"Then, I do not know. I can promise nothing. He is alive now—in a very special sort of way. How long he will live I cannot predict. He might die in a minute, an hour, a year—he might live, if properly cared for, for an eternity. He—"
The phone buzzed. Malenkov shuddered, jumped. It had sounded so loud. He must have them mute the phones.
"This is the Comrade Premier," he said.
"Comrade Zhubin, the bio-chemist, Comrade Premier."
Zhubin. Malenkov's heart pounded. "Go ahead, Zhubin."
"He is calling for you."
"Already?" Malenkov was hoarse, found it difficult to swallow. "How long has he been calling for me?"
"Several minutes. He is laughing as if something is quite funny."
Malenkov said he would be right there, returned the phone to its hook. He shuddered again. The thought of the thing in its small round glass case was terrible. Should he tell the people? Already rumors were afoot. Who couldn't he trust? The Comrade Doctor. Shuddering was becoming habitual. He had to trust the Comrade Doctor, or die of fright every time he got the sniffles. The Comrade bio-chemist, Zhubin? But Zhubin had the thing in the glass case and might be considered the second most important man in the Communist hierarchy.
Then who was first?