Josip Pekic looked at the guard for a long moment. He said finally, unhappy still, "What are you needed for around here?"
"Why yes, Comrade. I am the security guard."
Petar, obviously no brain at the best, was taken aback.
"You didn't answer my question." Josip's hands were jittering so he jammed them into his pockets.
Petar had to think back to remember the wording of the question in question. Finally he came up triumphantly with, "Yes, Comrade. I guard Comrade Broz and the others from assassins. I am armed." He proudly displayed the Mikoyan Noiseless which he had holstered under his left shoulder.
Josip said, "Go back to your superior and inform him that I say you are superfluous on this assignment. No longer are commissars automatically to be guarded. Only under special circumstances. If ... well, if our people dislike individual commissars sufficiently to wish to assassinate them, maybe they need assassination."
Petar stared at him.
"Oh, get out," Josip said, with attempted sharpness. But then, "What door leads to Comrade Broz's office?"
Petar pointed, then got out. At least he knew how to obey orders, Josip decided. What was there about the police mentality? Were they like that before they became police, and the job sought them out? Or did the job make them all that way?
He pushed his way through the indicated door. The office beyond held but one inhabitant who stood, hands clasped behind his back, while he stared in obvious satisfaction at a wall of charts, maps and graphs.