The old deputy smiled quietly. "I do not think many of these last batches would go over to the Americans. For one thing, the Americans would send them right back to us—"
"That is contrary to all our information, Comrade Chief," cried the youth. "Don't you realize that the Fascist tentacles of Wall Street reach right into this room!"
"They wouldn't get much, comrade," said the old man. "Do you think they would want any of those last three deserters we got yesterday?"
"One was a lunatic. They couldn't use him," admitted the youth reluctantly.
"And the second had spent two years curing a broken leg. And playing around with peasant girls. A pure Russian type. Honest, and repentant."
"But that third one. The little Asiatic. He might be dangerous."
"Andreanov?"
"That's the one! How did we even know his name? Merely by his telling us. And no papers at all."
"Right." said the old man. "But what did he do?"
"He stole my wrist watch and tried to trade it back to me for vodka," said the young man bitterly. "The half-wit!"