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strange about that,' nly. 'You know as e technique of war is rfected. My armored ible arm, and so, of invent some means of

someone else had made neral.

vens!' said the stranger. mattered! Would you like change my clothes and my come back in a few minutes, were seeing me for the first your heart is set on it, I'll do favor.'

being a fool, the general realized e had said something foolish. then there's nothing for us to do but y your cannon, if we don't want to sell it to anybody else. How ch?'

All right. But you're a terrible ellow to invent such arms.'

'Yes, yes, this cannon is a terrific weapon. But all the same -' The inventor looked at the general and said maliciously, 'What would you say if I confided a little secret to you? I've discovered a new kind of armor to protect the armored airship against shells an armor so powerful that shells won't make the least dent in it.'

'Do you want to drive me crazy?' yelled the general. "This is dishonest!' At these words the inventor frowned. 'I do not deal dishonestly,' he said. 'What right have you to talk like that? What fault have you to find with my

novel purpose. As the priest winds, the silver paneled front of the casquette moves and gradually glides down until it disappears, and a silver coffin, paneled in crystal, is revealed. There is the same magnificence of craftsmanship in all this flamboyant metal. Through the panels of beveled rock-crystal we see the form of the dead Saint Carlo, Cardinal of Rome, Archbishop of Milan, in all its costly vestments, white and red and gold, crozier of gold, mitre of gold, and holy ring on his white-gloved hand, as he lived three hundred years ago. Our priest lights the stump of a candle and moves it about before the corpse, to make clearer the principal objects of interest the ring, the crozier and, hanging above the face of the saint, who has been dead for three hundred years, hanging close to the face of death, brown with decay, the bones showing through the broken parchment which was once flesh, and a glimpse of teeth through the decaying lips, hanging above the face of the saint, who should have been buried three hundred years ago, is the most delicately beautiful, the most costly jeweled coronet that perhaps was ever made. The priest does well to add to its brightness the light of his little ex-votive candle-stump, for it is the work of Benvenuto Cellini himself. The candle is extinguished and the

handle turned and the coffin closed in again.

We pay our lire over to the guardian of Saint Carlo, and ascend once more into the dim Cathedral, where we are greeted by Caliban. We try to tip him and depart; but he has further services to offer and is not to be lightly shaken off.

Here is a great candelabrum curiously wrought in iron with many a sacred and holy figure; and he lights a match and takes us to a nearer view. This is the Holy Virgin, and that Abraham offering up his son Isaac, and this, and our moon-calf leers confidentially,

and this - And he whispers words which convey obscene promises, pointing to obscure sculptures which presumably fulfill them. 'Regardez, signori!' We regard, but have to take the obscenity for granted; it is not obvious to our perhaps we are not Latin enough. Here again, persists Caliban, is the statue of a saint who was flayed alive; and in proof thereof he carries over his shoulder his own skin displaying his quivering nerves and muscles as a warning to the faithful.

eyes

We force a tip into the hand of Caliban, and depart through the nearest door into the light of day, on a wave of gracias!

BY ARKADY AVERCHENKO

From L'Humanité, June 14 (OFFICIAL SOCIALIST DAILY)

ONE day a gentleman presented himself at the War Office of a country whose name matters very little.

"Take me to the Air-Service Headquarters,' he said. 'I have important information.'

The stranger was forthwith conducted to a general, to whom he addressed himself.

'I have an invention that will turn upside-down the whole art of war, and I am looking for a chance to sell it. My invention is a kind of armored airship that can fly a whole week, carry a regiment, and all this in spite of the worst kind of storms. Would you like to buy it?'

Thereupon, drawing a voluminous packet of papers from his pocket, he spread out before the general a quantity of plans and sketches. After some time spent in a careful scrutiny, the general said:

'It is all just as you say. For how much will you sell your invention?'

'A million.'

'Well,' said the general, 'that is n't too much. If you develop anything of interest later on, be sure to come and see me.'

'I have already developed something else of interest,' said the stranger. 'And what is that?'

Here. I have constructed a cannon which can bring down the armored airship in a few minutes.'

'But this is a little too much,' said the general, frowning. 'First you invented a marvelous airship and now you think out a way to blow it to bits.'

"There is nothing strange about that,' said the visitor calmly. 'You know as well as I do that the technique of war is constantly being perfected. My armored airship is a terrible arm, and so, of course, I had to invent some means of defense.'

'Still, I wish someone else had made it,' said the general.

'Good heavens!' said the stranger. 'As if that mattered! Would you like me to go out, change my clothes and my name, and come back in a few minutes, as if you were seeing me for the first time? If your heart is set on it, I'll do you the favor.'

Not being a fool, the general realized that he had said something foolish.

"Then there's nothing for us to do but to buy your cannon, if we don't want you to sell it to anybody else. How much?'

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armored airship? It is perfect. And my cannon? It is beyond reproach. In what have I deceived you?'

'You ought to have told me about the second armor first of all.'

'Wait a minute, wait a minute,' said the inventor thoughtfully. "The art of war develops only by degrees. Great inventions are made only very slowly.'

After these words there was a silence. The general was thinking profoundly. He would have preferred another man to offer him the cannon, for that would have been more logical; but he said nothing, for the inventor would certainly have offered to present himself under another name and in other clothes.

'How much?' he asked.
'A million.'
'Agreed.'

The stranger rose, shook the general by the hand, and got ready to go.

'Wait a minute,' said the latter. 'You're quite sure of yourself - that is, you're sure of the invincibility of your armor?'

'Absolutely certain,' replied the man. 'Well, then, we can sleep quietly.'

'Of course. That is, provided nobody invents a shell whose penetrative force exceeds the resistance of my armor.'

'What! Do you think anybody can find a shell like that?'

'Not a doubt of it.'
'But when?'

'Oh, it's found already.'
'By whom?'
'By me.'

'Ah, I see your game at last. Once that shell is sold, you'll tell me you have found a new kind of armor.'

'No doubt.'

'Go to the devil, you and your armor. You've got me in a trap that I don't know how to get out of. You want to exploit my department, ruin my country. No, no, my dear sir, I've had enough. Curse you and all your inventions!'

Then the unknown inventor, who until now had remained quite calm, turned on him with a threatening eye and a contemptuous lip.

'If you had a little more wit, my dear sir, you would have realized that I am Logic in person. But you are so stupid that you can't understand that the result is the same, whether your country is ruined in a hundred years, ten years, or ten minutes.

"The human race has pleaded with you, but you failed to understand it, and you showed it the door. You haven't the courage to face ruin at a single stroke.'

With these words the stranger hastily left the War Office of the country whose name matters very little.

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A WORKMAN IN RUSSIA

BY ARTHUR GOLDHAMMER

[We add this to our reports from Russia because it comes from the pen of a workingman who lived and labored under the Soviet régime; and because it is published in a Socialist newspaper not likely to print a prejudiced account of conditions in that country.]

From Leipziger Volkszeitung, June 10, 13, 15
(INDEPENDENT-SOCIALIST DAILY)

For about two years I held the post of mechanical instructor among the Bashkirs, a Mongol tribe in southeastern Russia. During that period I was for two months in Moscow and for five months in Petrograd, spending the rest of the time in the districts of Samara, Ufa, and Orenburg. I have resided in the country and in the Bashkir villages in southeastern Russia. I have traveled by cart and by sledge throughout this region, in close intimacy with the common people. Since there are no hotels, I have lodged and eaten with peasants and mechanics in their own homes. I have talked with all classes over many a glass of tea, and feel that I know what the people are suffering and thinking far better than do our good comrades who spend a few weeks on some official mission, comfortably housed in the Soviet capital.

At the outset let me say that the dictatorship of the proletariat is only on paper. In reality there is a dictatorship over the proletariat. People sing the International with great enthusiasm at public meetings; they pass resolutions dictated by the Soviet government; they decide to perform volunteer service Saturday afternoons and Sundays. But if you talk with them privately after the meeting is over, everyone will begin to curse the present government.

VOL. 310-NO. 4025

How does this happen? Russia is ruled by terror. No one dares to say in public what he really thinks. Were he to do so, he would be dealt with speedily by the Extraordinary Commission, which is the Holy Inquisition of the Soviet government.

In the spring of last year I was living at Sterlitamak, the capital of Bashkordistan, as the Bashkir 'Republic' is officially called. I was working at the central printing office. We were supposed to be given twenty-five pounds of flour a month; but had not received a particle for more than two months. After vainly demanding their legal flour quota, the workers finally delivered an ultimatum to the proper authorities, threatening to stop work unless they were given provisions within three days. The next morning several high Communist officers arrived, armed from head to foot, for no Communist travels about Russia in any other way, and coolly told us that, if we struck, our shop committee would be thrown into prison and the rest of us sent to the front. What could we do under such conditions? Our only resort was to trade our last garments with some peasant for enough grain to support life.

In Petrograd I lodged and took my meals in the old Hotel Angleterre, where we had a so-called 'house com

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