Striking the Balance

Stalin accepted Molotov’s agreement as no more than his due. “Of course I am,” he said complacently. “I do not see how we can keep the colonization fleet from landing, but the thing we must remember-this above all else, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich-is that it will bring the Lizards fresh numbers, but nothing fundamentally new.”

“True enough, Comrade General Secretary,” Molotov said cautiously. Again, Stalin had got ahead of him on the page.

This time, though, intuition had nothing to do with it While Molotov was dickering with the Lizards, Stalin must have been working through the implications of their social and economic development. He said, “It is inevitable that they would have nothing fundamentally new. Marxist analysis shows this must be so. They are, despite their machines, representatives of the ancient economic model, relying on slaves-with them partly mechanical, partly the other races they have subjugated-to produce for a dependent upper class. Such a society is without exception highly conservative and resistant to innovation of any sort. Thus we can overcome them.”

“That is nicely argued, Iosef Vissarionovich,” Molotov said, his admiration unfeigned. “Mikhail Andreyevich could not reason more trenchantly.”

“Suslov?” Stalin shrugged. “He made some small contributions to this line of thought, but the main thrust of it, of course, is mine.”

“Of course,” Molotov agreed, straight-faced as usual. He wondered what the young Party ideologist would say to that, but had no intention of asking. In any case, it did not matter. No matter who had formulated the idea, it supported what Molotov had believed all along. “As the dialectic demonstrates, Comrade General Secretary, history is on our side.”

Sam Yeager strolled down Central Avenue in Hot Springs, savoring the summer weather. One of the things he savored about it was being able to escape it every now and then. The sign painted on the front window of the Southern Grill said,OUR REFRIDGERATED AIR-CONDITIONING IS WORKING AGAIN. The wheeze and hum of the machinery and fan backed up the claim.

He turned to Barbara. “Want to stop here for some lunch?”

She looked at the sign, then took one hand off the grip of Jonathan’s baby carnage. “Twist my arm,” she said. Sam gave it a token twist “Oh, mercy!” she cried, but not very loud, because Jonathan was asleep.

Sam held the door open for her. “Best mercy I know of.” He followed her into the restaurant.

That took them out of Hot Springs summer in a hurry. The air-conditioning was refrigerated, all right; Sam felt as if he’d walked into Minnesota November. He wondered if his sweat would start freezing into tiny icicles all over his body.

A colored waiter in a bow tie appeared as if by magic, menus under his arm. “You jus’ follow me, Sergeant, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll take you to a booth where you can park that buggy right alongside.”

Sam slid onto the maroon leatherette of the booth with a sigh of contentment. He pointed to the candle on the table, then to the electric lights in the chandelier overhead. “Now the candle is a decoration again,” he said. “You ask me, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Having to use candles for light when we didn’t have anything better-” He shook his head. “I didn’t like that”

“No, neither did I.” Barbara opened her menu. She let out a squeak of surprise. “Look at the prices!”

With some apprehension, Sam did just that. He wondered if he’d suffer the embarrassment of having to walk out of the Southern Grill. He had maybe twenty-five bucks in his wallet; Army pay hadn’t come close to keeping up with jumping prices. The only reason he’d figured he could eat out once in a while was that he got most of his meals for nothing.

But Barbara hadn’t said which way prices had gone. Everything was down about a third from what he’d expected, and a handwritten addendum boasted of cold Budweiser beer.

He remarked on that when the waiter returned to take his order and Barbara’s. “Yes, sir, first shipment from St Louis,” the colored man replied. “Just got in yesterday, matter of fact. We’re startin’ to see things now we ain’t seen since the Lizards came. Things is lookin’ up, that they is.”

Sam glanced at Barbara. When she nodded, he ordered Budweiser for both of them. The red-white-and-blue labels made them smile. The waiter poured the beers with great ceremony. Barbara lifted her glass on high. “Here’s to peace,” she said.

“I’ll drink to that.” Sam matched action to word. He swallowed the first swig of beer, then thoughtfully smacked his lips. He drank again, and was even more thoughtful. “You know, hon, after drinking mostly home brews and such the last couple of years, I’ll be darned if I don’t like ’em better. More flavor to ’em, you know what I mean?”