"No! Get that thing away from me!" Malenkov recoiled in terror from the needle which the Comrade Doctor had extended. "I am all right." Was the Comrade Doctor in the employ of Chenkov to poison him? Was he in the employ of Ruscar for some nameless purpose? Or of Zhubin, the bio-chemist, to transform Malenkov also into a pink thing floating in ghastly fluid in a little glass container? Almost blubbering as he walked toward the laboratory, Malenkov could feel the weight of Communist Empire, crushing him like a worm to the floor. "I've never been in the Kremlin," Laniq told Chenkov as they hurried along the silent hallways within the walled fortress. She had seen the towers, the minarets, the gaunt walls only briefly from the outside, and then Chenkov had spirited her within the place, although clearly a Red Army guard would have protested had he been anyone but the Chief of Staff. "I can take you anywhere you want." Chenkov promised, walking beside her, his arm tucked in hers, resembling neither the whip-lash leader of the Army, which he was, nor the romantic lover, which he hoped to be--but rather the obscure military figure who had climbed to glory over the purge-slain bodies of his comrades. He would one day look the part of the field marshal, Laniq thought; at the moment he was trying to convince himself as well as Anna Myinkov of the brightness of his star in the communist firmament. They reached a heavy metal door flanked by two guards. "Marshal Chenkov!" cried one, and they both saluted with their rifles. The door opened, they went inside. * * * * * Laniq saw a huge room, a laboratory it seemed--all white porcelain and gleaming chrome. At the far end a group of men clustered about an object which seemed suspended in air and bathed in radiance of gold and amber. The object was cylindrical and rather small, transparent with a pinkish mass floating inside. Laniq almost screamed. The thing in the glass container was a human brain. Chenkov grasped her arm more tightly. "They won't like it when they find I brought you here." He smiled. "They'll probably insist you remain within the Kremlin--with me." A big, nervous man with flabby jowls and the palest face Laniq had ever seen turned to face them. "Vladimir," he said, "you're late." It was Georgi Malenkov. Chenkov shrugged. "I am here." "And your friend?" "She is that, a friend." "You shouldn't have brought her. What do you think this is, a circus?" "It's a private affair. She's harmless." "I'll summon the guards and have her removed." "Yes? To whom do you think the guards owe their first allegiance?" A white-smocked figure turned to look at the newcomers. "Please, Comrades. Let's have none of this squabbling. Stalin wants to talk with us." "We'll settle this later," grumbled Malenkov. "There is nothing to settle," said Chenkov, standing his ground.