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Diplomatic Corps, clustered in an unenthusiastic group round the foot of the mausoleum, and some heavily guarded school-children about a quarter of a mile away on the far side of the square, there was no one there to cheer. All round the Red Square stretched a grim, silent line of security troops, blocking the entrances, extending into the neighbouring streets and down to the river, perched on the roofs of the surrounding houses. Nowhere in sight was there anyone who looked like a member of the general public.
    It was then that I grasped that the cheering was potted, synthetic cheering, issuing from loudspeakers, discreetly sited at the four corners of the square and conveniently obviating the need for unhygienic, insecure spectators. Only later did the ‘toiling masses’ make their appearance, in the form of a ‘Spontaneous Workers’ Demonstration’, consisting of two or three columns of ordinary Soviet citizens, who were marched past at a brisk trot, freely interspersed with Security Troops. Not content with keeping an eye on the marchers, these lost no opportunity of urging the laggards among them to walk faster and cheer louder. But the cheers that came from them were poor, half-hearted, half-starved cheers, not like the full-throated roars that issued from the loudspeakers.
    Living in Moscow, even under the conditions to which we were condemned, one could in a few months find out more about the real character of the Soviet Union than one could hope to learn by reading all the books that were ever written on the subject.
    But I, for one, had not altogether given up hope of seeing Soviet life at rather closer quarters; nor had I for a moment abandoned the idea of somehow or another getting to Central Asia. With the melting of the snows, I started to draw up a plan of campaign.

Chapter III
Casting About
    O NE thing was quite certain. I should not get permission from the Soviet Government to travel in Central Asia. The older residents among the diplomats laughed at the idea of my even applying for it. The whole of Turkestan had long been a forbidden zone and now, with the spy-scare and purge at their height, steps were being taken to restrict the movement of foreigners even in other parts of the Union. In short, if I went at all, I should have to go unofficially. The question was whether or not, if I travelled without permission, I should succeed in evading the vigilance of the N.K.V.D.
    The map showed three main lines of approach to Turkestan. You could travel direct by train across the Orenburg Steppe from Moscow to Tashkent. This was the simplest way, but people who tried to buy a ticket to Tashkent at the Moscow railway station were, it appeared, simply told that they could not have one unless they first produced a permit from the ‘competent authorities’. Alternatively, you could travel across Siberia as far as Novosibirsk, and then change trains and go south to Turkestan by the recently completed Turksib Railway. But here, too, I felt, at some stage, the traveller would be faced with an embarrassing request to produce a permit or pass. Finally — and this looked to me the most promising route — you could travel by train to Baku on the Caspian, a perfectly normal and legitimate journey, even for foreigners. There, if you were lucky, you might find a ship to take you across the Caspian to Krasnovodsk and so, via the Transcaspian Railway, to Samarkand, Bokhara and Tashkent. Perhaps in Baku the ‘competent authorities’ might be less vigilant than in Moscow, perhaps there would be a chance of slipping aboard one of the ships in the harbour unnoticed. And anyhow, if the worst came to the worst and I got no further than Baku, I could always come back through the Caucasus and see that, having also acquired, no doubt, much useful experience for the future.
    Accordingly, after first booking a sleeper to Baku, I packed some clean shirts, some sardines, some books and a spare pair of boots in a kitbag, dressed myself