For the Good of the Cause by Alexander Solzhenitsyn Page A

and soul into the execution of Knorozov’s wishes—whether it was a matter of improving the work of the school or getting the students to help with the potato harvest or collecting scrap metal or whatever it might be. What Fyodor most liked about Knorozov was that when he said Yes he meant Yes, and when he said No he meant No. The dialectic was all very well, but, like a lot of other people, Fyodor preferred plain and unambiguous language.
    So he had not come to argue but simply to learn Knorozov’s decision.
    “I hear you’re having trouble,” Knorozov said.
    Fyodor smiled wanly.
    “Keep your chin up,” Knorozov said quietly and firmly. “You’re not going to let it get you down, are you?”
    “I’m not,” Fyodor said hoarsely, and then cleared his throat.
    “You’ve started putting up the dormitory next to the building, haven’t you? Once it’s up, you’ll have a school. Right?”
    “Of course, yes,” Fyodor agreed.
    But this time he didn’t feel invigorated by Knorozov’s energy. Various thoughts began to go through his mind: Winter was coming, they’d have to stay in the old place for the next year, the new building would have neither an auditorium nor a gymnasium, and there’d be no dormitory adjoining.
    “But Comrade Knorozov,” Fyodor voiced his worries, “we’ll have to alter the whole layout. As they are, the rooms are too small. They’re only big enough for four. They’ll have to be redesigned for classrooms and labs.”
    “It’s for you to work that out.” Knorozov cut him off with an impatient wave of the hand, indicating that the interview was over.
    They should have known better than to bother him with such trifling details.
    As they walked to the coatrack, Grachikov patted the principal on the shoulder:
    “It’s not as bad as all that. You’ll have a new building.”
    “We’ll have to lay a new floor on top of the basement.” The principal kept thinking of all the snags. “It’ll have to be much stronger to take the weight of the machinery. That means we’ll have to pull down what we’ve already built of the first story.”
    “I suppose so,” Grachikov said. “But look at it this way. You’ve got a good plot of land in a good location, already excavated and with foundations. And at least you know where you stand. The place’ll be ready by spring and you’ll move in. I’ll help you, and so will the Economic Council. Lucky thing we managed to hold on to the second building.”
    They left the District office, both wearing dark raincoats and peaked caps. There was a cool but pleasant breeze and a slight, fresh drizzle.
    “By the way,” Grachikov asked with a frown, “you wouldn’t know by any chance how Khabalygin stands with the Ministry?”
    “Khabalygin? O-ho! He’s really in with them. He once told me that he’s got a lot of friends there. Why, do you think he might put in a word for us?” Fyodor’s voice reflected a fleeting hope. But he rejected the idea at once: “No. If he could have helped, he would have done so there and then, when he came around with the commission. But he went along with everything …”
    Grachikov stopped, with his feet planted firmly apart, and stared straight ahead. Then he asked another question:
    “What’s his special field? Relays?”
    “Oh, no, he’s not an expert on anything. He ran a transformer plant before this. He’s just an experienced executive.”
    “Why did he come along with that commission? Any idea?”
    “I wonder.” The question now formed in Fyodor’s mind, which was still dazed from the events of the previous day. “Why indeed?”
    “Well, be seeing you,” Grachikov said with a sigh, thrust out his hand, and gave Fyodor a firm handshake.
    He went home still thinking about Khabalygin. Of course, this kind of research institute was much grander than a mere relay factory. The director’s salary and status would be far greater, and there’d be a good chance of wangling a medal into the