The old thinker spat out these words with deliberate sarcasm.

‘And then there’s immigration. Millions come illegally, live off our planet, cause untold trouble. Again, the answer’s obvious – round them up, send them away, stop new arrivals. What do we do? Create an ever-more complex structure of laws and appeals to protect their human rights.’

‘So what can I do to help?’

The Professor walked over to Tancredi, knelt down, and brought his face close.

‘You must cause a revolution,’ he said passionately. ‘You claim to be a long-term thinker. In today’s world, that’s another word for revolutionary. This is what we need. Rupture, reform and change are only clichés in the mouths of politicians. They’re unable to act because to do so would defy our Correctomondo mores.’

His hands became animated and a slender finger poked at Tancredi.

‘You say that since death is inevitable, we should all try to make a difference in life. You can, here on this planet.’

Tancredi brought a hand to his forehead and slumped back in his chair. The Professor stood up and started to pace in front of the fire, discouraged by Tancredi’s lack of response.

‘At least observe our Leader at close hand. Then decide.’

His eyes strayed to the far side of the room, out of Tancredi’s line of sight.

‘There is, however, a small problem to overcome.’

Tancredi followed his gaze. He had been so focussed on the conversation he hadn’t noticed a figure slumped in the corner wearing an overcoat. He stood up and walked over to introduce himself. As he approached, the figure looked up from beneath a military cap with the Star of Lenin on its peak. Tancredi flushed red. The man seated before him was Joseph Stalin.

XIX
The Middle Way

As Tancredi recovered from the shock of meeting one of the most notorious dictators in history, the Professor finished his story.

‘While I was capturing your craft, a foreign object bisected the energy beam that was drawing you in. It turned out that Stalin had discovered a method to travel in time and space. Unfortunately he was caught in the beam and brought to Correctomondo with you.’

‘Unfortunately?’ interrupted the Russian dictator.

He stood up and shuffled towards the Professor.

‘You seek a long-term thinker? Someone to bang heads together? To start a riot? Here I am!’

The Russian beamed at the little group with smug satisfaction and slapped his gloved hands on his knees.

Joseph Stalin, General Secretary of the Communist Party, was exactly as Tancredi had seen him in photographs. His pallid white face was dominated by a large moustache and quizzical dark eyebrows. Pale grey eyes narrowed into menacing beads as they focussed. He was shorter than Tancredi would have expected – but pictures rarely conveyed a sense of height. His shoulders were broad and his coat made him look square. Tufts of thick grey hair escaped from beneath his cap.