, but more war. And we are gifted here! Gifted by historical necessity! Gifted by the news that we shall be the ones to shape this new war. This next war! It will be ours! War and
war
!’

‘I had thought,’ I said, ‘that the next war was to be against the Americans? To correct you, comrade, on one small point: we are planning the war
after
next.’

War and war and
war
,’ said somebody. With an alcohol-delayed jolt, I realised it was Commissar Malenkov. He was getting, slowly, to his feet, an unreadable smile on his face. Bluster as we might, we were all intensely aware that it would require only one phone call from this man to turn us all into corpses before the sun rose. All of us stared at him. All conversation stopped dead. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen,’ he said, with a curiously old-world courtesy. That I didn’t like. That none of us liked. And he left the room.

After a space of time Kaganovich said, ‘Jan Frenkel, your mouth will be the death of us.
Jan
. Jan.’ And Frenkel blushed the colour of spilt blood, and looked furious, though he said nothing.

So our new phase as writers of science fiction began. We were in that dacha, like a high-class barracks, for months. We fell into a rhythm; working as one group or separating into smaller groups during the morning; then a long lunch, and perhaps a sleep. Then late afternoon and evening, working further. The soldiers guarding us brought us some of what we asked for: paper; pens; cigarettes (Russian cigarettes, alas).

Our mornings began with a gathering in the dacha’s largest room to discuss, and make notes. Lunch would be our larger meal, brought to us by a surly battalion chef called Spiridinov. We worked and worked; mostly I made notes in a succession of notepads, and Nikolai Nikolaivitch typed them up on an enormous nineteenth-century typewriter that clattered like a rusty machine-gun.

In the evening, soup was brought in, straight from the oven and still in its copper pan. This was settled on the windowsill, where the sunset polished red gleams from the metal.

Sometimes we were supplied with vodka, sometimes not. In that respect it was like being back in the army.

We discussed and planned the nature of the alien foe that would threaten the whole of humanity. We decided that their weaponry would be atomic - very up-to-the-minute, this, for the mid-1940s. You must remember that there had been no official notification of the American atom bomb attack on Japan; our version of atomics was that of science fiction from the 1930s. But Comrade Malenkov personally approved this part of our design. We could imagine why; that such a threat would justify the Soviet Union in the accelerated development of its own atomic weaponry. We wrote pages and pages of human interest material, heroic exploits by soldiers of the Global Soviet; wicked traitors to the cause of humanity (Jews and homosexuals and the like); scene setting. We spent nearly a week on a set of stories about children encountering aliens. ‘And yet we have not decided on the nature of these aliens!’ Nikolai Nikolaivitch declared.