"Stalin's brain, Georgi. His brain. Ruscar resurrected it, not I. If the war goes badly—it shouldn't, but if it does—the people will have a resurrected Stalin to turn to for faith, and hope. It was a stroke of genius, I think. But right now you and Molotov should be conferring with the military leaders, getting things ready, planning...."
"It's arranged," Dorlup said evasively. "It's all arranged."
"So quickly? That's preposterous. You don't start a vast war-machine functioning in mere hours. We're planning on quick victory with a sudden, devastating atomic attack on the United States."
"I—know."
"I know you know, Georgi. You hardly seem concerned. Even Comrade Zhubin pointed out how nervous you seemed today, and Zhubin usually minds his own business. You seem even worse now."
Dorlup nodded, clearly struggling for words and a way to prolong the conversation. "I—I'm not myself," he said, mopping his brow.
"Well," said Chenkov, irritably, "is that all you wanted me for?"
Dorlup stood there, fidgeting. Chenkov snorted, began to leave the room.
"Just one moment, Comrade Marshal." It was Tedor, who had emerged from behind the drapery.