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my face,” the President echoed. “A broad masculine face, one that commands respect from the masses. Don’t you agree?” Zhabnov asked, pulling his head back and stroking the plump folds with his perfumed and manicured hands, bedecked with golden rings and jeweled bracelets.
    “Couldn’t have phrased it better, your greatness,” his secretary responded. “A face respected by the masses. The face of the Great Father. As the premier is the ‘Grandfather’ back in Mother Russia, so are you the Father, my general. You lead the masses with your shining example, and your firm, masculine, ruling presence.”
    Zhabnov’s face positively beamed at these words and his whole stomach filled with a warm glow. At times he almost believed he was the great leader he pretended to be. “I say, Gudinov, you are a good man aren’t you?” He patted the younger and much thinner man on the shoulder and headed out from the private beauty salon in the basement of the White House—and over to a small, ornately wrought elevator that he entered, waiting with a wide smile for Gudinov and two armed guards to follow.
    “Now I do hope everything is running according to schedule,” Zhabnov said, looking over at his righthand man. “The food has arrived? The tables are all set up?”
    “All done, Excellency. I checked on the banquet halls this afternoon. Inspected every one of them myself. The pigs are roasted, the banners proclaiming The New Peace are up, the fifty-foot photographs of the Grandfather—everything is done.”
    “And the girls—there are plenty of them, yes? There will be much entertaining to do. Favors to be kept—or given, votes in the Presidium to be parlayed my way. As you know, Boobie, I am next in line for the premiership when the Grandfather passes away.” He looked down mournfully at the ceramic-tiled floor of the elevator, as if Vassily’s death was the last thing he wanted—when in fact it was the first. Zhabnov had enjoyed some things about his stay here in the Americas. But he longed for home. He had been away from Mother Russia for decades now, and was turning into an old man before he had had a chance to sample the pleasures of his homeland. It was not that he hated Vassily—or even particularly disliked him. All things considered, the doddering old fool had helped him tremendously—giving him the post of absolute ruler of the United Soviet States of America, appointing him President.
    Gudinov broke the mood as the elevator ascended.
    “Yes, the whores are bathed and scented—and waiting. We have four houses full. Nearly two hundred girls in all, with several dozen true virgins. Young ones. Those are being kept particularly well guarded—hidden away. Just the thing your Excellency can use, I would imagine, to get a little influence here and there.”
    “Good, good,” Zhabnov said, rubbing his small hands, surprisingly small on such an obese body. “You have the lists of each delegate’s favorite—shall we say—diversion? I trust you will see that they are properly realized.”
    “I understand completely, Excellency. You can rest assured that all will be carried out. And reported back to you in full detail, with video surveillance of all important personages’ sex acts.”
    “I can hardly wait,” Zhabnov chuckled, rubbing his hands together. Sometimes it was so much fun being President. Fun made it all worth while. All the years of being in this hellhole of a country—with its radioactive wastelands, its Freefighter counter-revolutionaries, its mutants crawling through the fogs. He hadn’t ventured out of Washington for years, not even in the “sealed vehicles,” which he didn’t trust worth a damn, since any time a really strong wind blew up he could see the sand blowing in beneath the seals. No, he stayed here, inside D.C.—in his totally sealed and purified White House and Capitol Building, or in his limousines where his Elite Guards could accompany him everywhere. So that he could