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"I should like to give you my opinion of the Fidin case, Comrades," Pavel began. His voice sounded harsh in spite of himself.

"The Fidin case is a signal, and it is not Kostya's action in itself that's most important. I collected some-figures yesterday." Pavel took a notebook out of his pocket. "I got them from the timekeeper. Now listen carefully: twenty-three per cent of our Komsomols come to work from five to fifteen minutes late every day. That has become a rule. Seventeen per cent don't report for work at all one or two days out of every month; the percentage of absenteeism among young non-Party workers is fourteen per cent. These figures sting worse than a whiplash, Comrades. I jotted down a few more: four per cent of our Party members are absent one day a month, and four per cent report late for work. Of the non-Party workers eleven per cent miss one day in the month while thirteen per cent regularly report late for work. Ninety per cent of breakages are accounted for by young workers, seven per cent of whom are newcomers. The conclusion to be drawn from these figures is that we Komsomols are making a far worse showing than the Party members and adult workers. But the situation is not the same everywhere. The foundry record is excellent, the electricians are not so bad, but the rest are more or less on the same level. In my opinion Comrade Khomutov said only a fraction of what ought to be said about discipline. The mmediate problem now is to straighten out these zigzags. I don't intend to begin agitating here, but we've got to put a stop to carelessness and sloppiness. The old workers are frankly admitting that they used to work much better for the master, for the capitalist, but now we're the masters and there's no excuse for working badly. It's not so much Kostya or any other worker who's to blame. We ourselves, all of us, are at fault because instead of fighting the evil properly we sometimes defend workers like

Kostya under one or another pretext.

"Samokhin and Butylyak have just said here that Fidin is a good lad, one of the best, an active Komsomol and all that. What if he did bust a drill, it could happen to anybody. He's one of us, while the foreman isn't... . But has anyone ever tried to talk to Khodorov? Don't forget that grumbler has thirty years of working experience behind him! We won't talk about his politics. In the given case he is in the right, because he, an outsider, is taking care of state property while we are smashing up valuable tools. What do you call such a state of affairs? I believe that we ought to strike the first blow now and launch an offensive on this sector.

"I move that Fidin be expelled from the Komsomol as a slacker and disorganiser of production.

His case should be discussed in the wall newspaper, and these figures published in an editorial article openly without fear of the consequences. We are strong, we have forces we can rely on.

The majority of the Komsomol members are good workers. Sixty of them have gone through Boyarka and that was a severe test. With their help and their assistance we can iron out the difficulties. Only we've got to change our attitude to the whole business once and for all."

Korchagin, usually calm and reticent, spoke with a passion that surprised Tsvetayev. He was seeing the real Pavel for the first time. He realised that Pavel was right, but he was too cautious to agree with him openly. He took Korchagin's speech as a harsh criticism of the general state of the organisation, as an attempt to undermine his, Tsvetayev's, authority, and he resolved to make short shrift of his opponent. He began his speech by accusing Korchagin of defending the Menshevik Khodorov.

The stormy debate lasted for three hours. Late that night the final point was reached. Defeated by the inexorable logic of facts and having lost the majority to Korchagin, Tsvetayev made a false step. He violated the rules of democracy by ordering Korchagin to leave the room just before the final vote was taken.

"Very well, I shall go, although your behaviour does not do you credit, Tsvetayev. I warn you that if you continue to insist on your viewpoint I shall put the matter before the general meeting tomorrow and I am sure you will not be able to win over the majority there. You are not right, Tsvetayev. I think, Comrade Khomutov, that it is your duty to take up the question with the Party group before the general meeting."

"Don't try to scare me," Tsvetayev shouted defiantly. "I can go to the Party group myself, and what's more I have something to tell them about you. If you don't want to work yourself, don't interfere with those who do."

Pavel closed the door behind him. He passed his hand over his burning forehead and went through the empty office to the exit. Outside on the street he took a deep breath of air, lit a cigarette and set out for the little house on Baty Hill where Tokarev lived.

He found the old mechanic at supper.

"Come on, let's hear the news. Darya, bring the lad a plate of gruel," said Tokarev, inviting Pavel to the table.

Darya Fominishna, Tokarev's wife, as tall and buxom as her husband was short and spare, placed a plate of millet gruel before Pavel and wiping her moist lips with the edge of her white apron said kindly: "Set to, dearie."

Pavel had been a frequent visitor at the Tokarevs' in the days when the old man worked in the repair shops, and had spent many a pleasant evening with the old couple, but this was his first visit since his return to the city.

The old mechanic listened attentively to Pavel's story, working busily with his spoon and making no comment apart from an occasional grunt. When he had finished his porridge, he wiped his moustache with his handkerchief and cleared his throat.

"You're right, of course," he said. "It's high time the question was put properly. There are more Komsomols down at the workshops than anywhere else in the district and that's where we ought to start. So you and Tsvetayev have come to blows after all, eh? Too bad. He's a bit of an upstart, of course. You used to get on with the lads, didn't you? By the way, what exactly is your job at the shops?"

"I'm working in one of the departments. And generally I'm in on everything that's doing. In my own cell I lead a political study circle."

"What about the bureau?"

Korchagin hesitated.

"I thought that while I still felt a bit shaky on my legs, and since I wanted to do some studying, I wouldn't take part officially in the leadership for a while."

"So that's it!" Tokarev cried in disapproval. "Now, my boy, if it weren't for your health I'd give you a good scolding. How do you feel now, by the way? Stronger?"

"Yes."

"Good, and now get to work in earnest. Stop beating about the bush. No good will come of sitting on the sidelines! You're just trying to evade responsibility and you know it. You must put things to rights tomorrow. Okunev will hear from me about this." Tokarev's tone showed his annoyance.

"No, dad, you leave him alone," Pavel hastened to object. "I asked him not to give me any work."

Tokarev whistled in scorn.

"You did, eh, and he let you off? Oh well, what can we do with you, Komsomols. . . . Will you read me the paper, son, the way you used to? My eyes aren't as good as they might be."

The Party bureau at the workshops upheld the decision of the majority in the Komsomol bureau.

The Party and Komsomol groups undertook the important and difficult task of setting an example of labour discipline. Tsvetayev was given a thorough dressing down at the bureau. He tried to bluster at first but pinned to the wall by Lopakhin, the Secretary, an elderly man with the waxen pallor of the consumptive, Tsvetayev gave in and partly admitted his error.

The following day the wall newspaper carried a series of articles that caused something of a sensation at the railway shops. The articles were read aloud and hotly discussed, and the unusually well-attended youth meeting held that same evening dealt exclusively with the problems they raised.

Fidin was expelled from the Komsomol, and a new member was added to the bureau in charge of political education — Korchagin.

Unusual quiet reigned in the hall as the meeting listened to Nezhdanov outline the new tasks confronting the railway workshops at this new stage.

After the meeting Tsvetayev found Korchagin waiting for him outside.

"I have something to say to you," Pavel said.

"What about?" Tsvetayev asked sourly.

Pavel took him by the arm and after they had gone a few yards paused at a bench.

"Shall we sit down for a moment?" he suggested and set the example.

The burning tip of Tsvetayev's cigarette now glowed red, now faded.

"What have you got against me, Tsvetayev?"

There was silence for a few minutes.

"Oh, so that's it? I thought you wanted to talk business," Tsvetayev said feigning surprise, but his voice was unsteady.

Pavel laid his hand firmly on the other's knee.

"Get off your high horse, Dimka. That sort of talk is only for diplomats. You tell me this: why have you taken such a dislike to me?"

Tsvetayev shifted uneasily in his seat.

"What are you talking about? Why should I have anything against you? I offered you work, didn't I? You refused, and now you're accusing me of trying to keep you out."

But his words carried no conviction, and Pavel, his hand still on Tsvetayev's knee, went on with feeling:

"If you won't say it, I will. You think I want to cramp your style, you think it's your job I'm after.

If you didn't, we wouldn't have quarrelled over the Kostya affair. Relations like these can ruin our work. If this concerned only the two of us it wouldn't matter — I wouldn't care what you thought of me. But from tomorrow we'll be working together. How can we carry on like this? Now listen.

There must be no rift between us. You and I are both workingmen. If our cause is dearer to you than everything else you'll give me your hand on it, and tomorrow we'll start as friends. But unless you throw all this nonsense out of your head and steer clear of intrigues, you and I will fight like blazes over every setback in the work that results. Now here's my hand, take it, while it is still proffered to you in friendship."

A deep sense of satisfaction swept Korchagin as Tsvetayev's rough fingers closed over his palm.

A week passed. The workday was coming to an end in the District Committee of the Party. Quiet settled over the offices. But Tokarev was still at his desk. He was sitting in his armchair studying the latest reports, when a knock came at the door.

"Come in!"

Korchagin entered and placed two filled out questionnaire blanks on the Secretary's desk.

"What's this?"

"It's an end to irresponsibility, Dad. And high time, if you ask me. If you are of the same opinion I would be grateful for your support."

Tokarev glanced at the heading, looked up quickly at the young man, then picked up his pen.

Under the head: "Party standing of comrades recommending Pavel Andreyevich Korchagin for candidate membership in the Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviks)" he wrote "1903" with a firm hand, and signed his name.

"There, my son. I know that you will never bring disgrace upon my old grey head."

The room was suffocatingly hot. One thought was uppermost in everyone's mind: to get away to the cool shade of the chestnut trees of Solomenka as quickly as possible.

"Wind up, Pavel, I can't stand another minute of this," implored Tsvetayev, who was sweating profusely. Katyusha and the others supported him.

Pavel Korchagin closed the book and the study circle broke up.

As they rose the old-fashioned Ericson telephone on the wall jangled. Tsvetayev, who answered its summons, had to shout to make himself heard above the clamour of voices in the room.

He hung up the receiver and turned to Korchagin.

"There are two diplomatic railway carriages down at the station belonging to the Polish consulate.

Their lights are out, something's gone wrong with the wiring. The train leaves in an hour. Get some tools together and run down there, Pavel. It's urgent."

The two sleepers gleaming with polished brass and plate glass stood at the first platform. The saloon-carriage with its wide windows was brightly lit. But the neighbouring carriage was in darkness.

Pavel went up to the steps of the luxurious carriage and gripped the handrail with the intention of entering the carriage.

A figure hastily detached itself from the station wall and seized him by the shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

The voice was familiar. Pavel turned and took in the leather jacket, broad-peaked cap, the thin,hooked nose and the suspicious look in the eyes.

It was Artyukhin. He had not recognised Pavel at first, but now his hand fell from Pavel's shoulder, and his grim features relaxed although his glance paused questioningly on the instrument case.

"Where were you heading for?" he said in a less formal tone.

Pavel briefly explained. Another figure appeared from behind the carriage.

"Just a moment, I'll call their guard." Several people in expensive travelling clothes were sitting in the saloon-carriage when Korchagin entered on the heels of the guard. A woman sat with her back to the door at a table covered with a damask cloth. When Pavel entered she was chatting with a tall officer. They stopped talking when the electrician appeared.

Korchagin made a rapid examination of the wiring which ran from the last lamp into the corridor, and finding it in order, left the carriage to continue his search for the damage. The stout, bullnecked guard, in a uniform resplendent with large brass buttons bearing the Polish eagle, kept close at his heels.

"Let's try the next carriage, everything is in order here. The trouble must be there."

The guard turned the key in the door and they passed into the darkened corridor. Training his torch on the wiring Pavel soon found the spot where the short circuit had occurred. A few minutes later the first lamp went on in the corridor suffusing it with opaque light.

"The bulbs inside the compartment will have to be changed. They have burned out," Korchagin said to his guide.

"In that case I'll have to call the lady, she has the key." Not wishing to leave the electrician alone in the carriage, the guard bade him to follow.