Arkady and Boris Strugatsky - Prisoners of Power

 © 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
 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'é 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.
     "Íållî," 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 the country's domestic or foreign policy in the past three years.
     "And  where  does  it  say, Mac, that a subordinate  should reprove his
superior?"
     "The  regulations say  just  the  opposite,"  admitted  Maxim. "I think
that's  wrong.  Look,  you  take  my  advice  when  you're  trying  to solve
ballistics  problems, and you accept my  suggestions when you make a mistake
in your calculations."
     "But that's at home! Anything goes at home."
     "Well, suppose you give us the  wrong sighting during gunnery practice?
Suppose you miscalculate the wind factor? What then?"
     "Under no circumstances do you question a superior's orders."
     "Even in such a case?"
     "You fire as ordered," said Guy  sternly. "Mac, you've  said enough  in
the past  ten minutes to  put you in the  stockade  for two  months. Do  you
understand?"
     "No, I don't. But, suppose, in combat...?"
     "Suppose what in combat?"
     "You give a wrong sighting? What then?"
     Guy  had never commanded a platoon in combat. He suddenly  recalled how
Corporal Bakhtu had  read  the map incorrectly  during a  reconnaissance  in
force. The  entire platoon was  driven  within firing  range of an adjoining
company. He himself had remained behind  and sent half the  platoon to their
death.  They  knew  damn  well  that  he was  wrong but  no one  dreamed  of
correcting him.
     "Good Lord," thought Guy suddenly, "it never would  have occurred to us
to correct him. Maxim  doesn't understand anything. Everything's simple, but
he won't  admit it.  How many times have we gone through this! He takes  the
most self-evident facts  and turns them upside down, and it's impossible  to
convince him that he's wrong. Instead, just the opposite happens:  you begin
to doubt yourself. Your head starts  spinning  and before you know it you're
completely confused. Yet he's certainly not that stupid. He learned to speak
our language in one month and mastered reading and writing in two days. Then
read  everything I own in two  more  days. Knows  mathematics and  mechanics
better than our experts.  Or take, for  example, his discussions  with Uncle
Kaan.
     "Lately, all the old man's  discussions at dinner have been directed at
Maxim. And  he keeps insisting to us that Maxim is the only man alive  today
with  such an  unusual knowledge of fossil  animals and such an interest  in
them. He sketched  some weird looking animals for Maxim,  and Maxim sketched
some  that  were even weirder.  And they argued  about  which was  the  more
ancient, which descended from which, and why. Unc even brought in scientific
books from  his library, and still Maxim barely conceded a point to him. One
minute, Unc was  shouting  himself hoarse -- the  next, he was  tearing  the
sketches to  bits  and  stamping on them. He called Maxim  an  ignoramus,  a
bigger fool  than Shapshu. Then he began to run his hands through the sparse
gray  hair at the back of his  head and mumble  with a nervous smile: 'Bold,
massaraksh, bold. Young man, you certainly have an imagination!'
     "He knows  mathematics  and mechanics;  knows  military  chemistry very
well; and paleontology? Who  in  this  day and age knows paleontology? Draws
like  an  artist, sings like a professional. And  he's so  generous,  almost
unnaturally generous.  Drove  off  a gang of  bandits, killed most of  them,
single-handed, with his bare  hands. Anyone else caught in such a trap would
have taken off  like a rocket. He didn't  give  a damn  about  them, yet was
upset, couldn't  sleep, became annoyed  when he was praised and thanked, and
even blew up once. He turned  white and shouted that it  was wrong to praise
someone for  murder. And what a  job  it  was  to persuade him  to join  the
Legion! He understood everything, agreed to everything, wanted to join, but,
he said, he'd be required to shoot. At people. So I told him: not at people,
at degens, at rabble, worse than thieves. We agreed, thank  God, that at the
beginning, until  he  got  used  to  the  idea,  he would simply disarm  his
opponents. Amusing, yet somehow frightening. No wonder he's always  blabbing
about coming from another world. I know that world. Unc has a book about it:
The Misty  Land  of  ZartakThe Misty  Land of Zartak. It says that Zartak is
inhabited by a happy people and lies in the Alebastro  Mountains.  According
to  the  book, they're all like Maxim. But if one of them leaves the valley,
he  immediately  forgets where he came  from and everything  about  his past
life.  He remembers only that he came from  another  world. Unc says that no
such  valley exists, that  it's pure poppycock,  that there  is  the  Zartak
range, but the range was so thoroughly blasted  by superbombs during the war
that the mountain people suffer from permanent loss of memory."

     "Why so silent, Guy? Are you thinking about me?"
     Guy looked away.
     "Look here, Mac. I must ask you to do one thing for me. For the sake of
discipline  never show that  you know more than I  do. Watch how the  others
behave, and behave exactly as they do."
     "I've been trying  to," said Maxim sadly.  He  paused and added:  "It's
difficult to get used to the idea. We don't do things that way."
     "By the way, how's your wound?" Guy tried to change the subject.
     "It's healing  quickly," replied Maxim  absentmindedly.  "Listen,  Guy,
let's go straight  home after  this operation. I miss Rada a lot. Don't you?
We'll  drop the  others off at the barracks and then  head  for  home in the
truck."
     Guy  inhaled  deeply.  At that  instant  the loudspeaker's  silver box,
hanging almost  above their heads, roared  out the  duty officer's  command:
"Sixth Company, fall out on the drill field! Attention, Sixth Company."
     "Candidate Sim! No more talk!" Guy barked. "Get into formation!"  Maxim
started to rush off, but Guy caught him with the barrel of his gun. "Please,
Mac,  remember,"  he  said. "Like  the I  others! No different!  The captain
himself is going to observe you today."
     Within three minutes the company was in  formation. It had grown  dark,
and searchlights played over the drill field.
     Truck engines rumbled softly at  the  formation's rear.  The brigadier,
accompanied by  Captain Chachu, reviewed the company in silence,  inspecting
every legionnaire, a procedure followed before the start of every operation.
He was calm; his  eyes were narrowed, and  his lips were  turned  up  at the
corners  in a rather kindly  way. Then, without a  word,  he nodded  to  the
captain and left. Waddling and waving his crippled hand, the captain planted
himself  before  the  formation  and  turned his  swarthy  face  toward  the
legionnaires.
     "Legionnaires!" he  bellowed in  a voice that sent shivers up  and down
Guy's spine. "You have  a job to do. Do it well. Company, attention! To your
trucks! Corporal Gaal, front and center!"
     When Guy reached the captain and snapped to attention, the captain said
softly:  "Your  platoon has  a  special assignment. When you arrive at  your
destination, remain  in your vehicle.  I  myself will take command  of  your
platoon."

6.

     The  shock  absorbers  were  in terrible  shape, and  the  ride on  the
miserable  cobblestone roads was particularly  jolting.  His submachine  gun
pressed between his  legs. Candidate Sim held Guy by  his belt solicitously,
reasoning that it would  be unbecoming for the corporal, so  concerned about
his  image,  to go  flying head over heels. Either  Guy did not object or he
failed  to  notice his subordinate's precaution. After his conversation with
the captain, Guy appeared to be very disturbed about something, so Maxim was
happy  that  the  orders required  him to  remain at Guy's side  and  render
assistance if necessary.
     The trucks  passed  the  Central  Theater,  rolled  along  the stinking
Imperial Canal,  then turned down Boot Street, a long thoroughfare  deserted
at this hour, and began to zigzag through the winding streets of some suburb
that  Maxim had never seen before. Recently he had visited many sections and
had come to know the city well. He had learned a  great deal in those  forty
or  so  days and finally understood  the difficult  position he was  in.  It
proved to  be far  less comforting  and  far more  incredible  than  he  had
expected.
     He had still been plodding through his ABC's when Guy had  persisted in
asking  him where he came from.  It  was  useless to show  him drawings: Guy
would  accept them  with a strange smile on his face  and continue to repeat
the same question: "Where are you from?" Irritated, Maxim finally pointed to
the  ceiling with his pencil  and said: "From the sky." To Maxim's surprise,
Guy thought  this a completely  natural explanation and began to rattle  off
words  that Maxim at first  assumed were the names of planets in their solar
system. But Guy opened a map,  and Maxim saw that they were not the names of
planets but  of antipodal  countries. Maxim shrugged  his shoulders, used up
his entire  stock of negative expressions, and  began to study  the map. The
conversation had ended there for the time being.
     One  evening,  several days later,  Maxim  and  Rada had been  watching
television.  A very  strange program was being  shown that resembled a movie
without beginning or end. It had no plot, just  an endless stream of actors,
rather  weird  individuals  who, from  the  point of view  of any  humanoid,
behaved  rather  savagely.  Rada watched  with  interest, shrieked,  grabbed
Maxim's sleeve, and twice burst into  tears.  Maxim became bored quickly and
was  about to  doze  off  to  some  gloomy music  when,  suddenly, something
familiar  flashed  across  the screen.  He rubbed  his eyes. There,  on  the
screen,  was  Pandora. A morose  takhorg  was  dragging itself  through  the
jungle, crushing  trees. Suddenly Peter appeared  with a decoy  in his arms.
Very engrossed  and  serious,  he backed away,  tripped on a  snag, and flew
backward into a swamp.  Maxim was startled to recognize his  own  mentogram.
Then  came  another,  and  still another,  without  narration,  and with the
identical musical background.
     And Pandora disappeared, yielding the screen to  an emaciated blind man
who crawled along  a ceiling covered  by a dusty  spider web. "What's that?"
asked Maxim, pointing to the screen.
     "A TV program," snapped Rada. "It's interesting. Watch it."
     It made no sense to him. It suddenly occurred to  him that  these might
be  the  mentograms of  other visitors  from  outer  space. But  he  quickly
rejected this thought: the worlds portrayed on television were too terrible,
too monotonous:  stuffy  little  rooms;  endless  corridors  cluttered  with
furniture that suddenly sprouted gigantic thorns; spiral staircases  winding
into  the  impenetrable  gloom of narrow  stairwells; basements, with barred
windows,  jammed with crawling bodies, and  immobile  faces locked  in  pain
peering through the bars.  These images were closer to a grotesque  delirium
than  to  real worlds.  In  comparison,  Maxim's  mentograms  sparkled  with
realism.
     Similar programs  were  repeated  almost daily  and were  called  Magic
JourneyMagic Journey. But Maxim could never understand their point. In reply
to  his  questions,   Guy  and  Rada  merely  shrugged  their  shoulders  in
bewilderment.  "It's  a  TV program.  That's  the way it's  done to make  it
interesting. It's a  magic journey. A  fairy  tale. Watch it! Sometimes it's
funny, sometimes it's frightening." Maxim began to doubt very seriously that
the purpose  of Professor Hippo's  research was to  facilitate communication
between his planet and visitors from outer space.
     About  ten   days   later  this  intuitive  conclusion   was  confirmed
indirectly. Guy  had passed  the  entrance exams for  the Independent  Study
Program of Officer's Candidate School and was  cramming  for his mathematics
and  mechanics courses.  The diagrams and  formulas used in their elementary
ballistics  studies  puzzled Maxim.  He  nagged Guy.  At  first Guy  did not
understand  what  he  was  driving at. Then,  grinning  condescendingly,  he
explained to  Maxim  the  cosmography of his world. It turned  out  that the
inhabited island was  neither a  sphere nor  a geoid; in  fact, it  wasn't a
planet at all.
     According to Guy, the inhabited island was the World, the only world in
the universe.  Beneath the natives'  feet lay the firm surface of  the World
Sphere.  Above  them was a  gigantic  gaseous  sphere of  finite volume  and
unknown  composition,   whose  physical   characteristics  were  still   not
understood.  There  was a theory  that  the  density of this  gas  increased
rapidly  toward  the center  of the  gaseous  bubble and certain  mysterious
processes  produced periodic changes  in the  intensity of  the World Light,
thus giving day and night. Besides the short-term daily changes in the World
Light, there were long-term changes that generated seasonal fluctuations  in
temperature and the seasons  themselves. Gravity  acted away from the center
of  the World Sphere, perpendicular to its  surface. In short, the inhabited
island was located on the inner surface of an enormous bubble in an infinite
firmament filling the rest of the universe.
     Completely stunned, Maxim began to  argue,  but  it soon  became  quite
apparent  that they  did not  speak the same  language,  that  it  was  more
difficult  for  them to understand each other's thinking than  for a staunch
Copernican  to understand  a  follower of Ptolemy.  Maxim  believed that the
unusual  characteristics  of  this planet's  atmosphere  were the key to the
matter. In the first place, its unusually high index of refraction lifted up
the  horizon  and  from  time immemorial had inspired the  natives' peculiar
conception of their  land  as  being  neither  flat nor  convex but concave.
"Stand  on the seashore," suggested schoolbooks, "and follow  the path  of a
ship  leaving a pier.  At first it will appear to be moving on  a plane, but
the  further  it  goes, the higher  it will rise, until it  vanishes in  the
atmospheric haze covering  the rest of the World." In the second  place, the
atmosphere was  very dense and phosphoresced day and night,  so  that no one
ever  saw the  stars.  Isolated  instances of  observation of the  sun  were
recorded in chronicles  and  served as the  basis for  countless attempts to
create a World Light theory.
     Maxim realized that he was caught in a gigantic trap, that contact with
Earth could not be established until he succeeded in turning inside out  the
natural concepts that had  developed  over  thousands  of years.  Evidently,
attempts  had  been  made to  do  this,  judging  from the popular expletive
"massaraksh,"  which meant, literally, "world inside out." Guy  had told him
about  an abstract mathematical theory  that analyzed the World differently.
The theory  was  formulated  in  ancient times, but its  adherents had  been
persecuted by the official  religion, and  it  had its martyrs. Through  the
efforts of certain  brilliant mathematicians of the last century, the theory
was  expressed  in exact  mathematical form.  But it  had remained  a purely
abstract  theory, although,  finally, like most  abstract theories, it found
practical  application  -- very recently,  when super-long-distance military
weapons were developed.
     After weighing all the information he now had about their planet, Maxim
realized two things: that all this time the natives must have considered him
insane and therefore  had deliberately selected his mentograms for the Magic
JourneyMagic Journey; and that, for the time being, he  had better  keep his
mouth  shut about  coming from  another planet  -- unless  he wanted  to  be
returned  to  Hippo.  This  meant  that  he could expect  no  help  from the
inhabited island, that he must depend only on himself, that the construction
of a  coil transmitter  must  be  postponed indefinitely,  and that  he  was
stranded for a long time to come, perhaps, massaraksh, forever.
     The hopelessness of his situation  was demoralizing, but he got  a grip
on  himself and forced himself to think rationally. His mother would  face a
painful  period.  It would be terribly  difficult for her,  and this thought
alone smothered any desire to think rationally. "Damn this place, this dull,
claustrophobic  world! OK,  now,  Mac,  you  have a  choice:  dwell  on  the
impossible and bite your nails,  or pull yourself together and live. Live as
you've always wanted to live. Love your  friends, work toward a goal, fight,
win, take it and dish it out. Anything, but stop moping around." He  dropped
the  conversation with Guy  about the structure of the universe  and took an
entirely new tack: he began to quiz Guy about the inhabited island's history
and social system.
     Their discussion  of history was  not  particularly  productive.  Guy's
knowledge was scanty, and  he didn't own  any  serious books on the subject.
Nor  did the  city library.  But  Maxim managed to extract  a  few facts. He
learned that the country now sheltering him had been significantly larger at
one  time  and  had possessed  numerous  overseas colonies  and  that  these
colonies  had  been the cause of  a highly destructive  war with neighboring
states whose names were  already forgotten. The war had enveloped the entire
World;  millions upon  millions had perished;  thousands of cities had  been
destroyed; dozens of  large and small nations had been wiped off the face of
the planet; and chaos had reigned throughout the World. Famine and epidemics
followed. Popular uprisings  were  suppressed  with  nuclear  weapons.  This
country -- along with  the rest of the  world -- had  been  headed for total
destruction until the All-Powerful  Creators  had  come  to  the rescue. The
facts  suggested  that an anonymous group  of young staff officers with  two
divisions at their command,  unhappy about being sent to the slaughter in an
atomic mincing machine,  organized a  coup and  seized power. Since then the
situation  had stabilized considerably, and  the war seemed to  have petered
out, although a formal peace treaty had never been concluded.
     Maxim realized that the country's political system was far from  ideal.
But it was clear that the All-Powerful Creators were extremely  popular, and
among  all  classes  of society.  Maxim could  not  understand the  economic
reasons for this popularity, but apparently it was related to their tactics:
the  military  clique curbed  the appetites of  the industrialists,  thereby
gaining favor with the workers. And by  subjugating the workers, they gained
favor with  the industrialists. But this was only guesswork on his part. Guy
was  surprised  when  Maxim presented the problem from this  point  of view,
because the concept of class meant absolutely nothing to  him,  nor could he
imagine contradictions between social groups.
     The  country's  foreign relations were still extremely tense. Two large
independent nations, Khonti and Pandeya, were located to the north. Although
no one knew anything  about their domestic  affairs, it was common knowledge
that these  countries  harbored  the most aggressive  designs. They sent  in
saboteurs and spies, provoked border incidents, and were preparing  for war.
The purpose of such a war was not clear to Guy. He had never really given it
any  thought. For him they were simply enemies to the north. That was all he
needed to know.
     To the south, beyond the  borderland forests, lay a  desert,  land that
had been totally  defoliated  by nuclear explosions.  The desert covered the
territories of a whole group of countries that had once been the most active
militarily. No one seemed to  know what was happening in  those millions  of
square miles, nor were they interested in knowing. The southern borders were
subject to constant  attack by hordes of half-savage degens who infested the
forest beyond the Blue Snake River.  The problem of the southern  border was
an extremely critical  one. It was so rough that the Fighting Legion's elite
forces were  concentrated there.  Guy had served  there for three years  and
told many incredible stories about his experiences.
     It was possible that other countries still existed further south of the
desert,  at the other end  of  the  planet's only continent, but  they  kept
themselves well isolated.  On the  other hand, the Island  Empire,  on three
mighty archipelagos  in  the  arctic  zone,  constantly  made  its  menacing
presence known. A  huge  fleet of white submarines, equipped with the latest
technology of  destruction, plied the radioactive waters with their crews of
specially trained cutthroats. Like  phantoms, the  submarines terrorized the
coastal regions with  their  unprovoked shellings and  raiding  parties. The
Legion had also to turn back the White threat.
     Maxim was shaken by this picture  of chaos and destruction. Here was  a
planet with a glimmer  of  intelligent  life,  but life was on  the point of
extinguishing itself once and for all.
     Maxim heard  Rada's calm and  terrible  account of  how  her mother had
received  the news of her father's death. Her father, an epidemiologist, had
refused to leave a plague-ridden region, and  since the government in  those
days had neither the time nor the means to cope with an epidemic, a bomb was
simply dropped.  After her mother's death, young Rada, to support little Guy
and  helpless Uncle Kaan, worked eighteen hours  a day as  a dishwasher at a
deportation center, then as a chambermaid in a luxury hotel for speculators.
Later she spent some time in  prison. After that she was unemployed  and had
to beg for several months.
     Maxim  heard Uncle Kaan's story,  too.  Unc, once an eminent scientist,
told how the Academy of Sciences had been abolished during the first year of
the war and the Battalion of His Imperial Majesty's Academy had been formed;
how, during the famine, the founder  of evolutionary theory had gone  insane
and hanged himself; how they had made broth from grasshoppers and weeds; how
a  starving  crowd had  attacked the zoological museum and seized  specimens
preserved in alcohol, for food.
     Maxim  listened to Guy's ingenuous tales  of the  antiballistic missile
towers; how cannibals stole  up  to  the construction  sites  at  night  and
kidnapped rehabs and Legion sentries; how  ruthless vampires  -- part human,
part  beast, part dog  -- struck  in the  darkness like  silent  ghosts.  He
listened to his ecstatic praise of the ABM network, built at great sacrifice
during the final years of  the  war. By  defending the country from the air,
the ABM network had halted enemy operations. Even today, the ABMs were their
only  guarantee against aggression from the north. And those scoundrels were
now planning  attacks on  the ABM towers; those mercenary murderers of women
and children  were being bought with  Khonti's and Pandeya's  filthy  money.
Guy's face twitched with hatred. "That's where  our  real job is." He banged
his fist  on the table. "That's why I joined  the  Legion rather than go  to
work in a factory or office. Yes, I joined the Legion, which is now fighting
to save everything we hold dear."
     Maxim listened greedily, as if  to a horror story.  And  it was all the
more terrifying and fantastic because it had actually happened and was still
happening; at any moment  the  most horrible atrocities  could happen again.
His own problems were trivial beside this.

     The  trucks  turned  sharply  into  a  narrow  street  with tall  brick
buildings.  Pandi announced:  "We're here,  men."  Pedestrians  turned away,
shielding their eyes from the dazzling headlights. One truck stopped, and  a
long telescopic antenna shot up above the cab.
     "All out!"  barked the leaders of  the  Second  and Third Platoons. The
legionnaires hopped out.
     "First Platoon, stay where you are!" ordered Guy.
     Pandi and Maxim, about to jump out, sat down again.
     "Fall  into  threes!"  yelled the corporals  on  the sidewalk.  "Second
Platoon, forward! Third Platoon, follow. Forward, march!"
     Hobnailed boots  thundered  along  the pavement,  and  someone shrieked
ecstatically: "Long live the Fighting Legion!"
     "Hurrah!" shouted the  pale-faced  figures who  had pressed against the
wall  to  clear   the  way  for  the  men.  The  pedestrians  were  used  to
legionnaires.
     Candidate  Zoiza,  on  Maxim's  right,  was  still  a  kid.  The  lanky
youngster, with yellowish fuzz on his cheeks, poked Maxim in the  ribs  with
his sharp  elbow and smiled  happily. Maxim smiled back. The  other platoons
had already vanished  through the  entrances; only the  corporals,  standing
staunchly at the doors with impassive faces, remained behind. The door  of a
truck cab slammed  and  Captain  Chachu  barked: "First Platoon, out  of the
trucks and fall in!"
     Maxim leaped over the side. When the platoon was lined up, the captain,
with a wave  of  his hand, stopped Guy, who was running over to report. Then
he planted himself in front of the formation.
     "Put on your helmets!"
     The regular privates had expected this command, but the candidates were
slow to respond. The captain waited impatiently for Zoiza to adjust his chin
strap. Then he shouted: "Right turn" and "Forward, on the double." He ran in
front of  them, waving his crippled hand, leading the platoon through a dark
archway and into a narrow courtyard. Then he turned  under another  archway,
just as gloomy and foul, and halted before a chipped door.
     "Attention!" he barked. "The first team and  Candidate Sim  will follow
me. The rest of  you stay here. Corporal Gaal, when I  whistle, send another
team up to me on the  fourth floor. Don't let  anyone out. Take them  alive.
Shoot only when  absolutely  necessary. First team and Candidate Sim, follow
me!"
     He pushed  the  door  open  and  disappeared. Maxim  passed  Pandi  and
followed the captain. Behind the door was a dimly lit, steep stone staircase
with  steel handrails.  Taking three  steps at  a  time, the captain  dashed
upstairs. Maxim caught up with him and saw  the pistol  in  his hand. On the
run, Maxim slipped the gun from around his neck. For an instant he felt sick
at  the thought of  having  to shoot  people.  Then, remembering that  these
weren't people, just animals, he felt relieved.  The repulsive slime beneath
his feet, the bleary light, the spit-spattered walls,  all served to confirm
his conclusion.
     Second floor. Kitchen odors.  The terrified face of an old woman showed
through the slit of  a  slightly  opened door. A half-crazed cat leaped from
under Maxim's feet with a loud meow.  Third floor. Some blockhead had left a
bucket of slop in the middle of the landing. The captain knocked it over and
the slop flew  into  the  stairwell. "Massaraksh!" roared Pandi  from below.
"Out of the way.  Downstairs!" barked the captain at a couple embracing in a
dark  corner.  Fourth floor. An ugly  brown door.  A scratched  tin  plaque:
"Hobbi, Dentist. No appointment necessary." A drawn-out cry behind the door.
The captain stopped  and grunted: "Locked!" Sweat rolled down his dark face.
Maxim  didn't understand. Pandi ran  up, pushed him aside,  aimed his gun at
the door, below  the  doorknob, and released a  burst of  machine-gun  fire.
Sparks and  pieces of  wood flew through the air. Instantly, shots  rang out
from behind the door, through a prolonged scream. More chips started flying.
Something  hot and solid whizzed over Maxim's head. The  captain  flung open
the door.
     The room was  dark; yellow  flashes illuminated  puffs of smoke. "After
me!" yelled the captain, and he dove headfirst toward the flashes. Maxim and
Pandi  tore after him. A  hall -- stuffy heat, powder smoke.  Danger on  the
left. Maxim threw out his hand, caught a hot muzzle, jerked the weapon away.
Someone's dislocated joints crunched softly but distinctly, and a large soft
body stiffened as it fell.  Ahead, in the  smoke, the captain barked: "Don't
shoot. Take them alive!" Maxim threw down his gun and rushed into  a lighted
room. It was filled with  books and pictures, and there was no one to shoot.
Two  men  were writhing  on  the  floor.  One  was screaming.  A  woman  lay
unconscious in an easy chair, head flung back. Pale, almost transparent. The
captain stood over the screaming man, looked around,  jammed his pistol into
his holster.  Pandi gave Maxim  a powerful shove  and burst into  the  room.
Behind  him were  legionnaires, dragging the stocky body  of the man who had
been shooting.
     Sweaty and excited. Candidate Zoiza handed Maxim his abandoned gun. The
captain  turned his  frightening, dark  face toward them. "Where's the other
one?" he snarled,  and instantly  a blue curtain fell and  a lanky man in  a
stained white smock jumped from the window ledge and headed straight for the
captain. Slowly he raised two enormous pistols to  eye level. His eyes  were
glassy with pain. Zoiza screamed.
     Maxim was standing sideways and didn't have time to  turn. He sprang as
hard as he could, but the man managed to pull the trigger once. Face singed,
choking from powder fumes, Maxim grabbed his wrists and the  pistols clanked
to  the floor. The man fell to his knees, and his neck went limp. When Maxim
released him, he collapsed to the floor.
     "Well, well,  well,"  said  the captain.  "Set this one  over here," he
ordered Pandi. "And you," he said to pale, perspiring Zoiza. "Run downstairs
and tell the  platoon leaders  where  I  am.  Have them report  what they've
done." Zoiza clicked his heels and rushed toward the door. "And tell Gaal to
come up here...  Stop yelling, you scum!" he  shouted at the man groaning on
the  floor and  kicked him lightly in  the side  with  the  toe of his boot.
"Useless. No-good trash.  Search  them!" he ordered  Pandi. "Line  them  up.
Right here, on the floor. That woman, too."
     Maxim went over  to the woman, picked her up gently, and carried her to
the bed. He was confused and disturbed. This wasn't the sort of thing he had
expected.
     "Candidate Sim!" barked the captain. "I said on the flooron the floor!"
He looked at Maxim with his unnaturally transparent  eyes; his lips twitched
almost convulsively. Maxim decided that it was not for him to prescribe what
was right or wrong.  He was still  a stranger in this country; he had yet to
learn what they chose to love or hate. He lifted the woman and placed her on
the floor next to the stocky  man who had been firing in the hall. Pandi and
another legionnaire turned  the prisoners' pockets inside out. All five were
unconscious.
     The captain sat down in the easy chair, threw his cap on the table, lit
a cigarette, and beckoned to Maxim. Maxim clicked his heels smartly and went
over to him.
     "Why did you throw down your gun?" the captain asked in a low voice.
     "You ordered us not to shoot."
     "Sir."
     "Yes, sir. You ordered us not to shoot, sir."
     The captain's eyes narrowed as he blew a  stream of  smoke  toward  the
ceiling.
     "If I had ordered you to stop talking,  I suppose you would have bitten
off your tongue, eh?"
     Maxim remained silent. This exchange irritated him,  but he  remembered
Guy's instructions.
     "What does your father do?"
     "He is a scientist, sir."
     "Is he alive?"
     "Yes, sir."
     The captain looked hard at Maxim.
     "Where is he?"
     Maxim realized  what he had blurted out. Now he would have to extricate
himself.
     "I don't know, sir. Rather, I don't remember, sir."
     "But  you  remembered  that  he  was  a  scientist.  What else  do  you
remember?"
     "I don't know,  sir. I remember many things, but Corporal Gaal believes
that my memory is deceptive."
     Hurried footsteps echoed through the stairway. Guy entered the room and
snapped to attention.
     "Get to work on this  half-dead scum," ordered the  captain. "You  have
enough handcuffs?"
     Guy glanced over his shoulder at the prisoners.
     "With your  permission, sir,  we'll have to  borrow a pair  from Second
Platoon."
     "Get busy."
     Guy ran out.  More boots echoed through the stairway as platoon leaders
appeared to  report that  everything  was  proceeding according to plan. Two
suspicious  characters  had  been  arrested.  The  tenants,  as always,  had
rendered active assistance. The captain  ordered  them  to finish up quickly
and,  when  they had completed  their assignments, to  radio the  code  word
"Tamba"  to headquarters. When the platoon leaders had gone,  he lit another
cigarette  and  remained  silent for some  time. He watched the legionnaires
remove  books from the shelves, leaf through them, and  fling  them onto the
bed.
     "Pandi," he called in  a low voice, "get busy with the pictures. But be
careful with this one.  Don't spoil it. I'll take it for myself."  He turned
to Maxim again. "What do you think of it?"
     Maxim  looked  at it. A  seashore, a broad  expanse  of water without à
horizon, dusk and a woman emerging from  the sea. It was windy, chilly.  The
woman looked cold.
     "A fine painting, sir," said Maxim.
     "Do you recognize the place?"
     "Not at all, sir. I've never seen that sea."
     "Well, what sea have you seen?"
     "A  completely different one, sir. But it's my  deceptive memory again,
sir."
     "Nonsense.  It's the same  sea.  Except that you weren't looking at  it
from the shore, but from a ship's bridge. And below you was a white deck. At
the stem was another  bridge,  somewhat lower. On the shore, instead of this
dame, there was a tank. And you were aiming for the turret. Massaraksh."
     "I  don't understand," said Maxim  coldly.  "I've  never aimed anything
anywhere."
     "How  can you be so sure of  that? After all.  Candidate Sim, you don't
remember anything!"
     "But I do remember that I never aimed anything anywhere."
     "Sir!"
     "I do remember  that I never aimed anything anywhere, sir. And  I don't
understand what you're talking about, sir."
     Guy entered, accompanied by two candidates. They began to  place  heavy
handcuffs on the prisoners.
     "These  people are  human,  too," the captain said suddenly. "They have
wives, children. They loved someone, someone loved them."
     The captain was obviously mocking him, but Maxim said precisely what he
thought: "Yes, sir. They appear to be human, too."
     "You didn't expect that?"
     "No, sir. I expected something quite different."
     Through the corner of his eye he could see Guy's frightened expression.
But  he  was sick  and tired of lying, and he  added:  "I thought they would
really be degenerates, like naked... animals."
     "Naked  idiot," snapped  the  captain.  "You're not  in the forest, you
know. Here  they look like  people. Good, kind people  who  get excruciating
headaches  when  they're  under  stress --  just  like  you  do,"  he  added
unexpectedly.
     "I never get any aches or pains, sir. Do you?"
     "What?"
     "You sound so irritated that I thought..."
     "Captain!"  Guy shouted in  a tremulous voice. "I  beg to  report, sir,
that the prisoners have regained consciousness."
     The captain looked at him and smiled ironically.
     "Don't worry, corporal. Your buddy proved  himself  today  to be a real
legionnaire.  If it weren't for him. Captain Chachu would be  stretched  out
here with a bullet in his brain." He looked up at the ceiling and blew out a
dense cloud  of  smoke.  "You  have a good nose,  corporal. I'd promote this
rascal to regular  private  on the spot; massaraksh,  I'd even make  him  an
officer!  He  has the makings of  a brigadier:  he  loves  to  ask  officers
questions. But,  corporal,  now I  understand. You had good reasons for your
report. So  we'll  wait  a while before  promoting  him." The captain  rose,
clumped around the table, and halted before Maxim. "We won't even make him a
regular private  yet.  He's a fine fighter, but still  wet behind the  ears.
We'll get him into shape... Attention!" he shouted suddenly. "Corporal Gaal,
remove the prisoners! Private  Pandi and Candidate Sim, take my painting and
all papers in this apartment and bring them to me in the truck."
     He turned and left the room. Guy looked at Maxim reproachfully but said
nothing. The legionnaires kicked and jabbed the prisoners to their  feet and
led them to the door. They did not resist  but swayed and buckled like blobs
of jelly. The stocky man who had  been firing in the hall groaned loudly and
swore  under  Ms breath. The  woman's lips  moved soundlessly; her eyes were
glazed.
     "Hey, Mac," said  Pandi.  "Take the blanket from the bed  and wrap  the
books in it. Drag it  downstairs  --  I'll take the picture. Yeah, and don't
forget your gun, you blockhead! You're  wondering why the captain  raked you
over the coals, eh? You threw away your gun. Imagine, throwing away your gun
during a battle! You nut!"
     "Cut it, Pandi," said Guy angrily. "Take the picture and go."
     In  the doorway  Pandi  turned around to Maxim,  tapped  himself on the
forehead,  and  vanished. They could hear him singing "Cool It, Mama" at the
top  of his  lungs  as he walked down  the stairs. Maxim laid his gun on the
table and walked over to the  pile of books  that had been dumped on the bed
and floor.  Never  before on this planet had he  seen so many  books  in one
place, except perhaps  in the  city library.  Of course,  the bookstores had
many more books, but not more titles.
     The pages were yellowed with age. Some books  were singed, and some, to
Maxim's  surprise, were  perceptibly  radioactive. He  didn't  have time  to
examine them properly.
     Maxim packed up two bundles  and  paused to look around the room. Empty
twisted shelves, dark stains where pictures had been hanging -- the pictures
had  been  torn  from  their frames and  trampled.  Not  a  trace of  dental
equipment.  He  picked  up  the  bundles  and  started  for the  door,  then
remembered his  gun  and returned. On  a desk, beneath plate  glass, lay two
photographs. One was of a pale woman  dandling a  boy of about  four  on her
knees. She was young, content, proud.  The  other showed a beautiful spot in
the  mountains,  dark  clumps of trees, and  an old tumbled own tower. Maxim
slung the gun across his back and returned to the bundles.

7.

     Every morning after breakfast the brigade assembled on  the drill field
to  hear  the orders of the day  before dispersing to their assignments. For
Maxim this  was the  most  disturbing part of the day, with the exception of
evening roll call. The  reading of orders always ended in a frenzied display
of loyalty and zeal. Maxim forced himself to  suppress his revulsion at this
paroxysm of  insanity that seized the  entire brigade  from the commander to
the lowliest  candidate. He reproached  himself for harboring the skepticism
of  an outsider, an alien;  he tried to inspire himself, to convince himself
that he  must  understand their enthusiasm and  steep himself in  it. But he
could not.
     Schooled since childhood  to show  self-restraint, to  question, and to
dislike  high-sounding phrases,  he  had to control his  irritation with his
comrades during formation. Following the reading of an order sentencing some
candidate to three days in the stockade for  arguing with a private, the men
would suddenly lose their good nature and sense of humor. Their mouths would
fly open and they would begin to  roar "Hoorah"  with wild enthusiasm. Then,
with tears  in  their eyes,  they would  sing  "The Fighting Legion  March,"
repeating it as  many as four  times. Even the cooks  ran out and joined in,
waving  pots and knives frenziedly. Reminding  himself that in this world he
must conform, he forced himself to  join  in the singing and to suppress his
sense of the ridiculous. But the contrived enthusiasm disgusted him.
     Today  a  burst of  enthusiasm followed  Order 127,  promoting  Private
Dimbas to corporal; Order 128, citing  Candidate  Sim for his courageous act
during an operation; and Order 129,  placing Fourth Company's barracks under
repair. Scarcely had the brigade adjutant returned the orders to his leather
map case than  the brigadier  tore  off  his  cap, took a deep  breath,  and
shouted in a rasping falsetto: "Forward, Legionnaires! Men  of Iron!" And on
and on. Maxim felt especially  uncomfortable today when he saw tears rolling
down  Captain  Chachu's dark  cheeks. The legionnaires  bellowed like bulls,
beating time with  their gun butts on their massive  belt buckles. To  avoid
the sight and  sound of this spectacle, Maxim  squinted  and roared  like an
enraged  takhorg,  and  his voice drowned out all the others -- at  least it
seemed that way to him. "Forward, fearless men!" he roared, now hearing only
his  own voice.  My  God,  what  idiotic words.  Probably  composed by  some
corporal. To go into combat with such words you'd have to be awfully in love
with your work. He opened his eyes and saw a flock of black birds, startled,
fly silently over the  drill  field. "A  diamond coat  of mail will not save
you, oh, foe."
     Everything ended as abruptly as  it had begun.  The  brigadier's glassy
eyes scanned the formation. Suddenly he remembered where he was and ordered:
"Officers, take your companies to their  assignments!" The men, still dazed,
looked at each other dumbfounded. Captain Chachu  had to shout "Right dress"
twice before the  ranks came to order.  The company was  marched  off to the
barracks,  and the  captain ordered: "First  Platoon  is  assigned to escort
duty. The other platoons will go to their regular duties, Fall out!"
     They  dispersed. Guy drew  up his platoon and distributed  assignments.
Maxim and  Private  Pandi  were  assigned the interrogation  room,  and  Guy
hurriedly  explained to Maxim his duties:  stand to the prisoner's right; if
he makes the slightest  attempt to rise from his  seat, use force; obey your
brigade  commander;  Private Pandi will be in charge.  In short, watch Pandi
and do exactly what he does.
     "If it were  up to me, I wouldn't have  assigned you to this post, It's
never given to candidates, but the captain ordered it. Keep a sharp lockout,
Mac.  I can't figure out  the captain. Either he's  trying  to  push  you up
quickly  --  he talked a lot about you  at yesterday's operation review with
platoon leaders and cited you in an order -- or he's checking  you out. Why,
I don't know.  Maybe it's my  fault -- the report I submitted. Or maybe it's
your fault --  for blabbing  so much." He inspected Maxim anxiously.  "Clean
your boots, tighten your  belt,  and put on dress gloves. Oh, you don't have
any -- candidates don't get them.  OK,  run over to the supply room. Make it
snappy. We leave in thirty minutes."
     At  the supply room Maxim  met Pandi, who was changing a  cracked beret
insignia.
     "Take a look at this guy, corporal!"  said Pandi to the  quartermaster,
clapping  Maxim on  the shoulder. "Ever seen the likes of him? Nine days  in
the  Legion  and  a citation already. They put him on  duty with  me in  the
interrogation  room. Probably ran down here for white gloves. Corporal, give
him a real good pair. He's earned it. This guy is a hero!"
     The  corporal grunted,  dug  through the shelves  piled  with supplies,
tossed  several  pairs of white cotton gloves  on  the  counter  in front of
Maxim, and  said  contemptuously: "Here!  You call yourselves  heroes,  with
those lunatics you catch? Sure, when their guts are splitting with pain, all
you have to do is pick 'em up and  shove 'em in a sack. Even my  grandfather
could be a hero there. With his hands tied behind his back."
     "Your  grandfather would  have hotfooted it out of there  like crazy if
someone  jumped  him with two pistols," said  Pandi.  "I almost thought  the
captain was done for."
     "Done  for!"  grumbled the  quartermaster. "After  six  months  on  the
southern border,  you'll really be done for.  You'll have had  it, boy. Then
we'll see who hotfoots it out like crazy."
     When they were outside, Maxim asked in a most respectful tone: "Private
Pandi, sir, why do the degens have such pains? And they all seem to get them
at the same time. How come?"
     "It's fear that does it. They're degens. Understand? Mac, you've got to
read more.  There's  a pamphlet -- The Degens:  Their Habits and  OriginsThe
Degens: Their  Habits and Origins. Be sure and read  it or you'll never  get
anywhere. Courage alone won't get you very far." He paused. "Look, we normal
people get excited, angry, or scared, and nothing happens. Maybe we sweat or
tremble.  But their bodies  are abnormal. Degenerate. If they  get  angry at
someone or get the jitters or anything like that, they suddenly get terrific
headaches and pains all over.  Maddening pains. Get  it?  That's how we  can
identify  them.  And,  of course,  we arrest them. Say, those gloves are OK.
Just my size, too. What do you think?"
     "Too tight for me, sir," complained Maxim. "Let's trade."
     The  exchange pleased both  of them. Suddenly Maxim remembered how Fank
had  writhed in pain in  the  car. And patrolling legionnaires  had arrested
him. "What  could  have  frightened  him?  Or angered him?  He  didn't  seem
agitated, drove  the car calmly, even whistled. But he turned around and saw
a patrol car. Or was that afterward? True,  he was in a terrific hurry and a
van was blocking the  way. Maybe  he got angry? Good God, what  am I saying?
Anyone can have a fit of anger. And he was probably  arrested because of the
accident.  I  wonder where  he was taking me and who he is? I've got to find
Fank."
     He polished  his boots, groomed  himself  in front  of  a large mirror,
slung the gun around his neck, and reexamined himself in the mirror. At that
instant he heard  Guy's order to fall out. After an eagle-eyed inspection of
his men and a check of their knowledge of  their assignments, Guy ran to the
company office to  report. Soon  Captain Chachu  emerged with Guy. He,  too,
inspected  each  man carefully. "Take  your platoon, corporal."  The platoon
marched toward headquarters.
     At headquarters the captain ordered Private Pandi  and Candidate Sim to
follow  him,  and  Guy  led away the  rest of the platoon. Pandi  and  Maxim
entered a small room with heavily curtained windows.  It smelled strongly of
cigarette  smoke.  At the  far end stood a  large empty table surrounded  by
three-legged chairs. An old painting depicting an ancient battle hung on the
wall. Ten steps  from the  table and to the  right of the door.  Maxim saw a
metal seat. Its single leg was bolted solidly to the floor.
     "To your stations!" ordered the captain. He walked ahead and sat down.
     Pandi carefully  placed Maxim to the right and rear of  the  prisoner's
seat,  posted  himself to  the  left,  and  whispered  to  him to  stand  at
attention. Both men stiffened.  The captain sat with  legs  crossed, smoking
and watching the legionnaires nonchalantly.  But Maxim  was sure the captain
was studying him.
     The  door opened in back of  Pandi. Pandi  took  two steps forward, one
step to  the right, and did a left face. Maxim was about to follow suit, but
realized  that he wasn't blocking the  way.  He snapped to  attention again.
There  was something contagious  about  this  adolescent  game,  although it
seemed  primitive  and  obviously inappropriate for a  country in  such dire
straits.
     "Attention!" barked Pandi.
     The  captain rose, crushed  his  cigarette in an  ashtray, clicked  his
heels  lightly, and greeted the new arrivals to the table: the  brigadier, a
stranger in civilian clothes,  and the brigade adjutant with a thick  folder
under his  arm. The sour brigadier  sat down toward  the middle of the table
and stuck a finger under  his embroidered collar to loosen it. The civilian,
a  small  ugly  man with  a roughly shaven, flabby face, moved silently to a
seat beside him. The brigade adjutant, still standing, opened the folder and
sorted through the papers, passing some of them to the brigadier.
     After standing for a few minutes in apparent indecision, Pandi returned
to his original position with the same crisp movements, The men at the table
were talking in low voices.
     "Are you going to the meeting today, Chachu?" asked the brigadier.
     "Can't, I have some business to take care of," replied the captain.
     "Too bad. We're having an important discussion there today."
     "I remembered it too late. Anyway, I've already expressed my opinion."
     "Not very  effectively,"  the civilian remarked softly  to the captain.
"Besides, the situation is changing. Opinions are changing."
     "Not for us in the Legion," said the captain coldly.
     "Now, really, gentlemen," said the  brigadier. "Come to today's meeting
anyway."
     "I  hear they've brought in  fresh lake  mushrooms," said the adjutant,
still digging through his papers. "In their own juice."
     "Hear that, captain?" said the civilian.
     "No, gentlemen," said the captain. "I have one opinion and I've already
expressed it. As  for the lake mushrooms  ..."He  added something  else that
Pandi and Maxim couldn't hear, and  the entire  group burst  into  laughter.
Captain Chachu  leaned  back  in  his chair, looking  pleased. The  adjutant
stopped digging through his papers and whispered something to the brigadier.
The brigadier nodded several times. The adjutant sat down and, as if he were
addressing the empty seat, called out: "Nole Renadu."
     Pandi  pushed  the door open, thrust  his head  into  the corridor, and
repeated in a loud voice: "Nole Renadu."
     Movement was  heard  in the  corridor, and an  elderly man, expensively
dressed but somewhat  battered and  disheveled,  entered the room.  His legs
were slightly unsteady, so Pandi took him  by  the elbow and planted  him in
the prisoner's seat. The door  clicked shut.  The man coughed loudly, rested
his hands on his knees, and raised his head proudly.
     "So-o..." drawled the  brigadier, studying the  papers.  He rattled off
something    that     sounded     like     a     tongue    twister:    "Nole
Renadu-fifty-five-years-old-homeowner-member-of-the-city    council.   So-o.
Member  of  the  Veteran's Association." The civilian beside  the  brigadier
yawned, slipped a magazine from his pocket, set it on his  knees, and leafed
through  it.  "The  prisoner... removed  during  a search... then and there.
So-o. What were you doing at Number Eight Trumpeter Street?"
     "I'm  the owner  of the  building,"  said Renadu  with dignity. "I  was
having a conference with my manager."
     "Have you checked his documents?" The brigadier turned to the adjutant.
     "Yes, sir. Everything is in order."
     "So-o,"  said  the  brigadier. "Mr.  Renadu,  do  you know  any of  the
prisoners?"
     "No,  I do  not,"  said  Renadu,  shaking  his  head  vigorously.  "Not
personally.  But the name of one of them --  Ketshef  --  I think someone by
that name lives  in the building. But I  don't remember. Maybe I'm mistaken.
Maybe not in this building. I have two more, and one of them --"
     "Excuse me," interrupted the civilian without raising his eyes from the
magazine. "What were the other prisoners in  the cell talking  about? Didn't
you listen?"
     "Uh... I...  uh,"  hesitated Renadu. "I must confess... well, your cell
has...  insects. So most  of  the  time we were busy with  them. Someone was
whispering  in  a comer, but I  was too busy  fighting off the  insects." He
laughed nervously.
     "Of course," agreed the brigadier. "Well, now, I don't think an apology
is necessary, Mr. Renadu.  Here are  your  documents.  You are  free.  Chief
escort!" he called out.
     Pandi opened the door  wide and  shouted: "Chief escort, report  to the
brigadier!"
     "I wouldn't even consider discussing  the question  of apologies," said
Renadu gravely. "I  and I  alone  am to  blame.  More precisely,  my  damned
heredity. May I?" he asked Maxim, pointing to  the table where his documents
lay.
     "Stay where you are," said Pandi in a low voice.
     Guy entered. The  brigadier handed  him the  documents and ordered  the
return of confiscated property. Mr. Renadu was released.
     "Rashe Musai," said the adjutant to the iron stool.
     "Rashe Musai," repeated Pandi through the open door.
     A thin,  utterly exhausted man  wearing a  shabby robe and  one slipper
entered. He  had  scarcely  sat  down when  the  brigadier shouted: "So, you
murderer,  you've been hiding?"  Rashe  responded  with a  lengthy,  muddled
explanation. He had  not been hiding, he had a sick wife and three children,
his rent wasn't paid, he  had been  arrested twice and released,  he was now
employed in a factory as an upholsterer, and he had not done anything wrong.
Maxim was certain he would  be released, but the brigadier rose suddenly and
declared  that Rashe Musai,  age  forty-two, married,  twice  arrested,  was
sentenced to seven years in accordance with the law on preventive detention.
For an instant Rashe Musai appeared  not to understand the sentence. Then  a
terrible scene erupted.  The upholsterer sobbed,  pleaded incoherently to be
forgiven, and continued to shout  and cry  while Pandi dragged him  out into
the corridor. Maxim caught Captain Chachu's eye on him again.
     "Kivi Popshu," announced the adjutant.
     A  broad-shouldered  fellow  whose  face  was  disfigured  by some skin
disease was pushed  through the door. This  housebreaker, a repeater, caught
at the scene  of the crime, behaved  in  an  insolently ingratiating manner.
First he begged the authorities not to sentence  him  to a cruel death, then
he laughed hysterically, made wisecracks,  and told  stories about  himself,
all  of them beginning in the same  way: "I entered a house..." He would not
give anyone else a  chance to speak. After several unsuccessful attempts  to
question him, the brigadier leaned back in his chair and looked to his right
and left  indignantly. Captain Chachu said in  a  monotone:  "Candidate Sim,
shut him up!"
     Not knowing  how  to silence  the  prisoner, Maxim simply  grabbed Kivi
Popshu by the shoulder and shook him hard. The prisoner's jaws snapped shut;
he bit his tongue and fell silent. Then the civilian, who had been observing
the prisoner, said:
     "I'll take this one. He'll be useful."
     "Fine," said the brigadier and ordered the escort to return Kivi Popshu
to his cell.
     When the prisoner had  been led  out, the adjutant said: "That finishes
the small fry. Now for the group."
     "Begin  with their leader," suggested the civilian. "What's his name --
Ketshef?"
     The adjutant glanced at his papers and  again addressed the  prisoner's
seat: "Gel Ketshef."
     A handcuffed  man was led  into the  room. His eyes were red,  his face
swollen. He sat down and fixed his gaze on the picture above the brigadier's
head. "Is your name Gel Ketshef?" asked the brigadier.
     "Yes."
     "You are a dentist?"
     "I was."
     "What is your relationship to the dentist Hobbi?"
     "I bought his practice."
     "Why aren't you in practice now?"
     "I sold my equipment."
     "Why?"
     "Financial problems."
     "What's your relationship to Ordi Tader?"
     "She's my wife."
     "Any children?"
     "We had a son."
     "Where is he?"
     "I don't know."
     "What did you do during the war?"
     "I fought."
     "Why did you decide to engage in antigovemment activity?"
     "Because in the  history of  the  World  there has  never been  a  more
loathsome government,"  said Ketshef. "Because I loved  my  wife  and child.
Because you've killed my  friends and  corrupted  my  people.  Because  I've
always hated you. Isn't that enough?"
     "Enough," said the brigadier calmly. "More than enough. Now tell us how
much the Khontis are paying you? Or is it Pandeya?"
     The man broke into laughter -- but  it was  an oppressive laughter, the
laughter of a dead man.
     "Come off it.  Let's put  an  end to this  farce. What good  will it do
you?"
     "Are you the leader of this group?"
     "I was."
     "Who are the members of your organization?"
     "I don't know."
     "You're sure?" the civilian asked suddenly.
     "Yes."
     "You  know,  Ketshef,"  said  the  civilian gently,  "your  position is
extremely serious.  We know  everything  about  your  group.  We  even  know
something about your group's connections. But whether your name or another's
is given out as our source depends completely on you."
     Ketshef lowered his head and remained silent.
     "You!"  shouted  Captain  Chachu.  "You,  an ex-combat officer! Do  you
understand what they're offering you?  Not  your life,  massaraksh! But your
honor!"
     Ketshef began to laugh  again but did not answer. Maxim felt  that this
man  feared nothing. Neither  death  nor dishonor.  He  had already  endured
everything there was to endure and  considered himself  as good as dead. The
brigadier shrugged his shoulders and declared  that Gel Ketshef,  age fifty,
married, a  dentist, was sentenced to death  in accordance with  the law for
the  protection  of  public  health.  Sentence  to  be  carried  out  within
forty-eight  hours.  Should  the  condemned  agree  to  give testimony,  the
sentence could be changed.
     After Ketshef had been led out, the brigadier, displeased, said to  the
civilian: "I don't understand you.  I think he spoke rather  willingly. From
your point of view -- a regular chatterbox. No, I don't understand."
     The civilian  laughed.  "Listen, my  friend, you stick  to your job and
I'll stick to mine."
     The brigadier was  offended. "The leader  of a group... is inclined  to
philosophize. I don't understand you."
     "Have you ever seen a philosophizing corpse?"
     "Nonsense."
     "Well, have you?"
     "And have you?" asked the brigadier.
     "Yes, just  now,"  said the civilian  with authority.  "And, take note,
this  isn't  the  first  time. I'm  alive.  He's dead. So  what's  there  to
discuss?"
     The captain  rose  suddenly, went over to Maxim, and whispered into his
face:  "Watch your  posture, candidate. Attention! Eyes  straight ahead!" He
studied Maxim for several seconds, then returned to his seat.
     "So,"  said the adjutant. "We  still have Ordi Tader, Memo Gramenu, and
two others who refuse to give their names."
     "We'll start with them," suggested the civilian.
     Number  7313, a lean,  sinewy man with painfully swollen  lips, entered
and sat down. He, too, was in handcuffs, although he had an artificial arm.
     "Your name?" asked the brigadier.
     "Which one?" asked the one-armed prisoner cheerfully.
     Maxim winced -- he had been certain the man would remain silent.
     "Do you have so many? Give your real name."
     "My real name is Seven-Three-One-Three."
     "So-o. What were you doing in Ketshef's apartment?"
     "I was lying unconscious. For your information, I'm very good at it. If
you like, I can give you a demonstration."
     "Don't trouble yourself," said the  civilian. He  was very angry. "Save
your skill for later. You'll be needing it."
     The  prisoner burst out laughing. He  laughed  heartily, as if  he were
still a  young man, and  Maxim realized with horror that  this  laughter was
genuine. The men sitting around the table stiffened as they listened to him.
     "Massaraksh!" The  prisoner wiped  his tears  with his  shoulder. "Some
threat!" He turned to the civilian. "But you, you re still a young  man. You
must learn to do your job coolly,  officially -- for  the money. It makes an
enormous  impression  on the victims of  your inquisition. What an appalling
state of affairs when you find yourself being tortured not  by an enemy  but
by  a  bureaucrat.  Take a  look  at  my  left  arm. His  Imperial Majesty's
specialists sawed it off in three stages;  and each order was accompanied by
a  lengthy  official  correspondence.  Those  butchers  were  just  doing  a
disagreeable, boring, unrewarding  job. While they were  sawing off my  arm,
they cursed their wretchedly low  pay. And  I was terrified. I had to strain
my willpower to keep from talking. And now... I can see how you hate me. You
-- me, and I  -- you.  Fine! But  you have been  hating me less  than twenty
years, and I  --  you,  for  more than thirty.  You, young  man, were  still
toddling under the table and tormenting the cat."
     "Ah," said the  civilian, "an old-timer. I thought we'd  already killed
all of you off."
     "Don't count on  it," replied  the prisoner.  "You still have  a lot to
learn."
     "I think that's enough," said the brigadier, turning to the civilian.
     The civilian wrote something rapidly on the magazine and, passed  it to
the  brigadier. The brigadier  was  surprised  and looked  at  the  civilian
dubiously. The civilian smiled. Then, shrugging his shoulders, the brigadier
addressed the  captain: "Captain Chachu. You  were  a witness.  How did  the
accused conduct himself when arrested?"
     "He was sprawled on the floor," replied the captain glumly.
     "In other words, he did not resist. So-o." The brigadier paused briefly
again, rose,  and  pronounced  sentence: "Prisoner  Seven-Three-One-Three is
sentenced to death. Until the  date is set,  the prisoner will be sent  into
exile  for reeducation." Captain  Chachu looked scornful and bewildered. The
one-armed prisoner laughed softly and shook his head as they led him out.
     Number 7314 was brought in. This was the man who had lain screaming and
writhing  on  the  floor.  Although  he  was  very  frightened,  he  behaved
defiantly. As soon as he appeared in  the doorway, he shouted that  he would
not  answer  questions or beg  for  leniency. And  he did remain silent  and
refused to  answer  a single question, even  the  civilian's  question about
mistreatment while under  arrest. The interrogation ended when the brigadier
looked at  the civilian and  blinked inquiringly.  The  civilian nodded  and
said: "Yes, give him to me." He seemed very pleased.
     The brigadier ran through the remaining papers and said:
     "Let's go, gentlemen. Let's get something to eat."
     The court adjourned.  Maxim and Pandi were permitted to  stand at ease.
When the captain, too, had left the room, Pandi said  indignantly: "Did  you
see those animals?  Worse than I snakes.  If they didn't  get headaches, how
could you tell  they I  were degens?  It's frightening  to  think what would
happen."
     Maxim did not reply. He was in no mood for conversation. His picture of
this world, which had seemed  so clear-cut  and logical  only yesterday, was
now eroded  and blurred.  Pandi continued talking, not  needing any response
from Maxim. Removing his white gloves to avoid soiling them, he  took  a bag
of roasted nuts from his pocket and offered some to  Maxim. He began to tell
him how he detested this assignment. First of all, he was  deathly afraid of
catching  something  from  the  degens.  Second,  some  of  them,  like this
one-armed fellow, behaved so  disrespectfully that he could scarcely control
himself. Once he had taken it as long as he could and then given one of them
a good punch in the jaw.  He was almost broken to  candidate. Thanks to  the
captain, all  he got was twenty days in the stockade plus forty days without
leave.
     Maxim  chewed the  nuts  in  silence,  scarcely  listening  to  Pandi's
chatter. "Hate," he thought. "These hate the others, and they hate back. But
why? 'The  most loathsome government.' Why is it loathsome? Where did he get
the  idea? Corrupted  his people.  How? What does  all this  mean? And  that
civilian... was he really hinting at  torture? That  sort of  thing died out
centuries  ago,  In  the  Middle  Ages.  But  what  about  fascism?  Hitler.
Auschwitz.  Race theory,  genocide. World destruction. Guy -- a fascist? And
Rada?  Unlikely. The captain?  I  wish I understood  the connection  between
those terrible headaches  and  their disobeying  the authorities.  Why is it
that only  degens are trying  to destroy the ABM  network?  And why  not all
degens?"
     "Corporal Pandi,"  he asked,  "what  about the Khontis -- are they  all
degens?"
     Pandi became very thoughtful.
     "H'm, how can I explain it? Well, our job is to  handle the city degens
and the  wild ones  in the forest. The army people are trained to  deal with
anything they come up  against in Khonti or  anywhere else. All you need  to
know is that the Khontis are our  worst enemies.  Before the war they obeyed
us, but now they are getting their revenge. And that's it. Got it?"
     "More or less," replied Maxim. Pandi reprimanded him instantly. "That's
no  way for  a legionnaire to answer. A legionnaire  says 'Yes, sir' or 'No,
sir.'  'More or less' is for civilians, for the corporal's sister. You don't
answer like that in the service."
     With a subject so  inspiring and  dear  to  his heart  and with such an
attentive and respectful audience, Pandi would have babbled on indefinitely.
But  the officers were returning. Pandi broke off  in midsentence, whispered
"Attention," and froze into position-after completing the required maneuvers
between the table and the prisoner's seat. Maxim followed suit.
     The officers were in  fine spirits. Captain Chachu, with a contemptuous
expression on his  face, was telling  them in a loud voice how, in '96, they
had  stuck some  dough on red-hot armor and  it  turned  out delicious.  The
brigadier and civilian retorted that  fighting  spirit was damned important,
but the Fighting  Legion's  mess should be  second to none; the less  canned
food, the  better.  With  half-closed  eyes the adjutant  rattled  off  some
recipes from memory. The others fell silent and listened to him with strange
tenderness in their eyes. Then the adjutant choked with emotion  and coughed
to clear his throat. The brigadier, sighing, said: "Yes. Splendid. But we'll
have to get back to work now."
     Still coughing, the adjutant opened the folder, dug through the papers,
and announced: "Ordi Tader."
     The  woman  entered,  looking  as pale and  as  transparent as she  had
yesterday. When Pandi extended his  hand to  take her by the elbow and  seat
her,  she  recoiled sharply, as if from  a snake, and Maxim thought she  was
going  to strike  Pandi. She didn't; she was handcuffed. She just calmly and
distinctly told him to keep his ; filthy hands off her and walked around him
and sat down.
     The brigadier  asked her  the usual questions. She  did not  reply. The
civilian reminded her of her  child and husband,  but  still she  refused to
answer. She sat straight and tall. Maxim  could not see ' her face, only her
tense thin neck beneath disheveled hair.
     Suddenly she  said  in a low  voice: "You are  real swine. All  of you.
Murderers!  But you will  all die. You, brigadier -- I am seeing you for the
first and  last  time.  You  will  die  a  cruel  death.  Not  by my  hands,
unfortunately,  but   it  will  be  a  cruel,  cruel  death.  And  you,  you
bloodthirsty animals. I personally  finished off two like  you. If these two
idiots weren't standing  behind me, I'd  kill you  this instant." She caught
her breath.  "And you, you fat-headed cannon  fodder, we'll get you yet. But
you'll die an easy death. Gel missed, but I know people who won't."
     They did not interrupt her but listened attentively.
     They seemed ready to listen to her  for  hours, when  suddenly she rose
and stepped toward the table. Pandi caught her by the shoulder and threw her
back on  the seat. Then she spat with all  her  strength but failed to reach
the table. Suddenly she went limp and began to cry. They watched her cry for
some  time. Then the brigadier rose and sentenced her to death, the sentence
to be carried out within forty-eight  hours. Pandi took  her by  the arm and
pushed  her  through  the door.  The civilian  rubbed his hands, smiled, and
said:  "That was  luck.  Fine escorts."  The  brigadier replied:  "Thank the
captain."
     Captain Chachu said only: "Ssh." Everyone fell silent.
     The adjutant summoned  Memo  Gramenu and  skipped the usual formalities
because it  was a  clear-cut case. When he  was placed under arrest  he  had
shown armed  resistance. They did not bother  to  interrogate him. While the
brigadier read the death sentence, he  looked  at the ceiling indifferently,
nursing his injured right  hand with his left. The  dislocated fingers  were
bound with a rag. Maxim could not  understand the prisoner's  unnatural calm
and his cold indifference to the proceedings.
     Gramenu was  being  led  out when the adjutant, with a  sigh of relief,
gathered   the  papers  into  his  folder,  and   the  brigadier  started  a
conversation with the  civilian about the  promotion  system. Captain Chachu
went  over  to  Pandi  and  Maxim and ordered  them to leave. Although Maxim
clearly saw  a threat in  his transparent  eyes,  he  was too preoccupied to
care.  He  wondered  about the  man  who  would  have  to execute the woman.
Impossible! But someone would  have to  do the job in  the  next forty-eight
hours.

8.

     Guy pulled on his pajamas, hung up  his uniform,  and  turned to Maxim.
Candidate Sim was sitting on  a  small sofa that Rada had placed in an empty
corner for  him. One boot  was off and he had started on the other. His eyes
were  turned to the wall. Guy crept up to him from the side and tried to jab
him playfully.  As usual, he missed his mark: Mac jerked his head back  just
in time.
     "What's on  your  mind?" asked  Guy playfully. "Pining for Rada? You're
out of luck, brother; she's on the night shift today."
     Mac smiled weakly and started on the other boot.
     "Why out of luck?" he  said absentmindedly. "Guy,  I know you  wouldn't
lie to me." He  stopped tugging. "You're always saying  they  get  paid  for
their work."
     "Who? The degens?"
     "Right. You've talked about it a lot, to me and the men. Paid agents of
the Khontis, you said. And the captain gives us the same story every day."
     "What else  is there to say about them?" Oh,  God, there goes Mac again
with  one  of  his boring  conversations. "You're really  a  funny guy, Mac.
Nothing's changed with  them,  so  there's nothing new to  say. Degens  have
always been  degens,  and that's the way  it is now. They've always received
money from  our enemies. They do it now, too. For example, just last year, a
group of them were caught red-handed with a cellarful of dough. How could an
honest man have that much money? They weren't bankers."
     Mac set his boots neatly  by the wall, rose, and began  unbuttoning his
jump suit.
     "Guy," he said, "There's something I don't understand about you people.
You're told something about a person, but when  you look at him, you know it
can't be true. That it's a mistake."
     "That happens," said Guy, frowning.  "But if you're referring to degens
..."
     "Precisely.  I  watched them today.  They're  ordinary  people...  like
everybody else. Some a little better, some a little worse. Some  are  brave,
others cowardly. But they certainly aren't  the animals  I expected. Or that
all of  you think they are. Wait, don't interrupt me.  I  don't know if they
are  dangerous. Everything seems  to  indicate that  they are. But  I  don't
believe they're bought."
     "Why can't you believe it? Look, let's say you don't  believe me; I'm a
little guy. But what about the captain? And the brigadier?"
     Maxim threw off his jump suit, went over to the window, and stared out,
pressing his forehead against the pane.
     "And if mistakes are made?"
     "Mistakes?"  Guy  was  bewildered. "Who makes mistakes? The  brigadier?
Mac, you areare a jerk!"
     "OK."  Mac  turned  around.  "But we're not  discussing him now.  We're
talking about the degens. Let's take you,  for  example. You would  die  for
your cause, right?"
     "Right! And so would you."
     "OK,  so  we would.  And that's precisely my point. We would  die for a
cause, not for the Legion's rations or for money. Offer me a billion of your
paper bills  and I  wouldn't be willing to die  for it. And you're  the same
way."
     "Of  course,"  said  Guy, thinking what  a  character  Mac was,  always
getting strange ideas.
     "Well?"
     "What do you mean -- well?"
     "Well, all right," said Maxim  impatiently. "You wouldn't  agree to die
for money. Neither would I. But you think the degens would? Ridiculous!"
     "Sure they  would!"  Guy was  steamed  up.  "That's why they're degens!
Money  means  more  to  them than  anything  else. Nothing's holy  to  them.
Strangling a child is no big deal to them, They've done  it! Get  this, Mac:
if a man tries to destroy the ABM network, what kind  of man can he be? I'll
tell you -- a cold-blooded murderer!"
     "I'm not so sure about  that. Some of them  were interrogated today. If
they had named their confederates, they could have saved their necks, gotten
off with hard labor in a penal colony, But they didn't. So doesn't that mean
that  their confederates  mean more  to them  than  money?  More  than  life
itself?"
     "You can't say that for sure," replied Guy.  "According to the law, all
the degens would be  sentenced to death, without a court trial. You yourself
saw them tried."
     He  looked at Mac  and saw that he  was  confused  and wavering. He was
really good-hearted  but  so naive; he didn't understand that cruelty to the
enemy was unavoidable. He should really lay it on the line, tell him to stop
talking  nonsense,  to  shut up and  listen  to his  superiors. Mac  was  no
blockhead or  ignorant kid;  if things were  explained to him properly, he'd
understand.
     "No!" said Mac stubbornly.  "You can't hate  for money alone.  And  the
degens do hate -- more than I believed possible for people to hate. You hate
them less than they hate you. And I want to know why."
     "Now listen. I'll explain it to you again. In the first place, they are
degens. They hate all normal people. By  nature  they're vicious, like rats.
And second, we interfere in their affairs. They would like to do their dirty
work, get  their dough,  and live in clover.  And what do  we do?  We say to
them: 'Freeze! Hands up!' What do you expect them to do, love us?"
     "If they're all as vicious as rats, what about that landlord? H they're
all bought, as you say they are, why was he released?"
     Guy laughed.
     "That landlord is a  coward.  There are plenty of those, too. They hate
us, but they're afraid. They know  it pays to be nice to us. Besides, he's a
landlord, a  rich man. You  can't  buy  him  off so easy. He's not like that
dentist. Mac,  you're funny;  you're like a  kid! You know  that all  people
aren't alike, and neither are the degens."
     "Of  course I know," interrupted Mac. "But, take  the dentist. I'll bet
my shirt  he wasn't bought. I can't  prove it to  you, but  I feel  it in my
bones. That dentist is a courageous, decent man."
     "You mean degen!"
     "Have it  your way. A courageous, decent degen. I saw his library. He's
well educated. He knows a thousand  times more than you or the captain.  Why
is he against us?  If everything is as you say, why doesn't an educated  man
like that know it? Even when threatened  with death, he tells us straight to
our faces that he's for the people and against us. Why?"
     "An educated degen is  doubly dangerous," Guy lectured him. "Just being
a degen,  he hates  us.  But  if he's  educated, he can spread  that  hatred
everywhere. Education, my dear friend, is not always a blessing. Like a gun,
it depends on who has it."
     "Education is always a blessing."
     "I disagree. I'd rather  see all the Khontis ignorant. Then,  at least,
we could live like people  instead  of being always afraid  that they'll get
us. If they were uneducated, we could control them better."
     "Yes," said Mac in a strange tone,  "we know  how to do that all right.
We know very well how to be cruel."
     "You're talking like a child again. We'd be very happy to convince them
by  rational  persuasion.  It certainly  would  be  less expensive and  less
bloody. But what would you do if persuasion didn't work?"
     "That means they do have convictions, doesn't it?" Mac interrupted. "If
a well-educated person like that dentist is convinced he's right, then where
does Khonti money come into the picture?"
     Guy was fed up  with Mac's arguments, so as a  last resort  he began to
cite the  Creators'  Code. But  Mac broke in,  calling out suddenly:  "Rada!
You've  had enough  sleep! Your legionnaires are starving to death  and want
your company!"
     Guy was surprised to hear Rada's voice come from behind the screen.
     "I've been awake  for a long time. You've been shouting as if you  were
on the drill field."
     "What are you doing home?" asked Guy.
     Wrapping her robe more closely around her, she came out from behind the
screen.
     "Lost  my job," she  announced.  "Mama Tei  closed  down her place. She
inherited some money and is going off to the country. But she recommended me
for a good job. Mac, why are your things all over the place? Put them in the
closet. I've asked you both a dozen times not to come in with your boots on!
Guy,  set the table, we'll  eat  right  away.  Mac, you've  lost weight.  My
goodness, what are they doing to you there?"
     "Come on, come on!" said Guy. "Let's have some dinner."
     Rada went to the kitchen.  As she left the room, Mac watched her with a
tender expression on his face.
     "Pretty, isn't  she?" asked  Guy. He  was  startled  to see  Mac's face
harden abruptly. "What's the matter with you?"
     "Listen," said Mac. "They can do  anything. Even torture  a person. You
know  more  about that than I do. But to shoot women, to torture women."  He
grabbed his boots and left the room.
     Guy  grunted,  scratched  his head  vigorously,  and began  to put  out
plates. Their discussion  had left  him  with  an unpleasant  aftertaste and
conflicting feelings.  Of  course Mac was still green, and  not  from  their
world. But it was amazing how these arguments with Mac always turned out. He
certainly was remarkably logical. Although he had been talking nonsense this
time, too, everything had shaped up so logically! Guy had to  admit that, if
not for this conversation, he would hardly  have reached  a basically simple
conclusion, namely: that the main objection to the degens was that they were
degens. Discount this, and all the other accusations against them turned out
to  be  nonsense. "Yes,  the whole point  is that they are degens  and  hate
everything normal. This is  sufficient reason for them to oppose us  without
Khonti's gold. Does that mean the Khontis are degens, too? We've  never been
told they are. If they aren't, then our degens should hate them as they hate
us. Oh, massaraksh! Darn this logic!"
     When Mac returned. Guy pounced on him.
     "How did you know Rada was home?"
     "What do you mean -- how? It was quite obvious.
     "If it  was  so obvious to  you,  why  didn't you  warn  me?  And  why,
massaraksh, do you blab so much in  the presence of outsiders? I've told you
dozens of times, massaraksh!"
     "Massaraksh, who's an outsider  here? Rada? Rada is less an outsider to
me than all your captains!"
     "Massaraksh! What do the regulations say about military secrets?"
     "Massaraksh and massaraksh!  Why are  you  badgering  me? I thought you
knew  she  was  home! I  thought you  were  kidding about  the night  shift.
Besides, what the hell kind of military secrets were we discussing anyway?"
     "Anything concerning the service is -- "
     "Damn you and your  service! You can't even  talk in front  of your own
sister! You've  got  your  lousy secrets everywhere.  It's  impossible -- we
can't even open our mouths!"
     "Who do you think you are, shouting at  me? Remember, I'm the one who's
teaching you, you fool! And you have the nerve to shout at me?"
     Before Guy could finish, Mac  had calmed down. Mac  walked over to him,
and then Guy  felt powerful arms seize him, the room began to spin, and  the
ceiling rushed toward him.  He let out a  muffled cry, and Mac, carrying him
carefully above his head, walked over to the window.
     "Well, where should I throw you and your secrets? Out the window?"
     "What an  idiotic  joke,  massaraksh!"  shouted  Guy,  waving  his arms
wildly.
     "So you don't want to be thrown out the window? Well, then stay here."
     Mac carried Guy behind the screen and threw him down on Rada's bed. Guy
sat up, straightened his pajamas, and muttered: "Some joke."
     Guy  had  cooled  down  too;  he might  as well  save his anger for the
degens.
     They set the table. Rada came in with a pot of soup. Behind her was Unc
Kaan with  his precious flask. It alone, he assured  everyone, protected him
from  colds and a  host of  geriatric ailments. They sat down and started on
the soup. Unc drained a wine glass, took a  deep  breath, and began  to talk
about his enemy. Shapshu, he said, had written an article about the function
of certain bones in some ancient lizard, and the entire article was based on
idiocy, contained nothing but idiocy, and was written for idiots.
     As far as Unc Kaan was concerned,  everyone was an idiot, including his
faculty  colleagues and  his assistants.  And the  students?  The height  of
idiocy.  So the fate  of paleontology was a foregone conclusion.  Guy wasn't
particularly distressed -- what use would it ever be to anyone? But Rada was
very fond  of Unc and always grieved along with him when he complained about
his  colleagues  or  the  university's  failure   to  supply  funds  for  an
expedition.
     Today the  dinner  conversation  took a different turn.  Rada,  who had
heard everything from  behind the screen, asked Unc how  the degens differed
from normal people. Guy glowered at Maxim and asked Rada not  to  ruin their
appetites. He suggested that she read the literature on degens.
     Unc declared that this  literature was  prepared for  downright idiots;
that the people in  the Department of Education believed  everyone to be  as
ignorant as themselves; that the  degen  problem was certainly not as simple
as the literature deliberately portrayed it. "Either we behave like cultured
people  or  like our  brave but ignorant  barracks  officers."  Unc  drained
another glass of  wine and launched into a  theory now current in scientific
circles:  the  degens were nothing  other than a  new biological  form  that
evolved as a result of radiation exposure.
     "The degens  are dangerous -- no doubt  about  that," said Unc, raising
his finger, "But they  are far more  dangerous than you think, Guy. They are
fighting for a place in this world,  for the  survival of their species, and
this struggle is not a question of social  conditions. It will end only when
either the last man or the last de-gen-mutant leaves the arena of biological
history victorious.  Khonti  gold?  Nonsense!  Diversions  against  the  ABM
network? Trivial. Look  beyond the Blue Snake River, my friends. Yes, beyond
the Blue Snake River! That's where your real danger comes from. The prolific
colonies of  humanoid monsters will come from down  there to  trample us, to
annihilate us! Guy,  you are blind. And your commanders, too. You must fight
to  save an entire civilization, not just one people, not simply our mothers
and children, but allall humanity!"
     Guy became furious. He was hardly concerned, he said, with  the fate of
humanity. He didn't believe this theory nonsense. If he was told that it was
possible  to set  the wild degens against  Khonti, he would devote his whole
life to the task. Unc called him a blind fool. He said that the All-Powerful
Creators were real martyrs and  were truly engaged  in unequal battle if all
they had at their command were such miserable, blind supporters.
     Guy decided not to argue with him  because Unc understood nothing about
politics. Mac tried to get involved in the argument and began  to talk about
the  one-armed degen, but Guy cut  short  his feeble attempts to publicize a
service secret. He told Rada  to serve  the second  course and asked Mac  to
turn on the television set. "Too much yak-yakking today," he said. "We're on
leave; let's relax."
     But  his imagination  had been aroused, and since there  was  | nothing
worthwhile on TV, Guy  began to tell stories  about the wild  degens. Having
fought  them for  three years, he knew a thing or two about them.  He hadn't
sat it out in the rear  like those philosophizing types. Rada felt sorry for
the  old man  and called her brother a braggart. Still, Unc and Mac defended
him and asked him to continue.  Guy refused: his feelings had been hurt, and
besides, he couldn't  think  of a  single  example to refute the old souse's
arguments. Suddenly he remembered what Zef, first sergeant of the 114th Unit
of condemned prisoners, had once told him, and he presented  this  theory to
Unc  with  pleasure.  Zef had  said that degens  were becoming  increasingly
active  because  the radioactive desert was  closing in on them. Their  only
hope for survival was to fight their way into areas free of radioactivity.
     "Who told  you that?" asked Unc scornfully. "What idiot ever  concocted
that simplistic explanation?"
     Guy looked at him, gloating, and replied with authority: "That  happens
to be the opinion of Allu Zef, one of our most eminent psychiatrists."
     "Where  did  you meet him?"  inquired Unc even more scornfully. "In the
company kitchen?"
     Guy bit his tongue and focused his attention on the TV weatherman.
     Massaraksh, Mac barged into the argument again.
     "All right, I am ready  to  grant you  that those monsters in the south
are some new species. But  tell me -- what does that landlord Renadu have in
common with them? Renadu is also considered a degen, but clearly  he doesn't
belong to this new species."
     Since this had never occurred  to Guy, he was relieved  what Unc jumped
in  to  answer  the  question. After  calling  Mac  all sort  of  names, Unc
explained that the undetected  degens,  the  city  ones,  were  actually the
surviving remnants of the new specie who,  in the central  regions, had been
almost  completely  wiped out in the  cradle.  They  still  remembered those
horrors. Many were killed at birth, sometimes together with  their  mothers.
Only the ones in whom the new species traits were invisible to the naked eye
survived. Uncle Kaan  drained a fifth glass  of wine, dropped all restraint,
and  developed  for  his  audience  an  efficient  program for  the  medical
inspection of  the entire population. This, he insisted,  must be undertaken
sooner  or later, and better  sooner than  later.  Absolutely no exceptions!
Weeds must be torn with the roots without mercy.
     With  this, dinner ended.  Rada  cleared  the  dishes  from  tit table.
Without waiting  for his  listeners' reactions,  Unc triumphantly corked his
flask and started for his room. Guy follow"l| him with  his eyes -- the  old
man  in his  threadbare  jacket,  patched trousers,  darned  socks, and worn
shoes.  Damned war!  Before the  war the entire  apartment  had belonged  to
Uncle.  He  had a servant,  wife, son,  fancy  china, lots  of money, even a
country  home somewhere. But  now  his  dusty book-crammed  study  served as
bedroom and  what  have  you.  Secondhand  clothing, loneliness, oblivion. A
sorry state. Guy pushed the easy chair closer  to the TV, stretched out, and
began  to watch  the screen  drowsily. Mac sat beside him  for a while, then
rose silently, and disappeared into another comer. He browsed in Guy's small
collection of books, selected a textbook, and began to leaf through it.
     After  Rada  had  finished the dishes,  she  sat  down beside  Guy  and
crocheted,  glancing  up  at  the screen occasionally. All was  peaceful and
serene. Guy dozed off.
     He had a ridiculous dream:  he caught two  degens in a railroad tunnel,
began interrogating them, and suddenly discovered that  one of them was Mac.
The  other  one, smiling  gently, said  to Guy: "All  this time you've  been
making  a big mistake. Your place is with us. The  captain is  just  a hired
killer. He's no patriot. He just likes  to kill." Guy was crushed by doubts,
but then sensed that everything was about to  become crystal clear. Just one
more second, and all  Ms doubts would vanish. Ibis strange situation  was so
agonizing that his heart skipped several beats, and he woke up abruptly.
     Mac and Rada were quietly chatting about trivial things. About swimming
in the sea, about sand and cockleshells. A thought suddenly occurred to him:
was he really capable of doubling, of vacillating?  What  did  the doubts in
his dream mean?  Could they happen during his waking  life? For some time he
tried to recall the dream in all its details, but it slipped away like a bar
of wet soap. Relieved, Guy passed it off as nonsense.
     The TV  program was  boring, so Guy suggested a few beers. Rada went to
the kitchen and brought  two bottles from the  refrigerator. They  drank and
chatted, and in the  course of their  aimless conversation  it came out that
Mac  had  absorbed  an  entire  textbook  on  geopolitics  in the  preceding
half-hour. Rada was delighted,  but Guy refused to believe  it. He  insisted
that a  person  might be able to  leaf  through  it  in half  an  hour,  but
certainly not read it and assimilate it. Impossible! Mac demanded a test and
they made a bet: the loser  would tell Uncle Kaan straight to his face  that
his colleague Shapshu was a superior intellect and a brilliant scientist.
     Guy opened the book at random, found questions at the end of a chapter,
and read:  "Explain  our government's  moral  magnanimity  with  respect  to
northern expansion." Mac answered  in his own words but correctly summarized
the text,  adding that in his opinion  moral magnanimity  had  nothing to do
with expansion; he  viewed the entire problem as  stemming from Khonti's and
Pandeya's aggressive regimes. Guy scratched his head, turned  several pages,
and asked: "What  is the average cereal yield in the northwestern  regions?"
Mac laughed  and  said that  there were no  data  for  the northwest.  Guy's
inability to trip up Mac delighted Rada. "What is the population pressure at
the mouth  of the  Blue Snake  River?" continued Guy.  Mac stated a  figure,
cited an error in  calculation, and did not fail to add that the concept  of
population  pressure  troubled  him. He couldn't  understand why it had been
introduced. Guy started to explain that population pressure was a measure of
aggressiveness, but Rada  interrupted him.  Guy, she  said, was deliberately
changing  the subject, trying to squirm out of their bet because he realized
how poorly he was doing.
     Dismayed  by  the prospect of confronting  Uncle  Kaan, Guy stalled for
time  by  starting an  argument. Mac listened  for a while. Then, out of the
blue,  he declared that  Rada  should not accept  the job  as a waitress but
should return to school. Relieved at the change of subject. Guy shouted that
he had  told her the same thing a thousand times and had suggested she apply
for  the  Women's Legion  Corps, where she would  be  turned  into a  useful
citizen.  But the  conversation  fell  flat. Mac merely shook  his head, and
Rada,  as she had  on previous occasions,  spoke about  the WLC  in the most
disrespectful terms.
     Guy didn't bother to argue with her. He threw aside the textbook,  went
over to  the closet for his guitar, and tuned  it.  Mac and  Rada pushed the
table aside  and faced each  other, preparing dance  to the accompaniment of
"Yes  -- Yes, No --  No." Guy  played for them. As he watched them dance, he
thought what splendid couple they made. But apartments were impossible find.
If they got married, he would have to move to the barracks.
     Oh well,  that wouldn't be so bad.  Many of the  corporals lived in the
barracks.  On  the other  hand, Mac didn't act as though he  planning to get
married.  He  treated  Rada  more  like  a  friend,  although  with  unusual
tenderness and respect.  Yet it was clear that Rada had fallen in love  with
him. How her eyes sparkled! How could a girl not fall in  love  with  such a
man! Even that old hag, Madame  Go, stuck her skull out the door and grinned
as soon  as she  heard Mac walking  down the corridor.  Every  tenant in the
building  was fond  of him.  The legionnaires, too. Only captain treated him
strangely... although he didn't deny that Mac was a firebrand.
     The  couple  danced  on  and on,  until  they  were  about to drop from
exhaustion. Mac took the guitar from Guy, retuned it in his own special way,
and began to  sing his mountain songs. Dozens of  them, but not one familiar
tune. Yet they had  a strange effect on Guy. Although he didn't understand a
single word, sometimes  he would feel  like crying, sometimes like laughing.
Rada  had already memorized some of  them and tried to  hum them now. One of
her favorites was a  funny song  about a girl who sat on a mountain, waiting
for her boyfriend.  But no matter how hard he tried, he could  not reach her
-- one obstacle after another blocked his path.
     The doorbell rang, but they did not hear  it through  the music. Then a
loud knocking, and Captain Chachu's orderly burst into the room.
     "Corporal, sir,  may  I speak with you?" he bellowed, casting a furtive
glance at Rada.
     Mac stopped playing.
     "What is it?" said Guy.
     "The captain  has  ordered you and Candidate  Sim  to report to company
headquarters at once. A car is waiting below."
     Guy jumped up.
     "Go wait for  us in the car. We'll be down in a few  minutes. Hurry and
dress," he said to Maxim.
     Rada took  the guitar and cradled it  in her arms like a baby. Then she
turned and walked to the window.
     "What's it all about?" asked Mac.
     "How should I know? Maybe it's a practice alert."
     "I don't like it."
     Guy looked  at  him and  turned on  the  radio. Nothing  alarming. They
dressed hurriedly.
     "Well, Rada, we're going," said Guy.
     "Then go," said Rada without turning around.
     "Let's go, Mac." Guy pulled his beret over his eye.
     "Call me if you're delayed," said Rada.
     The orderly obligingly opened  the door for Guy.  They climbed into the
car and set off for headquarters. Evidently  they had  been summoned because
of  an emergency. Turning the siren up full blast,  the driver  raced toward
their destination. Guy thought, with some regret, about the pleasant evening
they  had left behind.  But  that was the life of  a  legionnaire. In a  few
minutes  they  would receive  their orders, pick  up  their guns,  and start
shooting. Right on top of a cozy evening: beer, warm pajamas, singing to the
accompaniment of  the guitar. Ah, yes,  that was  the life of a legionnaire,
the best  of all  possible  lives. Wives, girlfriends?  No need of them. Mac
didn't  want to marry Rada. Never mind,  she'd wait. If she loved him, she'd
wait.
     The car tore  onto  the parade ground and braked at the entrance to the
barracks. Guy leaped out and ran up the steps. He stopped short at the door,
checked his  beret and belt  buckle, gave Mac a quick once-over and fastened
his collar -- massaraksh, it was always open! -- and knocked.
     "Come in!" barked a familiar voice.
     Guy entered and reported for duty. Captain  Chachu, wearing  a  cap and
woolen cape, sat behind his desk, smoking and drinking coffee. The cartridge
case  in front  of him was  filled  with  butts. Two submachine  guns rested
against the  side  of the desk. He rose slowly, leaning heavily on  the desk
with both hands. Staring at Mac, he began to speak.
     "Candidate Sim!  You have shown yourself to be an extraordinary fighter
and  a  loyal comrade. I  applied to the brigade commander  for  your  early
promotion to the rank of regular private in  the Fighting Legion. You passed
the test by fire very successfully. Now you will be tested by blood."
     Guy was overjoyed:  he hadn't expected this to happen so soon. "There's
an  old soldier for you!" he thought. "What a fool I was to think he  had it
in for Mac." Guy glanced at Mac,  and his  joy paled at the  sight  of Mac's
wooden  countenance and bulging eyes. All  according to regulations. But  at
this particular moment it wasn't necessary.
     "I  am  about to  hand  you an  order.  Candidate  Sim,"  continual the
captain,  handing  Mac a document. "It is the first  order addressed  to you
personally. And I hope not the last. Read it and sign it."
     Mac took the order and skimmed through it. Guy's heart skipped again --
not from joy,  but from a vague and fearful premonition. Mac's face remained
immobile, and everything appeared to be  in order, except that he  hesitated
almost imperceptibly before he  picked up  the pen and signed  the document.
The captain examined the signature and placed the paper in his map case.
     He picked up a typed envelope from his desk. "Corporal Gaal, go  to the
guardroom and bring  the  condemned prisoners  here. Take a gun -- no, here,
take this one."
     Guy took  the envelope, slung the  gun over  his shoulder, ei-ecuted an
about-face,  and marched toward the  door.  He could still  hear the captain
telling  Mac:  "Don't worry,  candidate. No  need to get jittery. It's  only
frightening the first time."
     Guy crossed the field on the double, heading toward the guardhouse.  He
handed the chief sentry the envelope, signed in  the designated  places, and
received the necessary receipts in turn. The condemned prisoners were turned
over to him. They were the recent conspirators: the stocky man whose fingers
Mac had dislocated and  the woman.  Massaraksh, this was too much! The woman
-- it  was  absolutely  unnecessary!  This was  no job  for Mac. He led  the
prisoners  to the drill field and  prodded them toward the barracks. Nursing
his hand, the  man dragged himself along, while the woman walked straight as
a rod, her hands  thrust deeply into her jacket pockets. She appeared  to be
oblivious to  everything around  her. "Massaraksh, and why  not Mac? Why the
hell not? The broad  is just  as bad as the other degen bastards. Why should
we  make  an  exception of  her?  And  why, massaraksh,  should we  make  an
exception for Candidate Sim? Let him get used to it!"
     The captain and  Mac were waiting in the truck. The captain  was behind
the wheel; Mac sat in the back with his gun  resting between his knees.  Guy
opened the  door and  the prisoners climbed  in. "On the floor!" he ordered.
They  sat  down obediently on the steel floor, and Guy sat  opposite Mac. He
tried to catch  Mac's eye, but Mac was looking at the prisoners. No,  he was
looking at the woman, who was huddled up on the  floor, clutching her knees.
Without turning  around  the  captain asked  if  they were ready. The  truck
pulled out.
     They rode in silence. The captain drove at top speed, evidently anxious
to finish the job.  Mac kept looking at  the woman, as if he were trying  to
get her attention, and  Guy  kept trying to  catch Mac's eye.  The condemned
prisoners clung  to each other and squirmed on the floor. The man started to
talk  to the woman,  but Guy  shouted at him. The car sped out of the  city,
passed  the southern gate, and  turned  into  a familiar deserted village. A
very familiar  village. It led  to Pink Caves. The  captain  turned  the car
again,  braked  sharply, and  eased it into a quarry.  He switched off I the
engine and ordered everyone out.
     It was almost dawn,  and a light mist was spreading through the quarry.
Its  windswept stone walls emitted a  faint pink glow.  Long ago  marble had
been mined here.
     Matters  were coming to a head. Mac continued  to behave like  a  model
soldier. Not  a single superfluous movement. His face was impassive, and his
eyes were focused on the captain in anticipation of an order. The stocky man
behaved  well, with dignity.  No, he wouldn't give them any trouble. But the
woman  went  to  pieces  toward  the  end.  She  kept  clenching  her  fists
convulsively,  pressing  them  to  her  chest and  then dropping  them.  Guy
expected some hysterics,  but it didn't  appear that they'd have to drag her
to the execution spot.
     The  captain lit a cigarette, looked up  at the  sky, and said  to Mac,
"Take them along  this path. You'll  come  to  a cave.  You'll know where to
stand them. When you're  finished, be sure to check them and,  if necessary,
give them the coup de grace. Do you know what that is?"
     "Yes, sir," replied Mac woodenly.
     "You're lying, boy. You don't know. It means -- in the head. Get going,
candidate. You'll return here a regular private."
     Suddenly the woman  spoke. "If  one  of  you is  a  real man... tell my
mother. Duck Village, Number Two. It's the next village. Her name is -- "
     "Don't lower yourself," boomed the stocky man's deep voice.
     " -- her name is Illi Tader."
     "Don't lower  yourself," he  repeated,  raising his voice.  The captain
punched him in the  face. He stopped talking, put his hand to his cheek, and
glared at the captain.
     "Get going, candidate," repeated the captain.
     Mac  turned to the prisoners and motioned to  them with  his gun.  They
started  along  the  path.  The woman  turned  around shouted  again:  "Duck
Village, Number Two. Illi Tader!"
     Mac walked behind them slowly with his gun raised in front of  him. The
captain flung open the car door and sat down sideways  behind the wheel with
his feet stretched out.
     "O. K. We'll wait about fifteen minutes."
     "Yes, sir," replied Guy mechanically.
     He followed Mac with his eyes until the group disappeared behind a pink
ledge. "I'll  have to buy a bottle on the way back," he  thought.  "Get  him
good and drunk. They say it helps."
     "You may smoke, corporal," said the captain.
     "Thank you, sir, but I don't smoke."
     The captain spat through his teeth.
     "Aren't you worried that your friend will let you down?"
     "Absolutely not, sir," said  Guy, but without conviction. "Although, if
I may say  so, sir,  I'm  very sorry  that  he got the  woman. He's from the
mountains and they -- "
     "He's no more  from  the  mountains than you or  me," said the captain.
"Anyway, it's not a question of women.  Well, we'll see what happens. By the
way, what were you doing when you were summoned to headquarters?"
     "We were singing, sir."
     "What were you singing?"
     "Mountain songs, sir. He knows a lot of them."
     The captain got out of the car and paced up and down along the path. He
had stopped talking, and about ten minutes later began whistling the "Legion
March." Guy kept  listening for shots but didn't hear  any. He began to grow
anxious. Could  they  have escaped  from Mac? Impossible! Disarmed him? Even
more impossible. Then why the  hell wasn't he firing? Maybe he had  led them
beyond  the usual spot? The stench there was pretty strong,  and Mac  had  a
very keen sense of smell. He was  so squeamish about that sort of thing,  he
could very well have gone another mile or so.
     "Well, Corporal  Gaal," said  the  captain,  halting, "that's  it.  I'm
afraid we can't wait any longer for your buddy. And  I'm afraid you won't be
called corporal after today."
     Guy looked at him in dismay. The captain grinned.
     "What  the  hell's the matter with  you? You look as  if  your eyes are
about  to  pop  out. Your  friend ran away,  deserted.  He's a coward and  a
traitor. Do you understand. Corporal Gaal?"
     Guy was stunned.  Not so  much by what the captain said as how he  said
it. The captain was ecstatic. He looked as if he  had just won  a large bet.
Guy  looked  into the  quarry mechanically and  suddenly  saw  Mac.  He  was
returning alone, carrying his gun by its strap.
     "Massaraksh," the captain said hoarsely. He, too, was stunned.
     They stopped talking and watched Mac approach them  -- slowly, stepping
easily over the stone fragments. They watched his calm face with its strange
eyes. Guy's head was spinning. What happened to  the shots? Had he strangled
them? Or smashed them with the butt of his gun? He, Mac, do that to a woman?
Never! But the shots? There hadn't been any,
     Five paces away, Mac  halted  and, looking the captain straight  in the
eye, flung the gun at his feet.
     "Good-bye,  captain,"  he said.  "I released them, and now  I  want  to
leave. Take your gun! Take your  clothes!" He turned to Guy  and, unbuckling
his belt, said to him: "Guy, this is a dirty business. They've been lying to
us."
     He pulled off his boots  and  jump suit, tied everything  into a bundle
and stood there, almost naked, in  his  silver shorts and  barefoot, just as
Guy had seen him for the first time on the  southern border. He went over to
the truck and  placed the bundle  on the hood. Guy was shocked. He looked at
the captain -- then almost froze in horror.
     "Captain!" he shouted. "Don't! He's out of his mind! He -- "
     "Candidate  Sim!"  snapped the captain, his hand  on his holster.  "Get
into the car! You're under arrest."
     "That's  what you think. I'm  free. I've  come for  Guy. Let's go, Guy.
They've made  a sucker out of you. They're dishonest  people. Before  I  had
doubts about them, but now I'm sure. Let's go, Guy."
     Guy shook his head.  He wanted to  say something, to explain something,
but he had neither  the time nor the  words  to express it. The captain  had
drawn his pistol.
     "Candidate Sim! Into the car!"
     "Are you coming?" asked Mac.
     Guy shook his head again. He looked at the pistol. Only one thought ran
through his head: Mac was about to be shot. Oh God, what should he do?
     "OK," said Mac. "I'll find you. I'll find  out everything and I'll find
you. You don't belong with them. Give Rada my love."
     He turned  and began to walk away, striding over the stone fragments as
easily as if he were wearing boots. Guy stared mutely at his triangular back
and waited for the shot and the black hole beneath his left shoulder blade.
     "Candidate Sim," said the captain without raising  his voice. "For  the
last time, I'm ordering you to return. I'm going to shoot."
     Mac halted and turned toward him again.
     "Shoot?"  he said. "Why? Well, the reason doesn't matter. Put down your
pistol."
     Holding the pistol at his hip, Chachu aimed at Mac.
     "I'm counting to three. Get into the truck, candidate. One!"
     "Come, hand  over  your  pistol." Mac  extended  his hand  and advanced
toward the captain.
     "Two!"
     "Don't!" shouted Guy.
     The captain fired. Mac  was  close  to him. Guy  saw the bullet hit his
shoulder. Mac staggered back, as if he had run into an obstacle.
     "You fool!" said Mac. "Hand over your gun, you vicious fool!"
     Mac continued to advance toward the captain, his hand  reaching out for
the  weapon. Blood was spurting from his shoulder. With a strangely unsteady
cry, the captain retreated  and  fired three shots in rapid succession  into
the broad tanned chest. Mac fell on  his  back,  rose, and fell  again.  The
captain fired three more shots. Mac fell forward and lay still.
     Guy felt giddy  and his  legs buckled.  He  sank  down  on the  truck's
running board. The repulsive crunching sound of bullets penetrating the body
of his closest  friend  still ran  through his head. Soon  he recovered  his
strength, but still unsure of his legs, rested a little longer.
     Mac's  motionless  body lay  like  a  rock  among  the  pink and  white
fragments.  The captain returned to where he had been standing, held his gun
in readiness, and lit up a  cigarette, inhaling greedily. He didn't  look at
Guy.  Smoking the cigarette down  to  the  last  puff, he burned himself; he
threw the butt away and took two steps toward the dead man.
     "Massaraksh!" grunted the captain, replacing his pistol in its holster.
     He fumbled for a long time, trying to  fasten it, and finally  gave up.
He walked over to Guy, grabbed  his clothing at the  chest with his crippled
hand,  and  jerked  him  up.  Breathing  noisily  in  Guy's  face,  he spoke
unsteadily.
     "OK, boy, we won't bust  you to  private.  But you're  finished  in the
Legion.  You'll write  out a request for transfer to the  army.  Get in  the
van."

PART THREE: TERRORIST

9.

     His  escort  murmured: "Wait here,"  and vanished into the brush. Maxim
sat  down on a stump in  the middle  of  a clearing, thrust  his hands  deep
inside  the pockets of his canvas pants, and waited. The forest was old, and
the  undergrowth  was  strangling  it. The  ancient  tree trunks smelled  of
rotting mold. Maxim shivered from the dampness. He felt faint and wanted  to
sit in the sun, where he could warm his shoulder.
     Someone was in the bushes nearby, but Maxim ignored it. Although he had
been followed from the moment he  left the village, he wasn't  concerned. It
would have been strange if they had believed his story at once.
     A little girl wearing an oversized blouse and carrying a bucket entered
the clearing from one side. As she passed, her eyes were riveted on Mac, and
she  kept stumbling in  the  tall  grass.  A squirrel-like  animal  streaked
through  the  bushes,  darted  up  a  tree, looked  down,  took  fright, and
disappeared.  It was quiet except for the distant,  irregular  clacking of a
machine cutting bulrushes on the lake.
     The  man in  the bushes did not go  away. The feeling that he was being
watched was  unpleasant, but he had  to get  used to it. He must expect this
from now on. The inhabited island had turned against him: one group had shot
him, another distrusted  him. Maxim dozed off. Lately he had  been dozing at
the most  inappropriate times. He'd  fall asleep, wake up,  and  fall asleep
again. Realizing that his body knew best what it needed, he did not  attempt
to fight it. This would pass.
     He heard the rustle of footsteps and his escort's voice: "Follow me."
     Maxim rose and followed. They went deep into the forest, weaving in and
out, describing circles and complicated loops as they gradually approached a
dwelling that was actually very close to the clearing. Finally deciding that
he  had sufficiently  confused  Maxim,  the escort took a shortcut over some
fallen  trees.  He  made  a  great  deal  of  noise,  like  a  city  dweller
unaccustomed to walking through woodland, so Maxim could  no longer hear the
footsteps of the man who was creeping along behind them.
     After they  had  passed  the fallen  trees. Maxim  saw  a meadow  and a
ramshackle  log cabin with boarded-up  windows. The meadow was covered  with
high grass, but Maxim noticed both fresh and old tracks running  through it.
Whoever came  here approached  cautiously, trying  to reach  the cabin  by a
different  route each  time.  They  entered  a  dark,  musty room.  The  man
following them remained outside. The escort pulled up  a trapdoor and  said:
"Come  over here.  Be  careful."  In the  darkness Maxim descended a  wooden
staircase.
     The  cellar was  warm and dry. Several people sat around a wooden table
and their eyes strained, trying to make  out Maxim in the darkness. The odor
of a snuffed-out candle suggested to Maxim that they didn't  want him to see
their faces. He recognized only two:  Ordi, Illi Tader's daughter, and  Memo
Gramenu, who sat by the staircase with a  machine gun on his knees. Upstairs
the trapdoor slammed shut.
     "Who are you," someone asked. "Tell us about yourself."
     "May I sit down?" asked Maxim.
     "Yes, of course. Come over here, toward me. There's a bench."
     Maxim sat down  at  the table  and glanced around him. Four  people sat
around the  table.  They  appeared gray and  flat, like images in a very old
photograph. On his right sat Ordi. The broad-shouldered man sitting opposite
her, who bore an unpleasant resemblance to Captain Chachu, spoke out.  "Tell
us about yourself," he repeated.
     Maxim sighed.  He detested  the thought of introducing  himself with  a
pack of lies, but he had no choice.
     "I don't know anything about my past," he explained. "They say I'm from
the mountains. Maybe I am. I don't remember. My name is Maxim. My surname --
Kammerer. In the Legion my name was Mac Sim. I can remember only as far back
as the moment I was arrested in the forest near the Blue Snake River."
     The lies were over with and the rest went more easily. He told them his
story, trying to be brief but not to skip what was important.
     "I  led them as far as possible  into the  quarry, ordered them to run,
and  took   my  time  returning.  Then  the  captain  shot  me.  I  regained
consciousness that night, made my way out of the quarry, and wandered into a
pasture.  In the daytime I  hid in the bushes  and slept; at night I crawled
over  to  the  cows and  drank  some  milk. In  a few days  I felt better. I
borrowed rags from the shepherds, reached Duck Village, and found Illi Tader
there. You know the rest."
     There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  a man  with an  impassive  face  and
shoulder-length hair spoke.  "I don't understand why he doesn't remember his
past. I don't think that's likely. I'd like to hear the doctor's opinion."
     "It happens," explained the doctor, a  thin man who  looked overworked.
Evidently anxious to smoke, he twirled a pipe in his hands.
     "Why didn't you escape with the prisoners?" asked Broadshoulders.
     "Guy  was  still  back  there. I  hoped he would  come with me."  Maxim
paused,  recalling Guy's  pale bewildered  face,  the  captain's hate-filled
eyes, the burning, stabbing pains in his  chest and abdomen, and his wounded
feelings and sense of helplessness. "Of course it  was stupid of me to think
he would," he added. "But I didn't understand then."
     "Did you take part in Legion operations?"
     "I've already told you about that."
     "Tell us again!"
     "I took part  in  only  one operation, when Ketshef, Ordi, you, and two
others who wouldn't  identify themselves were seized. One had an  artificial
arm."
     "Your captain certainly  was  in a hurry. How  do you account  for  it?
Before a candidate is tested by blood, he must participate in at least three
operations."
     "I  don't  know.  I  only  know  he  didn't  trust  me.  I myself can't
understand why he sent me to shoot -- "
     "Why did he shoot you?"
     "I think he was frightened. I wanted to take away his gun."
     "I don't understand," said the long-haired  man. "Let's see if I've got
it  straight: he  didn't trust  you, so, to check you  out, he  sent  you to
execute -- "
     "Hold on, Forester," said Memo, "this is a lot of hot air. Words  don't
mean a damn thing. If I were you, doctor, I'd examine him. There's something
fishy about his story."
     "I can't examine him in the dark," said the doctor.
     "Light the candle," suggested Maxim. "I see you anyway."
     For a moment  there was dead silence. Then Broadshoulders asked:  "What
do you mean -- you see us?"
     Maxim shrugged his shoulders. "I can see in the dark."
     "Bullshit!" said Memo. "If you can see, describe what I'm doing now."
     Maxim turned around.
     "You've aimed  your carbine  at me.  Rather, you think it's  at me, but
actually it's aimed at the doctor. You are Memo Gramenu -- nicknamed Hoof of
Death, or  just Hoofer.  I recognize  you. You have a scratch on your  right
cheek that wasn't there before."
     "Noctalopia," muttered  the  doctor.  "Let's  have some light. This  is
stupid. He sees us and we don't see him." He groped for the matches.
     "Yes,"  said Memo, "of course it's stupid. Either he leaves here as one
of us or he doesn't leave at all."
     "May I?" Maxim reached out, took the  matches  from the doctor, and lit
the candle.
     Unaccustomed to the light, everyone squinted. The doctor lit  his  pipe
quickly.
     "Undress," he ordered.
     Maxim pulled his  canvas shirt  over his head.  Everyone stared at  his
chest. The doctor rose  and crossed over  to Maxim. Hi turned him in various
directions  and felt  him with  strong,  cold fingers.  It  was  quiet. Then
Longhair said sympathetically: "A handsome boy. My son was... too."
     No one answered. He rose  heavily, fumbled around in a  corner  of  the
room,  and  hoisted  a large wickered jug  onto the table.  He set out three
mugs.
     "We can take turns. If anyone's hungry, there's cheese. And bread."
     "Wait, Forester," said Broadshoulders. "Push your jug away. I can't see
a thing. Well, what do you think, doctor?"
     The doctor again ran his cold fingers over Maxim,  enveloped himself in
clouds of smoke, and sat down.
     "Forester,  pour!" he said. "Something like this calls for a drink. Get
dressed," he said to Maxim. "And stop smiling like a scarecrow. I have a few
questions for you."
     Maxim got dressed. The doctor took a  sip from the mug and asked: "When
did you say you were shot?"
     "Forty-seven days ago."
     "What did you say you were shot with?"
     "A pistol. An army pistol."
     The doctor took another sip and addressed Broadshoulders:
     "I'll bet this tough guy was shot with an army pistol,  and from a very
short distance. But  not  forty-seven days  ago. At  least  one hundred  and
forty-seven. Where are the bullets?" He turned to Maxim suddenly.
     "My body eliminated them, and I threw them away."
     "Listen, what's your name ... Mac! You're lying! Tell us the truth!"
     Maxim bit his lip.
     "I am telling the truth. You  have no  idea how rapidly wounds heal for
us. I am not lying." He paused. "I can prove it easily. Cut my hand. If it's
not a deep cut, it will heal in ten or fifteen minutes."
     "That's true," said  Ordi,  speaking up for  the first time. "I  saw it
myself. He was peeling potatoes and cut his finger. A half-hour later  there
was only a white scar, and  the next day, not a trace of anything. I believe
him when he  says he's from the  mountains.  Gel used to talk about mountain
folk medicine. They know how to heal wounds."
     "Bah, mountain  medicine." The doctor sent  up  a cloud of smoke again.
"All right, let's say his mountain folk medicine exists. But a cut finger is
one  thing,  and seven bullets fired point-blank is another. There are seven
holes in this young man; at least four of them should have been lethal."
     "The hell you say!" Broadshoulders made a gesture of disbelief.
     "You'd  better believe it,"  said  the doctor. "One bullet through  the
heart, one through the spine, two through the liver. Add to this the loss of
a great deal of blood and inevitable blood poisoning. Plus the total lack of
evidence  of treatment. Massaraksh, one bullet in the heart should have been
enough to kill him."
     "Explain it." Broadshoulders turned to Maxim.
     "He's wrong. About the shots, his diagnosis is correct, but he's wrong:
for us  those wounds are not lethal. Now, if  the captain had shot me in the
head... but he  didn't.  Doctor, you have no idea  how  viable the heart and
liver are."
     "True," said the doctor.
     "One thing  I  do know," said Broadshoulders. "They  would  hardly have
sent  us  such  a  crude  piece of work.  They know very well that  we  have
doctors."
     There was a long pause. Maxim waited patiently. "Would I believe such a
story  in their place? I suppose I  would. I'm  too gullible for this world.
Although, I must say, less  than  I used  to be. Take this  Memo fellow, for
example. I don't like that guy. He's practically afraid  of his shadow. Sits
there among  his own comrades with a machine  gun on his knees.  Probably is
afraid of me, too. Scared I'll grab his gun and dislocate his fingers again.
Well, maybe he's right. Hell, I'm  not going to let anyone ever  take a shot
at me again." He remembered that freezing night in the quarry, the luminous,
lifeless sky  and the cold, sticky puddle he lay in. "No, I've had enough of
that. From now on, I'll do the shooting."
     "I believe  him," said Ordi suddenly. "What he says doesn't make sense,
but that's because he's an  unusual man.  It's impossible to make up a story
like that:  it would be too ridiculous.  If I didn't believe him,  I'd shoot
him right after hearing such a story, Maybe he's crazy. That's possible. But
he's not a provocateur. I'm for him," she added.
     "That's enough,  Ordi," said Broadshoulders. "Shut up for a  while." He
turned to Maxim. "Were you examined by  the commission at  the Public Health
Department?"
     "Yes, I was."
     "And you were certified?"
     "Of course."
     "Any restrictions?"
     "The card just said 'Certified.'"
     "What is your opinion of the Fighting Legion?"
     "I think that it is a mindless weapon controlled by others, most likely
the  All-Powerful  Creators.  But  there's  still  too  much  that  I  don't
understand about it."
     "What is your opinion of the All-Powerful Creators?"
     "I think they are the  ruling  clique of a military  dictatorship. They
are unscrupulous, but I'm not familiar with their aims."
     "And what is your opinion of the degens?"
     "I think the term is unfortunate. I think you are conspirators. I don't
quite understand your aims. But  I like  the  people I've seen. All  of them
seem honest and -- how should I put it -- well aware of their actions."
     "All right," said Broadshoulders, "what about the  pains... do  you get
them?"
     "Those splitting headaches? No, never."
     "Why ask  him about that?"  said Forester.  "If he did, he wouldn't  be
sitting here now."
     "That's exactly what I want to  know.  Why is he  here?" Broadshoulders
turned to Maxim. "Why did you come to us? Do you want to fight with us?"
     Maxim shook his head.
     "I couldn't say that. It wouldn't be true. I want to find out what it's
all about. Right now I'd rather be with you than them. But I  know so little
about you, too."
     His questioners exchanged glances.
     "We don't operate that way, my friend," said Forester.  "Here's the way
we work: either you're one of us and you go out and fight, or you're not. In
that  case, then we... you know what I mean. Where did you say you'd have to
get it, in the head, eh?"
     The doctor sighed and knocked out his pipe against the bench.
     "An unusual and difficult case. I have a  suggestion.  Let him question
us. You do have questions, don't you, Mac?"
     "That's why I'm here."
     "He has a lot of questions." Ordi grinned. "He didn't give my mother  a
moment's peace. And bothered me, too."
     "Shoot," said  Broadshoulders. "You, doctor,  will answer  them.  We'll
listen."
     "Who are the Creators and what do they want?" began Maxim.
     "The  Creators," said the doctor, "are an anonymous  group of  the most
skillful schemers  in  finance, politics, and  the military.  They  have two
motives. Their  principal motive  is to stay in power,  and  their secondary
motive is to derive  maximum  gratification  from  this  power.  They're all
thieves, sensualists, sadists. And they're all power hungry. Enough?"
     "What  about  their  economic program?"  asked Maxim. "Their  ideology?
Their power base? Who do they count on for support?"
     Everyone  exchanged  glances  again.  Forester stared  open-mouthed  at
Maxim.
     "Economic programs?" said the  doctor.  "You expect too much of us.  We
are not theoreticians. We are realists. The overriding issue for us is their
desire  to destroy us. We are literally fighting  for our lives." He stuffed
his pipe.
     "I didn't intend to offend  anyone. I am only trying to understand what
it's all about." He would have explained the theory of historical necessity,
but  their language  lacked the necessary words. "What  is it that you want?
Besides your struggle for survival, what are your goals? And who are you?"
     "Let  me  answer  him," said  Forester suddenly. "Let me  tell him.  My
friend, I don't know how it is with you mountaineers, but I can tell you how
people in our country feel. We want to live, we love life. And you  ask what
else we want? For  me  that's enough. Do  you  think  that's so little?  Oh,
you're a brave one, all  right! But  try  hiding out in a cellar,  away from
your home, your wife and family,  when everyone has turned from you. Cut out
the fine words."
     "Take it easy, Forester," said Broadshoulders.
     "No, why should I? A fine one he is with his twaddle  about society and
economic programs."
     "Easy,  Forester," said the doctor. "Don't get all worked up. You  see,
this fellow  doesn't understand anything." He turned to Maxim. "Our movement
is very heterogeneous. We don't have a unified political program -- it's not
possible. We kill them because they're killing us.  You must  understand. We
are all condemned men and women with little hope of survival. For us biology
obscures politics. Survival is  our main goal. We've  no time to worry about
theoretical foundations. So if you were to come out with some sort of social
program, nothing would come of it."
     "But what's behind all this? Why are they trying to destroy you?" asked
Maxim.
     "We are considered degenerates. No one  remembers  how it  all started.
But  the Creators  have  something to gain by exterminating us: it distracts
the people from domestic problems, from the financiers' corruption, from the
enormous  profits made on the sales of munitions and the construction of the
ABM towers."
     "Now  it's  beginning to  make sense,"  said Maxim. "So  money  is  the
reason. Which means that the Creators are serving the moneyed interests. And
who else are they shielding?"
     "No, they aren't serving or  shielding anyone. The Creators  themselves
are the  moneyed interests.  They  are everything.  Yet,  in  a way, they're
nothing because they  are anonymous and continually devour each other...  He
should  talk  with  Vepr,"  he suggested  to Broadshoulders. "They'd  find a
common language."
     "Good. I'll talk with Vepr about the Creators. But now..."
     "Too late for that," said Memo angrily. "Vepr's been shot."
     "The one-armed fellow," explained  Ordi.  "Yes, you  should know  about
that."
     "I do," said Maxim.  "But he wasn't shot.  He was sentenced to exile in
the penal colony, for reeducation."
     "Impossible!" exclaimed Broadshoulders. "Vepr?"
     "Yes," replied Maxim. "Gel Ketshef was sentenced to death. Vepr, to the
penal  colony. Another  fellow who  refused to give his name -- the civilian
took him. Probably for counterintelligence."
     Again  there   was  a  long   pause.  The  doctor   sipped  his  drink.
Broadshoulders   sat  quietly.  Forester   groaned   and   looked   at  Ordi
sympathetically. She stared at the table, her lips pressed together tightly.
This was a  dangerous subject and Maxim was sorry he had raised it. Everyone
was shaken -- except Memo, who appeared more afraid than upset. "People like
him should not  be  given machine  guns,  " thought Maxim. "He'll gun us all
down."
     "Well, now," said Broadshoulders, "do you have any more questions?"
     "I certainly do. Many. But I'm afraid they may strike you as tactless."
     "Let's have them anyway."
     "All right, just one more.  What do the ABM towers have to do with you?
How do they interfere with your lives?"
     Everyone laughed scornfully.
     "There's a fool  for you," said Forester.  "OK, he  wants to  know  the
reason, he wants a theoretical foundation. So give it to him."
     "They're not ABM towers,"  explained  the  doctor. "They're our  curse.
They  invented  a  radiation-transmission device  which they use  to  create
'degenerates.' Most people, like you, for example, are totally unaffected by
this radiation, but because of certain peculiarities in their  physiology an
unfortunate minority experience excruciating pain during radiation  strikes.
Some can tolerate the pain, others  cannot, and they scream;  one-third lose
consciousness;  one-fourth go insane or die.  The  towers deliver nationwide
strikes twice daily. While we lie in the streets, helpless with pain, we are
caught and  arrested. There are also short-range radiation devices in patrol
cars.  In  addition there  are  self-activated devices and  random radiation
strikes at night. There's no  place  we can  hide  from them.  There  are no
shields, We go mad, shoot ourselves, do all sorts of senseless things out of
desperation. We're dying out."
     The doctor fell silent, grabbed  the  mug, and  drained  it.  His  face
twitched as he inhaled furiously on his pipe.
     "It's pointless  to tell him," said Memo suddenly. "He doesn't have the
slightest  idea of what it means to  live like this --  to wait each day for
the next radiation strike."
     "Well," said Broadshoulders, "in that case, there's  nothing further to
discuss.  Ordi has expressed herself in favor  of him. Who else is in favor,
and who is opposed?"
     "I want to explain why I'm in favor of him," Ordi said. "First of  all,
I  believe him. I've  already  said that,  and maybe it's not  so  important
because it  concerns  only me. But  this man possesses talents that  can  be
useful to all  of us. He can heal  not only his own wounds, but others' too.
No offense intended, doctor, but far better than you can."
     The doctor sniffed. "Forensic medicine is my field."
     "But that's not all," continued Ordi. "He knows how to remove pain."
     "How's that?" asked Forester.
     "I  don't  know how  he  does it. He  massages  the  temples,  whispers
something, and the pain passes. I  had two radiation seizures at my mother's
house, and  he helped me both times. Not very much the first time, but still
I  didn't lose  consciousness the way I usually do.  And the  second  time I
didn't feel any pain at all."
     The mood in the room changed abruptly. A few  minutes ago they were his
judges, deciding whether he should live or die. Now the judges had vanished,
and  in their places sat tormented,  doomed people who had suddenly caught a
glimmer of hope. They looked at him expectantly, as if here and now he would
sweep away the nightmare that had been tormenting them every minute of every
day and night for years on  end.  "Well," thought  Maxim, "here, at least, I
will be  needed to cure and not to kill." But something was missing. To cure
was  not enough. "The towers -- what a sick  idea. Only a  sadist could have
thought them up."
     "Can you really do it?" asked the doctor.
     "Do what?"
     "Remove pain."
     "Remove pain? Yes.''
     "How?"
     'I  can't explain it to you. Your language doesn't have the words,  and
you  don't know enough. But  there's something I don't understand: don't you
have any sort of painkilling drugs?"
     "There are none. The only relief is from a lethal dose."
     "Listen," said Maxim, "I'm willing to try  to help  you, to remove your
pain. But that isn't a real solution! A mass drug must be  developed. Do you
have chemists?"
     "We  have everything," said  Broadshoulders,  "but  the problem is  not
solvable. If it were, the prosecutor  would not be suffering these agonizing
pains, too. Believe  me, he would get his hands on that drug damn  fast. But
before each radiation strike, he gets drunk and soaks in a hot tub."
     "The state prosecutor is a degen?" Maxim was bewildered.
     "So go  the rumors," replied Broadshoulders  coldly. "But we're getting
off the  subject. Have  you  finished  your  piece, Ordi?  Who else wants to
speak?"
     "Just  a minute, general," said  Forester to Broadshoulders. "What does
it all add up to?  Is he going to be our savior?" He  turned to Maxim.  "Can
you take away my pain? Comrades, this man is so valuable I won't let him out
of this cellar! My pains art unbearable, I can't take  it  any longer. Maybe
he will  really come up with some  powder, eh? No, comrades, such a man must
be guarded like a treasure."
     "Then you're in favor of him," said the General.
     "More than that. If anyone so much as lays a finger on him..."
     "We get the point. What about you. Doctor?"
     "I was in  favor of him anyway. Cure or no  cure." The doctor puffed on
his pipe. "I have the same impression as Ordi. Although he's not yet  one of
us, he will be. It can't be  otherwise. In any case  he's no  good  to them.
He's too clever."
     "All right," said the General. "What about you. Hoofer?"
     "I'm in favor," said Memo. "He'll be useful."
     "Well, then," said the General,  "I'm in favor of him,  too.  I'm  very
happy for you, Mac. I'd hate to have to get  rid  of you."  He looked at his
watch. "Let's go," he said. "The radiation strike is about due, and Mac will
have a chance to  show us his skill. Forester, pour him some beer, and let's
have  some of  your cheese, Hoofer,  get going  and take over  for Green. He
hasn't eaten since morning."

10.

     The  General held  a final  pre-operation briefing at the Castle of the
Twin-headed  Horse.  It was the ruins  of an  old  museum outside  the city,
destroyed during  the war.  Overgrown with  ivy and  grass, it  was  a wild,
lonely  place. City dwellers  never visited it because of its proximity to a
malarial swamp,  and  it  had  a reputation among the local population  as a
hideout for bandits and thieves, Maxim arrived on foot with Ordi; Green came
on  his motorcycle with Forester. The  General and  Memo-Hoofer were waiting
for them in  a drainage  pipe that  led directly into the swamp. The General
was  smoking, and Memo  was  frantically waving  away the mosquitoes with  a
scented stick.
     "Did you bring it?" he asked Forester.
     "Of  course."  Forester removed a  tube  of insect repellent  from  his
pocket.
     Each person smeared himself, and the General opened the briefing.
     Memo spread  out a map and went  over  the entire operation again, even
though  everyone had  already memorized it. Between 12:00 P.M. and 1:00 A.M.
the group would creep up to the barbed-wire barrier from four directions and
set linear charges. Forester  and  Memo  would work  alone, coming  from the
north and  west, respectively. The General and Ordi would come together from
the  east.  Maxim and  Green would  come from the  south.  The charges would
detonate  simultaneously at  precisely 1:00  A.M.,  and the General,  Green,
Memo, and Forester would rush through the breach in the barbed wire and hurl
grenades at the guardhouse. As soon as firing from the guardhouse  ceased or
slowed down. Maxim and Ordi  would run over to the tower with magnetic mines
and  lay them, after tossing two more grenades at the  guardhouse to be sure
it was knocked out. Then they would light the  fuses, collect the wounded --
only the  wounded! -- and  head east through the  woods  toward  a  village.
Shorty  would  be  waiting for them there with  a motorcycle. The  seriously
wounded would  be loaded onto the motorcycle; those  with minor wounds would
escape on foot. Forester's cabin would be the reassembly point. They were to
wait there not more than two  hours. After that they  must leave  the  usual
way. Any questions? No? That was that.
     The General  threw away  a butt, slipped his hand under  his shirt, and
drew  out a  vial  of yellow tablets. "Attention!" he  said. "The  staff has
decided on a  minor change  in our plan. The starting time has been advanced
to twenty-two hundred."
     "Massaraksh!" said Memo. "What the hell now?"
     "Don't interrupt!"  said the General. "At precisely twenty-two  hundred
the  evening radiation strike begins. A few seconds before,  each of us will
take two tablets. The rest of the operation is the same, with one exception:
Ordi  and I will  throw the grenades. Mac will have all the  mines and  will
blow up the tower alone."
     "How come?" said  Forester  as he  studied the  map.  "It  doesn't make
sense: twenty-two hundred is radiation time. I'll be flat on my back and not
even a jab with a bayonet could get me to my feet."
     "Just a  minute,"  said  the  General. "I'll repeat it  again:  at  ten
seconds beforebefore twenty-two hundred, everyone will take this painkiller.
Do you understand. Forester? You will take  it! So, by twenty-two hundred --
"
     "I know those pills," said Forester. "Two minutes  of relief and that's
it. Then you're completely tied up in knots. We know, we've tried them."
     "These are  different,"  explained  the  General  patiently. "They  are
effective  up  to  five  minutes. We'll have time to make  a  dash  for  the
guardhouse and throw our grenades. Mac will take care of the rest."
     Silence fell. They were thinking. Forester,  who was  a little  slow on
the uptake, scratched  his head.  The idea was sinking in slowly. He stopped
scratching, looked around with an expression, of sudden insight, brightened,
and  slapped his knees. Forester had taken a lot of hard  knocks in life but
still  didn't understand what it was all about. He wanted nothing more  than
to be left in peace and to return to his family. He had spent the entire war
in  a  the  trenches, where  he feared  his  corporal more  than the  atomic
weapons. He had grown very fond of Maxim and was deeply  grateful to him for
curing an old leg injury. Since then he firmly believed  that  nothing could
happen to him as long as  Maxim  was present. Maxim had slept in his  cellar
all month,  and every evening before  retiring Forester would  tell him  the
same  story, but  each time with a different ending. Maxim could not imagine
Forester taking  part in  any bloodshed, although he had heard that he was a
skillful and ruthless fighter.
     "The  new  plan has the following advantages," said the General. "First
of all, they aren't expecting us: the element of surprise. Second, the first
plan was made a long time ago and there's the danger that the enemy is aware
of it. This time we're going to strike first. It  increases  our chances  of
success."
     Green  kept nodding approvingly,  and his  face  glowed  with malicious
delight. He was a man who enjoyed taking risks; he loved the unexpected. His
past was very  shady: he had been  a thief and a swindler; he had spent time
in prison, made a daring escape, tried to return to his underworld pals, but
times had changed. They wouldn't tolerate a degen and wanted to turn him in,
but  he beat them off and escaped again. He hid in the countryside until the
late Gel Ketshef had found  him. Green was clever, a romantic, believed  the
earth  to be  flat  and  the  sky solid. It was  precisely  because  of  his
ignorance and wild imagination that he was the only  person on the inhabited
island to suspect that Maxim was not from the mountains, not a strange quirk
of nature, but  a visitor  from an impossible  place, maybe  from beyond the
heavenly firmament.  He had  seen mountaineers --  in all shapes  and sizes.
Green never mentioned his thoughts directly  to Maxim, but dropped hints and
treated him with a deference that bordered on bootlicking.  "You're going to
be the  top man here,"  he  would say. "And under you,  I'll really  show my
stuff." How and where he planned to show his stuff was not at all clear, but
one thing was certain: Green loved risky jobs and hated routine tasks. Maxim
disliked his wild, primitive cruelty. He  was an ape in  barely domesticated
form.
     "I  don't like this operation," said Memo morosely. "It's too risky. No
preparation. No checking into anything. No, I don't like it."
     Memo Gramenu, the  Hoof  of  Death,  was perpetually  discontented  and
always appeared to be afraid of something.  His past was kept secret because
he had once held a very high position in the underground. He had fallen into
the hands  of the police and  somehow survived. Crippled by  torture, he was
dragged out  by  his  cellmates who had  arranged an escape.  Thereafter, in
keeping with the rules of the underground, he was removed from his position,
although  he  was  unquestionably above  suspicion.  He  was  appointed  Gel
Ketshef's assistant.  He  had  fought in attacks on towers, blown up  patrol
cars, pursued and shot the commander of a Legion brigade,  and was known for
his fanatic daring and excellent marksmanship.
     On  the eve of his  appointment as leader of a group in some small town
in the southwest. Gel's  group  was caught. Hoofer  remained above suspicion
and was appointed leader of the group, but he was haunted by the belief that
his  comrades were uneasy about  him. Actually his  fears weren't justified,
although they very well could have been. People who  were too lucky were not
especially liked  in the underground. He was a silent but carping type, well
versed in the art of conspiracy and  a stickler for the rules, even the most
trivial ones.  Nothing, he  felt, was  worthwhile discussing except  matters
related  to the  underground; all his energies were devoted to the group. He
saw  to it that it was fully  supplied  with weapons, food,  money, and safe
meeting  places. Even  a motorcycle. Although Maxim sensed  his  dislike for
him,  he didn't understand the reason  for Memo's attitude and preferred not
to  question  him about it. Memo wasn't the kind of person  one could have a
frank conversation  with. Perhaps Memo disliked  him  because  Maxim was the
only  one to sense his constant fear. The others  would  never have believed
that morose Hoofer, one of the founders of  the underground  movement  and a
dedicated  terrorist who treated staff representatives as  his equals, could
be afraid of anything.
     "I can't understand  the staff's reasoning,"  continued Memo,  smearing
another dose of repellent on his neck. "This isn't tie first time I've heard
about the  plan. The staff has wanted to  try it a hundred times  but always
rejected  it  because  it  means  almost  certain  death.  While  there's no
radiation, we still have a chance to get away in case we fail, and can  live
to strike somewhere else. But  with this plan, the very  first failure means
we'll all  be killed.  It seems very strange to me that the  staff can't see
such an obvious fact."
     "You're not quite right about one thing, Hoofer," replied Ordi. "Now we
have Mac. If anything goes wrong, he can pull us  out and maybe even blow up
the tower."
     She  smoked languidly, gazing into the distance at the swamp.  Cool and
calm, she was ready for anything. People were intimidated by her because she
perceived them as more or less useful mechanisms  of destruction.  There was
nothing shady or  questionable about her past or present. She  came  from an
educated family.  Her  father  had died  in  the war;  her  mother was still
employed as a teacher in Duck Village.  Ordi, too, had  worked as  a teacher
until she had been fired as a degen. She hid, tried to escape to Khonti, and
finally  met Gel, who was smuggling weapons. He turned her into a terrorist.
Purely idealistic  considerations had dictated her initial  devotion to  the
cause: she fought for a just society where each individual would be  free to
think and do as he or she wished and was capable of doing.
     Then, seven years ago, the police had tracked down Ordi and  taken  her
child  as hostage  in an effort to  force her to  surrender her husband  and
herself. The  underground  staff would not permit her to do this because she
knew too much. She had heard nothing more about her child and considered him
dead, although deep down she didn't believe it.  These last seven  years she
was driven primarily by hatred for the  enemy. Her  dream  of a just society
remained only a remote  and faded  ideal. Although she had loved him deeply,
she  accepted the loss of her husband with surprising serenity.  Long before
his arrest she had probably reconciled herself to the idea that she must not
get  attached to anything at  all. Now,  like Gel at  his  trial, she  was a
living corpse, but a very dangerous one.
     "Mac is a greenhorn," said Memo. "How do we know he won't lose his head
when  he's alone? It's  ridiculous  to rely  on this plan and  reject an old
reliable one just because we have this greenhorn.  I said it  once  and I'll
say it again: it's too risky."
     "Drop  it, Hoofer," said Green.  "It's our work. Old  plan, new plan --
what's the difference? They're all risky. What else can you expect? We can't
do our job without taking some  risk, and these pills reduce it. When we hit
them at ten o'clock, those guys under the tower won't know what happened. At
ten  they're probably drinking whiskey and  singing their lungs  out. That's
when we strike. Maybe they  haven't  even  loaded  their  guns;  they're too
drunk. Yes, I like the plan. Right, Mac?"
     "I feel the same way," said Forester.  "If  this plan is a surprise  to
me, imagine  what  it'll be for the legionnaires. Green is right: they won't
know what hit them. Besides, those pills will give us an extra five minutes.
And before you know it, Mac will have  that tower knocked out and everything
will be great. Oh, it damn  well  will  be great!" he  said suddenly, as  if
struck  by a new idea. "And we'll  be  the  first guys in the underground to
topple  a tower. Just think how long it will take  them  to repair it! We'll
live like  human  beings  for  at  least  a month without attacks from  that
son-of-a-bitch tower."
     "Hoofer, I'm afraid you misunderstood me," said the  General.  "Nothing
has really  changed  in this plan. We're just launching  a  surprise attack,
with additional help from Ordi. And  our withdrawal will vary  only slightly
from the usual procedure."
     "If you're worried that Mac won't be able to drag us all out of there,"
said Ordi, "don't forget,  he'll  have to  get  only one of us, at most two.
He's strong enough to do it."
     "Yes," agreed the General. "That's true."
     The General was in  love  with  Ordi.  Only  Maxim  was  aware  of  his
feelings, but he realized that it was an old and hopeless love. It had begun
when Gel was still alive, but now it seemed even more hopeless. He was not a
real  general. Before  the war he had  j been a worker on an assembly  line,
then was admitted to  a school for  junior officers, fought in the infantry,
and finished the war  as a captain. He knew  Captain Chachu well and had old
scores to settle with him -- there had been some sort of trouble right after
the  war.  Anyway,  he had  been pursuing  Chachu  for  a  long time without
success. Although he was attached to underground headquarters, he frequently
fought in operations and was  a good soldier and  a competent commander.  He
enjoyed  working  in  the underground  but  could scarcely  imagine what the
future would  be like  after victory. Actually, he really  didn't believe in
victory.  A born soldier, he  adjusted easily to any and  all conditions and
never looked beyond the next ten to twenty days.  His ideas  had been picked
up haphazardly, a little here and a little there; from one-armed Vepr,  from
Ketshef, from  headquarters. But the ideas hammered into  him  at the school
for junior  officers remained foremost in his consciousness. Expounding  his
theories, he  would display a strange mixture of opinions: the power of  the
wealthy must be overthrown (this from Vepr, who Maxim assumed was some  sort
of  socialist  or  communist);  engineers  and  technicians  should  be  our
country's leaders  (this  from  Ketshef); cities  should be  leveled  and we
should live in  communion with nature (from some bucolist at  headquarters).
All this could be accomplished  by absolute obedience to one's superiors and
with considerably less discussion of abstract subjects.
     Maxim  had  clashed  with him  twice. Why  destroy  towers, sacrificing
courageous comrades,  time,  money, and weapons, contended  Maxim, when  the
towers would be restored in  ten days  anyway? Everything would continue the
same as before, except that the inhabitants of neighboring villages would be
convinced that the degens were inhuman devils. The General could not explain
clearly to  Maxim why they engaged  in these diversions  against the towers.
Either  he was concealing  something, or  he himself did not  understand why
they were necessary. He would repeat  the  same  phrases  on  each occasion:
orders are not to be discussed; every attack on a tower was a strike against
the enemy; people  must not be prevented from  fighting back or hatred would
corrode them and they would have nothing to live for,
     "We must  find the Center!" Maxim would insist. "We must strike  at the
Center with all our  forces  at once! What kind  of brains  do they have  at
headquarters if they can't understand such a simple thing?"
     "Headquarters knows  what  it's doing," the  General would thunder. "In
our situation, discipline comes  first! We don't need  any anarchists, thank
you. Mac,  everything has its time. You'll get your Center, too, if you live
long enough." Still, the General respected Maxim and eagerly sought his help
when radiation strikes caught him in Forester's cellar.
     "I'm still against it," said Memo stubbornly. "Suppose they pin us down
with their fire? Suppose we need six minutes rather than five to do the job?
It's an insane plan."
     "We'll  be  using  linear  charges for the  first  time," explained the
General. "Using our old method of tearing through the barbed wire, the  fate
of the  operation will be decided in three or four minutes. If we catch them
by surprise, we'll have one or even two minutes to spare."
     "Two minutes is a long time,"  said  Forester.  "In two minutes I could
strangle them all with my bare hands. If I could get my hands on them."
     "Yeah,  if  we could get  our hands on them."  Green  grimaced. "Right,
Mac?"
     "Mac, don't you want to say anything?" asked the General.
     "I already  have. The new plan is better than the  old  one,  but still
poor. Let me do the job myself. Take the risk."
     "We won't  go into that." The General was irritated. "And that ends the
matter. Do you have anything practical to add?"
     "No," replied Maxim, regretting that he had reopened the discussion.
     "Where did you get these new pills?" Memo asked suddenly.
     "They  are the  same as the old ones,"  explained the General, "but Mac
managed to make them a little more effective."
     "Ah, yes, Mac..." Memo's disparaging tone made everyone feel uneasy. It
conveyed  the notion  that  here was a greenhorn, not really one of them, an
alien who might even be setting them up.
     "Yes,  Mac," said  the General sharply. "Enough talk. The order is from
headquarters. Obey it, Hoofer!"
     "I  am." Memo  shrugged  his  shoulders. "I'm  opposed to  it, but  I'm
obeying it. What else can I do?"
     Maxim looked  at  them sadly. A completely heterogeneous  group.  Under
normal circumstances it would probably never occur to them to associate with
each other.  Ex-farmer,  ex-criminal, ex-teacher.  What  they  were about to
undertake seemed so senseless; in a few hours most of them would be dead and
nothing in their world would have changed. Those who survived would have, at
best,  a brief respite  from those  excruciating pains.  But  they  would be
wounded or exhausted from the ordeal. They would  be  pursued like dogs  and
would have to hide out in stifling holes. And  the cycle  would begin again.
To act  in  concert  with  them was  folly, but to  abandon  them  would  be
unconscionable. He had to choose the former. Maybe that was the  way you had
to work here if you wanted to accomplish anything.  You would have to endure
folly,  senseless bloodshed, even  treachery.  What miserable, stupid,  evil
people. But what could one expect from such a miserable, stupid, evil world?
Folly springs from weakness, and weakness  from ignorance, from ignorance of
the correct path. It's impossible that the correct one can't be found. "I've
tried one already, and it was wrong. It's evident  that the one I'm about to
take is wrong, too. Who knows, I might choose the wrong  one again and again
and find myself at  a dead  end. To whom am  I trying to justify my actions?
And why should I? I like these people  and I can help them. For the present,
that's all I need to know."
     "We'll split up now," said  the General. "Hoofer, you go with Forester.
Mac with Green. Ordi with me. At twenty-one hundred we meet  at the boundary
marker.  Don't  take  the  roads;  go  through  the woods.  Each of  you  is
responsible for your partner, so stick  together.  Let's  go  now. Memo  and
Green first." He brushed the  butts onto a sheet of paper, rolled it up, and
put it in his pocket.
     Forester  rubbed his knees. "My  bones ache. It's going to  rain.  That
means a fine night for us -- good and dark."

11.

     They had to crawl from the edge of  the woods to the barbed wire. Green
crawled  ahead,  dragging a pole with a  linear charge  and  swearing at the
barbs pricking his  hands. Behind him crawled Maxim with a sack  of magnetic
mines. Clouds  covered the sky, and  it  was drizzling.  The grass  was wet;
within  a  few  minutes  they  were  drenched.  Green followed  his  compass
faithfully, never once straying off course. As the odor of damp rust drifted
toward them.  Maxim  saw three rows of barbed wire  and  beyond them the dim
outline of the tower's  massive girders. Raising his head slightly, he could
make out a  squat triangular structure at the tower's base.  The guardhouse.
Three legionnaires were sitting there  with a machine gun. Indistinguishable
voices drifted  through the patter of the rain; then a match was lit and the
long gunport glowed with a faint yellow light.
     Green, on all fours, shoved the pole under the barbed wire. "Ready," he
whispered. "Back!" They  crawled  back ten  paces and began to  wait.  Green
looked at the luminous hands of his watch. The detonator was clenched in his
fist. He was  trembling. Maxim could hear  his  chattering teeth and labored
breathing.  Maxim was  trembling,  too. He  put  his hand  into the sack and
touched the mines; they felt rough and cold. As  the rain grew heavier,  all
other  sounds were drowned out. Green rose slightly on all  fours  and  kept
whispering something: he was either  praying or cursing. "OK, you bastards!"
he shouted suddenly as he made a  sharp  movement  with  his right hand. The
click of the blasting cap was followed by a hissing, and up ahead a sheet of
red  flames spouted from the earth. And far to the left, another broad sheet
leaped up, blasted  their  ears, and  scattered hot  wet  earth,  clumps  of
smoldering  grass,  and  chunks of  red-hot  metal.  Green  darted  forward.
Suddenly a blinding light lit  up  the entire area.  Maxim squinted.  A cold
shiver ran down his spine as a thought flashed through his brain: "We've had
it." But there wasn't any shooting, and  only rustling and hissing broke the
silence.
     When Maxim opened his eyes, he saw the gray guardhouse,  a large gap in
the  barbed wire,  and small  solitary figures  on  the vast  empty  expanse
surrounding the tower.
     The figures were running  as fast as they could toward  the guardhouse,
silently,  soundlessly, stumbling,  falling,  jumping up  and running again.
Then  Maxim heard a plaintive groan: Green was sitting on  the ground behind
the barbed wire  and rocking from side to  side with his  head in his hands.
Maxim rushed to him and pulled his hands away from his face. His eyes bulged
and saliva bubbled on his Ups. Still no  firing. An eternity had passed, but
the guardhouse was silent. Suddenly a familiar song rang out.
     Maxim turned the slobbering Green on his back and fumbled in his pocket
with his other hand. Lucky thing that the General had been  overcautious and
had  given Maxim a  supply of painkillers. He pried open  Green's mouth  and
forced  him  to  swallow  them, Then he grabbed Green's  submachine  gun and
turned around,  looking  for  the  source of  the blinding light.  Still  no
firing, and the solitary  figures continued  to run. One was now quite close
to the guardhouse, another not far behind him, and a third, running from the
right, suddenly flung his  arms out as he fell and  tumbled head over heels.
"Oh, how the enemy weeps!"  bellowed the singing voices.  And the light beat
down from  above, from a height  of  some  dozen  meters,  probably from the
tower, which he couldn't make  out now. There were five or six blinding blue
and white disks.  Maxim raised his  gun, aimed at the  disks, and pulled the
trigger. The  homemade weapon,  small,  awkward, and unfamiliar, trembled in
his  hands.  As if in reply, red  flashes sparked  in the gunport.  Suddenly
Green tore the gun from Maxim's hands, rushed forward, stumbled, and fell.
     Maxim got down  and crawled back  to his sack. Behind him guns crackled
away rapidly. Then, at long last, a grenade exploded, then another, then two
more  simultaneously, and the machine gun fell  silent.  Only the submachine
guns kept  clattering. Explosions boomed  again. An  inhuman scream rent the
air and it became quiet. Maxim grabbed  the  sack and ran. A column of smoke
rose  above  the  guardhouse.  There  was  a  smell  of  gunpowder,  and the
surrounding area  was bright and deserted except for a dark round-shouldered
figure  trudging alongside the guardhouse,  hugging  the  wall.  The  figure
reached the  gunport, tossed something into  it, and dropped to the  ground.
The  gunport glowed  red.  Then came  a loud  bang. And everything was quiet
again.
     Maxim stumbled  and almost fell. After several more  steps  he stumbled
again and noticed short stakes protruding from the ground. Triggers to booby
traps concealed in the grass. "So that's  it! God, am  I a damn fool! If the
General had let me have my way and I had gone  out alone,  I would have lost
both legs and would be lying here as good as dead. Me and my big mouth!" Now
the tower was quite close. He ran cautiously, avoiding booby traps.
     When he reached one of the tower's enormous iron paws, he put  down his
sack of magnetic mines. Oh, how he would have loved to  plaster one of those
pancakes on this wet steel. But he  still had the guardhouse to worry about.
The steel door was slightly ajar, and lazy tongues of  flame rolled out from
behind it. A  legionnaire  lay  on  the steps  -- it was all over with here.
Maxim circled the guardhouse and found  the General.  He was sitting  on the
ground, leaning against  the  concrete wall;  his eyes stared vacantly,  and
Maxim  realized that  the pills had lost their  effect. He  glanced  around,
lifted  the General, and carried him away from the tower. About twenty steps
away, Ordi lay in the grass, with a grenade in her hand. She was lying  face
down, but Maxim could  tell that  she was  dead. Searching further, he found
Forester, also dead. Green, too. Who could he leave the General with?
     Stunned by all the deaths, he walked around the field. Only minutes ago
he had thought  himself  prepared  to face this  eventuality. Now  he was no
longer  eager to return  and blow up  the tower, to finish the job they  had
started. First he must see how Memo was doing. He found him lying  alongside
the barbed wire. He had been wounded,  probably  had tried to crawl away and
lost consciousness. Maxim  placed the General beside him and  ran toward the
tower again. How  strange to  think that these  two  hundred miserable yards
could be crossed so easily now.
     He attached the mines  to  the  tower's supports, two  to  each, to  be
doubly sure.  Although  he had time, he  hurried; the General and Memo  were
losing blood.  And probably, somewhere along the highway, trucks loaded with
legionnaires were on their way. Guy had most likely been called out,  and he
and Pandi were now bouncing along the cobblestones. In neighboring villages,
people  were waking up: men were  grabbing their guns; children were crying;
and women were cursing the bloodthirsty spies who had deprived them of their
sleep. He sensed  the drizzly darkness  stirring, springing  to life, coming
alive with danger.
     Maxim set up the five-minute fuses, activated  them, and started to run
back to  the General and Memo. Feeling  that he  had forgotten something, he
paused, looked  around, and remembered. Ordi. He returned to her, lifted her
light body onto his shoulder,  and broke into a run again toward  the barbed
wire. He headed for the north breach in the wire where the General and  Memo
were lying. Halting next to them, he turned around to look at the tower.
     There it  was. At long last the terrorists'  senseless  dream  had been
fulfilled. In rapid succession the mines detonated, and the tower's base was
shrouded in smoke. The blinding lights went out and it suddenly became pitch
dark. In the darkness the earth rumbled and leaped up again and again.
     Maxim glanced  at his watch. Seventeen  past ten. His eyes adjusted  to
the  darkness,  and he could  see the shattered barbed  wire  and the  tower
again. The tower lay to one side  of the  guardhouse, its girders spread out
and twisted by the explosion.
     "Who's there?" said the General hoarsely.
     "It's Maxim." He bent over.  "Time to leave. Where did you get hit? Can
you walk?"
     "Wait! What about the tower?"
     "The tower's finished."
     Ordi still lay  over his shoulder. How could  he break the  news to the
General?
     "Impossible,"  said  the  General,  rising  slightly.  "Massaraksh! The
tower's really finished, eh?" He laughed and lay down in the grass.
     "Listen, Mac, I'm kind of confused. What time is it?"
     "Ten twenty."
     "So, everything's all right. We've finished it off. Pine job, Mac. Wait
a minute -- who's that lying next to me?"
     "Memo."
     "He's breathing,"  said the General. "Hold on, who else is still alive?
Who's that you've got there?"
     "Ordi," said Maxim with difficulty.
     The General said nothing for several seconds.
     "Ordi," he repeated hesitantly  and  rose, swaying. "Ordi," he repeated
again and placed his palm on her check.
     They were silent for a while. Then Memo asked hoarsely:
     "What time is it?"
     "Ten twenty-two."
     "Where are we?"
     "We must leave now," said Maxim.
     The  General turned  and walked through the gap in the barbed wire.  He
was very wobbly. Bending over. Maxim raised Memo, slung him across his other
shoulder, and followed the General.  When  he  had  caught up with  him, the
General stopped.
     "Only the wounded," he said.
     "I can manage her, too."
     "It's an order! Only the wounded."
     Stretching  out his  arms  and  groaning with pain, he took Ordi's body
from Maxim's shoulder.  The weight was too much,  and  he placed her  on the
ground.
     "Only  the  wounded."  His voice  sounded  distant. "Let's  go! On  the
double!"
     "Where are we?" asked Memo. "Who's here? Where are we?"
     "Hold onto my belt," Maxim instructed the General. They began to run.
     Memo screamed and  went limp. His  head wobbled, his  arms dangled, and
his feet  kept jabbing Maxim in the back. Gasping loudly and holding tightly
onto Maxim's belt, the General followed close on his heels.
     They ran into the woods. Wet  branches lashed their  faces. Dodging the
trees  rushing toward him and leaping over the stumps  springing up from the
ground  was much tougher  than  Maxim  had expected. He  realized  he was in
rotten shape. And  the  air here was foul.  And everything seemed all wrong.
The whole  mess seemed so unnecessary  and  senseless. In  their  wake lay a
bloodstained trail  of  broken branches.  He was sure that by this  time the
road had  been  cordoned  off, that the bloodhounds were straining  at their
leashes,  and that Captain Chachu,  pistol in  hand and barking  orders, was
running pigeon-toed along the road. Chachu would be the first to plunge into
the woods.  Behind them lay  that idiotic  tower,  toppled. And  incinerated
legionnaires. And  three dead comrades. With him  now were two wounded  men,
half dead,  with scarcely a chance of escaping alive.  All for the sake of a
tower, an idiotic, senseless, dirty, rusty tower. One of thousands like it.
     "I'll never let  myself get involved in anything so stupid again.  I'll
tell them  no. All that blood for  a pile of  useless  rusty steel; a young,
foolish  life  sacrificed for rusty steel,  and  an old foolish life for the
hope of living like a normal human being for a few days, and a love ended by
bullets. Listen, I'll say to them, you  people keep talking about wanting to
survive.  If  that's  what  you want,  then  why die,  and die  so  cheaply?
Massaraksh!  Well, I won't let them  die. I'm going to  make sure they live;
I'm going to teach them how to live! What a blockhead I am! How could I have
done such a thing? How could I have let them do it?"
     Dragging the  General under the arms, and with Memo on his shoulder, he
leaped onto a road and looked around. Shorty was running toward him, wet and
frightened.
     "Is  that  all?" He was  horrified,  and  Maxim  was  thankful for  his
reaction.
     They dragged the wounded  to the motorcycle  and stuffed Memo  into the
sidecar. Then  Maxim set the General on the  rear seat and  fastened him  to
Shorty with a belt. It was quiet in the forest, but Maxim wasn't taken in by
the stillness.
     "Get going," he said. "Don't stop. Break through."
     "I know," replied Shorty. "What about you?"
     "I'll try to divert them to me. Don't worry. I'll get away."
     "It's  hopeless,"  said Shorty  sadly. He  pushed  the  starter and the
motorcycle roared. "Did you blow up the tower?"
     "Yes," replied Maxim. Shorty sped away.
     Alone now. Maxim  stood  immobile  for  several seconds and then dashed
back into the woods.
     At  the first clearing  he tore off his  jacket and flung  it into  the
bushes. He returned to the  road on  the double, and ran as fast as he could
toward the city.  Then, halting, he  unhooked the  grenades  from  his belt,
scattered them  on the road,  forced his way through the brush  on the other
side,  trying  to  break  as  many  branches  as  possible,  and  threw  his
handkerchief  behind the bushes.  Only  then did  he  continue  through  the
forest, trying to maintain a steady pace for another ten or fifteen miles.
     As he ran he concentrated on  holding  his course to the south-west and
avoiding obstacles.  He crossed roads twice: first  a  deserted  road,  then
Route  11, also deserted. Here he heard  the barking  of dogs for  the first
time. Unable to  determine if  they were bloodhounds, he  decided to play it
safe  and make a large detour.  Half an hour later he  found himself jogging
between warehouses in the city's freightyard.
     Lights glowed, locomotives whistled,  and people scurried. News of  the
incident  had probably not reached here yet, but he  had better stop running
before he was  taken for a thief. He slowed down to a walk, and when a heavy
freight  train plowed past him  toward  the city, he  hopped  into the first
sand-filled  car  he  spotted; he lay there until it reached a cement plant.
Then he hopped off, shook off the sand, and considered his next move.
     It would  be pointless to make his way to Forester's house, although it
was the only safe hideout in the  vicinity. He could try to spend  the night
in Duck Village, but that  would be dangerous. Captain Chachu knew that area
well. Besides, the thought of appearing  suddenly  at  old Illi's  home  and
confronting her with the news of her daughter's death  was too much for him.
Where  else  could  he go? He  entered  a shabby little tavern frequented by
workers,  ate some sausages, drank  some  beer,  and dozed off, leaning back
against the wall. All  the other  customers were  as  grimy and tired as he;
these  were workers who  had come off  the night shift and missed  the  last
streetcar home.
     He  dreamed  about  Rada. Guy was out on a raid. Good!  Rada loved him,
welcomed him  warmly, let  him change  his  clothes and wash.  The  civilian
clothes Fank had given him were still there. Then, in the morning,  he would
head east  where  a second safe hiding  place was located. At that point  he
woke up. Throwing a crumpled bill on the counter, he left.

     It was a short safe walk to her place. The streets were deserted except
for a man  stationed at the entrance to the apartment house. The porter.  He
was asleep on his stool. Maxim tiptoed past  him, walked upstairs, and  rang
the bell. It was quiet behind  the door. Then  he  heard something stirring,
footsteps, and the door opened. It was Rada.
     She stifled a cry. Maxim hugged and kissed her. It was like coming home
after having been given up for dead. He closed the  door behind him and they
entered  the room quietly. Rada  burst into tears. The  room hadn't changed,
except  that his little  sofa  was missing.  Guy, sitting on his bed in  his
pajamas, stared at Maxim, stunned  and frightened. Several minutes passed as
Maxim and Guy looked at each other and Rada cried.
     "Massaraksh!" Guy said weakly. "You're alive!"
     "Hello,  Guy.  I'm sorry you're home. I  didn't  want to  get you  into
trouble. Say the word and I'll leave."
     Rada clutched his arm.
     "No,  you won't!  You're not going anywhere. Just let him try... if you
go, I go, too!"
     Guy flung off the blanket, hopped out of bed, and walked over to Maxim.
He touched  Maxim's  shoulders and  grimy  hands,  and  wiped his own  brow,
smudging it.
     "Impossible! I can't believe  it! I give up," he said.  "You're  alive.
Where  did you come from?  Rada,  stop  howling! Are  you wounded? You  look
awful. And there's blood on you."
     "It's not mine."
     "I give up," repeated Guy.  "But you really are alive!  Rada, make some
tea! No, wake up the old man and ask him for some whiskey."
     "Be careful," warned Maxim. "No noise. They're looking for me."
     "Who  is?  Why?  What nonsense. Rada, let him change his clothes. Come,
Mac, sit  down.  Or do you want to lie down? What happened?  How come you're
alive?"
     Seating himself carefully  on  the edge of the chair,  and  placing his
hands on  his knees to avoid  soiling anything, he looked at them, looked at
them  with affection, for  what might be the 1ast time. And with  a  certain
curiosity, too. How would they react to what he was about to tell them?
     "My friends. I'm a criminal now. I just blew up a tower."
     He wasn't  surprised that  they  understood him immediately, understood
what tower  he was talking  about, and did not  question him about it.  Rada
only clenched  her fists and could not tear her  eyes from  him. Guy grunted
and, with  a familiar  gesture, ran  his  hands through his hair  and looked
away.
     "You blockhead! So  you decided to get revenge.  Against  who? Oh, Mac,
you're still as crazy as ever. You're like a  little  kid. But remember, you
didn't say  anything  and  we  didn't hear anything.  I don't  want to  know
anything  more.  Rada, make some tea.  And  no noise. We don't  want to wake
anyone.  Take off your clothes, Mac. What  a  mess. Where  the hell have you
been?"
     Maxim rose and undressed.  He stripped off his dirty wet shirt (Guy saw
the scars and swallowed hard) and pulled off his filthy boots and  trousers.
All his clothing was covered with dark stains.
     "Well, that's a lot  better." He sat down again. "Thanks, Guy. I  won't
be staying long. Only till morning, and then I'll leave."
     "Did the porter see you?" "He was sleeping."
     "Sleeping?"  Guy  was dubious. "Well,  maybe  he really  was. He has to
sleep sometime."
     "What are you doing home?" asked Maxim.
     "I'm on leave."
     "What do  you mean--on leave?  The  whole damn Legion  is  probably out
there scouring the countryside."
     "But I'm no longer  a  legionnaire." Guy smiled wryly. "Mac, I've  been
kicked  out of  the Legion. I'm  just an ordinary army corporal now. I teach
the country bumpkins how to tell  their right foot from their left. Then off
they go to the  Khonti  border, into the  trenches. So, Mac, that's the  way
things are with me now."
     "On account of me?"
     "Well, yes."
     They looked at each other and Guy looked away. Suddenly it struck Maxim
that if  Guy  turned  him  in immediately,  he could probably return to  the
Legion and  the Officer's  Independent Study Program. He also  realized that
such  an  idea never would have crossed his  mind two  months  ago. He  felt
uneasy and wanted  to leave, but Rada ordered him to go and  wash.  While he
cleaned himself up, she prepared something to eat and a  pot of tea. Guy sat
in  his  usual  place, propping up  his  downcast  face between  his  fists.
Apparently  fearful  of hearing something devastating,  something that would
pierce the  last  line of  his  defenses and  sever  the  last  link of  his
friendship with Mac, he  asked no questions. Nor did Rada.  Perhaps she  was
still too  upset. But her eyes never left him, and  she held  on to his hand
tightly, sobbing from time to time, afraid that he might suddenly disappear.
Disappear forever. Realizing that time was  growing short, Maxim pushed away
his unfinished cup of tea and began to tell them his story.
     He  told them  how a  terrorist's mother  had helped him  after Captain
Chachu had wounded him, how he met the degens, what kind of people they were
and why, about the towers' real function,  and what  a  cruel invention they
were.  He  described  what had happened  during the night,  how  people  had
charged a  machine gun  and died one after another, how  the steel  pile had
collapsed, and  how he had  carried on his shoulder a dead woman whose child
had been taken from her and whose husband had been executed.
     Rada listened  greedily. Eventually Guy displayed interest and began to
ask questions.  Sarcastic, hostile questions.  Stupid  and cruel  questions.
Maxim realized that Guy did not believe him, that he did not want to believe
him, that  it  was all he  could do to keep  himself from interrupting. When
Maxim finished, Guy said with a smirk: "They  sure twisted you  around their
little finger."
     Maxim looked at  Rada, but she turned away.  Biting  her  lip, she said
hesitantly: "I don't know. Of  course there might have been  one  tower like
that. Mac, believe me, what you're telling me can't be true."
     She spoke in a soft faltering  voice, obviously trying not to hurt him.
Guy suddenly flared  up and insisted that  the story about the towers'  real
function  was a lot  of nonsense, that  Maxim  had no idea of the number  of
towers throughout the country, how many were  built each year, each day, and
that  it was  insane  to  think that billions would  be spent  for  the sole
purpose of inflicting misery on a lousy bunch of freaks!
     "Can you imagine how much  money  is spent on security alone?" he added
after a brief pause.
     "I've  thought  about  it," said Maxim. "I'm  sure it's  not  all  that
simple. But Khonti money has nothing to do with this. Listen, Guy, I saw for
myself how their pains vanished when the tower collapsed. As far as the ABMs
are concerned  --  look, Guy, you have far too  many towers for air defense.
Your  air space  could be protected with  many fewer towers. And  why do you
have  ABMs on your  southern border? Do  you really believe that  those wild
degens have missiles?"
     "There's a lot more to it than you think,"  replied Guy hostilely. "You
don't know anything and  you  believe everything you're  told. Pardon me for
saying  so, Mac, but if  you weren't you...  oh, we're all too gullible," he
added bitterly.
     Maxim didn't feel like arguing any longer. How were they getting along,
he  wanted to  know. Where was  Rada  working?  Why hadn't she  enrolled  in
school? How was Uncle  Kaan? And  their neighbors?  Rada  grew  animated and
began to talk freely. Suddenly she broke off, rose, cleared away the dishes,
and went  into the  kitchen. Guy ran his  hands through his hair, frowned at
the dark window, and finally summoned up the courage for a serious talk with
Mac.
     "Mac, we're very fond of you.  I  like you. Rada likes you, even though
you cause a lot of trouble and things have gone badly for us because of you.
Rada not only likes you, but -- well, she loves  you.  When you disappeared,
she cried the whole time; in fact she even got sick the first week. She's an
attractive, practical girl and has many admirers. I  don't know how you feel
about her, but  let me give you a piece of advice. Forget all this nonsense.
It's not for you; it will  foul you  up,  destroy you,  and you'll wreck the
lives  of  many  innocent people. And  all  for  nothing.  Go  back  to your
mountains, find your own people. Even if  your  head doesn't remember,  your
heart will tell you where your  home is.  No one  will look for  you  there.
You'll settle  down and put your life in order. Then, come back for Rada and
you'll  both  be  very  happy.  Maybe by  then we'll have finished  off  the
Khontis. We'll clamp down even harder on Pandeya. Peace will come eventually
and we'll begin to live like people."
     If he were from  the mountains, thought Maxim, he  probably would  take
Guy's  advice. He would return to his  homeland and live peacefully with his
young bride and forget about all the complicated problems here. Hell no, how
could he  forget about them? He knew what  he would do: he would organize  a
defense system in his homeland that would be so effective that the Creators'
officials  wouldn't  dare  stick  their noses over the  frontier. And if the
legionnaires  dared  to  come  near them,  he would fight  them on  his  own
doorstep until he had wiped out every last one.
     "The  only  problem is  that I'm not from the mountains. So that  takes
care of  that," thought Maxim.  "My work  is here, and I don't intend to sit
around and  do nothing. And Rada? Well,  if she really cares for  me, she'll
understand. She  must. Damn it, I don't want to think  about it now. This is
no time to get involved."
     Something was happening in the building, but he was so caught up in his
thoughts that  he was  not  aware  of it.  Someone  was  walking  along  the
corridor; someone was  whispering  behind  the wall.  Suddenly  there  was a
commotion  in  the corridor and a desperate  cry: "Mac!" It was Rada.  Then,
abrupt  silence -- as if someone had put a hand over her mouth. He leaped to
his feet and rushed to the window,  but it was too  late. The door flew open
and Rada  appeared  in the  doorway, her  face drained white.  There  was  a
familiar barracks odor and the stomping of  hobnailed boots. Rada was shoved
into the room. Behind her crowded men in black jump suits. Pandi trained his
gun  on him, and Captain  Chachu, his usual cunning and  clever self,  stood
next to  Rada. With one hand he held her by the shoulder;  with the other he
jammed his pistol into her back.
     "Don't move!" he shouted. "One move and I shoot!"
     Maxim froze. It was too late.
     "Hold out your hands!" ordered Chachu. "Corporal, handcuffs! Two  sets!
Get a move on, massaraksh!' '
     Pandi,  whom  Maxim  had  tossed  around  many  times  during  training
exercises, approached him cautiously, unhooking a heavy chain from his belt.
His ferocity had quickly changed to concern for his safety.
     "Don't try anything," he warned Mac. "One wrong move and Captain Chachu
will give it to your girifriend."
     He snapped the handcuffs on Maxim's wrists, then squatted and tied  his
feet.  Maxim prepared to break  out, but he had underestimated the  captain,
who refused to release  Rada. Together  they descended the  stairs, together
they  climbed into the truck,  with the captain's  gun  constantly at Rada's
back. Guy, shackled, was shoved into the truck. Dawn was a long way  off and
it was still drizzling. The legionnaires plopped down on benches in the rear
of the  truck.  At the entrance  to the building, the  porter stood  leaning
against the door jamb, hands folded on his stomach. He was dozing.

12.

     The state prosecutor leaned back in his  chair, tossed some dried fruit
into his mouth, chewed  it, and drained a jigger of mineral  water. Frowning
and pressing his fingers against his tired  eyes, he listened carefully. All
was  well for hundreds of  yards around. A night rain  drummed  monotonously
against the window;  the  screaming sirens, screeching  brakes, and clanking
elevators had  quieted down for the  night. The  Department of  Justice  was
deserted except for his assistant,  who  sat quietly in  the reception room,
anxiously  awaiting orders.  The  prosecutor  unwound  slowly.  Through  the
colored spots  floating before  his  eyes,  he  glanced at  the  custom-made
visitor's chair. "I must  take that chair with me when  I  leave. The table,
too; I'm used to it. Yes, it will be hard  to leave. I've made a nice little
nest  for myself here. But why  should I leave? How strange human nature is:
confronted with a ladder, man feels compelled to climb to the very top. It's
cold and drafty up there -- bad for  the health -- and a fall can be  fatal.
The rungs are slippery. It's a funny thing: you're aware of the dangers, and
you're practically ready to drop from exhaustion, yet you keep fighting your
way up. Regardless of the situation,  you keep climbing; contrary to advice,
you keep  climbing;  despite  the  resistance  of  your  enemies,  you  keep
climbing;  against   your   better  instincts,   your  common  sense,   your
premonitions, you climb, climb,  climb. If you don't keep climbing, you fall
to the bottom.  That's for  sure.  But if  you  do keep  climbing, you  fall
anyway."
     His thoughts were interrupted by the  beeping of the intercom. Annoyed,
he picked up the receiver.
     "What's the matter? I'm busy."
     "Your honor," said his assistant,  "a  party by the name of Strannik is
on your personal line and insists on speaking with you."
     "Strannik?" The prosecutor perked up. "Put him on."
     A  click.  Then  a  familiar  voice with  a  Pandeyan accent, carefully
articulating each word.
     "Smart? Hello, how are you? Are you very busy?"
     "For you, no."
     "I must talk with you."
     "When?"
     "Now, if possible."
     "I'm at your service," said the prosecutor. "Come on over."
     "I'll be there in ten or fifteen minutes. Wait for me."
     The prosecutor hung up and sat immobile for some time, biting his lower
lip. "So, my  friend, you've turned  up out of the  blue  again. Massaraksh,
I've thrown away so much money on  that man, more than on all the others put
together,  and  I  know  no  more about him than  anyone  else. A  dangerous
character. Unpredictable. Ruined my evening." The  prosecutor looked angrily
at the papers lying  on his desk, then  shoved them  into a pile and stuffed
them into  a drawer. "How long has he been  here? Yes, two months. As usual.
Disappears God  knows where,  no  news for two months, then pops up  like  a
jack-in-the-box. No, I'll  have to do something  about that man. We can't go
on this way. I wonder what  he wants from  me?  I  wonder what's happened in
those two months? Crafty was dumped. But I doubt that he was involved. True,
he hated Crafty. But he hates everyone. Nothing has happened here that would
concern  him, and  he certainly wouldn't come to see me about such nonsense.
He'd  go directly to  Chancellor  or Baron. Maybe  he's run  into  something
interesting and wants to make a deal? God  forbid! If I were in his place, I
wouldn't make any deals with anyone.  Maybe he's coming about the trial? No,
the  trial has nothing  to do with  it. Why speculate? I'll just play  it by
ear."
     Sliding out his secret drawer, he activated all  the tape recorders and
hidden cameras.  "We'll preserve  this scene for posterity. Well,  Strannik,
where the hell are you?" His nerves started to act up in anticipation of his
visitor.  To  calm himself,  he tossed  more  fruit into  his mouth,  chewed
slowly, closed his eyes, and began  to count. As he  reached  seven hundred,
the door opened.
     There  he  was.  That  gangling, insolent cynic. Pushing the  assistant
aside, he strode into the  room.  Strannik,  the Creators' fair-haired  boy.
Despised and adored, he had  managed to  stay on top. The prosecutor rose to
meet  his visitor, around-shouldered man with round green eyes and a head as
bald as an egg. He was wearing the same ridiculous jacket he  always wore. A
sorcerer, ruler  of  destinies,  devourer  of billions.  With  him you  went
straight to the point. No mincing of words.
     "Greetings, Strannik. Come to tell me of your triumphs?"
     "What triumphs?" Strannik dropped into  a chair that forced him to draw
up his knees  awkwardly. "Massaraksh, I  always forget about this diabolical
device of yours. When will you stop insulting your visitors?"
     "A  visitor  should  be  uncomfortable   and  should  feel  ridiculous.
Otherwise these sessions can  be very dull.  For example, the  sight  of you
right now really cheers me up."
     "Ah, yes, I know; you have such a sunny personality. Only your sense of
humor  is not very exacting. By the  way, why not make yourself comfortable?
Have a seat."
     The prosecutor realized that he was still standing and  that, as usual,
Strannik had  evened  the  score quickly.  The prosecutor sat down,  settled
himself comfortably, and sipped some mineral water.
     "Well?" he said.
     Strannik came right to the point.
     "You have a man I  need. By  the  name of Mac Sim. You had him sent off
for reeducation. Remember?"
     "No,  I don't." The  prosecutor was sincere, but somewhat disappointed.
"When did I send him? What for?"
     "Recently. For blowing up the tower."
     "Ah, yes, I remember the case. Well, what about it?"
     "That's all there is to it. I need him."
     "Just a minute." The  prosecutor  was annoyed. "Someone else  tried the
case. You can't expect me to remember every convict."
     "I thought they were all your people."
     "Only one  of mine was there. The rest  were genuine. What did  you say
his name was?"
     "Mac Sim."
     "Mac  Sim,"  repeated  the prosecutor.  "Ah, that  mountaineer  spy.  I
remember.  Yes,  there  was  a strange  story about him. He was shot, but it
didn't finish him off."
     "Apparently not."
     "A man of unusual strength. Yes, there was  a report on him, Why do you
need him?"
     "The man is a mutant," replied Strannik. "He has interesting mentograms
and I need him for my work."
     "Are you planning to dissect him?"
     "Possibly. My  people  spotted him a long time ago, when  he  was being
used at the Special Studio. But he escaped."
     Extremely disappointed, the prosecutor stuffed his mouth with fruit.
     "All right. By the way, how are things going?"
     "Splendidly, as usual. I  hear the same about you. You really did a job
on Puppet. My congratulations. So, when do I get my Mac?"
     "I'll send a dispatch  tomorrow. He'll be delivered  to you in  five to
seven days."
     "Gratis?"
     "Well, my friend, what do you have to interest me?"
     "The very first protective helmet."
     The prosecutor laughed.
     "And the World Light in the bargain,"  he said. "By the way, keep  this
in  mind:  it's  not  your  first helmet  I  need.  I  need  the  only  one.
Incidentally,  is it  true  that  your  bunch  was  assigned  to  develop  a
directional radiation emitter?"
     "Maybe,'" replied Strannik.
     "Listen, what  the  hell  do  we  need it for? We  have enough problems
without it. You could sit on it, couldn't you?"
     Strannik grinned. "Are you afraid. Smart?"
     "Yes,  I am. Aren't you? Or maybe you think your great friend ship with
the Count will last forever? He'll do you in with your own emitter."
     Strannik grinned again. "You win. It's a deal." He rose. "I'm on my way
to Chancellor. Any message for him?"
     "Chancellor  is angry with  me,"  said  the  prosecutor.  "It's  damned
unpleasant for me."
     "All right. I'll tell him that."
     "Joking aside, if you could put in a word for me..."
     "You're a  clever  chap,"  said Strannik,  parodying Chancellor.  "I'll
try."
     "Is he at least satisfied with the trial?"
     "How should I know? I just got here."
     "Try to  find  out. And  about your --  what's his name? Give it  to me
again, I'll make a note of it."
     "Mac Sim."
     "Fine. I'll take care of it tomorrow."
     "Good luck," said Strannik, and he left.
     The prosecutor frowned as  he watched him  disappear  through the door.
"Yes, one can only envy a man like that.  He really has it made. Our defense
against radiation rests in his  hands. Too late (or regrets. But it might be
a good idea to get close to  him. But how? He doesn't need anything. He's so
damn important that we're all  totally  dependent on him; we all address our
prayers to him. I'd like to get a man like that by the throat! If only there
was something important  he wanted. All he needs is some  lousy convict, Oh,
yes,  very  valuable!  Sure, interesting  mentograms.  But I  wonder -- that
convict is from the mountains, and  lately  Chancellor has been referring to
the  mountains frequently. Maybe I should look into  this. But Chancellor is
Chancellor. Massaraksh, I'm too damn tired, can't do another stitch of  work
today."
     He  spoke into  the intercom:  "Kokh, what do  you have on  the convict
Sim?" He suddenly remembered: "I think you compiled a dossier."
     "Yes,  your  honor.  I  had the honor  of  bringing the  case  to  your
attention."
     "Bring it here. And more water, too."
     No  sooner had he  switched off the intercom than his assistant  glided
unobtrusively through the  doorway. A  thick  folder appeared before him;  a
glass tinkled softly; water gurgled;  and a filled glass stood alongside the
folder.
     "'Abstract of  the Mac Sim Case (Maxim Kammerer). Prepared by Assistant
Kokh.' Pretty thick.  Not a bad abstract."  He opened the folder and removed
the first sheaf of papers.
     Captain  Tolot's testimony. Defendant Gaal's testimony. A rough  sketch
of  the border region beyond the Blue Snake River. "He was  wearing no other
clothing.   His  speech   appeared  to  be  coherent   but  was   absolutely
incomprehensible. An unsuccessful attempt  was made to  communicate with him
in  Khonti."He was  wearing  no  other  clothing.  His speech appeared to be
coherent but  was absolutely  incomprehensible.  An unsuccessful attempt was
made to communicate with  him in Khonti.  Oh, those stupid border  captains!
Imagine, a Khonti spy on the  southern border! The prisoner's  drawings were
very  artistic.The prisoner's drawings were  very  artistic.  Well, there're
plenty  of amazing things  beyond the  Blue Snake. Unfortunately.  The facts
surrounding this fellow's appearance don't  seem especially unusual, judging
from what we know about that  region.  Although,  of  course...  well, we'll
see."
     The prosecutor put aside  the first sheaf,  selected two dried berries,
and looked at the next page. "The  conclusions  of a special commission from
the Textile and Garment Institute. We,  the undersigned...  using  all known
methods of analysis, tested  the object  of  clothing delivered to us by the
Department of  Justice.  "The conclusions  of a special commission from  the
Textile  and  Garment  Institute.  We,  the  undersigned...  using all known
methods of analysis, tested the object  of  clothing delivered  to us by the
Department of Justice. -- What  nonsense!  --  and  arrived at the following
conclusion: (1)  The  specified object is a pair of trousers, one quarter of
standard length, that could be worn by either men or  women;  (2)  The style
does  not  conform  to any  known  standard  pattern  and cannot, therefore,
properly be called a  style, as  the  trousers were not sewn  or made by any
known method;  (3) The trousers are  made of a  resilient silvery cloth that
cannot properly  be called cloth,  as microscopic analysis failed to  reveal
its  structure.  The  material  is  fire-resistant,  wrinkle-resistant,  and
unusually  tear-resistant.  Chemical analysis...and arrived at the following
conclusion: (1)  The specified object is a pair of  trousers, one quarter of
standard length, that could be  worn by either  men  or women; (2) The style
does  not  conform  to any known standard  pattern  and  cannot,  therefore,
properly  be called a style,  as the trousers  were  not sewn or made by any
known method; (3) The trousers  are  made of  a resilient silvery cloth that
cannot  properly be called cloth, as microscopic analysis failed  to  reveal
its  structure.  The  material  is  fire-resistant,  wrinkle-resistant,  and
unusually  tear-resistant.  Chemical analysis... .H'm, strange  trousers. We
must find out what they are. I'll have to make a note of this." (He wrote in
the margin:  "Kokh. Why no accompanying explanation?  Where do the  trousers
come from?")  "So. The technology is unknown in ourThe technology is unknown
in our  country as  well as in other  civilized nations (according to prewar
data)country  as well as  in other civilized nations  (according  to  prewar
data)."
     The prosecutor put aside the conclusion. "That's enough about trousers.
Trousers  are  trousers. Let's see what else we have here. Record of Medical
Examination.Record  of  Medical Examination.  Interesting.  What a low blood
pressure! And his  lungs! Oh,  what's this?  Traces  of four  lethal wounds.
Peculiar, sounds  like mysticism. Aha!  See testimony  of witness Chachu and
defendant  Gaal.See testimony  of witness  Chachu  and  defendant Gaal. But,
seven bullets!  Some discrepancy here: Chachu testifies that he used the gun
in self-defense, but  Gaal states that Sim only wanted to take away Chachu's
pistol. Well,  that's none  of my business. Two bullets  in the liver -- too
much for a normal man.  Twists coins, can run with a man  on his  shoulders.
Aha,  I've gone over  this already. I remember thinking when I  read it that
this  fellow was abnormally strong and that such types  are usually  stupid.
That's as far as I got. What's this? Ah, my old friend. Abstract from Report
of Agent 711. Sees without difficulty  on a rainy night  (can even read) and
in complete darkness (distinguishes  objects, sees facial  expressions up to
ten yards away); possesses a very keen sense of smell  and taste: identified
individuals in a  group by odor; to settle  a  dispute, identified drinks in
tightly corked containers;  can orient himself anywhere in the world without
a  compass;  can  determine  exact time  without  a watch...  The  following
incident occurred:  a precooked  fish was purchased  which he forbade  us to
eat, claiming it to be radioactive. He himself ate the fish, stating that it
was  not dangerous for  him.  He  did  not  become ill,  although  radiation
exceeded three times the permissible level (almost seventy-seven units)."
     Abstract from Report of Agent 711.  Sees without difficulty  on a rainy
night (can even  read) and in complete darkness (distinguishes objects, sees
facial expressions up  to ten  yards away); possesses a  very keen  sense of
smell  and taste: identified individuals in a  group  by odor; to  settle  a
dispute, identified drinks in tightly corked  containers; can orient himself
anywhere in the world without a compass; can determine exact time  without a
watch...  The  following incident  occurred: a precooked  fish was purchased
which he forbade  us to eat, claiming it to  be radioactive.  He himself ate
the fish, stating that it was not dangerous for him. He  did not become ill,
although  radiation  exceeded  three  times  the  permissible level  (almost
seventy-seven units)."
     The prosecutor leaned back  in  his chair. "Well, this is just too much
to swallow. Maybe  he's even  immortal? Yes,  Strannik must be interested in
all this. Let's see  what  else we have here. Ah,  here's  an important one.
Conclusion  of  a Special Commission of  the  Department  of  Public Health.
Subject: Mac Sim.  No reaction to  white radiation. No contraindications  to
service in the  special forces.Conclusion  of a Special  Commission  of  the
Department  of  Public  Health. Subject:  Mac  Sim.  No  reaction  to  white
radiation. No  contraindications to service in the special  forces. That was
when  he  was  recruited  into  the  Legion.  White  radiation,  massaraksh.
Butchers,  damn  them!  Here's  their  special  testimony  for  the inquiry:
Although subject was tested with white  radiation of varying intensities, up
to  the  maximum,  there was  no reaction. Zero  reaction  in both senses to
A-radiation.  Zero reaction to B-radiation. Remarks: We consider it our duty
to add that the subject (Mac Sim, approximately twenty years old) presents a
danger-to  society  in  view  of  potential genetic  consequences.  Complete
sterilization or destruction is recommended.Although subject was tested with
white  radiation  of varying intensities,  up  to the  maximum, there was no
reaction. Zero  reaction  in both senses  to  A-radiation. Zero  reaction to
B-radiation. Remarks: We  consider it our  duty to add that the subject (Mac
Sim, approximately twenty years old) presents a danger-to society in view of
potential genetic consequences.  Complete  sterilization or  destruction  is
recommended. Oh,  ho! These guys don't fool around. Who's in that department
now? Ah, yes,  Lover. I  remember Stallion telling me a good  one about him.
Massaraksh, can't remember it. Ah, I'm glad I'm alone now. I'll have another
berry and  a sip of water. Ugh,  what terrible stuff. But they say it helps.
Let's see what's next.
     "So  he's been there,there, too! Well,  well.  Probably  zero  reaction
again. When  subjected to forced  measures, said  subject Sim did  not  give
testimony.  In  keeping  with  Paragraph  12, relative  to avoiding  visible
physical injury  to subjects under investigation who are scheduled to appear
at  an open  trial,  only the following methods were  used: (A)  Deep-needle
surgery, penetrating ganglions. Reaction:  paradoxical: subject fell asleep.
(B)  Chemical  treatment  of  ganglions  with  alkaloids  and alkalis.  Same
reaction. (C) Light chamber.  No reaction. Subject  expressed  surprise. (D)
Steam  chamber.  Weight  loss without unpleasant sensations. Forced measures
were then terminated.When subjected to forced measures, said subject Sim did
not  give testimony.  In  keeping  with Paragraph 12,  relative  to avoiding
visible physical injury to subjects under investigation who are scheduled to
appear  at  an  open  trial,  only the  following  methods  were  used:  (A)
Deep-needle surgery, penetrating  ganglions. Reaction: paradoxical:  subject
fell asleep. (B) Chemical treatment of ganglions with alkaloids and alkalis.
Same reaction.  (C) Light chamber.  No reaction. Subject expressed surprise.
(D)  Steam  chamber.  Weight  loss  without  unpleasant  sensations.  Forced
measures  were  then terminated. Br-r-r, what a  document! Yes,  Strannik is
right:  the man must be a mutant. A normal man wouldn't react that way. Yes,
I've heard  that  successful  mutations  do  occur,  although  rarely.  That
explains  everything  -- except those pants. As far as  I know, pants  don't
mutate."
     He looked at the next page, which proved to be interesting: it was  the
testimony of the Special Studio's  director.  "An idiotic  institution. They
record the ravings  of various psychos  for  the entertainment  of  our most
esteemed public.  I  remember...  the studio  was  the  brainchild  of  Kalu
Swindler,  who was a little crazy himself. Swindler  is long since gone, but
his wild idea  lives on. The director's testimony indicates that  Sim was an
ideal subject and it  would  be extremely  desirable  to have him back.  Oh,
what's  this?  Transferred  to  the custody  of  the  Department  of Special
Research in  keeping with order number such-and-such on such-and-such  date.
Ah, here it is -- the order, signed by Fank. H'm, I smell Strannik's hand in
this.  No, let's not  jump  to  conclusions."  He  counted to thirty to calm
himself, then picked up the  next thick  sheaf of papers:  Abstract From the
Records  of  the  Special  Ethnolinguistic  Commission's  Inquiry  Into  the
Possible Mountaineer Origin of M. Sim.
     Abstract From the Records of  the Special  Ethnolinguistic Commission's
Inquiry Into the Possible Mountaineer Origin of M. Sim.
     Still thinking about  Fank and Strannik, he began to read mechanically.
Suddenly he found himself  absorbed in the material.  It  was  an intriguing
study. All reports, evidence, and testimony related in any way whatsoever to
the question  of Mac Sim's  origin had been  brought together and discussed:
anthropological, ethnographic,  and linguistic  data,  and analysis  of that
data; the results of radiation phonograms, mentograms, and the subject's own
drawings. It read  like a novel,  although the  conclusions were very meager
and cautious. The commission did not relate M. Sim to any known ethnic group
on the continent.  (Attached was a separate opinion, written by  the eminent
paleoanthropologist Shapshu, who saw in the subject's cranium  a  remarkable
resemblance to the fossilized  cranium of so-called ancient man. The  latter
had  inhabited  the Archipelago  more  than fifty thousand  years  ago.) The
commission  confirmed the subject's complete  psychological normality at the
present moment but assumed  that he had recently suffered a form  of amnesia
in conjunction with considerable displacement of real memory by a false one.
The commission  conducted a linguistic analysis of  the phonograms preserved
in the  Special Studio's  archives  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that the
language spoken  by  the subject  at that time could not belong to any known
group  of  modern or dead  languages. Therefore, the commission believed the
language could  have  been a  product  of  the  subject's  imagination (fish
language),  particularly  in view of the fact that the subject, according to
his own statement, no longer remembered this language.
     The commission refrained  from drawing conclusions but was  inclined to
believe that in Mac Sim it was dealing with a mutant of a previously unknown
type.  "Clever ideas come to clever  minds  at the same  time," thought  the
prosecutor  enviously.  He rapidly scanned  the special opinion of Professor
Porru,  a  member of  the commission. Himself  a mountaineer  by  birth, the
professor reminded the commission of  the existence of a semilegendary land,
Zartak, in the mountains' remote  reaches. It was inhabited by  a tribe, the
Birdcatchers, who  still had not received the attention  of anthropologists.
Mountain  peoples in contact with civilization claimed  that  the tribe  was
skilled in the magical arts and could fly without mechanical aids. According
to  stories he had  heard, the Birdcatchers  were unusually  tall, possessed
extraordinary  physical strength  and endurance, and had brownish-gold skin.
All  these  facts  coincided  with  the  subject's  physical  features.  The
prosecutor toyed with bis pencil above Professor Porru's statement.  Then he
put  the pencil  aside and said  aloud: "I suppose those pants  would fit in
under this opinion. Fire-resistant pants."
     He studied the next page: "Abstract  of the Trial Stenogram.Abstract of
the Trial Stenogram. H'm, what's all this for?"

     PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: You wouldn't deny that you are an educated man?
     DEFENDANT:  I  am educated,  but I  have  a very poor  understanding of
history, sociology, and economics.
     PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: Don't be modest. Are you familiar with this book?
     DEFENDANT: Yes.
     PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: Have you read it?
     DEFENDANT: Of course.
     PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: Why, while in prison, under surveillance, did you
read the monograph Tensor Calculation and Modem Physics?
     Tensor Calculation and Modem Physics?
     DEFENDANT:  I  don't  understand your  question.  For  entertainment, I
suppose. It has some very imaginative pages.
     PROSECUTING  ATTORNEY:  I think it is obvious to the Court  that only a
very  educated   man   would   read  such  a  highly  specialized  work  for
entertainment and pleasure.

     "What kind of rubbish is  this? Why palm off this junk on me? Now, what
else have we here?"

     COUNSEL  FOR  THE DEFENSE:  Do  you  know what  funds the  All-Powerful
Creators allocate to fight juvenile crime?
     DEFENDANT: What is juvenile crime? Crimes committed against children?
     COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENSE: No. Crimes committed by children.
     DEFENDANT: I don't understand. Children cannot commit crimes.

     "Amusing. Now, let's see what we have at the end."

     COUNSEL  FOR THE DEFENSE: I hope I  have succeeded  in demonstrating to
the  Court  my client's  naiveté, which amounts to downright imbecility. The
ideas  of juvenile delinquency,  philanthropy, and  welfare assistance j are
completely unknown to him.

     The prosecutor  smiled and put  aside the page.  "Yes, I see,  Really a
strange combination: mathematics and  physics for pleasure, but doesn't know
the  simplest things.  Exactly like an eccentric professor from some  trashy
novel."
     The prosecutor studied several more pages. "Mac, I can't understand why
you are so attached to this -- what's her name?  -- Rada Gaal. You aren't on
intimate terms with  her; you  owe her nothing;  you  have nothing in common
with  her.  That  idiotic prosecuting attorney is trying without success  to
implicate her in  the underground. But, Mac, my boy, one gets the impression
that if she's  kept within gunsight,  you can be compelled to do anything we
damn please. For  us that's very useful, but most awkward for you. What  all
this testimony amounts to  is  that you are  a  slave to your  word  and  an
inflexible  person. You'll  never make  a politician.  And  why  should you?
Photographs. You're quite handsome. Nice face -- very, very nice. Your  eyes
are rather odd. Where were these taken? On the defendants' bench. Well, look
at that! Fresh and fit, cheerful,  clear-eyed,  relaxed. Where did you learn
such poise? Such posture? That defendants' bench is no more comfortable than
the visitor's chair in my office; impossible to relax on it. But all this is
trivial. There's got to be something bigger here."
     The prosecutor left his desk and paced the floor. Something tantalizing
tickled  his brain, something  prodded  and  excited  him.  "Damn  it,  I've
stumbled on  something in that folder. Something  important, something very,
very important. Fank? Yes, that's important because  Strannik uses Fank only
for the  most important matters. But  Fank just confirms  my intuition. Now,
what is the essential thing here?  The  pants? Nonsense. Ah, I know  what it
is. But it's not in the folder." He switched on the intercom.
     "Kokh, give me the details of the attack on the convoy."
     "Fourteen  days ago,"  began his assistant's rustling voice,  as  if he
were  reading  from  a prepared  text, "at eighteen  hours  and thirty-three
minutes, an armed attack was made on police cars transporting  defendants in
Case Six-nine-eight-one-eight-four from  the courtroom to the city jail. The
attack was  repulsed,  and one  of  the attackers was badly  wounded in  the
crossfire and never regained consciousness. The body was not identified. The
investigation has been closed."
     "Whose work was this attack?"
     "That  has not been clarified, Your Honor. The official underground had
nothing to do with it."
     "Any ideas?"
     "It could have been the work of terrorists attempting to free defendant
Dek Pottu, alias the General, known for his close connections  with the left
wing."
     The prosecutor slammed down  the receiver. Maybe it was true, and maybe
it  wasn't. Well, we'll go through the  folder again. Southern border, idiot
captain. Trousers.  Escapes, carrying man on shoulders.  Radioactive fish --
seventy-seven   units.  Reaction  to  A-radiation.  Chemical   treatment  of
ganglions. Wait! Reaction to A-radiation:  "Zero reaction to  A-radiation in
both senses." Zero, in  both senses. The prosecutor pressed his  hand to his
chest. Idiot! Zero in both senses!
     Zero in both senses!
     He grabbed the receiver again.
     "Kokh!  Prepare  a  special  messenger and security  guard at  once.  A
private  train  to  the south. No!  Use my  electric truck.  Massaraksh!" He
thrust his hand  into a drawer and  switched off  all the recording devices.
"Make it snappy!"
     Still pressing his left hand to his chest, he took out a personal order
form from the desk and  wrote rapidly but  carefully:  "State business.  Top
secret. To the Commanding General of the Special Southern District. You  are
personally responsible for the immediate execution  of  this order. Transfer
to the custody of the bearer, convict Mac Sim, Case 6983. From the moment of
transfer, consider rehab Mac Sim missing, and retain  appropriate supportive
documentation in your files. By order of the State Prosecutor."
     He grabbed another form: "Order.  I  hereby order  all personnel in the
military,  civil, and railroad  administrations  to render assistance to the
bearer of this order, the  State  Prosecutor's special courier  and security
guard, according to category EXTRA. By order of the State Prosecutor."
     He drained his  glass  and  filled it  again. Slowly, deliberating over
each. w6rd, he wrote on a third form: "Dear Strannik: Sorry to give you some
bad  news. We  have just  been informed that the material you  requested  is
missing, as frequently happens in the southern jungles."

PART FOUR: PRISONER

13.

     The first shot shattered the  caterpillar track, and for the first time
in  over  twenty  years  the  monster  abandoned its  well-traveled  course.
Overturning chunks of concrete,  it tore into  a grove and  turned slowly in
place.  Its broad forehead bored into the  underbrush and,  with  a  crunch,
shoved aside the trembling trees.
     When the  immense, muddy  rear end tipped up, its iron plating dangling
on rusty rivets, Zef landed an explosive charge in the  engine with a  clean
shot aimed  to avoid the  reactor. It tore  into the tank's muscles, sinews,
and nervous system; the machine gasped metallically,  puffed white-hot smoke
from its joints, and stopped forever. But  something still lived within  its
evil  armored  heart; some surviving nerves  continued  to send  out  random
signals;  its emergency  systems  still  switched  themselves  on  and  off,
murmuring and spewing  foam; and it shuddered sluggishly,  clawing the earth
with its surviving tread. Menacingly and senselessly,  like the  belly of  a
crushed wasp, the latticed tube of the rocket  launcher rose  and fell above
the  expiring dragon. Zef watched its death throes for several seconds, then
turned  and went into the  woods, dragging a grenade thrower  by  its strap.
Maxim and Vepr followed. When they  reached  a quiet  clearing that  Zef had
undoubtedly noted on their way, they dropped down on the grass.
     "Cigarette break," said Zef.
     He rolled a cigarette for one-armed  Vepr, gave him a light, and lit Ms
own. Resting his chin on his  hands, Maxim lay on the ground and watched the
dying  iron dragon  through the  sparse  woods.  Its  drive  wheels  jangled
mournfully. With a  whistle, it shot streams  of radioactive steam from  its
shattered guts.
     "Now, that's the way to do it, and the only way to do it," declared Zef
didactically. "If you don't, I'll yank your ears off."
     "Why?" asked Maxim. "I wanted to stop it."
     "Because,"  replied  Zef,  "a  grenade  can  ricochet into  the  rocket
launcher. Then we'd all be kaput."
     "I aimed at the tread."
     "You have to aim at the rear end." Zef inhaled. "And, in general, while
you're still new at this stuff, don't ever make the first move. Unless I ask
you to. Is that clear?"
     "It is."
     Neither Zef's  fine points  of instruction nor  Zef himself  interested
Maxim.  Vepr  did. But Vepr, resting  his artificial arm on  the dilapidated
casing  of the  mine detector,  maintained  his  usual  indifferent silence.
Nothing had changed, and Mac was restless.
     A week ago, when the new prisoners formed in front of the barracks, Zef
had gone up to Maxim and selected him  for Ms 104th Sappers Unit. Maxim  was
delighted. Not only did he recognize the flaming red beard and square stocky
figure at once,  but  Zef recognized him, too, in that suffocating  crowd of
convicts in checkered prison uniforms, where no one gave a damn about anyone
else.
     Besides,  Maxim  had  every reason to  believe that Allu Zef, the  once
eminent   psychiatrist   and  an   educated,  intelligent  man,  unlike  the
half-criminal  rabble  jammed into the  train's  prison  car,  was connected
somehow with the  underground. And  when Zef  led  him to  the barracks  and
showed him  his bunk next to one-armed  Vepr, Maxim thought that  his future
had finally taken shape. But he soon learned he was wrong:  Vepr didn't want
to talk. He listened that night with a vacant  expression to Maxim's rapidly
whispered story of the group's fate, the tower's destruction, and the trial.
"Sometimes it turns  out differently," he muttered through  a yawn  and then
turned over and went to sleep. Maxim felt let down.
     Then  Zef  climbed onto  his  bunk.  "Stuffed  myself to the gills," he
announced to Maxim, and without beating around the bush began  to badger him
crudely and brazenly for names and  information. Perhaps he had once been an
eminent scientist, an educated man; perhaps he had even been a member of the
underground; but that night he impressed Mac as being a well-fed provocateur
who,  having nothing  better  to do before  going to sleep, had  decided  to
harass  a  dumb newcomer. With some difficulty. Maxim managed to get rid  of
him,  and long after he  heard Zef snoring healthily, he lay awake recalling
the many times he had been deceived by people and events on this planet.
     His nerves were spent.  He  recalled the trial, obviously prepared well
before  the  group had even received  the  order  to  attack  the tower;  he
recalled the written reports  of  some filthy informer  who knew  everything
about the group, and, perhaps, had been a member of it; and he recalled  the
film  taken  from  the  tower  during the  attack, and  his  shame  when  he
recognized  himself  on  the screen: there  he  was,  firing away  with  his
submachine  gun at  the  searchlights -- more precisely, at  the stagelights
illuminating the actors  of that  horrifying play.  In  the  tightly  sealed
barracks -- suffocating, stinking,  and crawling with vermin -- rehabs raved
in their sleep, while in a far comer, in the light of a single candle, other
prisoners played cards and shouted hoarsely at each other.
     The following day he felt let down again:  this time by  the forest. It
was impossible to take a step without running into steel: dead steel, rusted
through; lurking  steel, ready to Mil at any moment; invisible steel, aiming
at you; mobile steel, blindly plowing up the  remains of roads. The soil and
grass reeked of rust, and radioactive puddles had accumulated at the bottoms
of  hollows;  birds didn't  sing but  wailed hoarsely, as  if in their death
throes. There were no animals, nor was there woodland stillness. To the left
and  right explosions  pounded and thundered. Gray cinders eddied among  the
branches, and the roar of  worn engines drifted through the forests on gusts
of wind.
     And  so  it had gone: day -- night,  day -- night. In  the daytime they
worked in the forest, which  was  not really a forest  but  an old fortified
region.  It  was crawling  with  military devices,  armored cars,  ballistic
missiles,  rockets  on caterpillar  treads,  flamethrowers,  and  poison-gas
ejectors, all automatic and self-propelled. And all this was still very much
alive  twenty years after the war; everything continued to live its  useless
mechanical life  -- to aim, to  sight,  to belch  lead, fire, and death. All
this  had to be  crushed,  blown up, and demolished to  clear a road for the
construction  of new  radiation towers.  At  night Vepr maintained his usual
silence,  and  Zef  harassed  Maxim  with questions,  alternating between  a
directness bordering on the absurd and a surprising cunning and agility. And
there was the almost inedible food, the prisoners' strange melodies, and the
beatings by the  legionnaires. And  twice daily everyone in the barracks and
the forest writhed in  pain under the radiation  emitter's blows. Bodies  of
escapees swung in the wind. Day  -- night, day --  night.  Auschwitz.  Death
camp. Fascism.
     "Why did you want  to stop the tank?" asked Vepr suddenly, Maxim sat up
quickly. This was the first question Vepr had ever asked him.
     "I wanted to examine its construction."
     "Planning to escape?"
     Maxim cast a sidelong glance at Zef. "Of course not. I'm just curious."
     "Why  are you so interested in a military weapon?"  He spoke as if  the
red-bearded provocateur weren't present.
     "Oh, I don't know. I'm not sure myself. Are there many like that one?"
     "There are  plenty  of  machines --  and always plenty  of fools, too,"
intruded Zef. "You can't imagine  how many times the damn fools  have tried.
They climb in, fiddle around a  while,  and finally give up. One  damn fool,
something like you, blew himself up."
     "Don't  worry, I  won't  blow  myself  up,"  said Maxim  coldly. "Those
machines aren't that complicated."
     "But why are  you so interested  in them anyway?"  asked Vepr. Lying on
his back, he  smoked, holding the cigarette between  his artificial fingers.
"Suppose you fix up one. Then what?"
     "He'll break through across the bridge." Zef guffawed.
     "And why not?" asked Maxim. He was completely  baffled by this man: how
should he  behave  toward  him?  Maybe Zef  wasn't a provocateur  after all.
Massaraksh, why were they suddenly giving him a hard time?
     "You'll never make  it to the bridge," said  Vepr.  "They'll riddle you
like a piece of cheese. And if you do make it,  you'll find the bridge drawn
up."
     "And along the bottom of the river?"
     "The river is  radioactive." Zef spat. "If it were clean, yon  wouldn't
need  tanks to  get  across. Right now you could  swim  across anywhere: the
banks  aren't  guarded."  He  spat again.  "If it  were  clean,  it would be
guarded.  Young man,  forget your wild ideas.  You're  here  to stay. Settle
down,  and get  the hang  of things. When you do, you'll find enough to keep
you busy. If you  don't  listen  to your elders, you  won't  even last until
tomorrow."
     "It wouldn't be difficult to escape,"  said Maxim. "I could do it right
now."
     "You're really something, aren't you?"
     "Are you going  to keep kidding  around, or be serious about it?" Maxim
directed his remark to Vepr. Zef interrupted him again.
     "I'll  tell you what I'm  going  to do." Zef rose. "I'm  going  to meet
today's quota. Or else we get no chow. Let's go!"
     He  walked ahead, waddling between the  trees. Maxim asked Vepr: "Is he
really a member of the underground?"
     Vepr shot him a rapid glance. "What are you saying? How could he be?"
     They  walked behind Zef, trying to  follow in his tracks. Maxim brought
up the rear.
     "What's he here for?"
     "For jaywalking."
     Again, Maxim lost all desire for conversation.
     They had taken less than a hundred steps when Zef ordered them to halt,
and work began. "Down!" shouted Zef, and they hit the dirt.  Ahead of them a
stout tree turned with a drawn-out creaking sound, disgorged a long thin gun
barrel, and rocked it from side to side, as if trying to aim it. There was a
buzz, a click, and a small cloud of yellow smoke rose  lazily from the black
barrel. "It's dead... finished,"  announced Zef in a very businesslike tone.
He rose  first  and brushed the dust from his pants. They  had blown up  the
tree and its cannon. Next, a mine field to clear. After that, a hillock with
an active machine gun that kept them pinned down for a long time.  Then they
stumbled into a jungle of barbed wire, and barely struggled through it. When
they finally did, firing opened up somewhere overhead, and everything around
them began to explode and burn.
     Maxim was confused,  but  Vepr remained  silent and  lay on the  ground
calmly, face down,  while Zef fired  his grenade thrower. "Follow me, on the
double!" shouted Zef,  and they  ran. The spot they had just left burst into
flames.  Zef swore,  using  unfamiliar words, and Vepr chuckled.  When  they
reached a dense  grove, something suddenly whistled overhead, and a greenish
cloud of poison gas swooshed through the branches. Again they had to run and
force their way  through underbrush. Zef repeated the unfamiliar words. Vepr
looked quite ill.
     Exhausted,  Zef finally  called a  halt.  They  built  a  fire.  As the
youngest member  of the  team, Maxim prepared dinner, heating canned soup in
their  pot. Zef  and Vepr, grimy and ragged, lay on the  ground. Vepr looked
utterly  exhausted. He was  not a young man, and this life was harder on him
than on the others.
     "It  doesn't make sense. How could we have managed to lose the war with
this incredible concentration of weapons?" asked Maxim.
     "What  do  you mean 'managed to  lose'?" replied  Vepr. "Nobody won the
war. Everyone lost except the Creators."
     "Unfortunately, few people understand that." Maxim stirred the soup.
     "I'm not used to  that kind of talk anymore," said Zef.  "All  you  get
here is 'Shut up, rehab!' and 'I'm counting to three.' Hey, boy, what's your
name?"
     "Maxim."
     "Yes, right. You, Mac, keep stirring. See that it doesn't stick."
     Maxim stirred until Zef said it was time to serve the soup; he couldn't
hold out any longer.  They ate in complete silence. Maxim sensed a change in
mood and was  sure that today he'd betaken into their  confidence. But after
dinner Vepr lay  down again and  stared at the sky, while Zef,  mumbling  to
himself, took the pot and wiped up the bottom with a crust of bread.
     "We ought to shoot something," he muttered.  "My  belly  is so empty. I
feel like I haven't eaten a tiling but just woke up my appetite."
     Maxim  tried to draw  them into  a conversation  about hunting  in this
area,  but  no one  picked it up.  Vepr now lay there with his  eyes closed,
apparently asleep.  After  Zef had finished  listening  to Maxim's views, he
growled:  "Hunting?  Here?  Everything's  filthy,  radioactive."  He,   too,
stretched out.
     Maxim  sighed, took the pot,  and walked to a nearby  stream. The water
was  clear and appeared to be clean and tasty. Tempted to  drink, he scooped
some up  in his hand. But he could neither drink nor  wash the pot here: the
stream  was noticeably  radioactive. Maxim squatted, set  down the pot,  and
became lost in thought.
     His  thoughts, for some reason, turned first to Rada. She always washed
the  dishes after meals and would not  let him  help  her, giving the absurd
excuse  that  it was  woman's work. Remembering that she loved  him, he felt
proud: she was the first woman to love him. As much as he longed to see her,
he realized that this was no place for his Rada. Nor  for the most  evil  of
men. Thousands upon thousands of robots, not  men,  should be  sent here  to
clear the  region. Either  that, or the entire  forest and everything in  it
should be razed. Let a new one arise, any kind, bright or gloomy, but a pure
one. And if it must be gloomy, let it be a natural gloom, not one imposed by
man.
     When he reminded himself that he had been exiled here for life, he  was
struck by the naivet( of his judges. Without exacting an oath from him, they
fully  expected  him to remain  here, voluntarily, forever,  and on  top  of
everything  else,  to help them build a network  of radiation towers through
the forest. En route, in the prisoners' boxcar, he had heard that the forest
extended hundreds of miles to the south and that military equipment littered
the desert,  too.  "Massaraksh,  one day I knock out a tower,  the  next I'm
expected  to clear a path for them.  Oh, no. I'm  not staying here. I've had
enough of this."
     He settled down and forced himself to clarify his plans.
     "Vepr  doesn't trust me.  He trusts Zef, but not me. And I don't  trust
Zef, though I  guess I'm being unfair. I  probably  seem as troublesome  and
suspicious to Vepr as Zef seems to me. Well, all right,  Vepr doesn't  trust
me. So  that means I'm alone again. Of course it's possible I might run into
the General or Memo, but that's highly unlikely. I suppose I  could  try and
put  together a group of strangers, but massaraksh, I  had better  be honest
with myself: I'm no good at that sort of thing. I'm too damn trusting.  Hold
on, now. Think! What do I want?"
     He considered the problem for several minutes.
     "If only  Guy were  here. But  Guy  was sent to  a special  unit with a
strange name -- something like Blitztr(ger, 'Lightning Bearers.' Most likely
I'll have to operate alone.
     "In any case I must get out of here. Of  course  I'll try  to form some
sort of group, but if I can't, I'll leave alone. A tank is a must. There are
enough guns here to equip a hundred  armies. After  twenty years they're  in
pretty bad  shape, but I'll do what I can with  them. So,  Vepr really won't
trust me?" he thought, almost in despair. He grabbed the pot and ran back to
the fire.
     Zef  and  Vepr were awake  now; they lay head to head and were  arguing
softly,  but  vehemently, about  something. Noticing Mac, Zef  said quickly:
"Enough!"  and rose. Scratching his red beard and opening  his eyes wide, he
shouted: "Where did you disappear to, massaraksh? Who gave you permission to
leave? You've got to work if you want some grub!"
     Mac  became furious.  For the first time in  his life  he found himself
shouting at someone at the top of his lungs.
     "Damn  you, Zef! Can't you think of anything else but your stomach? All
I ever hear from you is grub, grub, grub! You can have my rations if it will
make you feel any better!"
     He flung down the  pot, grabbed his knapsack, and put his hands through
the straps. Stunned by the unexpected acoustic blow, Zef stared at him. Then
Zef's roaring laughter rolled through the forest. Vepr joined in, and Maxim,
unable to restrain himself, laughed, too, somewhat crestfallen.
     "Massaraksh.  Boy, some  voice you've got  there!" Zef turned  to Vepr.
"You mark my words. OK now, enough. On your feet!"  he yelled. "Let's go, if
you want some... some grub this evening."
     They shouted and laughed  for a while but then quieted  down and pushed
on  through  the  forest.  With  demonic  energy  Maxim cleared  land mines,
destroyed coaxial  machine  guns, and unscrewed  warheads from  antiaircraft
rockets. More firing, hissing streams of  tear gas, the  repulsive stench of
rotting carcasses of animals killed by submachine guns. They became dirtier,
angrier,  and  more ragged, and Zef urged Maxim  onward: "Keep  going,  keep
going  if  you  want to  eat!"  Poor Vepr, utterly exhausted, barely dragged
himself behind them, leaning for support on his mine detector.
     During  these wearisome  hours Maxim  grew increasingly  disgusted with
Zef. So when  Zef  suddenly let out a roar and dropped through  the  ground,
Maxim  was delighted. Wiping  his sweaty forehead  with  his  grimy hand, he
walked  up to  the spot leisurely and  halted at the  edge of  a dark narrow
crevice covered with grass. It was  deep and pitch-black, and cold, damp air
drifted  from  it. Nothing  was  visible;  only a  crunching and  indistinct
swearing rose from the hidden trap.
     Vepr  hobbled  over  to  it, looked down,  and asked Maxim: "Is he down
there? What happened to him?"
     "Zef!" called Maxim, bending over. "Zef, where are you?"
     Zef's  voice  rumbled from the trench. "Come on down!  Jump, it's  soft
here."
     Maxim looked at Vepr. Vepr shook his head.
     "That's  not for me," he said. "You jump, and  I'll drop a rope down to
you."
     "Who's  there?"  they  heard  Zef  roaring  from  below.  "I'll  shoot,
massaraksh!"
     Maxim  dropped  his  legs over the  side of the crevice, gave himself a
push, and jumped. Almost instantly he found himself ankle-deep in soft dirt.
He sat down.  Zef was somewhere nearby. To adjust to the darkness, Maxim sat
with eyes closed for several seconds.
     "Mac,  come over  here.  There's someone here," called  Zef. "Vepr!" he
shouted. "Jump!"
     Vepr replied that he was dog-tired and would be just as happy to rest a
while.
     "Suit yourself," said Zef. "But I think this is thethe Fortress. You'll
be sorry later."
     Vepr replied  indistinctly: he felt ill again,  too  miserable to worry
about fortresses.
     Maxim  opened his eyes and looked around. He was sitting on a mound  of
earth in  the middle of a  long corridor lined with rough concrete walls.  A
gap in the ceiling was either an opening for ventilation or a breach made by
some  missile. Standing some twenty steps away  from him,  Zef  surveyed  Ms
surroundings with a flashlight.
     "What's this?" asked Maxim.
     "How should  I  know? It  could be  some sort of shelter. Or  maybe  it
really is thethe Fortress. Do you know about the Fortress?"
     "No," said Maxim, crawling off the mound.
     "You  don't...  ," said Zef  absentmindedly.  He  kept looking  around,
sweeping  the  light  along the  walls. "Then  what  the hell do  you  know!
Massaraksh! Someone or something has just been here."
     "Human?" asked Maxim.
     "I don't know. It crept  alongside the  wall and  disappeared.  And the
Fortress, Mac, is  something very,  very special. In one day we could finish
up all our work out there. Aha, tracks."
     He  squatted. Maxim  squatted  beside him and  made out imprints in the
dirt along the wall.
     "Strange tracks."
     "I've never seen anything like them."
     "Looks as if someone was walking on his fists." Maxim clenched his fist
and made an impression next to the tracks.
     "Very  similar,"  admitted  Zef.  He  aimed the beam  deep  inside  the
corridor. Something shimmered faintly, reflecting either a turn or dead-end.
"Should we take a look?"
     "Shh," said Maxim. "Shut up and don't move!"
     Although it was silent, he sensed the presence of life in the corridor.
Someone or something  was standing up ahead; something small, with a strange
weak odor, was hugging the wall.  Maxim  could  not tell  precisely  what or
where it was. It was observing them and seemed annoyed by their presence. It
defied identification and its intentions were elusive.
     "Do we have to investigate?" asked Maxim.
     "I'd like to."
     "Why?"
     "We must  take  a look. Maybe this really  is the  Fortress. If  it is,
things are going to be a lot different from now on. I'm not sure it  is, but
since there are so  many rumors, who can  tell, maybe there's some  truth to
them."
     "Someone is there," said Maxim. "I can't figure out who."
     "You  think  so?  If this is the Fortress, then  according  to  legend,
either the survivors of a garrison live here, or... The garrison just  stays
on here, you know, unaware that the war ended.  During the war they declared
themselves neutral, locked themselves in, and swore to blow up the continent
if anyone came near them."
     "And could they?"
     "If this is  the Fortress, they could do anything. Yes, indeed. Because
of  explosions and firing  above ground, they  probably  believe  the war is
still going  on. Some prince or duke  was their commander here.  I'd like to
meet and talk with them."
     Maxim listened for sounds again. "No, it's no prince or duke. It's some
kind of animal, perhaps. Or..."
     "Or what?"
     "Remember, you said 'either the survivors of a garrison, or...?'"
     "So I did.  Well, it's  nonsense, old wives'  tales.  Let's  go  take a
look."
     Zef loaded the grenade thrower, heaved it on to his shoulder, and moved
forward, lighting the way with his flashlight. Maxim walked beside him. They
wandered along the  corridor for a few minutes, came  up against a wall, and
turned to the right.
     "You're  making an awful  racket," said Maxim. "Something's going on in
there, but you're breathing so hard..."
     "What am I supposed to do -- stop breathing?" Zef bristled.
     "And your flashlight is bothering me."
     "What do you mean -- bothering you? It's dark here."
     "I can see in the dark," explained Maxim, "but with your flashlight on,
I can't make out a thing. Let me go  on  ahead, and you stay here. Otherwise
we won't find out anything."
     "We-ell, suit yourself," said Zef hesitantly.
     Maxim narrowed his eyes again, resting them from  the flickering light.
Then,  crouching, he moved alongside the  wall  as silently as possible. The
mysterious creature was somewhere  nearby,  and Maxim drew closer to it with
each step. The corridor seemed endless. Locked  steel doors lined the  right
side. A draft blew  toward  him.  The air was dampish and smelled heavily of
mold and  something else, something elusive,  but warm and alive. Behind him
Zef rustled cautiously; uneasy and afraid to remain alone, he had decided to
follow  Maxim. Maxim laughed to himself. He was  distracted for only a split
second,  but  at that instant the mysterious creature vanished. The creature
had been in front of him,  almost beside him; then, in a flash, it seemed to
vanish into thin air, only to reappear close behind him.
     "Zef!" called Maxim.
     "Yes!" boomed Zef.
     Maxim imagined that the strange  creature was standing between them. He
turned his head toward Zefs voice. "It's between us. Don't shoot!"
     "OK," said Zef. "I can't see a damn thing. What does it look like?"
     "I don't know. It's soft."
     "An animal?"
     "Doesn't seem to be."
     "You said you could see in the dark."
     "Not with my eyes," said Maxim. "Shut up!"
     "Not with your eyes," muttered Zef.
     The creature stood  still  for a short time, then crossed the corridor,
disappeared,  and soon reappeared up  ahead. "Its  curiosity  has also  been
aroused,"  thought  Maxim.  He  strained hard,  trying to empathize with the
mysterious  creature, but something interfered --  probably, he thought, the
discordant combination of a humanoid  intellect and  a  semianimal body.  He
edged forward again. The creature retreated, maintaining a constant distance
between them.
     "Anything yet?" asked Zef.
     "Nothing new. It  might be  leading  us somewhere or luring  us  into a
trap."
     "Can we handle it?"
     "It's not going to attack us," replied  Maxim.  "It's  as curious as we
are."
     Nothing more was said because the  creature  had  vanished  again,  and
Maxim sensed that the  corridor had ended. He was in the midst of a spacious
chamber. It  was too  dark for Maxim  to distinguish anything,  although  he
sensed the presence of  metal,  rust, and  high voltage. For several seconds
Maxim stood motionless before figuring  out the  location of  the switch. He
reached out for it, but at that instant  the  creature reappeared. This time
with another creature, similar but not identical. They stood beside the wall
where Maxim now stood. He  could  hear their  rapid  breathing.  Hoping they
would come closer, he  remained motionless, But they  wouldn't. Then, with a
tremendous effort, he contracted his pupils and pressed the switch.
     Apparently, something was wrong with the circuit: lights flashed on for
a  fraction of a  second; fuses crackled  somewhere, and the lights went out
again. But Maxim had  managed to get a glimpse  of the mysterious creatures.
They  were small, about the  size  of a large dog, stood on all fours,  were
covered with dark wool, and had large heavy heads. Maxim hadn't had  time to
look at their eyes.
     The creatures vanished so quickly that it seemed as if they hadn't been
there at all.
     "What's going on?" demanded Zef, alarmed. "What was that flash?"
     "I switched on a light," replied Maxim. "Come over here."
     "Where is it? Did you see it?"
     "Almost didn't. They do look like animals, like dogs with large heads."
     The reflection from his flashlight skipped along the wall. Zef spoke as
he walked. "Ah, dogs. I  know that there are animals like that living in the
forest. I've never seen live ones, but I've seen their bodies."
     "No." Maxim hesitated. "They're not animals."
     "They're  animals,  all  right."  Zefs voice  echoed  beneath  the high
vaulting. "We were  scared  for nothing. At first  I  thought they  might be
vampires. Massaraksh! Yes, this is the Fortress!"
     He halted in the center of the  chamber, sweeping  the  beam  along the
walls,  along  a row of dials  and  a switchboard, where glass,  nickel, and
faded plastic glittered.
     "Congratulations, Mac. We found it all right. How  stupid of me not  to
believe in it. Stupid.  Hey, what's that? An electronic brain. Oh,  damn, if
only Blacksmith were here!  Listen, do you  understand  anything about  this
stuff?"
     "What exactly?" Maxim crossed over to him.
     "The mechanics of the whole works. This is a  control panel.  If we can
figure  it out, the entire region will be ours! All the aboveground  weapons
can be operated from here. Massaraksh, if we can only figure it out!"
     Maxim  took Zef's flashlight and set  it  down  so  that light diffused
throughout  the  chamber.  The dust of  many years lay  everywhere, and on a
table in  the corner a fork and a soiled, blackened plate rested on a  sheet
of decayed paper. Maxim walked alongside  the control panels,  tried to turn
on an electronic device, and grabbed hold of a knife-switch. The handle came
off in his hand.
     "I doubt  that anything  can  be operated from here. First of all,  the
entire setup is too elementary. Most likely, it's an observation post of one
of  their  control  substations.  Everything  here  seems  to  be  auxiliary
equipment. The computer  is too weak. It couldn't  guide even a dozen tanks.
And everything is falling apart. There is current,  but the voltage is below
normal: the reactor is  probably  jammed. No, Zef, it isn't as simple as you
think."
     Suddenly he  noticed long tubes projecting from the  wall, capped  by a
rubber eye shield. Pulling over an aluminum chair, he  sat down and put  his
face  to the eye shield.  To  his  surprise, the  optics  were  in excellent
condition;  but he  was even  more  surprised  at  what he  saw.  A  totally
unfamiliar landscape: a pale yellow desert, sand dunes, the shell of a metal
structure.  A strong wind blew, streams of sand rail along the dunes,  and a
misty horizon curled up like a saucer.
     "Take a look, Zef. Where is this?"
     Zef  leaned the  grenade thrower  against  the  control panel and  took
Maxim's place.
     "That's odd." Zef paused briefly. "It's the desert all  right. But it's
about four hundred miles from here."  He leaned back and looked up at Maxim.
"Imagine how much time and effort went into all this. The bastards! And what
for? Now the wind blows over the sands -- but what a beautiful place it used
to be. When  I was a kid, before the war,  we used to go  to a resort there,
you know." He stood up. "Let's  get the hell out of here," he said bitterly,
picking  up  his  flashlight.  "You  and  I  won't  be  able  to  figure out
this-place. We'll  have to wait  until  Blacksmith  is caught  and sent down
here. Except they  won't send him; he'll be shot for sure. Well, let's clear
out."
     "Yes, let's go." Maxim examined  the strange tracks on the floor. "This
is far more interesting."
     "Oh, it's useless. Probably all sorts of animals running around here."
     He heaved the grenade thrower across his shoulder and walked toward the
chamber's exit. Glancing back at the tracks, Maxim followed him.
     "I'm starved," said Zef.
     They walked along the  corridor. Maxim  suggested breaking  down one of
the doors, but Zef thought it was pointless.
     "This  place is  too big  a job to be taken lightly. We're wasting time
here now. We still  have a quota to fill, and we must come here with someone
who knows a lot about this kind of equipment."
     "If I were you," retorted Maxim, "I wouldn't be  so  quick to  count on
this Fortress of yours. In the  first  place, everything here is rotten; and
in the second place, it's already occupied."
     "By whom?  You and  your  dog theories again?  You're like  the rest of
them, with their vampires."
     Zef  paused.  A guttural cry tore through  corridor;  bouncing off  the
walls,  it echoed repeatedly, then died  down.  Instantly it was followed by
another, from somewhere in the distance. They were very familiar sounds, but
Maxim could not recall where he had heard them before.
     "So  that's  what's  been screaming at  night!" exclaimed  Zef. "And we
always thought it was birds."
     "It's a strange cry."
     "Strange  --  I  don't know,  but it's  damned frightening. When  those
screams start tearing  through the forest at night, you get  the shakes. How
many stories we've  heard about those  cries.  In  fact,  one prisoner  even
bragged that he understood their language. Translated it."
     "What did they say?"
     "Oh, rubbish! You call that a language?"
     "Where's the prisoner now?"
     "Disappeared," replied Zef. "He was in a construction unit and his team
got lost in the forest."
     They turned left. Ahead, in the distance, they thought they saw a faint
spot of light. Zef turned off the flashlight and  put it in his pocket.  Now
he took the lead, and when he halted abruptly, without warning, Maxim almost
bumped into him.
     "Massaraksh!" muttered Zef. A human skeleton lay crosswise on the floor
of  the corridor. Zef  removed  the grenade  thrower from  his shoulder  and
looked around. "This wasn't here before."
     "You're right," said Maxim. "They just put it there."
     Suddenly  from  far  behind  them, from the depths  of the  underground
complex, a chorus of guttural wails rang  out. The wails, amplified by their
echoes, sounded like  a thousand throats crying out. They wailed  in unison,
as if chanting some strange  four-syllable word. Maxim sensed that they were
sneering at the intruders, mocking and challenging them. Suddenly the chorus
ceased as abruptly as it had begun.
     Zef sucked in his breath noisily and lowered the grenade thrower. Maxim
looked at the skeleton again.
     "I guess they're trying to drop a gentle hint."
     "Sure looks like it. Let's get the hell out of here."
     They reached the gap in the ceiling quickly, climbed onto the  mound of
earth, and saw  Vepr's anxious face peering down  at them. He was lying with
his chest over the edge of the hole, dangling a rope with a loop at the end.
     "What happened?" he asked. "Was that you screaming?"
     "Tell you in a minute," replied Zef. "Is the rope fastened?"
     When  they  reached the surface, Zef  rolled  cigarettes  for Vepr  and
himself. He  lit  them  and then  sat in  silence for  some time, apparently
trying to make sense of his recent adventure.
     "All  right," he said finally. "Here's what it's all about. This is the
Fortress. Below  are control panels,  an  electronic  brain,  and the  like.
Everything's  in bad shape,  but energy is available, and if we're to use it
to our  advantage, we must find knowledgeable people to help us. Next:  from
all appearances, I'd say that the place is inhabited by dogs. And what dogs!
With  enormous heads. How they howled! But when you start thinking about it,
you wonder if it was them, because, you see... how can I put it? Well, while
Mac and I were wandering through the place, someone placed a human  skeleton
in the corridor. And that's the whole story."
     Vepr glanced from Zef to Mac.
     "Mutants?"
     "Possibly," replied Zef. "I didn't  see a damn thing, but Mac claims he
saw dogs -- but not with his eyes. Massaraksh, how did you see them?"
     "Oh,  I  saw them with my eyes,  too. And there was  nothing else there
except the dogs. I'd have known if there was. And those dogs of yours,  Zef,
are not what you think they are. They're not animals."
     Vepr said  nothing. He rose, wound up  the  rope,  and  sat down  again
beside Zef.
     "God  knows,"  muttered  Zef. "Maybe they  aren't  animals-anything  is
possible here. After all, this is the South."
     "Maybe those dogs really are mutants?" suggested Maxim.
     "No," said Zef. "Mutants are just very deformed people. They can be the
offspring of the most normal parents. Mutants -- do you know what they are?"
     "I do," replied Maxim. "But the point is, how far can a mutation go?"
     After   a  rather   lengthy  pause  Zef   said:  "Well,  if  you're  so
well-educated, there's no need to waste time talking. Up on your feet! We've
little time left and a  lot to do. And I have a craving for grub." He winked
at   Maxim.   "A   downright   pathological   craving.  Do  you  know   what
pathologicalpathological means?"
     Although they had  not yet  worked  the last  quarter of the south-west
quadrant, they found  nothing to clear. Something very powerful had probably
exploded there some time ago. Only half-decayed fallen tree trunks and burnt
stumps remained of the old forest, and in its  place  a new,  young,  sparse
forest was rising. The soil was charred and full of rust. Realizing  that no
mechanical device could  have survived such an  explosion,  Maxim  concluded
that Zef had other reasons for leading them there.
     A grimy man in  baggy prison clothes emerged from the bushes and walked
toward them.  Maxim recognized him:  it was the first native he  had  met on
this planet, Zefs old melancholy buddy.
     "Wait," said Vepr. "I'll talk to him."
     Zef  ordered  Mac to  sit, sat  down himself, and  changed  his  boots,
whistling a prisoner's tune,  "I'm a Dashing Lad, Known O'er the  Frontier."
Vepr went over to the man and retreated with him into the bushes, where they
conversed in  whispers.  Although  Maxim  heard  every  word distinctly,  he
understood nothing, because  they were using unfamiliar slang. Several times
he recognized the word "post office." Soon,  he stopped  listening.  He felt
grimy  and exhausted; there  had been too  much  senseless work and needless
nervous tension today; he had  breathed too much filthy air and received too
much radiation.  Again, another  totally unproductive day had passed, and he
detested the thought of returning to the barracks.
     The man disappeared, and Vepr returned and sat down on a stump in front
of Maxim.
     "Well, let's talk."
     "Is everything in order?" asked Zef.
     "Yes," replied Vepr.
     "I told you I had an instinct for people," said Zef.
     "Well,  Mac,"  said  Vepr,  "we've checked you  out  as  thoroughly  as
possible under the circumstances. The  General  vouches for you. From now on
you'll be taking orders from me."
     "Glad  to  hear  that."  Mac  smiled wryly. He wanted to say: "But  the
General  didn't  vouch  for you  to  me." Instead, he  added:  "I'm  at your
command."
     "The General says that  you  aren't affected by  radioactivity  or  the
radiation emitters. Is that true?"
     "It is."
     "So you could swim  across  the Blue  Snake River  at  any time and you
wouldn't be harmed?"
     "I've already told you that I could escape right now if I wanted to."
     "We don't want you to escape. So, as I understand it,  the patrol  cars
don't bother you either?"
     "You mean the mobile emitters? No, they don't bother me."
     "Very good,"  said  Vepr.  "Then  your  assignment  for  the present is
completely settled. You'll be our  messenger. When I give the order,  you'll
swim  across the river and send telegrams from the nearest telegraph office.
Is that clear?"
     "Yes, that much is clear, but something else isn't."
     Vepr 1îîkåd at  Mac without blinking.  This aloof, sinewy, crippled old
man  was a cold and  merciless soldier, a  fighter since birth, a terrifying
and  intriguing product of a  world where human life was worthless;  he knew
nothing but struggle, had experienced only struggle, pushed aside everything
but struggle. In his attentive narrowed eyes Maxim read his own fate.
     "Yes?" said Vepr.
     "Let's settle this right  now," said Maxim firmly. "I don't want to act
blindly. I  don't  intend  to  get  involved in  operations that I  feel are
foolish and unnecessary."
     "For example?"
     "I know the meaning of discipline. And I  know that without it our work
is  useless.  But  I  feel  that  discipline  should  be  rational,  that  a
subordinate should feel that an order makes sense. You are ordering me to be
a messenger, and I'm prepared to be one. I can perform more demanding tasks,
but, if necessary, I'll be a messenger. But I must know that the telegrams I
send out will not result in senseless deaths."
     Zef started to interrupt, but Vepr and Maxim gestured to him to wait.
     "I was ordered to blow up the tower," continued  Maxim. "I was not told
why it  was necessary. I  saw that it was a foolish  and deadly plan, but  I
carried out the order. I  lost three comrades, and then  it  turned out that
the  whole operation was a trap set  by  government  provocateurs. Well, I'm
telling you right now that I've had enough  of that  kind of stuff. I refuse
to blow  up  any more towers! And I'll do  everything in my power  to  block
similar plans."
     "Well, you are a damned fool!" said Zef. "A pantywaist."
     "Why do you call me that?"
     "Hold on, Zef," said  Vepr, his eyes still riveted  on Maxim. "In other
words, Mac, you want to know all the staff's plans?"
     "Right. I don't want to work blindly."
     "You're downright insolent,"  declared Zef.  "Just too damned insolent!
Listen, Vepr, I still like  him. And  I know -- I've got a good eye  for the
right material."
     "You're demanding far too much trust from us," said  Vepr coldly. "That
kind of trust must be earned."
     "And  for that,  I suppose I'll  be expected to  knock over those idiot
towers? True, I've been in the underground only a few months, but I've heard
only one thing all this time: towers, towers, towers. I don't want to topple
towers. It's senseless.  I want to fight tyranny, hunger, corruption,  lies.
Of course  I  realize  that  the  towers  are torturing  you,  torturing you
physically.  But you don't even know how to fight the  towers. Your approach
is idiotic. It's very obvious that the towers are relays. You must strike at
the Center, not try to pick them off one by one."
     Vepr and Zef began to speak at the same time.
     "How do you know about the Center?" asked Vepr.
     "And where would you find the Center?" asked Zef.
     "Any  fool of an engineer  knows there  must  be a Center,"  said Maxim
scornfully. "But how  to find it  -- that's the  real  problem. Forget about
machine guns and killing people uselessly. Find the Center!"
     "In the  first place  we know all  this without you." Zef was seething.
"In  the second place, massaraksh, no one has died uselessly! Any fool of an
engineer, you snotty bastard, would certainly realize that  we could destroy
the  relay  system and liberate an entire region by toppling several towers.
But for that, we have to know how to topple them. And we're learning how. Do
you or don't  you understand? And if you say another word about  our  people
dying in vain, I'll -- "
     "Now, wait," said  Maxim. "You  were saying 'liberate a region.'  Fine.
Then what?"
     "Then  all sorts of pantywaists  come  and tell us that we're dying for
nothing," said Zef.
     "Come on,  Zef,  then what?"  Maxim  persisted. "The  legionnaires will
bring up mobile emitters and finish you off. Right?"
     "Like hell!" said Zef. "Before they  get a chance to bring them up, the
population of that  region will have come over to our side, and  it won't be
so easy for those legionnaires to butt in.  It's one thing  to  deal  with a
dozen degens  but  something else to deal with  ten thousand  or  a  hundred
thousand enraged citizens."
     "Zef, Zef!" Vepr cautioned him.
     Zef waved him away impatiently.
     "Hundreds of thousands of city dwellers, farmers, and, maybe, soldiers,
who understand and can never forget how shamefully they have been duped."
     Vepr waved his hand and turned away in frustration.
     "Now,  wait a minute," said Maxim.  "What are you saying? Why on  earth
should they suddenly understand? They'll tear you to pieces. After all, they
believe those towers are part of an antiballistic missile network."
     "And what do you think they are?" asked Zef, smiling strangely.
     "Oh, well, I know, of course. I've been told."
     "By whom?"
     "The doctor. And the General. It's no secret, is it?"
     "Maybe that's enough on this subject," said Vepr softly.
     "Why enough?" Zef  replied softly,  and  his speech now had  a cultured
ring.  "Is  it, strictly speaking, enough, Vepr? You know what I think about
this. You know why I'm staying here, playing my part,  I'll  remain here for
the rest of my life. So  why is  it enough? Both you  and I believe  that it
must  be  shouted  from  the  rooftops; but when  it  comes  time to act, we
suddenly remember  about discipline and play docilely into the  hands of our
great leaders,  those outstanding liberals, those pillars  of enlightenment.
And  now  we have this boy before us. You can see what sort of person he is.
Should such people not know?"
     "Maybe it's precisely this kind that  shouldn't," replied Vepr  in  the
same quiet voice.
     Puzzled, Maxim kept shifting his glance from one to the other. Suddenly
both men seemed to wilt as  the same expression  appeared on their faces. No
longer did Maxim see the steely Vepr, the Vepr who had defied the prosecutor
and the drumhead court.  And Zefs reckless vulgarity had vanished. Something
else had broken through:  a sadness, a hidden despair, a sense of deep hurt,
a submissiveness.  It  was  as if they  had suddenly  remembered  something,
something  that should  have  been  forgotten, that  they had tried  hard to
forget.
     "I'm going to tell him," declared Zef, without asking for permission or
consulting Vepr. Vepr remained silent and Zef began his story.
     What  he  described was  incredible. Incredible  in  itself, incredible
because it  left no  room  for doubt.  While Zef  spoke, softly,  calmly, in
impeccably  precise language,  pausing politely  when Vepr interjected brief
remarks, Maxim strained hard  to find a loophole in this new image  of their
world. But  in  vain. The  emerging  picture was  coherent,  primitive,  and
hopelessly logical: it covered all the facts known to Maxim, leaving nothing
unexplained.  It  was the most  frightening discovery Maxim had  made on his
inhabited island.
     It  was  not  for  the  degens that the towers had been  designed.  The
radiation strikes affected the nervous system  of every  human being  on the
planet. The physiological mechanism was  unknown, but, in essence, the brain
of an individual exposed to radiation lost  its capacity to analyze  reality
critically. Thinking man was  transformed  into believing  man, into one who
believed rabidly,  fanatically,  despite the evidence of his  own  eyes. The
most elementary  propaganda  techniques  could  convince  anyone inside  the
radiation field of anything: he would lovingly accept whatever was presented
as  the shining  truth, the only truth, a  truth  for  which he would gladly
live, suffer, and die.
     The  field  was everywhere.  Invisible, omnipresent,  all-pervasive.  A
gigantic network  of towers enmeshing the entire  country  emitted radiation
around  the clock.  It  purged tens of  millions of souls of any doubts they
might  have about the All-Powerful Creators'  words  and deeds. The Creators
controlled  the minds and energy of millions. They inculcated in  people  an
acceptance of  the  repugnant  ideas of violence and aggression;  they could
drive millions against cannons  and machine guns; they  could  compel  these
millions  to  kill one  another in  the name of anything they pleased;  they
could, should  the  whim strike them,  stir up a mass epidemic of  suicides.
Nothing was beyond their control.
     Twice daily,  at  ten  in the  morning and  at ten  in the evening, the
network  was turned on  full blast; and  for thirty minutes  people lost all
their  humanity.  All  the  hidden tensions which had accumulated  in  their
subconscious as  a  result  of  the gap between  what  they  had been led to
believe and reality were liberated in a paroxysm of delirious enthusiasm, in
an impassioned, servile  ecstasy. The radiation  strikes suppressed  natural
reflexes and instincts completely and replaced them with a fantastic complex
of  behavior patterns. These patterns involved the worship  of the Creators.
The radiated  individual lost  his capacity to  reason;  he behaved  like  a
robot.
     The only  threat  to  the  Creators  came from people  who, because  of
certain  physiological quirks, were immune  to this mass-hypnosis. They were
called degens. The  constant field had no effect on their thought processes,
but the strikes did cause them agonizing pains. There were comparatively few
degens -- something like one  percent of  the population  --  but they alone
were awake  in this  kingdom  of  somnambulists;  they  alone  possessed the
ability to evaluate a  situation soberly, to perceive the world as it really
was,  to  influence  their  environment, to  change it, to  govern. The most
abominable  aspect was that  the degens themselves provided society with its
ruling elite, the All-Powerful Creators. All the  Creators  were degens, but
comparatively few degens  were Creators. Those who  could  not or  would not
become involved in this governing elite were  declared  enemies of the state
and were treated accordingly.
     Maxim was overwhelmed by despair: his inhabited island was populated by
puppets. Hitler's enormous propaganda apparatus was erode beside this system
of radiation towers.  One could  have turned  off the  radio; one could have
chosen  not to listen to Goebbels'  speeches; one could have  chosen not  to
read  the  newspapers.  But here  it was impossible to  evade the  radiation
field. It  had  no equal in  the history of humankind. There was  nothing in
Earth's experience to  look to for  guidance.  There was nothing to rely on.
Zefs plan  to  seize  some  important region was no more than a gamble. They
were confronted by an enormous machine, too simple to change by evolutionary
methods and too enormous to destroy with small forces.  There wasn't a force
in the country that could liberate such a huge nation, a nation that had  no
idea that  it  was not a free people, and that,  as  Vepr expressed it,  had
swerved   from  the  course  of  history.   This  machine  was  invulnerable
internally. Minor revolts  did  not  disturb  its basic stability. Partially
destroyed,  it  recovered rapidly;  irritated, it reacted immediately and in
kind to the irritant, ignoring the fate of its individual elements.
     There remained but one hope: the machine had a Center, a control panel,
a brain.  Theoretically,  this Center  could be destroyed;  then the machine
would die in unstable equilibrium. And the moment would come when an attempt
must  be made to shift  this world onto other tracks,  to return  it to  the
course  of  history.  But  the  Center's  location was a  well-kept  secret.
Besides, who would destroy  it? It was far more complicated than attacking a
tower. Such an operation would require a great deal of money and, above all,
an  army  of  people immune  to  radiation.  Yes,  either  people  immune to
radiation, or simple, easily  accessible protective devices to protect those
who  were  not  immune. Neither  had  ever  been available,  nor  was  their
availability  foreseen.  Several  hundred  thousand  degens were  dispersed,
isolated,  and persecuted. Many belonged to  the category of so-called legal
degens. But  even  if  they could  be  united and armed, the  Creators could
destroy their small army by sending out mobile emitters to meet them.
     Silence reigned long after Zef had finished his story.  Maxim continued
to sit there, his head hanging down as he scratched the dry  black soil with
a twig.. Then Zef coughed and said awkwardly: "Yes, that's the way it is."
     "What are you counting on?" asked Maxim.
     Zef and Vepr remained silent. Maxim  raised  his head,  saw their faces
and muttered: "I'm sorry. I... it's all so... I'm sorry."
     "We must fight," said Vepr in an even voice. "We are fighting and shall
continue to fight. Zef outlined one of the staff's strategies to you.  There
are other plans just as vulnerable to  criticism and never tested.  You must
understand that we are a very young movement."
     "Tell me," said  Maxim slowly, "this  radiation, does it have the  same
effect on all nations in your world?"
     Vepr and Zef exchanged glances.
     "I don't understand," said Vepr.
     "Here's what I have in mind. Is there any country that might have  even
several thousand like me?"
     "I  doubt it," replied Zef.  "Unless,  among  those...  those  mutants.
Massaraksh, don't  be offended, Mac, but obviously you are a mutant. A lucky
mutation. One chance in a million."
     "I'm not offended. So, there are mutants. Deeper in the forest?"
     "Yes," said Vepr. He looked intently at Maxim.
     "What, exactly, is there farther on?"
     "Forest, then desert."
     "And mutants?"
     "Yes. Semianimal. Crazy savages. Listen, Mac, forget it."
     "Have you ever seen them?"
     "Only dead ones," said Vepr. "Sometimes they're captured in the forest.
Then they're hung in front of the barracks as morale boosters."
     "But why?"
     "Fool!"  barked  Zef. "They're  animals!  They're  incurable  and  more
dangerous than any animal.  I've  seen them with my own eyes.  In your worst
dreams you've never seen anything like them."
     "Then  why are the towers being extended in that direction? Do you want
to tame them?"
     "Drop  it, Mac," said Vepr again. "It's  hopeless. They hate us. But do
what you think best. We don't hold anyone back."
     They sat in silence.  Suddenly a familiar roar tore through the forest.
Zef rose slightly.
     "Rocket tank," he said. "Should we  knock it out? It's not so  far. The
eighteenth quadrant. No, we'll wait until tomorrow."
     Maxim suddenly made a decision.  "I'll  take care of it.  Go back, I'll
catch up to you."
     Zef  looked at him  dubiously.  "Can you  handle  it? You can still get
blown up."
     "Mac," said Vepr. "Think!"
     Zef looked at Maxim and grinned.
     "Oh ho,  so that's why  you need a  tank! The  kid is not dumb! No, you
can't fool me. OK, go  on, I'll save your supper for you, in case you change
your mind. And remember, many self-propelled tanks are mined. So be careful.
Let's go, Vepr. He'll catch up to us, if he wants."
     Vepr  was  about to add  something, but Maxim  had  already  risen  and
started for the path through the  underbrush.  He  didn't care to engage  in
further conversation. He walked rapidly, without  turning around,  and  held
the grenade thrower under his arm. Having made a decision, he felt relieved.
The mission before him depended on him alone.

14.

     By morning Maxim had maneuvered the self-propelled  tank onto the  road
and turned its nose southward. He could have kept going. Instead, he climbed
out of the control compartment, jumped down to the broken pavement, sat down
at the  edge of the road, and wiped his dirty hands in the grass. Beside him
the rusty monster rumbled peacefully,  pointing its  rocket's sharp tip into
the murky sky.
     Although he had worked  through the night, he wasn't tired. The natives
had built well: the tank was in  pretty good shape.  It wasn't mined, and he
was surprised to find  manual  controls.  If anyone  were blown up in such a
tank, it would be due either to a worn-out reactor or its driver's technical
incompetence.  True,  the  reactor was functioning at only twenty percent of
capacity, and its  chassis was rather battered,  but Maxim was satisfied. It
exceeded all his expectations.
     It was  almost six in the morning and quite light. It was the hour when
the  convicts  were drawn  up into columns,  fed hastily,  and driven out to
work. Surely  his  absence had  been noticed by now, and  most likely he was
already considered a fugitive and condemned  to  death.  Or  perhaps Zef had
invented some excuse -- like a sprained ankle or a bad wound.
     The  forest had  grown still.  The "dogs," who had  been calling out to
each other through the night, had quieted down and had  probably returned to
their underground  world.  They were probably  rubbing  their paws  together
gleefully, recalling how they had frightened  those two-legged creatures the
preceding day.  These dogs would have to  be investigated, but he must leave
them  behind for  the time  being.  He  wondered  if  they  were  immune  to
radiation. Strange creatures.
     During  the  night,  while he  was working on the engine,  two  of them
observed him  quietly from the bushes. Then a third arrived and climbed into
a  tree, to see better. Leaning out of the hatch, he waved  to it;  and, for
kicks, he reproduced,  as closely  as possible, the  four-syllable  word the
chorus had chanted yesterday. The  creature in  the tree became furious; its
eyes glittered, its wool bristled, and it  began to scream guttural insults.
The two in  the bushes were evidently shocked by this outburst; they  rushed
off and never returned. The creature  cursing in the tree stayed  for a long
time, unable to calm down. It hissed, spat, made threatening gestures, as if
it were  about to attack, and bared its white fangs. It was  nearly  morning
when it finally departed, convinced that Mac had  no intention of  accepting
its  challenge  to  do honorable battle. They were  hardly  intelligent in a
human sense, but they  were interesting creatures. Most likely they had some
sort of social organization. After all, they had driven a military garrison,
commanded by  the duke, from  the Fortress.  The information  about them was
very meager, only rumors and legends... Oh, how he'd like to  soak in a nice
hot tub right now. His skin was burning; the reactor leaked. If Zef and Vepr
agreed  to join  him,  he'd have to shield  the  reactor with three or  four
plates -- strip the armor from the sides.
     A distant thud echoed  through the forest: the  sappers had begun their
working day.  How utterly  senseless. Another  thud.  A machine gun began to
clatter, continued for a long time, and then  was still. It  was a clear day
and quite bright. The cloudless ski was a luminous milky white. The concrete
on the road glittered with dew, but the ground around the  tank was dry: its
armor radialed an unhealthy heat.
     Suddenly  Zef and Vepr emerged from the underbrush onto  the road. When
they spotted the tank they ran faster. Maxim rose to meet them.
     "You're alive." Zef greeted him. "I'm not surprised. But I brought  you
some bread. Eat up, fast!" "Thanks." Maxim took the thick slice of bread.
     Leaning on his mine detector, Vepr stood there watching him.
     "Get it down fast, Mac, and  take off!" said Zef. "They've come for you
back there."
     "Who?" Maxim stopped chewing.
     "We don't know the  details. Some idiot with buttons from head  to toe.
He was shouting  at the top of  his  lungs. Wanted to  know why you  weren't
there. And I was  almost shot. So I stared at him hard and reported that you
were killed in a mine field and your body was not found."
     Zef walked around the tank. "What lousy luck." He sat down and rolled a
cigarette.
     "That's strange,"  said Maxim, biting off a piece  of bread.  "Why? For
further interrogation?"
     "Could it be Fank?" asked Vepr in a low voice.
     "Fank? Medium height, square face, scaly skin?"
     "Not likely!"  said  Zef. "This  was a big  lanky  fellow  covered with
pimples. A real imbecile -- the Legion."
     "That's not Fank."
     "Maybe on Fank's orders?" asked Vepr.
     Maxim shrugged his  shoulders and stuffed the last crust of bread  into
his mouth.
     "I  don't  know," he said. "I used  to think  that  Fank was  connected
somehow to the underground, but now I don't know what to think."
     "I  think you'd better get out of here," said Vepr. "Although,  to tell
the  truth,  I  don't  know  what's  worse,  the   mutants  or  that  Legion
bureaucrat."
     "All right, let  him go," said  Zef. "He wouldn't  work  for  you  as a
messenger anyway. And this way,  at least he'll bring back some  information
-- if he survives."
     "I suppose you aren't coming with me."
     Vepr shook his head. "No. I wish you luck."
     "Get rid of the rocket," suggested  Zef.  "Or you'll blow yourself  up.
Now, here's the situation. There are two more outposts ahead of you. You can
slip  past them  easily.  They  face  south.  Farther  on it gets worse. The
radiation  is  terrible, nothing to eat, mutants.  And still farther -- sand
and no water."
     "Thanks," said Maxim. "Good-bye."
     He jumped  onto the tread, flung open the hatch, and climbed  into  the
hot semidarkness. He was about to pull the levers when he remembered that he
had one more question. He put his head out.
     "Why  is  the  real purpose of the  towers kept from the  rank-and-file
underground?"
     Zef  frowned  and spat, and Vepr replied  sadly:  "Because most of  the
staff hope to seize power someday and use the towers in the same way, but in
their own interests."
     For  several seconds  they looked  each other straight in  the eye, Zef
turned away and carefully  glued a cigarette with  his  tongue. "I  hope you
make it," said Maxim, turning to the levers.
     Rumbling  and  clanging,  its treads crunching, the tank began to  roll
forward.
     Driving the  tank was difficult.  There was no seat for the driver, and
the  pile of branches and grass that Maxim had  arranged at night fell apart
very quickly. Visibility was  terrible, and the tank wouldn't pick up speed.
At  twenty  miles  an hour,  something  in  the engine  began to rumble  and
sputter, and  it was burning oil.  But the  tank's ability  to negotiate any
terrain was still excellent. Road  or  no road -- it didn't  matter: it tore
calmly through bushes,  rolled over shallow ruts, and  crushed fallen trees.
It ignored saplings  growing through the shattered  pavement, and it snorted
with  pleasure  as it crossed over a  deep  hole filled with black water. It
held its course beautifully, but turning it was difficult.
     Since  the road was quite straight and it was dirty  and  stuffy in the
compartment,  Maxim finally  set  the manual  gas lever,  climbed  out,  and
settled himself comfortably on the  edge of the hatch, beneath the  rocket's
latticed mount.  The tank  forged ahead  as if this were  the  route  it had
originally  been programmed for. There was  something smug and  simple about
its  behavior,   and   Maxim,  who   loved   machines,   patted   its  armor
affectionately.
     Ah, life could be pleasant!  To  the right and left  the forest slipped
away, the  engine  rumbled,  the radiation  above was  negligible,  and  the
comparatively clean breeze felt  good on his hot skin. Maxim raised his head
and glanced at the rocket's swaying nose.  He  must  get rid  of it:  it was
excess weight. No, it wouldn't explode -- it had been inoperative for a long
time: he  had checked  it  out last night. But it weighed  some ten tons and
there was no point in dragging it along.
     As the tank crawled forward, Maxim climbed  along the  rocket mount  to
look for a  release device. He found it, but it was badly rusted, and he had
to work on it for some time. While he was busy, the tank turned off the road
twice, howling indignantly and knocking down  trees. Each time  Maxim had to
rush back to the controls,  calm down  the iron  fool,  and maneuver it back
onto the road.  Finally  the release device  was  repaired, and  the  rocket
reeled heavily, crashed to  the pavement, and rolled  ponderously  into  the
drainage ditch. The tank  moved more easily.  At that moment,  Maxim spotted
the first outpost.
     At the edge of the forest stood two large tents and a van. Smoke curled
above a field kitchen. Two legionnaires, stripped to the waist, were washing
-- one was pouring water over the other from a mess tin. A sentry in a black
cape stood in the middle  of  the road and looked at the tank. On the  right
were  two columns  joined by  a crossbar; something  long and white,  almost
touching the ground, hung from it. Maxim dropped down  into the  compartment
so his  checkered  prison uniform would  not  be visible and thrust his head
through  the hatch. The sentry gaped at the tank, withdrew to  the shoulder,
and looked around  absentmindedly at  the van.  The  half-naked legionnaires
stopped washing and stared at the tank.  Several more men,  attracted by the
tank's  rumbling, came running from the tents and van. One wore an officer's
uniform. They  were surprised  but not alarmed. The  officer  pointed to the
tank,  made a remark,  and everyone laughed.  When Maxim reached the sentry,
the sentry shouted something that  was drowned out by the engine, and  Maxim
shouted in reply: "Everything's in order. Stay where you are!"
     The  sentry  couldn't make out his words either, but the  expression on
his face indicated that he was satisfied. Waving the tank on, he returned to
his position in the middle of the road. Everything had turned out all right.
     Turning his head,  Maxim saw at close range what was swinging  from the
crossbar. He  glanced at it  for a split second,  sat down quickly, frowned,
and grabbed the controls. "Oh,  God, I shouldn't have looked. What  the hell
possessed me to  turn my head! I should have kept going and never would have
known  anything." He forced himself to  open his eyes.  "Damn  it, I have to
face it! I have to get  used to it. Now that I've undertaken this mission, I
don't have  the right to look away.  It must  have been a mutant; even death
couldn't disfigure a person  so  terribly. Life itself can. It will do it to
me, too.  I  can't  hide from it: must  get  used  to it. Ahead of me may be
hundreds of miles of roads covered with gallows."
     When  he thrust his head  through  the  hatch  again  and  looked back,
neither the outpost nor its lone gallows by the road wen visible. If only he
could go home right now!  He'd keep  going in this tank, and, at  the end of
his journey,  there it would be -- home. His parents and friends. He'd  wake
up in the morning, wash, and, at breakfast, describe his nightmare  about an
inhabited island. He tried to picture Earth,  but he couldn't: it was almost
beyond  his imagination to conceive  of a place in the universe with  clean,
cheerful  cities,  billions of  good,  intelligent people, and mutual  trust
everywhere. "Well,  you were looking for a job," he thought, "and you got it
all  right. A rough job, a dirty job, bat I doubt that  you'll ever find one
more important."
     Ahead of him, on the  other side  of the  road, appeared  some  sort of
vehicle,  crawling slowly  southward.  It  was a small  caterpillar tractor,
pulling a trailer piled with metal trusswork. In its open cab sat a man in a
prison uniform  smoking a pipe. He  glanced indifferently at  Maxim and  the
tank and  then  turned away.  "I wonder what kind  of  framework  that  is,"
thought  Maxim. "It certainly looks familiar." He suddenly realized  that it
was a section of a tower. "I ought to shove the works into a ditch and  roll
over it a few times." He looked around; the expression on his face evidently
had  intimidated the tractor's driver. The driver braked  suddenly,  getting
ready to jump out and run. Maxim turned away.
     About  ten  minutes  later  he  spotted the second outpost. It was  the
advance outpost of a vast  army of slaves in prison uniforms (although maybe
these slaves were, in a sense, the freest people in the country). There were
two  modern  houses  with shiny zinc roofs.  A  squat gray  guardhouse  with
gunports like black  slits  rested on  a  small  man-made  hill.  The  first
sections  of the tower were already rising above it;  around the  hill stood
cranes and  tractors, and  steel  girders lay scattered  about.  For several
hundred  yards to  the  right and left  of  the road,  the forest  had  been
destroyed, and men in checkered clothing pottered about here and there along
the clearings.  A  long low barracks was visible behind the cottages. A gray
rag was drying on a clothesline in front  of it. A short distance away, next
to the  road,  stood a wooden tower with  a platform;  a  sentry  in  a gray
uniform  paced along the  platform, where a machine gun rested on a  tripod.
More soldiers  were  gathered beneath the platform; their  faces showed  the
strain of coping with boredom and insects. All were smoking.
     "I'll probably get through here, too, without any fuss," thought Maxim.
"This is the end of the world, and  they  don't give a damn about anything."
He was wrong. The soldiers stopped waving away the insects and stared at the
tank. One of them, a gaunt fellow who looked very familiar, straightened his
helmet,  walked out to the middle of the road, and raised  his hand. "You're
wasting your  time,  buddy,"  thought Maxim. "I've  made  up my  mind to get
through  here,  and nothing's going to  stop  me."  He slid  down toward the
controls,  made  himself  more   comfortable,  and  put   his  foot  on  the
accelerator.  The  soldier  continued to  stand  in the  road  with his hand
raised.  "Now I'll  give it the gas," thought Maxim.  "Let out a  good, loud
roar and scare him out of the way. If he doesn't move -- well, war is war."
     Suddenly  he recognized the soldier.  It was Guy. Thin, hollow-cheeked,
in baggy army fatigues.
     "Oh, my God," mumbled Maxim.
     He slid his foot off the accelerator and switched off the ignition. The
tank slowed  down and stopped. Guy  dropped his hand and walked  toward  him
slowly. Maxim began  to laugh: everything had  turned out well after all. He
turned on the ignition again and steadied himself.
     "Hey," shouted Guy, tapping the armor with his gun butt. "Who are you?"
     Maxim did not respond.
     "Is anyone in there?" A note of doubt had crept into Guy's voice.
     His hobnailed boots clanked along the armor, the hatch opened from  the
left,  and Guy thrust his head into the  compartment. When he saw Maxim, his
mouth  dropped  open. Maxim grabbed him  by his fatigues, pulled him inside,
pushed him  down on the  branches  beneath  his  feet,  and  stepped  on the
accelerator.  The tank  roared  and leaped forward. "I'll ruin  the engine,"
thought Maxim. Guy twisted and turned; his  helmet had ridden down over  his
face; he could see  nothing and  kicked blindly, trying to pull out  his gun
from  under  him.  Suddenly  the  thunder  and clatter  of guns  filled  the
compartment: machine-gun fire was hitting the  real of the tank. It was safe
inside, but  most unpleasant, and Maxim watched impatiently  as the forest's
walls advanced  toward them. Closer and closer they came. At last, the first
bushes. A checkered figure recoiled from the road. Now he was  surrounded by
forest; the  clatter of bullets against the armor  had ceased,  and the road
ahead was clear for hundreds of miles.
     Finally, Guy managed to pull out the gun; at  the same time, Maxim tore
off Guy's  helmet and saw  his  sweaty, snarling face. He  laughed  when the
rage,  terror, and  thirst to  kill dissolved first into bewilderment,  then
amazement, and finally joy. Guy's lips moved, forming "massaraksh!"
     Maxim left the controls and embraced him. Holding him by  the shoulder,
he said: "Guy, buddy, am I glad to see you!"
     It was impossible to hear through the noise of the engine. Maxim looked
through the  peephole.  The  road ahead  was straight, so he  set the manual
accelerator again, climbed out of the compartment, and pulled Guy after him.
     "Massaraksh!" said the bedraggled Guy. "It's you again!"
     "Am I glad to see you!" repeated Maxim.
     "What's  this  all  about?"  shouted Guy.  His initial joy had  already
subsided, and he looked around him anxiously. "Where an you going? Why?"
     "To the  South,"  said  Maxim.  "I've  had  enough  of your  hospitable
country!"
     "Escape?"
     "Yes!"
     "You're crazy. They spared your life."
     "Who spared my life? It's my life! It belongs to me!"
     It was difficult  to talk; they had  to shout over the  engine. Somehow
the  conversation deteriorated into a heated exchange. Maxim  leaped through
the hatch  and slowed down the engine.  The tank moved more slowly,  but the
roaring and  clanging lessened. When  Maxim climbed back, Guy  was frowning,
and his face was set in a determined expression.
     "It's my duty to take you back," he announced.
     "And it's my duty to drag you away from here," replied Maxim.
     "I  don't  understand.  You're  completely  out   of  your  mind.  It's
impossible to escape. You must return.  Massaraksh, I  can't take  you back.
You'll be  shot. And in the South, you'll be eaten  by those cannibals. Damn
you and your crazy ideas!"
     "Hold on, Guy, don't shout. Give me a chance to explain."
     "I don't want to hear anything. Stop the tank!"
     "Now, wait a minute," persisted Maxim. "Let me talk!"
     Guy  was unrelenting. He demanded that the  illegally  seized  tank  be
stopped immediately  and returned. The engine's roar drowned out a string of
curses.  The  situation,  massaraksh,  was   horrendous.  It  was  hopeless,
massaraksh! Ahead, massaraksh, waited certain death. To go back, massaraksh,
would  lead  to  the  same. Maxim was a blockhead and  a lunatic,  but  this
escapade would be his last.
     Maxim  deliberately  refrained  from  interrupting  Guy's   tirade.  He
realized that the range of the last tower's radiation  field ended somewhere
in this area, had perhaps ended: the  last outpost was supposedly located at
the outer limit  of the most distant radiation field. Let the poor devil get
it  off his chest; talk  was cheap on the  inhabited island.  "Curse all you
want to," he thought to himself, "but I'll drag you out of here anyway. This
country  is no  place for you.  We must begin with  someone,  and you're the
first. I don't want you to be a puppet, even if you enjoy it."
     When  Guy had  finished cursing out Maxim,  he jumped through the hatch
and tinkered with  the controls, trying  to stop the  tank. Unsuccessful, he
climbed  out  again,  wearing  his  helmet.  He  was silent and  determined.
Obviously he intended to jump  off and return to his post.  He was  furious.
Maxim  caught him  by his  pants,  pulled him back, and began to explain the
situation.
     He spoke  for over  an hour, pausing occasionally  to turn the tank. At
first Guy tried to interrupt, plugged his  ears, and attempted  to jump  off
the  moving vehicle. But Maxim persisted, talking on  and  on, repeating the
same thing over and over again, explaining, persuading, dissuading. Finally,
Guy began to pay attention. He grew pensive, upset, ran both hands under his
helmet and scratched his head; then he took the  offensive and began to quiz
Maxim.  Where,  he wanted to know, did he get  all his facts, and  who could
prove  that  they  weren't a  pack  of lies? Maxim kept hammering  away with
facts,  and  when he had  exhausted his supply,  he  swore  that he had been
telling  the  truth. When  Guy  still  failed  to respond,  he  called him a
blockhead,  puppet,  and  robot.  Meanwhile   the  tank  continued  to  roll
southward, deeper and deeper into the land of mutants.
     "Well,  all right.  We'll  check it out right now." Maxim was seething.
"According  to my calculations,  we left  the radiation field quite a  while
ago, and it's now about ten minutes before ten. What do all of you do at ten
o'clock?"
     "At ten o'clock -- formation."
     "Exactly. And you form up into even ranks and yell your lungs out about
being ready to shed blood for your cause. Remember?"
     "And it comes straight from our hearts," said Guy.
     "No, it's  hammered  into your empty skulls. Never mind, we'll find out
very soon where it comes from. What time is it?"
     "Seven minutes before ten," replied Guy dejectedly.
     "Well?"
     Guy looked at  his  watch  and sang  in  a  faltering voice:  "Forward,
legionnaires, men of iron..."
     Maxim  gave him a mocking  look.  Guy became confused and  mixed up the
words.
     "Stop  staring at me," he said  angrily. "You're upsetting me. Besides,
it's hard to sing well out of formation."
     "Don't  give me  that stuff. You  used to do just  as well  outside  of
formation.  It  was  frightening to  watch  you  and  Uncle  Kaan. You'd  be
bellowing  'Men of Iron,' and Unc would be drawling 'Glory to the Creators.'
And Rada, too. So, Guy, what has suddenly happened to your intense desire to
burn and slaughter for the glory of the Creators?"
     "Don't you dare talk that  way about the Creators!  If what  you say is
true, it means only that the Creators were duped."
     "Who duped them?"
     "Well... there are many people who..."
     "So the Creators are not all-powerful?"
     "I don't want to discuss the subject," declared Guy. His face grew even
more gaunt, his eyes lost their luster, his lower lip dropped.
     His markedly changed appearance  reminded Maxim of two prisoners on the
train en  route to the  penal colony. They were addicts,  unfortunate people
addicted  to  very powerful narcotics. Deprived of their poison, they  could
neither eat  nor sleep and would sit for days at a time like Guy, eyes dull,
lower lip drooping.
     "What's wrong, Guy? Are you in pain?"
     "No," replied Guy dejectedly.
     "Why are you so sulky?"
     "Oh, I  don't  know." Guy tugged at his collar. "I feel sort  of lousy.
Maybe I'll lie down."
     He climbed through  the hatch and lay down  on the  branches  with  his
knees drawn up. "So that's how it is," thought Maxim. "It's not as simple as
I thought."  He grew  uneasy. "We moved out of  the field's range almost two
hours ago, so Guy did not receive his usual radiation dose. He's been living
inside that field all his life. Maybe he needs it. Suppose he gets sick?" He
looked through the hatch  at  the pale  face and grew increasingly  fearful.
Finally,  unable  to  restrain  himself  any  longer,  he  jumped  into  the
compartment, turned off the engine, dragged Guy outside, and laid him on the
grass by the side of the road.
     Guy  muttered  and twitched in  his sleep.  Then he began to shiver; he
hunched  himself up, as if trying  to warm his body. Maxim placed Guy's head
on his knees, pressed his fingers to  his temples, and tried to concentrate.
He hadn't  performed  psychomassage  for  a  long  time,  but he  knew  that
everything except the patient must  be excluded from one's consciousness. He
must assimilate the patient into  his own healthy system. For ten or fifteen
minutes he maintained the same position, and when he returned to his  normal
state  of  consciousness,  he saw that  Guy  had  improved.  His  color  had
improved, his breathing  was  regular,  and  his shivering had ceased. Maxim
made a pillow out of grass and sat next to him for a while, chasing away the
insects. Suddenly he remembered the long journey ahead of them and the leaky
reactor. That was dangerous for  Guy; he must figure something out. He  rose
and returned to the tank.
     It took him some  time to remove several sheets of armor plating,  held
fast  by  rusted rivets, from  the  side of the tank;  then  he fastened the
sheets to  a ceramic  shield  that separated the reactor and engine from the
control compartment. As he was about to attach the last sheet, he sensed the
approach of a stranger.  He thrust his head through the hatch  cautiously. A
cold shiver ran through him.
     On the road, about ten  paces from the tank, stood three figures. Maxim
did not realize immediately that they were humans. True, they wore clothing,
and  two  of them were  holding  a pole across their  shoulders, from  which
dangled the bloody head of a  small  hoofed animal, like a  deer. And a huge
rifle of unfamiliar  make  was slung across the  pigeon breast of  the third
figure. "Mutants.  These are the mutants." All the tales and legends  he had
heard  suddenly  came to  mind  and  appeared  quite  plausible:  cannibals,
savages, animals. Clenching his teeth,  he jumped onto the armor plating and
rose to his  full height.  The figure holding  the rifle  shuffled his short
bowed legs comically, without moving from  the spot. He raised his hand with
its  two  long  multijointed fingers,  hissed  loudly,  and then  said  in a
scratchy voice: "Do you want to eat?"
     Maxim relaxed. "Yes."
     "You won't shoot?"
     "No," Maxim smiled. "I promise."

15.

     Guy sat  at the crude homemade table and cleaned his gun. It was almost
10:45 A.M., and the world for him  was gray and colorless, cold and joyless,
dreary and  painful. He had  no desire to think, to see, to hear. Or even to
sleep. All he wanted was to lay his head on the table and die.
     The room was small, with a single paneless window.  It looked out on  a
vast rust-colored  wasteland  cluttered  with  ruins and overgrown with wild
bushes. The wallpaper in the room was dried up and curling, from either heat
or  age;  the parquet flooring  had shrunk  and was burned to a crisp in one
corner.  Nothing  remained  from  its  former  owner  except a  large framed
photograph beneath broken glass. Close up one  could make out an elderly man
with ridiculous sideburns wearing a silly hat that looked like a tin plate.
     His eyes  would have preferred not to see  their surroundings; he would
have liked to howl like a homeless dog, but Maxim  had issued strict orders:
"Clean that gun!" And banging his fist against the table, he  had shouted to
Guy, "Every  time you  feel that rotten sensation  coming  on, sit down  and
clean that gun." So he had to clean it.
     Still the same Mac. If not for Mac, he would have lain down a long time
ago  and died.  He  had pleaded with  Mac:  "For God's  sake, don't leave me
alone. Stay  with me, cure me." Mac refused. Now he must  cure himself.  Mac
had  assured him that his  illness wasn't fatal, that it  would pass, but he
must fight it and cope with it himself.
     "All right," thought Guy sluggishly. "I  will. I'll cope  with it. Yes,
still the same Mac.  Neither  man, nor Creator,  nor god." And Mac  had also
advised him: "Let yourself get good and  mad! When that rotten feeling comes
on, remember where it came from, who addicted you, and why. Get damn mad and
hold onto  your  hatred.  You'll need it soon. You're not  alone.  There are
forty million like you who've been turned into fools, poisoned." Massaraksh,
it  was hard to  believe after spending his whole life in the service, where
you  always  knew  where  you  stood.  Everything  was simple, everyone  was
together,  and it  was great to be  like everyone else. Then Mac came along,
ruined his career, literally dragged him away from the service, and took him
off to another life that didn't make sense to him; where, massaraksh, he had
to  think  for himself, make his own decisions, do  everything himself. Yes,
Mac had dragged him away and forced him to take a good look  at his country,
his home,  at  everything  dear to  him, and  had shown  him a  cesspool  of
abominations  and lies.  You  looked  back... and, true,  there  was  little
beauty. It was  nauseating  to recall  how  he  and his Legion  buddies  had
behaved. And that Captain Chachu!
     In a fit of anger  Guy drove  the bolt  into place. But, again, he  was
overwhelmed by  inertia and apathy, and  he no longer had the will to insert
the magazine. He felt utterly lost.
     The squeaky warped door opened, and a small serious face poked through.
If it  weren't for  the  bald skull and inflamed eyelids, it would be almost
likable. It was Tanga, the kid next door.
     "Uncle Mac wants  you on the square at once! Everyone there  is waiting
for you."
     He cast a  sidelong glance  at her, morosely; at  the  puny body in the
little dress of rough cloth, at the abnormally thin matchstick hands covered
with  brown spots, at  the  bowed  legs  swollen at the  knees; and he  felt
ashamed at his revulsion. She was only a child, and who was to blame for her
condition? He  turned away and said: "I'm not  going.  Tell him I don't feel
well. I'm sick."
     The door squeaked, and when he raised his eyes again the girl was gone.
Irritated, he threw the gun down on  the  bed, went over  to the window, and
leaned out. With amazing speed, the little  girl skimmed along  between  the
ruins of walls, along what had once  been  a street. A toddler tagged  along
behind her for a few steps,  caught hold of her dress, fell down, raised her
head for a few seconds, and bawled in an awful bass voice. Her mother sprang
from the  ruins.  Guy recoiled sharply, shook  his head, and returned to the
table. "I'm sorry, but I can't  get used to it. I know how rotten I am. If I
ever run into the individual responsible for this, I won't miss. Why can't I
get  used  to  it?  I've  seen  enough  in  this  one  month  for a  hundred
nightmares."
     Most mutants lived in small communes. Others roamed, hunted, and looked
for better places to live; they searched for a route leading to the North, a
route skirting the legionnaires' machine guns, skirting the terrible regions
where they died on the spot of excruciating headaches. Others had settled on
farms in hamlets, after surviving the war and three atom bombs. One had been
dropped on this city,  and two  in  the suburbs, leaving miles of defoliated
earth covered with glistening slag. The settlers  sowed scrawny,  degenerate
wheat; cultivated their weird vegetable gardens where tomatoes were as small
as berries and berries as large as tomatoes; and they raised ghastly  cattle
whose  appearance took  away your appetite. These were  a  pitiful people --
mutants, the wild  southern degens about whom all sorts of stupid tales  and
legends had  been  told. He,  too, had woven  such stories. They were quiet,
sickly, deformed caricatures. Only the old  folk here were normal,  but very
few were left; all of them were  ill and doomed to die  soon. Their children
and grandchildren  were  not long for  this  world  either.  They bore  many
children, but  almost  all  of them  died  at birth or in infancy. Those who
survived were  weak  and suffered  constantly  from  unknown  ailments.  The
deformed ones  were  horrors  to behold.  But all  of  them appeared  to  be
intelligent.  There  was  no  denying  that  the  mutants  were good,  kind,
hospitable, peaceful people. But, thought Guy, it was impossible to looklook
at  them.  Initially  Maxim,  too,  agonized at  the sight of  this  strange
spectacle, but  he quickly  grew accustomed to  it.  After all,  he  was the
master of his emotions.
     Guy inserted the magazine in his gun, rested his head in his hands, and
pondered his predicament.
     No  question about  it.  This  time  Maxim had undertaken  an obviously
senseless mission. He was rounding up the mutants, arming them, and planning
to  drive back the  Legion,  for the beginning at least, to  the  Blue Snake
River. Ridiculous!  They could  scarcely walk; many would die if they had to
walk a mile. Merely lifting a sack of  grain was enough to kill some of them
-- and he wanted to attack the Legion with them!  Untrained, weak -- totally
unfit.  Even if he  rounded up those... their  intelligence agents...  their
entire army could be wiped out by one captain single-handed.  That is, their
army without Maxim. And with Maxim, one captain and his company could finish
them off. Guy thought, "Maxim has been running around the forest for a solid
month, from village to village, from commune to commune, trying to  persuade
the  old  men and  influential citizens  to  support  him. I've been running
around, too,  and  he's dragged me  with him  everywhere. He's  given me  no
peace. The  old men  don't  want to  join  him, nor  will  they permit their
intelligence agents  to join him. So now they are  having a meeting about it
-- but I'm not going!"
     The world  seemed  brighter  to him now.  Looking around him, he didn't
feel  quite  as  miserable; his  pulse had quickened and vague hopes stirred
within  him, hopes  that  today's meeting  would end  in failure, that Maxim
would return and  say: "OK,  enough. There's  nothing  more we can do here."
They would  move  on,  further south, to the desert.  They said it  was also
inhabited by  mutants,  but  not  as  ghastly  and  sick as these. More like
people.  Supposedly they had  some  sort of government, even an  army. Maybe
they  could make some headway  with them.  True, everything  was radioactive
there;  one  bomb after  another  had  been  dropped on  them  in  order  to
contaminate the region. He had heard about such special contamination bombs.
     Reminded about radioactivity, Guy dug into his bag for the container of
yellow  tablets. He swallowed two of them and  writhed from the  penetrating
burning  sensation.  The  miserable stuff had to  be  taken; this  place was
contaminated too. In the desert, he'd probably have  to consume  them by the
handful. Without these pills he'd be  done for. He was  grateful to the duke
for  them.  The duke  was  an  unusual man. Nothing  bothered  him,  nothing
discouraged him,  even  in this  hell.  He helped people, treated them, made
rounds, and even set up a plant to produce drugs and medicines.
     The  door burst open. Wearing only  a pair of shorts, Maxim strode into
the room angrily.
     "No excuses. Let's go!"
     "I don't want to," replied Guy. "The hell with all of them! It makes me
sick to look at them. I can't."
     "Nonsense. They're  fine people and  have a  great deal  of respect for
you. Stop acting like a child."
     "Oh, sure, they respect me."
     "They certainly  do! Recently the  duke asked  that you remain here. He
said he would die soon and needed a real man to replace him."
     "Oh, sure, replace him," muttered Guy, succumbing to Mac's pleading.
     "Boshku is nagging me, too. He's too shy to speak to you directly. 'Let
Guy stay,' he says. 'He'll teach us, protect us,  train some fine fighters.'
Do you know how Boshku talks about you?"
     Guy gave in. "Well, all right. Should I take my gun?"
     "Take it. You never can tell."
     Guy put the  gun under his arm and they left  the room.  They descended
the rotten  staircase, stepped across some children playing  in the dirt  by
the door,  and walked down  the street toward the  square. "How  many people
perished here when that bomb was dropped! They say this once was a beautiful
city. Those bastards ruined the country.  They not only killed and  crippled
people, but bred evil,  the like of which  has never been seen. And not only
here."
     The  duke had told  them  that animals resembling dogs had lived in the
forest  before  the  war.  He  forgot  what  they  were  called.  They  were
intelligent  and  well-behaved,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  train  them.
Naturally, they  were trained for military purposes. Then a linguist  turned
up who  had deciphered their language.  They actually had one, and  a rather
complex  one  at that. They loved  to imitate, and the  physiology  of their
throats made it  possible to teach some of them some fifty to seventy words.
On the whole they were amazing animals. We should have befriended them, said
the duke, taught each other,  and helped each other. "You'll hear they  died
out, but  that isn't true. They  were  trained to  fight, to penetrate enemy
territory for  military  intelligence. Then war  broke out and there  was no
time for them, or for anything else. And they, too, mutated -- so now we are
faced with the vampires. Very dangerous  creatures." An  order to fight them
was even issued in  the Special Southern  Zone, and the duke  admitted quite
frankly: "This is the  end for us. Vampires  will  eventually take  over the
entire region."
     Guy  recalled  how Boshku and his hunters had once shot  a deer in  the
forest. "It was being pursued  by vampires, who decided to fight for it. And
what  kind  of fighters were  Mac's friends? They fired  a single shot  from
their  ancient rifles,  flung them down, dropped to the ground,  and covered
their  eyes  with  their  hands so they wouldn't  see  themselves mauled  to
pieces. And Maxim, too, lost his head. Well, not exactly, but he didn't want
to fight the vampires. I had to do their dirty work for them. Clips were all
gone, so  I used my  gun butt. Luckily, there weren't many of them.  Six, in
all. Two were  killed, one  escaped, and three were knocked  unconscious. We
bound  them  and planned to  take  them  to  the village  in the morning and
execute them. Well, that night I took a look and what did I  see? Maxim  had
gotten up quietly  and gone to them. He  sat with them, nursed them, applied
hand massage, then untied them. They weren't fools. Naturally, they  took to
their heels. I said to  him:  'Mac, why the hell  did you do that?' 'I don't
know myself,' he said, 'but I feel that it's wrong to execute them. Wrong to
kill people, or even these things. They are neither dogs nor vampires.'
     "If they aren't vampires, what are they?  Flying mice?  The  hell  they
are: they're flying horrors.  What else could be roaming through the village
at night, stealing  children? And they don't  even enter the house, but  the
children, still asleep, go out to them. Suppose it is  a pack of lies -- but
I've seen a thing  or  two myself. I still remember the day the duke took us
to see the closest entrance to the Fortress. We saw this beautiful, peaceful
green meadow. And  a knoll. In the knoll  was a  cave. We looked and saw the
entire meadow in front  of the cave's entrance  strewn  with  dead vampires.
About two dozen of them, at least, and they weren't crippled or wounded. Not
a drop of blood  on  the  grass. But most surprising  was  Maxim's diagnosis
after  he had examined them. Not dead,  he said, but in a trance, as if they
had been  hypnotized. The question is how did it  happen.  It's certainly an
uncanny place. You can go  there only in the daytime, and even then you have
to be careful. If it weren't for  Maxim, I'd have taken off like a streak of
lightning. But  where  could I have gone? It's all forest, and the forest is
full of evil spirits. No tank -- our tank sank in a swamp. Could I  have run
back to my own country? That would have seemed the natural thing to do -- to
run back to my own people.  But are  they mine now? They,  too, are  freaks,
puppets. Maxim is right.  What kind of people are  they, that  they  can  be
controlled by machines? No, I've no use for them."

     Maxim and Guy entered the square, a  wasteland; in its center stood the
fused  metal remains of a monument. They  turned  toward the  one  surviving
cottage where the  city's  representatives gathered  to exchange  rumors and
advice on sowing or hunting, or simply to sit, doze, or listen to the duke's
stories of bygone days.
     The people had already assembled  in a large, clean room. How repulsive
it was to look at them. Even at  the duke. Although apparently not a mutant,
he too  was  disfigured.  Bums and scars covered  his  face.  They  entered,
exchanged greetings, and sat down in  a circle on the floor. Boshku, who was
sitting  beside the  stove, removed a teapot from the coals, and served each
of them a cup of  good strong tea.  Without sugar. Guy accepted his cup -- a
cup of unusual beauty, priceless, made of royal porcelain. He set it down in
front of him, leaned the butt of his  gun  on  the floor between  his knees,
pressed his forehead against its ribbed barrel, and closed his eyes to avoid
seeing them.
     The  duke opened the meeting. He had  been the Fortress' chief surgeon.
When the atom bombs began falling on the Fortress, the garrison revolted and
hung out a white  flag. For hanging out the white  flag of surrender,  their
own  forces dropped a thermonuclear bomb on them immediately.  The real duke
commanding  the Fortress was  torn to pieces by the  soldiers. In their fury
they  killed  all  their  officers. They suddenly  realized  that  they were
leaderless and  that without  a  leader  they were lost: the war  was  still
raging, both the enemy and their own  side were attacking them, and  none of
the soldiers knew the layout of the  entire Fortress.  They were caught in a
gigantic mousetrap. Then  came bacteriological  warfare --  germ  bombs.  An
entire arsenal was dropped on them, and plagues broke out. Half the garrison
escaped, scattering in different  directions; three-fourths of the remaining
soldiers died, and the chief surgeon  assumed command of the survivors. They
acquired the habit of calling  him duke initially as a joke, but  the  title
stuck.
     "Friends!" said the duke. "We are here to discuss the proposals made by
our friend Mac. They are  very important  proposals. How important they are,
you can judge by  the fact that the Wizard has honored  us with his presence
and may even speak to us."
     Guy  raised  his head. It was true: in the comer, leaning  against  the
wall, sat the Wizard himself.
     Although he was awesome to look at, Guy  felt compelled to do so.  Even
Maxim  was awed  and  had said to Guy:  "The  Wizard  is  really an  unusual
person."
     The Wizard was small, stocky, and  neat; his hands and feet were  short
but  strong,  and  he  was  not  too  disfigured.  In  any  case,  the  word
"disfigured" did not properly describe him. He had an enormous skull covered
with  thick  coarse  hair, like  silvery fur; a  small mouth with  strangely
shaped lips  that made him look as if he were about to whistle  through  his
teeth; and a lean face with bags  under his  eyes. And  the  eyes themselves
were long and  narrow, with vertical pupils, like a snake's. He rarely spoke
or appeared in public  -- he lived alone in a basement at the far end of the
city --  but he  enjoyed  tremendous prestige. First of  all,  he  was  very
intelligent and wise, although he was no more than twenty years old  and had
never set foot  outside the city. Whenever  problems  arose, his advice  was
sought. As a rule he did not reply to a question; his silence meant that the
issue was trivial and would resolve itself satisfactorily. But if  it were a
vital  question -- about weather, what and when to sow -- he always answered
and never made a mistake. Only the city's elders visited him, and they never
discussed  their visits, but people  were  convinced  that the  Wizard never
opened his mouth, even when offering advice. All he did was look at them and
they  knew  what had  to  be done. Second, he  possessed unusual power  over
animals. He  never demanded food or clothing from the public: animals of all
kinds, including insects  and frogs, supplied  his needs. His chief servants
were enormous bats with whom he could communicate. It was said, too, that he
knew  the unknown.unknown. It was beyond  all  comprehension and Guy thought
that it was no more than a set of words: a black, empty World preceding  the
appearance of the  World Light;  a dead, icy World when the  World Light was
extinguished; an  endless Wasteland  with  many  World Lights. No one  could
explain what this meant, and Mac would only shake  his head  and mutter with
admiration: "There's a mind for you!"
     The Wizard sat in his corner, staring off  into space. On his  shoulder
was  perched  a  nightbird.  From  time  to  time, the  Wizard  drew bits of
something  from his pocket and put them  into its beak; then it would  stand
stock-still  for  a second,  crane  its neck, and  swallow the  morsel  with
apparent difficulty.
     "These are very important proposals," continued the duke. "So I beg you
to pay attention. And you, Boshku, my good man, brew the tea a bit stronger,
because I see someone dozing off. Don't  fall asleep.  Please! Pull yourself
together, friends; perhaps your fate will be decided here today."
     The gathering mumbled approvingly. A white-maned man, about to doze off
against a wall, was dragged away and planted in front of the speaker.
     "I wasn't  asleep," he muttered. "Just a  couple  of winks, that's all.
But keep  your speech  short, or by the time you get to the end, I'll forget
the beginning."
     "All right,"  agreed  the duke, "I will. The soldiers are  pressing  us
southward,  into the desert. They will  give  us  no  quarter  and will  not
negotiate. Of those families that tried to make their way to the North, none
has  returned. We assume they have perished. In ten or  fifteen years,  they
will have driven us into the  desert  altogether, and  there we shall perish
from  the  lack of food  or  water. They say  that  the desert  regions  are
inhabited by  humans.  I don't believe that, but many respected leaders  do.
They say that  the desert  dwellers  are  as  cruel  and bloodthirsty as the
soldiers.  We, a peace-loving  people, do not know how to  fight. Many of us
are dying  and will  not  live to see  the end  of our  people.  But  we are
governing our  people;  therefore,  it  is  our  duty to  think  not only of
ourselves, but  of our children... Boshku," he said, "please  give  our dear
Mr. Baker a cup of tea. I think he's dozed off."
     Baker was  awakened, and a  cup of hot  tea was placed  in  his mottled
hand. The duke continued.
     "Our friend  Mac has proposed  a way out. He  has come to  us  from the
soldiers. He hates the soldiers and says we can  expect no mercy from  them.
They have been  duped  by  their tyrants  and are  bent on destroying us. At
first Mac wanted to arm us and lead us into  battle, but now he is convinced
that we are too weak and cannot fight. Then he decided it  would be  wise to
contact the desert dwellers. He, too, believes in their existence and  wants
to negotiate with them and lead them  against the soldiers. What is required
of us? He wants us  to approve this undertaking, to permit the desert people
passage  through  our land, and  to supply them  with  food  while  they are
engaged  in warfare. Our  friend Mac  has also  proposed  that  we give  him
permission  to assemble all our intelligence agents  who are willing to join
him.  He will train  them to fight and  will lead them across the Blue Snake
River to stir up an insurrection there. That, in brief, is the situation. We
must come to a decision today, and I beg you to express your opinions."
     Guy cast a  sidelong glance at Maxim, huge and immobile as  a rock. No,
not  a  rock,  but  a  gigantic  storage  battery,  ready to  discharge  its
tremendous  reserve of  energy. Mac was  looking  at  the Wizard in the  far
corner of the room but  sensed  Guy's glance and turned to him. Guy realized
how his friend had changed. Mac had not flashed his famous dazzling smile or
sung his mountain songs for a long time; his eyes lacked their former warmth
and had grown hard and glazed like Captain Chachu's.  No longer did Mac dash
about like a lively puppy prying into every corner. He showed restraint now.
A  certain severity  and  purposefulness  had come over  him, as if he  were
aiming at a target visible to him alone. Yes, since  the day that heavy army
pistol  had discharged its  bullets into him, Mac had  changed  drastically.
Well, maybe it had to be.
     But  what he was  planning now was frightening: there was bound to be a
slaughter, a terrible slaughter.
     "There's something I don't understand," declared  a balding freak  who,
judging from his attire, was a stranger. "What the devil does this man want?
Those  barbarians to come here, to us?  They'll  kill us all off.  Don't you
think I know what those barbarians are like? They'll kill us all off."
     "They will come here in peace or not at all," replied Mac.
     "It would be  better  if they  didn't come  at all,"  said the  balding
stranger. "It's better not to have  any dealings with those barbarians.  I'd
rather face the soldiers with their machine guns."
     "What he says  is true, of course," said Boshku thoughtfully. "But,  on
the other hand, the  barbarians could drive away the soldiers and not bother
us. Then everything would turn out all right."
     "What makes you  think they won't bother us?" said the white-maned man.
"Everybody  else  has been bothering us from time  immemorial. Why  are they
going to be an exception?"
     "But he'll make a  deal with them," explained Boshku.  " 'Hands off our
forest folk,' he'll say, 'otherwise, don't come.' "
     "Who? Who'll negotiate?" asked Baker, turning his head.
     "Mac, of course. Mac will negotiate."
     "Oh, Mac. Well, if Mac negotiates, maybe they won't touch us."
     The white-maned man rose suddenly.
     "I'm leaving," he announced.  "No good will come of this.  They'll kill
Mac and us,  too. Why should  they spare us? We'll  all be finished in about
ten years anyway. No children  have been born  in my commune for  two years.
Let  me live out  my years in peace. Decide for  yourselves  as you  wish. I
don't care."
     He exited clumsily, stumbling out the doorway.
     "Mac," said  Leech, "you must excuse us, but we can't trust anyone. How
can  we trust  the barbarians? They live in the desert, eat  and drink sand.
They are terrifying people, made of iron wire. They don't know  how to laugh
or cry. What are we to them? Nothing  more  than moss beneath their feet. So
they'll come, kill the  soldiers,  squat here, and burn  our forest. What do
they need our forest for? They love the desert. Again, it will mean the  end
for us.  No, I don't  trust them. Mac, I don't  trust  them. Your scheme  is
hopeless."
     "No, Mac," said Baker, "we don't need this. Let us  die in peace; don't
bother us. You hate the soldiers, you want to destroy them, but  that's none
of  our business. We don't  hate  anyone.  Have pity on us, Mac. No one else
ever has. Although you are a decent man, you feel no pity for us. You don't,
do yon, Mac?"
     Guy glanced at Mac again and turned away his eyes, embarrassed.
     Maxim turned red. "That's not true," he said. "I do feel pity for  you.
But not only for you. I..."
     "No-o, Mac,"  insisted Baker. "Pity us, and  us  alone. We are the most
unhappy  people in  the world, and you  know that. Forget about your hatred.
Pity us, and that's all."
     "Why should he pity  us?" came  the voice  of  Ore,  who was swathed in
bandages  right up to his  eyes. "He's a soldier himself.  When did soldiers
ever pity us? The soldier has yet to be born who will pity us."
     "I'll tell  you  how it will turn out," said the  bald-headed  stranger
soberly. "Let's say the barbarians are stronger  than the  soldiers. They'll
kill the  soldiers, destroy  their towers, and seize  the entire  North. All
right. We would feel no pity for the soldiers. Let them all  be slaughtered.
But what do we gain? It will still  be the end for us: we'll have barbarians
in the South, barbarians in the North, barbarians on  top of us.  They won't
need us, and  so they'll destroy us.  That's one possibility. Now, let's say
the  soldiers repulse  the barbarians.  They repulse the barbarians, and the
war rolls through our  land and into the South.  What then? Again,  we'll be
done  for: soldiers in the North, soldiers in the South, and soldiers on top
of us. And we know those soldiers."
     The  people  buzzed  approvingly.  The  stranger  had  expressed  their
sentiments well. But he hadn't finished yet.
     "Let  me  finish!"  He  was  angry. "Settle  down.  You  haven't  heard
everything  yet.  It's also  possible that the soldiers  will kill  off  the
barbarians, and the barbarians, the soldiers. Then,  it seems,  we'd be able
to live. But no, it still won't  work. Because there are still the vampires.
While  the  soldiers are alive, the  vampires  hide; they  fear bullets. The
soldiers have orders  to shoot the vampires on sight. But  once the soldiers
are gone, we'll really be done for. The vampires will devour us and not even
leave our bones."
     "He's right, he's right!" voices rang out. "Yes,  brothers,  we  forgot
about the vampires. They're not  asleep; they're biding their time. We don't
need anything, Mac. Let  things be as they  are. We've managed to live these
past  twenty years for  better or for worse, and we'll  last another twenty.
Then we'll see."
     "We must  not give him  our intelligence agents!" The  stranger's voice
rose. "It doesn't matter  what they themselves want.  What do  they care  --
they don't live at home anyway. Those six-fingered guys spend all their days
and nights on the other side. They steal and live it up. They get along fine
there;  they aren't afraid of  the towers. No headaches for them,  no pains.
And what  about us here? The wild game is  moving northward. Only our agents
can drive it back to us. No,  don't  give  him our  agents! We  must  regain
control over them. They've gotten out of hand. They  murder, kidnap soldiers
and torture them.  They don't  behave like human  beings. No, don't let them
go, or they'll be completely corrupted!"
     "Don't let them go! No! No!" the people shouted in support.
     The stranger finally quieted down,  took his  seat, and gulped down his
tea,  which had  grown  cold.  The  meeting settled down.  The old  men  sat
immobile, trying not to look at Maxim.
     Boshku nodded sadly. "You must understand, Mac, how miserable our lives
are. There is no salvation. What have we done to anyone to deserve this?"
     "We never should have been born," said  Ore. "And  we, too,  are having
children. Only to perish. Yes, to perish."
     "Balance." A loud, hoarse voice suddenly interrupted  the debate. "I've
told you that already, Mac. You didn't want to understand me."
     The source of the voice was puzzling. The room  grew still; the  people
bowed  their heads solemnly. Only the bird on the Wizard's  shoulder shifted
about,  opening  and  closing  its  yellow  beak.  The  Wizard  himself  sat
motionless, his eyes closed, his thin lips tightly compressed.
     "But I hope  you understand now," continued  the voice. It seemed as if
the bird itself were speaking. "You want to destroy this balance. Well, that
certainly  is possible;  it is within  your power. But the question is,  why
should you? Who is asking yon to? No one. What, then, is driving you?"
     The bird bristled  and tucked its  head beneath  a wing, but  the voice
continued.  Guy  understood  now  that it was the  Wizard himself  speaking,
without moving a muscle on his face or parting his lips.
     It  was very frightening, not only  to Guy but even to the duke.  Maxim
alone looked at the Wizard, sullenly, almost defiantly.
     "Yes,"  continued  the  Wizard,  "I  know  what  is  driving  you.  The
impatience  of  a troubled conscience! Your conscience  has been  spoiled by
constant attention; it  groans at the slightest discomfort, and  your reason
bows  before it respectfully  instead of scolding it  and putting it in  its
proper place. Your conscience  is disturbed by the existing order of things,
and your reason obediently and hastily seeks a way to change that order. But
order has  its  own laws, laws  that develop  from the aspirations  of human
beings and that can  change only  with a change in these aspirations. On the
one  hand, we have the  aspirations  of  human  beings;  on  the other  your
conscience, embodying your aspirations. Your conscience drives you to change
the  order of  things,  that  is, to destroy the laws of  this  order,  laws
determined by the aspirations  of  the masses;  drives  you  to  change  the
aspirations  of those millions of human  beings to conform to your own. It's
absurd -- it  lacks an  understanding  of  history. Your reason, clouded and
stunned  by your  conscience,  has lost the  ability to distinguish what  is
truly  good for the people  from what  you imagine to be good, the  imagined
good dictated  by your  conscience. You  must keep your reason pure. If  you
don't want to or can't, then it will be the worse for  you. And not only for
you. You will tell us that in  the  world you come from people  cannot  live
with a bad conscience. So stop  living. That's not a bad alternative, either
-- for you as well as others."
     The  Wizard fell silent and  all eyes focused on Maxim.  Guy  could not
fully comprehend what  was going  on. Evidently  it was  the  echo of an old
argument. It was also clear that the Wizard considered Maxim  an intelligent
but  capricious individual who acted  more out of  whim than necessity. That
offended Guy.  Of course Maxim was  somewhat eccentric, but he never  spared
himself  and  wanted  only  good for  everyone. And  this stemmed from  deep
conviction, not from shallow whim. Naturally, forty million people duped  by
radiation  were  utterly  opposed to change. But,  after  all, they had been
duped. The Wizard's judgment was unfair.
     "I can't agree with you," said Maxim coldly. "Conscience, driven by its
own pain, sets  the task;  reason  carries  it  out. Conscience sets ideals;
reason  searches for  the path to fulfillment. That, precisely,  is reason's
function:  to  find  that  path.  Without conscience, reason  works only for
itself; that is, it  runs idle. In respect  to the contradiction between  my
aspirations and those of the masses, let me say this -- there exists a clear
ideal: man must be free spiritually and physically. The people in this world
still are unaware of this ideal, and the  path to it is a difficult one. But
a beginning must be made sometime. And I intend to begin right now."
     "True," agreed  the Wizard. "Conscience does set ideals. But ideals are
called ideals because  of their striking disparity  with reality. All I want
to say is this, and I  repeat: don't baby your conscience,  but  expose it a
little more frequently to reality's  dusty winds, and don't  worry if  a few
spots or rough  scabs appear on  it. But you  yourself understand  that. You
simply  have  not yet learned to call things  by their right names.  But you
will.  For example, your conscience proclaimed the  task of overthrowing the
tyranny of  the Creators.  Your reason  weighed  the  situation and  offered
advice: 'Since it is impossible to  destroy  this tyranny from within, we'll
strike from without; we'll  throw the  barbarians at it. What  if the forest
folk are crushed  and  the Blue Snake River is clogged with corpses; what if
it triggers a major war --  it's  all for the sake of a  noble ideal.' 'Well
then,'  said your conscience, I must become a little less civilized for  the
sake of a great cause.' "
     "Massaraksh!" sputtered  Maxim,  angrier  than Guy had ever  seen  him.
"Yes, massaraksh!  Everything is  as you  say! But what is to be  done?  The
people beyond the Blue Snake have been turned into puppets."
     "True, true," said the Wizard. "Another thing, your plan is a poor one:
the desert barbarians will smash themselves against the towers and be rolled
back.  Our  intelligence  agents are not  really  fit for any serious  task.
Within the framework of your plan you could ally yourself, for example, with
the Island Empire.  But  that's not  the point. I'm afraid you're  too late,
Mac. But  don't  think I'm trying to  dissuade you. It's quite obvious to me
that you are a real force. And  your appearance among us signifies in itself
the  inevitable  disturbance  of  the  balance on the surface of our  little
world.  Don't stop. But don't let your conscience prevent  you from thinking
clearly, and  don't  let  your  reason  be  shy  about  pushing  aside  your
conscience when necessary. I advise you to remember  this:  I don't know how
it is in your world,  but  in ours no  force remains  long without a master.
There is always someone who tries to tame  it -- either covertly  or on some
noble-sounding pretext. That's all I want to say."
     With  surprising agility, the Wizard rose,  slid  along the wall on his
short legs,  and vanished behind  the door. Immediately, the entire  meeting
followed  him out.  Although they had  only  a  vague understanding  of  the
exchange  between the  Wizard and  Maxim, they were obviously satisfied that
their situation  remained unchanged, that the  Wizard had not permitted this
dangerous undertaking to  be implemented. The Wizard, they felt, pitied them
and had seen to it that no harm would come  to them. Perhaps now they  could
live as before; ahead  of them stretched a whole eternity -- some ten years,
maybe even more. Boshku, with  his empty teapot, was the last to leave,  and
only Guy,  Mac, the duke, and Baker  were left in the  room. Baker was  fast
asleep in a corner, exhausted  from the mental strain. Guy felt troubled and
depressed. "How unlucky I've been all my life. During the first half I was a
puppet, a fool. And now I must live out the second half as a vagabond, a man
without a country. Without friends. Without a past."
     "I suppose  you're disappointed,  eh,  Mac?"  The duke  wore  a  guilty
expression.
     "No, not very,"  replied Maxim. "On the contrary, I feel  relieved. The
Wizard is right; my conscience isn't ready to undertake such  tasks. I  must
travel  about  more,  see more,  train  my  conscience. Duke, what would you
suggest?"
     The aged duke rose, rubbing his numbed side. He paced the room.
     "First of all,  I would advise  you against going into  the desert," he
said. "Whether it is or isn't inhabited by barbarians, you will find nothing
worth  your  while.  As  the  Wizard suggested, there  might  be  a point to
establishing contact with the Island Empire, although I really wouldn't know
how to go about  it. I suppose you'll have to  go to the sea  and start from
there -- that is, if the Island Empire  is not  a myth and if  they want  to
talk to you. I think the  wisest  move  would be to return  to the North and
work on your own. Remember what the Wizard said: you, Mac, are a force. And,
as you say, the tower network must have a Center. And  power  over the North
rests in the hands of whoever controls  that Center. You should gain control
of it."
     "I'm afraid that's  not for me," said Maxim slowly. "I can't  give  you
the reason why now, but I feel that it's not for me. I don't want to control
the Center. You are right  about one thing:  there is  nothing for me to  do
either here  or in the  desert.  The desert is too far. And here, there's no
one to  rely  on. But there's  a lot more I  must  find out:  there's  still
Pandeya, Khonti, the mountains, and the  Island Empire  -- somewhere... Have
you heard about the white submarines? You haven't? But I have, and Guy, too.
And we know a man who has seen them and fought them. So there you  are:  the
Island Empire can fight. Well, fine." Maxim jumped up. "There's no reason to
linger. Let's go, Guy."
     They  went out to  the  square and  stopped beside the monument's fused
remains. Guy looked around sadly. Yellow ruins bobbed and swayed  in the hot
haze. Although  it was  stifling  and stinking, he no longer cared  to leave
this terrible but now familiar place; to drag himself through the forest and
abandon  himself to arcane hazards lying in wait for a man at every step. At
this  very moment he  would like to return to his  little room and play with
poor little  Tangle. He would make the whistle he had  promised  her, from a
cartridge case.
     "Where do you plan to go?"  asked the duke, shielding his face from the
dust with his crushed, faded hat.
     "West," replied Maxim. "To the sea. Is it very far from here?"
     "Two hundred miles, and you have to pass through some very contaminated
areas. Wait, I have an idea." He  paused for a  long  time, and Guy began to
shift uneasily from one foot to the other. Maxim waited patiently. "Oh, what
good  is  it to  me!"  said the duke finally.  "To tell the truth, I've been
saving it for  myself  all  this  time. I  thought  that  if  the  situation
deteriorated too rapidly  here and my  nerves gave out. I'd  fly home,  even
though I could be shot down once I reached there.  But now -- well, it's too
late."
     "A plane?" asked Maxim, looking at the duke hopefully.
     "Yes, Mountain Eagle.Mountain Eagle.  Does  its name  mean anything  to
you? No, of course not. And you,  young man? It means nothing to you either.
At one time it was a very famous bomber. The personal bomber of His Imperial
Majesty Prince Kirnu.  So  I kept it.  At first  I wanted  to  evacuate  the
wounded on it, but there were too many of them. When all the wounded died --
I won't go into that. Take it, my friend. Fly away. It has enough fuel to go
halfway around the world."
     "Thank you, duke," said Maxim.  "I'm  very grateful to you.  I'll never
forget you."
     "Don't  worry about me," said the old man.  "It's not for my sake  that
I'm giving it to  you. If you should  succeed  in what you are trying to do,
don't forget about these poor people."
     "I'm  sure  I'll  succeed.  I  must,  massaraksh!   Conscience  or   no
conscience! And I shall never forget any of you."

16.

     This was Guy's first airplane flight. In fact, it was the first time in
his life he had seen an airplane. He  had seen  police helicopters  and  the
military  command's  flying   platforms   many  times.  Once   he  had  even
participated  in  an  assault operation from the  air: his  platoon had been
loaded into a helicopter and landed by  a road where a crowd  of rehabs, who
had revolted because of the flood, were trudging toward a bridge. He had the
most  unpleasant memories of that  aerial assault: the helicopter had  flown
very  low, and he had been  bounced around  so  violently  that his  insides
churned. And  he recalled  the rotor's stupefying roar, the  gasoline fumes,
and the fountains of machine oil spraying everywhere.
     How different this was!
     Guy  was electrified by  His Majesty's own bomber.  It was a machine of
such monstrous proportions that  he could not imagine how  it  could get off
the ground.  Its narrow ribbed body, decorated with golden  emblems, was  as
long as  a city block. Beneath its  gigantic wings, spreading menacingly and
majestically  through space, an  entire brigade could take cover. The blades
of six enormous  propellers, reaching  as high as a rooftop, almost  touched
the ground. The bomber rested on three wheels, each several times the height
of a  man. Two wheels supported the front, and a third, the shelf-like tail.
A  light  aluminum  staircase,  like  a silver  thread, led  to the dizzying
heights of  a  cockpit enclosed in shining glass. This was a real symbol  of
the old Empire, a symbol of a great past, a symbol of bygone power extending
over an entire continent. Craning his neck, Guy trembled with awe, and Mac's
words struck him like a thunderbolt: "What a crate! Sorry,  duke, I couldn't
help it."
     "That's all we have,"  replied the duke  coolly. "It happens to be  the
best bomber in the world. In its day. His Imperial Majesty flew -- "
     "Yes, yes, of course," Mac agreed hastily. "I was just so surprised."
     Guy, seated in the cockpit, was ecstatic. It was completely enclosed in
glass. Here were  scores of strange instruments, amazingly comfortable  soft
chairs,  puzzling  levers  and devices,  little  bundles  of colored  wires,
strange-looking helmets lying in readiness. The duke explained something  to
Mac  hurriedly,  pointing  to  instruments  and  shaking  levers.  Mac  kept
muttering absentmindedly, "Yes, yes, that's clear."
     The bomber  stood in an old hangar at the edge of the forest. Before it
stretched  a long, level,  grayish-green  field  without a single hillock or
bush.  The  forest began again about five miles beyond the field. The  white
sky seemed  almost close enough to touch from the cockpit. In his excitement
Guy  scarcely  remembered taking leave of the  aged duke. The  duke had said
something, Mac had  made a remark, they laughed, and the little door slammed
shut. Guy suddenly discovered that he  was  fastened to his seat  with broad
straps, and Maxim, in the pilot's  seat  beside him, was manipulating levers
and pedals quickly and confidently.
     The  dials on  the  instrument panel  flashed  on and off.  Then came a
crackle and  the thunderous boom of the  exhaust; the cockpit  quivered  and
everything  was swallowed up  in the racket. Far below stood the tiny  duke,
clutching his  hat with both  hands and backing away. Guy turned  around and
saw the blades of the gigantic propellers vanish, fusing  into enormous hazy
circles. The broad  field  began to  crawl toward  them,  faster and faster.
Everything  had  disappeared: the  duke, the hangar  -- there was  only  the
field,  rushing  headlong   toward  them,  and  the  merciless  jolting  and
thunderous roar. Turning  his  head with difficulty, Guy discovered  to  his
horror  that the  gigantic wings were swaying, as though  they were about to
drop off. Abruptly the jolting ceased,  the  field beneath the wings slipped
away,  and a pleasant  sensation,  as if he  were  floating in  soft cotton,
enveloped his entire being. The field below the bomber had vanished, and the
forest, too. The forest had been transformed into a dark green brush, into a
vast ragged blanket, and the mottled blanket slid  away slowly. Guy realized
that he was flying.
     Enraptured, he  looked at Maxim. Mac was  completely  relaxed, his left
arm  on an elbow  rest,  his right  hand  barely  moving  the  largest  and,
probably, main lever. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips were pursed as if
he were whistling.  This,  thought  Guy,  was  truly a  great man. Great and
unfathomable.  "He  can probably do  anything. He's piloting  a  complicated
machine that  he  never laid eyes on until today. This  is no tank or truck,
but  an airplane, a legendary vehicle.  I didn't even know  that any of them
had  been  preserved. And that guy  handles  it like a toy, as if he's  been
flying all his  life. It's simply  beyond human understanding. But I suppose
there are lots of things he sees for the first time, yet can figure out very
quickly.  And it's not  just  machines  that know he's  the boss.  If he had
wanted to, he could have had Captain Chachu eating out of his hand. Even the
Wizard  considered him  his equal. And the  duke,  a learned  man,  a  chief
surgeon, an aristocrat,  you might say, sensed  something special  about Mac
right away. Look at  the  machine he  entrusted to  him. And to think that I
wanted to marry him off to Rada! What is Rada to him? What could she mean to
him? A man like that should have a countess, a princess. And he befriends an
ordinary guy like me.  If he told  me  this instant to jump. I'd do  it. How
much I've  seen and learned because of him! I could never have  done it in a
lifetime. And how much more I'll see and learn because of him."
     Sensing Guy's  gaze,  his delight and  devotion, Maxim turned  his head
and, for the  first time  in months, broke into one of his broad smiles. Guy
could scarcely  contain  an impulse  to seize  his powerful tanned  hand and
express his deep  gratitude. "Oh,  my dear master, my protector, my pride --
only give the command! I  stand before you, I am here, I am ready. Throw  me
into  the  fire,  unite me  with the  flames,  send me against  thousands of
enemies, to face their gaping muzzles and millions of bullets. Oh, where are
they,  those  enemies  of  yours?  Where  are  those  blind,  unquestioning,
repulsive  people in loathsome  uniforms? Where is that vicious officer  who
dared raise  a hand to you? Oh,  you scoundrel, I'll tear  you apart with my
bare hands. I'll... no, not now. What's that? My master is ordering me to do
something; he wants something.
     "Mac, Mac? Yes, I certainly  am  stupid. I don't understand what you're
saying. I can't hear you through the roar of this machine. Oh, what an idiot
I am -- of course, there's the helmet with the earphones. Ah, now I can hear
you! Give your orders, I am yours to command.  I want to die for you.  Order
what you will. The tower?  What tower? Yes,  I see a  tower. Those bastards,
cannibals,  child  murderers. They've  planted their towers everywhere.  But
we'll sweep away  those towers; we'll  smash  them  with an iron boot; we'll
sweep them away with fire in our  eyes. Take your machine to that tower  and
give me a  bomb.  I'll jump with  it and  won't miss.  You'll see! Give me a
bomb! A bomb!"

     Guy inhaled deeply and tore at his collar. His ears rang, and the world
floated  and swayed  before his eyes. The world was  shrouded,  but the haze
dissolved  rapidly.  His throat felt dry and  his muscles ached.  He noticed
Maxim's  face -- dark, frowning,  even harsh. For an instant,  the memory of
something sweet and pleasant flared up, then vanished. He had  a sudden urge
to  stand  at attention and click  his  heels, but he  realized that it  was
inappropriate; it would irritate Maxim.
     "Mac, I feel as if  I did something wrong.  Did  I?" He  looked  around
guiltily.
     "I did, Guy, not you. I had completely forgotten about that stuff."
     "What stuff?"
     Maxim turned back in his seat, put  his  hand on the lever, and  looked
straight ahead. "The towers."
     "What towers?"
     "I turned too far north. We got caught in a radiation strike."
     Guy felt embarrassed. "Did I sing 'Men of Iron'?"
     "Worse. In the future, we'll be more careful."
     Feeling very  uneasy, Guy turned away, trying desperately  to  remember
what he  had  said and done. He  searched  for  clues  in  the world  below.
Nothing! No tower, airstrip, or  hangar. Only that same ragged blanket still
crawling below them. And a river, a tarnished metal snake, disappearing in a
hazy wisp of smoke in the distance, where the sea rose like a  wall into the
sky. "I wonder what sort of nonsense I babbled. Mac seemed so upset, it must
have been pretty awful. Massaraksh, I wonder if I began spouting that Legion
stuff again? Where is that damn tower? Good time to chuck a bomb at it."
     Suddenly the  bomber  lurched  violently.  Guy bit  his  tongue.  Maxim
grabbed  the  lever with  both hands. Something was wrong. Guy looked around
cautiously  and was  relieved to discover that the wing was in place and the
propellers were  spinning.  Then  he  looked up. Coal  black blobs, like ink
drops on water, floated through the white sky above his head.
     "What are they?" he asked.
     "I  don't  know," replied Maxim. "It's  strange.  An attack  by...  sky
rocks. Damn it, not again! The probability  is absolutely nil. Why do I seem
to attract them?"
     Guy was about to ask what sky rocks were, but through the corner of his
eye  he  caught  a strange  movement down  below, to  the  right, heavy  and
yellowish and  swelling  slowly above  the dirty-green blanket. At  first he
didn't  realize  that  it  was  smoke. Then, in the bowels  of the swelling,
something flashed, and a long black  body  slid from it. Instantaneously the
horizon shifted crazily,  looming in front of them like a wall. His gun slid
from his  knees and rolled  along  the floor.  "Massaraksh,"  hissed Maxim's
voice  through  Guy's  earphones. "Damn it! What an idiot I am!" The horizon
straightened out  again. Guy  looked in vain for the yellow  cloud of smoke.
Suddenly a  fountain  of colored spray  rose above the forest again, cutting
right into their path. Again a yellow  cloud welled up like a mountain; then
a flash, and again a long black body rose slowly into the sky and burst like
a dazzling white ball.
     Guy covered his eyes with his hand. The white ball darkened rapidly and
drifted away like a giant inkblot.  The floor beneath his feet caved in. Guy
opened his mouth wide, gasping for air.  The  cockpit darkened; jagged black
smoke rolled toward him. The horizon turned again; the forest appeared quite
close on their left. Guy frowned  and shivered, anticipating the fatal blow,
pain,  and  death.  As he  gasped  for air, everything around  him shook and
trembled.   "Massaraksh,"  hissed   Maxim's  voice  through  the  earphones.
Something rapped  briefly and violently  along the  wall beside  him, as  if
someone  were firing point-blank from a machine gun. An icy blast struck his
face  and his helmet was torn off. Guy cowered, shielding  his head from the
terrible  roar and  the  onrushing  wind. "This  is  the end,"  he  thought.
"They'll knock down our plane and we'll bum  up." But  nothing happened. The
bomber lurched several times, dropped, and zoomed up again.  The roar of the
engine  ceased abruptly and an  eerie silence followed,  broken only by  the
wind wailing through the breach.
     Guy waited a little,  then raised his head cautiously, trying to shield
his face from the  icy blast.  Maxim was  here. Beside him. He  sat tensely,
hoping the  lever with  both  hands,  alternately looking ahead and  at  the
instruments. The muscles of his tanned face tightened. The bomber was flying
strangely; its  nose stuck up at  a peculiar angle. The engines were silent.
Guy looked around at the wing and froze.
     It was burning.
     "Fire!" he yelled, trying to jump up. But the straps held him back.
     "Calm  down  and  stay  where you are!"  ordered  Maxim without turning
around.
     Getting  a grip on himself,  Guy looked straight ahead.  The bomber was
flying  quite low.  The  sea's  glittering steel-gray  surface rushed toward
them. "We'll be smashed  to hell."  Guy's heart sank. "Damned  duke and  his
damned bomber. And the Island Empire,  too. If we had left quietly on  foot,
we wouldn't have had such bad luck. Now we're going to bum, and  if we don't
bum, we'll  be  smashed to pieces. Sure, Maxim will make  it somehow, but it
will be the end for me. Damn it, I don't want to die!"
     "Stop jumping around!" said Maxim. "Hold tight. Now -- "
     The forest  ended abruptly. Guy closed his eyes as the sea's steel-gray
surface rushed toward them.
     A blow. A tremendous hissing. Another blow. And another. Everything was
flying to hell. This was it. The end! Guy howled in terror. A powerful force
seized him and tried to tear him out of his safety harness, but, frustrated,
threw  him  back. Everything  was  crashing  and  breaking  up  around  him.
Something  was burning, and then warm water touched his skin. The noise died
down. Only splashing and murmuring broke the silence. Something  was hissing
and crackling, and  the  floor  began to bob slowly. Maybe he could open his
eyes now and see what the next world looked like?
     Guy  opened  his eyes and  saw Maxim hanging over  him, unfastening his
safety belt.
     "Can you swim?"
     They were alive, after all.
     "Yes," he replied.
     "OK, let's go!"
     Guy rose  cautiously,  expecting to feel the pain  of a bruised, broken
body, but he had escaped injury.  The bomber rocked quietly on a small wave.
Its left  wing was gone,  and the right was  still  dangling from a  riddled
metal strip. Its nose faced the shore  squarely, as  if  it had swung around
sharply on landing.
     Maxim slung his gun across his back and opened  the cockpit door. Water
rushed in,  and there was a powerful  smell of gasoline. The plane  began to
list.
     "Jump!" ordered Maxim, and Guy,  squeezing past him,  leaped obediently
into the waves.
     He floated to the surface, lifted his head out of the water, and headed
for shore. It  was close  and appeared safe enough. Maxim swam  beside  him,
cutting through the water soundlessly;  he swam like  a fish, as  if  he had
been born in  the water. Puffing hard, Guy moved his arms and legs  with all
his strength; it was very difficult to swim in clothing and boots. When  his
foot finally touched  sandy bottom, he was overjoyed. Although it was  still
some distance to shore, he rose and  plowed his way through the filthy, oily
water. Maxim continued to  swim,  overtook him, and stepped onto the sloping
shore before him. When Guy reached him,  Maxim was standing  with  his  feet
apart and his face turned skyward. Guy looked up, too. Scores of black blobs
were drifting through the sky.
     "We were very lucky," said Maxim. "About ten of them were launched."
     "Ten what?"
     "Rockets. I had completely forgotten about them."
     Guy, too,  was annoyed at himself for not  having thought of it sooner.
Two hours ago  he could have warned Mac about the rockets when the  duke had
offered them his bomber, and they could have refused it. He looked  back  at
the sea. The Mountain EagleMountain Eagle had almost disappeared from sight;
only its shattered tail stuck up over the surface.
     "Well," said Guy, "I suppose we can't make it to the Island Empire now.
What are we going to do?"
     "First of all," replied Maxim, "let's take our pills. Get them out."
     "Why?" asked Guy. He hated the duke's pills.
     "Filthy  water. Very  radioactive.  Every  inch  of my skin is burning.
We'll take four apiece immediately -- make it five."
     Guy  hurriedly took out a vial and spilled out ten yellow  pills, which
they took at once.
     "OK, let's go. Take your gun," ordered Maxim.
     Guy  took his  gun,  spat  out  the  bitter taste  in  his  mouth,  and
floundered  through the  sand after Maxim. It was  hot.  His  clothes  dried
quickly, but his  boots  were still  soggy. Maxim  walked rapidly  and  with
assurance,  as if he knew exactly where  he  must go,  although nothing  was
visible  except the sea on  their  left and a vast expanse of beach ahead of
them and to their  right. High sand dunes rose a mile  from the sea, and the
disheveled crowns  of forest trees cropped up behind  the dunes from time to
time.
     They  walked about two  miles. Guy kept wondering where  they  were and
where  they were going. He checked an impulse to ask Mac, deciding to figure
it out for himself. But after sifting through all the facts, he could deduce
only that the mouth of the Blue  Snake River lay somewhere ahead of them and
that they were moving north.  Where and why they were going was a mystery to
him. Finally, he caught up  with  Mac and asked him  bluntly what his  plans
were.
     Maxim explained that they would have to play it by ear. They could only
hope that a white submarine would  approach the  shore and that  they  could
reach it  before  the legionnaires did.  Since the prospect of  waiting amid
these hot, dry sands for such an event was not particularly attractive, they
would try to reach Resortia, which must be nearby. The city itself had  been
destroyed a long time ago, but its  springs should still  be active and they
would find some sort of shelter. They would spend  the night in the city and
then decide on their  next move.  Perhaps they would have to  spend weeks on
the coast.
     Guy  remarked cautiously that the plan seemed  rather  strange to  him.
Maxim immediately agreed and hopefully asked Guy if he had any better ideas.
Unfortunately, said  Guy, he didn't, but they must keep in mind the Legion's
tank patrols, which  penetrated deep into  the South along  the coast. Maxim
frowned; that was bad news. They must keep a sharp lockout and not be caught
off  guard. He grilled Guy about the  patrols' tactics.  He was relieved  to
learn that the tanks were more  interested in patrolling the sea itself than
the shore areas, and  that  it was easy to  hide from them among the  dunes.
Maxim relaxed and began to whistle.
     Guy  kept  wondering  what they  should  do if  they were spotted by  a
patrol. Hitting upon a plan, he outlined it to Maxim.
     "If we're found,"  he explained,  "we'll say that  I  was  kidnapped by
degens.  You pursued them and fought them off. Then we wandered  through the
forest for days until we finally came out here."
     "And where will that get us?" Maxim was not enthusiastic.
     "Well,"  said Guy  angrily,  "at  least  they won't  bump us off on the
spot."
     "They  damned well  won't. I'm not letting  anyone bump me off.  Or you
either."
     "What if there's a tank?"
     "What about it?" Maxim  paused briefly. "You know, it wouldn't be a bad
idea to capture a tank. Guy, that's a great idea. That's exactly  what we'll
do.  Listen carefully: as soon as they appear, you fire  into  the air. I'll
put my hands  behind  my back, and you'll take  me to them as your prisoner.
I'll take  care  of  the rest. But stay out of the way  and, most important,
don't fire any more shots!"
     Unable   to   contain   his   enthusiasm,   Guy   suggested   immediate
implementation of their plan. They would walk along the dunes, so they could
be spotted from a distance.
     Up they climbed, onto the dunes.
     As soon as they reached the top, they saw a white submarine.

     Behind  the  dunes a  small  shallow bay opened up, and a submarine lay
exposed above the water, a hundred yards from shore. It scarcely resembled a
white  submarine. At first  Guy thought  it  was either  the corpse  of some
gigantic twin-humped animal or a rare  rock formation that had  mysteriously
burst through the sands. Maxim realized at once what it was.
     When they reached  the bay and walked down to the water, Guy  saw  that
its  long  hull  and both superstructures were  covered with rust; its white
paint  was chipped; its gun mounts  were awry; and its cannon  pointed down,
toward  the water.  Black  holes with  sooty edges  yawned  in the planking.
Nothing could have survived.
     "What do you thiqk, Guy? Is it really a white submarine? Have  you seen
them before?"
     "I think  it  is.  I never served on a coast patrol, but  we were shown
photographs and mentograms,  and  we heard descriptions of them.  There  was
even a mentogram called 'Tanks in Our Coastal Defense System.' Yes, that's a
white sub, all right. A storm must have driven it  into the bay, grounded it
on a shoal, and a patrol spotted it. Do you  see how riddled it is? It looks
more like a sieve than a sub."
     "Shall we have a look?" muttered Maxim, peering at it.
     "Well, uh... I suppose we could."
     "What's the matter? Something wrong?"
     "Well,  Mac, I'm not sure I  can  explain  it  to  you." How could  he?
Corporal Serembesh, a  veteran campaigner, had  told them a  story  about  a
white submarine  one evening, in the dark barracks, just before they hit the
sack. The subs, he  said, were not manned  by ordinary  seamen, but by  dead
ones  serving a second  hitch.  Sea  demons swept  along  the  ocean  floor,
catching drowned seamen to fill out  the crews. How could he tell Mac such a
story! He would laugh, and this was no  laughing  matter. Then there was the
story he had heard from  Private Leptu, who had been busted  from officer to
private for some unknown reason. "Listen, you guys," he had said to them one
day when he was high,  "your degens, mutants, radiation  --  all that is kid
stuff. You can survive it,  even live with it.  But you'd better pray to the
Good Lord not to drop you on a white sub. You'd be better off drowning right
away than touching one of those things. I should know." Before his demotion,
Leptu had served on the coast and commanded a patrol launch.
     "You know, Mac, there are all  sorts of superstitions and legends about
the subs. I'm  not going  to  tell you about  them. But Captain  Chachu, for
instance, said  that all those subs were  contaminated by radiation. We were
forbidden to board them."
     "All  right.  You stay  here, and I'll go. I'll take a look and see how
badly contaminated it is."
     Before  Guy  could open  his  mouth,  Maxim dove  into  the  water  and
disappeared for a long time. Guy held his breath waiting for him to surface.
Then a mop of dark hair bobbed up by the sub's chipped  side, directly under
a gaping hole.  Adroitly, without effort, like a  fly  climbing a wall,  the
tanned  figure scrambled onto the listing deck, on to  the superstructure at
the bow,  and vanished.  Guy  sighed and paced up and down by the water, his
eyes riveted on the rusty monster.
     It was quiet. Even the waves rolled silently in the dead bay. There was
nothing  here but a blank white sky and lifeless white dunes. Everything was
dry,  hot,  and hardened. Guy looked at the rusty  skeleton hatefully. "Damn
it, what bad luck!  Other guys serve for years  and never see a sub. We walk
an hour or  so, and bang! -- there it is. Dropped right from heaven. Welcome
aboard! How did I  ever let myself get into this mess? It's all Mac's doing.
He sure has a way with words. Makes you feel there's nothing to worry about.
Maybe  I wasn't  really  scared  when  I  saw the sub because  I  had always
imagined  it  would be  very different  -- alive,  white  and elegant,  with
sailors all  in white on  its deck. Now I  see  it's only an iron corpse. In
fact  this  whole  place seems dead. Not a bit  of wind."  Guy looked around
sadly, sat  down on  the sand, placed his gun by his side, and began to pull
off his right  boot.  "Damn  it, it sure is quiet!  Suppose  he doesn't come
back? That iron monster has swallowed him and he's vanished without a trace.
Damn!"
     A drawn-out, eerie  sound rose  over the bay.  Startled, he dropped his
boot.  "Good  Lord,  it's only a rusty hatch opening. Damn, it  sure made me
sweat!  So he opened the hatch.  That means he'll be out in a minute. No, he
isn't coming out."
     Craning his  neck, Guy  studied the  submarine for several  minutes and
listened closely. Dead silence. The same terrifying  silence as before, made
even more terrifying by that eerie, rusty wail. "Maybe he... maybe the hatch
didn't open...  maybe it closed?  Closed by itself." Before  Guy's terrified
eyes rose a vision: a heavy steel door swings shut, by itself, behind Maxim,
and a heavy  bolt moves slowly into place. Guy licked his dry lips and tried
to shout with his parched throat: "Hey, Mac!" Scarcely a whisper. If only he
could make himself heard! "He-ey!" he  howled. "He-ey!" the  dunes responded
gloomily. And silence fell again.
     Dead  silence. He no longer had  the strength to shout.  His eyes still
riveted on the submarine, Guy  fumbled  with  his gun; his trembling fingers
released the safety. He fired a burst  into the bay. There was a brief thud,
as if  the shots had struck a  bale of cotton. A fountain sprayed  above the
water's smooth surface where circles formed and drifted away, growing larger
and  larger. Guy raised  the barrel  a little  higher and pulled the trigger
again.  Success! The bullets rattled off the metallic surface,  squealing as
they ricocheted. Then,  nothing. Absolute,  dead nothingness, as if  he were
alone  in the  world; as if he had been alone  for an eternity; as if he had
arrived  here  by magic,  had  been dropped into  this  dead  place as  in a
nightmare. Except he could not wake up, and must remain here forever.
     His  mind  in  a whirl, wearing only one  boot, Guy  entered the water,
slowly  at  first, then  faster and faster; then running,  raising his  legs
high, sobbing  and swearing. The rusty  hulk drew closer. He finally reached
the  side of  the  submarine  and  tried to climb aboard,  but  couldn't. He
skirted the  stern, grabbed hold  of a rope,  and,  skinning his  hands  and
knees, scrambled onto  the  deck.  He  stopped  to  catch his  breath. Tears
trickled down his cheeks. "Hey!" he shouted.
     Silence.
     The  deck  was deserted. The bow's  superstructure  hung above his head
like  an enormous  speckled mushroom, and  a broad jagged  scar gaped in the
armor. Guy skirted the superstructure and noticed a metal ladder, still wet,
leading  up  above. Slinging  his gun  onto his back, he  climbed. For  what
seemed  like  an  eternity,  he  climbed  in  the  stifling  silence  toward
inevitable death,  toward eternal death. He scrambled to  the top and froze,
remaining on all fours. The monster was waiting for him: the  hatch was wide
open. Guy crawled to the gaping black hole and peered in. Suddenly his  head
began  to spin and his stomach churned. He imagined that Mac was down there,
fighting for his life against a whole pack of devils, and calling out: "Guy!
Guy!"; that the heavy silence, grinning, was swallowing  his cries, stifling
every  last  sound,  suffocating and crushing  Mac. Unable  to  bear it  any
longer, Guy climbed through the hatch.
     In his  panic he lost his foothold  and went  crashing down to  a sandy
floor. It was an iron  corridor,  dimly lit by a few dusty  bulbs. The floor
directly  below the shaft was covered by fine sand, blown in over the years.
Guy  jumped up, still rushing, afraid he would  be too late, and ran through
the corridor shouting: "Mac, I'm here! I'm coming! I'm coming!"
     "What the hell are you screaming about?" asked Maxim, popping up out of
nowhere. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
     Guy  stopped short.  Feeling faint, he leaned against the bulkhead. His
heart pounded in  his ears like a drumbeat. He was tongue-tied. Maxim stared
at him in surprise. Then, apparently realizing  what had happened to Guy, he
squeezed into the corridor, took him by the shoulder, and gently shook  him.
Slowly, Guy recovered his senses.
     "I thought... I thought that you..."
     "Never mind,  never  mind.  It's my fault. I  should have called you to
come right away. But I got involved; there are so many unusual things here."
     "I kept calling and calling you," said Guy angrily. "I called out, then
I fired a volley. The least you could have done was answer."
     "Massaraksh, I didn't hear a thing," said Maxim guiltily. "The receiver
here  is  superb.  I didn't  think  you  knew how to  produce  such powerful
equipment."
     "Receiver,  receiver."  Guy  squeezed  through  the  half-opened  door.
"You've been amusing  yourself  here while  I  almost went out  of  my  mind
because of you. All right, what's so unusual?"
     It was a rather large  room with  rotted carpeting. Only  one  of three
semicircular light fixtures attached to the ceiling worked. In the middle of
the room stood a large round table surrounded by chairs. Strange photographs
and pictures hung  on  the walls.  The remains  of velvet upholstery dangled
like rags. A large receiver crackled and howled in the corner. Guy had never
seen one like it before.
     "It seems to be the  wardroom," said Maxim. "Walk around, take a  look.
There's plenty to see."
     "What about the crew?"
     "Not a soul here. The lower compartments are flooded.  I think they all
drowned down there."
     Guy looked at  him  in  amazement.  Maxim turned  away  with  a worried
expression.
     "Guy, we  were damned lucky not to make it to the Island Empire. Go on,
take a look around."
     Maxim sat down at the receiver  and adjusted the fine  tuner. Meanwhile
Guy scanned the room, not knowing  where to begin.  He went over and studied
the photographs. It took him a while  to realize that they were X rays.  The
dim images  of grinning skulls  stared back at  him. Illegible inscriptions,
like autographs,  had been attached to  each  picture.  Members of the crew?
Celebrities? Guy shrugged his  shoulders.  Maybe Uncle  Kaan could figure it
out.
     He  noticed a large bright-colored  poster in the far corner, beautiful
even  though it had been touched by mold. It showed a blue sea, and from the
sea  emerged  a  handsome,  very  muscular,  orange-colored  figure  with  a
disproportionately small head,  half of which consisted  of a powerful neck.
One foot had  stepped  onto  the  black shore. The warrior clutched a scroll
with  an  incomprehensible  inscription  in  one hand, and,  with the other,
thrust a flaming torch  into the ground. A  city was set afire by the torch,
and  hideous freaks writhed in the flames. Another dozen freaks scattered on
all fours in every direction. Something was written at the top of the poster
in sweeping  letters. The letters  were familiar, but the words  they formed
were utterly unpronounceable.
     The longer Guy studied the  poster, the less  he liked it. It  reminded
him of a poster in  the barracks:  a black-uniformed eagle-legionnaire (also
with  a  small head  and  powerful muscles) boldly beheading  hideous, warty
snake with  a gigantic  pair of shears.  He recalled  the inscription on the
blades:  on  one, "Fighting", on  the other,  "Legion." "Aha,"  said  Guy to
himself as he  cast  a last glance at the poster, "we'll see  who burns who,
massaraksh!"
     He  turned away from  the  poster,  took  several steps,  and froze.  A
familiar  face,  square,  with  an  auburn  forelock  over  its  brow and  a
perceptible scar on its right cheek, stared at him with glassy eyes  from an
elegantly varnished shelf. It was Captain Pudurash, an Iron Hero, a  company
commander in  the Brigade of Immortals,  nemesis of white submarines (he had
sunk eleven of them) who had  perished in unequal combat. His bust,  crowned
with  a weath of immortelle, adorned every  parade  ground.  Here his  head,
shrunken and yellowed, was displayed  as a trophy. Guy stepped back. Yes, it
was real thing. And over there was another head, an unfamiliar pointed face.
And another, and still another. Lord, how many of them!
     "Mac! Did you see this?"
     "Yes.  Take a  look at the  albums  on  the  table,"  said Maxim.  With
difficulty Guy tore his eyes away  from this eerie collection and hesitantly
went over  to the  table. The receiver shouted something  in  an  unfamiliar
language; music played briefly, static crackle, and someone spoke again in a
velvety,   authoritarian   voice:   "Extermination,   complete   and   final
extermination..."
     Guy  selected one  of  the  albums at random  and  flung back  its hard
leather-bound  cover. A  portrait.  An inhuman  long  face  with  bushy side
whiskers hanging from cheeks to shoulders, hooker nose,  oddly set nostrils.
A  nasty face  -- impossible to  imagine it smiling. Strange uniform --  two
rows of badges or medals Quite a character. Probably some big shot.
     Guy  turned the  page. The  same  character with other  figures on  the
bridge of a  white  submarine;  still morose, although his  companions  were
grinning. Out  of focus in the background  was something  that looked like a
shore, some strange buildings  and the blurred silhouettes of bizarre trees.
Next page. Guy caught his breath; a burning "dragon" with its turret toppled
over  on one  side; the body  of a Legion  tank driver hanging  from an open
hatch; two more  bodies off to one side  and, standing over them,  that same
character with  a  pistol in  his  hand. Dense black  smoke issued  from the
dragon, but the places  were familiar --  the same  shore, sandy  beach, and
dunes. Turning the page, Guy braced himself. A crowd of some twenty mutants,
naked, all  tied together  with  a  rope; several  efficient-looking pirates
holding smoking torches; and that  same character, evidently  giving orders,
extending  his right  hand and laying  his  left on the  handle of a dagger.
Those  freaks were so ghastly that it was frightening to  look  at them. But
what followed was even more frightening.
     The same group of mutants,  but  their flesh consumed by fire. The same
character, his  back to  the corpses, sniffing a  little flower and chatting
with another man.
     An enormous tree in  the  forest,  loaded  with  swaying corpses.  Some
hanging by  their  hands, some by their feet -- and these  were not mutants.
One wore the checkered  uniform of a  rehab;  another, the black jacket of a
legionnaire.
     An old  man tied to  a post. Face distorted, he was shouting something.
Same character, with a concerned expression, checking a hypodermic needle.
     More  bodies hanging from trees, burned  and burning  mutants,  rehabs,
legionnaires, fishermen,  peasants, men, women, old men, children. Panoramic
snapshot:  beach,  four  vehicles  on  the  dunes,  everything  burning; two
black-clothed  figures with hands raised. Enough! Guy slammed down the cover
and flung the  album  to  the  floor.  He  paused  for  a few seconds; then,
cursing, he threw all the albums on the floor.
     "And you want  to negotiate with  these...  these...?"  he  shouted  at
Maxim. "You want to bring these killers to us?! That butcher?" He kicked the
album hard.
     Maxim turned off the receiver.
     "Calm down," he  said.  "I don't want anything anymore. And  there's no
reason to  shout at me if your world is to blame.  Your world has overslept,
damn it, and descended to the level of animals. What  should I  do  with you
now? What? You don't know? Well, speak up!"
     Guy remained silent.
     "I  know," Maxim said  gloomily. "It's over for now. No negotiating. We
must not bring anyone against the North now. We're surrounded by beasts, and
it's them we must  -- "  He  picked up one  of the albums from the floor and
flipped  the  pages. "God, what  a beautiful world  you've  defiled!  What a
world! Just take a look, see what a beautiful world it was!"
     Guy looked over his shoulder. There were no horrors in this album, only
landscapes, color  snapshots  of  startling  beauty  and clarity:  blue bays
bordered by magnificent foliage,  a  dazzling  white city perched  above the
sea, a  waterfall  in a canyon, a splendid highway with  a  stream  of vivid
automobiles,  ancient castles, snow-covered peaks above the clouds, a  skier
gliding along a mountain slope, and laughing girls playing in the surf.
     "Where  is all that now?"  asked Maxim. "What did you do with  it, damn
you? Exchange it for your iron junk? You  call yourselves people?" He  threw
the album on the table. "Let's go!"
     He stormed to the door, flung it  open, and marched into the  corridor.
When they reached the deck, he asked Guy: "Are you hungry?"
     "Yes."
     "OK, we'll eat in a few minutes. Into the water -- let's go!"
     Guy reached shore first, removed his boot, undressed,  and laid out his
clothes  to  dry.  Maxim was still  in  the  water, and Guy watched  for him
anxiously: Mac had  made a deep dive and had  been  underwater  a long time.
Finally he came  up, dragging  an  enormous  fish by  the gills. It  wore  a
baffled  expression;  it  couldn't understand how it could have been  caught
with only bare hands. Maxim threw it onto the beach.
     "I think it will be safe.  Barely radioactive. Probably a mutant. We'll
take our pills, and I'll prepare it right away. We can eat it uncooked. I'll
show you how. You've never tried it? Give me the knife."
     Guy handed it to him and Maxim filleted the fish deftly and rapidly.
     After they had finished eating, they lay down naked on the beach.
     "If we  got caught by a  patrol and gave ourselves up, where would they
take us?" asked Maxim after a lengthy silence.
     "What do you mean -- where? Wherever you  were serving  your  sentence.
And me -- to my army post. Why do you ask?"
     "You're sure about that?"
     "I couldn't  be more  sure. Those are the  commanding general's orders.
Why do you want to know?"
     "We're going to start looking for legionnaires right now."
     "Capture a tank?"
     "No, Guy, we'll use  your  story. You  were kidnapped  by degens and  a
convict rescued you."
     "Give yourself up?" Guy sat down.  "And me, too? Back to the  radiation
field? What are you talking about?"
     Maxim didn't reply.
     "Mac, I'll become a damned fool blockhead again."
     "No," replied Maxim. "Well,  unfortunately, Guy... yes. But it won't be
the  same as before. You will be believing in something else from now on, in
a just  cause. Look, I know it's not the best way. But  still, it's  better,
much better."
     "But why? Why?" shouted Guy in despair. "Why must you do it?"
     Maxim passed his hand over his face.
     "Guy, war has  broken out. It came through the receiver. I  don't  know
how  it started: either we attacked the Khontis, or they attacked us. At any
rate, it's war!"
     Guy stared  at  him  horrified. War. And Rada? The same thing all  over
again.
     "Our place is there," continued Maxim. "A general mobilization has been
declared. They've even  declared  an  amnesty for  the prisoners and ordered
them into  the  ranks. We must join them, Guy. If only I could get into your
unit."
     Guy scarcely heard him. Clutching his head, he rocked from side to side
and kept repeating to himself: "Why, why? Damn you! Damn you!"
     Maxim shook him by the shoulder.
     "Get  a grip  on yourself!" he said sternly. "This is no time to go  to
pieces. We're going to have to fight very, very soon." He rose and wiped his
face again. "Get your things on quickly and let's go. We have to hurry."

     "Make it snappy, Fank, I'm late."
     "Yes,  sir.  About  Rada  Gaal... she's  been  removed  from the  state
prosecutor's jurisdiction and we have her now."
     "Where?"
     "At a private residence. The Crystal Swan. I feel it is my duty to tell
you that I question the wisdom of this action. I doubt that such a woman can
help  us control Mac. Women like that are forgotten quickly, and even if Mac
--" "Do you think that Smart is stupider than you are?"
     "No, but..."
     "Does Smart know who took her?"
     "I'm afraid he does."
     "All right, so he  does. Enough about  that.  What else do  you have to
report?"
     "Sandy Chichaku met with Puppet.  Apparently Puppet agreed to bring the
Count and Sandy together on condition that --"
     "I'm not  interested  in  the underground at  the moment. Do  you  have
anything on  the Mac Sim  case?  OK, then listen. This war has messed up all
our plans. I'm  leaving now  and will return in thirty or forty days. I want
you to finish the Mac Sim case in  that time. By the time I return, Mac must
be here, in this building. Give him a job, let him work, and don't interfere
with  his freedom. But let him know --  very  discreetly -- that Rada's fate
depends  on  him.  Under  no circumstances  must  they  meet.  Show him  the
institute,  show him  what we're working on -- within reasonable limits,  of
course. Tell him about  me, describe me as an intelligent, fair  person,  an
eminent scientist. Give him  my articles, except the  top-secret ones.  Drop
casual hints  about my opposition to the government.  He must  not  have the
slightest  desire  to leave  the institute. That's all  I have to  say.  Any
questions?"
     "Yes. What about security guards?"
     "None. That would be foolish."
     "Should we put a tail on him?"
     "OK, but use tact. No,  better not. Don't  frighten him. The main thing
is  that he shouldn't want to  leave the institute. Massaraksh, what  a time
for me to have to leave! Is that all now?"
     "One last question. Excuse me, Strannik."
     "Yes?"
     "Who is he really? Why do you need him?"
     Strannik rose,  went to the  window, and said without  turning  around:
"I'm afraid of him, Fank. He is a very, very dangerous man."

17.

     When the  troop train was held up  on a siding next  to a  dingy, dirty
station about two hundred miles from the Khonti border, Private Second Class
Zef ran to the tank for boiling water and returned with a portable radio. He
informed his companions that bedlam had broken out at the station, where two
brigades  were  being  shipped out; and the generals were  barking  at  each
other.  While  mingling with the  crowd  of orderlies and  adjutants, he had
managed to liberate a radio.
     The  trainload  of soldiers greeted this  announcement  with  shouts of
approval. All forty of them quickly crowded around Zef. For a long time they
were unable to settle down;  they  shoved, swore, and complained until Maxim
finally yelled: "Shut up, you bastards!' ' When they quieted down Zef turned
on the radio and tuned in one station after another.
     Within minutes they learned some very strange things.  First of all, it
turned out  that  hostilities  had not  begun yet; there had been no  bloody
battles.  The  Khonti Fighting League was  shouting  righteously that  those
bandits,  those  usurpers,  the  All-Powerful  Creators,  were  using  their
hirelings,  the  so-called  Khonti  Union  for   Justice,  for   treacherous
provocation  and  were  now  concentrating  their  forces on the borders  of
long-suffering  Khonti.  The  Khonti Union,  in  turn, castigated the Khonti
League, those paid  agents  of  the All-Powerful Creators,  and described in
detail how such-and-such a unit with superior forces had driven a small unit
exhausted by previous engagements across the border and kept it pinned down.
These  were the  facts,  and they  served  as a  pretext for  the  so-called
All-Powerful Creators to launch their barbaric  invasion, which was expected
at  any  moment.  Both  the  League  and  the  Union,  in  almost  identical
statements,  dropped veiled  hints about  atomic traps lying in wait for the
invasion forces of the treacherous enemy.
     Zef  also tuned  in on  some broadcasts in languages that only he could
understand. He told them  that the  Ondol  Principality still existed  as  a
sovereign state and, moreover, continued to launch its murderous attacks  on
Khazzalg  Island.  But  the  ether was  filled mainly  with  cross-invective
between the commanders of  units  trying  to force their way through to  the
main bridgehead along two disorganized rail lines.
     The ordinary prisoners felt that their main goal should be to cross the
border, where  each man would become his own master; the political prisoners
were  inclined  to  a pessimistic view  of the situation. They were  of  the
opinion that they were being sent to be blown up by atomic mines. None would
survive  the holocaust. Therefore it would be a good idea, when they arrived
at the front,  to hide until it all blew over. The men held such conflicting
views  that a coherent discussion was  out of  the question, and the dispute
deteriorated  very rapidly into  monotonous  invective directed at the dirty
bastards serving  in the rear who hadn't served them  any grub for  two days
and had probably ripped off  all their  whiskey rations. The soldiers in the
penal battalion would spend  the rest of  the night developing variations on
this theme, so Maxim and Zef forced their  way through the crowd and climbed
into their crude bunks.
     Zef, hungry and irritated, was about to fall asleep, but Maxim wouldn't
let him. "You'll sleep later. We'll probably be at the front tomorrow and we
haven't come to  agreement  about anything yet." Zef muttered that there was
nothing to agree about; that one's mind was  always sharper in the  morning;
that Maxim was not blind and must see what a quagmire they were in; and that
you  couldn't  go anywhere  with these feeble-minded sons of  bitches. Maxim
replied that he  wasn't concerned with that  at the moment. The cause of the
war,  who  needed it  and why, was the  issue he  wanted  to discuss  -- his
understanding of it was still fuzzy.
     Zef muttered, yawned, and  rewound his foot bindings,  but after  being
nagged  and cajoled  long  enough,  he  finally acquiesced and expounded his
views on the cause of the war.
     There  were  at  least  three  possible causes.  The  primary  one  was
economic. Everyone knew  that when a country's economy was  in rotten shape,
the easiest dodge was  to start  a war  as  a  pretext for gagging  everyone
immediately. Vepr,  who  knew a lot  about  the  influence of  economics  on
politics,  had predicted this  war several years ago. You can deceive people
about the towers,  but  poverty is another story. How  long can you  tell  a
hungry man that he's got a full belly? He'll eventually go berserk; and it's
hardly  pleasant to govern a country of madmen, especially when you consider
that lunatics  are  not affected by  radiation. Another possible  cause  was
related  to  the  colonial  question  --  markets, cheap  slave  labor,  raw
materials,  all sources  of  profit  for the Creators' personal investments.
Finally, it had to be kept in mind that the  Department of Public Health and
the military had been bickering  for  years. Dog eat dog.  The Department of
Public Health was  an insatiable organization, but if  the military achieved
any degree of success, the generals would make short work of the department.
On the  other hand, if  the war  ended  in a stalemate, the department would
make  short  work of the generals.  Therefore, the possibility could not  be
excluded that the whole  affair  was  a clever provocation concocted  by the
Department  of Public Health. It could be the case, judging from the general
chaos now rampant, and also from the  fact that  we had been shouting at the
top of our  lungs for a week and military operations hadn't begun. And maybe
they wouldn't.

     Just as Zef reached this point, the coupling buffers screeched, the car
shuddered, shouting and whistling  filled the  air  outside,  and  the troop
train  lurched forward.  The ordinary prisoners struck up a song: "We Get No
Whiskey Once Again."
     "All right," said Maxim. "What you've said sounds quite plausible. Now,
if the war does begin, how will it go for us? What will happen?"
     Zef growled that he wasn't a  general, then launched into an exposition
of his views. "During a brief respite between the  end of  the World War and
the beginning of the Civil War, the Khontis fenced themselves off from their
former  suzerain  with  a  powerful line of atomic mine fields. In addition,
they  undoubtedly  had  atomic artillery,  and  their  politicians  had  the
foresight  not to exhaust all these riches during the Civil  War but to save
them for us. So the invasion picture looks roughly like this: Three or  four
penal tank  brigades will be  drawn up  at the spearhead of  the assault; an
army corps will support them to their rear; and a detachment of legionnaires
in  heavy tanks equipped  with emitters will follow. Degens like myself  win
rush  forward, fleeing  the radiation whips, and  the army  corps will  race
forward in  a frenzy of  enthusiasm induced by the same emitters.  Those who
fail to respond properly -- and there will  be some  -- will be destroyed by
Legion fire.  If the Khontis aren't fools,  they will open  fire  with their
long-range guns and destroy the tanks, but the Khontis, we assume, are fools
and  hence  will  be  engaged in mutual  destruction. In the  midst  of this
confusion, the League will attack the  Union, and  the Union will  sink  its
teeth into  the  League's throat.  Meanwhile,  our  courageous  forces  will
penetrate deep into  enemy  territory,  and the  most interesting part  will
begin -- which we, unfortunately, will not see. Our glorious armored columns
will break ranks  and spread out through Khonti. If you are right about Guy,
the men will then experience radiation withdrawal symptoms. And the symptoms
will  be especially severe because the  legionnaires will  have given them a
super-radiation dose during the breakthrough into enemy territory.
     "Massaraksh!" howled Zef.  "I  can  just see those idiots climbing from
their tanks,  lying  down on the  ground  and pleading to be shot.  And  the
kindly Khonti citizenry,  to say nothing of Khonti  soldiers, enraged by the
disgraceful  state  of  affairs, will not deny their request. There'll be  a
slaughter."
     The train picked up speed and the car swayed violently. In a far comer,
prisoners were shooting dice;  a  light swung  back and  forth  beneath  the
ceiling; and someone was mumbling in a monotone -- probably praying.
     Their eyes were burning from the dense tobacco smoke.
     "I think the  General Staff will take this  into  account and therefore
there won't be a sudden breakthrough. What we'll have is trench warfare, and
the Khontis, for  all their  stupidity, will figure out what's going on, and
they'll start hunting for  the emitters. I'm  not sure what will happen," he
concluded. "I don't even blow if we'll get grub tomorrow morning. I'm afraid
we won't get anything more. Why on earth should they feed us now?"
     There was a long pause.
     "Are you  sure we're doing  the  right thing? That our place  is here?"
asked Maxim.
     "It's a staff order," muttered Zef.
     "An order is an order,"  retorted Maxim.  "OK. But we, too, have brains
in our heads. Maybe we should have bolted to the capital with Vepr? Maybe we
could have been more useful there?"
     "Maybe, maybe not. Vepr is counting on a nuclear attack. Lots of towers
will  be  destroyed,  and regions  liberated.  But suppose there  isn't  any
bombing?  No  one  knows  anything,  Mac.  I  can  imagine  the  bedlam   at
headquarters  now."  He grew thoughtful and stroked his beard. "Vepr  fed us
this nonsense about bombing, but I don't think that was the reason he bolted
for the capital. I know him;  he's been trying to get  to those  underground
leaders for a  long time. So it's  entirely  possible  that heads will start
rolling at headquarters."
     "So  there's  bedlam  there,  too,"  said  Maxim  slowly.  "They aren't
prepared either."
     "How can they  be  prepared? Some  of them  hope to destroy the towers,
others to  save  them.  The underground  is  not a  political party,  but  a
hodgepodge of ideas."
     "Too bad. I was hoping that the underground was planning to use the war
-- you know, the difficulties, confusion -- to take advantage of a potential
revolutionary situation."
     "The underground doesn't know a  damn thing," said Zef  gloomily.  "How
can we know what it's all about with emitters breathing down our necks?"
     "Your underground isn't worth a  damn." Maxim could restrain himself no
longer.
     Zef flared  up.  "Not  so fast  there! Who are you to judge us? Who are
you,  massaraksh, to  make demands on us?  You wanted a military assignment?
OK, you got  it. Watch  everything,  survive, return,  and report. Does that
sound too simple for you? Great! So  much the better for us. Enough of this.
I'm tired. Leave me alone, massaraksh. I want to sleep."
     He turned his back to Maxim and shouted at the men shooting dice: "Hey,
you gravediggers! Hit the sack! Make it snappy, or else!"
     Maxim  lay  down on  his  back, folded his hands behind  his  head, and
stared at the low ceiling. Something was crawling along it. The gravediggers
cursed each other softly  as  they  bedded down  for the  night. The  man on
Maxim's left groaned and  cried out  in his sleep:  he had been condemned to
death  and was sleeping, perhaps, for the last time. And everyone around him
was snoring, wheezing, and muttering probably for  the last  time. The world
was  a  dreary  yellow,  stifling  and hopeless.  The  wheels  rumbled,  the
locomotive wailed, and fumes drifted through the tiny barred windows.
     "Everything is rotten here,"  thought Maxim. "There  isn't one real man
among them. Not  a  single clear head.  And  I've gotten myself  into a mess
again because I relied on other people. You can't rely on anyone or anything
here. Only on yourself. But I'm  of no use alone:  I  know enough history to
realize that. Alone, a man can't accomplish a damned thing. Maybe the Wizard
was right. Maybe I should stand  aside from  all this? But I can't.  It goes
against my grain. And this  business of arriving at  a balance of  forces is
frightening. But the Wizard did say that I was a force. And since we do have
a definite enemy,  we have a  point where this force  can  be applied. Sure,
I'll be knocked offshore. No question  about it. But not tomorrow! Not until
I can show that I'm a real force.  We'll see... The Center. Yes, the Center.
We  must find  it. All the underground's efforts must be focused on this one
task now. And I'm going to lead the way. Working with me, they will be doing
real work,  doing what  must be done. Yes,  Zef, you're going to get down to
some  real work now... Listen to  that  guy snore. Snore  away. Tomorrow I'm
dragging you out of  here. When will I ever get a decent  night's sleep?  In
aclean, spacious room, between two clean sheets?  Massaraksh, what a strange
custom  they have here -- sleeping night after night on the same sheets. Ah,
yes,  clean  sheets,  and a good book before I turn  out  the light and fall
asleep.  The train is still moving and we haven't stopped for a long time. I
suppose someone decided that the war couldn't get going without us. I wonder
how Guy is doing  in  the corporals' car. I haven't thought about Rada for a
long time... Enough now, Mac, you hunk of cannon fodder. Get some sleep."

     He didn't  get much sleep. The train halted, a heavy door scraped open,
and a stentorian voice barked: "Fourth Company. Out, on  the double!" It was
five  o'clock  in  the  morning and  dawn  was breaking.  It  was foggy  and
drizzling.  Yawning and shivering in the morning chill, the penal detachment
trudged sluggishly  from the car. The corporals were already at their posts;
angrily and  impatiently they grabbed  legs, pulled men off  the train,  and
smacked them around,  yelling:  "Break up into teams!  Take your  positions!
Where do you think you're going? What's your platoon? You, fathead, how many
times do I have to tell you? Step lively. Take your positions!"
     They split  up into teams and fell in beside the cars. Some poor  devil
who had  strayed in  the fog ran around  searching for his  platoon and  was
yelled at from  all sides. Zef, glum and tired, his beard all frizzy, called
out in a wheezy but distinct  voice: "Come on, step it up,  fall  in. You'll
get your bellyful  of combat today." A  passing corporal  slapped him in the
face.  Maxim reacted  instantly, and the corporal  rolled  in  the  mud. The
delighted  prisoners  laughed  heartily. "Brigade,  attention!"  shouted  an
invisible figure. Battalion commanders  shrieked orders; company  commanders
echoed them down  the line,  and platoon leaders began running. No one stood
at  attention: the shock troops were running in place to  warm up; the lucky
ones were smoking; there was grumbling in the ranks about  food -- it looked
as if they wouldn't be getting grub again -- and there was cursing: "To hell
with their damn war!"
     "Brigade,  at ease!" shouted Zef. "Fall out!  Take  a leak!"  The crews
were about to fall  out,  but the corporals rushed about again, and suddenly
legionnaires in shiny black raincoats spread out in a thin line and ran with
drawn guns along the cars. A  frightened silence followed in their wake; the
crews fell in quickly and straightened up their ranks.
     An iron voice pierced the fog: "If any of you bastards open your traps,
I'll have you shot!" Everyone froze. The anxious waiting dragged on. The fog
had dispersed  somewhat, revealing an ugly station, wet rails, and telegraph
poles. On the right, in front  of the brigade, stood a dark crowd of people.
Low voices drifted from it, and someone snapped: "Carry out your orders!"
     Maxim glanced back  out of the comer  of his eye:  to  their rear stood
motionless legionnaires, staring at  them  with  suspicion  and  hatred from
beneath their black rain hoods.
     A baggy figure in camouflage fatigues emerged from  the  crowd. It  was
brigade  leader  Anipsu, an  ex-colonel basted  and  imprisoned  for trading
government fuel on the black market.
     Twirling his cane, he addressed the men:
     "Soldiers!  I  know I am  not mistaken  when I address you as soldiers,
although all of us, myself included, are still social  outcasts. Be grateful
that you are being permitted to enter into battle today. In a few hours most
of you will be dead,  and that will be to your honor. But  those  of you who
survive will live well: soldiers' rations, whiskey, and the rest. We'll  set
out  for our positions  now, and  when you  reach them  you'll get into your
tanks.  Then about  a  hundred miles --  no big  deal. You're not real  tank
soldiers,  but you  know that  whatever you get will be  yours. There is  no
turning  back; whoever retreats will be shot on the spot. There will  be  no
questions. Brigade! Right face! Forward! Close  order, march! Blockheads!  I
said close  order!  Corporals, massaraksh! What the hell are you looking at?
Cattle!  Break  up   into  fours.  Corporals,  break  them  up  into  fours!
Massaraksh!"
     With the  legionnaires' assistance the corporals arranged  the  brigade
into columns of four, and the order to come to attention was repeated. Maxim
was standing rather close to the brigade commander. The ex-colonel was blind
drunk. He swayed, leaned on his cane, shook his head now and then, and wiped
his hand  across  his savage bluish  face.  Battalion commanders, also blind
drunk,  stood behind him: one  giggled senselessly; another tried stubbornly
to light a cigarette; a third grabbed his holster  and staggered through the
ranks. The men sniffed the whiskey fumes enviously,  and an approving murmur
ran through the ranks. "Let's go,  let's go," muttered Zef. "You'll get your
bellyful of combat today." Maxim, irritated, poked him with his elbow.
     "Shut up," he said through his teeth. "I'm sick of listening to that."
     Two men approached  the  colonel: a Legion captain,  clenching  a  pipe
between his teeth, and  a heavyset  man, a civilian wearing a  long raincoat
with  a turned-up collar.  The civilian seemed  familiar  to  Maxim, and  he
studied him more closely. The civilian  whispered something to the  colonel.
"Hub?" answered the colonel, looking at him dully. The civilian began again,
pointing  at  the penal columns.  The  Legion captain  puffed  on  his  pipe
indifferently. "What do you  need him for?" yelled the colonel. The civilian
took out a document, but the colonel waved it away. "You can't have him," he
said. "They must die together, as one man." The civilian insisted. "The hell
with  you!" replied the  colonel.  "And your department, too. They will  all
die,  every  one of  them.  Am I right?" he  asked the captain.  The captain
agreed. The civilian grabbed the colonel's sleeve and jerked him forcefully.
The colonel almost  fell,  and  his face darkened with anger; he slipped his
hand into his holster and pulled out an army pistol. "I'm  counting to ten,"
he announced to the civilian. "One. Two."  The civilian spat and walked away
alongside the penal  column,  peering  into  the  men's  faces. The  colonel
continued to count; when he reached ten, he fired. The captain, alarmed, got
him to  put  away his gun. "They're  all  going  to croak,  every last one,"
declared the colonel. "Together with me... Brigade!gade! Forward march! Damn
you all to hell!"
     The  brigade  moved along the bumpy tracks  made by caterpillar treads.
The column, the men slipping and grabbing onto each  other, descended into a
swampy hollow  and slogged away from the rail line. Here the platoon leaders
overtook their columns.  Guy moved up beside  Maxim. His  face was  pale and
tense, and  he said nothing for a long time, although Zef had asked him what
he  had heard. The hollow  widened gradually,  bushes appeared,  and a grove
loomed up  ahead. A clumsy  tank of ancient vintage,  equipped with  a small
square turret, stuck  up from  the shoulder of the road where it  had tipped
over into a muddy ditch. Morose figures in grease-stained jackets dawdled by
the tank.  Then  came  the  shock troops, hands  in pockets,  rigid  collars
upturned,  marching   loosely,  out  of   formation.  Many  glanced   around
cautiously,  hoping to slip away  into  the underbrush. The bushes were very
tempting, but  black-clothed  figures with  submachine guns  were  stationed
every  two or three hundred paces.  Three fuel trucks  plunged into potholes
and crawled toward  the troops. Their glum  drivers ignored the shock troops
as  they passed. The  rain grew heavier, and the  troops more dejected. They
walked in silence, submissively, like cattle, glancing around less and  less
frequently.
     "Listen,  corporal,"  muttered Zef, "is it  true we're not getting  any
grub?"
     Guy took a piece of bread from his pocket and gave it to him.
     "That's it," he said, "until we're dead."
     Zef slipped the crust through his beard and chomped away at it.
     "This is insane,"  thought  Maxim. "Everyone knows that he's headed for
certain  death.  Still  they  go, like  cattle. Maybe they are  counting  on
something  unexpected?  Docs each man have some sort of private  plan? These
fools know nothing about the emitters. Each one thinks that somewhere  along
the way he'll jump out of  the tank and hide, while the other fools advance.
We  should prepare  leaflets  about  the emitters; we  should  set  up radio
stations, although the radios work  only on two frequencies.  No  matter, we
could still get  our message through to the people --  during pauses, during
station    breaks.   Our   underground    people   should    be    spreading
counterpropaganda, not knocking  down towers. But all that will have to come
later; we must not divert our attention  now.  We must be vigilant  and find
the tiniest loopholes. We didn't see  a single cannon  at the tank stations,
only the Legion's marksmen posted everywhere. I must  keep that in mind. The
hollow is a good, deep spot, and the guards will probably be removed as soon
as  we pass  through. Guards? Everyone,  including  the  guards,  will  dash
forward as soon as the emitters are turned on."
     With amazing clarity he could see what lay ahead. The emitters would be
turned on.  The shock troops' tanks would race forward with  a roar, and the
army would follow en masse behind them. The  entire prefrontal zone would be
deserted. "It's difficult to determine the depth of the zone, since we don't
know the emitters' effective radius -- surely  a good two miles.  So for two
miles inside the zone there won't  be a single clear head left, except mine.
No, not for just two miles. More than that. All the stationary units and all
the towers will be  turned  on,  too,  and full blast for  sure.  The entire
border region will go crazy. Massaraksh, what about Zef? He won't be able to
hold  out  with  a  dose  like that." Maxim cast a  sidelong  glance at  the
red-bearded  former psychiatrist moving peacefully through the  woods.  "No,
he'll  hold  out. At worst, I'll have to help him, although I'm afraid there
may not be time. And Guy -- 1  can't take my eye off  him for a minute. It's
going to be rough. Anyway,  I'll still  be the boss in this murky whirlpool,
and no one is going to stop me or even try to stop me."
     As soon  as they passed the grove, they heard the hum  of loudspeakers,
the roar of exhausts, and exasperated cries. Ahead, on a gentle grassy slope
rising  to the  north,  stood three rows of tanks. Men  were wandering among
them, through a veil of blue-gray smoke.
     "Well, men, there are your coffins!" shouted a cheerful voice  ahead of
them.
     "Take a look at  what they're giving  us," said  Guy. "Prewar machines,
junk,  tin cans.  Mac, what's going to happen  to us? Are we really going to
die here?"
     "How far  is it  to  the border?" asked Maxim. "And what's  beyond  the
crest of the hill?"
     "A plain," replied Guy. "Flat as a pancake. It's about two miles to the
border. Then the lulls begin and they go as far as --"
     "A river?"
     "No."
     "Ravines?"
     "No. I don't remember. Why?"
     Maxim caught his arm and squeezed it firmly.
     "Don't give up, Guy. Everything will be all right."
     "You mean that? Otherwise,  I can't  see any way out  of this.  They've
taken  away our weapons, given us blanks instead  of  real ammo. No  machine
guns. No matter which way we turn, we're going to die."
     "Aha!" gloated  Zef, picking  at  his  teeth. "So, Guy,  you've finally
gotten your feet wet. It's not  as simple as  giving  your prisoners a smack
across the mouth."
     The  column  straggled  into  the  rows of  tanks and  halted.  It  was
difficult to  carry on a conversation over the  noise. Huge loudspeakers had
been set up  on the  grass,  and a taped  voice kept repeating:  "Beyond the
crest  a  treacherous enemy  lies in  wait.  Forward! Forward!  There  is no
retreat!  Pull  your  accelerators back  and go  forward. Against the enemy.
Forward!  Beyond  the  crest  a  treacherous  enemy lies  in wait.  Forward!
Forward!..."Then  the voice broke off in the  middle  of a sentence, and the
colonel  began to  shout. He stood on  the hood of his jeep  while battalion
leaders held his legs steady.
     "Soldiers!" shouted the colonel. "Enough talk! Get into your tanks! And
drivers, watch out, because I don't give a damn about you: if any one of yon
remains behind, I'll..." He drew out his pistol and waved it in the air. "Do
you understand, you numb-skulls? Captains, lead your crews to the tanks. "
     Pandemonium broke out.  The colonel, swaying on  the hood, continued to
shout, but he was drowned out by  the loudspeakers, repeating the same taped
message. The shock troops dashed  to the third row of tanks. A fight erupted
and  hobnailed boots flew  through the air. A huge gray crowd swarmed slowly
around the  last  row of  tanks.  Some  tanks  began  to  move,  and  people
scattered.  The colonel  turned blue trying to make himself heard above  the
loudspeakers   and  in  desperation  fired   over   the   soldiers'   heads.
Legionnaires, like a long black chain, came running from the woods.
     "Let's go."  Maxim gripped Guy and Zef firmly by the shoulders and  led
them, on the double, to the last tank in the first row.
     "Wait a minute," babbled Guy, bewildered. "We're in the Fourth Company;
we're supposed to be over there, in the second row."
     "Keep going,  don't stop!" said Maxim angrily. "Maybe you still want to
lead your platoon?"
     "It's the soldier in his bones," said Zef.
     Someone  grabbed Mac from the rear  by his belt. Without turning, Maxim
tried to  free  himself  but couldn't.  He looked  around.  Behind his back,
hanging onto him stubbornly with one  hand and wiping a bloody nose with the
other,  trailed  the fourth  member  of  the crew,  the driver. A  criminal,
nicknamed the Hook.
     "Oh," said Maxim, "I forgot about you. Come on, make it snappy."
     Annoyed at himself, he made a mental note of his oversight; in all  the
commotion he  had  forgotten about a man who had been assigned  an important
role in his plan. At that instant, the Legion's submachine guns opened fire,
and a  hail of  bullets pinged  and hopped  along the  armor of  surrounding
tanks, forcing  Maxim to bend over and race headlong  toward  the last tank.
When they reached it, Maxim halted.
     "Obey my orders," he said. "Hook,  you drive. Zef, to the  turret! Guy,
check the lower hatches. And thoroughly, or I'll have your head!"
     He circled the  tank and  examined its treads. Bullets were  flying all
around him and the  loudspeakers grumbled monotonously, but  he had promised
himself  not to  let anything divert him. He made  another mental  note: the
loudspeakers  --  Guy  -- don't  forget. The  treads  were  in  fairly  good
condition, but the front  drive  wheels didn't exactly  inspire  confidence.
"Never  mind, it will do. We won't be riding this  monster  for  long." Guy,
covered with mud, crawled out from under the tank.
     "The  hatches are rusty!" he shouted. "I didn't close them. I left them
open. OK?"
     "Beyond the crest,  a  treacherous enemy lies  in wait!"  repeated  the
taped voice. "Forward! Forward! Pull your accelerators back."
     Maxim caught Guy by the collar and pulled him close.
     "You're  my  buddy, right?" He  stared  hard into Guy's wide-open eyes.
"You trust me, don't you?"
     "Of course!"
     "Obey only me! No one else! Everything else you hear is a pack of lies.
I am your buddy. You can trust only me and no one else. Remember that!  I am
giving you an order: remember it!"
     Guy nodded hastily and repeated: "Yes, yes. Only you. No one else."
     "Mac!"  someone  shouted into his  ear. Maxim swung around. Before  him
stood  that strangely  familiar  man in the long  raincoat. Massaraksh. That
square, peeling face, those bloodshot eyes. It was Fank. He had blood on his
cheek, and his lip was cut badly.
     "Massaraksh!" yelled Fank, trying  to be heard over the noise. "Are you
deaf? Don't you recognize me?"
     "Fank!" said Maxim. "What are you doing here?"
     Fank wiped the blood from his lip.
     "Let's go!" he shouted. "Hurry!"
     "Where?"
     "Let's get the hell out of here!"
     He  grabbed  Maxim by his  belt  and pulled him. Maxim  pushed away his
hand.
     "We'd be killed!" shouted Maxim. "The legionnaires!"
     Fank shook his head.
     "Let's go! I have  a pass for you." Maxim refused to  budge. "I've been
searching for you  all over  the country. I almost didn't find you. We  must
go, at once!"
     "I'm not alone!" shouted Maxim.
     "I don't understand."
     "I'm  not alone," snapped  Maxim.  "There are three  of  us. I won't go
without the others."
     "Nonsense!  What kind of idiotic nobility  is  that? Are  you  tired of
living?" Fank choked from the strain of shouting.
     Maxim  looked around. Pale, his lips trembling, Guy clung to his sleeve
and looked at him. He had heard everything.
     In the next tank two legionnaires were beating a soldier with their gun
butts.
     "One  pass!" yelled  Fank,  coughing and choking. "One!" He held up one
finger.
     Maxim shook his head.
     "There  are three of  us!" He held  up  three fingers.  "I'm not  going
anywhere without the others!"
     Zef's  red beard stuck  out  from  the side hatch. Fank  bit  his lips.
Obviously he didn't know what to do.
     "Who are you?" shouted Maxim. "Why do you need me?"
     Fank glanced at him for an instant, then looked at Guy.
     Is this fellow with you?" he shouted.
     "Yes," replied Maxim, "and this one, too!"
     Fank's eyes grew wild. He slid his hand under his raincoat,  pull out a
pistol, and aimed it  at Guy. Maxim  struck Fank's hand upward with all  his
strength, and the  pistol  flew  into the air  Fank bent over,  tucking  his
injured hand beneath his arm.  With a  short accurate blow Guy struck him in
the neck, and he collapsed. Suddenly legionnaires appeared beside them teeth
clenched, faces taut with rage.
     "Into the tank!" Maxim bent over and grabbed Fank under the arms.
     Fank  was  fat and Maxim had trouble  shoving him. Maxim dived in after
him,  receiving a parting blow  from a gun butt. Inside  the tank it  was as
dark and cold  as a crypt. Zef pulled Fank away  from the hatch and laid him
on the floor.
     "Who is this?" he snapped. Maxim didn't  have a  chance to reply. After
tugging at the starter  for a long time, Hook finally  got the tank rolling.
Maxim climbed through the turret and  stuck his head out. The  rows  between
the  tanks  were deserted  now except for legionnaires. All  the engines had
been started, and the  roar was incredible. Dense clouds of exhaust obscured
the  slope.  Some tanks  were moving: here  and  there  heads protruded from
turrets. The shock trooper in the next tank thrust his head out, signaled to
Maxim, made a wry face, then disappeared. The tanks moved forward and up the
slope.
     Suddenly  Maxim felt someone grab him  around the waist and try to pull
him  down.  Bending over,  he saw Guy's  eyes staring  at  him  idiotically.
Massaraksh, it  was the  bomber scene all  over again! Guy grabbed  him with
both hands and kept muttering; his face grew repulsive  as all its  youthful
charm vanished  and sheer  inanity and murderous  impulses  seized  control.
"It's  begun,"  thought Maxim, struggling to  loosen Guy's grip.  "Yes, it's
begun all right. The emitters have been turned on."
     The tank climbed onto the crest, and clods of earth shot out from under
its  treads.  Blue-gray  smoke blocked visibility  to the rear, and  a gray,
clayey  plain  suddenly opened  ahead  of  them.  In the distance  stretched
Khonti's  low  hills,  and   the  avalanche  of   tanks  swept  toward  them
relentlessly. No  longer in formation,  the tanks  raced  forward,  brushing
against each other now and then and swinging their turrets around comically.
A tread flew from one tank racing full speed; the vehicle spun in place like
a top and turned over; its other tread tore off and flew into the sky like a
shiny snake; its front wheels continued to spin, and two men  in gray jumped
from  its lower hatches.  They landed  on  the ground, waved their arms, and
rushed forward, forward, toward the treacherous enemy. A shell burst through
the  clanging and roaring  tanks with a resounding  crash. Long red  tongues
leaped simultaneously from the  tanks'  guns. The tanks crouched, leaped up,
and shrouded themselves in dense  black gunsmoke. Within  minutes everything
was covered by a blackish-yellow cloud. Maxim was too fascinated to tear his
eyes away  from  this spectacle,  so  impressive in its  criminal absurdity.
Meanwhile  he patiently  loosened Guy's  tenacious  grip  on him, while  Guy
called out  and pleaded, consumed  with a  desire  to  shield Maxim from all
perils with his own body.
     Maxim  remembered that  he must take over  the controls.  As he dropped
down, he slapped Guy  on  the shoulder; then  grabbing onto metal braces and
choking from  the gasoline fumes,  he surveyed the  scene  in  the  cramped,
swaying box. He glanced at Fank's dead-white face and at Zef, writhing under
the ammunition case. He shoved Guy aside, and made his way to the driver.
     Hook had pulled  the accelerator back all the way, as hard as he could;
and he sang so loudly that he could be heard over all the noise. Maxim could
distinguish the words of "The Hymn of  Thanksgiving. "  He must  tranquilize
him somehow, take his place  at the controls, and look  around in this smoke
for a  convenient  ravine or deep hollow  where they could shield themselves
from nuclear explosions.
     No sooner had he begun to unclench Hook's fists, frozen on the  levers,
than faithful Guy, angered  that his master was not being obeyed, lunged and
struck  half-crazed Hook on  the temple with  a heavy wrench. Hook crumpled,
releasing the levers. Enraged, Maxim shoved Guy aside. There was no time  to
react with horror  or  sympathy. He pulled the body away, sat down, and took
the controls.
     Almost nothing was  visible through the observation hatch: only a small
patch of  grass, and beyond that a dense shroud of blue-gray fumes. It would
be  impossible  to find anything  in this haze. He could do only one  thing:
slow down and move cautiously until the tank had made  its way deep into the
hills. But it would be dangerous  to slow down: if the atomic mines went off
before he reached the hills, they would be incinerated. Guy kept clinging to
him, hoping to hear a command.
     "Never mind, buddy," muttered Maxim, pushing him  away with his elbows.
"Ê will pass. You'll get over it. Hold out a little longer."
     The tank slipped through a thick  stream of  black  smoke, and  as they
emerged they  had to swerve sharply to the left  to avoid a man flattened by
tank treads. When the smoky shroud had  partially  cleared, Maxim saw  brown
hills not far away and the muddy romp of a tank crawling at an oblique angle
to the rest  of the tank force. Then he saw  a burning tank. Turning to  the
left, he headed for a deep brush-covered hollow  nestled between  two hills.
Just  before he reached it, a flame spurted  toward them, and the whole tank
vibrated  from  the heavy  blow. Maxim reacted instantly, racing the tank at
top speed. Bushes and  a  cloud of  whitish  smoke leaped toward them; white
helmets, faces distorted with hate,  raised fists flashed by; then something
made of steel crackled  as it burst beneath the treads.  Maxim clenched  his
teeth,  made a  sharp  right,  and  maneuvered  the heavily  listing vehicle
farther away,  along the slope.  It almost overturned  as it skirted a hill.
Finally he  entered  a narrow hollow overgrown  with saplings. He decided to
stop here.
     He flung  open the forward hatch and looked around. It  was  a suitable
spot; high brown hills crowded the tank  on all sides.  No  sooner had Maxim
muffled the engine than Guy howled some nonsense, absurdly rhythmic words, a
homemade ode in honor of his great and beloved master, Mac Sim.
     "Shut  up!" ordered Maxim. "Get the others outside and lay them next to
the  tank.  Wait,  I haven't  finished yet! These  are  my best friends, and
yours, too, so take it easy. Be very gentle."
     "Where are you going?" Guy was terrified.
     "Nowhere. I'll be right here, nearby."
     "Don't go away. Or can I go with you?"
     "I gave you an order. Do as you're told. And remember, gently."
     Guy  protested, but Maxim ignored him. He climbed from the tank and ran
up the slope. Somewhere in the distance, tanks were rolling, engines roaring
full blast, treads clattering, and  cannons thundering. A shell whined  high
in  the sky. Crouching, Maxim  ran to the  top, squatted between the bushes,
and congratulated  himself  for choosing  such a  suitable refuge  for their
tank.
     Below,  seemingly within arm's reach, a wide corridor stretched between
the hills,  and tanks  rolled through it from the  smoke-covered plain. Low,
snub-nosed, powerful, with enormous flat turrets and long cannons, the tanks
streamed by in a solid  mass.  This was not  the  penal  battalion, but  the
regular army. Maxim observed this awesome  spectacle for several minutes, as
if he were watching a historical film. Although the air reeled and shuddered
from the frenzied thundering and  roaring and the lull trembled beneath  his
feet  like  a frightened animal, Maxim felt  as if the tanks were moving  in
sullen  silence.  He  knew  very  well  that   beneath  the  armored  plates
half-crazed  soldiers  were gasping  for breath. But  all the  hatches  were
sealed, and it seemed that  each tank was a solid block  of  metal. When the
last tanks had passed, Maxim glanced below at his own tank listing among the
trees. It  looked like  a  pitiful  tin toy,  a decrepit  parody  of a  real
military weapon. Yes, one army had passed below, to  confront  an  opposing,
more fearsome army. Maxim hastened back to the grove.
     He skirted the tank and stopped short.
     They lay in a row: Fank, his  blood-drained face  almost  as  blue as a
dead man's; the writhing, groaning  Zef, his dirty fingers clutching his mop
of  red  hair;  and the  cheerfully smiling Hook,  with the dead eyes  of  a
puppet. His  order had been executed to  the letter. But Guy, in tatters and
covered with blood, lay there, too, a short distance away; his face, wearing
a hurt  expression, was turned away from the sky, and  his  arms were  flung
apart. The  grass  around him was  crushed and  trampled;  a flattened white
helmet with  dark stains lay in the mud,  and a pair of boots protruded from
some broken bushes.
     "Massaraksh,"  muttered Maxim, imagining  with  horror how  only a  few
minutes  ago two snarling and howling dogs  had  grappled here  to the last,
each for the glory of his master.
     At that  instant, the opposing  army inflicted  a reciprocal  blow.  It
caught Maxim in the eyes. He snarled with pain,  closed his eyes as  tightly
as possible, and fell on Guy, trying to  shield him with his  body, although
he knew Guy was already dead. It was an automatic reflex: he had no  time to
think  about anything, to feel anything except the pain in  his eyes. He was
still falling when he blacked out.

     Probably no more than several seconds had elapsed  before  he  regained
consciousness, but he was drenched in sweat.  His throat was parched and his
ears rang as if he  had been hit  on the head  with a two-by-four. The world
had suddenly changed: it  had turned  crimson. It was strewn with leaves and
broken branches, with  scorching  air, with bushes torn up  by their  roots.
Burning twigs and clods of hot, dry earth fell like rain from a red sky. The
silence  was  morbid.  Guy, spattered with leaves,  lay face down about  ten
steps away. Next to  him sat Zef, still clutching his head with one hand and
shielding  his eyes  with the other. Fank  had  rolled into a gully, and was
thrashing around and rubbing his face in  the dirt. The tank  had been swept
below, where it had overturned. Thrown back  against a tread. Hook was still
smiling.
     Maxim jumped up  and  pushed aside the fallen branches. He ran  to Guy,
grabbed him, lifted him, looked into his  glassy eyes, and pressed his cheek
to Guy's. He cursed this world where he was so alone and helpless, where the
dead were dead forever, where there was no way of restoring them to life. He
cried,  beat the  ground with his fists, trampled  the white helmet; but  he
recovered his senses when Zef  screamed  with  pain.  Now  filled  only with
hatred and  a thirst to  kill,  Maxim, without turning, plodded back  up the
hill to his observation post.
     Here, too, everything had changed.  The bushes had  vanished, the baked
clay smoked and crackled, and the  hill's northern slope was burning. To the
north the crimson sky fused with  a solid wall of blackish-brown  smoke, and
above the wall rose oily bright orange clouds, which swelled before his very
eyes.
     Maxim looked down at the corridor  between the hills. It was  deserted.
The clay, plowed up  by  tank treads  and  burned by the nuclear strike, was
smoking; thousands of flames  danced on  it. The plain to  the  south seemed
very broad and deserted. It was  no longer obscured by the  haze  of burning
gunpowder; it was red  beneath the red sky, and  on it rested lonely  boxes,
the  blackened  ruins  of  the penal battalion tank corps. Along  the plain,
approaching the hills, rolled a thin broken chain of strange vehicles.
     They  resembled  tanks,  except  that instead  of  gun turrets  a  high
latticed  cone with a  dull circular object at its  tip was  mounted on each
vehicle. They moved rapidly, rocking  gently on the uneven ground. They were
neither  black,   like  the  tanks  of  the  ill-fated   shock  troops,  nor
grayish-green like  the army tanks at the breakthrough;  they were yellow, a
vivid  yellow, like the Legion's patrol cars. Beyond the hills, the ranks of
the  right  flank  were no  longer  visible.  Maxim  managed to count  eight
emitters. How brazen  they were,  as if they knew they were masters  of  the
situation. Imagine -- plunging into combat without cover or camouflage! They
deliberately  flaunted  their  garish yellow paint,  their  ugly  five-meter
protuberance,  and their absence of weapons. Their drivers probably believed
themselves  to  be completely safe.  From  the  way  they rushed  ahead,  it
appeared  that they  scarcely  gave safety any thought. They spurred on  the
iron herd with their radiation whips, a herd  now rolling through hell.  Yet
they  themselves knew  nothing about the whips, were unaware that they  were
lashing themselves. Maxim spotted an emitter on the  left flank heading  for
the hollow. He set out to meet it.
     He  walked erect. He realized  that force  must be used to  extract the
black-uniformed legionnaires from  their iron shells, and that was precisely
what  he  wanted  now. Never before  had he  craved the  feel of human flesh
beneath  his  fingers. By the time  he  had  descended into the  hollow, the
emitter was very close.  The yellow vehicle rolled straight  at him, staring
blindly with its glass periscopes. Its latticed cone rocked ponderously, out
of  phase  with  the vehicle's bobbing motion. Now Maxim  could make  out  a
silver  sphere,  thickly covered  with  long  shiny needles, rocking  at the
cone's peak.
     Realizing  that they had  no intention  of stopping, Maxim  yielded the
road, let them pass, and ran alongside  the vehicle for several  yards. Then
he jumped onto its armor plating.

PART FIVE: EARTHLING

18.

     The  state   prosecutor  slept  lightly.  The  telephone  awakened  him
instantly.  Without  opening  his eyes,  he  removed the  receiver  and said
hoarsely: "Hello."
     His  assistant's whiny voice announced  apologetically: "Seven o'clock,
your honor."
     "Yes," said the prosecutor, his eyes still closed. "Yes. Thank you."
     He turned on the  light, threw  off the covers,  and sat on the edge of
the  bed. Staring at  his  pale, skinny legs, he  sat there for  some  time,
reflecting on his lot  in sad surprise: he could not recall a single  day in
the  past sixty years when  his sleep hadn't been interrupted.  Someone  was
always waking him up. When he was a lieutenant, that pig of an orderly would
awaken  him  after  a  drinking  spree. When he  was chairman of  the  Black
Tribunal, that idiot  secretary would awaken  him for his signature on death
sentences. As a schoolboy, he  would be awakened  for  school by his mother,
and that  was the most miserable of all awakenings. He  was always told: You
must! You must, your honor. You must, Mr. Chairman. You must, my dear little
boy. Now he was telling  himself that he must. He  rose, threw off his robe,
splashed eau de cologne over  his face,  inserted his bridgework,  stared at
himself in the mirror as he massaged his cheeks, then entered his study.
     A glass of  warm milk and a dish of  salted  crackers under  a starched
napkin  waited for him on his desk. Before partaking of his special diet, he
went to the  safe, removed a green folder, and  placed it on the desk beside
his breakfast. While he munched  crackers and sipped milk, he  inspected the
folder thoroughly,  until he was convinced that no one had  tampered with it
since  last night.  How much had changed, he thought. Only three months  had
passed, but  how  everything  had changed! He  glanced  mechanically  at the
yellow  telephone and could  not tear his eyes from it for  several seconds.
The phone was silent -- as bright and frivolous as a toy, but as frightening
as an infernal time bomb that cannot be defused.
     The prosecutor seized the green folder  with both hands and frowned. He
sensed fear  getting the better of him and hastened  to  check  it. No, this
wouldn't  do:  he  must  remain  absolutely  calm, must  reason  with  total
objectivity. "Besides, I have no  choice. If I'm  taking a  risk, well, I'll
simply have to  take  it. But I  must keep it to a minimum. And I will. Yes,
massaraksh, to a minimum!... So, you aren't so sure  about that, eh.  Smart?
Oh, so yon doubt it? You're always doubting. Well, let's try and dispel your
doubts.  Have you  ever heard of a certain Maxim  Kammerer? Have you really?
Aha,  you only think  you have. You've never heard of the man before.  Well,
get set. Smart, you're going to hear about him right now for the first time.
Hear  this out  and  form the  most  objective and unbiased judgment of him.
Smart, it's  very important for me  to know your objective opinion: my hide,
you know, depends on it."
     He chewed the last cracker and drained the milk.
     "All right, Mr. Smart, let's get down to business!" he said aloud.
     He  opened  the  folder.  "The man's  past  is  hazy. A  rather  feeble
introduction to our  acquaintance.  But we  not only know how to deduce  the
present from the past; we can deduce the past from  the  present. And  if we
need  to know the past of our friend Mac, we can eventually  deduce it  from
the present. We call that  extrapolation. So, what do we have here? Our  Mac
begins  his  present  with  his  escape  from  the  penal colony.  Suddenly.
Unexpectedly. Precisely at the moment when Strannik and I were about  to lay
our hands  on  him.  Here's  the commanding general's  panicky  report,  the
classical  howling of an idiot who  has  screwed  something  up  and doesn't
expect to escape  punishment:  he is completely  innocent, he merely carried
out orders; he  did not know that  the  subject  had volunteered for service
with a sapper detachment of condemned men and that said subject was blown up
in a mine field. He didn't know. Nor did  Strannik and I. But we should have
known!  The subject  is  an unpredictable individual,  and  you  should have
anticipated something of the sort, Mr, Smart. Yes, at the time I was shocked
by the news, but now we understand what happened: someone told Mac the truth
about the towers; he  decided that  he  could not accomplish anything in the
Land of the All-Powerful Creators, so he escaped to the South, pretending he
had perished." The prosecutor rubbed his forehead sluggishly. "Yes, that was
the beginning  of everything. It was the first miss in a series of misses: I
believed that  he had perished. And  why  shouldn't  I have? What normal man
would escape to the  South? Anyone would have believed that he had perished.
But Strannik didn't."
     The prosecutor picked up the next report. "Oh, that Strannik! Clever! A
genius!  That's the way I should have operated, like him! I was sure Mac was
dead.  After all, the  South is the South. Strannik saturated the other side
of the river  with his agents. Fat Fank -- too bad I never got to him, never
took him in  hand.  That  greasy pig  wore  himself out running  around  the
country, sniffing, spying. He lost Kura to malaria on Route Six, and Rooster
was captured by mountaineers;  and then Fifty-five -- whoever he  is  -- was
grabbed  by  pirates on  the coast. But Fifty-five  managed to get a message
through: Mac, he said, had turned up and surrendered to the patrols.
     "That's how people with brains operate: they don't believe a damn thing
or  feel  sorry  for anyone. That's  how I should have  acted. I should have
pushed everything else aside  and concentrated on finding Mac.  Even  then I
realized very well what an awesome force Mac was. But instead of working  on
his case exclusively, I hooked up with Puppet and lost the game. Then  I got
involved in this idiotic war and lost again. And now I would have lost again
if  I  hadn't  had  a  stroke of  luck: Mac  turned up  in the  capital,  in
Strannik's lair, and I learned about it before Strannik did.  Yes, Strannik,
you boney-eared bastard, you're the loser now. You had to dash off somewhere
on business. And I  don't  know  where or  why  you went,  but that  doesn't
disturb me in the  least. Well and good! Naturally you relied  on  your Fank
for everything, and your  Fank delivered  Mac to you. But  what bad luck  --
your  Fank  collapsed from  his  strenuous  military exploits and  is  lying
unconscious in the palace  hospital. Ah,  yes, he's a very important figure:
only the big shots get hospitalized there! And this time I won't  miss. This
time he'll  lie there as long  as I consider it necessary.  You aren't here,
Fank isn't, but our boy Mac is, and that is a lucky break. ' '
     The joy of triumph surged through him. He stifled it at once. "There go
my  emotions again, massaraksh. Calm down. Smart. You are getting  to know a
new  man, by the  name  of Mac, and  you must be very  objective. Especially
since  this new Mac bears no resemblance to the old one.  He's  no longer  a
child; he knows now what finance and juvenile delinquency are all about. Our
Mac has  grown a good  deal wiser and more serious. For example, he made his
way into the underground's leadership (his sponsors, Memo Gramenu  and  Allu
Zef) and  hit them like a bolt out of the blue with a proposal to expose the
real  purpose  of  the towers to the entire underground. The  staff screamed
bloody murder, but Mac convinced them. He frightened and confused them. They
accepted  his  proposal and  assigned  Mac the task of working  it  out.  He
learned the ropes very quickly and  sized up the entire situation correctly.
They understood this and realized who they were dealing with. Ah, here's the
last  report: a faction  of educators among the leadership involved him in a
discussion of a plan to reeducate the  population, and he agreed to it  with
enthusiasm. Immediately  he proposed a host of  ideas.  Lord only knows what
they  were,  but  that's  not  important.  The whole  idea of reeducation is
idiotic. What's important is that he is no longer a terrorist, has no desire
to blow up anything  or  kill anyone; that  he is  now busy with his career,
building  prestige  among  the underground leadership, delivering  speeches,
criticizing,  and  moving  upward;  that  he  has ideas  and is  anxious  to
implement them -- and that, my dear Mr. Smart, is precisely what you need."
     The prosecutor leaned back in his chair.
     "Ah, here's something else I need: a report on his life style. He works
hard in the laboratory and at home; still  remembers that  girl,  Rada Gaal;
takes  part in sports; doesn't smoke, rarely drinks, and eats in moderation.
On the other hand, he clearly  leans toward a luxurious life style and knows
his worth. For example,  cars. After expressing dissatisfaction with a staff
car's  low power and ugly appearance, he appropriated  it as  if it were due
him. He is  also dissatisfied with his apartment;  he feels  it is too small
and lacks  basic comforts.  He  has  decorated his  quarters  with  original
paintings  and antiquarian  art, spending almost his entire advance on them.
And so on. Good material,  very  good. I wonder how much money he has at his
disposal? So-o, he's a project  leader  in a chemical  synthesis laboratory.
They  set him up rather elegantly, and probably promised  him still more.  I
wonder what reasons  they gave Mac for Strannik's needing him? Fank, the fat
pig, knows, but he'd die rather than breathe a word. If only I could drag it
out of him. Then it would give me great pleasure to finish him off. How much
unnecessary worry he's caused me. And he stole Rada from me. How  useful she
could  be to  me now. Rada -- an excellent  weapon when you're  dealing with
pure, honest, courageous Mac! Well, maybe things haven't worked out so badly
after all. Mac,  I'm not the one who's holding your girl under lock and key.
It's all Strannik's doing, that blackmailer."
     The prosecutor  started: the yellow phone jingled softly. He passed his
trembling fingers across his forehead. No, it had to be a mistake. Of course
it was. The  call  was  not for him. The telephone  is a complicated device;
some wires had probably  crossed. He  wiped his hands on his  robe.  At that
instant the  ringing of the telephone tore through him like a bullet, like a
dagger in the throat. He picked up the receiver.
     "State prosecutor speaking."
     "Smart? This is Chancellor."
     There it  was. Any  moment  he'd  hear: "I'll  expect  you  in an hour,
Smart."
     "I recognized your voice," he said weakly. "How are you?"
     "Have you read the report?"
     "No." He was waiting for him to  say: "You haven't? Well, come over and
I'll read it to you myself."
     "You've really screwed up the war."
     The  prosecutor  swallowed.  He  must  say   something.  He   must   --
immediately. Some good-natured banter. But tactfully. Please God, tactfully!
     "You've nothing to say? What did I tell  you? Keep your nose out of it.
Stick to civilian matters and leave military affairs alone."
     "You  know, Chancellor, we are  all  your children. And  children don't
always listen to their parents."
     Chancellor tittered. "Children. But  where is  it  said: 'If your child
fails to obey you...' How does the rest of it go. Smart?"
     "Oh, God!" thought the  prosecutor, "I  remember. Those were  his  very
words then: 'Wipe it from the face of the earth.' And Strannik had picked up
a heavy  black pistol from the  desk, raised it slowly, and fired twice, and
Chancellor's child had clasped its  balding head with both hands and sunk to
the floor."
     "Has your memory failed you? So, what are you going to do, Smart?"
     "I made a mistake," he said hoarsely. "A mistake. It was all because of
Puppet."
     "So, you made a mistake. Well,  all right, think about it. Smart. Think
it over. I'll call you again."
     And that was it. Chancellor had hung up, and  he  didn't know  where to
phone him -- to cry, to plead. "Oh, how stupid, how stupid of me. All right,
hold on. Get a  grip on yourself, you coward!"  With all his might he struck
his open hand against the edge of the desk, to draw blood, to  inflict pain,
to stop the trembling. It helped  a little. Still  bent over, he opened  the
lower  desk drawer  with  his other hand, removed a  flask  and took  a  few
swallows. The  warmth  coursed through him.  "Now, that's  the way. Take  it
easy.  This thing isn't over  yet. The race  is to the swiftest. You're  not
finished with Smart yet. You won't get him so easily. If you could have, you
would have  done it already.  The call  doesn't mean a thing. He always does
that. There's still time. Two, three, even four days. Yes, there's time!" he
shouted to himself. "Don't get hysterical." He rose and began to circle  the
room rapidly.
     "You see, I have a hold over you. I have Mac.  I have a man who doesn't
fear radiation. A  man for whom no  obstacle exists. Who wants to change the
system. Who hates us. A man so pure he is open to all temptations. A man who
believes in me.  Who  wants to meet  me. He is anxious to meet me: my agents
have told  him many times  that the state prosecutor is a good  man,  a just
man, and a fine legal expert, a real  guardian of the law; that the Creators
detest him and tolerate him only because they distrust each other. My agents
have  already pointed  me  out  to  him  in  secret,  and  he was  favorably
impressed.  And  most important  of all,  a hint was  dropped to him  in the
strictest confidence  that  I knew the  Center's  location. Although  he has
excellent control over  his  physical expressions, I was told  that  he gave
himself away that time. Yes, that's the kind of man  I have  -- a man who is
eager to seize the Center. The only man  who can do it.  Of  course, I don't
actually have this man in my hands yet, but the line has been cast, the bait
swallowed, and  today I'll  set  the  hook.  Otherwise, I'm  finished.  Yes,
finished."
     He turned sharply and stared at the yellow telephone.
     His imagination went wild.  He visualized the  cramped room upholstered
in purple velvet, stuffy, sour-smelling, windowless, with a bare dilapidated
table and  five  gilded chairs. "And the rest  of  us stood  there:  myself,
Strannik with  murderous eyes, and that bald-headed  butcher. He  must  have
known where the Center  was: God, how many people he'd  killed to find  out.
What a drunkard and  braggart! How  could he blab about such monstrous deeds
to  his  relatives?  And  to  what  relatives! And  he's  the  chief  of the
Department of Public Health, the Creators' eyes and ears, the nation's sword
and  shield. I remember Chancellor's  words:  'Wipe him from the face of the
earth!,'  and Strannik  fired  point-blank twice.  And  Baron  was  annoyed:
'You've spattered the upholstery again.' Then they argued about why the room
reeked, and my legs  felt  like water, and I thought: 'Do they or don't they
know?'  Strannik stood there, grinning and looking at  me  knowingly. But he
didn't know  a thing. Now I understand why -- he always took great pains  to
prevent anyone from  learning the  secret of the  Center. He always knew its
location  and was waiting for  a  chance  to  seize  it himself.  Too  late,
Strannik, too late. And you, too, Chancellor, are too late. You, too. Baron.
And you. Puppet -- well, there's no point talking about you."
     He pushed aside  the drapes and  pressed his forehead against  the cold
glass. He had almost stifled  his terror. Attempting  to stamp  out the last
vestige  of  fear, he  tried  to  visualize Mac bursting  into  the Center's
control room.
     "Of  course,  Voldyr  could  have  done  it,  too,  with  his  personal
bodyguard, that gang of relatives -- cousins, nephews, adopted brothers, and
prot(g(s, those dregs who have always known  only one law: shoot  first. You
had to be  a Strannik to  dare point  a  finger at Voldyr. That same evening
they had attacked Strannik at the  gates  of his mansion,  shot  up his car,
killed  his chauffeur and  secretary, and then, in some  mysterious fashion,
every  last one of them was  knocked out, all twenty-four of  them and their
two machine guns. Yes, Voldyr, too, could  have made it to the control room,
but he  wouldn't  have  gotten any farther, because a  barrier, a depression
emitter,  maybe  two  by  now, would  have  stopped  him. Actually,  one  is
sufficient. No one could get through it:  a degen would pass out from  pain,
and an ordinary, loyal citizen would  fall  to his  knees and  cry  quietly,
overcome  by a severe  depression. Mac  alone could get through, thrust  his
skillful  hands  into  the  generator, and switch  the Center and the entire
tower network onto the depression field. I  can  see it now: with nothing to
bar his  way,  he climbs to the radio studio  and broadcasts  a taped speech
simultaneously on all frequencies. The entire  country, from the Outlands to
the  Khonti  border, is  overcome by  depression; millions of idiots drop to
their knees and drown in tears, sunk in total  apathy. And  the loudspeakers
roar full blast that  the All-Powerful  Creators are criminals, their  names
are  so-and-so, they  are now at  such-and-such  place,  kill them, save the
nation. This is  Mac  Sim  addressing  you, Mac Sim,  a  living  god (or the
legitimate heir to the Imperial Throne -- or the great dictator -- whichever
Mac  prefers). To arms, my Legion! To arms, my army! To arms,  my  subjects!
While the tape is playing, he returns to  the control  room and switches the
generators  to  the heightened  attention  field;  then  the entire  country
listens,  open-mouthed, trying to catch every word, memorizing and repeating
everything silently.  The loudspeakers roar on,  the towers blast  away, and
all this  continues  for  another  hour.  Then  he switches the emitters  to
'ecstasy,' thirty  minutes of  ecstasy, and that  ends the broadcast. When I
come to, after ninety minutes  of agonizing pains  --  which I must bear  --
Chancellor and the rest of  them will be wiped out. There  will be only Mac,
the Great God Mac, and his loyal adviser, the former  state  prosecutor, now
chief  of the Great Mac's government. I'll be safe.  Mac is not the kind who
abandons  useful friends,  or even those who  aren't.  And I shall be a very
useful friend. Oh, what a useful friend I'll be!"
     He interrupted his reverie and returned to his desk. Casting a sidelong
glance at the yellow telephone, he smiled ironically, picked up the receiver
of the  green telephone, and called the  deputy chief of the  Department  of
Special Investigation.
     "Hed?  Good morning.  This  is  Smart. How are you  feeling? How's your
stomach? Well, that's fine. Strannik's  still  away? Baron's  office called,
asked us to take a look at your department. No, no, it's a mere formality. I
don't  have the slightest understanding  of  your work, anyway. So prepare a
report. You know,  conclusions  regarding  the inspection  and  that sort of
thing. Be sure that everyone is in his place, not like the last time. Around
eleven  o'clock.  Arrange things so  I  can be out  of  there  with  all the
documents by noon. See you  later.  Emitters go on in a  few minutes.  Well,
let's go suffer. You do,  don't you? Or maybe you  figured out  some defense
against it a long time ago and  are keeping it from the authorities. Take it
easy. I'm only kidding. So long."
     He hung up and glanced at the clock. Nine forty-five. He began to groan
loudly and dragged  himself to the bathroom.  That  nightmare  again. Thirty
minutes of agony. No defense against  it.  No escape  from it. God,  all you
want to do is die. How humiliating: Strannik must be spared. We'll need him.
     The tub was already filled with hot water. The prosecutor flung off his
robe, pulled  off his  nightshirt, and placed an analgesic under his tongue.
And so it went, day after day. One twenty-fourth of his life was  pure hell.
More than four  percent. Not counting  the  times he  was  summoned  to  the
palace. That part would  be over soon, but he must tolerate the four percent
for the rest of his  life. "Well, we'll see about that, too. When everything
is settled,  I'll take Strannik  in  hand myself." He climbed  into the tub,
made  himself  comfortable,  relaxed,  and  began to devise ways  of  taking
Strannik  in hand. He didn't get very far; the  familiar pain struck  him in
the temple, traveled down his  spine, dug  its claws into every nerve, every
cell, and  began  beating, methodically,  ruthlessly,  to the rhythm of  his
madly pounding heart.
     When  everything was  over,  he lay  a little  while  longer in languid
exhaustion. Yes,  those infernal pains had their compensation: the half-hour
nightmare was succeeded by a few minutes of heavenly bliss.
     He climbed out,  dried  himself in front of the mirror, opened the door
slightly,  and  received a fresh towel from  his valet, dressed, returned to
the  study, drank another glass of warm milk, ate a  bowl of thin gruel with
honey, sat  idly for  a while  until he  had  completely recovered  from his
ordeal, then phoned his assistant and ordered his car.

     A road reserved for government vehicles,  deserted at this hour, led to
the  Department  of Special  Investigation.  Ignoring  traffic  lights,  the
chauffeur turned on a loud, deep-throated siren  from time to time. At three
minutes  to  eleven they  reached  the  department's  high yellow  gates.  A
legionnaire in dress  uniform  crossed  over  to  the  car  and  glanced in.
Recognizing the  prosecutor, he  saluted. Instantly,  the gates swung  open,
revealing a thickly planted garden, yellow  and white apartment houses, and,
behind them, the institute's gigantic rectangular building.
     As  they  rolled slowly  along the narrow road posted  with speed-limit
signs, they  passed  a  playground, a squat building that housed a  swimming
pool, and the club restaurant's colorful building. All of this was bathed in
clouds of dense foliage and the purest air. It had a fragrance that no field
or forest could duplicate. "Ah, that's Strannik for you. It's all his doing.
What a mint of money he's squandered  on this project. But it  certainly has
produced results.  His employees like him. This is the way to  live; this is
the way  to do it.  A  mint of money was squandered, and Sultan was terribly
annoyed, and still  is.  What  about  the  risk?  Of course  there  was one;
Strannik  took it, but the result is that the department is  really his. His
people would  never betray  him  or scheme against him. He has five  hundred
employees working for  him, mostly  young people. They don't read newspapers
or listen to the  radio;  they  don't have time -- they're  too involved  in
important research. So the emitters  are missing their mark here; or rather,
they're  aiming  elsewhere, where it  benefits Strannik. Yes, Strannik, if I
were  in your place, I'd take my  time with  those protective helmets.  Most
likely you are. But, damn it, how can I get my hands on you? If only I could
find another Strannik. No, there isn't another  brain like his in the  whole
world, and he knows it. He keeps a  sharp eye  out  for talent. Gets a solid
hold on a person when he's young; is very kind  to him;  takes him away from
his parents -- and the parents, the fools, are tickled pink!  -- and another
little  soldier joins his  ranks. What a lucky break for me that Strannik is
away now!"
     The car halted and  his assistant opened the door wide. The  prosecutor
climbed out,  walked  up the steps  to  a glass-enclosed lobby. Hed  and his
assistants  were waiting for him. Deliberately assuming a  bored expression,
he shook Hed's  hand flaccidly, glanced at  his assistants, and allowed them
to escort him to the elevator.  They filed  in according to  protocol: first
the state prosecutor,  next  the  deputy chief of  the  department, then the
state prosecutor's  assistant and the deputy chief's  senior  assistant. The
rest remained in the lobby. The group proceeded to Hed's office and filed in
according  to  protocol   again:  the  state   prosecutor,  then   Hed;  the
prosecutor's assistant and Hed's senior assistant remained  in the reception
room. As  soon as they entered the inner office, the prosecutor sank into an
armchair wearily and Hed busied himself at once.  He  pressed the buttons at
the edge  of the desk; when a whole horde of  secretaries came  running into
his office, he ordered tea.
     To amuse himself, the  prosecutor spent the first  few minutes studying
Hed. He  had an uncommonly guilt-ridden face. He avoided direct eye contact,
smoothed  his  hair,  nibbed  his  hands  convulsively,  and  made  numerous
senseless, restless  movements. He always behaved this way.  It constituted,
so to speak,  his basic capital. Constantly arousing suspicions of  a guilty
conscience,  he  was   continuously  subjected  to  meticulous  checks.  The
Department of Public Health  investigated  his life  around the  clock.  And
since it was  impeccable, every new  check  merely confirmed his  surprising
innocence. Hed's rise up the ladder was spectacular.
     The prosecutor knew all this very well: he  had checked  Hed personally
on three occasions, and yet, while studying him now and amusing himself with
his antics, he suddenly caught himself wondering if the  old fox knew  where
Strannik was and was scared stiff that the information would  be dragged out
of him. The prosecutor couldn't resist the temptation.
     "Regards from  Strannik,"  he said casually, tapping his fingers on the
arm rest.
     Hed focused on the prosecutor for an instant and then looked away.
     "Yes," he said, biting his lip. "Uh, we'll have tea in a minute."
     "He asked that you phone him," said the prosecutor even more casually.
     "What? Uh... all right. The tea will  be  exceptionally good  today. My
new secretary is an expert at brewing tea... that is... uh... where should I
call him?"
     "I don't understand," said the prosecutor.
     "I mean  that if I'm to phone  him, I  need his number. He neve lleaves
his number."  Flushing painfully, Hed began to fuss about the desk, slapping
it here and there until he found a pencil. "Where did he say I  should  call
him?"
     The prosecutor abandoned his probe.
     "I was only kidding."
     Flickers of suspicion crossed Hed's face. "Ah! So you were kidding?" He
roared with forced laughter. "You sure put one over  on me. Some joke! And I
really thought... ha-ha-ha! Ah, here's the tea."
     The prosecutor accepted a  glass of  strong tea  from the  well-groomed
secretary's well-groomed hands.
     "All right,  Hed,  let's get down to business.  I don't have much time.
Where's the report?"
     After making many superfluous movements, Hed drew the inspection report
from his desk and handed it to the prosecutor. His hesitant manner suggested
that the  report was  full of false information, was aimed at misleading the
inspector, and had been composed with subversive intentions.
     "Well now." The prosecutor sipped his  tea.  "Let's see what  you  have
here. 'Inspection Report.' Well. Interference Phenomena Laboratory. Integral
Radiation Laboratory.  I don't understand anything. It beats me! How  do you
manage to understand this stuff?"
     "I...   you  know,  I  don't   understand  it  either.  I'm  really  an
administrator. Yes, an administrator.  My job is to provide general guidance
and leadership."
     Hed  avoided the prosecutor's eyes, bit his  lips, and ruffled his hair
with a sweeping gesture. It was now quite  clear that  this  man was not  an
administrator but a Khonti spy with very highly specialized training.
     The prosecutor returned to  the report. He made a profound remark about
the  power amplification sector's overexpenditure of funds; he asked who Zon
Barutu was, and if he  wasn't related  to Moru Barutu, the well-known writer
and propagandist; he  reproved  Hed  for acquiring a lensless  refractometer
that had cost an outlandish sum and still hadn't been put into operation. He
summed  up  the  work of the  radiation  research and  development sector by
saying that evidence of  significant progress  was lacking ("And thank God!"
he  added to  himself) and that  this opinion must be included in  the final
draft of the Inspection Report.
     He was even  more casual about the part of  the report dealing with the
work of  the antiradiation sector. It was engaged in research  on protective
devices.
     "You're  on  a  treadmill,  Hed.  You've made  no progress with  either
physical or physiological defense. The physiological approach  is all wrong:
if  I were to let you cut me up, you'd turn me into an idiot. Your chemists,
on the other hand, are doing a fine job. They've won  another minute for us.
One minute  last  year, and a minute and a  half the year before. Now when I
take a  pill,  I  experience  only  twenty-two minutes of  agony  instead of
thirty. Well, not bad. Almost a thirty percent  reduction. Insert my opinion
in your report: increase the  tempo of  work  on physical defense, encourage
the personnel in the chemical defense sector. That's all."
     He  tossed  the report back  to Hed. "Have  a final draft typed up  and
include my opinion. And now, for the  sake of formality, take me to... well,
I visited  your  physicists last time. Take me to your chemists; I'd like to
see what they're doing."
     Hed  jumped  up and struck the buttons on his  desk  again.  Wearing an
expression of utter fatigue, the prosecutor rose from his chair.
     Accompanied  by Hed  and  his  day assistant,  he toured  the  chemical
defense laboratories at a leisurely pace, smiling politely at personnel with
one service stripe  on the sleeves  of their smocks, slapping the stripeless
ones on the shoulder, pausing by the two-stripers to shake hands, nodding in
a knowing way and inquiring if there were any complaints.
     There  weren't  any. They all  were  working or  pretending they  were.
Lights flickered on  various devices, liquids bubbled in vessels, some stuff
emitted a terrible odor, and somewhere  in the laboratory animals were being
tormented.  The  laboratory was  clean, bright, and  spacious; people seemed
satisfied   and  serene.  They  didn't  display  enthusiasm  and   conducted
themselves very correctly with the inspector, but without any warmth and, in
any case, without servility.
     Strannik's portrait adorned the walls of many offices and laboratories:
it  hung  above work counters,  next  to charts and  graphs,  in  wall space
between  windows, above doors, sometimes beneath plate glass on  desk  tops.
There  were  photographs, pencil and charcoal  sketches,  even a portrait in
oils.  Here  was  Strannik  playing  ball; Strannik  delivering  a  lecture;
Strannik chewing an apple; Strannik meditating, fatigued, furious,  and even
roaring with laughter.  Those sons of bitches had also drawn  caricatures of
him, which  they hung  in the most visible places.  Shocking!  Just imagine,
thought the prosecutor,  entering the  office of  junior attorney Filtik and
finding  a  caricature  of  himself   there.  Massaraksh,   that  would   be
inconceivable, impossible!
     He continued smiling,  slapping shoulders,  shaking hands, thinking all
the while  that this was his second visit to the laboratory  since last year
and nothing  seemed to have changed. But  until today he  had never paid any
serious attention to  it. "Today  I must,"  he thought to himself. "What did
Strannik mean  to me a  year  or  two ago? Formally  he  was  one of  us; in
reality, a cabinet officer  without any influence on policy, without a  role
in  policy-making, without political aspirations.  Since then he  has made a
great deal of  progress: the  nationwide operation to clean up foreign spies
was Strannik's doing." The prosecutor himself  had conducted the trials  and
was shaken when  he realized  that they were dealing not with your  ordinary
spy-degens but with real, experienced intelligence agents planted everywhere
by the Island Empire to gather scientific and economic information. Strannik
had caught them all, down to the last one, and  since then he had become the
permanent chief of Special Counterintelligence.
     It was Strannik who  had exposed  the conspiracy engineered  by Voldyr.
That  character  had  been  solidly entrenched in his position and  had been
dangerously  undermining  Strannik's  control  over counterintelligence. Not
trusting anyone else to do the job, Strannik had knocked him off himself. He
always operated openly and alone. No coalitions, no  temporary alliances. He
had  overthrown three  successive chiefs  of  the War Department in the same
manner  (before they  could  even  open their  mouths,  they  were  summoned
upstairs), until he finally secured Puppet's appointment.  Puppet was scared
stiff of  war.  It was Strannik  who, a year ago, had  killed  Project Gold,
presented upstairs by the Imperial  Union  of Industry and  Finance. At that
time  it  appeared that  Strannik  would  be sacked at  any  moment  because
Chancellor himself was very enthusiastic about the project. Somehow Strannik
convinced him that the project's benefits  were  very temporary, and in  ten
years  there  would  be an epidemic of insanity and utter  devastation.  "He
always manages to prove what  he wants to prove to them; no one but Strannik
is successful at  that. Generally, one  can understand  why.  He never fears
anything. True, he hid himself in his office for a long time, but eventually
he realized his power. He realized that we all needed him, regardless of who
we were  and  how we  fought among  ourselves. Only  Strannik  is capable of
developing a defense against radiation; only  Strannik can save  us from its
torments. And to think that those snotnoses in white smocks draw caricatures
of him."
     His assistant opened the door. He caught sight of  Mac. Mac, in a white
smock with  one stripe on his  sleeve, was  sitting  on  a window ledge  and
looking out. If any attorney were to take the liberty of sitting on a window
ledge  to  count shingles during  working hours,  one  could  with  an  easy
conscience have him  deported as a downright loafer, even a saboteur. But in
this  case, massaraksh, one had  to keep quiet. Try taking him by the scruff
of the neck and he'd tell you off in  a hurry: "Excuse me! I am performing a
mental experiment! Kindly move aside and don't disturb me!"
     The  Great Mac  was  counting  shingles.  He  glanced  briefly  at  the
visitors, started to return to his work, then glanced  around  again  for  a
closer  look.  "He's  recognized  me,"  thought  the prosecutor.  "Ah,  he's
recognized me,  my  clever boy."  He  smiled  politely  at Mac and clapped a
youthful laboratory assistant on the shoulder. Halting in  the middle of the
room, he glanced around.
     "Well," he said, standing between Mac and Hed, "what do we have here?"
     "Mr.  Sim," said Hed, flushing. "Explain to the  inspector what you are
--"
     "I believe I know you," said the Great Mac. "Pardon me if I'm mistaken,
but aren't you the state prosecutor?"
     Dealing with Mac was not an easy matter: his carefully thought out plan
had just gone down the drain.  Mac wouldn't think of concealing anything; he
feared no one and was curious about everything. Drawn up to his full height,
the giant looked down at the prosecutor  as if he were gazing at some exotic
animal. He would have to play it by ear.
     "Yes, I am." The prosecutor stopped smiling and  looked at  Mac in cold
surprise. "As far as I know, I am  the  state  prosecutor,  although I don't
understand..." He frowned and looked into  Mac's  face. Mac  smiled broadly.
"Well, well,  of course. Mac  Sim. Maxim Kammerer. Pardon me, but  you  were
supposed to have perished. Massaraksh, how did you ever get here?"
     "It's a long story," replied Mac,  waving  his  hand. "By the  way. I'm
surprised  to see you here. I never realized that the Department  of Justice
was interested in our work."
     "The most surprising people are  interested in your  work." He took Mac
by  the arm  and  led him to a  far  window.  In  a confidential whisper  he
inquired: "When will you  have those pills for us? Real ones, that will last
a full half hour?"
     "Are you one, too?" asked Mac. "That's right, you'd have to be."
     The prosecutor shook his head sadly. "It's our  blessing and our curse.
The good fortune of our state and the  misfortune of its rulers. Massaraksh,
I'm awfully glad you're alive and well, Mac. I must tell you that your trial
was one of the  few in my career that left me  with a most unhappy  feeling.
No, no, don't try to dismiss it: according to the letter of the law you were
guilty. From that point  of view everything was proper. You attacked a tower
and evidently killed a legionnaire. For such an action,  as  you well  know,
one  doesn't deserve  a pat  on the  head. But I must confess  that  my hand
trembled when  I signed your sentence.  Please don't be offended, but I felt
as if I were sentencing a child. When it comes down to brass tacks, it  must
be said that the escapade was of our rather than your making, and the entire
responsibility --"
     "I'm not  offended. What you say isn't  far  from  the truth: the tower
escapade was childish. Thank God you didn't have us shot."
     "It  was all I  could  do for you.  I remember how  upset I  was when I
learned  of  your death."  He  laughed and  gave Mac's shoulder  a  friendly
squeeze. "Awfully glad that everything turned out  all  right. Delighted  to
meet you." He glanced at his watch. "By the way, Mac, why are you  here? No,
no.  I'm  not going to  arrest  you. That's  not  my  job; let  the military
authorities worry about you. But what are  you  doing in this institute? Are
you really a  chemist? And this, too."  He pointed to  the service stripe on
his sleeve.
     "You  might say I'm  a  little  bit of everything.  Part  chemist, part
physicist --"
     "And   part   underground   conspirator."    The   prosecutor   laughed
good-naturedly.
     "A very small part of me," said Mac firmly.
     "Part conjurer," said the prosecutor.
     Mac looked at him attentively.
     "Part dreamer," continued the prosecutor, "part adventurer."
     "That's no longer a profession," replied Mac. "It is, if  I may say so,
simply a trait possessed by any decent scientist."
     "And decent politician."
     "A rare combination of words," quipped Mac.
     For a  moment  the prosecutor looked  at him  quizzically, then laughed
again.
     "Yes,"  he  said, "political activity has its  unique  character. Never
lower yourself to politics, Mac. Stay with your chemistry." He looked at his
watch unhappily: "Oh, damn it.  I'm terribly pressed  for time. I would have
liked  to stay  and chat with yon. I looked at your dossier.  You're a  very
interesting individual. Well, I suppose you're terribly busy, too."
     "Yes," replied his clever Mac. "Although not as busy, naturally, as the
state prosecutor."
     "Come now, Mac, your chief assures me that you work day and night. Now,
take me, for example... I  can't say that about myself. The state prosecutor
does  have some  free evenings. You'll be surprised to know that I have lots
of questions for you. I must  confess that I wanted to  talk with you,  even
then, after the trial. But I had so many cases, an endless stream of cases."
     "I'm  at your  service," said  Mac. "Especially since  I have a  lot of
questions for you."
     "Now, now, Mac!"  the prosecutor thought to himself.  "Don't be so open
about it. We're not alone." He  said aloud, calmly:  "Fine! I'll do my best.
Now I must ask you to excuse me. I must run."
     He  shook Mac's enormous hand. Ah, yes, he  had finally hooked his Mac.
He was all  his now. "He fell right into my hands. He's anxious to meet with
me,  and  now  I'll  set the  trap."  The prosecutor paused  in the doorway,
snapped his  fingers,  and said as he turned around: "Oh, Mac, what are  you
doing this evening? I just realized that I'm free tonight."
     "This evening? Well, tonight I have --"
     "Then  come  together!" exclaimed the prosecutor.  "That's even better.
You'll  meet  my wife and we'll have  a fine evening. Is  eight o'clock  all
right? I'll send a car for you. Agreed?"
     "Agreed."
     The  prosecutor  was jubilant.  He  made  the  rounds of  the chemistry
sector's  remaining  laboratories, smiling, clapping  shoulders, and shaking
hands. "He agreed!" be thought as he signed the re-port in Hed's office. "He
agreed, massaraksh, agreed!" he chortled  to himself triumphantly on the way
home.
     He gave  instructions to his chauffeur  and ordered  his  assistant  to
inform the department that the prosecutor was occupied. "Don't admit anyone,
disconnect the phone. Go to the devil, get out  of my sight, but stay within
easy reach." He  summoned his wife, kissed her  on the  neck, remembering in
passing that they  hadn't seen each other in about ten days. He asked her to
arrange  a supper -- a light, tasty  meal for four  -- to be a good hostess,
and to be prepared to meet  a most interesting person. Be sure, he added, to
have plenty of wine. An assortment of the very best.
     He shut himself up in his study, laid out the case in the green folder,
and reviewed it again, from the very  beginning. Only once was he disturbed,
when a  messenger from the War Department delivered the latest bulletin from
the front. The front had collapsed. Someone had drawn the Khontis' attention
to  the yellow vehicles,  and  last night  they  had  destroyed  ninety-five
percent of the emitter-equipped tanks with nuclear weapons. No news had been
received yet about the fate of the army. It was the end. The end of the war.
The end of General  Shekagu and General Odu. The end  of Ochkarik,  Chainik,
Tucha, and other rather minor  figures. Very possibly the end of the  Count.
And  it certainly  would  mean  the end  of Smart, too, if  Smart weren't so
clever.
     He dissolved the report in a glass of water and paced around his study.
He felt a tremendous sense of relief:  now, at least, he knew precisely when
he would be summoned  upstairs. "First  they  will finish  off Baron, and it
will take at least twenty-four hours to choose between  Puppet and Zub. Then
they will  have to deal  with  Ochkarik and Tucha.  That will  take  another
twenty-four hours. While they're at it,  they'll knock off Chainik. It  will
take them at least two days  to knock  off General Shekagu. And that will be
it."
     He didn't leave his study until his guest had arrived.

     The guest made a most pleasant impression. He was splendid. So splendid
that the  prosecutor's  wife, a  cold high-society matron, shed twenty years
and behaved in an incredibly feminine manner from the moment  she  laid eyes
on Mac... as if she knew the role Mac would play in her future.
     "Why are you alone?" She was surprised.  "My husband ordered supper for
four."
     "Yes, I did,"  said the prosecutor. "I thought  you would becoming with
your girlfriend. I remember that girl. Because of you she almost  got into a
lot of trouble."
     "She  did," said Mac calmly. "But, with  your permission, we'll discuss
that later."
     They dined  for a long  time; they laughed  a lot, drank a little.  The
prosecutor repeated the latest gossip; his wife told some very risqué jokes;
and Mac described his flight on the bomber.  As he roared with laughter, the
prosecutor thought to himself with horror what would have happened to him if
even one rocket had hit its mark.
     When  supper  was over,  the  prosecutor's  wife  excused herself.  The
prosecutor took Mac by the arm and led him into his study for a wine that no
more than three dozen people in the country had had the chance to savor.
     They  settled down in  comfortable chairs  on  either side  of a coffee
table in the study's coziest corner, sipped the precious wine, and looked at
each other.  Mac wore a very serious expression. He obviously  knew what was
coming,  so the  prosecutor abruptly rejected  his  original plan  for their
discussion, a clever plan built on innuendoes and the gradual recognition of
each  other's  goals.  Rada's  fate,  Strannik's  intrigues,  the  Creators'
machinations  -- all these issues had lost their significance. He recognized
with an amazing clarity that reduced him to despair that  all  his  skill in
conducting such  conversations  was  superfluous  with this  man.  Mac would
either  agree  to  his proposals or  reject  them outright. It was extremely
simple, as simple  as the question of the prosecutor's fate; he would either
live or be crushed in a few days. His fingers trembled; he set the wineglass
on the table quickly and went straight to the point.
     "I know, Mac, that you are a member of the underground, a member of its
staff,  and  an enemy of the  existing order.  And that  you are an  escaped
convict  who  murdered the  crew  of a special operations  tank.  Now, about
myself. I am the state prosecutor, a trusted government official with access
to the highest state secrets, and  also an enemy of the existing order. Here
is my proposal: I  am preparing a coup. You are to  overthrow  the Creators.
When  I say  'you,'  I  mean  you and only  you: this does not  concern your
organization.  You must understand that any  interference by the underground
will lead to total disaster. The conspiracy  I am proposing to you is  based
on my  knowledge of the highest state secret. I shall  tell you this secret.
Only  you and I must know  it. If a third party should learn it,  we will be
exterminated very quickly. Keep in mind that the  underground and its  staff
are  teeming with provocateurs. So don't consider trusting  anyone, not even
your closest friends."
     Without savoring  its  contents, he drained  the  glass of wine.  Then,
leaning toward Mac, he continued.
     "I know  where the Center is.  You are the only man capable of  seizing
control of it. I am  now proposing a plan I've  worked  out for the Center's
capture  and  subsequent  measures. You will  exe-cute  this plan and become
Chief  of  State. I shall remain with  you  as  your  political and economic
adviser, since you are completely unschooled in such  matters. I am familiar
with the  general features of  your objectives. I am not  opposed to them. I
support  them simply because  nothing can  be worse than  what  we have now.
That's it. I'm finished. Now it's your turn."
     Mac said nothing. He twirled the  wineglass in his fingers and remained
silent. The  prosecutor  waited: he felt a peculiar sense of detachment from
his body, as if he were not in it, but suspended  somewhere  in space; as if
he were looking  down upon this  softly  illuminated  cozy  corner, upon the
silent Mac,  and upon something stiff,  unseeing, and lifeless  propped in a
chair beside Mac.
     Finally Mac broke the silence.
     "When I capture the Center, what are my chances of survival?"
     "Fifty-fifty. Maybe better. I don't know."
     Mac paused again for a long time.
     "It's a deal," he said finally. "Where is the Center?"

19.

     Toward noon  the phone rang.  Maxim  picked up the receiver. It was the
prosecutor.
     "I would like to speak with Mr. Sim."
     "Speaking," replied Maxim. "Hello."  He sensed instantly that something
had happened.
     "He's back. Can you begin at once?"
     "Yes," replied Mac in a low voice. "But you promised me something...."
     "I didn't have time." There was a  note  of  panic in his  voice.  "And
there  isn't time now. Begin at once. We can't delay another minute! Mac, do
you hear me?"
     "Yes. Fine. Is that all?"
     "He's  on  his  way to the institute now. He'll  be there in  thirty or
forty minutes."
     "I understand. Anything else?"
     "That's all. Get going, Mac. Good luck!"
     Maxim hung up the receiver and sat there for several seconds, pondering
his next move. "Massaraksh, what a mess. But I still have time to think." He
grabbed the receiver again. "Professor Allu Zef, please."
     "Speaking!"
     "This is Mac."
     "Massaraksh, I asked you not to disturb me today."
     "Keep quiet  and listen. Go down to the  lobby immediately and wait for
me."
     "Massaraksh, I'm busy!"
     Maxim  ground  his  teeth and cast a glance  at his assistant.  He  was
diligently computing on the calculator.
     "Zef, get down to the lobby right now! Do you understand? Now!" He hung
up and dialed Vepr's number. He was in luck: Vepr was home. "This is Mac. Go
outside and wait for me. It's urgent!"
     "Fine," said Vepr. "I'm on my way."
     Maxim  hung up, thrust his hand into a  desk drawer, and pulled out the
first  folder  he  could  lay his  hands  on.  While  he  leafed through  it
mechanically, he  feverishly reviewed in his mind  the  preparations he  had
made. "The car is in  the garage. The  bomb is  in the trunk.  And we have a
full  gas  tank.  No weapons. The  hell  with  it,  we don't need  them. The
documents are in my pocket, and Vepr is waiting. It's a good thing I thought
about taking Vepr. True,  he might refuse to go along with this. No, I doubt
that he will; I wouldn't. Well, that seems to be about  everything." He gave
instructions to  his  assistant. "If  anyone  calls, tell  them  I'm at  the
Construction Department. I'll return in an hour or two. See you later."
     He tucked the folder under his  arm, left the  laboratory, and ran down
the stairs.  Zef was  already pacing the  lobby.  When he spotted Maxim,  he
halted, placed his hands behind his back, and scowled.
     "What the hell's going on? Massaraksh!"
     Maxim grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the exit.
     "What  the hell is going on  here?" muttered  Zef. "Where are we going?
Why?"
     Maxim  shoved him  out the door, pulled him along the  asphalt path and
around the corner toward the garage. The area was deserted except for a lawn
mower chugging in the distance.
     "Where the hell are you taking me?" shouted Zef.
     "Shut up and listen! Get all our people together  at once. All of them.
Whoever  you  can lay your hands on. To hell with their  questions!  Listen!
Whoever you can get. And with weapons. There's a pavilion opposite the gate.
You know where it is?  Dig in  and  wait. In  about thirty minutes.  Are you
listening to me, Zef?"
     "Well?" said Zef impatiently.
     "In about thirty minutes Strannik will arrive at the gate."
     "He's back?"
     "Don't interrupt me. Strannik will probably arrive at the gate in about
thirty minutes. If he doesn't -- fine. Just sit tight and waitfor me.  If he
does come -- shoot him."
     "Have you gone out of your  mind?" asked Zef.  Maxim kept  walking, and
Zef ran  after him, cursing. "We'll  all be  killed,  massaraksh!  There are
guards! Police spies all over the place!"
     "Do your best. Strannik must be shot."
     They walked up to the garage. Maxim leaned  his weight against the bolt
and rolled open the door.
     "This  is insane," said Zef. "Why  Strannik? He's not  that  bad a guy;
everyone likes him."
     "Suit yourself!" said Maxim coldly. He opened the trunk, felt the  fuse
and  timing  device through  the oiled paper, and slammed it shut  again. "I
can't tell you anything right now. But we  have a  chance. Our only chance."
He sat  behind the wheel and  inserted  the ignition key.  "And keep this in
mind: if  you  don't finish  him off, he'll  finish you off. You don't  have
time. Get going, Zef!"
     He turned on the engine and backed out of the garage slowly.
     Zef stood in the doorway. It was the first  time  Mac had ever seen Zef
like this -- frightened, stunned, bewildered.
     The car  rolled toward the gate. A stony-faced legionnaire recorded the
license number unhurriedly, opened the trunk, looked in, closed it, returned
to Maxim.
     "What do you have in the trunk?"
     "A refractometer," said Maxim,  extending his  pass  and  a  permit  to
transfer equipment.
     "Refractometer   RL-seven,   inventory   number...,"   muttered,    the
legionnaire. "I'll write it down in a minute."
     He poked around in his pocket for a pad.
     "Hurry, please. I'm in a rush," said Maxim.
     "Who signed this permit?"
     "I don't know. Probably Hed."
     "You don't know? If I could make out his signature, everything would be
OK."
     Finally he opened  the gate  and  Maxim drove onto  the road.  "If this
doesn't  work out," he thought,  "and  I  manage  to survive,  I'll  have to
escape. Damn Strannik, he sensed that something was up and returned. Suppose
we're successful -- then what? Nothing is ready, we don't have a plan of the
palace. Smart didn't have time to get  it, and he didn't get those photos of
the Creators either. Our people aren't prepared; we don't have a plan.  Damn
Strannik! If it weren't for him. I'd still  have three days left to work out
a plan. And  then there's the  army  and  the staff,  too,  to  worry about.
Massaraksh!  They're  going to get moving  fast. We'll have to  take care of
them.  Well, that's  Vepr's  job. He'll  be glad to  do it. He  knows how to
handle it."
     Maxim turned off  the main thoroughfare into a narrow lane between  two
gigantic  pink stone skyscrapers  and drove along the cobblestones toward  a
ramshackle  blackened cottage. Vepr was waiting  for  him, leaning against a
lamp post and smoking a cigarette. When the car pulled up, he threw away the
butt, squeezed through  the small door, and sat down beside Maxim. As usual,
he was calm.
     "Hi, Mac. What's up?"
     Maxim swung the car around and returned to the main thoroughfare.
     "Do you know what a thermal bomb is?"
     "I've heard about them," replied Vepr.
     "Good. Have you ever handled synchronized fuses?"
     "Only yesterday," said Vepr.
     "Excellent."
     They rode in  silence for some time.  The traffic was heavy. Tuning out
everything, Maxim concentrated exclusively on breaking through, on squeezing
between huge trucks and  old buses without  hitting anyone or being hit,  on
making green  lights and maintaining his speed, as slow as it was.  Finally,
they broke through onto a familiar expressway lined with enormous trees.
     "It's strange," thought Maxim  suddenly.  "I entered this world on this
very same  route -- or, I should say, Fank brought me into it. It's entirely
possible  that I shall  leave  this world, and all worlds, by the very  same
route, and take a good man  with me."  He cast a  sidelong glance at  Vepr's
serene  face: he sat there  with his artificial arm hanging out  the window,
waiting patiently for  an explanation from Mac. Perhaps  he was surprised or
excited, but his face remained impassive. Maxim felt proud that a man of his
caliber trusted him and relied on him implicitly.
     "I'm very grateful to you, Vepr," he said.
     "How's that?" asked Vepr, turning to him.
     "Do you remember how you called me  aside once at  a staff meeting  and
gave me some good advice?"
     "I do."
     "So, I'm grateful to you for it. I listened to you."
     "Yes, I noticed. But you disappointed me a little, too."
     "You were right then," said Maxim. "I took your advice. As  a result, a
very  special  opportunity  has  just presented itself:  the opportunity  to
capture the Center."
     Vepr started.
     "Now?" he asked quickly.
     "Yes, now. We must hurry. I didn't have time to prepare  anything. It's
possible that I'll  be killed; then the whole  thing will be a waste. That's
why I brought you along."
     "Keep talking."
     "I'll enter the building, and you'll stay in the car. An  alarm will go
off after  a while and  shooting may begin. Don't let that bother  you. Stay
put  in  the car and wait.  Wait  twenty minutes. If you receive a radiation
strike during that time, it means that everything went OK. You can  pass out
with a happy smile on your face. If there's no radiation strike, step out of
the car. You'll find a bomb in the trunk. It has a synchronized fuse set for
ten minutes. Unload the bomb  on the roadway, turn on the fuse,  and  leave.
Panic will break out. Play it for all it's worth."
     Vepr pondered Mac's instructions.
     "Can I make a call?"
     "No."
     "Listen, Mac,  if  you're  still  alive, you'll  need  people  who  are
prepared to fight. If you're dead, I'll need them. That's why you brought me
along.  If  I'm alone, all I can do  is begin.  And then  there will  be too
little time. So people must be warned beforehand. I'd like to warn them."
     "The underground staff?" asked Maxim hostilely.
     "Certainly not. I have my own group."
     Maxim  said nothing. A familiar gray five-story building  with a  stone
wall along  its pediment loomed ahead of them. Somewhere along its corridors
wandered Fishface, and  enraged Hippo was shouting and sputtering. This  was
the Center. He had come full circle.
     "OK,"  agreed Maxim. "There's a  phone  booth  by the entrance. When  I
enter -- but no sooner -- you can leave the car and call."
     "Good," said Vepr.
     As they approached the exit ramp from the  expressway, thoughts of Rada
crossed Maxim's mind; he wondered what would become  of her  if he failed to
return. She would have  a bad time of it. Perhaps nothing would happen,  and
they  would release  her. "Still,  she'll  be  all alone. With Guy gone. And
myself, too. Poor girl."
     "Do you have a family?" he asked Vepr.
     "Yes, a wife."
     Maxim bit his lip.
     "I'm sorry that things turned out so awkwardly."
     "Forget it, Mac,"  said Vepr calmly.  "I said my farewells. I always do
when I leave the house. So this is the Center. Whoever would have thought?"
     Maxim parked  the  car, maneuvering it  between a shabby compact and  a
luxurious state limousine.
     "Well, I guess that's it," he said. "Wish me luck, Vepr."
     "With all my heart." Vepr's voice broke. "Still, I've lived to see this
day."
     Maxim rested his cheek on the wheel.
     "If only we live through this day," he said. "To see the evening."
     Vepr looked at him anxiously.
     "It's hard for me to go,  Vepr," explained Maxim. "Damned hard. By  the
way, remember this and be sure to tell it to your friends: you people do not
live  on the inner  surface  of a  sphere, but  on  the  outer surface.  The
universe has many  more such spheres. The inhabitants of some are far  worse
off than you, and the inhabitants of others live much better than you. But I
can tell you this: nowhere else in the universe do people live more stupidly
than you. You don't believe it? Then the hell with you. I'm going."
     He  opened the door and climbed out. He  walked through the parking lot
and ascended the stone steps. Step by step he went up, groping in his pocket
for the entrance pass prepared for him  by the prosecutor, for  the building
pass that  the  prosecutor  had stolen,  and  for the plain  pink  piece  of
cardboard,  representing another  pass  that  the prosecutor  could  neither
counterfeit  nor  steal  for him.  It  was hot,  and  the inhabited island's
impenetrable sky glistened like aluminum.  The steps  seemed to burn through
his soles. What a senseless venture! "Why the hell go  through with it if we
didn't have the time to prepare properly? Suppose, instead of one officer in
that little room, there are two, even three, waiting for me with their guns?
Captain Chachu used a  pistol, but there's  going to be  a lot  more bullets
this time. I was in much better condition then, and Chachu almost did me in.
This time they won't let me slip  away. I'm a fool. I  was a fool then and I
still am. The prosecutor sure hooked me. But how come he trusted me? I can't
figure it out. Ah, how nice it would be  to escape from all this and run off
to the  mountains,  breathe the pure, fresh mountain air. I never did manage
to get to them.  Such a  clever,  distrustful man -- yet he trusted me  with
such a precious secret! His world's supreme treasure!"
     He opened  a glass  door and handed a legionnaire  his  entrance  pass.
Crossing the lobby, he went past a bespectacled  girl stamping passes and an
administrator exchanging curses with someone on the telephone. He showed his
building  pass  to  another   legionnaire  at  the  corridor  entrance.  The
legionnaire nodded amicably to the familiar figure: Mac had been coming here
daily for the past three days.
     He kept walking.
     He passed through the long, doorless corridor and turned left.
     This  was  his second  visit  here.  Yesterday,  he  had been  here "by
mistake."  ("What room  are  you looking  for,  sir?"  "Sixteen,  corporal."
"You're in the wrong corridor, sir. It's in the next one." "Sorry, corporal.
Thank you.")
     He handed the corporal his building pass and cast a  sidelong glance at
two strapping legionnaires,  armed with submachine guns and standing stiffly
at  either side of the door opposite  him. Then he looked at the other door,
through which he would be passing in a few seconds. "Department  of  Special
Transportation." The  corporal  inspected his  pass carefully and  pressed a
button on the wall. A  bell rang  behind the door. "Now the officer  sitting
beside the green drapes has been alerted. Maybe two officers. Or even three.
They are waiting for me to enter. If I frighten them and jump back, I'll run
into the corporal and those  legionnaires guarding the  other door. And that
room is probably crawling with soldiers."
     The corporal returned the  pass and said: "Please  have your  documents
ready."
     Taking  out the pink piece of cardboard, he opened the door and entered
the room.
     Massaraksh! Not one room. But three. A suite of rooms, green  drapes at
one end. A  runner beneath his feet,  leading directly to  the  green drape.
Thirty meters, at least.
     And not two officers, or three. Six!
     In the  first room, two in army  gray. Guns  already trained on him. In
the second room, two  in Legion  black. Guns  not aimed,  but drawn.  In the
third room, two in civilian clothes, on either side of the drapes.
     One turned his head.
     "Go to it, Mac!"
     He  sprang  forward with  a tremendous leap and  wondered in that split
second if he would pull a tendon. Air rushed into his face.
     "There it is: the green drapes.
     "Civilian on the left is looking to one side.  Give it to him -- a chop
in the neck.
     "Civilian on the right blinks. His eyes freeze.
     "Now, clobber him, and then into the elevator.
     "The elevator is dark. Where's the button? Massaraksh, where is it?"
     Alone submachine  gun clattered  slowly, echoing through the corridors.
Instantly, a second one joined in.
     "But they're  still firing  at the  door, where they saw me last.  They
haven't realized yet what happened. Purely a reflex.
     "The button! Where is it? Massaraksh, here  it is,  in the most obvious
place."
     He pressed the button and  the car descended. The car moved rapidly: it
was an express elevator.  His foot began to hurt. "Did  I  sprain  my ankle?
Forget it, that's unimportant now. Massaraksh, I got through!"
     The car  stopped, Maxim jumped out, and  the shaft rumbled and rang  as
chips started to fly. Three guns kept firing from  above at the roof of  the
car.  "Fire away. You'll realize  in a minute that you're wasting your time,
that  you  have  to get  the  elevator  back upstairs  so you can  come down
yourselves. You missed your chance."
     He glanced  around.  "Massaraksh, wrong again.  Not  one entrance,  but
three.  Three  absolutely  identical  tunnels.  Aha,  two  are  only   spare
generators. While one's working, the others  are being overhauled. Which one
is working now? Looks like this one."
     He dashed into the middle tunnel. The elevator growled behind his back.
"You guys are too late. You'll never make it, even though the tunnel is long
and my ankle hurts. Ah, here's a turn. You turds  will never get me now." He
reached  the generators rumbling beneath a steel plate and rested for  a few
seconds. "Most  of the job is finished; the  rest is easy. In a  few minutes
they'll come down  in the elevator and barge into the tunnel. But they don't
know  that the  depression emitter will drive  them  back.  What else  could
happen now? They might toss a tear-gas  shell down the corridor. But I doubt
it: they probably don't have any. They've probably sounded the alarm by now.
Of course the Creators could turn off the depression barrier. But they won't
bring themselves to do it.  And they couldn't  do  it  in  time even if they
wanted to. Five of them would have to assemble with five keys, and all agree
on  a decision;  first, they  would have  to  consider  whether one of their
number is playing  a trick, or  some sort of provocation is  involved. After
all,  who in this  world could breakthrough  the radiation barrier? Possibly
Strannik, if  he has secretly invented  a  protective  device. But those six
armed guards up-stairs would have stopped him. And there's nobody else."
     Submachine  guns  were  chattering  away around the comer  in the  dark
tunnel.  "Fire  away,  jerks.  I  don't   mind."  He  bent  over  the  power
switchboard, removed the  casing carefully, and  tossed it into the  corner.
"Yes,  a very primitive  device.  It's  a  good thing  I read  up  on  their
electronics. Suppose  I hadn't?  And suppose Strannik had returned two  days
ago?  Yes,  my  fine  friends,  here  I  am like a novice  mechanic who must
troubleshoot in a big hurry. I don't even know what to look for. Massaraksh,
what kind of design is this -- no insulation! Aha, there you are. Well, good
luck, as the state prosecutor would say!"
     He  sat  down on the floor in front  of the power switchboard and wiped
his forehead with the back of his  hand. He  had done his job:  the powerful
blows of a depression field  were  overwhelming the entire country, from the
Outlands to the Khonti frontier, from the ocean to the Alebastro Mountains.
     The guns were quiet. The guards  had been  laid low  by  the depression
field. "I'll have to see how they look when they're sunk in depression.
     "For the first time in his life the prosecutor is welcoming a radiation
strike. But I'm really not  interested in seeing how he looks. The  Creators
never knew what hit them and are now writhing  in pain, hoofs up, as Captain
Chachu used to say. He's been laid low, too, with the rest of them.  And I'm
damn glad.
     "Zef and the boys are lying there, too, hoofs up.
     "Strannik! Great! That  bastard Strannik is down, too, hoofs  up,  with
those enormous ears of his  spread out on the floor. The biggest ears in the
whole country. Maybe they've shot him by now. That would be even better.
     "Rada,  my Rada, is lying somewhere in a fit of depression. Never mind,
it probably isn't painful, and it will soon be over.
     "Vepr."
     He jumped  up. How  much  time had  passed? He  dashed back through the
tunnel. Vepr  had probably been laid  low, too.  But  if  he  had heard  the
shooting before the strike, he might not have stayed put.
     He ran toward the elevator and paused briefly to glance at the officers
laid out by the strike. It was a distressing scene: all three had flung down
their  guns  and  were crying; they  were  even too weak  to wipe away their
tears. "Fine, cry, it will do you some good. Cry over my buddy Guy; cry over
Ordi; over Gel; over my friend Forester. From the looks of  you, you haven't
cried since you were kids; in any case, you've never cried over those you've
killed. So cry, at least, before your own death."
     The elevator carried him to the surface quickly. The suite of rooms was
full of officers, noncoms, legionnaires, civilians -- all armed, all sitting
or lying and  grieving. Sobbing, mumbling, shaking their  heads, and beating
their breasts. "Massaraksh, what a sight. The black  radiation... I can  see
why the Creators were saving it for a rainy day."
     He  ran  into  the lobby,  leaping over  bodies  stirring feebly on the
floor. After nearly toppling head over heels down the stone steps, he halted
in front of his car and caught his breath. Vepr's  nerve shad held out after
all: he lay on the front seat with his eyes closed.
     Maxim dragged  the bomb  from the trunk, removed it from  the wrapping,
and returned  to the elevator unhurriedly. He  examined the fuse thoroughly,
set the  timer, laid the  bomb  inside the elevator,  and pressed the "down"
button. The car vanished, carrying into the nether world a fiery spirit that
would explode into freedom in ten minutes.
     Returning  to  his  car,  he propped Vepr  into an upright position and
maneuvered the car from its parking space. The gray building rose above him,
heavy, stupid, doomed, packed with doomed people who could neither walk  nor
understand what was happening.
     "The  place is a nest, a snake's nest,  full of the most choice  trash,
trash  collected with great care, gathered here for  the ex-press purpose of
converting into more trash  all those within reach of the emitters' sorcery.
All  of  them are enemies of the  people, and not one of them would hesitate
for a  moment to  shoot, betray, or  crucify me,  Vepr,  Zef, Rada -- all my
friends.  Still,  it's just  as  well that my thoughts  didn't run this  way
before.  If  they  had,  they  would  have gotten in  my  way.  I would have
remembered  Fishface. She's the only person  in this doomed snake's nest who
-- why  am I so concerned about Fishface? What  do I really  know about her?
That she taught  me their language? And  made my bed? Forget  about her; you
realize very  well that there's much more at stake  here than Fishface.  The
point is that from  now on, you must fight in dead earnest, as everyone else
does. And you will have to struggle against fools, vicious  fools created by
the radiation strikes; against clever, ignorant, greedy  idiots who directed
the radiation  strikes; against  well-meaning  idiots  who,  using  the same
emitters,  would  be  glad  to  transform  vicious,  diabolic  puppets  into
ingratiating, quasidecent puppets.  And every one  of them will try  to wipe
out  you,  your friends,  and your cause. The Wizard said:  'Don't  let your
conscience  interfere with clear  thinking,  and  let  your reason  learn to
stifle your conscience when circumstances demand it.' He was right. A bitter
truth. Yes, what I accomplished here today,  my friends would call  a  feat!
Vepr  lived to see the day; and he believed in it as  in a fairytale with  a
happy  ending. So did Forester, Ordi, Green, and Gel Ketshef,  and my  buddy
Guy, and dozens of  others, and hundreds and thousands of people I've  never
laid eyes on. Yet, I  feel bad. But if I  want people to trust and follow me
in the future, I must  never tell anyone that the most courageous moment for
me today was not  when I  leaped and ran through a hail of bullets, but now,
right now, when  there is still time to  turn back and deactivate  the bomb,
and I'm speeding away from this accursed place."
     He drove along the straight expressway, where  Fank had driven  him six
months  ago in a  luxurious limousine  and had  passed an  endless column of
armored  vehicles.  Fank had driven at a  furious speed to  deliver  him  to
Strannik.  Now  he understood why Strannik wanted him. "He knew then  that I
was immune to  radiation, that I was very naive, that he could manipulate me
as  he  pleased. Yes,  Strannik  knew  all right. Damn him!  He's  the devil
himself;  the  most terrifying man  in the  country, perhaps  on the  entire
planet.  'He  knows  everything,'  the  prosecutor said. No, not everything.
You've gained the upper hand, Mac. You've won around from the devil. Now you
must kill him before it's too late, before he manages to recover his senses.
Maybe they've killed him already -- right at the gates of his own den. No, I
don't  believe  they got him; he's too  much for them. Even with twenty-four
relatives and a couple of machine guns, Voldyr couldn't get him. Massaraksh!
Too bad I didn't have time to contact  the General. He's serving time in the
penal colony. I wanted him to be prepared to start an insurrection among the
political prisoners and send  them here by troop train. But whatever happens
there, I must knock off Strannik. Yes, I must knock him off and hold out for
several hours  until  the army  and the Legion  are overwhelmed by radiation
deprivation.  None  of  them know about radiation  deprivation --  not  even
Strannik. How could he?"
     The expressway was strewn  with cars parked at every conceivable angle;
some  had  toppled over the shoulder into the  drainage  ditch. Drivers  and
passengers were overwhelmed by the  depression strike: some sat  grieving on
running boards; others were drooped over their seats or  sprawled along  the
shoulders.  It  slowed Maxim down, forcing him to skirt vehicles and bodies,
to brake, to detour. He failed to notice a bright yellow car speeding toward
him from the city. It, too, skirted and detoured but rarely slowed down.
     The two vehicles met on a relatively deserted section of the expressway
and  almost collided as they sped past each other. Maxim  caught sight  of a
bare skull,  round green eyes, and  enormous protruding ears, and his  heart
sank.  Everything  was  fouled up  again. "Strannik!  Massaraksh! The  whole
country is knocked out by the depression field, every degen is out cold, and
this bastard, this  devil, has managed  to escape it. Which means  that he's
invented a protective device. And  I don't have a  gun on me." Maxim glanced
in the rearview mirror and saw  the long yellow car turn around. "Well, I'll
have to manage without one.  My conscience won't bother me in the least when
I finish off that guy." Maxim pushed the  accelerator to the floor. "Step on
it, let's  go. Come on, baby." The flat, yellow hood moved closer and closer
until a pair  of steely green eyes were  visible behind the wheel." Come on,
Mac!"
     Shielding Vepr with one hand,  Maxim braced himself and slammed  on the
brakes.  Amid  the squealing  and  screeching  of brakes, the  grinding  and
crunching of  metal, the yellow hood  smashed into his trunk, collapsed like
an accordion, and stood on end. Glass scattered everywhere. Kicking out  the
door, Maxim  tumbled  out.  Pain wracked his body, tearing through his heel,
broken knee, and  skinned arm, but it was quickly forgotten at  the sight of
Strannik  standing  before  him.  Strannik!  Impossible! Butt  here he  was.
Diabolical Strannik, cool and menacing, his arm raised to strike a blow.
     Maxim rushed at him, swinging at him with  every ounce of his remaining
strength.  Missed! A terrific blow at the back of his head sent him reeling.
Regaining his  balance, he  saw Strannik looming before him again: the  bare
skull, the steely green eyes, and the arm raised to strike again. His face a
frozen  mask, Strannik  stared over Maxim's head. Maxim lunged at him again,
and this time he  hit his mark. The dark, lanky figure folded up and sank to
the pavement slowly. Maxim caught his breath and turned around.
     The Center,  a cube,  was clearly visible. But then it flattened before
his  eyes,  flowing downward and collapsing inward. Above it rose shimmering
hot  air, steam, and smoke; and something  blindingly white,  whose heat was
felt even at  this distance, showed through the  long  vertical girders  and
window frames. OK, everything  was going according  to plan. Maxim turned to
Strannik triumphantly. The devil  lay on his side, eyes closed, clasping his
stomach with his long arms.  Maxim approached him cautiously. Vepr stuck his
head out of  the twisted car. Wriggling and squirming, he tried to force his
way out.  Maxim halted next to Strannik  and leaned  over, debating how  and
where he  should  deliver  the  final blow. As  he raised his  arm  over the
sprawled  figure,  Strannik  opened his eyes slightly and gasped hoarsely in
Lingcos: "Idiot!" Maxim felt himself go limp.
     "You goddamn idiot! You snotnose!" continued Strannik.
     Out of the  gray emptiness  came Vepr's voice, loud  and  clear:  "Step
aside, Mac, I have a gun."
     Maxim caught Vepr's hand.
     Strannik sat up with difficulty, still clasping his stomach. "Damn it,"
he whispered painfully. "Don't just stand there. Find a car. Get a move on!"
     Maxim looked around  vacantly. The expressway had sprung to life again.
The  Center  had vanished: it was now a puddle of  molten metal,  steam, and
stench.  The towers  were  not  functioning,  the  puppets  had ceased to be
puppets. Stunned figures tramped around near  their  cars, trying  to figure
out what had  happened  to them, how and why they had come here, and what to
do next.
     "Who are you?" asked Vepr.
     "None of your business," said  Strannik in  Lingcos. He was in  obvious
pain.
     "I don't understand," said Vepr, raising his gun.
     "Kammerer,"  called  Strannik, "get your terrorist  to shut  up. And go
find a car."
     "A car?" said Maxim vacantly and helplessly.
     "Massaraksh," groaned Strannik, still  pressing  his  hand  against his
stomach. He managed to rise to his feet,  then walked  unsteadily to Maxim's
car, and  crawled inside.  "Sit  down!" he said  from  the driver's seat. He
glanced over his  shoulder at the flame-tinged  column of  smoke. "What  the
hell did you plant there?"
     "A thermal bomb."
     "In the basement or lobby?"
     "In the basement."
     Strannik  groaned, rested briefly  with his head  thrown back, and then
started the engine. The car shook and rattled.
     "For God's sake, get in!" he yelled.
     "Who is he?" asked Vepr. "A Khonti?"
     Maxim shook his  head, jerked open the  jammed rear  door,  and ordered
Vepr to get in.
     Maxim  walked around  the car and  sat  down beside  Strannik. The  car
lurched, then wobbled along the expressway.
     "What are you planning to do now?" asked Strannik.
     "Hold on," said Maxim. "At least tell me who you are."
     "I'm  an  agent  of  the Galactic Security  Council,"  replied Strannik
bitterly.  "I've been here five  years. We've been laying the groundwork for
an  important  operation;  we're trying to  save  this  planet.  We've  been
planning  thoroughly, taking into consideration  all  possible consequences.
All!  Do you  understand? Then you came along. Who the hell are you to stick
your  nose  into other  people's affairs  and  mess  up everything, set  off
explosions? Who do you think you are?"
     "How was I supposed to know?" Maxim's voice fell.
     "You  knew damn well that independent intervention  was forbidden. As a
member  of the Independent Reconnaissance Unit, you should have  known. Back
on Earth your mother is going out  of her mind with worry, your  girlfriends
keep phoning, your father quit his job. What the hell were you going to do?"
     "Shoot you," replied Maxim.
     "What?"
     The car swerved sharply.
     "Yes," said  Maxim  submissively. "What else  could I have done? I  was
told that you were responsible for all the evil I saw."
     "And that wasn't so hard to believe, was it?"
     "No, it wasn't."
     "Well, all right. Then what were you planning to do?"
     "A revolution was supposed to begin."
     "For whose benefit?"
     "Well, with the  Center  destroyed  and  no  more radiation, I  thought
that..."
     "You thought what?"
     "That they  would  understand at  once that they were being  oppressed,
that their lives were miserable, and that they would revolt."
     "Why  would they revolt?"  said Strannik sadly. "Who would  revolt? The
Creators are alive and thriving; the Legion is intact and unharmed; the army
is mobilized, and the country is at war. What were you counting on?"
     Maxim bit his lip. Of course he could tell Strannik about his plans and
goals, but it would be pointless  since nothing was ready and everything had
turned out this way...
     "It's  up to  them  to take care of  the rest." Maxim  pointed over his
shoulder to Vepr.  "This man,  for example. Let him take over. My job was to
give them the opportunity to do the planning themselves."
     "Your job," muttered Strannik, "was to stay put until I caught you."
     "I'll keep that in mind next time."
     "You will return to Earth today!" commanded Strannik.
     "I don't think I will," replied Maxim.
     "You  will  return to Earth  today!" Strannik  raised his  voice. "I've
enough trouble on this planet without you. Pick up your Rada and clear out."
     "Do you have Rada?"
     "Yes. She's alive and well. Don't worry."
     "Thank you for  taking care of her," said Maxim.  "I'm very grateful to
you."
     The  car rolled into the city. The main street was jammed with weaving,
honking  cars, and  reeked of  exhaust fumes.  Strannik turned  into a  side
street and  passed  through the slums. Everything was  dead here.  On street
corners military police in combat helmets, hands clasped behind their backs,
stuck up like lamp posts. The reaction to events had been very rapid here: a
general  alarm  had been sounded, and everyone was at his station as soon as
he recovered from the  depression strike.  "Maybe I blew  up the Center  too
soon. Maybe  I should have  stuck to the prosecutor's  plan? No, massaraksh!
It's just as well. Let them figure out for themselves what's what." Strannik
turned  onto  the  main  thoroughfare  again. Vepr  tapped Strannik  on  the
shoulder  gently with  his pistol. "Please  drop  me  off. Over there. Where
those people are standing."
     Beside a newsstand five figures huddled, their hands thrust deep inside
the pockets  of  their  long gray raincoats.  The  sidewalks were  deserted.
Apparently, the depression strike had frightened people  badly and sent them
scurrying for cover.
     "What are your plans?" asked Strannik, slowing down.
     "To breathe the fresh air," replied Vepr. "The weather is exceptionally
beautiful today."
     "He's one of us," Maxim explained  to Vepr.  "Feel free to say anything
you want."
     The  car  stopped  by  the shoulder.  The raincoated  figures retreated
cautiously behind the newsstand and peered out.
     "One of us?" Vepr raised his eyebrows.
     Maxim  looked at Strannik  awkwardly, but  Strannik  made no attempt to
help him.
     "I believe you, Mac," said Vepr. "We must get to work on the staff now.
That's  where we  must  begin. You know what  I'm  talking about.  There are
people on it who must be removed before they dominate the movement."
     "Good  thinking," muttered Strannik.  "By the way,  I think I know you.
You are Tik Fesku, alias Vepr. Am I right?"
     "Yes, you are. Mac, get to work on the Creators. It's a tough  job, but
right up your alley. Where can I get in touch with you?"
     "Hold  on,  Vepr, I almost  forgot,"  said Maxim. "In a few  hours  the
entire country will be  knocked out  by radiation deprivation. Everyone will
be completely helpless."
     "Everyone?" Vepr was dubious.
     "Everyone except the  degens. You will have to  take advantage of those
few days."
     Vepr thought about it.
     "That's great if it's true. Then we'll get to the degens at once. Where
can I reach you?"
     Maxim didn't have time to reply.
     "Same phone number as  before," said Strannik. "Same place. Now, here's
what you  must do. Organize your  committee.  Revive  the  organization that
existed under the Empire. Some of your people work  for me at the institute.
Massaraksh! We don't have enough time or people. Damn you, Maxim!"
     "The  main thing," said Vepr,  placing  a hand on Maxim's shoulder, "is
that the Center is gone. You've done a great  job, Mac. Thanks." He squeezed
Mac's  shoulder, and  dangling  his artificial  arm,  climbed  from  the car
clumsily.
     The  car  darted forward. Maxim  glanced back. Vepr was standing  in  a
cluster of men in gray raincoats, talking to them and waving his pistol with
his good arm.  The men remained impassive.  They didn't  understand yet.  Or
didn't believe.
     The street was deserted. Armored trucks filled with legionnaires rolled
toward  them.  Up ahead, where the road turned into the  institute, vehicles
had already  straddled the road, and men  in black were pouring from them. A
revoltingly  familiar  bright  yellow  patrol  car,  equipped  with  a  long
telescopic antenna, appeared among the column of armored trucks.
     "Massaraksh," muttered Maxim. "I completely forgot about them."
     "You seem to have forgotten about a lot of things," said Strannik. "You
forgot about the mobile  emitters; you  forgot  about the Island Empire; you
forgot  about economics. Do you know that the country is about to  collapse,
economically?  That  it's  threatened  by  famine?  That  the  soil  is  not
producing?  Do you  know that you failed  to  set  aside  grain reserves and
medical supplies?  Do you know  that your radiation deprivation will lead to
insanity  in  twenty percent of the  cases?" He wiped his  forehead with his
palm.  "We   need  doctors,  twelve  thousand  of  them.  We   need  protein
synthesizers. We must, for a  beginning, decontaminate one  hundred  million
acres of contaminated soil. We must halt the deterioration of the biosphere.
Massaraksh, we need at least one Earthling  on  the  Islands. Our own people
can't  hold out  there; they  can't even give us  a clear picture of  what's
going on."
     Maxim said nothing. They approached the roadblock. A strangely familiar
stocky officer moved toward them, waving his hand, and demanded to see their
documents. Strannik thrust a shiny badge under his nose. The officer saluted
glumly  and  glanced  at  Maxim. It  was  Captain...  no, not  Captain,  but
Brigadier Chachu of the Fighting Legion!
     "Is this man with you, your excellency?" he asked.
     "Yes. I'm in a hurry. Order them to let me through at once."
     "I beg your pardon, your excellency, but this man --"
     "Let me through at once!" ordered Strannik.
     Brigadier Chachu saluted again, swung around on his heels, and waved to
his  men. One of the trucks moved aside, and  Strannik  sped  into the  open
corridor.
     "You see how it is, Mac," he said. "One-two, you thought, and the whole
thing would  be over. Shoot Strannik, hang  the  Creators, drive the cowards
and  fascists  out  of the  underground staff, and your revolution would  be
over."
     "No, I never thought it would be that simple."  Maxim  felt defenseless
and stupid.
     Strannik glanced at him and  smiled sadly.  Maxim  realized that he was
neither  devil nor monster, but a very kind and very vulnerable elderly man,
burdened by enormous  responsibilities, tormented by  the loathsome disguise
of  a  cold-blooded  killer,   and  frustrated  by  another   setback  to  a
meticulously worked out  plan. And he was particularly upset now because one
of his own, an Earthling, had been the culprit.
     "I  didn't reach you in time," he  said regretfully.  "I underestimated
you. Thought you were just a kid. Felt sorry for you." He smiled ironically.
"You boys in the Independent Reconnaissance Unit are fast workers."
     "I  don't think you should be so  hard  on yourself,"  said Maxim. "I'm
certainly not tormenting myself. By the way, what's your name?"
     "Call me Ernst."
     "No, I'm not tormenting myself, Ernst, and I don't intend to. I'm going
to get down to work. We're going to make a revolution."
     "I think you had better go home," Strannik advised him despairingly.
     "But I amam home." Maxim  was impatient. "Let's change the subject. I'm
interested in the mobile emitters. What should we do about them?"
     "Nothing," replied Strannik. "Think what you should do about famine."
     "I'm asking you about the emitters."
     Strannik sighed.
     "They're powered  by  batteries. They can  be  charged  up  only in  my
department. They'll go dead in about three days. The  invasion will begin in
about a month. Usually  we've managed to throw the subs off course, and only
a  few  reached  the coast. This time  they're preparing  an  armada.  I had
counted  on  the depression emitter,  but now we'll have to  sink  them." He
paused  briefly.  "So  you're  home.  Well,  let's see. What exactly are you
planning to do now?"
     They drove up to the department. The heavy gates were tightly shut, and
the stone wall enclosure was studded with the dark slots  of newly installed
gun embrasures. The department resembled a fortress, ready for battle. Three
figures stood  near  the  pavilion, and  Zefs red  beard burned  through the
foliage like an exotic flower.
     "I  don't know," replied  Maxim. "I'll  do  anything  that  people  who
understand this world  tell  me. If necessary, I'll work on economics.  If I
have  to, I'll sink submarines.  But I'm  damned sure about one  thing: I'll
never  permit another Center to be built as long as  I live.  Even  with the
best of intentions."
     Strannik remained  silent.  The gates were now close by. Zef shouldered
his way through a  hedge and came out onto  the road. His gun  hung from his
shoulder, and even from afar it was clear  that he was angry and bewildered.
Now, amid  a  string  of  curses,  he  would  demand  an  explanation.  Why,
massaraksh, had he been dragged away from his work, sold all that bull about
Strannik,  and forced to sit like a  garden statue  in a bed of petunias for
two hours straight!

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

     BORIS STRUGATSKY is an astrophysicist and computer expert who worked at
the  famous  Pulkovo  Observatory.  ARKADY  STRUGATSKY  is a  specialist  in
Japanese literature  and has  translated works from Japanese  into  Russian.
Their  works  include  Prisoners  of  Power,  Roadside  Picnic/Tale  of  the
Troika,Prisoners of  Power,  Roadside Picnic/Tale of the Troika,  and  Noon:
22nd Century.

     Noon: 22nd Century.

ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

     HELEN SALTZ JACOBSON is a longtime enthusiast of Soviet science fiction
and has translated several books from the Russian, including RUSSIAN SCIENCE
FICTION (1968).

ABOUT THE SERIES

     In  the  Soviet Union,  as  in  the  U.S.A., the fascination  with  the
possibilities of science and technology has led to a rich and long tradition
of  science  fiction.  Macmillan's BEST  OF  SOVIET  SCIENCE  FICTION is now
presenting the major works  in  lively, readable translations, allowing  the
American reader to  explore --  for  the first time  --  the  wide  range of
visions of space, time, and man's future in the other major SF tradition.

Last-modified: Tue, 05 Dec 2000 10:37:28 GMT