Free Who's on First by William F. Buckley

the only way. Total abstinence. I am a political celibate, as of this moment and, you will soon discover”—he grinned, and there was, way back there, the trace of the sometime boy—“all my tensions, from the time we marry, will be priapic.” Tamara smiled, and rested her head on his shoulder, as he went on talking.
    And that was, and remained, the protocol.
    But over the next few years, although they never broke the code, it was a part of their intimacy to experience together the frustrations particular to the system, the forms, the interrogations, the inquiries about fellow workers, the obviously intercepted mail, the eavesdropping, the telephone taps. “I have two tasks ahead of me,” Viktor had said on that white night as he held her back suddenly to avoid a speeding official car. “The first is to help design a rocket that will reach either the moon or Washington, D.C.; the second is to find an apartment for us. The first is an immensely complex project and will almost certainly prove easier than the second.”
    They lingered in East Berlin for very nearly two hours, sitting in the hot airplane, and of course no explanation was given. Finally they were airborne, and beer and cold sandwiches were passed around. Viktor munched on his and said, “I wonder if there will be any deviation from the sort of thing we did in Rome?”
    â€œNot according to the schedule.”
    Indeed their time was to be taken up from breakfast until their return to the hotel, the Grand. She fished out a sheaf of papers from her purse, and began to read aloud: “Monday. 0730: Convene for breakfast. 0830: Bus departs for Lycée. 0900–1200: Sessions, Lycée. 1210: Depart on bus to hotel. 1300: Lunch. 1400: Return to Lycée by bus. 1430–1700: Lycée. 1700–1830: Bus tour of Paris. 1900: Reception, Soviet Embassy … Shall I go on?”
    â€œDo we get to see Versailles?”
    She scanned the three sheets of paper.
    â€œNo. But we get to see the Museum of the 1870 Commune.”
    â€œLouvre?”
    â€œYes, Wednesday.”
    â€œMaybe some evening, after we are taken back to the hotel, we can get out?”
    â€œIt says here, ‘No member of the delegation shall leave the hotel except as specified in this schedule. Any emergencies should be discussed with Pyotr Viksne.’” Viksne served them now, even as on the trip to Rome, as (a) tour director, (b) political officer, and (c) KGB agent. On the guest list given to the French, he was referred to as “Academician Viksne.”
    â€œPerhaps we should call him at two in the morning and tell him the toilet doesn’t work?”
    â€œBetter not. The plumbers’ union in Paris may be a Communist union, and we’d be nailed with an Article 58.”
    Both of them recognized they were flirting with a transgression of The Protocol. No doubt flying over free territory—they were nearing the Rhine—had made them licentious.
    They returned to their reading and, as they crossed Paris on the approach to Orly, craned to view the city they had read about since childhood. Tamara spotted the Eiffel Tower and yelled out her pleasure so loudly that other members of the delegation in turn strained to see out the little cloudy windows of the plane. Ivan Dyakov, with his omnipresent camera, leaned high over Viktor and Tamara to take a picture. At the platform a welcoming committee from the Union of Democratic Scientists met them and there were two or three reporters and photographers. The reporters asked, through interpreters, when the Russians would launch a satellite. Academician Nesmayanov, on behalf of the delegation, smiled, and pulling out a notebook read out in rapid French: “ Nous sommes très heureux de visiter en France pour aider les travaux scientifiques pour la libération du peuples opprimés. Nous seront bien heureux de recevoir, en septembre, les distingués scientistes