I hesitated at the door of Mr. Khrushchev's office, startled by the thuds and sounds of heavy breathing that came from inside. Surely it wouldn't do to walk in while Mr. K. was enforcing party discipline on his secretary? But I reminded myself that I was a hard-bitten newspaper man, and opened the door anyway.

Mr. K. was just executing some fast footwork with a soccer ball, as he dribbled it around the desk and then passed off to a young man in white bucks and blue blazer, who took the pass behind the water-cooler.

"Just the man I wanted to see," said Nik, chuckling jovially as he gasped for breath. He grabbed my arm and pushed me between the bookcase and the armchair. "Boris and I were just practicing a little for the family picnic this weekend," he explained, deftly taking a pass from Boris and shooting it by my knee into the corner wastebasket.

"Just the way you used to do it back on the old team," said Boris Donellovich, who was Nik's brother-in-law and a man of great importance as special assistant to the commisar and organizer of soccer games at family outings.

"But what was the important thing you wanted to see me about?" I inquired, blocking Boris' shot with my stomach. "Are you raising price supports on borscht?"

"Oh, the unfinished business," said Mr. K., buttoning all three buttons on his narrow-lapelled suit and looking around for his toupee. "I thought I would give your magazine the opportunity to have my wife's picture on the cover again. And I wouldn't object too much if you took a few shots of me." His tanned face smiled modestly while I focused my camera.

"It's the head of the NKVD calling," said the secretary. Nik took the phone, his face turning darkly serious as he listened. What was the news, I wondered, pulling out my notebook and pencil.

"My brother has bad news," said Mr. K., "Novogoro has lost the annual turnip-growing contest to Smolensk again."

My eye fell on the banner hanging on the wall which proclaimed Novogoro Agricultural Cooperative Mr. K.'s alma mater.

"The team hasn't been the same since we were on it," said Boris fondly gazing at the Novogoro seal on his blazer pocket.

"You know," said Nik thoughtfully, "perhaps I ought to appoint some Smolensk men. The way things are now, half the government goes off to drown their sorrows every time Novogoro loses, and they're totally unfit for work the next morning."

"Especially since we lose all the time," Boris added, flicking lint off his blazer.

But cheer was restored to the room as Mrs. Khrushchev came through the door, wearing one of her fashion-setting dresses by GUM, and followed by her daughter, a vivacious, plump girl of 38.

"It's time for my TV show," cried Nik suddenly, reaching for his sunglasses. "Why don't you interview my daughter Sonia? Pravda has picked her as favorite in the May Day egg-rolling contest on the Kremlin lawn."

I focussed on Sonia, and the sounds of Nik and Boris kicking the soccer ball down the corridor receded in the distance.