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But all of a sudden at the end of the nineteen eighty three, on the New Year eve, academician had an unexpected call from the Secretariat of Central Committee and was summoned at long last to the Secretary General. But what seemed to the academician very alarming, he was called not to the Kremlin, or Central Committee building, or any of suburban residences. He was to arrive at the Central Hospital, to meet Secretary General Yuri Andropov privately. Of course, it was implied the top secrecy of Yuri Andropov’s whereabouts.
In the early December twilight academician’s black chauffeur-driven Volga passed a check point barrier, then slowly and respectfully moved through snow-covered birch alley and stopped at the entrance of this foremost hospital in the country. Having put on a hospital gown, academician silently followed the assistant to the Secretary General and his on-duty doctor, passing desolate hushed corridors. On their way Security officers and the nurses stood up respectfully at their desks. Three of them stopped at one of the wards, the academician was asked to wait and his escort entered the door. In a motionless silence the academician has distinctly heard the loud beating of his heart. In five minutes he was asked to enter the ward, too.
The academician didn’t immediately make out Secretary General in a dim ward. It was really dark there with just a few gloomy lamps illuminating sophisticated equipment by the walls, and the cabinets full of drugs. At first, with his eyes adapting to darkness, he made out the wide, specialized bed, then a frigid figure of the patient under the covers and the glittering flexible tubing diving under his blankets from the huge apparatus by adjacent wall. Only then the academician noticed cyanotic and bloated face, deep in the pillows. He didn’t immediately recognize Secretary General, because he remembered his face mainly as he saw it in the newspapers, but they of course published retouched photos shot several years ago. Unexpectedly this time, at his second encounter with Secretary General, the latter was the first one to smile. He raised just a little his hand and made a friendly sign to sit down. The academician had sat shyly on a chair by his bedside, being lost as to how respectfully behave with this patient, and what the words were appropriate in the circumstances. But the Secretary General was the first to address him, unexpectedly loudly for the hospital ward.
“Long time we haven’t seen each other.”
“Good evening, comrade Andropov. How’s your health?”
“What health do you mention? I got no health any more.”
With the small talk the academician felt himself more confidently, his eyes got accustomed to the dusk, and he secretly examined the large white apparatus in the corner co
General Secretary looked at his assistant sitting at the desk by the door and said softly, “Let’s hear something jazzy. Yeah, put the disk of Duke Ellington for us.”
The assistant went to the side table with a record-player, picked up from the stack on the shelf a vinyl record and put it on the turntable. The ward’s tranquility was pierced by tenor saxophone.
“Louder, please,” said the Secretary General, and the saxophone resonated too loud even for apartment parlor. “That’s fine. You can go.”
As a member of the Central Committee academician knew about some of personal interests of their leader. Andropov was the first in a succession of Communist leaders who understood music preferring classical jazz, and he even purchased abroad through the state’s Embassies a vast record collection. But this flashy and too loud for a hospital ward jazz music could mean only the reliable and sure way to protect their conversation from eavesdropping, that was frequently used by party’s members from revolutionary days. In the thirties, those deadly gulag years, and even later, all somewhat serious talks the Soviet people normally accompanied with the loud noise of the radio broadcasts.
“How’s your work advances?” Secretary General asked the academician, surpassing the Duke Ellington’s “Take the train A”.
“Everything is ready a long time ago, comrade Secretary General.”
“Good. You see what’s going on in our country. Corruption and negligence everywhere, and still thousands of our soldiers are killed in the bloody war at Afghanistan. I'm trying to clean this mess, and I’ve done all I could – but now I’m in this bed. Tell me honestly, as a Communist, can you grow up from your clones an active and ardent Lenin’s clique – quickly, or let’s say, with an accelerated Bolshevik tempo?”
“Well, I’m afraid it may take many decades – because you would need adequate and grown up Bolsheviks,” anxiously said academician, but the Secretary General interrupted him.
“No, that won’t do, too long a time, our Soviet Union won’t hold on that long. We need it sooner, as early as possible, or never.”
For the first time in his life academician had heard such words about the Soviet Union, and those words were spoken by the Secretary General of his party. Therefore, confused, he spoke then very erratically.
“Yes, we have, in the stage of experiments, a methodic of accelerated growth, though it’s very dangerous for their health, it’s a great risk to try, and we ca
“Time’s of paramount importance now. What we need is just their appearance among us. Just let them ascend the tribune on the mausoleum of great Lenin at the Red Square, at least once or twice, so they would have been seen and heard. That would stir millions of people in our country, it will inject lost enthusiasm, ignite the revolutionary flame in the breast of every Communist. Those sparks will be sufficient to ignite a fire in the breasts of all peoples of the world, which would be inextinguishable, as it happened seventy years ago after our October revolution. That would be enough! Having done that your clones could then leave us forever, they would have had accomplished their historic mission. Am I clear to you?”
“Yes, comrade Andropov. But, unfortunately, the fastest we can grow them is at the rate of two clone’s years per one of human’s, that’s twice faster than natural. No way to force the process, because they would die too soon.”
“That’s some better. Maybe we could outrun the time and avert the disaster. Possibly can – it’s just a chance. I don’t see any other rescue-boat around anyway.”
“On your orders we can start the process of conceiving the clone embryos practically tomorrow.”
“No, no, don’t you even try! You ca
“I’m a Communist, comrade Andropov.”
“I had no doubts in your faith to the Party, thank you. I had more spare time in this hospital, and I’ve considered your case. North Korean Communists rule their country much firmer than we had done, they do not lose their noble ideals so easily, and they will survive for decades or even centuries after we perish – of course, you must properly understand my frankness. That is why, you must go there, and raise your clones in that country: North Korean Communists proved their ability to build Communist society on their soil. If you are willing to go, I'll start to test the waters. But we’ll have to get them interested in this project. Say, could you clone also a baby Mao Zedong? Body of this great Chinese revolutionary lies in a mausoleum in Beijing, China, exactly as our Lenin here in Moscow, and that means the necessary genetic material is available. Koreans would like to get the upper hand with their Chinese friends, having a baby-Mao clone all to themselves. They will welcome you, I’m sure. Soon you will have a lot of kids, and a lot of fun. Ready?”