Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

"What's wrong?" Director Nian leaned over to take a look at the newspaper, then handed it to her and pointed to the short message.

Director Nian narrowed his eyes after reading it: "Rublin? July 8th? I remember it was 91 factories, right? The cause was the price increase of lunch at the Shvednik aircraft parts factory."

Slava nodded. The pork chop had gone from 10.20 to 18.10, almost doubling! Meanwhile, Poland's minimum wage at the time was only 5,100 złoty per month.

This strike was a direct prelude to the Polish Solidarity movement and was later known as the first domino in the dramatic changes in Eastern Europe.

The building is about to collapse...

Slava folded the newspaper and stuffed it into the side pocket of his suitcase. The green of the plains outside the window gradually faded, replaced by the tawny of the grasslands. The sky became bluer and higher, and the clouds were as thin as cotton wool blown away by the wind.

For three days and three nights, they traversed half of the Union. From the humid Moscow to the arid Central Asia, from the Slavic world to the Turkic lands. The faces outside the train window changed, the languages ​​changed, even the smell of the air changed. On the evening of the third day, the train finally entered Tashkent.

------

Tashkent's train station is smaller than Moscow's, but just as crowded. The platform was packed with people: travelers carrying large bags, drivers holding up signs to pick up passengers, and vendors squatting in the corner selling fruits and vegetables. The air was hot and dry.

Slava broke out in a sweat as soon as he got off the bus. He looked around and saw that the faces of the crowd had changed.

With high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and black hair, many of them had distinct Central Asian features. Some of the women wore Suzhou-style dresses, while others wore brightly colored traditional robes, but almost none wore headscarves. Some of the men wore small round hats, while others were bald, and they gathered in twos and threes to smoke and chat.

After more than half a century of transformation by the alliance, these former Islamic countries have at least achieved secularization at the grassroots level; otherwise, the leaders would have to wear headscarves and burqas to go out on the streets now.

However, secularization did not destroy the local culture. Although the train station itself is a typical Russian-style, boxy concrete structure, some domed buildings with distinct Islamic features can be seen in the distance. The silhouette of the minaret looked beautiful in the sunset, but no calls for prayer could be heard.

"In a secular Muslim society, the League has been conducting atheistic education here for more than half a century, and the results seem to be quite good."

As he was thinking, he suddenly noticed several pairs of eyes glancing at Director Nian. Those eyes belonged to several locals, young and old, men and women. They looked at Director Nian's long silver hair, rose-red eyes, and his outfit, which was considered avant-garde even on the streets of Moscow, with curiosity in their eyes, and a little...disgust.

Director Nian clearly noticed it too. Her expression didn't change, but Slava could sense that she was a little uncomfortable.

"Comrade Velikoslav?" a voice came from the side.

Slava turned his head and saw a man in his thirties walking towards them. He was of medium build, with tanned skin, and wore a light-colored shirt with the collar unbuttoned. His features were typical of Uzbeks, but he spoke fluent Russian, albeit with a slight accent.

"So you're Comrade Alim?"

The man nodded and extended his hand: "Welcome to the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Tashkent welcomes you!"

They shook hands, and then Alim said, "The car is outside. I'll take you to the guesthouse first, and we can chat on the way."

He led them through the crowd out of the train station. An old Lada was parked at the entrance, dusty and with a crack in the windshield. Alim opened the back door for them to get in, then got into the driver's seat and started the engine.

The car drove into the streets of Tashkent. The setting sun bathed the entire city in an orange-red hue. Russian-style apartment buildings lined both sides of the streets, gray or beige, uniform and indistinguishable from those in the city center. But occasionally, something different could be seen: a mosque with a blue dome, a roadside stall selling kebabs, a group of elderly people in traditional clothing chatting under the shade of a tree.

"Someone was watching you at the train station just now,"

Alim took out a cigarette case and offered one to Slava, who was sitting in the passenger seat. Slava took it and first glanced at Director Nian. Seeing that Director Nian had rolled down the window, Slava shook his head and politely declined.

Alim didn't mind. Seeing that the woman in the car didn't like secondhand smoke, he put the cigarette pack back in his pocket and said while driving:

“Don’t worry about it too much. People here are quite traditional. When they see… uh…” He glanced at Director Nian in the rearview mirror, “they’ll take a second look when they see someone who’s different.”

“I have no problem, Comrade Alim. I understand some of the local religious customs,” Director Nian said.

“But Uzbekistan is much better now,” Alim said. “Compared to half a century ago, it’s much more open now. If you go and see neighboring Iran…tsk tsk.”

He shook his head: "An order was just issued a couple of days ago that all female government employees must wear full robes and headscarves, or they will be fired. There are also religious police going out on the streets to arrest people."

Slava remembered, July 9th, that was yesterday. Khomeini's religious revolution is pushing Iran in another direction.

“That’s why I said you’ve come to the right place in Uzbekistan,” Alim smiled, revealing a set of white teeth. “Although this is a Muslim country, we are Muslims with communist beliefs—moreover, we are all party members, and the atheistic principle of the state must be followed.”

Now, after more than fifty years of secularization, young people don't go to mosques much anymore. In another half-century, maybe no one will believe in those religions anymore!

Slava did not respond.

He knew things Alim didn't. Less than twenty years after the collapse of the alliance, Islamic forces in these Central Asian countries would make a comeback. Once the alliance's ideology collapsed, religion would immediately fill the vacuum. Schools, hospitals, and community services at the grassroots level would gradually be infiltrated by religious organizations, and the achievements of secularization would be eroded little by little.

He glanced at Director Nian.

She was looking out the window, her silvery-white hair gleaming softly in the setting sun.

“So we have to work hard,” Slava said softly, “otherwise, the days when we can walk on the street dressed like this will only last for ten years.”

Director Nian turned to look at him, paused for a moment, and then smiled.

There was bitterness in that smile, and something else indescribable. Alim didn't understand what they were saying; he was just focused on driving.

--------

The guesthouse was a three-story building with a light blue exterior, standing out somewhat among the surrounding gray buildings. Several grapevines grew in the courtyard, their vines climbing all over the trellis, their green leaves rustling in the evening breeze.

Alim helped them check in and handed them the keys.

"Rooms 203 and 204 are on the second floor, next to each other. If you need anything, just ask the front desk. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning so you can get familiar with Tashkent first, and then we'll plan the next part of your trip."

"Thank you." Slava took the keys.

Alim nodded, turned, and left. They went upstairs and found their rooms. Slava opened the door to room 203, which was a small single room with a bed, a table, a chair, and a wardrobe. The window faced south, offering a view of the distant city skyline.

He put down his suitcase and walked to the window.

The sun was almost setting, leaving only a last glimmer of orange-red on the horizon. The lights of Tashkent began to twinkle, like scattered gold dust on the earth.

Director Nian pushed open the door and came in, carrying two glasses of milk. He walked to his side, handed him one glass, and looked out the window.

"Tashkent, this ancient city on the Silk Road, has a history of more than two thousand years."

"Now it's the city of the alliance."

"Yes, but it won't always be like that."

Slava remained silent. A song drifted in from outside the window, sung by a man in Uzbek. The melody was long and drawn out, carrying an ancient melancholy. He couldn't understand the lyrics, but he could sense the weight of timelessness in the song.

This is how the people of this land have lived for generations. Countless rulers have come and gone, but the songs have remained unchanged.

"Starting tomorrow, we'll officially begin to take on our roles," Director Nian said.

Slava nodded and raised his glass: "To the ever-changing, and to the eternal."

"Wishing us a successful trip." The two clinked glasses.

Chapter 6 They can't just burn me down while they're checking the accounts, can they?

Alim arrived early the next morning. He first drove his dusty Lada around Tashkent with Slava and the guide to familiarize themselves with the area.

“This is the State Party Committee building, where our beloved Secretary Rashidov works.” He pointed to an imposing building. “Over there is the Internal Affairs Bureau, and beyond that is the Agriculture Department—you may be dealing with these places in the future, so get acquainted with them first.”

The car drove along the main road, lined with rows of plane trees whose leaves were bleached white by the sun. There weren't many pedestrians, and occasionally a few buses would pass by, their bodies bearing bilingual signs in Uzbekistan and Russian.

“Tashkent is the largest city in Central Asia,” Alim said, “but the cotton-producing region you’re looking for isn’t here; it’s in the Fergana Valley. That’s the heart of Uzbekistan.”

"How far is it from here?" Director Nian asked.

“It’s over 300 kilometers, about five or six hours by car, and even longer by train—but that’s alright, I’ve already made arrangements, we’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow. You can stay in Tashkent today and tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to a few people.”

The car stopped in front of a teahouse. Alim led them inside and found a corner seat. The teahouse wasn't large, and there were seven or eight people inside, mostly older Uzbek men, dressed in traditional robes and small round hats, sitting around a low table drinking tea and chatting. The air was filled with a rich aroma of tea and the smell of roasted naan bread.

"Oil naan or plain naan?" Alim asked the two men, ordering a pot of green tea.

“I’ll definitely eat the white naan since it’s freshly made. We’ll take two oily naan for the road.” Slava quickly got up to pay the bill. After several rounds of polite refusals at the window, Alim finally paid.

During the meal, Alim finally got down to business.

“Tell me what you want to investigate first,” he said in a low voice. “Comrade Sherov only told me that you are here to investigate cotton production. He didn’t say what you are specifically looking for.”

Slava glanced at Director Nian. He certainly couldn't directly say that he was there to investigate the case. He had to subtly divert attention and then implicate the central authorities.

They're exploiting the information gap!

“We were sent by the Central Committee as secret agents mainly to look at the cotton production data,” he said. “The Central Committee wants to know whether Uzbekistan can meet this year’s targets, whether the actual output will differ from the plan, and if so, whether it can be remedied. After all, we were the only two sent, which means that this matter has not yet been formally addressed.”

Alim's expression didn't change, but his hand holding the teacup paused for a moment.

Damn it, have those idiots in Moscow finally realized that this year's target of 500 million tons is indeed a bit too high?

PS: This figure is equivalent to the annual cotton production of Eastern Rome in 24 years, but the cotton planting area of ​​Eastern Rome is many times that of Uzbekistan, not to mention the level of technology and mechanization.

"In and out?" He put down his teacup. "You mean forgery?"

"I didn't say it was fake! I said it was a discrepancy."

Director Nian nodded, and Slava finally began to resemble a bureaucrat. Alim stared at the two of them for a few seconds, then smiled, a smile with an indescribable meaning.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take you to see whatever you want to see, but there are a few things I need to make clear first.”

He broke off a piece of naan, dipped it in tea, and took a bite.

"First, Fergana... the people there are not easy to deal with. You are from the central government, so they will be polite, but they may not tell you the truth. Second, the rules here are different from those in the central government. There are some things you'd better turn a blind eye to."

"Be more specific?" Director Nian asked.

"What I mean is, if you want to complete the research smoothly, don't ask too many questions. If you ask too many, people will think you're here to cause trouble."

“That’s not good. The central government doesn’t want to be fooled so easily. Otherwise, why would they send us?” he said.

Alim looked at him, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Fine,” he shrugged. “You’re sent by the central government, so don’t make things difficult for me. I’m just here to guide you. I’ll cooperate with whatever you want to do.”

He stood up and wrapped the remaining naan in newspaper.

"Let's go, I'll take you to see someone first. He's in charge of cotton statistics at the Department of Agriculture, and he can provide you with some basic data."

------

The man from the Agriculture Department was named Karimov, in his forties, and wore thick glasses.

His office was small, piled high with documents and reports, and a map of Uzbekistan hung on the wall, with various cotton-producing regions marked on it with colored thumbtacks.

"Welcome, welcome! Welcome, comrades from the Central Committee!" He warmly shook hands with Slava and Director Nian. "We had heard that they were going to send people to conduct research, but we didn't expect them to arrive so soon!"

He gestured for them to sit down and had his secretary bring tea and snacks.

“I’ve seen your letter of introduction. You’re from the All-Union Academy of Agricultural Sciences, researching irrigation technology, right?” He flipped through a document on the table. “Perfect timing. Our irrigation system here does have some problems, and we need expert guidance.”

“We mainly want to understand the cotton production situation,” Slava said, “the yield, the planted area, the irrigation efficiency, and so on.”

“No problem, no problem,” Karimov nodded vigorously. “I have the complete set of data here. I’ll give you whatever you need.”

He pulled out a stack of bound reports from the drawer—clearly he had come prepared—and pushed them in front of Slava.

"This is last year's statistical report, which includes output, area, yield per unit area, and irrigation water consumption. Take your time to look through it, and feel free to ask me any questions."

Slava flipped through the stack of reports. All the indicators were steadily increasing, and everything was improving. This was not what he wanted.

“It looks like things are going very well,” he said. “Production is increasing every year!”

“That’s right,” Karimov laughed. “Uzbekistan is a model cotton-producing region of the Union. Last year we delivered 4.8 million tons, and this year we’re aiming to break through 5 million tons.”

“Five million tons,” Slava nodded. “That’s remarkable.”

"Well, it's not that we're anything special; it's mainly because the leadership attaches great importance to it and the comrades at the grassroots level work hard!" Karimov said. "Of course, irrigation technology is also crucial, and we'll need your experts to provide more guidance in this area."

Slava put the report away and stood up.

“We’d like to see it in person,” he said. “Could you arrange for us to visit the collective farms in Fergana?”

“Of course—of course!” Karimov stood up to see them off. “I’ll have someone contact you and make sure everything is arranged perfectly. Whatever you want to see, we’ll show it to you.”

After leaving the Agriculture Department, Alim was waiting at the entrance.

"How is it?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“I think this year’s production is stable,” Slava said.

Alim didn't reply, but simply opened the car door to signal them to get in. Director Nian sat in the back seat, and only after the car arrived at the guesthouse and the two closed the door and went inside did they begin to speak.

"Do you think Karimov and Alim are telling the truth?"

“I don’t know, there’s something fishy about both of them.” Slava looked out the window. “But I know one thing.”

"what?"

"The data he gave me was all slightly higher than last year. No more, no less, exactly in line with the growth targets—no, not at all in line with the growth targets, but rather exactly in line with the production targets assigned by the higher authorities."

I believe in human will to conquer nature, but I also understand that humans' ability to actively transform the material world must respect objective laws.

He turned to look at Director Nian.

"What do you say?"

Director Nian's lips twitched, but he didn't speak; however, the mocking expression on his face said it all.

------

Two days later, they boarded the train to Fergana. The train only had hard seats, no sleeper berths, and the carriages were packed with people: farmers carrying large bags, women with children, and several young soldiers in uniform. The air was thick with the smells of sweat, cigarettes, and various foods.