The chairman threw him a look of irritation, and continued, "We might, then,,recommend to the Secretariat as follows: the Egyptians should be given technical help with their nuclear reactor project, such help always to be structured with a view to Soviet personnel gaining ultimate control of the weaponry." Rostov permitted himself the ghost of a satisfied smile: it was the conclusion he had expected. The Foreign Ministry man said, "So move." The KOB man said, "Seconded." "All in favor?" They were all in favor. IMe committee proceeded to the next item on the agenda. It was not until after the meeting that Rostov was struck by this thought: if the Egyptians were in fact not able to build their bomb unaided-for lack of uranium, for instance-then they had done a very expert job'of bluffing the Russians into giving them the help they needed.
Rostov liked his family, In small doses. Ihe advantage of his kind of job was that by the time he got bored with them-and it was boring, living with children--he was off on another trip abroad, and by the time he came back he was missing them enough to put up with them for a few more months. He was fond of YnrL the elder boy, despite his cheap mill ic and contentious views about dissident poets; but Vladimir, the younger, was the apple of his eye. As a baby Vladimir had been so pretty that people thought he was a girl. From the start Rostov had taught the boy games of logic, spoken to him in complex sentences, discussed with him the geography of distant countries, the mechanics of engines, and the workings of radios, flowers, water taps and political parties. He had come to the top of every class he was put into-although now, Rostov thought, he might find his equals at Phys-Mat No. 2. Rostov knew he was trying to instill in his son some of the ambitions he himself had failed to fulfill. Fortunately this meshed with the boy's own inclinations: he knew he was clever, he liked being clever, and he wanted to be a Great Man. The only thing he balked at was the work he had to do for the Young Communist Izague: he thought this was a waste of time. Rostov had often said, "Perhaps it is a waste of time, but you will never get anywhere in any field of endeavor unless you also make progress in the Party. If you want to change the system, you'll have to get to the top and change it from within." Vladimir accepted this and went to the Young Communist League meetings: he had inherited his father's unbending logic. Ddving home through the rush-hour traffic, Rostov looked forward to a dull, pleasant evening at home. The four of them would have dinner together, then watch a television serial about heroic Russian spies outwitting the CIA. He would have a glass of vodka before bed. Rostov parked in the road outside his home. His building was occupied by senior bureaucrats, about half of whom had small Russian-built cars like his, but there were no garages. The apartments were spacious by Moscow standards: Yuri and Vladimir had a bedroom each, and nobody had to sleep in the living room. There was a row going on when he entered his home. He heard Mariya's voice raised in anger, the sound of something breaking, and a shout; then he heard Yuri call his mother a foul name. Rostov flung open the kitchen door and stood there, briefcase still in hand, face as black as thunder. Mariya and Yuri confronted one another across the kitchen table; she was in a rare rage and close to hysterical tears, he was full of ugly adolescent resentment. Between them was Yuri's guitar, broken at the neck. Mariya has smashed it, Rostov thought instantly; then, a moment later: but this is not what the row is about. They both appealed to him immediately. "She broke my guitarl" Yuri said. Mariya said, "He has brought disgrace upon the family with this decadent music." Then Yuri again called his mother the same foul name again. Rostov dropped his briefcase, stepped forward and slapped the boy's face. Yuri rocked backward with the force of the blow, and his cheeks reddened with -pain and humiliation. The son was as tall as his father, and broader: Rostov had not struck him like this since the boy became a man. Yuri struck back immediately, his fist shooting out: if the blow had connected it would have knocked Rostov cold. Rostov moved quickly aside with the instincts of many years' training and, as gently as possible, threw Yuri to the floor. "Leave the house," he said quietly. 'rome back when you're ready to apologize to your mother." Yuri scrambled to his feet. "Neverl" he shouted. He went out, slamming the door. Rostov took off his hat and coat and sat down at the kitchen table. He removed the broken guitar and set it carefully on the floor. Mariya poured tea and gave it to him: his hand was shaking as he took the cup. Finally he said, "What was that all about?" "Vladimir failed the exam." I'Vladimir? What has that to do with Yuri's guitar? What exam did he fail?" "For the Phys-Mat. He was rejected." Rostov stared at her dumbly. Mariya said, "I was so upset, and Yuri laughed-he is a little jealous, you know, of his younger brother-and then Yuri started playing this western music, and I thought it could not be that Vladimir is not clever enough, it must be that his family has not enough influence, perhaps we are considered unreliable because of Yuri and his opinions and his music, I know this is foolish, but I broke his guitar in the heat of the moment." Rostov was no longer listening. Vladimir rejected? Impossible. The boy was smarter than his teachers, much too smart for ordinary schools, they could not handle him. The school fof exceptionally gifted children was the Phys-Mat. Besides, the boy had said the examination was not difficult, he thought he had scored one hundred percent, and he always knew how he had done in examinations. "Where's Vladimir?" Rostov asked his wife. "In his room." Rostov went along the corridor and knocked at the bedroom door. There was no answer. He went in. Vladimir was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, his face red and streaked with tears. Rostov said, "What did you score In that exam?" Vladimir looked up at his father, his face a mask of childish incomprehension. "One hundred percent,' he said. He handed over a sheaf of papers. "I remember the questiOns. I remember my answers. I've checked them all twice: no mistakes. And I left the examination room five minutes before the time was up." Rostov turned to leave. "Don!t you believe me?" "Yes, of course I do," Rostov told him. He went into the living room, wherethe phone was. He called the school. The head teacher was still at work. "Vladimir got full marks in that test," Rostov said. The head teacher spoke soothingly. "I'm sorry, Comrade Colonel. Many very talented youngsters apply for places