Prisoners of Power

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 before 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. Oh, those stupid border captains! Imagine, a Khonti spy on the southern border! 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.—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... 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 our 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. 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. 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).”

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. 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. 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, 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. 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.

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. 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?

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 naivetй, 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!

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.”