Arcady and Boris Strugatsky. Prisoners of Power
© Copyright Arcady And Boris Strugatsky
© Copyright Introduction by Theodore Sturgeon.
© Copyright Translated from the Russian by Helen Saltz Jacobson, 1977
© Copyright Collier Books: A Division of Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc,
New York; Collier Macmillan Publishing, London
Origin: "Obitaemyj ostrov"
OCR: Vladislav Zarya
INTRODUCTION
Early in these pages, when young Maxim dips his hand into a river on
the alien planet on which he has just been marooned, and withdraws it
hastily because the water is radioactive, the knowledgeable science fiction
reader is likely to say, "Come on, now, fellows -- how could he know? Or, if
it were so devastatingly, dangerously radioactive that he could determine it
without instruments, how could he notnot know before he stuck iris silly
hand in it?" But one forgives, proceeds in a smug and self-satisfied way,
because Maxim's adventures are adventurous indeed, his encounters
believable, suspenseful, unexpected, and quite beyond anticipation, the
Strugatskys being the plot-masters that they are.
Then, some hundred-or-so pages in, the reader realizes that Maxim,
being what he is, could most certainly perform that small feat at the river,
and would; further, the reader realizes that this discovery was made some
time back, indirectly, in the gradual unfolding of Maxim's character.
This knack -- the conscious commission of apparent illogic, quietly
rectified in later narration -- is typical Strugatsky. It is the gleeful and
deliberate provocation of criticism, in the sure knowledge that the
criticism is made on the basis of insufficient data, and that the critic
will be shown to be, in the true sense of the word, prejudiced --
pre-judging. After this has happened to the reader a number of times (and it
does) the reader has no recourse but to trust the authors -- and no author
could ask for more than that. Few, however, can command your trust so
deftly.
There is a great deal more in the Strugatsky bag of tricks. They will,
for example, build up a vertiginous altitude of suspense (as in the scene
where Maxim is sent to execute prisoners, one of them a woman) ending with a
shocking twist -- and then proceed with something else, happening to someone
else days later, joyfully refusing for the longest time to tell you just
what has happened to Maxim. And when they do, what has happened to him is
all over, part of his past, and we find him engaged in something quite new.
Yet the tapestry is ultimately done and hung, the authors having completed
certain panels while you weren't looking.
Then there's the matter of the shifting point-of-view. Any good
creative writing professor (though there are those who maintain there is no
such thing) will tell you that only one character permits the reader inside
his head, so that you know what he is thinking and feeling. All the other
characters act outact out what they are thinking and feeling. "Joe felt a
surge of anger and thought what a great joy it would be to smash that
smiling face," while "Sam turned white with rage and menacingly raised his
embroidery-hoop." Well, apparently the Strugatskys don't give a damn what
Teacher said. We repeatedly get inside the heads of many different people,
not all of protagonist stature; but, as in the authors' use of their other
tricks, we never enter through clumsiness, never by accident, never without
a solid reason.
So much for technique; any Strugatsky opus (I think particularly of
Hard to Be a GodHard to Be a God and Roadside PicnicRoadside Picnic) shows
them to be potent and resourceful tellers of tales. But fiction is composed
not only of manner, but of matter, and it is this that is most compelling,
most provocative about their work.
First of all, there is the matter of character development. Here the
Strugatskys obey one of the prime rules of lasting and important fiction:
the central character is changedchanged by the events of the narrative.
There are no exceptions to this in great literature; your protagonist grows,
gains, loses, perhaps dies, but he is not the same at the end as he was in
the beginning, and never can be again. Qt is this which dooms series
television to the minor niches of literature, no matter how beautifully
written; the central character must be the same next week as he is tonight,
no matter how drastic the action.) Maxim is without doubt a species of
superman, and in lesser hands he would sweep aside all obstacles and emerge
predictably triumphant. And Maxim, indeed, does perform many a superhuman
feat. Along with these, however, he commits some horrible blunders, and more
than a few laughable ones. His na(vet( is established early, as is his
humanity. He loses the former the hard way, wherever his innocence is shown
to be, in the matrix of action, just ignorance. The latter, his humanity, he
never loses at all, whether it is shown as falling face-first into a mud
puddle or grieving at the inexcusable death of a friend. His whole being,
however, is work-hardened as the story progresses; placing himself so often
between the hammer and the anvil of events toughens and sharpens him, yet
never even threatens that deep compassion which makes of him such an
engaging person. There are many facets to his personality, but cynicism is
not one of them. Not even when he confronts the bureaucrats.
And here we come to the most delightful, the most penetrating aspect of
the Strugatsky corpus. The brothers have obviously declared war on the
bureaucrats -- on their self-perpetuation, their greed, their pomposity,
their prostration before the great god Protocol, their dedication to
climbing the official ladder, and their willingness, in that climb, to forgo
decency, honor, personal loyalty, honesty, even logic and consistency when
expedient. Faced with a bureaucrat, civilian or military, the Strugatskys
resist the temptation to explicate evil, to pile horror upon horror,
vileness upon vileness, in an effort to turn our faces and our stomachs; for
in that Grand GuignolGrand Guignol approach there is a quantum of awe. The
brothers resort rather to ridicule. By deft touches of slight exaggeration,
by swift indications of bad digestion, bad manners, and bad (or atrophied)
consciences, they succeed in making the bureaucrats ridicule themselves.
But it doesn't stop there; for when the self-serving, self-seeking
officials become responsible for the cruel enslavement of the entire
populace, and instigate a war in which real people by the thousands die
terrible and agonizing deaths, the clown has set fire to the circus tent,
and nothing he and his kind are or do from then on can be the least bit
funny. There is a battle scene in this book which brings this out
unforgettably; I find myself enriched and grateful for it, and for another
beautiful Strugatsky novel.
Theodore Sturgeon
San Diego, California, 1977
PART ONE: ROBINSON CRUSOE
1.
Maxim opened the hatch, leaned out, and cautiously scanned the sky.
Low-lying and solid-looking, it lacked that airy transparency suggestive of
infinite space and a multitude of inhabited worlds; it was a real biblical
firmament, smooth and dense. Undoubtedly this firmament rested on the
powerful shoulders of a local Atlas. It glowed with a steady
phosphorescence. Maxim looked for the hole that his ship had pierced, but it
was gone; only two large dark blots floated at the zenith like dead bodies
in water. Flinging the hatch wide open, he jumped into the tall dry grass.
The dense hot air smelled of dust, rusted iron, trampled vegetation,
life. And of death, long past and incomprehensible. The grass was
waist-high. Nearby, dense bushes loomed darkly, and dreary gnarled trees
occasionally broke the landscape. It was almost as bright as a clear moonlit
night on Earth, but without Earth's moon shadows and hazy nocturnal
blueness. Everything was gray, dusty, and flat. The ship rested on the
bottom of an enormous hollow with sloping sides. The surrounding terrain
rose sharply toward a washed-out horizon; the landscape seemed strange
because nearby a broad, serene river flowed westward and apparently upward
along one slope.
Maxim walked in a circle around the ship, running his palm along its
cold damp side. Traces of the impact were where he had expected to find
them. There was a deep ugly dent under the sensory ring, sustained when the
ship was jolted suddenly and pitched to one side; the cyberpilot had felt
insulted and sulked, and Maxim had had to grab the controls quickly. The
jagged hole next to the right porthole was made ten seconds later when the
ship pitched forward. Maxim looked at the zenith again. The dark blots were
scarcely visible now. A meteorite attack in the stratosphere? Probability --
zero point zero zero. But in space anything theoretically possible would
happen sooner or later.
Maxim returned to the cabin and switched on the automatic repair
controls and activated the field laboratory. Then he headed toward the
river. An adventure of sorts, but still routine. Monotonously routine. The
unexpected to be expected in the Independent Reconnaissance Unit. Landing
accidents, meteorite and radiation attacks -- adventures of the body, merely
physical stuff.
The tall brittle grass rustled and crackled beneath his feet and
prickly seeds stuck to his shorts. A swarm of midges buzzed in front of his
face, but then, as if on signal, retreated.
The IRU didn't attract solid establishment types. They were wrapped up
in their own serious affairs and knew that the exploration of alien worlds
was just a monotonous and exhausting game. Yes, monotonously exhausting and
exhaustingly monotonous.
Of course, if you are twenty years old, can't do anything well, haven't
the vaguest notion of what you really want to do, haven't yet learned the
value of time, that most precious of all things, haven't any special talents
and don't foresee acquiring any -- if at age twenty you still haven't
outgrown the lad stage where your hands and feet are more important than
your head; if you are still naive enough to imagine yourself making fabulous
discoveries in unexplored space... if, if, if... You pick up the catalog,
open it to any page, take a random stab to choose your unexplored world, and
take off into the wild blue yonder. Discover a planet, name it after
yourself, determine its physical characteristics, do battle with any
monsters you might encounter, and establish contact with intelligent beings,
if there are any. If not, become a Robinson Crusoe.
What for? Well, you'd be thanked and told you've made an enormous
contribution, and some prominent expert would summon you for lengthy
discussions. The school kids, especially the little ones, would gaze at you
in awe. But your old teacher would ask only: "Are you still with the IRU?"
Then he'd change the subject and look distressed and guilty because he felt
responsible for your inability to outgrow the IRU. And your father would
say: "H'mm" and hesitatingly offer you a position as a lab assistant. And
your mother would say: "Maxie, when you were little you drew rather well."
And Pete would say: "How long can this go on? Haven't you disgraced yourself
long enough?" And everybody would be right except you. So what do you do?
You return to IRU headquarters, pick up the catalog, open it at random and
stab blindly.
Before descending the high, steep bank to the river, Maxim looked
around. Gnarled trees were silhouetted against the sky, and a small circle
of light came from the open hatch. Everything appeared normal. "Well, OK,"
he mumbled to himself. "Take it as it comes. It would be great if I could
find a civilizations powerful, ancient, wise culture. And human." He went
down to the river.
The river was very broad and sluggish; it appeared to flow downhill
from the east and uphill to the west. The refraction here was incredible.
The opposite bank was sloped and choked with bulrushes; a half-mile upstream
some sort of columns and twisted beams -- buckled trusswork overgrown with
vines -- protruded from the water. "Civilization," thought Maxim, not
particularly enthusiastic. He sensed the presence of a great deal of iron.
And something else, too, something unpleasant and stifling. Scooping up a
handful of water, he realized quickly that it was dangerously radioactive.
The river was carrying radioactive substances from the east. This certainly
wasn't the kind of civilization he had in mind. Rather than establishing
contact, it would be wiser to take samples and perform the usual analyses,
orbit the planet's equator several times, and head for home. Once on Earth
he would turn the material over to the experts on the Galactic Security
Council and quickly put the entire episode out of his mind.
He shook his fingers squeamishly, dried them in the sand, and squatted
on his haunches. He tried to picture the inhabitants of this planet, hardly
a happy place. Somewhere beyond the forest lay a city of dirty factories;
decrepit reactors emptying radioactive wastes into the river; ugly houses
beneath metal roofs, with endless walls and few windows; and buildings
separated by litter-strewn alleys. And the people? Probably dressed heavily,
encased in thick, coarse material, with high white uncomfortable collars
cutting into their necks.
Suddenly he noticed footprints in the sand. They had been made by bare
feet. Someone had scrambled down the bank to the river, someone, he
imagined, with large feet, heavy, pigeon-toed, and clumsy. Undoubtedly
humanoid, but with six toes on each foot. He had scrambled down the bank,
hobbled along the sand, plunged into the radioactive waters, and swum to the
opposite shore, into the bulrushes.
Like a bolt of lightning, a brilliant blue flash lit up everything
around him. Above the riverbank there was a thunderous crash followed by
sizzling and crackling. Maxim jumped up. Dry earth rained down and something
sped through the sky with a menacing whine and dropped into the river,
raising a spray mixed with white steam. He realized what had happened, but
not why, and he was not surprised to see a swirling column of scorching
smoke rising like a giant corkscrew into the phosphorescent firmament from
the spot where his ship had been standing. The ship had exploded: its
ceramic shell glowed violet, flames danced through the grass around it,
bushes flared up, and the gnarled trees were enveloped in smoky fire.
Intense heat struck him, and Maxim shielded his face with his palm as he
backed away.
"Oh, God, no! No! Why?" He tried to reconstruct what had happened.
"Some big ape came along, got inside, lifted up the deck, found the
batteries, picked up one of the strange-looking boulders, and bambam! What a
boulder -- three tons! And with one swing. A powerful animal, all right. It
wounded my ship with its pebbles twice in the stratosphere and finished it
off down here. Incredible! Bet it never happened before. Now what? I'll be
missed soon, of course, but nobody will think that the ship could vanish and
its pilot survive. Damn it!"
He turned from the fire and walked away rapidly along the river. The
entire area glowed red. His shadow on the grass, shortening and lengthening,
rushed ahead of him. Sparse and musty woods began on his right, and the
grass became soft and moist. It occurred to him that the fire could overtake
him and he would be forced to make his escape by swimming -- a most
unpleasant prospect. But as the red glow grew dim and died out, he realized
that the ship's fire-fighting system, unlike himself, had understood the
problem and done its job well. He vividly pictured its sooty tanks
protruding absurdly from the hot fragments, emitting dense pyrophage clouds.
They must be very pleased with their performance.
"Easy now," he thought. "Don't panic. Take your time. You've plenty of
it. They can look for me forever. There's no ship, and it will be impossible
to find me. Until they are absolutely convinced of my death, mother won't be
told anything. And I'll figure something out."
He passed a small cool bog, forced his way through some bushes, and
emerged on a cracked concrete road leading into the woods. Stepping along
the concrete slabs, he walked to the edge of the river. There he saw rusty
girders overgrown with vegetation, the remains of some huge latticed
construction lying half-submerged in the water. On the other side the road
continued, barely visible beneath the luminous sky. Apparently, long ago a
bridge had spanned the river, but it probably had interfered with someone's
plans and had been knocked over into the water, creating an ugly mess. Maxim
sat down and contemplated his predicament.
"OK, you have a road. That's the main thing. It's a lousy road, very
old, but it's still a road. And, on all inhabited planets, roads lead to
their builders. What do I need now? Not food. I wouldn't mind a snack, but I
had better keep my appetite in check. I can manage without water for another
day. There's enough air, although I'd be happier with a little less carbon
dioxide and radioactivity. So far. I'm in fair shape. What I do need is a
small primitive coil transmitter with a spiral pitch." In his mind's eye he
saw clearly the circuit for a positron sender. If only he had the parts, he
could put one together at once, blindfolded. He assembled it mentally
several times.
"Robinson Crusoe. That's me, all right." He was somewhat taken by the
idea. "Maxim Crusoe. I don't have a damned thing except a pair of shorts
without pockets and my sneakers. On the other hand, my island is inhabited.
And if it's inhabited, there's always hope of locating a primitive coil
transmitter." He tried hard to visualize a coil transmitter but had no luck
this time. Instead he kept seeing his mother and the expression on her face
when she was told her son had disappeared without a trace. His father would
nib his cheeks and look around absentmindedly. "Cut it out," he said to
himself. "Stop thinking about them. Anything, but not about them. Otherwise
you're sunk. Cut it out and get hold of yourself." He rose and started along
the road.
The forest, timid and sparse at first, gradually became bolder and
edged up closer to the road. Several impudent young trees had burst through
the concrete and were growing right through the highway. Obviously the road
was at least twenty or thirty years old. Along its sides the woods were
taller, denser, and wilder; here and there branches interlaced overhead. It
grew dark and loud guttural cries came from the depths of the forest.
Something moved, rustled, thudded. Then, about twenty paces in front of
him, a dark squat shape darted across the road. Mosquitoes whined. It
suddenly dawned on Maxim that this region was too desolate and wild for
human habitation and that it would take several days to reach an inhabited
area. Again his hunger surfaced, but Maxim sensed that flesh on the hoof was
plentiful here. He wouldn't starve to death. Although the meat wouldn't be
particularly appetizing, the hunt itself would be interesting. Deer? Maybe,
maybe not. But the local game was undoubtedly edible. Stop moving, and the
midges would begin to feed on you savagely. And as everyone knows, what's
edible on an alien planet doesn't die of hunger. It wouldn't be so awful to
get lost here and spend a year or so roaming the forest. He would find
himself a buddy -- some kind of wolf or bear. They'd go hunting together. He
supposed he'd eventually tire of it. Besides, the prospect of tramping
through this forest wasn't particularly appealing, with all that iron junk
around and the polluted air. Anyway, the main thing was to put together a
coil transmitter.
He stopped and listened carefully. From somewhere in the depths of the
forest came a monotonous, muffled rumbling. Maxim realized that he had been
hearing it for some time before it broke through to his consciousness. It
was not an animal or waterfall, but a mechanical device, some sort of
barbarous machine. It wheezed, made grinding noises, and gave off a rusty
odor. And it was drawing closer.
Hunching over and edging closer to the shoulder, Maxim ran noiselessly
toward the machine and then stopped just before reaching an intersection.
The road here was muddy, with deep ugly ruts and slabs of concrete jutting
up. It smelled foul and was very radioactive. Maxim squatted and looked to
his left, toward the approaching rumbling and grinding.
A minute later it appeared. A hot stinking mammoth of riveted metal,
rumbling along the road with enormous mud-clogged caterpillar treads. It
plodded along, humpbacked and shabby, clanging through the iron litter in
the forest. It was stuffed with a mixture of raw plutonium and lanthanides.
Driverless and helpless, yet menacing, it swung over the intersection and
plodded on, dangling a tail of scorching heat. It disappeared into the
forest, growling, tossing and turning, roaring, its fury gradually
subsiding.
Maxim caught his breath and brushed away the midges. He was stunned: in
his whole life he had never seen anything so absurd and pitiful. "Well," he
thought, "I won't find any positron senders around here." He watched the
monster until it disappeared and he suddenly noticed that the crossroad was
just a narrow corridor through the forest. Maybe he ought to overtake it.
Stop it and turn off its reactor. He listened carefully. Crackling and
crashing filled the forest. The monster was moving deeper into the forest
like a hippo into a bog. Then the rumble of the engine drew closer again.
Clanging and roaring, it plodded once more over the intersection and
returned to the area it had just left. "Boy, oh boy," thought Maxim. "I'd
better keep clear. Vicious beasts and uncivilized robots are not for me." He
paused, broke from the bushes, and, with one bound, leaped over the polluted
intersection.
After walking very rapidly for some time, inhaling deeply to clear his
lungs of the iron mammoth's exhaust fumes, he slowed down. He thought about
what he had encountered in his first two hours on his inhabited island and
tried to construct a logical picture from his bizarre experiences. It was
too difficult; the pieces were incredible, unreal. The forest itself was
straight out of a fairy tale: almost human voices of fantastic creatures
echoed through it. As in a fairy tale, an old deserted road led to an
enchanted castle, and invisible, evil sorcerers placed obstacles in the way
of those who chanced to pass by. From afar, they had showered his ship with
meteorites and, failing to turn him back, had then burned his ship, caught
him in a trap, and dispatched an iron dragon after him. The dragon was old
and stupid, but they had surely realized their mistake and were preparing
something more up-to-date.
"Listen here," said Maxim to them, "I've no intention of breaking the
spell over your castles and waking your sleeping beauties. All I want is to
meet one of you, one of your more intelligent people, who can help me with a
positron sender."
But the wicked sorcerers persisted. First they dropped a gigantic
rotted tree across the road, destroyed its concrete surface, dug a large
hole in the ground, and filled it with putrid radioactive liquid. When that
failed to stop him, when the midges tired of biting and retreated in
disappointment, toward morning they released a cold, malevolent fog. Maxim
jogged to warm himself. The fog was sticky and oily, and smelted of decay.
Soon the smell of smoke was added, and Maxim tried to locate the fire.
Dawn was breaking when Maxim spotted it at the side of the road, near a
low moss-covered stone structure with a caved-in roof and dark empty
windows. Although there was no one in sight, he sensed that people had been
there recently and might return soon. He turned off the road, leaped over a
drainage ditch, and sinking ankle-deep in rotting leaves, approached the
fire. The fire welcomed him with its primitive warmth. Everything was very
simple here. Without the formality of greetings, one could squat, warm one's
hands by the fire, and wait in silence until the host, just as silently,
served hot food and drink. True, the host wasn't around, but a blackened
kettle with a strong-smelling broth hung above the fire.
Maxim sat down by the fire and warmed himself, then rose reluctantly
and entered the house. House? Only a stone shell remained of the original
structure. The morning sky shone through the broken beams overhead, the
rotten floorboards were treacherous, and clusters of crimson mushrooms grew
in the corners -- poisonous when raw, but edible if roasted sufficiently.
But Maxim suddenly lost his appetite. In the semidarkness by the wall,
mingled with faded rags, there was a skeleton! Revolted, he turned,
descended the broken steps, and cupping his palms around his mouth, shouted
at the top of his lungs: "Hey, six-toes!"
His shout was smothered almost instantly by the fog-bound trees. There
was no answer except for the angry chattering of birds overhead.
Maxim returned to the fire, tossed on some branches, and peered into
the kettle. The broth was boiling. He found a spoon of sorts, sniffed it,
dried it with grass and sniffed it again. Then he carefully skimmed off a
grayish scum and flicked it over the rim. He stirred the broth, scooped some
from the edge, blew on it, and pursing his lips, tasted it. Not bad.
Something like broth made from a takhorg liver. Only stronger. Setting the
spoon aside, he took down the kettle carefully with both hands and placed it
on the grass. Then he looked around again and called out: "Breakfast! Come
and get it!"
He still sensed that the owner of the dwelling was somewhere nearby,
but all he saw were motionless bushes, wet from the fog, and dark gnarled
tree trunks. There were no sounds except the crackling of the fire and the
restless cross-chatter of the birds.
"Well, OK," he said aloud. "Do as you please, but I'm breaking the
ice!"
He developed a taste for the broth very quickly. Before he knew it, a
third of the soup had vanished from the kettle. Regretfully, he moved away,
rested for a while, and dried the spoon. But he couldn't control himself: he
scooped up from the very bottom more of those delicious brown chunks of meat
that melted in his mouth. Then he moved away, dried the spoon again, and
placed it across the top of the kettle. Now the time had come to express his
appreciation to his invisible host.
He jumped up, selected several thin branches, and entered the house.
Treading cautiously on the rotten floorboards and trying to avoid looking at
the remains in the shadows, he picked some mushrooms, selecting the firmest,
and threaded their crimson caps onto a branch. "You could use some salt and
a little pepper, but never mind. You'll do for an introduction. We'll hang
you over the fire, steam out every bit of your poison, and you'll be
delicious. You'll be my first contribution to the culture of this inhabited
island."
The house darkened almost imperceptibly and he felt someone's eyes on
him. Suppressing the desire to turn sharply, he counted to ten, rose slowly,
and with an anticipatory smile turned his head.
A long dark face with large doleful eyes and lips drooping at the
corners looked at him blankly through the window. They stared at each other
for several seconds, and it seemed to Maxim that the gloom emanating from
the face was flooding the house, sweeping over the forest, and engulfing the
entire world. Everything around him turned gray, gloomy, and mournful. Then
the house became still darker. Maxim turned toward the door.
A stocky man, topped by a shaggy mop of red hair and wearing an ugly
jump suit, straddled the threshold with his short sturdy legs and blocked
the entrance with his broad shoulders. Maxim was pierced by a pair of blue
eyes, very steady and hostile, yet almost cheerful -- perhaps in contrast to
the all-pervasive gloom spreading from the window. Obviously this was not
the first time this rough-looking native had encountered a visitor from
another world. But it was also obvious that he was used to dealing with
annoying visitors promptly and harshly, dispensing with such amenities as
communication and other unnecessary complications. An ominous-looking thick
metal pipe suspended from a leather belt around his neck was aimed directly
at Maxim's abdomen. It was clear that he hadn't the slightest notion of the
value of human life, of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, of humanism's
lofty ideals, even of humanism itself.
Having no choice in the matter, Maxim extended the branch of skewered
mushrooms, smiled more broadly, and spoke in carefully articulated words.
"Peace! Everything is OK. Everything is fine!" The gloomy face behind the
window responded to this greeting with a lengthy but unintelligible sentence
that succeeded in clearing the air. Judging from the sounds outside, dry
twigs were being tossed into the fire. Behind the unkempt red beard, the
blue-eyed figure produced clanging sounds that reminded Maxim of the iron
dragon at the crossing.
"Yes!" Maxim nodded vigorously. "Earth! Space!" He pointed the branch
toward the zenith and Redbeard obediently looked up at the broken ceiling.
"Maxim!" continued Maxim, poking himself in the chest. "Maxim! My name is
Maxim! Maxim!" "Mac Sim!" bellowed Redbeard. He had a strange intonation.
His eyes glued on Maxim, he shot a series of rumbling sounds over his
shoulder. "Mac Sim" was repeated several times. The doleful character
replied with some eerie, melancholy syllables. Redbeard's blue eyes and
yellow-toothed jaws opened wide and he began to guffaw. Evidently there was
something funny here that Maxim failed to grasp. Finished with his fun,
Redbeard dried his eyes with his free hand, lowered his death-dealing
weapon, and signaled Maxim to come out.
Maxim was delighted to obey. On the porch, he again held out skewered
mushrooms to Redbeard. Redbeard seized the branch, inspected it carefully,
sniffed it, and tossed it aside. "No!" Maxim protested. "This stuff is
good." Maxim bent down and retrieved the branch. Redbeard did not object but
slapped Maxim on the back several times and shoved him toward the fire,
forcing him to sit down. He attempted to communicate something, but Maxim
was busy studying the gloomy one sitting on the other side of the fire and
drying out a dirty rag. One foot was bare, and he kept wiggling his toes.
Five, not six.
2.
Guy sat on the edge of the bench by the window and polished the
insignia on his beret with his cuff while Corporal Varibobu prepared his
travel orders. The corporal's head was tilled to one side, eyes opened wide.
With his left hand he held a red-bordered form while he slowly traced out a
fine calligraphic script. "What handwriting," thought Guy somewhat
enviously. "Ink-stained old fogey: twenty years in the Legion and still a
measly clerk. Just look at those eyes goggle -- the pride of the brigade.
Watch that tongue come out. Yup, there it is. Full of ink, too. So long,
Varibobu, you old paper pusher. I won't be seeing you again. I feel sorry to
leave -- good men they've got here, and the officers, too. And the job we do
is useful and important." Guy sniffed and looked out the window.
Outside the wind was blowing white dust along the broad sidewalkless
street paved with hexagonal slabs. The long walls of identical buildings
housing administrative and engineering personnel gleamed white. Mrs. Idoya,
a stout imposing woman, walked past the window, shielding herself from the
dust and holding down her skirt. She was a courageous woman, not afraid to
gather up her brood and follow her brigadier husband to these dangerous
parts. The sentry in front of the CO's headquarters, a recent recruit
wearing an unwrinkled trench coat and a beret pulled down over his ears,
presented arms. Then two truckloads of trainees passed -- probably going for
their shots. "That's right, sergeant, give it to 'em. Don't stick your head
out. There's nothing to see here," Guy thought. "Where do you think you are
-- on some main drag?"
"How do you spell it?" asked Varibobu. "G-a-I?"
"No. My last name is Gaal -- G-a-a-I."
"Too bad," said Varibobu, sucking his pen. "Gal would fit on one line."
"Come on, write," thought Guy. "It won't do you any good to save lines.
This jerk is a corporal? Can't even polish his buttons. Some corporal. Two
stripes, but you can't shoot worth a damn, and everybody knows it."
The door flew open and Captain Tolot, wearing the gold arm-band of duty
officer, strode into the room. Guy jumped to his feet and clicked his heels.
The corporal rose slightly but continued writing.
"Aha." The captain tore off his dust mask in disgust. "Private Gaal.
Yes, I know, you're leaving us. Too bad. But I'm glad for you. I hope you'll
serve as conscientiously in the capital."
"Yes, sir, captain!" said Guy. He was very fond of Captain Tolot, an
educated officer and former high school teacher. The captain had singled him
out.
"You may sit down, private." The captain went behind the counter to his
desk. Still standing, he scanned some papers and picked up the phone. Guy
turned toward the window tactfully. Nothing had changed outside. His buddies
were marching information to dinner. Guy watched them sadly. Any minute
they'd be entering the mess hall, and Corporal Serembesh would order them to
remove their berets for "grace." Thirty throats would bellow while the steam
was rising from the pots, the bowls were glistening on the counter, and old
man Doga was getting ready tore lease one of his prize jokes about a soldier
and a cook. Too bad he had to leave. True, it was dangerous here and the
climate was unhealthy and the rations were monotonous -- canned stuff --
but. Here, at least, you knew you were needed, that they couldn't manage
without you; here you took the ominous pressure of the forest on your own
shoulders, and you felt it. Lord, how many of his buddies were buried here.
Beyond the settlement stood a whole grove of poles topped with rusted
helmets.
On the other hand -- the capital. Not just anyone was sent there. And
once you got there, you were constantly on the move. They said all the
capital's parade grounds were visible from the Creators' headquarters, so
that every formation was observed by one of the Creators. Not every
formation, really. But they did spot-check. Suddenly imagining himself being
summoned from a formation, Guy was thrown into a panic. He takes two steps
and slips and falls on his face at the commander's feet as his submachine
gun clatters on the pavement. Damn, what a clumsy ox. And his beret flies
off to God knows where. Phew! Guy took a deep breath and looked around
furtively. God forbid. Yes, that was the capital for you. Everything was
under watchful eyes. Oh well, never mind -- others were serving there.
Besides, his sister Rada lived there. And silly old Unc with his prehistoric
bones and antediluvian tortoises. Damn it, how he missed both of them!
When he glanced out the window again, his mouth dropped open. Two men
were walking along the street toward the CO's office. One he knew --
red-bearded Zef, sergeant major of the114th Sappers' Detachment, a condemned
man who earned the right to remain alive by clearing roads through the
forest. But the other was weird-looking. At first Guy took him for a degen,
but then reasoned that Zef would hardly bother dragging in a degen to
headquarters. He was a healthy young man, almost naked, deeply tanned,
strong as a bull, and wore only a pair of odd-looking pants made of shiny
cloth and cut well above the knee. Zef had his gun with him but he didn't
appear to be escorting this fellow under guard. They were walking side by
side, and the queer-looking stranger kept waving his arms absurdly. He was
attempting to communicate something to Zef, who was panting from their rapid
pace and looking totally lost. "Some kind of savage," thought Guy. "But
where did he come from? The road through the forest? Maybe he was raised by
animals. It's happened before. Damn, what muscles!"
He watched the pair approach the sentry. Zef wiped his face as he
attempted to explain something, but the sentry, the recent re-emit, didn't
know Zef and thrust a gun into his ribs, ordering him to withdraw to the
distance specified by regulations. The naked fellow entered the conversation
with his arms still flying. The strange expression on his face was as
elusive as quicksilver, and his eyes were expressive and dark. "Oh, now the
sentry's lost his cool. Going to raise a ruckus." Guy turned around.
"Captain, permission to speak? The sergeant major of the 114th has
brought someone in. Would you mind taking a look?"
The captain went to the window. His eyebrows went up. Opening the
window, he stuck out his head.
'"Sentry, let them pass!"
Guy was closing the window when he heard tramping in the corridor. Zef
and Ms savage companion entered the office. Close on their heels and
crowding them, the chief sentry officer and two other men on sentry duty
burst in. Standing at attention, Zef coughed and fixed his impudent blue
eyes on the captain.
"Sergeant Major Zef, One hundred and fourteenth Sappers' Detachment,
reporting, sir. This fellow was arrested on the road. Captain, from all
outward signs, he's insane. He eats poisonous mushrooms, doesn't understand
a word, speaks unintelligibly, and, as you see, walks around nearly naked."
While Zef was delivering his report, the prisoner scanned his
surroundings and presented a strange smile to everyone present. His teeth
were even and as white as sugar. Folding his hands be-hind his back, the
captain went up closer and inspected him from head to foot.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The prisoner smiled even more strangely, slapped his palm against his
chest, and pronounced something that sounded like "Mac Sim." The chief
sentry guffawed, the sentries sniggered, and the captain smiled. At first
Guy saw nothing humorous in his response; then he realized that "mac sim" in
thieves' slang meant "I ate the knife."
"He's probably one of yours," said the captain to Zef.
Zef shook his head, throwing out a cloud of dust from hjs beard.
"Definitely not. Mac Sim is what he calls himself, but he doesn't
understand Moves' language. So he's not one of us."
"Probably a degen," suggested the chief sentry officer. (They gave him
an icy look.) "Naked," explained the sentry officer as he retreated toward
the door. "May I go now, captain?"
"You may. Send for our staff physician. Dr. Zogu. Where did you catch
him?" he asked Zef.
Zef explained that his detachment had been clearing quadrant23/07
during the night, had destroyed four self-propelled ballistic missiles and
one device of unknown function, and had lost two men in an explosion;
everything was in order. Around seven in the morning this stranger came off
the road from the forest to their campfire. They spotted him from a
distance, followed him unnoticed by taking cover in the bushes, and captured
him at an opportune moment. At first Zef had assumed he was a fugitive, then
decided he was a degen and was about to shoot him, but changed his mind
because this fellow... Zef, embarrassed, ran his fingers through his beard
and concluded: "Because I realized he wasn't a degen."
"How did you reach that conclusion?" asked the captain. The prisoner
stood quietly, arms folded across his powerful chest, glancing alternately
at him and Zef.
Zef said it would be rather difficult to explain.
"In the first place this guy wasn't afraid of anything. Further-more,
he took the broth from the fire and ate exactly one-third, as if he was
entitled to it, as a good friend. But before eating, he shouted into the
woods, probably because he felt we were near-by. Next point: he wanted to
treat us to mushrooms. The mush-rooms were poisonous, and we wouldn't eat
them or let him, either. But he tried to treat us -- 1 suppose to show his
gratitude. And last: as everyone knows, no degen is better endowed
physically than a normal weakling. On the way here he kept up a wild pace,
walked over fallen trees as if he were on level ground, and skipped across
ditches and waited for me on the other side. And for some reason or other --
maybe to show off -- he actually picked me up and ran two hundred steps."
The captain listened to Zef attentively. But scarcely had Zef finished
his story when the captain turned sharply to the prisoner, stared at him
hard, and barked in Khonti: "Your name? Rank? Assignment?"
Guy admired the captain's clever approach, but it was obvious that the
prisoner did not understand Khonti. Again he revealed his beautiful teeth
and thumped himself on the chest, saying "Mac Sim." He jabbed his finger
into his captor's ribs, saying "Zef," and then began to speak slowly, with
long pauses, pointing alternately at the ceiling and the floor, and waving
his arms, Guy thought he caught some familiar words in this speech, but the
words had no bearing on the matter at hand. When the prisoner stopped
talking. Corporal Varibobu spoke up.
"In my opinion this man is a clever spy and we should report this to
the brigadier."
The captain ignored him.
"You may go now, Zef," he said. "You've done a good job and it will be
taken into account."
"I'm very grateful to you, captain!" Zef was about to leave when the
prisoner uttered a low cry, leaned over the counter, and grabbed a pile of
blank forms lying on the desk.
Frightened out of his wits, Varibobu recoiled and flung his pen at the
savage. The savage snatched it out of the air and, perching himself on the
counter, began to sketch on the paper. Guy and Zef grabbed him by the
shoulder, but he shrugged them off.
"Leave him alone!" ordered the captain, and Guy obeyed with a sense of
relief. Restraining this brown beast would be as difficult as stopping a
tank by grabbing its treads.
The captain and Zef flanked the prisoner and studied his scribbling.
"I think it's a map of the world," said Zef uncertainly.
"H'm," responded the captain.
"Well, of course! Here in the center he has the World Light. Around it
is the World. And here is where he thinks we are."
Guy finally managed to squeeze between the prisoner's firm shoulder and
Zefs coarse, sweaty jacket. The sketch amused him. That was how a
six-year-old would portray the World: a small circle representing the World
Light, and around it a large circle representing the World Sphere. And on
the circle a duck dot, to which need only be added little hands and feet --
and then you have it: "Ibis is the World and this is me." The poor lunatic
couldn't even draw the circle properly, making some sort of oval shape. It
was obvious that he was abnormal. On top of that, he drew a dotted line
going beneath the World to another point, as if he were trying to explain
how he got where he now was.
Meanwhile the prisoner took a second form and rapidly sketched two
small World Spheres in opposite comers, joined them with a dotted line, and
added some flourishes. Zef let out a whistle: it was a hopeless case. There
was no point in staying any longer.
"May I leave, sir?"
The captain shook his head.
"Uh, Zef, you were working in the Zone?"
"Yes, sir."
The captain paced up and down.
"Perhaps you could -- how shall I put it -- give me your opinion of
this man? From, let's say, a professional point of view."
"Impossible, sir," replied Zef. "You know I've lost the right to speak
in a professional capacity."
"I understand. That's all very true. And I must compliment you for your
honesty. But..."
Zef stood at attention. The captain was clearly embarrassed, and Guy
understood his predicament well. This was a serious case. (Suppose the
savage is a spy?) Dr. Zogu was certainly a great officer, a brilliant
legionnaire, but still he was only an army doctor. Zef, on the other hand,
had really known his stuff before he was arrested.
"Well now," said the captain, "there's nothing we can do about that.
But between you and me... "He halted in front of Zef. "You understand what I
mean? Simply between you and me, do you really think this fellow is insane?"
Zef paused before replying.
"Just between you and me?" he repeated. "Well, of course, as a layman,
and laymen do make mistakes. I'm inclined to believe that this is a
clear-cut case of a split personality, where the real ego is ejected and
replaced by an imagined ego. Purely as a layman, mind you, I would recommend
electric shock therapy and tranquilizers."
Mac Sim began to speak again, addressing the captain and Zef
alternately. The poor fellow was trying to say something -- some-thing was
bothering him. But just then the door opened and the doctor, obviously out
of sorts because his dinner had been interrupted, entered the room.
"Hello, Tolot," he said cantankerously. "What's the matter? I'm quite
relieved to find you alive and well. Who the hell is this?"
"The rehabs caught him in the forest. I suspect he's insane."
"He's not insane. He's a malingerer," growled the doctor, pouring water
for himself from a pitcher. "Send him back to the forest. Let him work."
"He's not ours," protested the captain. "And we don't know where he
came from. I think he may have been captured by degens, gone off his head,
and escaped to us."
"Right," grumbled the doctor. "You'd have to go off your rocker to come
running to us." He went over to the prisoner and reached out to examine his
face. The prisoner grinned and gently pushed him away. "No, no!" said the
doctor. "Stand still!"
The prisoner submitted. The doctor examined his eyes, thumped him, felt
his neck and throat, flexed his hand, tapped his knees, and then returned to
the pitcher and poured himself another glass of water.
"Heartburn," he explained.
Guy looked at Zef, who was standing off to one side and staring at the
wall with studied indifference. The doctor quenched his thirst and returned
to the examination. He palpated the prisoner, looked at his teeth, punched
him in the abdomen twice; then he took a flat box from his pocket, plugged
it into a socket, and applied the box to various parts of the savage's body.
"Nothing special," he said. "Is he a mute, too?"
"No," replied the captain. "He can talk, but he speaks in some savage
language. He doesn't understand us. Here are his drawings."
The doctor studied them.
"Well, well, very amusing." He grabbed the corporal's pen and rapidly
sketched a cat as a child might, using stick lines and small circles. "What
do you say to that, friend?" he asked, handing the drawing to the lunatic.
Without a moment's hesitation, Mac Sim took the pen and began to draw.
Beside the doctor's cat he sketched a strange animal covered with a great
deal of hair and wearing a hostile expression. Although this animal was
unfamiliar to Guy, he realized it was not a child's drawing. It was a fine
drawing -- in fact, remarkably good. Even a little frightening to look at.
The doctor reached for the pen, but the lunatic drew back his hand and
sketched still another animal -- with enormous ears, wrinkled skin, and, in
place of a nose, something resembling a very long tail.
"Beautiful!" shouted the doctor, slapping his sides.
The lunatic didn't stop there. Now, instead of animals, he sketched
some sort of apparatus that resembled a large transparent land mine. Then he
very skillfully drew a little man sitting inside. He tapped the tiny figure
with his finger and then tapped himself on the chest, saying: "Mac Sim."
"He could have seen this thing by the river," said Zef softly as he
moved closer. "We burned a similar object last night. A real monster." He
shook his head.
The doctor appeared to notice Zef for the first time.
"Ah, my dear professor!" he shouted with exaggerated pleasure.
"Something stinks in this room. My dear colleague, be so kind as to deliver
your profound judgments from the other side of the room. I shall be greatly
indebted to you."
Varibobu snickered and the captain said sternly: "Zef, stand by the
door, and don't forget yourself."
"Well, that's better," said the doctor. "Tolot, what do you think we
should do with him?"
"That depends on your diagnosis. If he's a malingerer, I'll hand him
over to the state prosecutor's office. They'll look into it. If he's
insane..."
"Tolot, he's not a malingerer!" The doctor was adamant. "The office of
the state prosecutor is not the place for him. But I do know a place that
will be very interested in him. Where's the brigadier?"
"He's on patrol in the forest."
"Well, no matter. You're the duty officer today, aren't you? Send this
young stranger to this address." The doctor wrote something on the back of
the last sketch.
"What's that?" asked the captain.
"Oh, it's a place that will be very grateful to us for this lunatic. I
can promise you that."
The captain twisted the paper in his fingers hesitantly, then went to
the far corner of the room and beckoned to the doctor. They whispered for
some time and only an occasional remark of Zogu's was audible. "The
Propaganda Department... Send him with an escort. It's not that much of a
secret! I guarantee you... Order him to forget the whole thing. Damn it --
the kid won't understand a thing anyway!"
"Good," the captain finally agreed. "Corporal Varibobu! Write up escort
papers!"
The corporal rose slightly.
"Are Private Gaal's travel orders ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Insert Mac Sim's name in the orders as being under escort. Private
Gaal!"
Guy clicked his heels and snapped to attention.
"Yes, sir."
"I want you to deliver the prisoner to the address on this paper before
you proceed to your new post. After you have carried out these orders, you
must present this paper to the duty officer at your new station. Forget the
address. This is your last assignment, Gaal, and I know you will execute it
as befits a good legionnaire."
"It will be done, sir," shouted Guy, flattered by the captain's
confidence.
Suddenly a hot wave of indescribable ecstasy swept over him and bore
him aloft. "Oh, the sweet moments of joy, those unforgettable moments when
one is on wings, those moments of sweet contempt for everything crude,
material, and physical. Moments when you long to hear the command that will
join you to fire, fling you into its flames against thousands of enemies,
into the very thick of wild hordes, to face a hail of bullets. Fire! Flame!
Fury! And now he is rising, this strapping, handsome fellow, the pride of
the brigade, our own Corporal Varibobu. Like a fiery torch, like a statue of
glory and fidelity. And he leads the singing, and we all join in as one!
Forward, legionnaires, men of iron!
Forward, sweeping away fortresses with fire in our eyes!
We shall smash the foe with an iron boot!
Let drops of fresh blood sparkle on our swords...
"And everyone is singing with me, including the brilliant Captain
Tolot, model legionnaire, cream of the Legion, for whom I would gladly give
my life, my soul, my everything, this very instant. And Dr. Zogu is singing,
too -- a model brother of mercy, rough and tough as a real soldier, but
tender as a mother, too. And our Corporal Varibobu, ours to the core, an old
warrior, a veteran grown gray in skirmishes with the enemy. Oh, how his
buttons sparkle and his stripes shine on his worn, well-earned uniform. For
him there is nothing but to serve, to serve!
Our iron fist sweeps away all obstacles.
The All-Powerful Creators are pleased!
How the enemy weeps! Show him no mercy!
Onward, legionnaires, brave warriors!
"But what's this? He'sHe's not singing. He's leaning on the counter and
rolling his idiotic brown head. His eyes keeping roving and he doesn't stop
grinning. Who are you grinning at, you scum? Oh, how I'd like to smash my
iron first into that toothy grin. But no, I must not: such behavior is ill
befitting a legionnaire. After all, he's a lunatic, a pitiful cripple. He
can never know real happiness. He's blind, worthless, half-human. And that
red-haired bandit is squirming in the corner in unbearable pain. You lousy
criminal, here's a kick in the ass for you. Up on your feet, scum! Stand at
attention when a legionnaire sings his marching song. Here's something for
your empty head and your filthy face, and your insolent eyes. Take that, and
that!"
Guy flung Zef back against the wall and, clicking his heels, turned to
the captain. As usual after such fits of ecstasy, his ears rang and the
world floated and swayed pleasantly before his eyes.
Corporal Varibobu, blue-gray from the strain, coughed, holding his
chest. The doctor, sweaty and flushed, drank water greedily straight from
the pitcher and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. The captain frowned
vacantly as if trying to remember something. Red-haired Zef, looking like a
pile of dirty rags, writhed in pain. His face had been battered to a bloody
pulp and he was moaning weakly. And Mac Sim had stopped smiling. His face
had stiffened: his lips were parted as he stared at Guy, wide-eyed.
"Private Gaal," said the captain. "Something I wanted to tell you --
hold it, Zogu, leave me at least one swallow of water."
3.
Maxim woke up with a heavy head. It was stuffy in the room; the window
had been closed all night again. With the city so near him, it was senseless
to open the window. A grayish-brown cap of noxious fumes was visible over
the city. The wind carried them here, and neither distance, nor his
fifth-floor room high above the street, nor the park below offered relief.
"God, how I'd love to take an ion shower now and leap stark naked into our
gar- den -- not into this foul, rotting garden with its stinking fumes, but
into ours, near Gladbach, on the shore of the Nirs. I'd race ten miles
around the lake at top speed, swim across it, then walk along its bottom for
about twenty minutes to exercise my lungs. Then climb up the slippery
boulders. " He jumped up, opened the window, stuck out his head into the
drizzle, inhaled the damp air, and coughed -- the air was full of industrial
wastes, and the rain- drops left a metallic taste on his tongue. Cars
whizzed by along the nearby superhighway. Below, beneath the window, wet
foliage gleamed yellow, and something glistened on the high stone wall. At
the city's edge, as usual, thick columns of poisonous smoke curled lazily
from two high stacks and drooped toward the ground.
A suffocating world. A miserable, sick world. So bleak and sad. Like
that government office where people, suddenly, without rhyme or reason,
howled and sang themselves hoarse. And Guy, such a fine, handsome young man,
completely unexpectedly had beaten Redbeard Zef to a pulp. And the victim
hadn't even resist- ed. An unhappy world. A radioactive river, a ridiculous
iron drag- on, polluted air. And that clumsy two-tiered metal box moving
along on wheels, spewing pollution. And its slovenly passengers. And that
barbaric incident in the metal box on wheels, when rude people reduced an
elderly woman to tears with their boisterous laughter and gestures and no
one interceded. The box was jammed, but everyone turned away. Only Guy
jumped up, white with anger (maybe it had been fear) and shouted at them,
and they cleared out. But even Guy, who seemed to be a decent sort would
suddenly be seized by unexplainable rages, would quarrel violently with the
passengers in his compartment, stare at them and then Just as suddenly
become totally prostrated.
Yet the others behaved no better. They would sit peacefully for hours,
resting, chatting softly, even laughing; and suddenly someone would begin to
growl at his neighbor. The neighbor would respond with a nervous snarl. And
the other passengers did nothing to break it up. Instead of calming down the
quarreling pair, they Joined in. And the row would grow until everyone was
yelling, threatening, shoving. Even the children would howl at the top of
their lungs until their ears were boxed. Then everything would gradually
subside; people would get sulky and avoid conversation. And sometimes the
row would turn into a really disgusting affair. Eyes would practically pop
out of their sockets faces would flush with red blotches, voices would rise
to blood-curdling shrieks, and someone would laugh hysterically. Some would
pray, others sing. A madhouse.
Maxim left the window and paused briefly in the center of his cramped
room, feeling weak, apathetic, and exhausted. Forcing himself to take
positive action to overcome his deteriorating physical and mental state, he
began to exercise, using a bulky wooden chair as barbells. "You can sure go
to pot this way " he thought. "I suppose I can take it for another day or
so. Then 1'й have to get out of here. Maybe roam the forest awhile. Maybe it
wouldn't be a bad idea to run off to the mountains. Nice there And wild.
Pretty far -- you couldn't make it in one night. What did Guy call them?
Zartak. I wonder if that's the name of those mountains or their word for
mountains? Well, whatever they are I'd better forget about them for now.
I've been here ten days and haven't made any progress yet."
He squeezed into the stall shower and for several minutes rubbed
himself down in the dense artificial rain, as disgusting as their real ram.
True, it was slightly colder, but hard and caustic. He dried himself with a
sterile towel.
Annoyed with everything -- the bleary morning, this suffocating world,
his idiotic situation, the lousy, greasy breakfast he would eat shortly --
he returned to his room to make his bed. Breakfast was waiting for him,
fuming and stinking on the table. Fishfacewas closing the window.
"Неllо," said Maxim in the local language. "Window. Mustnot."
"Hello," she replied as she turned the window's many bolts. "Must.
Rain. Bad."
"Fishface," said Maxim in Lingcos. Her real name was Nolu, but Maxim
had instantly renamed her. Fishface she would always be, for her expression
and her imperturbability.
She turned and looked at him with unblinking eyes. For the nth time,
she touched her finger to the tip of her nose and said "woman," then pointed
at Maxim and said "man," then pointed to the baggy jump suit hanging on the
back of a chair. "Clothes. Must." Shorts weren't enough. For her, a man had
to be covered from the neck down.
While he dressed, she made his bed, although Maxim always insisted he
could do it himself. She pushed the chair to the middle of the room (Maxim
had moved it against the wall) and resolutely opened the radiator valve that
Maxim always turned off. His persistent use of "must not" shattered her no
less than his persistent "must."
After buttoning his jump suit at the neck, Maxim went to the table and
picked at his breakfast with a two-pronged fork. The usual exchange
followed.
"Don't want. Must not."
"Must. Food. Breakfast."
"Don't want breakfast. Tastes bad."
"Must eat breakfast. Good."
"Fishface," Maxim exploded in Lingcos, "you are a very cruel woman. If
you were to come to Earth, I would run myself ragged trying to find food you
liked."
"I don't understand," she said blankly. "What is 'fishface'?"
While disgustedly chewing a greasy chunk of food, Maxim took a piece of
paper and sketched a sunfish full face. She studied it carefully and put it
in the pocket of her smock. She appropriated all of Maxim's drawings and
took them somewhere. Maxim drew a great deal and enjoyed it. During free
moments and at night when he could not sleep, there was absolutely nothing
else to do. So he drew animals and people, charts and diagrams, and
anatomical cross sections. He drew Professor Megu like a hippopotamus, and
hippopotamuses like Professor Megu. He constructed an encyclopedic chart of
the Lingcos language, schematics of machines, and diagrams of historical
chronology. The reams of paper he consumed all disappeared into Fishface's
pocket without any visible evidence that he had succeeded in communicating
with his hosts. Hippo -- Professor Megu -- had his own approach to the
problem and had no intention of changing it.
The encyclopedic chart of Lingcos, whose study would enable them to
initiate communication with Maxim, held absolutely no interest for Hippo.
Fishface was the only person teaching the stranger the local language, and
then only the most basic terms for communication -- "Close the window," "Put
on your jumpsuit," and the like. Not a single communications specialist was
assigned to his case. Hippo, and only Hippo, was occupied with Maxim.
True, he had a rather powerful research tool at his command --
mentoscopic equipment -- and Maxim spent from fourteen to six-teen hours a
day in the testing chair. Moreover, Hippo's mento-scope was very sensitive.
It permitted rather deep memory penetration and possessed an extremely high
resolution capability. With such equipment it was possible to manage without
language.
But Hippo used the mentoscope in a rather peculiar manner. He
categorically refused to show his own mentograms to anyone and was even
somewhat angered by suggestions that he do so. And his attitude toward
Maxim's mentograms was strange. Maxim had organized his recollections so
that the natives would receive a rather comprehensive picture of Earth's
social, economic, and cultural life. But these mentograms failed to arouse
an enthusiastic response from Hippo. He would make a wry face, mumble, walk
away, make phone calls, or harass his assistant, frequently repeating a
succulent-sounding word, "massaraksh." When the screen showed Maxim blowing
up an icy crag that was bearing down on his ship, or tearing an armored wolf
to pieces, or rescuing a field laboratory from a gigantic, stupid
pseudo-octopus, nothing could drag him away from the mentoscope. He would
squeal softly, clap his head in delight, and yell at his exhausted
assistant, who was making recordings of the images. The sight of a
chromospheric protuberance would send the professor into raptures, as if he
had never seen anything like it before. And he was very fond of love scenes,
extracted by Maxim from movies for the specific purpose of giving the
natives some idea of Earthlings' emotional life.
The professor's absurd reaction to this material depressed Maxim. He
wondered if Hippo was really a professor and not simply a mentoscope
engineer preparing material for the real commission set up for communication
with visitors from outer space. Hippo seemed a rather primitive individual,
like a kid interested only in the battle scenes in War and PeaceWar and
Peace. It was humiliating, Maxim felt, to have such a serious matter as his
presentations of Earth taken so lightly. He was entitled to expect a more
serious partner in his attempt to communicate.
Of course, it was possible that this world was located at an
intersection of interstellar routes, so that visitors from outer space were
commonplace -- in fact, so commonplace that special commissions were not
established for each new arrival. Officials simply limited themselves to
eliciting the most essential information from them. In his case, for
example, the people with shiny but-tons, obviously not experts, had examined
his situation and, without further ado, sent him, a new arrival, to the
designated place. But, he thought, perhaps some nonhumanoids had made such a
bad impression that the natives reacted to all recent arrivals from other
planets with a decided but justifiable suspicion. Therefore, all Professor
Hippo's fussing with the mentoscope was merely a delaying action, only a
semblance of communication, until some higher authority decided his fate.
"One way or another," concluded Maxim, gagging on the last piece of
food, "I'm in a mess. If I'm going to get anywhere, I had better hurry up
and learn their language."
"Good," said Fishface, removing his plate. "Let's go."
Maxim sighed and rose. They entered the corridor. It was long, dirty
blue, and lined with doors, like the one to Maxim's room. Maxim never
encountered anyone here, but occasionally he heard excited voices coming
from behind closed doors. Possibly other strangers were being kept here to
await decisions on their fate.
Fishface walked in front of him with a long masculine stride, straight
as a stick, and Maxim felt very sorry for her. Apparently this country was
still uninitiated in the cosmetic arts, and poor Fishface had been left to
her own devices. The professor's assistant treated her with contempt, and
Hippo took no notice of her at all. Reminding himself of his own inattentive
attitude, his con-science began to bother him. He caught up with her, patted
her bony shoulder, and said: "Nolu, fine girl. Good girl."
She lifted a cold face to him, pushed away his hand, frowned, and
declared sternly: "Maxim bad. Man. Woman. Must not."
Embarrassed, Maxim dropped back again.
When they reached the end of the corridor, Fishface pushed open a door
and they entered a large light room that Maxim thought of as a reception
room. Its windows were decorated tastelessly with rectangular gratings of
thick iron rods. A high door upholstered in leather led to Hippo's
laboratory. For some reason two huge natives were always stationed by the
door. Never responding to greetings, they sat almost motionless and appeared
to be in a constant trance.
As always, Fishface went straight into the laboratory, leaving Maxim in
the reception room. Maxim, as usual, greeted the natives posted by the door
and, as usual, received no response. The door to the laboratory was slightly
ajar and he could hear Hippo's loud, irritated voice and the clicking of the
mentoscope. Maxim went to the window, gazed briefly at the wet landscape,
the wooded plain, and the superhighway, at the tall metal tower scarcely
visible in the fog, and quickly became bored. He decided to enter the
laboratory without waiting to be called.
It was filled, as usual, with the pleasant smell of ozone. Double
screens flickered. The bald, overworked assistant with an impossible name,
whom Maxim had nicknamed Floorlamp, pretended he was tuning the equipment as
he listened to the argument going on in the laboratory.
In Hippo's chair, behind Hippo's desk, sat a stranger with a square,
peeling face and swollen, bloodshot eyes. Hippo stood in front of him,
shrieking, legs thrust apart, hands against his sides, and leaning over
slightly. His neck veins bulged, his bald spot had turned a fiery
sunset-purple, and spray flew in all directions from his mouth.
Trying not to attract attention, Maxim passed to his work station
quietly and greeted the assistant in a low voice. Floorlamp, his nerves worn
to a frazzle, recoiled in terror and slipped on at hick cable. Maxim barely
managed to grab him by the shoulders. Floorlamp went limp. What a strange
man. He was deathly afraid of Maxim. Fishface appeared out of nowhere with a
small uncorked bottle that she stuck under Floorlamp's nose. Floorlamp
hiccupped and revived. Before he could slip into unconsciousness again,
Maxim leaned him against a steel cabinet and with-drew quickly.
After he sat down in the testing chair he noticed that the stranger had
stopped listening to Hippo and was observing him intently. Maxim smiled
warmly. The stranger tipped his head slightly. At that instant. Hippo banged
his fist on the table and grabbed the telephone. Taking advantage of the
pause, the stranger uttered a few words, but Maxim could distinguish only
"must" and "must not." Then the stranger picked up a sheet of thick bluish
paper with a bright green border and waved it in front of Hippo's face.
Annoyed, Hippo brushed it aside and immediately began to bark into the
phone. The words "must," "must not," and the puzzling "massaraksh" came from
his lips repeatedly, and Maxim even caught the word "window." It ended with
Hippo slamming down the receiver angrily, bellowing at the stranger, and
after raining curses on him, marching out and slamming the door.
Then the stranger rose from his seat, opened a long flat box ly-ing on
the window ledge, and took out a dark garment.
"Come here," he said to Maxim. "Put this on."
Maxim looked at Fishface.
"Go on!" said Fishface. "Put it on. Must."
Maxim realized that someone, somewhere, had made the decision he had
been awaiting and that he was in for a change. He flung off the ugly jump
suit and, with the stranger's help, put on the new garment. Maxim thought it
was neither handsome nor comfortable, but it was identical to the suit worn
by the stranger. Perhaps the stranger had given him a spare suit of his own,
for the jacket sleeves were too short and the trousers were baggy. But
everyone else was pleased with Maxim's appearance. The stranger mumbled his
approval. Fishface's features softened as she smoothed the shoulders and
straightened the jacket. Even Floor-lamp smiled wanly from behind the
control panel.
"Let's go," said the stranger as he moved toward the door.
"Good-bye," said Maxim to Fishface. "And thank you," he added in
Lingcos.
"Good-bye," replied Fishface. "Maxim good. Strong. Must go."
She seemed upset. Or, perhaps, concerned that the suit didn't fit too
well. Maxim waved to the pale Floorlamp and hurried after the stranger.
They passed through several rooms cluttered with bulky archaic
apparatus. They descended to the first floor in a rattling elevator and
entered the low-ceilinged vestibule where Guy had de-posited Maxim days ago.
Now, as then, he had to wait until some documents were prepared, until a
funny little man in absurd head-gear scratched something on pink cards, and
the stranger scratched something on green ones, and a girl wearing optical
amplifiers punched notches in them. Then everyone exchanged their cards and
everything got all mixed up, and finally the little man in the absurd
headgear appropriated two green cards and a pink one. And the stranger
received two pink ones, a thick blue one, and a round metal tag with an
inscription on it. And a minute later he handed all this to a burly man with
shiny buttons who was standing by the exit. When they were already outside,
the burly fellow suddenly began shouting hoarsely, and the stranger
re-turned again; it seems he had forgotten to take the blue card with him.
Maxim was seated to the right of the stranger in a ridiculously long
automobile. The stranger was furious about something. Puffing and panting,
he kept repeating Hippo's favorite expletive: Massaraksh."
The car growled, moved away gently from the curb, maneuvered through a
stationary herd of cars, rolled along the broad asphalt square in front of
the building, passed a large bed of wilted flowers, then a yellow wall,
rolled on to the highway's entrance ramp, and braked sharply.
"Massaraksh!" hissed the stranger as he turned off the engine.
An endless column of identical trucks stretched along the high-way. A
row of stationary circular objects of wet shiny metal protruded above the
side panels. The trucks moved slowly, maintaining appropriate intervals,
their engines gurgling rhythmically. They spread a terrible stench of
exhaust fumes everywhere.
Maxim studied the little door next to him, figured out how the window
worked, and raised it. Without turning toward him, the stranger uttered a
lengthy and completely incomprehensible sentence.
"I don't understand," said Maxim.
The stranger turned to him with a surprised expression and, judging
from his intonation, asked a question. Maxim shook his j head.
The stranger seemed even more surprised. He dug into his pocket, pulled
out a small flat box with little white sticks, stuck one in his mouth, and
offered the rest to Maxim. Out of courtesy, Maxim accepted the little box
and began to examine it. It was made of cardboard and smelled strongly of
some kind of dried leaves. Maxim took out one of the little sticks, bit off
a piece, and chewed it. He rolled down the window quickly, put his head out,
and spat. It was not food.
"Must not," he said, returning the box. "Taste bad."
The stranger stared at him and his mouth dropped open. The white stick
hung from his lip. Maxim, conforming with what appeared to be the local
custom, touched a stick to the end of his nose and introduced himself:
"Maxim."
The stranger mumbled something. A spark suddenly appeared in his hand;
he touched the tip of the white stick to it and instantly the car was filled
with nauseating smoke.
"Massaraksh!" shouted Maxim angrily and he flung open the door. "Must
not!"
Now he realized what these sticks were: when he was traveling with Guy,
almost all the men had poisoned the air with the very same kind of smoke,
but instead of white sticks they inserted in their mouths short and long
wooden objects which looked like the little wooden whistles children used in
ancient times. Apparently they inhaled some kind of narcotic -- undoubtedly
a very harmful custom. Maxim recalled how relieved he was to learn that Guy
was also opposed to this custom.
The stranger quickly tossed the narcotic stick out the window and waved
his palm in front of his face. To be on the safe side, Maxim waved his hand,
too, and then introduced himself again. He learned that the stranger's name
was Fank, and with that the conversation ended. They sat and waited for
about five minutes, exchanged friendly glances, and pointing out to each
other the endless column of trucks, kept repeating: "Massaraksh!" Finally
the endless column ended and Fank turned onto the highway.
He seemed to be in a great hurry. At any rate, he accelerated the
engine into a velvety roar; then he switched on some evil-sounding device
and, ignoring all safety rules, started to pass the column of trucks,
narrowly missing the cars speeding toward him.
They passed the column of trucks. Nearly flying onto the shoulder, they
swerved around a red vehicle with a lone driver; leaped past a wooden cart
with enormous wobbly wheels drawn by an ancient tailless beast; forced a
group of pedestrians wearing canvas capes into a ditch; sailed beneath a
canopy of wet trees planted in even rows along both sides of the road -- and
Fank kept accelerating. Realizing that the car had not been designed for
such speeds -- it was much too unstable -- Maxim felt uneasy.
Soon the road was lined with buildings. The car had burst into the
city, and Fank had to reduce his speed sharply.
The streets were disproportionately narrow and jammed with vehicles.
Hemmed in on all sides by vehicles of every conceivable description, Fank's
car hardly moved. A van ahead of them, its rear covered with flashy signs
and gaudy images of people and animals, almost blocked out the sky. On their
left crawled two identical cars, crowded with gesticulating men and women.
Beautiful women, colorful, unlike Fishface. Further to the left rolled some
sort of gyromat packed with passengers. On the right was a stationary strip
of asphalt closed to transport. People dressed in strange violet and black
clothing bumped, passed, and dodge done another as they shouldered their way
through the crowds.
There were many pale, drawn faces, very similar to Fishface's. Almost
everyone was ugly, painfully thin, too pale, awkward, and angular. Yet they
appeared to be content: they laughed often and seemed relaxed, their eyes
sparkled, and animated voices filled the air. "Perhaps," thought Maxim,
"this is a well-organized society after all." The houses seemed cheerful --
lights were shining in almost all the windows, which meant there was no
shortage of electric power. Many-colored lights above rooftops blinked
gaily. Streets were washed clean. Almost everyone was neatly dressed. But
although this world appeared prosperous on the surface, something was wrong:
there were too many haggard faces.
Suddenly there was an abrupt change of mood. Excited cries rang through
the air. A man climbed onto a glass kiosk and began to shout, waving a free
hand as he hung on with the other. Singing broke out on the sidewalk.
Pedestrians halted in their tracks, tossed their hats in the air, and sang
and shouted themselves hoarse, lifting their drawn faces to enormous colored
signs flashing across the street.
"Massaraksh!" hissed Fank, and the car swerved sharply. Maxim looked at
him. Fank's face was deathly white and contorted. He pulled his hands back
from the wheel with difficulty and stared at his watch.
"Massaraksh!" he groaned. He uttered several other words, but Maxim
caught only "I don't understand."
Fank glanced over his shoulder, and his face grew even more contorted.
Mac looked back, too, but saw nothing unusual. Only a bright yellow
box-shaped automobile.
By now the shouting and shrieking on the street had reached fever
pitch, but Maxim had no time to think about it. Fank had lost consciousness
and the car was still moving. The van in front of them slammed on its
brakes, and a massive gaudy wall came at Maxim head-on. Then, a dull thud, a
sickening crunch, and the hood of their car sprang up.
"Fank!" shouted Maxim. "Fank! Must not!"
Fank lay there moaning, his body slumped over the wheel, Brakes
squealed, traffic stopped, and sirens howled. Maxim shook Fank by the
shoulder and then opened the window, shouting, "Hurry! Hurt!"
The singing, yelling mob converged on the car. Maxim was to-tally
bewildered. Either these people were outraged by the accident, or they were
insanely overjoyed about something, or they were threatening someone. It
would be pointless to shout for help; he couldn't even hear himself. So he
returned to Fank. Now Fank's head was thrown back against the seat; and with
all his strength he was kneading his temples and cheeks. Saliva oozed from
the corners of his mouth. Realizing that Fank was in terrible pain, Maxim
grasped him firmly by the elbows and braced himself quickly, preparing to
transfer the pain to his own body. He wasn't sure it would work with a
non-Earthling, and he searched in vain for a point where he could establish
nerve contact. To make matters worse, Fank pulled his hands from his temples
and with all his remaining strength tried to push Maxim away, mumbling
desperately and tearfully. Maxim understood only "Go, go!" He was sure that
Fank was out of his mind.
The door next to Fank opened wide. Two faces beneath black berets
forced their way into the car. Rows of metal buttons glittered, Maxim's door
was opened, and strong hands gripped his shoulders, side, and neck. They
pulled him away from Fank and dragged him from the car. He did not resist.
As he was pushed into the noisy mob, he saw two men in berets dragging the
writhing Fank to the yellow car, while three others in berets cleared a path
through the arm-waving crowd. Then, with a roar, the crowd closed in on the
wrecked car; the car lurched clumsily, rose in the air, and turned onto its
side. The crowd descended on it, still shouting and singing. Everyone had
been seized by a frantic ecstasy.
Maxim was driven back to the wall of a building and pressed against a
wet shop window. Craning his neck, he spotted the yellow car. It set off
with a brassy wailing noise. Forcing its way through the mob, it disappeared
from sight.
4.
By late evening Maxim had had it with the city. He was ravenous. He had
been on his feet all day, seen a great deal but under-stood almost nothing.
He did pick up several new words by eavesdropping on conversations and could
now identify some of the letters on signs and posters, but that was it. The
accident with Fank had disturbed him, yet he was relieved to be on his own
again. Independence was very important to him; it was something he had
lacked during his confinement in Hippo's fifth-floor termite's nest with its
miserable ventilation. Reviewing the entire situation, he decided not to
return to Hippo for the time being but to lose himself for a while. Sure,
courtesy to your hosts was important, but the chance to gather information
was something to be considered as well. Yes, it was damned important to
establish communication with these people, but a better opportunity to
gather information on his own would probably never turn up again. So
communication would have to wait.
The city amazed him. It bugged the earth. All movement took place
either along the ground or beneath it. The vast areas between buildings and
the sky above them were filled only with smoke, rain, and fog. The city was
gray, smoky, and drab. There was a sameness everywhere. Not in its buildings
-- some were rather beautiful -- nor in the monotonous swarming of crowds on
its streets; not in its eternal dampness, nor in the striking lifelessness
of its solid mass of stone and asphalt -- its sameness resided in something
all-embracing, something very basic. It resembled the gigantic mechanism of
a clock in which every part is different, yet everything moves, rotates,
meshes, and unmeshes in a single, endless rhythm; where a change in rhythm
means only one thing -- faulty mechanism, breakdown, stoppage. A strange
world, so unlike anything he had ever seen! It was probably a very complex
society governed by many laws. But there was one that Maxim had already
discovered for himself: conform, do as everyone else does in the same way as
everyone else. And this was precisely what he was doing. Melting into the
crowd, he entered gigantic stores under dirty glass roofs; together with the
crowds he left them, descended into the earth, squeezed into jammed electric
trains, and sped off somewhere amid incredible thundering; then, swept along
by the crowd, he ascended to the surface again to streets identical to the
ones he had just left.
Evening had fallen, and the feeble streetlights suspended high above
the ground had gone on. The main streets were now congested. Retreating from
the crowds, Maxim found himself in a half-deserted, poorly lit lane. He
decided that he'd had enough of the city for the day and halted.
He noticed three luminous gold spheres, a blinking blue sign made of
fluorescent glass tubes, and a door leading to a cellar cafe. He had already
learned that the three spheres meant a place where food was available.
Descending some chipped steps, he saw a small low-ceilinged room with a
dozen tables, a floor thickly coated with clean sawdust, and glass shelves
crammed with bottles of iridescent liquids. The cafe was almost empty.
Behind a counter in front of the shelves a flabby elderly woman moved
sluggishly; a short distance away, a short but strong-looking fellow with a
thick black mustache sat casually at a small table.
Maxim entered, chose a table in a recess away from the counter, and sat
down. The old woman glanced in his direction and said something in a hoarse
but loud voice. The man looked at him vacantly, turned away, picked up a
tall glass of transparent liquid, and took a sip. A door opened, and an
attractive young girl wearing a white lace apron entered the room. Noticing
Maxim, she went to his table, but instead of meeting his eyes, she stared
over his head. She had clear delicate skin, light down on her up-per lip,
and beautiful gray eyes. Maxim brought his finger to the tip of his nose
gallantly and introduced himself: "Maxim."
The girl looked down at him in amazement as if seeing him now for the
first time. She was so lovely that Maxim couldn't restrain a broad smile.
Then she smiled and pointed to her nose: "Rada."
"Good," said Maxim. "Supper."
She nodded and asked a question. To be on the safe side, Maxim nodded
and smiled. He watched her as she walked away. Her slim graceful figure
reminded him that this world, too, had its beautiful people.
The old woman uttered a lengthy comment and vanished be-hind the
counter. Maxim noticed that the man was staring at him. Rather hostilely,
too. Oh, well, forget it. He probably didn't appear particularly friendly
himself.
Rada reappeared and served Maxim a bowl of steaming porridge with meat
and vegetables and a thick glass mug filled with a foaming liquid.
"Good," said Maxim. He motioned to her to join him.
If only she would sit with him and talk to him while he ate. What a
pleasure it would be to hear her voice. He was anxious for her to know that
he liked her and would enjoy her company.
But Rada merely smiled and shook her head. She said some-thing -- Maxim
caught the words "to sit," and she returned to the counter. Too bad, thought
Maxim. He picked up the two-pronged fork and began to eat, trying to compose
a sentence from the thirty words he knew, a sentence that would express
friendship and his need to communicate.
As she leaned against the counter with her arms folded across her
chest, Rada glanced at him from time to time. Each time their eyes met, they
smiled at each other, and Maxim was somewhat surprised when Rada's smiles
grew progressively weaker and more hesitant. He had very mixed feelings. He
enjoyed looking at Rada, although his pleasure was marred by a growing
uneasiness. And he was pleased that the meal had turned out to be
surprisingly tasty and nourishing, but at the same time he felt the man's
oppressive sidelong glances and the disapproval in the eyes of the old
woman. He took a sip from the mug. Yes, it was beer -- cold and fresh, but,
he thought, too strong.
The man said something, and Rada went over to his table. Justas a
smothered conversation began, a fly attacked Maxim and he had to struggle
with it. Powerful, blue, and impudent, it seemed to jump in all directions
at once; it buzzed and whined, as if declaring its love for Maxim. It
insisted on staying with him and his plate. It walked on it, licked it. It
was stubborn and verbose. The escapade ended with the fly falling into his
beer when Maxim swung at the wrong moment. He set the mug down squeamishly
on another table and continued eating. Rada returned, this time unsmiling;
she looked away and asked him something.
"Yes," replied Maxim, playing it safe again. "Rada good."
She gazed at him in undisguised fright, moved off to the counter, and
returned carrying a small glass of brown liquid on a saucer.
"Tasty," said Maxim, looking at the girl with warmth and concern. "What
is bad? Rada, sit here. Talk. Must talk. Must not go."
To Maxim's surprise, his carefully prepared speech made a poor
impression on Rada. He thought she was about to cry. She whispered something
and ran from the room. The old woman be-hind the counter uttered several
angry words. "I'm doing some-thing wrong," thought Maxim, upset. "But what?"
Obviously the man and the woman did not care to have Rada sit and talk with
him. But since they clearly were neither government officials nor guardians
of the law, and since he apparently had not violated any laws, the best
thing would be to ignore their hostile stares.
The man drained his glass, took a thick black polished cane from under
the table, and walked slowly toward Maxim. He sat down opposite him, placed
the cane across the table, and without looking at Maxim but obviously
addressing him, spoke slowly and laboriously, repeating frequently
"Massaraksh." The hostility and enmity in Ms speech were strangely diluted
by the indifference in his intonation and facial expression and by the
emptiness of his colorless glassy eyes.
"I don't understand," said Maxim angrily.
The man slowly turned a blank face to him and seemed to look right
through him. Slowly and distinctly he asked Maxim a question, then suddenly
whipped a long shiny knife out of his cane. Maxim was bewildered. Not
knowing what to say or how to react, he picked up a fork and twirled it in
his fingers. The effect was startling. The man jumped back, knocking over
his chair. Holding his knife in front of him, he crouched down absurdly. The
old woman let out a piercing shriek. Taken by surprise, Maxim jumped up.
Suddenly the man was beside him. At that instant Rada appeared, planted
herself between them, and shouted, first at the man, then at Maxim. At this
point Maxim was totally con-fused. The man picked up his cane, returned the
knife to its hiding place, and walked toward the exit quietly. He turned
around in the doorway, muttered something, and vanished.
Rada, pale and trembling, picked up the overturned chair, wiped up the
brown puddle on the table, and cleared away the dirty dishes. She returned
and said something to Maxim, to which he replied, as usual, "Yes." It was
hopeless. Rada repeated the same words, but this time she sounded angry,
although Maxim felt that she was more frightened than angry. "No," he
replied, and instantly the woman behind the counter began to yell so hard
her cheeks shook. Finally Maxim admitted, "I don't under-stand."
The woman sprang out from behind the counter, flew over to Maxim, and
planted herself in front of him. She grabbed him by his shirt and rummaged
through his pockets. Maxim was so stunned that he didn't resist, but only
repeated "Must not" and looked plaintively at Rada. The old woman, behaving
as though she had suddenly come to a fateful decision, rushed back behind
the counter and grabbed the telephone.
"Fank!" said Maxim with emotion. "Fank hurt! Go. Bad."
The tension broke suddenly. Rada said something to the old woman that
convinced her to put down the phone. She sputtered a bit more, then calmed
down. Rada sat Maxim down again, served him a fresh mug of beer, and to his
delight and relief joined him. For a while everything went smoothly. Rada
asked questions, and Maxim, beaming with pleasure, answered them with "I
don't understand." Maxim laboriously constructed another sentence and
declared: "Rain, massaraksh, bad, fog." Rada broke out laughing. Then
another girl arrived and greeted them. Rada and she left the room, and after
a while Rada re-turned, but without her apron. She was wearing a bright red
cape and carrying a large handbag.
"Let's go," she said, and Maxim jumped up.
They were unable to leave immediately. The old woman began to shout
again. She was angry about something, demanding some-thing. She waved a pen
and sheet of paper in the air. Rada argued with her for a while, but the
other girl came over and took the woman's side. Rada finally relented. Then
the three of them con-fronted Maxim. At first they repeated the same
question, singly and then in chorus, which Maxim, of course, didn't
understand. At last Rada ordered everyone to keep quiet; she clapped Maxim
lightly on the chest.
"Mac Sim?"
"Maxim," he corrected her.
"Max? Im?"
"Maxim. Max -- must not. Im -- must not. Maxim."
Rada brought her finger to the tip of her nose and said, "Rada Gaal.
Maxim."
"Gaal?" he said. "Guy Gaal?"
Dead silence. They were stunned.
"Guy Gaal," repeated Maxim, overjoyed. "Guy good man."
Suddenly there was a commotion as the women all began to talk at once.
Rada tugged at Maxim and asked something. Obviously she was terribly
interested in learning how he knew Guy. "Guy, Guy, Guy" bobbed up in a
stream of incomprehensible words.
"Massaraksh!" said the old woman as she burst into laughter. And the
girls joined in. Rada took Maxim by the arm, and they went out into the
rain.
They walked to the end of a poorly lit side street and turned into an
even dimmer lane where rickety wooden houses lined a muddy road paved with
uneven cobblestones. Then they made two more turns. The narrow crooked
streets were deserted. Not a single pedestrian was out.
At first Rada chattered animatedly, repeating Guy's name frequently.
Maxim interjected occasionally that Guy was a fine per-son, but added in
Lingcos that one should not beat people in the face, that this was a strange
custom, and that he, Maxim, could not understand it. As the streets they
passed through grew narrower, darker, and muddier, Rada's chatter broke off
more frequently. Sometimes she stopped and peered into the darkness. At
first Maxim thought she was trying to find a drier path, but it was
something else she was searching for, because she walked straight through
the puddles. Maxim had to guide her away from them gently and lead her onto
drier ground. Where there wasn't any, he lifted her under the arms and
carried her, which appeared to please her. But each time her delight would
quickly be smothered by fear.
The farther they walked from the cafe, the more fearful she be-came. At
first Maxim tried to establish nerve contact with her, but, as with Fank, he
was unsuccessful. They left the slums and came out on a muddy unpaved road.
An endless fence, topped with rusty barbed wire, extended along the right
side, and on the left was a pitch-dark, putrid wasteland. Here Rada became
completely unnerved and almost burst into tears. To boost her spirits, Maxim
sang the most cheerful songs he knew, at the top of his lungs. For a short
time it helped -- until they reached the end of the fence. Here were more
houses, long, low, with dark windows. The few street lights burned dimly,
and in the distance, beneath a solitary archway, stood a group of
rain-drenched, bunched-over, shivering figures. Rada halted.
Grasping his arm, she began to speak in a faltering whisper. She pulled
him back and he obeyed, thinking it would make her feel better. Then,
realizing that she had acted impulsively, out of desperation, he refused to
budge.
"Let's go," he said to her gently. "Let's go, Rada. Not bad. Good."
Like a child, she obeyed. Although he didn't know the way, he led her
and suddenly realized that she was afraid of the wet figures. He was very
surprised because they didn't appear dangerous; they were ordinary natives,
hunched over in the rain and shivering from the dampness. At first there
were two of them; then a third and a fourth appeared with those glowing
narcotic sticks hanging from their lips.
Maxim walked along the deserted street between the rows of yellow
houses, directly toward them, and Rada kept pressing closer to him. He
placed his arm around her shoulder. It suddenly occurred to him that he was
mistaken, that Rada must be shaking from the cold and not from fear. There
was certainly nothing dangerous about those rain-soaked figures. He walked
past them. Hands thrust deep inside their pockets and stamping to warm
themselves, those pitiful souls, poisoned by narcotics, didn't appear to
notice Rada or him, didn't even raise their eyes, although he passed close
enough to hear their sick, irregular breathing. Now, he thought, Rada could
relax. But as they passed the arch-way another group of four, as wet and
pitiful as the first, sprang out in front of them and blocked their path.
Their leader held along thick cane. Maxim recognized both him and the cane.
The stranger in the cafe.
From the top of the peeling archway a bare bulb dangled in the draft.
The walls were covered with mold, and below his feet lay cracked concrete
marked by the muddy tracks of many feet. Sounds of shuffling feet came from
the rear. Maxim turned around. The first four were catching up, gasping for
breath and tossing away those repulsive narcotic sticks. Rada let out a
muffled cry and let go of his hand. Suddenly he was hemmed in, pressed
against the wall. He could see two of them holding Rada by the arms. The one
with the cane went up to her, shifted the cane to his left hand, and raising
his right with a deliberate motion, struck her on the cheek.
Maxim lost all sense of reality. Something clicked in his brain and the
people vanished. Only he and Rada were there. No one else. Near them
dangerous animals stamped clumsily through the mud. City, archway, naked
bulb -- all were gone. For him there were only the impassable mountains in
the Land of Oz-on-Pandora. And a cave, a trap set by naked apes. And a pale,
yellow, apathetic moon looking into the cave. He had to fight for his life.
And now he began to fight as he had fought then on Pandora.
Time slowed down obediently. Seconds became hours, and during the span
of a single second he could perform many maneuvers, deliver many blows, and
see all his adversaries simultaneously. The animals were not very agile.
They were used to tangling with another kind of beast. They didn't have time
to realize that they had chosen the wrong victim and that it would have been
wiser to run away. They tried to fight. Maxim seized one of the animals by
the jaw, yanked up its pliant head, and chopped its pale pulsating neck with
the edge of his hand. Instantly he turned to the next one and grabbed,
jerked, and chopped, in a cloud of stinking, predatory breathing, in the
cave's echoing silence, in the yellow, dripping semidarkness. Dirty crooked
claws tore at his neck and slid off; yellow fangs sank deep into his
shoulder and slid off.
Now he was alone. Their leader was rushing toward the cave's exit with
his club because he, like all leaders, possessed the sharpest reflexes and
was the first to realize what was happening. For an instant, Maxim felt
sorry for him: how slowly he seemed to react -- the seconds stretched out,
and their fleet leader had scarcely moved his legs when Maxim, slipping
between the seconds, caught up with him. Maxim hacked him on the run and
halted.
Time resumed its normal flow again: the cave was now an archway; the
moon, a bare bulb; and the Land of Oz-on-Pandora, an enigmatic city on an
enigmatic planet. Even more enigmatic than Pandora.
Maxim stood there, resting. The leader crawled about painfully on the
ground. Blood trickled from Maxim's wounded shoulder. Sobbing, Rada took his
hand and ran his palm across her wet face. He looked around; bodies lay like
sacks on the dirty concrete. Mechanically, he counted them. Six, including
the leader; two, he thought, had managed to escape. Rada's touch felt
indescribably pleasant, and he knew that he had taken the proper course; he
had done what had to be done. No more, no less. He didn't bother to pursue
those who had escaped, although he could have overtaken them easily. Even
now he could hear their heels clicking at the end of the street.
The ones who had failed to escape lay on the ground; some would die,
and some were already dead. These, he realized, were people, too, not apes
or armored wolves, although their breath was foul, their touch dirty, and
their thoughts repulsive and predatory .He felt a certain regret, sensed
that he had lost something, something fine and pure, a part of his soul, and
he realized that the old Maxim had disappeared forever. In spite of this
loss, he felt a kind of strange pride stirring within him.
"Let's go, Maxim," Rada said quietly.
He followed her submissively.
"In short, you let him slip through your fingers."
"What could I do, Strannik? You know how it is."
"Damn it, Fank'. You didn't have to do a damned thing. All you had to
do was take a driver with you."
"All right, it was my fault. But who could have expected... ?"
"OK. Enough. What measures have you taken?"
"As soon as I was released, I phoned Megu. Megu didn't know anything
about it. If he returns, Megu will let me know immediately. Next, I put all
insane asylums under surveillance. He can't go far. He sticks out like a
sore thumb."
"And?"
"I alerted our people in the police department. I ordered them to
follow up every case, even petty traffic violations. He doesn't have
documents. I'll be informed if anyone arrested doesn't have identification
papers. He can't hide, even if he wants to. It's just a matter of two or
three days. A simple matter."
"Simple, you say? What could be simpler than getting into a car,
driving to the telecenter, and transporting a man here? But you couldn't
even handle that."
"OK, it's my fault. But such a coincidence -- "
"Enough about coincidences. Do you really think he's crazy?"
"It's hard to say. He's more like a savage. Like a well-washed,
well-groomed savage from the mountains. But I can easily imagine a situation
in which he'd act like a lunatic. Then there's that idiotic smile, the
imbecilic speech. And he's a complete fool."
"Of course. You've taken the proper steps. But there's something else,
Fank. Contact the underground."
"What?"
"If you don't find him in the next few days, he'll undoubtedly turn up
in the underground."
"I do not understand what a savage would be doing in the underground."
"There's lots of them in the underground. Don't ask stupid questions --
just do what I tell you. If you lose him again, you're fired."
"It won't happen again."
"Good. What else do you have for me?"
PART TWO: LEGIONNAIRE
5.
Captain Chachu completed the briefing and barked: "Corporal Gaal,
remain. The rest are dismissed."
After the other platoon leaders had filed out, the captain, swiveling
in his chair and whistling the old soldier's song "Cool It, Mama," studied
Guy for some time. Captain Chachu bore no resemblance to Captain Tolot. He
was stocky and swarthy, with a large bald spot, much older than Tolot and,
not long ago, had fought in eight coastal actions. He had received the Fiery
Cross and three other medals for bravery under fire. People still talked
about his fantastic duel with a white submarine: his tank had received a
direct hit and caught fire, but he continued firing until he lost
consciousness from severe bums. It was said that his entire body was covered
by skin transplants. Three fingers were missing from his left hand. He was
blunt and coarse, a real fighter. Unlike the reserved Captain Tolot, he
never thought it necessary to conceal his emotions from his subordinates or
superiors. When he was in a good mood, the entire brigade knew it, but when
he was out of sorts and whistled "Cool It, Mama," well, watch out.
Looking him straight in the eye, Guy was dismayed by the thought that
he had somehow disappointed and angered this remarkable man. He quickly
reviewed in his mind all his own minor offenses and those of his platoon but
could recall nothing that hadn't been dismissed with a careless wave of the
captain's crippled hand and a throaty, grumpy response: "OK, that's what the
Legion's all about. The hell with it!"
The captain stopped swiveling and whistling.
"I don't like a lot of talk and scribbling," he said. "Either you
recommend Candidate Sim or you don't. Which is it?"
"Yes, sir, I recommend him," said Guy quickly. "But..."
"No 'buts,' corporal! Do you or don't you?"
"I do, sir."
"Then what's the meaning of these two pieces of paper?"
The captain pulled some papers from his pocket and unfolded them on the
desk, holding them down with his crippled hand. "Here it says: 'I recommend
the aforementioned Mac Sim, a loyal and capable person' -- well, that's
clear -- 'for appointment to the noble calling of candidate in the ranks of
the Fighting Legion.' And here's your second note: 'In connection with the
aforementioned, I feel it is my duty to call the attention of the command to
the need for a thorough check of the designated candidate for the Fighting
Legion, Mac Sim.' Massaraksh! What the hell do you really mean, corporal?"
"Captain!" Guy was very agitated. "I really don't know what to say. I
know Candidate Sim is a loyal citizen, devoted to the Legion's ideals. I'm
sure that he will have much to contribute. But since only men of impeccable
integrity belong in the Legion, I thought -- "
"You thought!" the captain snapped. "Corporal, here's what you'll do.
You'll take one of these two notes right now and tear it up. You must
understand that I cannot go to the brigadier with two statements. It's got
to be either yes or no. This is the Legion, corporal, not a philosophy
department! You have two minutes to think it over."
The captain took a thick folder from a drawer and disgustedly tossed it
on the desk. Guy looked at his watch despondently. It was a difficult
decision to make. It was dishonest and unworthy of a legionnaire to conceal
from the authorities his incomplete knowledge of the man he was
recommending, even if it was Mac. On the other hand, it was dishonest and
unworthy of a legionnaire to avoid responsibility by shifting the decision
onto the captain, who had seen Maxim only twice, and then only in formation.
"Well, all right, I'll go over it again. Points in favor: He has accepted
the Legion's ideals heart and soul; he passed the physical without a hitch;
he was sent by Captain Tolot and Doctor Zogu to some top-secret institution,
evidently for a thorough investigation, which he passed. True, I'm taking
Maxim's own word for this last statement -- he claims he lost all his
documents. And last, he's a brave, natural-born fighter. He made short work
of Ratso's gang, single handed. He's open in his dealings with others,
good-natured, and absolutely unselfish. And extraordinarily gifted. Points
against: We've absolutely no idea who he is and where he came from; either
he remembers nothing of his past or he refuses to tell us. And he doesn't
have any documents. But why should that bother us? After all, the government
now controls only the borders and the central region. Two-thirds of our
country is still torn by anarchy and plagued by starvation and epidemics.
People are fleeing those areas and none of them have documents -- the
younger ones don't even know what documents are. And how many of them have
lost their memory! And how many degens! But we know one thing for sure, the
most important -- Maxim is not a degen."
"Well, corporal?" asked the captain.
"Yes, sir!" said Guy rather recklessly. "May I?"
He picked up the note containing his suggestion that Maxim be checked
and tore it up slowly.
"Cor-rect decision! Well done, legionnaire! Notes, reports, checks --
rubbish! Combat will be the proving ground! When we get into our tanks and
head for the atomic trap zone, we'll find out damn quick who is with us and
who isn't."
"Yes, sir," said Guy without particular conviction. He understood the
old soldier, but he felt that the hero of the coastal actions was mistaken.
Combat, of course, was important, but one's integrity was something else.
Anyway, the question had nothing to do with Maxim's case. Maxim was honest
to the core.
"Massaraksh!" barked the captain. "The Health Department certified him
and the rest is our business." He looked at Guy angrily and added: "A
legionnaire has complete trust in his friend. If he doesn't, he's certainly
no friend and he ought to kick him out. I'm surprised at you, corporal. OK,
back to your platoon. There's very little time left. I'll watch the
candidate myself during the operation."
Guy clicked his heels and left. Safely outside, he smiled. The old
soldier had taken the responsibility on himself after all. Now, with a clear
conscience, he could consider Maxim his friend. Mac Sim. His real surname
was a mouthful. Either he had imagined it in a delirious state or he
actually was related to those mountain people. H'm, what was the name of
their ancient king. Zaremichakbeshmucaray. Guy walked over to the parade
ground and scanned it for his platoon. Tireless Pandi was driving the men
through the top-floor window of a dummy three-story building. They were
soaked from the effort, and with only an hour left before the operation,
that wasn't so good.
"As you were!" shouted Guy from afar.
"As you were!" yelled Pandi. "Fall in!"
The platoon fell into formation quickly.
"Attention!" Pandi shouted. He marched up to Guy smartly and reported:
"Corporal, the platoon is learning to take a town by assault."
"Stand at attention," ordered Guy, trying to express disapproval by his
tone of voice, as Corporal Serembesh was so skilled at doing. He strode back
and forth in front of the formation, hands clasped behind his back, looking
into the familiar faces of his men.
Bulging eyes -- gray, brown, blue -- followed his every movement, ready
to execute his orders. Ibis was his life, these twelve strong men -- six
full privates of the Fighting Legion on the right flank and six candidates
aspiring to be regular privates on the left flank; all wearing smart black
jump suits with shiny buttons, glistening combat boots, and berets tipped
jauntily over their right eyebrows. And in the center of the formation, on
the candidates' right flank, lowered Maxim, his favorite, even though it was
wrong for a platoon leader to single out one over the others. "Hey, what's
this? Those strange brown eyes of his aren't rigid like the others. Well,
all right, he'll learn that in time... And what's this?"
Guy went up to Maxim and jabbed at his open top button. Then, standing
on tiptoe, he adjusted his beret. "Damn, there goes that stupid grin again.
Well, give him time, he'll outgrow it. After all, he is the youngest recruit
in the platoon."
To avoid any semblance of favoritism, Guy straightened the buckle on
Maxim's neighbor, although it was unnecessary. Then he stepped back three
paces and ordered the platoon to stand at ease.
"Men," said Guy, "today we're going to take part in a regular operation
as part of the company. We're going to neutralize the agents of a potential
enemy. The operation will be conducted according to Plan Thirty-three. I
know that you regular privates remember your part, but I think it would help
to refresh the memories of those candidates who neglect to fasten all their
buttons. Each platoon is assigned one entrance to the building. The platoon
divides into four teams: three teams of three for the inside job, and a
backup team outside. The inside teams of two privates and one candidate will
go through all the apartments systematically, and remember, without making a
commotion. After a patrol has entered an apartment, it will do as follows:
the candidate will guard the front door; a private will occupy the rear
entrance and not permit anything to divert him: and the team leader will
inspect the apartment. The outside backup team of three candidates commanded
by the platoon leader -- in this case, me -- will remain below at the
building's entrance, prepared to render immediate assistance to any inside
team requiring it. You know the makeup of the inside teams and the backup
teams. Attention!" He withdrew one step. "Fall into teams!"
After a brief shuffling, the platoon regrouped into teams. Each man
stood in his proper place. No one had fumbled with his submachine gun,
slipped, or lost his beret, as usually happened during exercises. Maxim,
with a broad grin on his face again, lowered above the backup team's right
flank. An absurd thought suddenly occurred to Guy -- that Maxim viewed the
entire operation as an amusing game. Damn it, it couldn't be true! It was
just that damn idiotic smile.
"Not bad," grumbled Guy, giving Pandi an approving look. The old man
had done a fine job -- really drilled the men. "Attention! Platoon, fall
in!"
A brief shuffling again, neat and precise -- beautiful -- and the
platoon stood before him in a straight row. Good! Simply remarkable! A
shiver ran through him. Hands clasped behind his back, he strode up and down
in front of the platoon.
"Legionnaires!" he said. "We are the strength and hope of the
All-Powerful Creators. In fulfilling their great mission they have only us
to rely on." This was the truth, the real truth; and there was a certain
fascination in it. It gave one a sense of superiority to the rest of
society. "The Fighting Legion is the iron fist of history. It has been
called upon to sweep aside all obstacles on our proud path. The sword of the
Fighting Legion has been tempered in fire; it burns in our hands, and only
streams of the enemy's blood can cool it. The enemy is cunning. He is
cowardly, but stubborn. The All-Powerful Creators have commanded us to smash
this treacherous resistance, to tear out by the roots those forces that drag
us down into chaos and depraved anarchy. That is our duty and we are happy
to fulfill it. We make many sacrifices. We disturb the tranquillity of our
mothers, brothers, and children We deprive the honest worker, the honest
civil servant, the honest tradesman and industrialist of much deserved rest.
They know why we must invade their homes, and they welcome us as their best
friends, as their protectors. Remember this, and do not let anything divert
you from your mission. A friend is a friend, but an enemy is an enemy. Are
there any questions?"
"No!" bellowed the platoon.
"Attention! Thirty minutes to rest and check your equipment.
Dismissed!"
The platoon scattered and headed for the barracks in twos and threes.
Guy followed slowly, and Maxim, smiling, waited for him a short distance
away. "Guy, how about a fast round of the word?"
Guy groaned to himself. He'd have to shut this kid up! Gag him! God,
imagine a candidate bugging his corporal with such idiotic nonsense a
half-hour before an operation.
"This isn't the time for games," he said as coldly as possible.
"Are you upset about something?" asked Maxim sympathetically.
Guy shook his head in exasperation. What the hell could he do with him?
It was utterly impossible to silence such a good-natured giant, who was on
top of everything else his sister's savior and a man far superior to himself
in everything but military drill. Guy glanced around and then pleaded:
"Listen, Mac, you're putting me in a damned awkward position When we're in
the barracks, I'm your boss, I give the orders, and you obey. I've been
pounding that into your dumb head."
"But I am ready to obey you. Go ahead, give an order! I know what
discipline is."
"I already have. Check your equipment."
"Excuse me Guy. But that isn't the order you gave us. You ordered us to
check equipment and rest. Have you forgotten? Well I've checked my equipment
and now I'm resting. So, how about the word game? I've thought up a good
one."
"Mac, get this! A subordinate has the right to address his superior
officer only according to regulations. And only in regard to military
matters."
"Yes, I remember. Paragraph Nine. But that's only when we're on duty.
At the moment, we're resting."
"How do you know I'm resting?" asked Guy. They stood behind an
enclosure, where, thank God, they could not be seen. No one could see this
tower leaning against the fence and tugging his corporal by the buttons.
"Look, Mac, I rest only at home, but even there I would never permit a
subordinate to... now let goof my buttons and button up your own."
Maxim fastened his buttons.
"Guy, I don't understand you. On duty you behave one way at home
another. Why?"
"Let's not go into that again. I'm sick of telling you the same thing
over and over. And that grin of yours -- when are you going to stop smiling
in formation?"
"There's nothing in the regulations that says you can't smile," replied
Mac slowly. "As far as repeating the same thing over and over to me, Guy,
there's something I want to tell you. Now, don't be offended at what I'm
going to say. I know you're not a -- speecher -- a reciter..."
"A what?"
"You're not a person who can speak beautifully."
"Orator?"
"Orator. Yes, that's the word. You're not an orator. But that doesn't
matter. Today you made a speech to us. You spoke the right words, good
words. But at home when you spoke about the Legion and the job it had to do
and about conditions in your country, it was very interesting. It came from
you, it was really you speaking. But here you repeat the same thing over and
over and it's not really you speaking. Everything you say here is true, but
it's always the same. And very boring. You're not offended, are you?"
No, of course Guy wasn't offended, but a fine icy needle had just
pricked his ego: until now he had thought he had always presented things to
his men as smoothly and convincingly as Corporal Serembesh. And the captain,
too, had been repeating the very same speech for three years. There was
nothing surprising or disgraceful about it. After all, nothing had really
changed in th
