Capitalism.

While Dogin waited for his assistant, he looked past the seven men seated before him. His dark eyes were focused on the walls, on a history of the success of totalitarianism.

Like his desk, the Walls reeked of history. They were covered with ornately framed maps, some of them centuries old, maps of Russia under different Czars going back to the reign of Ivan. Dogin's tired eyes took them all in, from a faded vellum map painted, it was said, with the blood of captured Teutonic Knights, to a cloth map of the Kremlin which had been sewn inside the pant leg of a murdered German assassin.

The world as it was, he thought as his eyes settled upon a map of the Soviet Union that Gherman S. Titov had carried into space in 1961. The world as it will be again.

The seven men sitting on sofas and armchairs were also drawn with age. Most of them were fifty or older, some of them were over sixty. Most wore suits, some had on uniforms. None spoke. The silence was broken only by the hum of the fan in the back of the computer-- and then, finally, by a knock on the door.

"Come in."

Dogin felt his heart sink as the door opened and a fresh-faced young man stepped in. There was a profound sadness in the youth's eyes, and Dogin knew what that meant.

"Well?" Dogin demanded.

"I'm sorry," the young man said softly, "but it's official. I reviewed the figures myself."

Dogin nodded. "Thank you."

"Shall I make the arrangements?"

Dogin nodded again and the young man backed from the office. He shut the door quietly as he left.