‘Greatness no longer exists. It has been abolished alongside ideology. Everything has coalesced into the middle. Caesar is no longer a general – he’s a manager.’

Tancredi was surprised by the cogency of his response. There were less great issues, and those which existed were dealt with in collaboration by interplanetary bodies. The Universe was ruled by consensus. Stalin huffed, his face betraying the irritation of an adult reasoning with an obdurate child.

‘Pah! Fool! Don’t you tire of standing in the centre? Of watching every word for fear of a slip? Of weighing each situation by what is expedient rather than by what you believe? Of not taking risks? Of being a slave to the sound bite?’

The Leader opened his mouth to reply; Stalin continued, raising his hand to silence him.

‘And let’s say power is achieved based on a platform of the Middle Way. What’s the point? You can’t act beyond tinkering at the edges. You’re unable to grasp the painful issues which need to be grasped. They are allowed to fester. Is your aim merely to achieve the median position, so that in old age you can remind yourself, and those few people still interested in you, that once you were yet another irrelevant leader?’

The Leader laughed, but Tancredi detected some nervousness. Since they were now engaged in a discussion about realpolitik, the Leader decided to lower his guard. The pretence of honesty could be disarming.

‘And how do you propose I would be elected in the first place? Do you believe people will tick a box marked “pain”? The purpose of politics is power. We live in a comfortable age where extremes no longer exist. You do whatever it takes, sometimes holding opposite views simultaneously. You know that.’

Tancredi understood the necessity of pragmatism in public life. On the other hand, what was the point of politics if not to be bold and drive change? And what was the balance between pragmatism, which risked stasis, and idealism, which could lead to oblivion? Stalin, the street fighter, decided to turn things up a notch.

‘So you intend to inspire the crowd with high-flown, pre-tested words like “fairness”, “change” and “values”. A clear sign that you’ve nothing of interest to say beyond the sterilised speech, the words of a goody-goody, beneath contempt.’

Stalin removed his cap and ruffled his thick hair.

‘Words must be measured, opinions balanced, to draw the people in,’ the Leader replied. ‘I emote with my children at the breakfast table in front of television cameras. The electorate see a mug with the words “Best Dad”; they believe. I spend hours being coached on what to say and how to look.’

‘Pathetic!’ shouted the dictator, strutting towards him. ‘You fear anything untried, terrified that something you say might boomerang back against you, that someone somewhere might object. That you won’t be able to provide an answer which is sufficiently bland if challenged. That to show leadership in thought – or anything but putrid nothingness – will undermine your power base. You’re not a leader, you’re a lap-dog. Your existence defines a new quality of human emptiness. You’re a mere shadow of a mouse!’