the good old times of rough-and-ready brotherhood. In those days the Party was turning over a new leaf. No more heroes— what was needed was good administrators, practical unromantic men. No more venturesome spurts of international or planetary or name-your- own-adjective revolution—we must think of ourselves, build Socialism for ourselves, in our own country. A renovation of cadres, opening the way to second-rank men, rejuvenated the Republic. Makeyev took part in the purges, acquired a reputation as a practical man devoted to the line,” learned the official phrases which bring “general peace to the soul, and was able to recite them for an hour by the clock. It was with strange emotion that he one day received a visit from Kasparov. The former Commissar of the Steppes Division, the leader of the fiery Civil War days, quietly entered the Regional Secretary’s office, without knock- ing or sending in his name, about three o’clock one torrid summer after- noon. A Kasparov who had aged and grown thinner, in a white blouse and cap. Makeyev exclaimed, and flew to embrace “You!” his visitor, kissed him, clasped him to his chest. Kasparov gave the impression of being light. They sat down facing each other in the deep armchairs, and now a feeling of uneasiness extinguished their joy. said Makeyev, “Well,” who did not know what to say, are you bound in “where that outfit?” Kasparov’s face looked tense and severe, as it used to look when they camped on the Orenburg steppes, or during the Crimean campaign, or at Perekop ... He looked at Makeyev impenetrably; perhaps he was judging him. Makeyev felt uncomfortable. by “Appointed
the good old times of rough-and-ready brotherhood. In those days the Party was turning over a new leaf. No more heroes— what was needed was good administrators, practical unromantic men. No more venturesome spurts of international or planetary or name-your- own-adjective revolution—we must think of ourselves, build Socialism for ourselves, in our own country. A renovation of cadres, opening the way to second-rank men, rejuvenated the Republic. Makeyev took part in the purges, acquired a reputation as a practical man devoted to the “general line,” learned the official phrases which bring peace to the soul, and was able to recite them for an hour by the clock. It was with strange emotion that he one day received a visit from Kasparov. The former Commissar of the Steppes Division, the leader of the fiery Civil War days, quietly entered the Regional Secretary’s office, without knock- ing or sending in his name, about three o’clock one torrid summer after- noon. A Kasparov who had aged and grown thinner, in a white blouse and cap. “You!” Makeyev exclaimed, and flew to embrace his visitor, kissed him, clasped him to his chest. Kasparov gave the impression of being light. They sat down facing each other in the deep armchairs, and now a feeling of uneasiness extinguished their joy. “Well,” said Makeyev, who did not know what to say, “where are you bound in that outfit?” Kasparov’s face looked tense and severe, as it used to look when they camped on the Orenburg steppes, or during the Crimean campaign, or at Perekop ... He looked at Makeyev impenetrably; perhaps he was judging him. Makeyev felt uncomfortable. “Appointed by