Time Will Run Back

by Henry Hazlitt

  “Don’t you think it is a trifle anti-Marxist, chief?”

  “I’m not concerned with that, Adams. I’m only concerned with whether it would work. If I were to put it up to the Politburo, they wouldn’t let me do it, and so I would never find out. I didn’t consult the Politburo when I proposed a free exchange system for consumption goods; but once we put that into effect it was a great victory.”

  “I must admit it’s only because of that, chief, that Bolshekov’s been afraid to move in on you. But—”

  “Then let’s act immediately,” said Peter. “This is our trump card. It’s so important, so revolutionary, that we should put it into effect with great fanfare. I’ll make a thumping radio speech over a worldwide hook-up. I’ll draft the speech right away. We’ll order the text published in the New Truth and every other newspaper in Wonworld for release the instant I start talking. We’ll print millions of folders with the full text. We’ll develop slogans....”

  They started to work. Peter began drafting his speech. It explained the scheme, and what its great consequences would be. The details would have to be worked out. The people must be patient in the meantime. But instead of everybody’s owning a theoretical one-billionth of every tool of production in Wonworld, each person would now wholly own either a specific tool or at least a definite percentage of a specific machine or factory....

  The draft went on to explain what “ownership” would mean. It would be a system of legal rights, established and protected by the government. Each individual would have the right to use as he saw fit the particular implement or machine to which he held legal title. He would not have to wait for directions from the Central Planning Board for every move he made. He would be able to share his tools or machines voluntarily with others, to “lease” them or exchange them on any terms mutually agreeable

  There was a lot to be packed into a half-hour’s talk. As soon as the text had been drafted to his satisfaction, Peter fixed an evening three days off as the time for its radio delivery. It was put on the wires and cables for simultaneous publication throughout Wonworld.

  On one consequence, however, he had failed to calculate. One of the mimeographed copies of the proposed speech that went to the office of the New Truth was sent immediately to its editor, Orlov. Orlov had been persuaded to go along with the new setup on the argument that Peter was Stalenin’s publicly appointed deputy. But he read the prepared speech with mounting horror, and then took it directly to Bolshekov. Bolshekov read it in a cold fury.

  “That does it!” he announced. “This young idiot must be stopped!”

  Peter and Adams were at their regular afternoon conference in Stalenin’s office.

  “Our next step,” said Peter, “is to call in our two Italian economists, Patelli and Baronio, and have them work out the details of the new sys—”

  Adams jumped up. “Those were shots!”

  “I think I did hear shots,” said Peter, rising slowly.

  They stared at each other with a wild surmise. Neither dared to put it into words. Sergei burst into the room, his face livid. “His Supremacy has been shot! He’s dying!”

  They rushed into Stalenin’s bedroom. He was in bed, breathing heavily. Blood was seeping through the sheet above him. Peter stumbled over a body.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, looking down.

  “The assassin,” said Sergei. “This guard shot him.”

  The guard stepped forward. “We found these papers on him, Your Highness.... One of Bolshekov’s gang.” “I’ve already called the doctors,” said Sergei. “They’ll be here in a few minutes, but—” He shrugged his shoulders hopelessly.

  Peter bent over the dying man. “Father!”

  His father grabbed his hand and looked at him appealingly. He seemed to be making a desperate effort to say something. “Rec—rec—record!” The record! Peter squeezed his father’s hand tenderly and bent down to kiss his brow. He turned to Adams.

  “Quick! We haven’t a moment to lose!”

  They rushed back to Stalenin’s office. Peter turned the safe combination, took his key from an inside pocket, and unlocked the little steel door to the compartment containing the two recordings that Stalenin had so foresightedly made. He was surprised to find his hand shaking.

  Record Z! Peter drew it out gently and looked at it. This might change the whole history of Won world!

  Sergei telephoned for an automobile to be waiting. Peter and Adams took the private elevator down, Peter with the precious record in a brief case.

  As they got to the exit their car was just drawing up. Thank Marx!

  At the time of Stalenin’s stroke Peter had explained to Adams only the history of record X. In the car on the way over he added the story of record Z.

  They drew up before the broadcasting station. A line of troops stood before the entrance. A lieutenant in charge was ordering every one off the sidewalk. Adams and Peter started to walk through. Two of the soldiers blocked them with crossed guns. The lieutenant came up.

  “I have orders not to let anyone in!”

  “You fool!” said Adams. “Don’t you know who we are? I am His Highness No. 3, and this is His Highness No. i-A.” “Oh!” The lieutenant was flustered. “But, Your Highness, I have orders to let in nobody.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Nobody but No. 2 or those in his party.”

  “Whose orders are those?”

  “My colonel’s orders, Your Highness.”

  “And in whose name are those orders issued?” asked Adams. “Have you a written copy?”

  “No, Your Highness. They’re purely oral orders—”

  “You got them wrong. If they had been given to you straight, you would have known that they were No. 2’s orders issued in the name of No. 1 and drafted by No. i-A himself. But I commend you for your conscientious zeal. You are to let in no one but ourselves and No. 2 and his party. Has No. 2 arrived yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let him in immediately when he does. Are the men’s guns loaded?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Order your men to fire a three-shot salute the moment No. 2 and his party arrive. That will be the signal for the affair to begin. Remember, three times!”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  The lieutenant looked dubious, apparently afraid either to let Adams and Peter through or not to let them through. Adams went back and murmured a few directions to the chauffeur, who nodded and drove off.

  Peter and Adams proceeded into the building unmolested.

  “That was a tight squeeze,” said Peter. “You showed great presence of mind. I’m afraid Bolshekov has made his preparations against us pretty tight.”

  “I went on the assumption, chief, that he wouldn’t have dared give orders specifically directed against us. He would have been afraid of tipping his hand.”

  “Why did you ask the lieutenant to order his men to fire a salute?”

  “To mislead him—and also to warn us when Bolshekov has arrived.”

  They took the elevator to the tenth floor. When they had got into the main studio through a series of doors and short halls, they found an announcer talking before the microphone: “... remember—at four o’clock sharp there will be an announcement by No. 2 himself of the utmost importance to Wonworld. We regret that there has not been time to arrange for a complete Wonworldwide hook-up. It will be carried, however, by all stations in the European and American provinces.”

  Adams and Peter silently signaled the announcer to stop.

  He looked puzzled and frightened. “... We will now listen to some class-struggle music....” He signaled through the glass pane to the technicians in the control room, and waited for the return signal that he was off the air.

  “But I was told by No. 2, Your Highness, that no one but he and his party would arrive, and that even if anyone else did he was the only one to talk.”

  “No, no, no,” said Adams; “you must have got it mixed up; or someone along the lin
e got it mixed up. The arrangement is merely for No. 2 to make the closing speech. But the really great announcement—the whole purpose of the program, in fact—is this announcement we have here from No. i himself. I am to make the introductory speech, then this record will be put on of No. I’S speech, then No. i-A will say a few words about it and make a talk introducing No. 2.... Let’s see. What time is it now?”

  He looked at the studio clock. “Seventeen to four. Good. We’ll begin the broadcast at exactly three forty-five.”

  “But No. 2’s speech isn’t scheduled till four!”

  “That’s right. The preceding fifteen minutes will be taken up by my introductory speech. No. 1’s announcement, and No. 1-A’s introduction of No. 2.... I’m not blaming you for announcing the wrong time. This whole thing seems to have been badly bungled at the Propaganda Bureau. They must even have given the wrong instructions to No. 2, and that’s why he’s late—”

  “Couldn’t we wait till he gets here?” asked the announcer. “Oh he’ll be here in time to speak at four. Look! It’s quarter of. Announce me.”

  The announcer signaled the control room to shut off the music. He stepped to the microphone. Peter tiptoed around the plate-glass partition to the control room. He gave a technician the Stalenin record, with instructions to start it at a signal from Adams. Then he tiptoed back into the studio, and after a reassuring smile to the announcer, stepped out through the series of doors to the main hall.

  As he got to the hall he heard shots. One. Two. Three. Bolshekov and his party must have arrived. He quietly locked the two outer doors to the studio from the inside, and put the keys in his pocket.

  When Peter stepped into the studio Adams was talking before the microphone. “... and now, my dear comrades of Wonworld, it is my great privilege to introduce our beloved leader, the Dictator of All Wonworld, No. 1 himself, His Supremacy—Stalenin!”

  A record struck up the opening strains of “Marx Save the Dictator.”

  And then came the voice of Stalenin.

  “My comrades! What I have to announce today is very painful to me, and therefore I shall be brief. My doctors have warned me that any attempt on my part to continue my present burden of work will undermine my health and end my life. If merely my own personal fate were involved, this would not, as all of you have reason to know, matter to me in the least. But what is above all important is the peace and security of Wonworld. I must make sure, therefore, that there is a peaceful transfer of power into the right hands. I am therefore appointing my son, Peter Uldanov, who in a short time has displayed such ability, to succeed me as Dictator of Wonworld. He will do so under the title of Stalenin the Second. I urge all my faithful supporters, I urge every dear comrade of Wonworld—including, of course, every member of the Politburo—to rally round Stalenin the Second. I am especially proud to announce that in this move I have the loyal backing of His Highness No. 2, Bolshekov. It is he, in fact, who, when I spoke of this matter to him, first put forward the suggestion that my son Peter Uldanov would be my ideal successor. And I wish especially to emphasize this magnanimity on the part of Comrade Bolshekov, because it will dispose once for all of the ugly rumors that he is ambitious of power for himself.... And so, as of this moment, I am resigning as Wonworld Dictator. The next voice you will hear will be that of Stalenin the Second, your new Dictator.... The Dictator has abdicated; long live the Dictator!”

  During these last words Peter could hear the muffled sound of banging on the first outer door to the studio. He heard it only because he had been listening for it. Through the soundproof walls of the studio, he realized, neither the announcer nor Adams were yet aware of it. He pulled Adams’ sleeve and gave a sidelong glance in the direction of the sound. Adams understood.

  The pounding grew louder. Now the announcer heard it, and looked confusedly toward the door. There was a muffled crash—the outer door had been broken open. Loud pounding began on the studio door itself. The announcer tried to open it. He turned accusingly to Peter: “You locked it!”

  But Peter had stepped up to the microphone and was taking up from where his father’s voice had left off. There was no music, such as the prepared script had called for, but Peter began:

  “It is with a deep sense of humility, my comrades, that I take over the awful responsibilities of Dictator of Wonworld. At the wish and in honor of my great father, I now take the title of Stalenin the Second—”

  The studio door gave way with a crash. Two soldiers walked in, followed by Marshal Zakachetsky, next a colonel whom Peter did not recognize, and finally Bolshekov.

  “Arrest them!” ordered Bolshekov, pointing. One of the soldiers seized Peter by the left wrist; the other grabbed Adams.

  Bolshekov stepped up to the microphone: “This is Bolshekov talking, your new leader and the new Dictator of Wonworld. You have just been listening to a gigantic hoax. Two traitors, two mad dogs, two of the filthiest vermin ever to live in Won-world, have just tried to seize power. What you just heard was not Stalenin but merely a phonograph record with a skillful imitation of his voice. Two notorious murderers, masquerading under the names of Adams and Uldanov, have j ust assassinated your beloved leader Stalenin. They had this phonograph record all prepared, and might even have succeeded had not I, Bolshekov, your new leader, thwarted their plans. You will soon hear the last of this Adams and Uldanov—”

  With a lightning twist, Peter with his free hand slipped out the pistol from the open holster of the guard who was holding him, and pointed it into the guard’s ribs.

  “Let go of me,” he ordered.

  The guard tried to grab the pistol. Peter fired, and the guard fell heavily. Even before he fell, Peter flashed the gun on the other guard, who was trying to reach for his own pistol while still holding Adams.

  “Throw up your hands!” The guard raised them slowly. “Get his gun, Adams!”

  Peter and Adams were now trying to keep the other five men in the studio covered. All, even Bolshekov, had raised their hands.

  “You can’t get away with this, you fools,” said Bolshekov. “The whole building is guarded!”

  “We’ll die fighting,” said Peter. “Step away!”

  It was Peter’s turn to take the microphone. “This is Stalenin the Second talking, your new Dictator. Bolshekov is the real assassin of my father. Of that I have overwhelming proof—”

  Adams touched him, and motioned him to back toward the door to the control room. They kept the five men covered with their guns until they had shut and locked the door behind them. Then Adams led the way through the exit from the control room to the hall.

  “Follow me, chief. I know this whole building!”

  They ran across the hall. Two guards outside the studio door fired at them. Adams fired back as Peter ran to catch up with him. They ran down another hall at a right angle to the first, till they came to a door guarded by another soldier. He raised his gun, fired and missed. Adams fired and hit. The soldier dropped.

  “Quick!” Adams motioned Peter through the steel doorway, and they bolted it behind them.

  “This is the back stairs, the fire escape!” They ran down ten flights until they came to the street floor. The steel door in front of them was closed.

  “This door is undoubtedly guarded,” said Adams. “We must conceal our guns in our pockets. Let me handle this!” He flung open the door. A soldier with a musket standing before the door immediately looked around.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Adams shouted in a commanding tone. Both he and Peter looked up and down. There was a squad of eight soldiers before the entrance.

  “I’m in charge, sir,” said one of the soldiers. “Corporal 31.”

  “Where’s the lieutenant?” demanded Adams. “I want the lieutenant.”

  “The lieutenant is in the front of the building, sir, on Ana Pauker Street.”

  “Your men are needed immediately by His Highness No. 2 on the tenth floor!”

  “But, sir, the orders to my squad are to guard thi
s entrance and not let anyone in or out!”

  “Who gave you your orders?”

  “The lieutenant, sir!”

  Adams feigned distress. “This won’t do!” he said. “We must get some additional men immediately inside the building. They’re needed on the tenth floor!”

  “But my orders, sir, are—”

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Adams quickly. “Leave your squad here for the moment guarding this entrance. But drive around with us immediately to the lieutenant on Ana Pauker Street and let me give him the information.”

  Peter suddenly realized that his car was in front of them, already waiting. So that was what Adams had told the chauffeur! A farseeing fellow, Adams! It was quick-wittedness like this, no doubt, that had brought him, even though an American, to the No. 3 position!

  The corporal left orders with one of his men and got in the car with Adams and Peter. The chauffeur started off immediately and had gained amazing speed by the time they reached the corner. But instead of turning right toward the front of the building on Ana Pauker Street, he swung wildly left with the tires screaming.

  “Hey!” yelled the corporal. “That’s the wrong—”

  He felt something pressing against his back and something else against his belly. He looked down to see Peter’s revolver. “Keep quite still,” ordered Adams from in back of him. “Take his gun, chief.”

  Peter took it.

  The car raced crazily through the streets, the chauffeur sounding the siren continuously. It was a top official car, and everyone hopped out of the way. Instead of making any effort to stop it, traffic policemen jumped for safety.

  Chapter 31

  AS the car got toward the outskirts of the city its speed rose to XJ L sixty-five miles an hour—to seventy—to eighty-five. They were now in fairly open country.

  “Where are we heading?” asked Peter. Adams pointed meaningfully to the corporal, and then spoke to him: