Prisoners of Power

13.

The first shot shattered the caterpillar track, and for the first time in over twenty years the monster abandoned its well-traveled course. Overturning chunks of concrete, it tore into a grove and turned slowly in place. Its broad forehead bored into the underbrush and, with a crunch, shoved aside the trembling trees.

When the immense, muddy rear end tipped up, its iron plating dangling on rusty rivets, Zef landed an explosive charge in the engine with a clean shot aimed to avoid the reactor. It tore into the tank’s muscles, sinews, and nervous system; the machine gasped metallically, puffed white-hot smoke from its joints, and stopped forever. But something still lived within its evil armored heart; some surviving nerves continued to send out random signals; its emergency systems still switched themselves on and off, murmuring and spewing foam; and it shuddered sluggishly, clawing the earth with its surviving tread. Menacingly and senselessly, like the belly of a crushed wasp, the latticed tube of the rocket launcher rose and fell above the expiring dragon. Zef watched its death throes for several seconds, then turned and went into the woods, dragging a grenade thrower by its strap. Maxim and Vepr followed. When they reached a quiet clearing that Zef had undoubtedly noted on their way, they dropped down on the grass.

“Cigarette break,” said Zef.

He rolled a cigarette for one-armed Vepr, gave him a light, and lit Ms own. Resting his chin on his hands, Maxim lay on the ground and watched the dying iron dragon through the sparse woods. Its drive wheels jangled mournfully. With a whistle, it shot streams of radioactive steam from its shattered guts.

“Now, that’s the way to do it, and the only way to do it,” declared Zef didactically. “If you don’t, I’ll yank your ears off.”

“Why?” asked Maxim. “I wanted to stop it.”

“Because,” replied Zef, “a grenade can ricochet into the rocket launcher. Then we’d all be kaput.”

“I aimed at the tread.”

“You have to aim at the rear end.” Zef inhaled. “And, in general, while you’re still new at this stuff, don’t ever make the first move. Unless I ask you to. Is that clear?”

“It is.”

Neither Zef’s fine points of instruction nor Zef himself interested Maxim. Vepr did. But Vepr, resting his artificial arm on the dilapidated casing of the mine detector, maintained his usual indifferent silence. Nothing had changed, and Mac was restless.

A week ago, when the new prisoners formed in front of the barracks, Zef had gone up to Maxim and selected him for Ms 104th Sappers Unit. Maxim was delighted. Not only did he recognize the flaming red beard and square stocky figure at once, but Zef recognized him, too, in that suffocating crowd of convicts in checkered prison uniforms, where no one gave a damn about anyone else.

Besides, Maxim had every reason to believe that Allu Zef, the once eminent psychiatrist and an educated, intelligent man, unlike the half-criminal rabble jammed into the train’s prison car, was connected somehow with the underground. And when Zef led him to the barracks and showed him his bunk next to one-armed Vepr, Maxim thought that his future had finally taken shape. But he soon learned he was wrong: Vepr didn’t want to talk. He listened that night with a vacant expression to Maxim’s rapidly whispered story of the group’s fate, the tower’s destruction, and the trial. “Sometimes it turns out differently,” he muttered through a yawn and then turned over and went to sleep. Maxim felt let down.

Then Zef climbed onto his bunk. “Stuffed myself to the gills,” he announced to Maxim, and without beating around the bush began to badger him crudely and brazenly for names and information. Perhaps he had once been an eminent scientist, an educated man; perhaps he had even been a member of the underground; but that night he impressed Mac as being a well-fed provocateur who, having nothing better to do before going to sleep, had decided to harass a dumb newcomer. With some difficulty. Maxim managed to get rid of him, and long after he heard Zef snoring healthily, he lay awake recalling the many times he had been deceived by people and events on this planet.

His nerves were spent. He recalled the trial, obviously prepared well before the group had even received the order to attack the tower; he recalled the written reports of some filthy informer who knew everything about the group, and, perhaps, had been a member of it; and he recalled the film taken from the tower during the attack, and his shame when he recognized himself on the screen: there he was, firing away with his submachine gun at the searchlights—more precisely, at the stagelights illuminating the actors of that horrifying play. In the tightly sealed barracks—suffocating, stinking, and crawling with vermin—rehabs raved in their sleep, while in a far comer, in the light of a single candle, other prisoners played cards and shouted hoarsely at each other.

The following day he felt let down again: this time by the forest. It was impossible to take a step without running into steel: dead steel, rusted through; lurking steel, ready to Mil at any moment; invisible steel, aiming at you; mobile steel, blindly plowing up the remains of roads. The soil and grass reeked of rust, and radioactive puddles had accumulated at the bottoms of hollows; birds didn’t sing but wailed hoarsely, as if in their death throes. There were no animals, nor was there woodland stillness. To the left and right explosions pounded and thundered. Gray cinders eddied among the branches, and the roar of worn engines drifted through the forests on gusts of wind.

And so it had gone: day—night, day—night. In the daytime they worked in the forest, which was not really a forest but an old fortified region. It was crawling with military devices, armored cars, ballistic missiles, rockets on caterpillar treads, flamethrowers, and poison-gas ejectors, all automatic and self-propelled. And all this was still very much alive twenty years after the war; everything continued to live its useless mechanical life—to aim, to sight, to belch lead, fire, and death. All this had to be crushed, blown up, and demolished to clear a road for the construction of new radiation towers. At night Vepr maintained his usual silence, and Zef harassed Maxim with questions, alternating between a directness bordering on the absurd and a surprising cunning and agility. And there was the almost inedible food, the prisoners’ strange melodies, and the beatings by the legionnaires. And twice daily everyone in the barracks and the forest writhed in pain under the radiation emitter’s blows. Bodies of escapees swung in the wind. Day—night, day—night. Auschwitz. Death camp. Fascism.

“Why did you want to stop the tank?” asked Vepr suddenly, Maxim sat up quickly. This was the first question Vepr had ever asked him.

“I wanted to examine its construction.”

“Planning to escape?”

Maxim cast a sidelong glance at Zef. “Of course not. I’m just curious.”

“Why are you so interested in a military weapon?” He spoke as if the red-bearded provocateur weren’t present.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure myself. Are there many like that one?”

“There are plenty of machines—and always plenty of fools, too,” intruded Zef. “You can’t imagine how many times the damn fools have tried. They climb in, fiddle around a while, and finally give up. One damn fool, something like you, blew himself up.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t blow myself up,” said Maxim coldly. “Those machines aren’t that complicated.”

“But why are you so interested in them anyway?” asked Vepr. Lying on his back, he smoked, holding the cigarette between his artificial fingers. “Suppose you fix up one. Then what?”

“He’ll break through across the bridge.” Zef guffawed.

“And why not?” asked Maxim. He was completely baffled by this man: how should he behave toward him? Maybe Zef wasn’t a provocateur after all. Massaraksh, why were they suddenly giving him a hard time?

“You’ll never make it to the bridge,” said Vepr. “They’ll riddle you like a piece of cheese. And if you do make it, you’ll find the bridge drawn up.”

“And along the bottom of the river?”

“The river is radioactive.” Zef spat. “If it were clean, yon wouldn’t need tanks to get across. Right now you could swim across anywhere: the banks aren’t guarded.” He spat again. “If it were clean, it would be guarded. Young man, forget your wild ideas. You’re here to stay. Settle down, and get the hang of things. When you do, you’ll find enough to keep you busy. If you don’t listen to your elders, you won’t even last until tomorrow.”

“It wouldn’t be difficult to escape,” said Maxim. “I could do it right now.”

“You’re really something, aren’t you?”

“Are you going to keep kidding around, or be serious about it?” Maxim directed his remark to Vepr. Zef interrupted him again.

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” Zef rose. “I’m going to meet today’s quota. Or else we get no chow. Let’s go!”

He walked ahead, waddling between the trees. Maxim asked Vepr: “Is he really a member of the underground?”

Vepr shot him a rapid glance. “What are you saying? How could he be?”

They walked behind Zef, trying to follow in his tracks. Maxim brought up the rear.

“What’s he here for?”

“For jaywalking.”

Again, Maxim lost all desire for conversation.

They had taken less than a hundred steps when Zef ordered them to halt, and work began. “Down!” shouted Zef, and they hit the dirt. Ahead of them a stout tree turned with a drawn-out creaking sound, disgorged a long thin gun barrel, and rocked it from side to side, as if trying to aim it. There was a buzz, a click, and a small cloud of yellow smoke rose lazily from the black barrel. “It’s dead... finished,” announced Zef in a very businesslike tone. He rose first and brushed the dust from his pants. They had blown up the tree and its cannon. Next, a mine field to clear. After that, a hillock with an active machine gun that kept them pinned down for a long time. Then they stumbled into a jungle of barbed wire, and barely struggled through it. When they finally did, firing opened up somewhere overhead, and everything around them began to explode and burn.

Maxim was confused, but Vepr remained silent and lay on the ground calmly, face down, while Zef fired his grenade thrower. “Follow me, on the double!” shouted Zef, and they ran. The spot they had just left burst into flames. Zef swore, using unfamiliar words, and Vepr chuckled. When they reached a dense grove, something suddenly whistled overhead, and a greenish cloud of poison gas swooshed through the branches. Again they had to run and force their way through underbrush. Zef repeated the unfamiliar words. Vepr looked quite ill.

Exhausted, Zef finally called a halt. They built a fire. As the youngest member of the team, Maxim prepared dinner, heating canned soup in their pot. Zef and Vepr, grimy and ragged, lay on the ground. Vepr looked utterly exhausted. He was not a young man, and this life was harder on him than on the others.

“It doesn’t make sense. How could we have managed to lose the war with this incredible concentration of weapons?” asked Maxim.

“What do you mean ‘managed to lose’?” replied Vepr. “Nobody won the war. Everyone lost except the Creators.”

“Unfortunately, few people understand that.” Maxim stirred the soup.

“I’m not used to that kind of talk anymore,” said Zef. “All you get here is ‘Shut up, rehab!’ and ‘I’m counting to three.’ Hey, boy, what’s your name?”

“Maxim.”

“Yes, right. You, Mac, keep stirring. See that it doesn’t stick.”

Maxim stirred until Zef said it was time to serve the soup; he couldn’t hold out any longer. They ate in complete silence. Maxim sensed a change in mood and was sure that today he’d betaken into their confidence. But after dinner Vepr lay down again and stared at the sky, while Zef, mumbling to himself, took the pot and wiped up the bottom with a crust of bread.

“We ought to shoot something,” he muttered. “My belly is so empty. I feel like I haven’t eaten a tiling but just woke up my appetite.”

Maxim tried to draw them into a conversation about hunting in this area, but no one picked it up. Vepr now lay there with his eyes closed, apparently asleep. After Zef had finished listening to Maxim’s views, he growled: “Hunting? Here? Everything’s filthy, radioactive.” He, too, stretched out.

Maxim sighed, took the pot, and walked to a nearby stream. The water was clear and appeared to be clean and tasty. Tempted to drink, he scooped some up in his hand. But he could neither drink nor wash the pot here: the stream was noticeably radioactive. Maxim squatted, set down the pot, and became lost in thought.

His thoughts, for some reason, turned first to Rada. She always washed the dishes after meals and would not let him help her, giving the absurd excuse that it was woman’s work. Remembering that she loved him, he felt proud: she was the first woman to love him. As much as he longed to see her, he realized that this was no place for his Rada. Nor for the most evil of men. Thousands upon thousands of robots, not men, should be sent here to clear the region. Either that, or the entire forest and everything in it should be razed. Let a new one arise, any kind, bright or gloomy, but a pure one. And if it must be gloomy, let it be a natural gloom, not one imposed by man.

When he reminded himself that he had been exiled here for life, he was struck by the naïveté of his judges. Without exacting an oath from him, they fully expected him to remain here, voluntarily, forever, and on top of everything else, to help them build a network of radiation towers through the forest. En route, in the prisoners’ boxcar, he had heard that the forest extended hundreds of miles to the south and that military equipment littered the desert, too. “Massaraksh, one day I knock out a tower, the next I’m expected to clear a path for them. Oh, no. I’m not staying here. I’ve had enough of this.”

He settled down and forced himself to clarify his plans.

“Vepr doesn’t trust me. He trusts Zef, but not me. And I don’t trust Zef, though I guess I’m being unfair. I probably seem as troublesome and suspicious to Vepr as Zef seems to me. Well, all right, Vepr doesn’t trust me. So that means I’m alone again. Of course it’s possible I might run into the General or Memo, but that’s highly unlikely. I suppose I could try and put together a group of strangers, but massaraksh, I had better be honest with myself: I’m no good at that sort of thing. I’m too damn trusting. Hold on, now. Think! What do I want?”

He considered the problem for several minutes.

“If only Guy were here. But Guy was sent to a special unit with a strange name—something like Blitzträger, ‘Lightning Bearers.’ Most likely I’ll have to operate alone.

“In any case I must get out of here. Of course I’ll try to form some sort of group, but if I can’t, I’ll leave alone. A tank is a must. There are enough guns here to equip a hundred armies. After twenty years they’re in pretty bad shape, but I’ll do what I can with them. So, Vepr really won’t trust me?” he thought, almost in despair. He grabbed the pot and ran back to the fire.

Zef and Vepr were awake now; they lay head to head and were arguing softly, but vehemently, about something. Noticing Mac, Zef said quickly: “Enough!” and rose. Scratching his red beard and opening his eyes wide, he shouted: “Where did you disappear to, massaraksh? Who gave you permission to leave? You’ve got to work if you want some grub!”

Mac became furious. For the first time in his life he found himself shouting at someone at the top of his lungs.

“Damn you, Zef! Can’t you think of anything else but your stomach? All I ever hear from you is grub, grub, grub! You can have my rations if it will make you feel any better!”

He flung down the pot, grabbed his knapsack, and put his hands through the straps. Stunned by the unexpected acoustic blow, Zef stared at him. Then Zef’s roaring laughter rolled through the forest. Vepr joined in, and Maxim, unable to restrain himself, laughed, too, somewhat crestfallen.

“Massaraksh. Boy, some voice you’ve got there!” Zef turned to Vepr. “You mark my words. OK now, enough. On your feet!” he yelled. “Let’s go, if you want some... some grub this evening.”

They shouted and laughed for a while but then quieted down and pushed on through the forest. With demonic energy Maxim cleared land mines, destroyed coaxial machine guns, and unscrewed warheads from antiaircraft rockets. More firing, hissing streams of tear gas, the repulsive stench of rotting carcasses of animals killed by submachine guns. They became dirtier, angrier, and more ragged, and Zef urged Maxim onward: “Keep going, keep going if you want to eat!” Poor Vepr, utterly exhausted, barely dragged himself behind them, leaning for support on his mine detector.

During these wearisome hours Maxim grew increasingly disgusted with Zef. So when Zef suddenly let out a roar and dropped through the ground, Maxim was delighted. Wiping his sweaty forehead with his grimy hand, he walked up to the spot leisurely and halted at the edge of a dark narrow crevice covered with grass. It was deep and pitch-black, and cold, damp air drifted from it. Nothing was visible; only a crunching and indistinct swearing rose from the hidden trap.

Vepr hobbled over to it, looked down, and asked Maxim: “Is he down there? What happened to him?”

“Zef!” called Maxim, bending over. “Zef, where are you?”

Zef’s voice rumbled from the trench. “Come on down! Jump, it’s soft here.”

Maxim looked at Vepr. Vepr shook his head.

“That’s not for me,” he said. “You jump, and I’ll drop a rope down to you.”

“Who’s there?” they heard Zef roaring from below. “I’ll shoot, massaraksh!”

Maxim dropped his legs over the side of the crevice, gave himself a push, and jumped. Almost instantly he found himself ankle-deep in soft dirt. He sat down. Zef was somewhere nearby. To adjust to the darkness, Maxim sat with eyes closed for several seconds.

“Mac, come over here. There’s someone here,” called Zef. “Vepr!” he shouted. “Jump!”

Vepr replied that he was dog-tired and would be just as happy to rest a while.

“Suit yourself,” said Zef. “But I think this is the Fortress. You’ll be sorry later.”

Vepr replied indistinctly: he felt ill again, too miserable to worry about fortresses.

Maxim opened his eyes and looked around. He was sitting on a mound of earth in the middle of a long corridor lined with rough concrete walls. A gap in the ceiling was either an opening for ventilation or a breach made by some missile. Standing some twenty steps away from him, Zef surveyed Ms surroundings with a flashlight.

“What’s this?” asked Maxim.

“How should I know? It could be some sort of shelter. Or maybe it really is the Fortress. Do you know about the Fortress?”

“No,” said Maxim, crawling off the mound.

“You don’t... ,” said Zef absentmindedly. He kept looking around, sweeping the light along the walls. “Then what the hell do you know! Massaraksh! Someone or something has just been here.”

“Human?” asked Maxim.

“I don’t know. It crept alongside the wall and disappeared. And the Fortress, Mac, is something very, very special. In one day we could finish up all our work out there. Aha, tracks.”

He squatted. Maxim squatted beside him and made out imprints in the dirt along the wall.

“Strange tracks.”

“I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Looks as if someone was walking on his fists.” Maxim clenched his fist and made an impression next to the tracks.

“Very similar,” admitted Zef. He aimed the beam deep inside the corridor. Something shimmered faintly, reflecting either a turn or dead-end. “Should we take a look?”

“Shh,” said Maxim. “Shut up and don’t move!”

Although it was silent, he sensed the presence of life in the corridor. Someone or something was standing up ahead; something small, with a strange weak odor, was hugging the wall. Maxim could not tell precisely what or where it was. It was observing them and seemed annoyed by their presence. It defied identification and its intentions were elusive.

“Do we have to investigate?” asked Maxim.

“I’d like to.”

“Why?”

“We must take a look. Maybe this really is the Fortress. If it is, things are going to be a lot different from now on. I’m not sure it is, but since there are so many rumors, who can tell, maybe there’s some truth to them.”

“Someone is there,” said Maxim. “I can’t figure out who.”

“You think so? If this is the Fortress, then according to legend, either the survivors of a garrison live here, or... The garrison just stays on here, you know, unaware that the war ended. During the war they declared themselves neutral, locked themselves in, and swore to blow up the continent if anyone came near them.”

“And could they?”

“If this is the Fortress, they could do anything. Yes, indeed. Because of explosions and firing above ground, they probably believe the war is still going on. Some prince or duke was their commander here. I’d like to meet and talk with them.”

Maxim listened for sounds again. “No, it’s no prince or duke. It’s some kind of animal, perhaps. Or...”

“Or what?”

“Remember, you said ‘either the survivors of a garrison, or...?’”

“So I did. Well, it’s nonsense, old wives’ tales. Let’s go take a look.”

Zef loaded the grenade thrower, heaved it on to his shoulder, and moved forward, lighting the way with his flashlight. Maxim walked beside him. They wandered along the corridor for a few minutes, came up against a wall, and turned to the right.

“You’re making an awful racket,” said Maxim. “Something’s going on in there, but you’re breathing so hard...”

“What am I supposed to do—stop breathing?” Zef bristled.

“And your flashlight is bothering me.”

“What do you mean—bothering you? It’s dark here.”

“I can see in the dark,” explained Maxim, “but with your flashlight on, I can’t make out a thing. Let me go on ahead, and you stay here. Otherwise we won’t find out anything.”

“We-ell, suit yourself,” said Zef hesitantly.

Maxim narrowed his eyes again, resting them from the flickering light. Then, crouching, he moved alongside the wall as silently as possible. The mysterious creature was somewhere nearby, and Maxim drew closer to it with each step. The corridor seemed endless. Locked steel doors lined the right side. A draft blew toward him. The air was dampish and smelled heavily of mold and something else, something elusive, but warm and alive. Behind him Zef rustled cautiously; uneasy and afraid to remain alone, he had decided to follow Maxim. Maxim laughed to himself. He was distracted for only a split second, but at that instant the mysterious creature vanished. The creature had been in front of him, almost beside him; then, in a flash, it seemed to vanish into thin air, only to reappear close behind him.

“Zef!” called Maxim.

“Yes!” boomed Zef.

Maxim imagined that the strange creature was standing between them. He turned his head toward Zefs voice. “It’s between us. Don’t shoot!”

“OK,” said Zef. “I can’t see a damn thing. What does it look like?”

“I don’t know. It’s soft.”

“An animal?”

“Doesn’t seem to be.”

“You said you could see in the dark.”

“Not with my eyes,” said Maxim. “Shut up!”

“Not with your eyes,” muttered Zef.

The creature stood still for a short time, then crossed the corridor, disappeared, and soon reappeared up ahead. “Its curiosity has also been aroused,” thought Maxim. He strained hard, trying to empathize with the mysterious creature, but something interfered—probably, he thought, the discordant combination of a humanoid intellect and a semianimal body. He edged forward again. The creature retreated, maintaining a constant distance between them.

“Anything yet?” asked Zef.

“Nothing new. It might be leading us somewhere or luring us into a trap.”

“Can we handle it?”

“It’s not going to attack us,” replied Maxim. “It’s as curious as we are.”

Nothing more was said because the creature had vanished again, and Maxim sensed that the corridor had ended. He was in the midst of a spacious chamber. It was too dark for Maxim to distinguish anything, although he sensed the presence of metal, rust, and high voltage. For several seconds Maxim stood motionless before figuring out the location of the switch. He reached out for it, but at that instant the creature reappeared. This time with another creature, similar but not identical. They stood beside the wall where Maxim now stood. He could hear their rapid breathing. Hoping they would come closer, he remained motionless, But they wouldn’t. Then, with a tremendous effort, he contracted his pupils and pressed the switch.

Apparently, something was wrong with the circuit: lights flashed on for a fraction of a second; fuses crackled somewhere, and the lights went out again. But Maxim had managed to get a glimpse of the mysterious creatures. They were small, about the size of a large dog, stood on all fours, were covered with dark wool, and had large heavy heads. Maxim hadn’t had time to look at their eyes.

The creatures vanished so quickly that it seemed as if they hadn’t been there at all.

“What’s going on?” demanded Zef, alarmed. “What was that flash?”

“I switched on a light,” replied Maxim. “Come over here.”

“Where is it? Did you see it?”

“Almost didn’t. They do look like animals, like dogs with large heads.”

The reflection from his flashlight skipped along the wall. Zef spoke as he walked. “Ah, dogs. I know that there are animals like that living in the forest. I’ve never seen live ones, but I’ve seen their bodies.”

“No.” Maxim hesitated. “They’re not animals.”

“They’re animals, all right.” Zefs voice echoed beneath the high vaulting. “We were scared for nothing. At first I thought they might be vampires. Massaraksh! Yes, this is the Fortress!”

He halted in the center of the chamber, sweeping the beam along the walls, along a row of dials and a switchboard, where glass, nickel, and faded plastic glittered.

“Congratulations, Mac. We found it all right. How stupid of me not to believe in it. Stupid. Hey, what’s that? An electronic brain. Oh, damn, if only Blacksmith were here! Listen, do you understand anything about this stuff?”

“What exactly?” Maxim crossed over to him.

“The mechanics of the whole works. This is a control panel. If we can figure it out, the entire region will be ours! All the aboveground weapons can be operated from here. Massaraksh, if we can only figure it out!”

Maxim took Zef’s flashlight and set it down so that light diffused throughout the chamber. The dust of many years lay everywhere, and on a table in the corner a fork and a soiled, blackened plate rested on a sheet of decayed paper. Maxim walked alongside the control panels, tried to turn on an electronic device, and grabbed hold of a knife-switch. The handle came off in his hand.

“I doubt that anything can be operated from here. First of all, the entire setup is too elementary. Most likely, it’s an observation post of one of their control substations. Everything here seems to be auxiliary equipment. The computer is too weak. It couldn’t guide even a dozen tanks. And everything is falling apart. There is current, but the voltage is below normal: the reactor is probably jammed. No, Zef, it isn’t as simple as you think.”

Suddenly he noticed long tubes projecting from the wall, capped by a rubber eye shield. Pulling over an aluminum chair, he sat down and put his face to the eye shield. To his surprise, the optics were in excellent condition; but he was even more surprised at what he saw. A totally unfamiliar landscape: a pale yellow desert, sand dunes, the shell of a metal structure. A strong wind blew, streams of sand rail along the dunes, and a misty horizon curled up like a saucer.

“Take a look, Zef. Where is this?”

Zef leaned the grenade thrower against the control panel and took Maxim’s place.

“That’s odd.” Zef paused briefly. “It’s the desert all right. But it’s about four hundred miles from here.” He leaned back and looked up at Maxim. “Imagine how much time and effort went into all this. The bastards! And what for? Now the wind blows over the sands—but what a beautiful place it used to be. When I was a kid, before the war, we used to go to a resort there, you know.” He stood up. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said bitterly, picking up his flashlight. “You and I won’t be able to figure out this-place. We’ll have to wait until Blacksmith is caught and sent down here. Except they won’t send him; he’ll be shot for sure. Well, let’s clear out.”

“Yes, let’s go.” Maxim examined the strange tracks on the floor. “This is far more interesting.”

“Oh, it’s useless. Probably all sorts of animals running around here.”

He heaved the grenade thrower across his shoulder and walked toward the chamber’s exit. Glancing back at the tracks, Maxim followed him.

“I’m starved,” said Zef.

They walked along the corridor. Maxim suggested breaking down one of the doors, but Zef thought it was pointless.

“This place is too big a job to be taken lightly. We’re wasting time here now. We still have a quota to fill, and we must come here with someone who knows a lot about this kind of equipment.”

“If I were you,” retorted Maxim, “I wouldn’t be so quick to count on this Fortress of yours. In the first place, everything here is rotten; and in the second place, it’s already occupied.”

“By whom? You and your dog theories again? You’re like the rest of them, with their vampires.”

Zef paused. A guttural cry tore through corridor; bouncing off the walls, it echoed repeatedly, then died down. Instantly it was followed by another, from somewhere in the distance. They were very familiar sounds, but Maxim could not recall where he had heard them before.

“So that’s what’s been screaming at night!” exclaimed Zef. “And we always thought it was birds.”

“It’s a strange cry.”

“Strange—I don’t know, but it’s damned frightening. When those screams start tearing through the forest at night, you get the shakes. How many stories we’ve heard about those cries. In fact, one prisoner even bragged that he understood their language. Translated it.”

“What did they say?”

“Oh, rubbish! You call that a language?”

“Where’s the prisoner now?”

“Disappeared,” replied Zef. “He was in a construction unit and his team got lost in the forest.”

They turned left. Ahead, in the distance, they thought they saw a faint spot of light. Zef turned off the flashlight and put it in his pocket. Now he took the lead, and when he halted abruptly, without warning, Maxim almost bumped into him.

“Massaraksh!” muttered Zef. A human skeleton lay crosswise on the floor of the corridor. Zef removed the grenade thrower from his shoulder and looked around. “This wasn’t here before.”

“You’re right,” said Maxim. “They just put it there.”

Suddenly from far behind them, from the depths of the underground complex, a chorus of guttural wails rang out. The wails, amplified by their echoes, sounded like a thousand throats crying out. They wailed in unison, as if chanting some strange four-syllable word. Maxim sensed that they were sneering at the intruders, mocking and challenging them. Suddenly the chorus ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

Zef sucked in his breath noisily and lowered the grenade thrower. Maxim looked at the skeleton again.

“I guess they’re trying to drop a gentle hint.”

“Sure looks like it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They reached the gap in the ceiling quickly, climbed onto the mound of earth, and saw Vepr’s anxious face peering down at them. He was lying with his chest over the edge of the hole, dangling a rope with a loop at the end.

“What happened?” he asked. “Was that you screaming?”

“Tell you in a minute,” replied Zef. “Is the rope fastened?”

When they reached the surface, Zef rolled cigarettes for Vepr and himself. He lit them and then sat in silence for some time, apparently trying to make sense of his recent adventure.

“All right,” he said finally. “Here’s what it’s all about. This is the Fortress. Below are control panels, an electronic brain, and the like. Everything’s in bad shape, but energy is available, and if we’re to use it to our advantage, we must find knowledgeable people to help us. Next: from all appearances, I’d say that the place is inhabited by dogs. And what dogs! With enormous heads. How they howled! But when you start thinking about it, you wonder if it was them, because, you see... how can I put it? Well, while Mac and I were wandering through the place, someone placed a human skeleton in the corridor. And that’s the whole story.”

Vepr glanced from Zef to Mac.

“Mutants?”

“Possibly,” replied Zef. “I didn’t see a damn thing, but Mac claims he saw dogs—but not with his eyes. Massaraksh, how did you see them?”

“Oh, I saw them with my eyes, too. And there was nothing else there except the dogs. I’d have known if there was. And those dogs of yours, Zef, are not what you think they are. They’re not animals.”

Vepr said nothing. He rose, wound up the rope, and sat down again beside Zef.

“God knows,” muttered Zef. “Maybe they aren’t animals-anything is possible here. After all, this is the South.”

“Maybe those dogs really are mutants?” suggested Maxim.

“No,” said Zef. “Mutants are just very deformed people. They can be the offspring of the most normal parents. Mutants—do you know what they are?”

“I do,” replied Maxim. “But the point is, how far can a mutation go?”

After a rather lengthy pause Zef said: “Well, if you’re so well-educated, there’s no need to waste time talking. Up on your feet! We’ve little time left and a lot to do. And I have a craving for grub.” He winked at Maxim. “A downright pathological craving. Do you know what pathological means?”

Although they had not yet worked the last quarter of the south-west quadrant, they found nothing to clear. Something very powerful had probably exploded there some time ago. Only half-decayed fallen tree trunks and burnt stumps remained of the old forest, and in its place a new, young, sparse forest was rising. The soil was charred and full of rust. Realizing that no mechanical device could have survived such an explosion, Maxim concluded that Zef had other reasons for leading them there.

A grimy man in baggy prison clothes emerged from the bushes and walked toward them. Maxim recognized him: it was the first native he had met on this planet, Zefs old melancholy buddy.

“Wait,” said Vepr. “I’ll talk to him.”

Zef ordered Mac to sit, sat down himself, and changed his boots, whistling a prisoner’s tune, “I’m a Dashing Lad, Known O’er the Frontier.” Vepr went over to the man and retreated with him into the bushes, where they conversed in whispers. Although Maxim heard every word distinctly, he understood nothing, because they were using unfamiliar slang. Several times he recognized the word “post office.” Soon, he stopped listening. He felt grimy and exhausted; there had been too much senseless work and needless nervous tension today; he had breathed too much filthy air and received too much radiation. Again, another totally unproductive day had passed, and he detested the thought of returning to the barracks.

The man disappeared, and Vepr returned and sat down on a stump in front of Maxim.

“Well, let’s talk.”

“Is everything in order?” asked Zef.

“Yes,” replied Vepr.

“I told you I had an instinct for people,” said Zef.

“Well, Mac,” said Vepr, “we’ve checked you out as thoroughly as possible under the circumstances. The General vouches for you. From now on you’ll be taking orders from me.”

“Glad to hear that.” Mac smiled wryly. He wanted to say: “But the General didn’t vouch for you to me.” Instead, he added: “I’m at your command.”

“The General says that you aren’t affected by radioactivity or the radiation emitters. Is that true?”

“It is.”

“So you could swim across the Blue Snake River at any time and you wouldn’t be harmed?”

“I’ve already told you that I could escape right now if I wanted to.”

“We don’t want you to escape. So, as I understand it, the patrol cars don’t bother you either?”

“You mean the mobile emitters? No, they don’t bother me.”

“Very good,” said Vepr. “Then your assignment for the present is completely settled. You’ll be our messenger. When I give the order, you’ll swim across the river and send telegrams from the nearest telegraph office. Is that clear?”

“Yes, that much is clear, but something else isn’t.”

Vepr 1ооkеd at Mac without blinking. This aloof, sinewy, crippled old man was a cold and merciless soldier, a fighter since birth, a terrifying and intriguing product of a world where human life was worthless; he knew nothing but struggle, had experienced only struggle, pushed aside everything but struggle. In his attentive narrowed eyes Maxim read his own fate.

“Yes?” said Vepr.

“Let’s settle this right now,” said Maxim firmly. “I don’t want to act blindly. I don’t intend to get involved in operations that I feel are foolish and unnecessary.”

“For example?”

“I know the meaning of discipline. And I know that without it our work is useless. But I feel that discipline should be rational, that a subordinate should feel that an order makes sense. You are ordering me to be a messenger, and I’m prepared to be one. I can perform more demanding tasks, but, if necessary, I’ll be a messenger. But I must know that the telegrams I send out will not result in senseless deaths.”

Zef started to interrupt, but Vepr and Maxim gestured to him to wait.

“I was ordered to blow up the tower,” continued Maxim. “I was not told why it was necessary. I saw that it was a foolish and deadly plan, but I carried out the order. I lost three comrades, and then it turned out that the whole operation was a trap set by government provocateurs. Well, I’m telling you right now that I’ve had enough of that kind of stuff. I refuse to blow up any more towers! And I’ll do everything in my power to block similar plans.”

“Well, you are a damned fool!” said Zef. “A pantywaist.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Hold on, Zef,” said Vepr, his eyes still riveted on Maxim. “In other words, Mac, you want to know all the staff’s plans?”

“Right. I don’t want to work blindly.”

“You’re downright insolent,” declared Zef. “Just too damned insolent! Listen, Vepr, I still like him. And I know—I’ve got a good eye for the right material.”

“You’re demanding far too much trust from us,” said Vepr coldly. “That kind of trust must be earned.”

“And for that, I suppose I’ll be expected to knock over those idiot towers? True, I’ve been in the underground only a few months, but I’ve heard only one thing all this time: towers, towers, towers. I don’t want to topple towers. It’s senseless. I want to fight tyranny, hunger, corruption, lies. Of course I realize that the towers are torturing you, torturing you physically. But you don’t even know how to fight the towers. Your approach is idiotic. It’s very obvious that the towers are relays. You must strike at the Center, not try to pick them off one by one.”

Vepr and Zef began to speak at the same time.

“How do you know about the Center?” asked Vepr.

“And where would you find the Center?” asked Zef.

“Any fool of an engineer knows there must be a Center,” said Maxim scornfully. “But how to find it—that’s the real problem. Forget about machine guns and killing people uselessly. Find the Center!”

“In the first place we know all this without you.” Zef was seething. “In the second place, massaraksh, no one has died uselessly! Any fool of an engineer, you snotty bastard, would certainly realize that we could destroy the relay system and liberate an entire region by toppling several towers. But for that, we have to know how to topple them. And we’re learning how. Do you or don’t you understand? And if you say another word about our people dying in vain, I’ll—”

“Now, wait,” said Maxim. “You were saying ‘liberate a region.’ Fine. Then what?”

“Then all sorts of pantywaists come and tell us that we’re dying for nothing,” said Zef.

“Come on, Zef, then what?” Maxim persisted. “The legionnaires will bring up mobile emitters and finish you off. Right?”

“Like hell!” said Zef. “Before they get a chance to bring them up, the population of that region will have come over to our side, and it won’t be so easy for those legionnaires to butt in. It’s one thing to deal with a dozen degens but something else to deal with ten thousand or a hundred thousand enraged citizens.”

“Zef, Zef!” Vepr cautioned him.

Zef waved him away impatiently.

“Hundreds of thousands of city dwellers, farmers, and, maybe, soldiers, who understand and can never forget how shamefully they have been duped.”

Vepr waved his hand and turned away in frustration.

“Now, wait a minute,” said Maxim. “What are you saying? Why on earth should they suddenly understand? They’ll tear you to pieces. After all, they believe those towers are part of an antiballistic missile network.”

“And what do you think they are?” asked Zef, smiling strangely.

“Oh, well, I know, of course. I’ve been told.”

“By whom?”

“The doctor. And the General. It’s no secret, is it?”

“Maybe that’s enough on this subject,” said Vepr softly.

“Why enough?” Zef replied softly, and his speech now had a cultured ring. “Is it, strictly speaking, enough, Vepr? You know what I think about this. You know why I’m staying here, playing my part, I’ll remain here for the rest of my life. So why is it enough? Both you and I believe that it must be shouted from the rooftops; but when it comes time to act, we suddenly remember about discipline and play docilely into the hands of our great leaders, those outstanding liberals, those pillars of enlightenment. And now we have this boy before us. You can see what sort of person he is. Should such people not know?”

“Maybe it’s precisely this kind that shouldn’t,” replied Vepr in the same quiet voice.

Puzzled, Maxim kept shifting his glance from one to the other. Suddenly both men seemed to wilt as the same expression appeared on their faces. No longer did Maxim see the steely Vepr, the Vepr who had defied the prosecutor and the drumhead court. And Zefs reckless vulgarity had vanished. Something else had broken through: a sadness, a hidden despair, a sense of deep hurt, a submissiveness. It was as if they had suddenly remembered something, something that should have been forgotten, that they had tried hard to forget.

“I’m going to tell him,” declared Zef, without asking for permission or consulting Vepr. Vepr remained silent and Zef began his story.

What he described was incredible. Incredible in itself, incredible because it left no room for doubt. While Zef spoke, softly, calmly, in impeccably precise language, pausing politely when Vepr interjected brief remarks, Maxim strained hard to find a loophole in this new image of their world. But in vain. The emerging picture was coherent, primitive, and hopelessly logical: it covered all the facts known to Maxim, leaving nothing unexplained. It was the most frightening discovery Maxim had made on his inhabited island.

It was not for the degens that the towers had been designed. The radiation strikes affected the nervous system of every human being on the planet. The physiological mechanism was unknown, but, in essence, the brain of an individual exposed to radiation lost its capacity to analyze reality critically. Thinking man was transformed into believing man, into one who believed rabidly, fanatically, despite the evidence of his own eyes. The most elementary propaganda techniques could convince anyone inside the radiation field of anything: he would lovingly accept whatever was presented as the shining truth, the only truth, a truth for which he would gladly live, suffer, and die.

The field was everywhere. Invisible, omnipresent, all-pervasive. A gigantic network of towers enmeshing the entire country emitted radiation around the clock. It purged tens of millions of souls of any doubts they might have about the All-Powerful Creators’ words and deeds. The Creators controlled the minds and energy of millions. They inculcated in people an acceptance of the repugnant ideas of violence and aggression; they could drive millions against cannons and machine guns; they could compel these millions to kill one another in the name of anything they pleased; they could, should the whim strike them, stir up a mass epidemic of suicides. Nothing was beyond their control.

Twice daily, at ten in the morning and at ten in the evening, the network was turned on full blast; and for thirty minutes people lost all their humanity. All the hidden tensions which had accumulated in their subconscious as a result of the gap between what they had been led to believe and reality were liberated in a paroxysm of delirious enthusiasm, in an impassioned, servile ecstasy. The radiation strikes suppressed natural reflexes and instincts completely and replaced them with a fantastic complex of behavior patterns. These patterns involved the worship of the Creators. The radiated individual lost his capacity to reason; he behaved like a robot.

The only threat to the Creators came from people who, because of certain physiological quirks, were immune to this mass-hypnosis. They were called degens. The constant field had no effect on their thought processes, but the strikes did cause them agonizing pains. There were comparatively few degens—something like one percent of the population—but they alone were awake in this kingdom of somnambulists; they alone possessed the ability to evaluate a situation soberly, to perceive the world as it really was, to influence their environment, to change it, to govern. The most abominable aspect was that the degens themselves provided society with its ruling elite, the All-Powerful Creators. All the Creators were degens, but comparatively few degens were Creators. Those who could not or would not become involved in this governing elite were declared enemies of the state and were treated accordingly.

Maxim was overwhelmed by despair: his inhabited island was populated by puppets. Hitler’s enormous propaganda apparatus was erode beside this system of radiation towers. One could have turned off the radio; one could have chosen not to listen to Goebbels’ speeches; one could have chosen not to read the newspapers. But here it was impossible to evade the radiation field. It had no equal in the history of humankind. There was nothing in Earth’s experience to look to for guidance. There was nothing to rely on. Zefs plan to seize some important region was no more than a gamble. They were confronted by an enormous machine, too simple to change by evolutionary methods and too enormous to destroy with small forces. There wasn’t a force in the country that could liberate such a huge nation, a nation that had no idea that it was not a free people, and that, as Vepr expressed it, had swerved from the course of history. This machine was invulnerable internally. Minor revolts did not disturb its basic stability. Partially destroyed, it recovered rapidly; irritated, it reacted immediately and in kind to the irritant, ignoring the fate of its individual elements.

There remained but one hope: the machine had a Center, a control panel, a brain. Theoretically, this Center could be destroyed; then the machine would die in unstable equilibrium. And the moment would come when an attempt must be made to shift this world onto other tracks, to return it to the course of history. But the Center’s location was a well-kept secret. Besides, who would destroy it? It was far more complicated than attacking a tower. Such an operation would require a great deal of money and, above all, an army of people immune to radiation. Yes, either people immune to radiation, or simple, easily accessible protective devices to protect those who were not immune. Neither had ever been available, nor was their availability foreseen. Several hundred thousand degens were dispersed, isolated, and persecuted. Many belonged to the category of so-called legal degens. But even if they could be united and armed, the Creators could destroy their small army by sending out mobile emitters to meet them.

Silence reigned long after Zef had finished his story. Maxim continued to sit there, his head hanging down as he scratched the dry black soil with a twig. Then Zef coughed and said awkwardly: “Yes, that’s the way it is.”

“What are you counting on?” asked Maxim.

Zef and Vepr remained silent. Maxim raised his head, saw their faces and muttered: “I’m sorry. I... it’s all so... I’m sorry.”

“We must fight,” said Vepr in an even voice. “We are fighting and shall continue to fight. Zef outlined one of the staff’s strategies to you. There are other plans just as vulnerable to criticism and never tested. You must understand that we are a very young movement.”

“Tell me,” said Maxim slowly, “this radiation, does it have the same effect on all nations in your world?”

Vepr and Zef exchanged glances.

“I don’t understand,” said Vepr.

“Here’s what I have in mind. Is there any country that might have even several thousand like me?”

“I doubt it,” replied Zef. “Unless, among those... those mutants. Massaraksh, don’t be offended, Mac, but obviously you are a mutant. A lucky mutation. One chance in a million.”

“I’m not offended. So, there are mutants. Deeper in the forest?”

“Yes,” said Vepr. He looked intently at Maxim.

“What, exactly, is there farther on?”

“Forest, then desert.”

“And mutants?”

“Yes. Semianimal. Crazy savages. Listen, Mac, forget it.”

“Have you ever seen them?”

“Only dead ones,” said Vepr. “Sometimes they’re captured in the forest. Then they’re hung in front of the barracks as morale boosters.”

“But why?”

“Fool!” barked Zef. “They’re animals! They’re incurable and more dangerous than any animal. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. In your worst dreams you’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Then why are the towers being extended in that direction? Do you want to tame them?”

“Drop it, Mac,” said Vepr again. “It’s hopeless. They hate us. But do what you think best. We don’t hold anyone back.”

They sat in silence. Suddenly a familiar roar tore through the forest. Zef rose slightly.

“Rocket tank,” he said. “Should we knock it out? It’s not so far. The eighteenth quadrant. No, we’ll wait until tomorrow.”

Maxim suddenly made a decision. “I’ll take care of it. Go back, I’ll catch up to you.”

Zef looked at him dubiously. “Can you handle it? You can still get blown up.”

“Mac,” said Vepr. “Think!”

Zef looked at Maxim and grinned.

“Oh ho, so that’s why you need a tank! The kid is not dumb! No, you can’t fool me. OK, go on, I’ll save your supper for you, in case you change your mind. And remember, many self-propelled tanks are mined. So be careful. Let’s go, Vepr. He’ll catch up to us, if he wants.”

Vepr was about to add something, but Maxim had already risen and started for the path through the underbrush. He didn’t care to engage in further conversation. He walked rapidly, without turning around, and held the grenade thrower under his arm. Having made a decision, he felt relieved. The mission before him depended on him alone.

14.

By morning Maxim had maneuvered the self-propelled tank onto the road and turned its nose southward. He could have kept going. Instead, he climbed out of the control compartment, jumped down to the broken pavement, sat down at the edge of the road, and wiped his dirty hands in the grass. Beside him the rusty monster rumbled peacefully, pointing its rocket’s sharp tip into the murky sky.

Although he had worked through the night, he wasn’t tired. The natives had built well: the tank was in pretty good shape. It wasn’t mined, and he was surprised to find manual controls. If anyone were blown up in such a tank, it would be due either to a worn-out reactor or its driver’s technical incompetence. True, the reactor was functioning at only twenty percent of capacity, and its chassis was rather battered, but Maxim was satisfied. It exceeded all his expectations.

It was almost six in the morning and quite light. It was the hour when the convicts were drawn up into columns, fed hastily, and driven out to work. Surely his absence had been noticed by now, and most likely he was already considered a fugitive and condemned to death. Or perhaps Zef had invented some excuse—like a sprained ankle or a bad wound.

The forest had grown still. The “dogs,” who had been calling out to each other through the night, had quieted down and had probably returned to their underground world. They were probably rubbing their paws together gleefully, recalling how they had frightened those two-legged creatures the preceding day. These dogs would have to be investigated, but he must leave them behind for the time being. He wondered if they were immune to radiation. Strange creatures.

During the night, while he was working on the engine, two of them observed him quietly from the bushes. Then a third arrived and climbed into a tree, to see better. Leaning out of the hatch, he waved to it; and, for kicks, he reproduced, as closely as possible, the four-syllable word the chorus had chanted yesterday. The creature in the tree became furious; its eyes glittered, its wool bristled, and it began to scream guttural insults. The two in the bushes were evidently shocked by this outburst; they rushed off and never returned. The creature cursing in the tree stayed for a long time, unable to calm down. It hissed, spat, made threatening gestures, as if it were about to attack, and bared its white fangs. It was nearly morning when it finally departed, convinced that Mac had no intention of accepting its challenge to do honorable battle. They were hardly intelligent in a human sense, but they were interesting creatures. Most likely they had some sort of social organization. After all, they had driven a military garrison, commanded by the duke, from the Fortress. The information about them was very meager, only rumors and legends... Oh, how he’d like to soak in a nice hot tub right now. His skin was burning; the reactor leaked. If Zef and Vepr agreed to join him, he’d have to shield the reactor with three or four plates—strip the armor from the sides.

A distant thud echoed through the forest: the sappers had begun their working day. How utterly senseless. Another thud. A machine gun began to clatter, continued for a long time, and then was still. It was a clear day and quite bright. The cloudless ski was a luminous milky white. The concrete on the road glittered with dew, but the ground around the tank was dry: its armor radialed an unhealthy heat.

Suddenly Zef and Vepr emerged from the underbrush onto the road. When they spotted the tank they ran faster. Maxim rose to meet them.

“You’re alive.” Zef greeted him. “I’m not surprised. But I brought you some bread. Eat up, fast!” “Thanks.” Maxim took the thick slice of bread.

Leaning on his mine detector, Vepr stood there watching him.

“Get it down fast, Mac, and take off!” said Zef. “They’ve come for you back there.”

“Who?” Maxim stopped chewing.

“We don’t know the details. Some idiot with buttons from head to toe. He was shouting at the top of his lungs. Wanted to know why you weren’t there. And I was almost shot. So I stared at him hard and reported that you were killed in a mine field and your body was not found.”

Zef walked around the tank. “What lousy luck.” He sat down and rolled a cigarette.

“That’s strange,” said Maxim, biting off a piece of bread. “Why? For further interrogation?”

“Could it be Fank?” asked Vepr in a low voice.

“Fank? Medium height, square face, scaly skin?”

“Not likely!” said Zef. “This was a big lanky fellow covered with pimples. A real imbecile—the Legion.”

“That’s not Fank.”

“Maybe on Fank’s orders?” asked Vepr.

Maxim shrugged his shoulders and stuffed the last crust of bread into his mouth.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I used to think that Fank was connected somehow to the underground, but now I don’t know what to think.”

“I think you’d better get out of here,” said Vepr. “Although, to tell the truth, I don’t know what’s worse, the mutants or that Legion bureaucrat.”

“All right, let him go,” said Zef. “He wouldn’t work for you as a messenger anyway. And this way, at least he’ll bring back some information—if he survives.”

“I suppose you aren’t coming with me.”

Vepr shook his head. “No. I wish you luck.”

“Get rid of the rocket,” suggested Zef. “Or you’ll blow yourself up. Now, here’s the situation. There are two more outposts ahead of you. You can slip past them easily. They face south. Farther on it gets worse. The radiation is terrible, nothing to eat, mutants. And still farther—sand and no water.”

“Thanks,” said Maxim. “Good-bye.”

He jumped onto the tread, flung open the hatch, and climbed into the hot semidarkness. He was about to pull the levers when he remembered that he had one more question. He put his head out.

“Why is the real purpose of the towers kept from the rank-and-file underground?”

Zef frowned and spat, and Vepr replied sadly: “Because most of the staff hope to seize power someday and use the towers in the same way, but in their own interests.”

For several seconds they looked each other straight in the eye, Zef turned away and carefully glued a cigarette with his tongue. “I hope you make it,” said Maxim, turning to the levers.

Rumbling and clanging, its treads crunching, the tank began to roll forward.

Driving the tank was difficult. There was no seat for the driver, and the pile of branches and grass that Maxim had arranged at night fell apart very quickly. Visibility was terrible, and the tank wouldn’t pick up speed. At twenty miles an hour, something in the engine began to rumble and sputter, and it was burning oil. But the tank’s ability to negotiate any terrain was still excellent. Road or no road—it didn’t matter: it tore calmly through bushes, rolled over shallow ruts, and crushed fallen trees. It ignored saplings growing through the shattered pavement, and it snorted with pleasure as it crossed over a deep hole filled with black water. It held its course beautifully, but turning it was difficult.

Since the road was quite straight and it was dirty and stuffy in the compartment, Maxim finally set the manual gas lever, climbed out, and settled himself comfortably on the edge of the hatch, beneath the rocket’s latticed mount. The tank forged ahead as if this were the route it had originally been programmed for. There was something smug and simple about its behavior, and Maxim, who loved machines, patted its armor affectionately.

Ah, life could be pleasant! To the right and left the forest slipped away, the engine rumbled, the radiation above was negligible, and the comparatively clean breeze felt good on his hot skin. Maxim raised his head and glanced at the rocket’s swaying nose. He must get rid of it: it was excess weight. No, it wouldn’t explode—it had been inoperative for a long time: he had checked it out last night. But it weighed some ten tons and there was no point in dragging it along.

As the tank crawled forward, Maxim climbed along the rocket mount to look for a release device. He found it, but it was badly rusted, and he had to work on it for some time. While he was busy, the tank turned off the road twice, howling indignantly and knocking down trees. Each time Maxim had to rush back to the controls, calm down the iron fool, and maneuver it back onto the road. Finally the release device was repaired, and the rocket reeled heavily, crashed to the pavement, and rolled ponderously into the drainage ditch. The tank moved more easily. At that moment, Maxim spotted the first outpost.

At the edge of the forest stood two large tents and a van. Smoke curled above a field kitchen. Two legionnaires, stripped to the waist, were washing—one was pouring water over the other from a mess tin. A sentry in a black cape stood in the middle of the road and looked at the tank. On the right were two columns joined by a crossbar; something long and white, almost touching the ground, hung from it. Maxim dropped down into the compartment so his checkered prison uniform would not be visible and thrust his head through the hatch. The sentry gaped at the tank, withdrew to the shoulder, and looked around absentmindedly at the van. The half-naked legionnaires stopped washing and stared at the tank. Several more men, attracted by the tank’s rumbling, came running from the tents and van. One wore an officer’s uniform. They were surprised but not alarmed. The officer pointed to the tank, made a remark, and everyone laughed. When Maxim reached the sentry, the sentry shouted something that was drowned out by the engine, and Maxim shouted in reply: “Everything’s in order. Stay where you are!”

The sentry couldn’t make out his words either, but the expression on his face indicated that he was satisfied. Waving the tank on, he returned to his position in the middle of the road. Everything had turned out all right.

Turning his head, Maxim saw at close range what was swinging from the crossbar. He glanced at it for a split second, sat down quickly, frowned, and grabbed the controls. “Oh, God, I shouldn’t have looked. What the hell possessed me to turn my head! I should have kept going and never would have known anything.” He forced himself to open his eyes. “Damn it, I have to face it! I have to get used to it. Now that I’ve undertaken this mission, I don’t have the right to look away. It must have been a mutant; even death couldn’t disfigure a person so terribly. Life itself can. It will do it to me, too. I can’t hide from it: must get used to it. Ahead of me may be hundreds of miles of roads covered with gallows.”

When he thrust his head through the hatch again and looked back, neither the outpost nor its lone gallows by the road wen visible. If only he could go home right now! He’d keep going in this tank, and, at the end of his journey, there it would be—home. His parents and friends. He’d wake up in the morning, wash, and, at breakfast, describe his nightmare about an inhabited island. He tried to picture Earth, but he couldn’t: it was almost beyond his imagination to conceive of a place in the universe with clean, cheerful cities, billions of good, intelligent people, and mutual trust everywhere. “Well, you were looking for a job,” he thought, “and you got it all right. A rough job, a dirty job, bat I doubt that you’ll ever find one more important.”

Ahead of him, on the other side of the road, appeared some sort of vehicle, crawling slowly southward. It was a small caterpillar tractor, pulling a trailer piled with metal trusswork. In its open cab sat a man in a prison uniform smoking a pipe. He glanced indifferently at Maxim and the tank and then turned away. “I wonder what kind of framework that is,” thought Maxim. “It certainly looks familiar.” He suddenly realized that it was a section of a tower. “I ought to shove the works into a ditch and roll over it a few times.” He looked around; the expression on his face evidently had intimidated the tractor’s driver. The driver braked suddenly, getting ready to jump out and run. Maxim turned away.

About ten minutes later he spotted the second outpost. It was the advance outpost of a vast army of slaves in prison uniforms (although maybe these slaves were, in a sense, the freest people in the country). There were two modern houses with shiny zinc roofs. A squat gray guardhouse with gunports like black slits rested on a small man-made hill. The first sections of the tower were already rising above it; around the hill stood cranes and tractors, and steel girders lay scattered about. For several hundred yards to the right and left of the road, the forest had been destroyed, and men in checkered clothing pottered about here and there along the clearings. A long low barracks was visible behind the cottages. A gray rag was drying on a clothesline in front of it. A short distance away, next to the road, stood a wooden tower with a platform; a sentry in a gray uniform paced along the platform, where a machine gun rested on a tripod. More soldiers were gathered beneath the platform; their faces showed the strain of coping with boredom and insects. All were smoking.

“I’ll probably get through here, too, without any fuss,” thought Maxim. “This is the end of the world, and they don’t give a damn about anything.” He was wrong. The soldiers stopped waving away the insects and stared at the tank. One of them, a gaunt fellow who looked very familiar, straightened his helmet, walked out to the middle of the road, and raised his hand. “You’re wasting your time, buddy,” thought Maxim. “I’ve made up my mind to get through here, and nothing’s going to stop me.” He slid down toward the controls, made himself more comfortable, and put his foot on the accelerator. The soldier continued to stand in the road with his hand raised. “Now I’ll give it the gas,” thought Maxim. “Let out a good, loud roar and scare him out of the way. If he doesn’t move—well, war is war.”

Suddenly he recognized the soldier. It was Guy. Thin, hollow-cheeked, in baggy army fatigues.

“Oh, my God,” mumbled Maxim.

He slid his foot off the accelerator and switched off the ignition. The tank slowed down and stopped. Guy dropped his hand and walked toward him slowly. Maxim began to laugh: everything had turned out well after all. He turned on the ignition again and steadied himself.

“Hey,” shouted Guy, tapping the armor with his gun butt. “Who are you?”

Maxim did not respond.

“Is anyone in there?” A note of doubt had crept into Guy’s voice.

His hobnailed boots clanked along the armor, the hatch opened from the left, and Guy thrust his head into the compartment. When he saw Maxim, his mouth dropped open. Maxim grabbed him by his fatigues, pulled him inside, pushed him down on the branches beneath his feet, and stepped on the accelerator. The tank roared and leaped forward. “I’ll ruin the engine,” thought Maxim. Guy twisted and turned; his helmet had ridden down over his face; he could see nothing and kicked blindly, trying to pull out his gun from under him. Suddenly the thunder and clatter of guns filled the compartment: machine-gun fire was hitting the real of the tank. It was safe inside, but most unpleasant, and Maxim watched impatiently as the forest’s walls advanced toward them. Closer and closer they came. At last, the first bushes. A checkered figure recoiled from the road. Now he was surrounded by forest; the clatter of bullets against the armor had ceased, and the road ahead was clear for hundreds of miles.

Finally, Guy managed to pull out the gun; at the same time, Maxim tore off Guy’s helmet and saw his sweaty, snarling face. He laughed when the rage, terror, and thirst to kill dissolved first into bewilderment, then amazement, and finally joy. Guy’s lips moved, forming “massaraksh!”

Maxim left the controls and embraced him. Holding him by the shoulder, he said: “Guy, buddy, am I glad to see you!”

It was impossible to hear through the noise of the engine. Maxim looked through the peephole. The road ahead was straight, so he set the manual accelerator again, climbed out of the compartment, and pulled Guy after him.

“Massaraksh!” said the bedraggled Guy. “It’s you again!”

“Am I glad to see you!” repeated Maxim.

“What’s this all about?” shouted Guy. His initial joy had already subsided, and he looked around him anxiously. “Where an you going? Why?”

“To the South,” said Maxim. “I’ve had enough of your hospitable country!”

“Escape?”

“Yes!”

“You’re crazy. They spared your life.”

“Who spared my life? It’s my life! It belongs to me!”

It was difficult to talk; they had to shout over the engine. Somehow the conversation deteriorated into a heated exchange. Maxim leaped through the hatch and slowed down the engine. The tank moved more slowly, but the roaring and clanging lessened. When Maxim climbed back, Guy was frowning, and his face was set in a determined expression.

“It’s my duty to take you back,” he announced.

“And it’s my duty to drag you away from here,” replied Maxim.

“I don’t understand. You’re completely out of your mind. It’s impossible to escape. You must return. Massaraksh, I can’t take you back. You’ll be shot. And in the South, you’ll be eaten by those cannibals. Damn you and your crazy ideas!”

“Hold on, Guy, don’t shout. Give me a chance to explain.”

“I don’t want to hear anything. Stop the tank!”

“Now, wait a minute,” persisted Maxim. “Let me talk!”

Guy was unrelenting. He demanded that the illegally seized tank be stopped immediately and returned. The engine’s roar drowned out a string of curses. The situation, massaraksh, was horrendous. It was hopeless, massaraksh! Ahead, massaraksh, waited certain death. To go back, massaraksh, would lead to the same. Maxim was a blockhead and a lunatic, but this escapade would be his last.

Maxim deliberately refrained from interrupting Guy’s tirade. He realized that the range of the last tower’s radiation field ended somewhere in this area, had perhaps ended: the last outpost was supposedly located at the outer limit of the most distant radiation field. Let the poor devil get it off his chest; talk was cheap on the inhabited island. “Curse all you want to,” he thought to himself, “but I’ll drag you out of here anyway. This country is no place for you. We must begin with someone, and you’re the first. I don’t want you to be a puppet, even if you enjoy it.”

When Guy had finished cursing out Maxim, he jumped through the hatch and tinkered with the controls, trying to stop the tank. Unsuccessful, he climbed out again, wearing his helmet. He was silent and determined. Obviously he intended to jump off and return to his post. He was furious. Maxim caught him by his pants, pulled him back, and began to explain the situation.

He spoke for over an hour, pausing occasionally to turn the tank. At first Guy tried to interrupt, plugged his ears, and attempted to jump off the moving vehicle. But Maxim persisted, talking on and on, repeating the same thing over and over again, explaining, persuading, dissuading. Finally, Guy began to pay attention. He grew pensive, upset, ran both hands under his helmet and scratched his head; then he took the offensive and began to quiz Maxim. Where, he wanted to know, did he get all his facts, and who could prove that they weren’t a pack of lies? Maxim kept hammering away with facts, and when he had exhausted his supply, he swore that he had been telling the truth. When Guy still failed to respond, he called him a blockhead, puppet, and robot. Meanwhile the tank continued to roll southward, deeper and deeper into the land of mutants.

“Well, all right. We’ll check it out right now.” Maxim was seething. “According to my calculations, we left the radiation field quite a while ago, and it’s now about ten minutes before ten. What do all of you do at ten o’clock?”

“At ten o’clock—formation.”

“Exactly. And you form up into even ranks and yell your lungs out about being ready to shed blood for your cause. Remember?”

“And it comes straight from our hearts,” said Guy.

“No, it’s hammered into your empty skulls. Never mind, we’ll find out very soon where it comes from. What time is it?”

“Seven minutes before ten,” replied Guy dejectedly.

“Well?”

Guy looked at his watch and sang in a faltering voice: “Forward, legionnaires, men of iron...”

Maxim gave him a mocking look. Guy became confused and mixed up the words.

“Stop staring at me,” he said angrily. “You’re upsetting me. Besides, it’s hard to sing well out of formation.”

“Don’t give me that stuff. You used to do just as well outside of formation. It was frightening to watch you and Uncle Kaan. You’d be bellowing ‘Men of Iron,’ and Unc would be drawling ‘Glory to the Creators.’ And Rada, too. So, Guy, what has suddenly happened to your intense desire to burn and slaughter for the glory of the Creators?”

“Don’t you dare talk that way about the Creators! If what you say is true, it means only that the Creators were duped.”

“Who duped them?”

“Well... there are many people who...”

“So the Creators are not all-powerful?”

“I don’t want to discuss the subject,” declared Guy. His face grew even more gaunt, his eyes lost their luster, his lower lip dropped.

His markedly changed appearance reminded Maxim of two prisoners on the train en route to the penal colony. They were addicts, unfortunate people addicted to very powerful narcotics. Deprived of their poison, they could neither eat nor sleep and would sit for days at a time like Guy, eyes dull, lower lip drooping.

“What’s wrong, Guy? Are you in pain?”

“No,” replied Guy dejectedly.

“Why are you so sulky?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Guy tugged at his collar. “I feel sort of lousy. Maybe I’ll lie down.”

He climbed through the hatch and lay down on the branches with his knees drawn up. “So that’s how it is,” thought Maxim. “It’s not as simple as I thought.” He grew uneasy. “We moved out of the field’s range almost two hours ago, so Guy did not receive his usual radiation dose. He’s been living inside that field all his life. Maybe he needs it. Suppose he gets sick?” He looked through the hatch at the pale face and grew increasingly fearful. Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, he jumped into the compartment, turned off the engine, dragged Guy outside, and laid him on the grass by the side of the road.

Guy muttered and twitched in his sleep. Then he began to shiver; he hunched himself up, as if trying to warm his body. Maxim placed Guy’s head on his knees, pressed his fingers to his temples, and tried to concentrate. He hadn’t performed psychomassage for a long time, but he knew that everything except the patient must be excluded from one’s consciousness. He must assimilate the patient into his own healthy system. For ten or fifteen minutes he maintained the same position, and when he returned to his normal state of consciousness, he saw that Guy had improved. His color had improved, his breathing was regular, and his shivering had ceased. Maxim made a pillow out of grass and sat next to him for a while, chasing away the insects. Suddenly he remembered the long journey ahead of them and the leaky reactor. That was dangerous for Guy; he must figure something out. He rose and returned to the tank.

It took him some time to remove several sheets of armor plating, held fast by rusted rivets, from the side of the tank; then he fastened the sheets to a ceramic shield that separated the reactor and engine from the control compartment. As he was about to attach the last sheet, he sensed the approach of a stranger. He thrust his head through the hatch cautiously. A cold shiver ran through him.

On the road, about ten paces from the tank, stood three figures. Maxim did not realize immediately that they were humans. True, they wore clothing, and two of them were holding a pole across their shoulders, from which dangled the bloody head of a small hoofed animal, like a deer. And a huge rifle of unfamiliar make was slung across the pigeon breast of the third figure. “Mutants. These are the mutants.” All the tales and legends he had heard suddenly came to mind and appeared quite plausible: cannibals, savages, animals. Clenching his teeth, he jumped onto the armor plating and rose to his full height. The figure holding the rifle shuffled his short bowed legs comically, without moving from the spot. He raised his hand with its two long multijointed fingers, hissed loudly, and then said in a scratchy voice: “Do you want to eat?”

Maxim relaxed. “Yes.”

“You won’t shoot?”

“No,” Maxim smiled. “I promise.”

15.

Guy sat at the crude homemade table and cleaned his gun. It was almost 10:45 A.M., and the world for him was gray and colorless, cold and joyless, dreary and painful. He had no desire to think, to see, to hear. Or even to sleep. All he wanted was to lay his head on the table and die.

The room was small, with a single paneless window. It looked out on a vast rust-colored wasteland cluttered with ruins and overgrown with wild bushes. The wallpaper in the room was dried up and curling, from either heat or age; the parquet flooring had shrunk and was burned to a crisp in one corner. Nothing remained from its former owner except a large framed photograph beneath broken glass. Close up one could make out an elderly man with ridiculous sideburns wearing a silly hat that looked like a tin plate.

His eyes would have preferred not to see their surroundings; he would have liked to howl like a homeless dog, but Maxim had issued strict orders: “Clean that gun!” And banging his fist against the table, he had shouted to Guy, “Every time you feel that rotten sensation coming on, sit down and clean that gun.” So he had to clean it.

Still the same Mac. If not for Mac, he would have lain down a long time ago and died. He had pleaded with Mac: “For God’s sake, don’t leave me alone. Stay with me, cure me.” Mac refused. Now he must cure himself. Mac had assured him that his illness wasn’t fatal, that it would pass, but he must fight it and cope with it himself.

“All right,” thought Guy sluggishly. “I will. I’ll cope with it. Yes, still the same Mac. Neither man, nor Creator, nor god.” And Mac had also advised him: “Let yourself get good and mad! When that rotten feeling comes on, remember where it came from, who addicted you, and why. Get damn mad and hold onto your hatred. You’ll need it soon. You’re not alone. There are forty million like you who’ve been turned into fools, poisoned.” Massaraksh, it was hard to believe after spending his whole life in the service, where you always knew where you stood. Everything was simple, everyone was together, and it was great to be like everyone else. Then Mac came along, ruined his career, literally dragged him away from the service, and took him off to another life that didn’t make sense to him; where, massaraksh, he had to think for himself, make his own decisions, do everything himself. Yes, Mac had dragged him away and forced him to take a good look at his country, his home, at everything dear to him, and had shown him a cesspool of abominations and lies. You looked back... and, true, there was little beauty. It was nauseating to recall how he and his Legion buddies had behaved. And that Captain Chachu!

In a fit of anger Guy drove the bolt into place. But, again, he was overwhelmed by inertia and apathy, and he no longer had the will to insert the magazine. He felt utterly lost.

The squeaky warped door opened, and a small serious face poked through. If it weren’t for the bald skull and inflamed eyelids, it would be almost likable. It was Tanga, the kid next door.

“Uncle Mac wants you on the square at once! Everyone there is waiting for you.”

He cast a sidelong glance at her, morosely; at the puny body in the little dress of rough cloth, at the abnormally thin matchstick hands covered with brown spots, at the bowed legs swollen at the knees; and he felt ashamed at his revulsion. She was only a child, and who was to blame for her condition? He turned away and said: “I’m not going. Tell him I don’t feel well. I’m sick.”

The door squeaked, and when he raised his eyes again the girl was gone. Irritated, he threw the gun down on the bed, went over to the window, and leaned out. With amazing speed, the little girl skimmed along between the ruins of walls, along what had once been a street. A toddler tagged along behind her for a few steps, caught hold of her dress, fell down, raised her head for a few seconds, and bawled in an awful bass voice. Her mother sprang from the ruins. Guy recoiled sharply, shook his head, and returned to the table. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get used to it. I know how rotten I am. If I ever run into the individual responsible for this, I won’t miss. Why can’t I get used to it? I’ve seen enough in this one month for a hundred nightmares.”

Most mutants lived in small communes. Others roamed, hunted, and looked for better places to live; they searched for a route leading to the North, a route skirting the legionnaires’ machine guns, skirting the terrible regions where they died on the spot of excruciating headaches. Others had settled on farms in hamlets, after surviving the war and three atom bombs. One had been dropped on this city, and two in the suburbs, leaving miles of defoliated earth covered with glistening slag. The settlers sowed scrawny, degenerate wheat; cultivated their weird vegetable gardens where tomatoes were as small as berries and berries as large as tomatoes; and they raised ghastly cattle whose appearance took away your appetite. These were a pitiful people—mutants, the wild southern degens about whom all sorts of stupid tales and legends had been told. He, too, had woven such stories. They were quiet, sickly, deformed caricatures. Only the old folk here were normal, but very few were left; all of them were ill and doomed to die soon. Their children and grandchildren were not long for this world either. They bore many children, but almost all of them died at birth or in infancy. Those who survived were weak and suffered constantly from unknown ailments. The deformed ones were horrors to behold. But all of them appeared to be intelligent. There was no denying that the mutants were good, kind, hospitable, peaceful people. But, thought Guy, it was impossible to look at them. Initially Maxim, too, agonized at the sight of this strange spectacle, but he quickly grew accustomed to it. After all, he was the master of his emotions.

Guy inserted the magazine in his gun, rested his head in his hands, and pondered his predicament.

No question about it. This time Maxim had undertaken an obviously senseless mission. He was rounding up the mutants, arming them, and planning to drive back the Legion, for the beginning at least, to the Blue Snake River. Ridiculous! They could scarcely walk; many would die if they had to walk a mile. Merely lifting a sack of grain was enough to kill some of them—and he wanted to attack the Legion with them! Untrained, weak—totally unfit. Even if he rounded up those... their intelligence agents... their entire army could be wiped out by one captain single-handed. That is, their army without Maxim. And with Maxim, one captain and his company could finish them off. Guy thought, “Maxim has been running around the forest for a solid month, from village to village, from commune to commune, trying to persuade the old men and influential citizens to support him. I’ve been running around, too, and he’s dragged me with him everywhere. He’s given me no peace. The old men don’t want to join him, nor will they permit their intelligence agents to join him. So now they are having a meeting about it—but I’m not going!”

The world seemed brighter to him now. Looking around him, he didn’t feel quite as miserable; his pulse had quickened and vague hopes stirred within him, hopes that today’s meeting would end in failure, that Maxim would return and say: “OK, enough. There’s nothing more we can do here.” They would move on, further south, to the desert. They said it was also inhabited by mutants, but not as ghastly and sick as these. More like people. Supposedly they had some sort of government, even an army. Maybe they could make some headway with them. True, everything was radioactive there; one bomb after another had been dropped on them in order to contaminate the region. He had heard about such special contamination bombs.

Reminded about radioactivity, Guy dug into his bag for the container of yellow tablets. He swallowed two of them and writhed from the penetrating burning sensation. The miserable stuff had to be taken; this place was contaminated too. In the desert, he’d probably have to consume them by the handful. Without these pills he’d be done for. He was grateful to the duke for them. The duke was an unusual man. Nothing bothered him, nothing discouraged him, even in this hell. He helped people, treated them, made rounds, and even set up a plant to produce drugs and medicines.

The door burst open. Wearing only a pair of shorts, Maxim strode into the room angrily.

“No excuses. Let’s go!”

“I don’t want to,” replied Guy. “The hell with all of them! It makes me sick to look at them. I can’t.”

“Nonsense. They’re fine people and have a great deal of respect for you. Stop acting like a child.”

“Oh, sure, they respect me.”

“They certainly do! Recently the duke asked that you remain here. He said he would die soon and needed a real man to replace him.”

“Oh, sure, replace him,” muttered Guy, succumbing to Mac’s pleading.

“Boshku is nagging me, too. He’s too shy to speak to you directly. ‘Let Guy stay,’ he says. ‘He’ll teach us, protect us, train some fine fighters.’ Do you know how Boshku talks about you?”

Guy gave in. “Well, all right. Should I take my gun?”

“Take it. You never can tell.”

Guy put the gun under his arm and they left the room. They descended the rotten staircase, stepped across some children playing in the dirt by the door, and walked down the street toward the square. “How many people perished here when that bomb was dropped! They say this once was a beautiful city. Those bastards ruined the country. They not only killed and crippled people, but bred evil, the like of which has never been seen. And not only here.”

The duke had told them that animals resembling dogs had lived in the forest before the war. He forgot what they were called. They were intelligent and well-behaved, and it was a pleasure to train them. Naturally, they were trained for military purposes. Then a linguist turned up who had deciphered their language. They actually had one, and a rather complex one at that. They loved to imitate, and the physiology of their throats made it possible to teach some of them some fifty to seventy words. On the whole they were amazing animals. We should have befriended them, said the duke, taught each other, and helped each other. “You’ll hear they died out, but that isn’t true. They were trained to fight, to penetrate enemy territory for military intelligence. Then war broke out and there was no time for them, or for anything else. And they, too, mutated—so now we are faced with the vampires. Very dangerous creatures.” An order to fight them was even issued in the Special Southern Zone, and the duke admitted quite frankly: “This is the end for us. Vampires will eventually take over the entire region.”

Guy recalled how Boshku and his hunters had once shot a deer in the forest. “It was being pursued by vampires, who decided to fight for it. And what kind of fighters were Mac’s friends? They fired a single shot from their ancient rifles, flung them down, dropped to the ground, and covered their eyes with their hands so they wouldn’t see themselves mauled to pieces. And Maxim, too, lost his head. Well, not exactly, but he didn’t want to fight the vampires. I had to do their dirty work for them. Clips were all gone, so I used my gun butt. Luckily, there weren’t many of them. Six, in all. Two were killed, one escaped, and three were knocked unconscious. We bound them and planned to take them to the village in the morning and execute them. Well, that night I took a look and what did I see? Maxim had gotten up quietly and gone to them. He sat with them, nursed them, applied hand massage, then untied them. They weren’t fools. Naturally, they took to their heels. I said to him: ‘Mac, why the hell did you do that?’ ‘I don’t know myself,’ he said, ‘but I feel that it’s wrong to execute them. Wrong to kill people, or even these things. They are neither dogs nor vampires.’

“If they aren’t vampires, what are they? Flying mice? The hell they are: they’re flying horrors. What else could be roaming through the village at night, stealing children? And they don’t even enter the house, but the children, still asleep, go out to them. Suppose it is a pack of lies—but I’ve seen a thing or two myself. I still remember the day the duke took us to see the closest entrance to the Fortress. We saw this beautiful, peaceful green meadow. And a knoll. In the knoll was a cave. We looked and saw the entire meadow in front of the cave’s entrance strewn with dead vampires. About two dozen of them, at least, and they weren’t crippled or wounded. Not a drop of blood on the grass. But most surprising was Maxim’s diagnosis after he had examined them. Not dead, he said, but in a trance, as if they had been hypnotized. The question is how did it happen. It’s certainly an uncanny place. You can go there only in the daytime, and even then you have to be careful. If it weren’t for Maxim, I’d have taken off like a streak of lightning. But where could I have gone? It’s all forest, and the forest is full of evil spirits. No tank—our tank sank in a swamp. Could I have run back to my own country? That would have seemed the natural thing to do—to run back to my own people. But are they mine now? They, too, are freaks, puppets. Maxim is right. What kind of people are they, that they can be controlled by machines? No, I’ve no use for them.”

Maxim and Guy entered the square, a wasteland; in its center stood the fused metal remains of a monument. They turned toward the one surviving cottage where the city’s representatives gathered to exchange rumors and advice on sowing or hunting, or simply to sit, doze, or listen to the duke’s stories of bygone days.

The people had already assembled in a large, clean room. How repulsive it was to look at them. Even at the duke. Although apparently not a mutant, he too was disfigured. Bums and scars covered his face. They entered, exchanged greetings, and sat down in a circle on the floor. Boshku, who was sitting beside the stove, removed a teapot from the coals, and served each of them a cup of good strong tea. Without sugar. Guy accepted his cup—a cup of unusual beauty, priceless, made of royal porcelain. He set it down in front of him, leaned the butt of his gun on the floor between his knees, pressed his forehead against its ribbed barrel, and closed his eyes to avoid seeing them.

The duke opened the meeting. He had been the Fortress’ chief surgeon. When the atom bombs began falling on the Fortress, the garrison revolted and hung out a white flag. For hanging out the white flag of surrender, their own forces dropped a thermonuclear bomb on them immediately. The real duke commanding the Fortress was torn to pieces by the soldiers. In their fury they killed all their officers. They suddenly realized that they were leaderless and that without a leader they were lost: the war was still raging, both the enemy and their own side were attacking them, and none of the soldiers knew the layout of the entire Fortress. They were caught in a gigantic mousetrap. Then came bacteriological warfare—germ bombs. An entire arsenal was dropped on them, and plagues broke out. Half the garrison escaped, scattering in different directions; three-fourths of the remaining soldiers died, and the chief surgeon assumed command of the survivors. They acquired the habit of calling him duke initially as a joke, but the title stuck.

“Friends!” said the duke. “We are here to discuss the proposals made by our friend Mac. They are very important proposals. How important they are, you can judge by the fact that the Wizard has honored us with his presence and may even speak to us.”

Guy raised his head. It was true: in the comer, leaning against the wall, sat the Wizard himself.

Although he was awesome to look at, Guy felt compelled to do so. Even Maxim was awed and had said to Guy: “The Wizard is really an unusual person.”

The Wizard was small, stocky, and neat; his hands and feet were short but strong, and he was not too disfigured. In any case, the word “disfigured” did not properly describe him. He had an enormous skull covered with thick coarse hair, like silvery fur; a small mouth with strangely shaped lips that made him look as if he were about to whistle through his teeth; and a lean face with bags under his eyes. And the eyes themselves were long and narrow, with vertical pupils, like a snake’s. He rarely spoke or appeared in public—he lived alone in a basement at the far end of the city—but he enjoyed tremendous prestige. First of all, he was very intelligent and wise, although he was no more than twenty years old and had never set foot outside the city. Whenever problems arose, his advice was sought. As a rule he did not reply to a question; his silence meant that the issue was trivial and would resolve itself satisfactorily. But if it were a vital question—about weather, what and when to sow—he always answered and never made a mistake. Only the city’s elders visited him, and they never discussed their visits, but people were convinced that the Wizard never opened his mouth, even when offering advice. All he did was look at them and they knew what had to be done. Second, he possessed unusual power over animals. He never demanded food or clothing from the public: animals of all kinds, including insects and frogs, supplied his needs. His chief servants were enormous bats with whom he could communicate. It was said, too, that he knew the unknown. It was beyond all comprehension and Guy thought that it was no more than a set of words: a black, empty World preceding the appearance of the World Light; a dead, icy World when the World Light was extinguished; an endless Wasteland with many World Lights. No one could explain what this meant, and Mac would only shake his head and mutter with admiration: “There’s a mind for you!”

The Wizard sat in his corner, staring off into space. On his shoulder was perched a nightbird. From time to time, the Wizard drew bits of something from his pocket and put them into its beak; then it would stand stock-still for a second, crane its neck, and swallow the morsel with apparent difficulty.

“These are very important proposals,” continued the duke. “So I beg you to pay attention. And you, Boshku, my good man, brew the tea a bit stronger, because I see someone dozing off. Don’t fall asleep. Please! Pull yourself together, friends; perhaps your fate will be decided here today.”

The gathering mumbled approvingly. A white-maned man, about to doze off against a wall, was dragged away and planted in front of the speaker.

“I wasn’t asleep,” he muttered. “Just a couple of winks, that’s all. But keep your speech short, or by the time you get to the end, I’ll forget the beginning.”

“All right,” agreed the duke, “I will. The soldiers are pressing us southward, into the desert. They will give us no quarter and will not negotiate. Of those families that tried to make their way to the North, none has returned. We assume they have perished. In ten or fifteen years, they will have driven us into the desert altogether, and there we shall perish from the lack of food or water. They say that the desert regions are inhabited by humans. I don’t believe that, but many respected leaders do. They say that the desert dwellers are as cruel and bloodthirsty as the soldiers. We, a peace-loving people, do not know how to fight. Many of us are dying and will not live to see the end of our people. But we are governing our people; therefore, it is our duty to think not only of ourselves, but of our children... Boshku,” he said, “please give our dear Mr. Baker a cup of tea. I think he’s dozed off.”

Baker was awakened, and a cup of hot tea was placed in his mottled hand. The duke continued.

“Our friend Mac has proposed a way out. He has come to us from the soldiers. He hates the soldiers and says we can expect no mercy from them. They have been duped by their tyrants and are bent on destroying us. At first Mac wanted to arm us and lead us into battle, but now he is convinced that we are too weak and cannot fight. Then he decided it would be wise to contact the desert dwellers. He, too, believes in their existence and wants to negotiate with them and lead them against the soldiers. What is required of us? He wants us to approve this undertaking, to permit the desert people passage through our land, and to supply them with food while they are engaged in warfare. Our friend Mac has also proposed that we give him permission to assemble all our intelligence agents who are willing to join him. He will train them to fight and will lead them across the Blue Snake River to stir up an insurrection there. That, in brief, is the situation. We must come to a decision today, and I beg you to express your opinions.”

Guy cast a sidelong glance at Maxim, huge and immobile as a rock. No, not a rock, but a gigantic storage battery, ready to discharge its tremendous reserve of energy. Mac was looking at the Wizard in the far corner of the room but sensed Guy’s glance and turned to him. Guy realized how his friend had changed. Mac had not flashed his famous dazzling smile or sung his mountain songs for a long time; his eyes lacked their former warmth and had grown hard and glazed like Captain Chachu’s. No longer did Mac dash about like a lively puppy prying into every corner. He showed restraint now. A certain severity and purposefulness had come over him, as if he were aiming at a target visible to him alone. Yes, since the day that heavy army pistol had discharged its bullets into him, Mac had changed drastically. Well, maybe it had to be.

But what he was planning now was frightening: there was bound to be a slaughter, a terrible slaughter.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” declared a balding freak who, judging from his attire, was a stranger. “What the devil does this man want? Those barbarians to come here, to us? They’ll kill us all off. Don’t you think I know what those barbarians are like? They’ll kill us all off.”

“They will come here in peace or not at all,” replied Mac.

“It would be better if they didn’t come at all,” said the balding stranger. “It’s better not to have any dealings with those barbarians. I’d rather face the soldiers with their machine guns.”

“What he says is true, of course,” said Boshku thoughtfully. “But, on the other hand, the barbarians could drive away the soldiers and not bother us. Then everything would turn out all right.”

“What makes you think they won’t bother us?” said the white-maned man. “Everybody else has been bothering us from time immemorial. Why are they going to be an exception?”

“But he’ll make a deal with them,” explained Boshku. “ ‘Hands off our forest folk,’ he’ll say, ‘otherwise, don’t come.’ ”

“Who? Who’ll negotiate?” asked Baker, turning his head.

“Mac, of course. Mac will negotiate.”

“Oh, Mac. Well, if Mac negotiates, maybe they won’t touch us.”

The white-maned man rose suddenly.

“I’m leaving,” he announced. “No good will come of this. They’ll kill Mac and us, too. Why should they spare us? We’ll all be finished in about ten years anyway. No children have been born in my commune for two years. Let me live out my years in peace. Decide for yourselves as you wish. I don’t care.”

He exited clumsily, stumbling out the doorway.

“Mac,” said Leech, “you must excuse us, but we can’t trust anyone. How can we trust the barbarians? They live in the desert, eat and drink sand. They are terrifying people, made of iron wire. They don’t know how to laugh or cry. What are we to them? Nothing more than moss beneath their feet. So they’ll come, kill the soldiers, squat here, and burn our forest. What do they need our forest for? They love the desert. Again, it will mean the end for us. No, I don’t trust them. Mac, I don’t trust them. Your scheme is hopeless.”

“No, Mac,” said Baker, “we don’t need this. Let us die in peace; don’t bother us. You hate the soldiers, you want to destroy them, but that’s none of our business. We don’t hate anyone. Have pity on us, Mac. No one else ever has. Although you are a decent man, you feel no pity for us. You don’t, do yon, Mac?”

Guy glanced at Mac again and turned away his eyes, embarrassed.

Maxim turned red. “That’s not true,” he said. “I do feel pity for you. But not only for you. I...”

“No-o, Mac,” insisted Baker. “Pity us, and us alone. We are the most unhappy people in the world, and you know that. Forget about your hatred. Pity us, and that’s all.”

“Why should he pity us?” came the voice of Ore, who was swathed in bandages right up to his eyes. “He’s a soldier himself. When did soldiers ever pity us? The soldier has yet to be born who will pity us.”

“I’ll tell you how it will turn out,” said the bald-headed stranger soberly. “Let’s say the barbarians are stronger than the soldiers. They’ll kill the soldiers, destroy their towers, and seize the entire North. All right. We would feel no pity for the soldiers. Let them all be slaughtered. But what do we gain? It will still be the end for us: we’ll have barbarians in the South, barbarians in the North, barbarians on top of us. They won’t need us, and so they’ll destroy us. That’s one possibility. Now, let’s say the soldiers repulse the barbarians. They repulse the barbarians, and the war rolls through our land and into the South. What then? Again, we’ll be done for: soldiers in the North, soldiers in the South, and soldiers on top of us. And we know those soldiers.”

The people buzzed approvingly. The stranger had expressed their sentiments well. But he hadn’t finished yet.

“Let me finish!” He was angry. “Settle down. You haven’t heard everything yet. It’s also possible that the soldiers will kill off the barbarians, and the barbarians, the soldiers. Then, it seems, we’d be able to live. But no, it still won’t work. Because there are still the vampires. While the soldiers are alive, the vampires hide; they fear bullets. The soldiers have orders to shoot the vampires on sight. But once the soldiers are gone, we’ll really be done for. The vampires will devour us and not even leave our bones.”

“He’s right, he’s right!” voices rang out. “Yes, brothers, we forgot about the vampires. They’re not asleep; they’re biding their time. We don’t need anything, Mac. Let things be as they are. We’ve managed to live these past twenty years for better or for worse, and we’ll last another twenty. Then we’ll see.”

“We must not give him our intelligence agents!” The stranger’s voice rose. “It doesn’t matter what they themselves want. What do they care—they don’t live at home anyway. Those six-fingered guys spend all their days and nights on the other side. They steal and live it up. They get along fine there; they aren’t afraid of the towers. No headaches for them, no pains. And what about us here? The wild game is moving northward. Only our agents can drive it back to us. No, don’t give him our agents! We must regain control over them. They’ve gotten out of hand. They murder, kidnap soldiers and torture them. They don’t behave like human beings. No, don’t let them go, or they’ll be completely corrupted!”

“Don’t let them go! No! No!” the people shouted in support.

The stranger finally quieted down, took his seat, and gulped down his tea, which had grown cold. The meeting settled down. The old men sat immobile, trying not to look at Maxim.

Boshku nodded sadly. “You must understand, Mac, how miserable our lives are. There is no salvation. What have we done to anyone to deserve this?”

“We never should have been born,” said Ore. “And we, too, are having children. Only to perish. Yes, to perish.”

“Balance.” A loud, hoarse voice suddenly interrupted the debate. “I’ve told you that already, Mac. You didn’t want to understand me.”

The source of the voice was puzzling. The room grew still; the people bowed their heads solemnly. Only the bird on the Wizard’s shoulder shifted about, opening and closing its yellow beak. The Wizard himself sat motionless, his eyes closed, his thin lips tightly compressed.

“But I hope you understand now,” continued the voice. It seemed as if the bird itself were speaking. “You want to destroy this balance. Well, that certainly is possible; it is within your power. But the question is, why should you? Who is asking yon to? No one. What, then, is driving you?”

The bird bristled and tucked its head beneath a wing, but the voice continued. Guy understood now that it was the Wizard himself speaking, without moving a muscle on his face or parting his lips.

It was very frightening, not only to Guy but even to the duke. Maxim alone looked at the Wizard, sullenly, almost defiantly.

“Yes,” continued the Wizard, “I know what is driving you. The impatience of a troubled conscience! Your conscience has been spoiled by constant attention; it groans at the slightest discomfort, and your reason bows before it respectfully instead of scolding it and putting it in its proper place. Your conscience is disturbed by the existing order of things, and your reason obediently and hastily seeks a way to change that order. But order has its own laws, laws that develop from the aspirations of human beings and that can change only with a change in these aspirations. On the one hand, we have the aspirations of human beings; on the other your conscience, embodying your aspirations. Your conscience drives you to change the order of things, that is, to destroy the laws of this order, laws determined by the aspirations of the masses; drives you to change the aspirations of those millions of human beings to conform to your own. It’s absurd—it lacks an understanding of history. Your reason, clouded and stunned by your conscience, has lost the ability to distinguish what is truly good for the people from what you imagine to be good, the imagined good dictated by your conscience. You must keep your reason pure. If you don’t want to or can’t, then it will be the worse for you. And not only for you. You will tell us that in the world you come from people cannot live with a bad conscience. So stop living. That’s not a bad alternative, either—for you as well as others.”

The Wizard fell silent and all eyes focused on Maxim. Guy could not fully comprehend what was going on. Evidently it was the echo of an old argument. It was also clear that the Wizard considered Maxim an intelligent but capricious individual who acted more out of whim than necessity. That offended Guy. Of course Maxim was somewhat eccentric, but he never spared himself and wanted only good for everyone. And this stemmed from deep conviction, not from shallow whim. Naturally, forty million people duped by radiation were utterly opposed to change. But, after all, they had been duped. The Wizard’s judgment was unfair.

“I can’t agree with you,” said Maxim coldly. “Conscience, driven by its own pain, sets the task; reason carries it out. Conscience sets ideals; reason searches for the path to fulfillment. That, precisely, is reason’s function: to find that path. Without conscience, reason works only for itself; that is, it runs idle. In respect to the contradiction between my aspirations and those of the masses, let me say this—there exists a clear ideal: man must be free spiritually and physically. The people in this world still are unaware of this ideal, and the path to it is a difficult one. But a beginning must be made sometime. And I intend to begin right now.”

“True,” agreed the Wizard. “Conscience does set ideals. But ideals are called ideals because of their striking disparity with reality. All I want to say is this, and I repeat: don’t baby your conscience, but expose it a little more frequently to reality’s dusty winds, and don’t worry if a few spots or rough scabs appear on it. But you yourself understand that. You simply have not yet learned to call things by their right names. But you will. For example, your conscience proclaimed the task of overthrowing the tyranny of the Creators. Your reason weighed the situation and offered advice: ‘Since it is impossible to destroy this tyranny from within, we’ll strike from without; we’ll throw the barbarians at it. What if the forest folk are crushed and the Blue Snake River is clogged with corpses; what if it triggers a major war—it’s all for the sake of a noble ideal.’ ‘Well then,’ said your conscience, I must become a little less civilized for the sake of a great cause.’ ”

“Massaraksh!” sputtered Maxim, angrier than Guy had ever seen him. “Yes, massaraksh! Everything is as you say! But what is to be done? The people beyond the Blue Snake have been turned into puppets.”

“True, true,” said the Wizard. “Another thing, your plan is a poor one: the desert barbarians will smash themselves against the towers and be rolled back. Our intelligence agents are not really fit for any serious task. Within the framework of your plan you could ally yourself, for example, with the Island Empire. But that’s not the point. I’m afraid you’re too late, Mac. But don’t think I’m trying to dissuade you. It’s quite obvious to me that you are a real force. And your appearance among us signifies in itself the inevitable disturbance of the balance on the surface of our little world. Don’t stop. But don’t let your conscience prevent you from thinking clearly, and don’t let your reason be shy about pushing aside your conscience when necessary. I advise you to remember this: I don’t know how it is in your world, but in ours no force remains long without a master. There is always someone who tries to tame it—either covertly or on some noble-sounding pretext. That’s all I want to say.”

With surprising agility, the Wizard rose, slid along the wall on his short legs, and vanished behind the door. Immediately, the entire meeting followed him out. Although they had only a vague understanding of the exchange between the Wizard and Maxim, they were obviously satisfied that their situation remained unchanged, that the Wizard had not permitted this dangerous undertaking to be implemented. The Wizard, they felt, pitied them and had seen to it that no harm would come to them. Perhaps now they could live as before; ahead of them stretched a whole eternity—some ten years, maybe even more. Boshku, with his empty teapot, was the last to leave, and only Guy, Mac, the duke, and Baker were left in the room. Baker was fast asleep in a corner, exhausted from the mental strain. Guy felt troubled and depressed. “How unlucky I’ve been all my life. During the first half I was a puppet, a fool. And now I must live out the second half as a vagabond, a man without a country. Without friends. Without a past.”

“I suppose you’re disappointed, eh, Mac?” The duke wore a guilty expression.

“No, not very,” replied Maxim. “On the contrary, I feel relieved. The Wizard is right; my conscience isn’t ready to undertake such tasks. I must travel about more, see more, train my conscience. Duke, what would you suggest?”

The aged duke rose, rubbing his numbed side. He paced the room.

“First of all, I would advise you against going into the desert,” he said. “Whether it is or isn’t inhabited by barbarians, you will find nothing worth your while. As the Wizard suggested, there might be a point to establishing contact with the Island Empire, although I really wouldn’t know how to go about it. I suppose you’ll have to go to the sea and start from there—that is, if the Island Empire is not a myth and if they want to talk to you. I think the wisest move would be to return to the North and work on your own. Remember what the Wizard said: you, Mac, are a force. And, as you say, the tower network must have a Center. And power over the North rests in the hands of whoever controls that Center. You should gain control of it.”

“I’m afraid that’s not for me,” said Maxim slowly. “I can’t give you the reason why now, but I feel that it’s not for me. I don’t want to control the Center. You are right about one thing: there is nothing for me to do either here or in the desert. The desert is too far. And here, there’s no one to rely on. But there’s a lot more I must find out: there’s still Pandeya, Khonti, the mountains, and the Island Empire—somewhere... Have you heard about the white submarines? You haven’t? But I have, and Guy, too. And we know a man who has seen them and fought them. So there you are: the Island Empire can fight. Well, fine.” Maxim jumped up. “There’s no reason to linger. Let’s go, Guy.”

They went out to the square and stopped beside the monument’s fused remains. Guy looked around sadly. Yellow ruins bobbed and swayed in the hot haze. Although it was stifling and stinking, he no longer cared to leave this terrible but now familiar place; to drag himself through the forest and abandon himself to arcane hazards lying in wait for a man at every step. At this very moment he would like to return to his little room and play with poor little Tangle. He would make the whistle he had promised her, from a cartridge case.

“Where do you plan to go?” asked the duke, shielding his face from the dust with his crushed, faded hat.

“West,” replied Maxim. “To the sea. Is it very far from here?”

“Two hundred miles, and you have to pass through some very contaminated areas. Wait, I have an idea.” He paused for a long time, and Guy began to shift uneasily from one foot to the other. Maxim waited patiently. “Oh, what good is it to me!” said the duke finally. “To tell the truth, I’ve been saving it for myself all this time. I thought that if the situation deteriorated too rapidly here and my nerves gave out. I’d fly home, even though I could be shot down once I reached there. But now—well, it’s too late.”

“A plane?” asked Maxim, looking at the duke hopefully.

“Yes, Mountain Eagle. Does its name mean anything to you? No, of course not. And you, young man? It means nothing to you either. At one time it was a very famous bomber. The personal bomber of His Imperial Majesty Prince Kirnu. So I kept it. At first I wanted to evacuate the wounded on it, but there were too many of them. When all the wounded died—I won’t go into that. Take it, my friend. Fly away. It has enough fuel to go halfway around the world.”

“Thank you, duke,” said Maxim. “I’m very grateful to you. I’ll never forget you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said the old man. “It’s not for my sake that I’m giving it to you. If you should succeed in what you are trying to do, don’t forget about these poor people.”

“I’m sure I’ll succeed. I must, massaraksh! Conscience or no conscience! And I shall never forget any of you.”

16.

This was Guy’s first airplane flight. In fact, it was the first time in his life he had seen an airplane. He had seen police helicopters and the military command’s flying platforms many times. Once he had even participated in an assault operation from the air: his platoon had been loaded into a helicopter and landed by a road where a crowd of rehabs, who had revolted because of the flood, were trudging toward a bridge. He had the most unpleasant memories of that aerial assault: the helicopter had flown very low, and he had been bounced around so violently that his insides churned. And he recalled the rotor’s stupefying roar, the gasoline fumes, and the fountains of machine oil spraying everywhere.

How different this was!

Guy was electrified by His Majesty’s own bomber. It was a machine of such monstrous proportions that he could not imagine how it could get off the ground. Its narrow ribbed body, decorated with golden emblems, was as long as a city block. Beneath its gigantic wings, spreading menacingly and majestically through space, an entire brigade could take cover. The blades of six enormous propellers, reaching as high as a rooftop, almost touched the ground. The bomber rested on three wheels, each several times the height of a man. Two wheels supported the front, and a third, the shelf-like tail. A light aluminum staircase, like a silver thread, led to the dizzying heights of a cockpit enclosed in shining glass. This was a real symbol of the old Empire, a symbol of a great past, a symbol of bygone power extending over an entire continent. Craning his neck, Guy trembled with awe, and Mac’s words struck him like a thunderbolt: “What a crate! Sorry, duke, I couldn’t help it.”

“That’s all we have,” replied the duke coolly. “It happens to be the best bomber in the world. In its day. His Imperial Majesty flew—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mac agreed hastily. “I was just so surprised.”

Guy, seated in the cockpit, was ecstatic. It was completely enclosed in glass. Here were scores of strange instruments, amazingly comfortable soft chairs, puzzling levers and devices, little bundles of colored wires, strange-looking helmets lying in readiness. The duke explained something to Mac hurriedly, pointing to instruments and shaking levers. Mac kept muttering absentmindedly, “Yes, yes, that’s clear.”

The bomber stood in an old hangar at the edge of the forest. Before it stretched a long, level, grayish-green field without a single hillock or bush. The forest began again about five miles beyond the field. The white sky seemed almost close enough to touch from the cockpit. In his excitement Guy scarcely remembered taking leave of the aged duke. The duke had said something, Mac had made a remark, they laughed, and the little door slammed shut. Guy suddenly discovered that he was fastened to his seat with broad straps, and Maxim, in the pilot’s seat beside him, was manipulating levers and pedals quickly and confidently.

The dials on the instrument panel flashed on and off. Then came a crackle and the thunderous boom of the exhaust; the cockpit quivered and everything was swallowed up in the racket. Far below stood the tiny duke, clutching his hat with both hands and backing away. Guy turned around and saw the blades of the gigantic propellers vanish, fusing into enormous hazy circles. The broad field began to crawl toward them, faster and faster. Everything had disappeared: the duke, the hangar—there was only the field, rushing headlong toward them, and the merciless jolting and thunderous roar. Turning his head with difficulty, Guy discovered to his horror that the gigantic wings were swaying, as though they were about to drop off. Abruptly the jolting ceased, the field beneath the wings slipped away, and a pleasant sensation, as if he were floating in soft cotton, enveloped his entire being. The field below the bomber had vanished, and the forest, too. The forest had been transformed into a dark green brush, into a vast ragged blanket, and the mottled blanket slid away slowly. Guy realized that he was flying.

Enraptured, he looked at Maxim. Mac was completely relaxed, his left arm on an elbow rest, his right hand barely moving the largest and, probably, main lever. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips were pursed as if he were whistling. This, thought Guy, was truly a great man. Great and unfathomable. “He can probably do anything. He’s piloting a complicated machine that he never laid eyes on until today. This is no tank or truck, but an airplane, a legendary vehicle. I didn’t even know that any of them had been preserved. And that guy handles it like a toy, as if he’s been flying all his life. It’s simply beyond human understanding. But I suppose there are lots of things he sees for the first time, yet can figure out very quickly. And it’s not just machines that know he’s the boss. If he had wanted to, he could have had Captain Chachu eating out of his hand. Even the Wizard considered him his equal. And the duke, a learned man, a chief surgeon, an aristocrat, you might say, sensed something special about Mac right away. Look at the machine he entrusted to him. And to think that I wanted to marry him off to Rada! What is Rada to him? What could she mean to him? A man like that should have a countess, a princess. And he befriends an ordinary guy like me. If he told me this instant to jump. I’d do it. How much I’ve seen and learned because of him! I could never have done it in a lifetime. And how much more I’ll see and learn because of him.”

Sensing Guy’s gaze, his delight and devotion, Maxim turned his head and, for the first time in months, broke into one of his broad smiles. Guy could scarcely contain an impulse to seize his powerful tanned hand and express his deep gratitude. “Oh, my dear master, my protector, my pride—only give the command! I stand before you, I am here, I am ready. Throw me into the fire, unite me with the flames, send me against thousands of enemies, to face their gaping muzzles and millions of bullets. Oh, where are they, those enemies of yours? Where are those blind, unquestioning, repulsive people in loathsome uniforms? Where is that vicious officer who dared raise a hand to you? Oh, you scoundrel, I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands. I’ll... no, not now. What’s that? My master is ordering me to do something; he wants something.

“Mac, Mac? Yes, I certainly am stupid. I don’t understand what you’re saying. I can’t hear you through the roar of this machine. Oh, what an idiot I am—of course, there’s the helmet with the earphones. Ah, now I can hear you! Give your orders, I am yours to command. I want to die for you. Order what you will. The tower? What tower? Yes, I see a tower. Those bastards, cannibals, child murderers. They’ve planted their towers everywhere. But we’ll sweep away those towers; we’ll smash them with an iron boot; we’ll sweep them away with fire in our eyes. Take your machine to that tower and give me a bomb. I’ll jump with it and won’t miss. You’ll see! Give me a bomb! A bomb!”

Guy inhaled deeply and tore at his collar. His ears rang, and the world floated and swayed before his eyes. The world was shrouded, but the haze dissolved rapidly. His throat felt dry and his muscles ached. He noticed Maxim’s face—dark, frowning, even harsh. For an instant, the memory of something sweet and pleasant flared up, then vanished. He had a sudden urge to stand at attention and click his heels, but he realized that it was inappropriate; it would irritate Maxim.

“Mac, I feel as if I did something wrong. Did I?” He looked around guiltily.

“I did, Guy, not you. I had completely forgotten about that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

Maxim turned back in his seat, put his hand on the lever, and looked straight ahead. “The towers.”

“What towers?”

“I turned too far north. We got caught in a radiation strike.”

Guy felt embarrassed. “Did I sing ‘Men of Iron’?”

“Worse. In the future, we’ll be more careful.”

Feeling very uneasy, Guy turned away, trying desperately to remember what he had said and done. He searched for clues in the world below. Nothing! No tower, airstrip, or hangar. Only that same ragged blanket still crawling below them. And a river, a tarnished metal snake, disappearing in a hazy wisp of smoke in the distance, where the sea rose like a wall into the sky. “I wonder what sort of nonsense I babbled. Mac seemed so upset, it must have been pretty awful. Massaraksh, I wonder if I began spouting that Legion stuff again? Where is that damn tower? Good time to chuck a bomb at it.”

Suddenly the bomber lurched violently. Guy bit his tongue. Maxim grabbed the lever with both hands. Something was wrong. Guy looked around cautiously and was relieved to discover that the wing was in place and the propellers were spinning. Then he looked up. Coal black blobs, like ink drops on water, floated through the white sky above his head.

“What are they?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Maxim. “It’s strange. An attack by... sky rocks. Damn it, not again! The probability is absolutely nil. Why do I seem to attract them?”

Guy was about to ask what sky rocks were, but through the corner of his eye he caught a strange movement down below, to the right, heavy and yellowish and swelling slowly above the dirty-green blanket. At first he didn’t realize that it was smoke. Then, in the bowels of the swelling, something flashed, and a long black body slid from it. Instantaneously the horizon shifted crazily, looming in front of them like a wall. His gun slid from his knees and rolled along the floor. “Massaraksh,” hissed Maxim’s voice through Guy’s earphones. “Damn it! What an idiot I am!” The horizon straightened out again. Guy looked in vain for the yellow cloud of smoke. Suddenly a fountain of colored spray rose above the forest again, cutting right into their path. Again a yellow cloud welled up like a mountain; then a flash, and again a long black body rose slowly into the sky and burst like a dazzling white ball.

Guy covered his eyes with his hand. The white ball darkened rapidly and drifted away like a giant inkblot. The floor beneath his feet caved in. Guy opened his mouth wide, gasping for air. The cockpit darkened; jagged black smoke rolled toward him. The horizon turned again; the forest appeared quite close on their left. Guy frowned and shivered, anticipating the fatal blow, pain, and death. As he gasped for air, everything around him shook and trembled. “Massaraksh,” hissed Maxim’s voice through the earphones. Something rapped briefly and violently along the wall beside him, as if someone were firing point-blank from a machine gun. An icy blast struck his face and his helmet was torn off. Guy cowered, shielding his head from the terrible roar and the onrushing wind. “This is the end,” he thought. “They’ll knock down our plane and we’ll bum up.” But nothing happened. The bomber lurched several times, dropped, and zoomed up again. The roar of the engine ceased abruptly and an eerie silence followed, broken only by the wind wailing through the breach.

Guy waited a little, then raised his head cautiously, trying to shield his face from the icy blast. Maxim was here. Beside him. He sat tensely, hoping the lever with both hands, alternately looking ahead and at the instruments. The muscles of his tanned face tightened. The bomber was flying strangely; its nose stuck up at a peculiar angle. The engines were silent. Guy looked around at the wing and froze.

It was burning.

“Fire!” he yelled, trying to jump up. But the straps held him back.

“Calm down and stay where you are!” ordered Maxim without turning around.

Getting a grip on himself, Guy looked straight ahead. The bomber was flying quite low. The sea’s glittering steel-gray surface rushed toward them. “We’ll be smashed to hell.” Guy’s heart sank. “Damned duke and his damned bomber. And the Island Empire, too. If we had left quietly on foot, we wouldn’t have had such bad luck. Now we’re going to bum, and if we don’t bum, we’ll be smashed to pieces. Sure, Maxim will make it somehow, but it will be the end for me. Damn it, I don’t want to die!”

“Stop jumping around!” said Maxim. “Hold tight. Now—”

The forest ended abruptly. Guy closed his eyes as the sea’s steel-gray surface rushed toward them.

A blow. A tremendous hissing. Another blow. And another. Everything was flying to hell. This was it. The end! Guy howled in terror. A powerful force seized him and tried to tear him out of his safety harness, but, frustrated, threw him back. Everything was crashing and breaking up around him. Something was burning, and then warm water touched his skin. The noise died down. Only splashing and murmuring broke the silence. Something was hissing and crackling, and the floor began to bob slowly. Maybe he could open his eyes now and see what the next world looked like?

Guy opened his eyes and saw Maxim hanging over him, unfastening his safety belt.

“Can you swim?”

They were alive, after all.

“Yes,” he replied.

“OK, let’s go!”

Guy rose cautiously, expecting to feel the pain of a bruised, broken body, but he had escaped injury. The bomber rocked quietly on a small wave. Its left wing was gone, and the right was still dangling from a riddled metal strip. Its nose faced the shore squarely, as if it had swung around sharply on landing.

Maxim slung his gun across his back and opened the cockpit door. Water rushed in, and there was a powerful smell of gasoline. The plane began to list.

“Jump!” ordered Maxim, and Guy, squeezing past him, leaped obediently into the waves.

He floated to the surface, lifted his head out of the water, and headed for shore. It was close and appeared safe enough. Maxim swam beside him, cutting through the water soundlessly; he swam like a fish, as if he had been born in the water. Puffing hard, Guy moved his arms and legs with all his strength; it was very difficult to swim in clothing and boots. When his foot finally touched sandy bottom, he was overjoyed. Although it was still some distance to shore, he rose and plowed his way through the filthy, oily water. Maxim continued to swim, overtook him, and stepped onto the sloping shore before him. When Guy reached him, Maxim was standing with his feet apart and his face turned skyward. Guy looked up, too. Scores of black blobs were drifting through the sky.

“We were very lucky,” said Maxim. “About ten of them were launched.”

“Ten what?”

“Rockets. I had completely forgotten about them.”

Guy, too, was annoyed at himself for not having thought of it sooner. Two hours ago he could have warned Mac about the rockets when the duke had offered them his bomber, and they could have refused it. He looked back at the sea. The Mountain Eagle had almost disappeared from sight; only its shattered tail stuck up over the surface.

“Well,” said Guy, “I suppose we can’t make it to the Island Empire now. What are we going to do?”

“First of all,” replied Maxim, “let’s take our pills. Get them out.”

“Why?” asked Guy. He hated the duke’s pills.

“Filthy water. Very radioactive. Every inch of my skin is burning. We’ll take four apiece immediately—make it five.”

Guy hurriedly took out a vial and spilled out ten yellow pills, which they took at once.

“OK, let’s go. Take your gun,” ordered Maxim.

Guy took his gun, spat out the bitter taste in his mouth, and floundered through the sand after Maxim. It was hot. His clothes dried quickly, but his boots were still soggy. Maxim walked rapidly and with assurance, as if he knew exactly where he must go, although nothing was visible except the sea on their left and a vast expanse of beach ahead of them and to their right. High sand dunes rose a mile from the sea, and the disheveled crowns of forest trees cropped up behind the dunes from time to time.

They walked about two miles. Guy kept wondering where they were and where they were going. He checked an impulse to ask Mac, deciding to figure it out for himself. But after sifting through all the facts, he could deduce only that the mouth of the Blue Snake River lay somewhere ahead of them and that they were moving north. Where and why they were going was a mystery to him. Finally, he caught up with Mac and asked him bluntly what his plans were.

Maxim explained that they would have to play it by ear. They could only hope that a white submarine would approach the shore and that they could reach it before the legionnaires did. Since the prospect of waiting amid these hot, dry sands for such an event was not particularly attractive, they would try to reach Resortia, which must be nearby. The city itself had been destroyed a long time ago, but its springs should still be active and they would find some sort of shelter. They would spend the night in the city and then decide on their next move. Perhaps they would have to spend weeks on the coast.

Guy remarked cautiously that the plan seemed rather strange to him. Maxim immediately agreed and hopefully asked Guy if he had any better ideas. Unfortunately, said Guy, he didn’t, but they must keep in mind the Legion’s tank patrols, which penetrated deep into the South along the coast. Maxim frowned; that was bad news. They must keep a sharp lockout and not be caught off guard. He grilled Guy about the patrols’ tactics. He was relieved to learn that the tanks were more interested in patrolling the sea itself than the shore areas, and that it was easy to hide from them among the dunes. Maxim relaxed and began to whistle.

Guy kept wondering what they should do if they were spotted by a patrol. Hitting upon a plan, he outlined it to Maxim.

“If we’re found,” he explained, “we’ll say that I was kidnapped by degens. You pursued them and fought them off. Then we wandered through the forest for days until we finally came out here.”

“And where will that get us?” Maxim was not enthusiastic.

“Well,” said Guy angrily, “at least they won’t bump us off on the spot.”

“They damned well won’t. I’m not letting anyone bump me off. Or you either.”

“What if there’s a tank?”

“What about it?” Maxim paused briefly. “You know, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to capture a tank. Guy, that’s a great idea. That’s exactly what we’ll do. Listen carefully: as soon as they appear, you fire into the air. I’ll put my hands behind my back, and you’ll take me to them as your prisoner. I’ll take care of the rest. But stay out of the way and, most important, don’t fire any more shots!”

Unable to contain his enthusiasm, Guy suggested immediate implementation of their plan. They would walk along the dunes, so they could be spotted from a distance.

Up they climbed, onto the dunes.

As soon as they reached the top, they saw a white submarine.

Behind the dunes a small shallow bay opened up, and a submarine lay exposed above the water, a hundred yards from shore. It scarcely resembled a white submarine. At first Guy thought it was either the corpse of some gigantic twin-humped animal or a rare rock formation that had mysteriously burst through the sands. Maxim realized at once what it was.

When they reached the bay and walked down to the water, Guy saw that its long hull and both superstructures were covered with rust; its white paint was chipped; its gun mounts were awry; and its cannon pointed down, toward the water. Black holes with sooty edges yawned in the planking. Nothing could have survived.

“What do you thiqk, Guy? Is it really a white submarine? Have you seen them before?”

“I think it is. I never served on a coast patrol, but we were shown photographs and mentograms, and we heard descriptions of them. There was even a mentogram called ‘Tanks in Our Coastal Defense System.’ Yes, that’s a white sub, all right. A storm must have driven it into the bay, grounded it on a shoal, and a patrol spotted it. Do you see how riddled it is? It looks more like a sieve than a sub.”

“Shall we have a look?” muttered Maxim, peering at it.

“Well, uh... I suppose we could.”

“What’s the matter? Something wrong?”

“Well, Mac, I’m not sure I can explain it to you.” How could he? Corporal Serembesh, a veteran campaigner, had told them a story about a white submarine one evening, in the dark barracks, just before they hit the sack. The subs, he said, were not manned by ordinary seamen, but by dead ones serving a second hitch. Sea demons swept along the ocean floor, catching drowned seamen to fill out the crews. How could he tell Mac such a story! He would laugh, and this was no laughing matter. Then there was the story he had heard from Private Leptu, who had been busted from officer to private for some unknown reason. “Listen, you guys,” he had said to them one day when he was high, “your degens, mutants, radiation—all that is kid stuff. You can survive it, even live with it. But you’d better pray to the Good Lord not to drop you on a white sub. You’d be better off drowning right away than touching one of those things. I should know.” Before his demotion, Leptu had served on the coast and commanded a patrol launch.

“You know, Mac, there are all sorts of superstitions and legends about the subs. I’m not going to tell you about them. But Captain Chachu, for instance, said that all those subs were contaminated by radiation. We were forbidden to board them.”

“All right. You stay here, and I’ll go. I’ll take a look and see how badly contaminated it is.”

Before Guy could open his mouth, Maxim dove into the water and disappeared for a long time. Guy held his breath waiting for him to surface. Then a mop of dark hair bobbed up by the sub’s chipped side, directly under a gaping hole. Adroitly, without effort, like a fly climbing a wall, the tanned figure scrambled onto the listing deck, on to the superstructure at the bow, and vanished. Guy sighed and paced up and down by the water, his eyes riveted on the rusty monster.

It was quiet. Even the waves rolled silently in the dead bay. There was nothing here but a blank white sky and lifeless white dunes. Everything was dry, hot, and hardened. Guy looked at the rusty skeleton hatefully. “Damn it, what bad luck! Other guys serve for years and never see a sub. We walk an hour or so, and bang!—there it is. Dropped right from heaven. Welcome aboard! How did I ever let myself get into this mess? It’s all Mac’s doing. He sure has a way with words. Makes you feel there’s nothing to worry about. Maybe I wasn’t really scared when I saw the sub because I had always imagined it would be very different—alive, white and elegant, with sailors all in white on its deck. Now I see it’s only an iron corpse. In fact this whole place seems dead. Not a bit of wind.” Guy looked around sadly, sat down on the sand, placed his gun by his side, and began to pull off his right boot. “Damn it, it sure is quiet! Suppose he doesn’t come back? That iron monster has swallowed him and he’s vanished without a trace. Damn!”

A drawn-out, eerie sound rose over the bay. Startled, he dropped his boot. “Good Lord, it’s only a rusty hatch opening. Damn, it sure made me sweat! So he opened the hatch. That means he’ll be out in a minute. No, he isn’t coming out.”

Craning his neck, Guy studied the submarine for several minutes and listened closely. Dead silence. The same terrifying silence as before, made even more terrifying by that eerie, rusty wail. “Maybe he... maybe the hatch didn’t open... maybe it closed? Closed by itself.” Before Guy’s terrified eyes rose a vision: a heavy steel door swings shut, by itself, behind Maxim, and a heavy bolt moves slowly into place. Guy licked his dry lips and tried to shout with his parched throat: “Hey, Mac!” Scarcely a whisper. If only he could make himself heard! “He-ey!” he howled. “He-ey!” the dunes responded gloomily. And silence fell again.

Dead silence. He no longer had the strength to shout. His eyes still riveted on the submarine, Guy fumbled with his gun; his trembling fingers released the safety. He fired a burst into the bay. There was a brief thud, as if the shots had struck a bale of cotton. A fountain sprayed above the water’s smooth surface where circles formed and drifted away, growing larger and larger. Guy raised the barrel a little higher and pulled the trigger again. Success! The bullets rattled off the metallic surface, squealing as they ricocheted. Then, nothing. Absolute, dead nothingness, as if he were alone in the world; as if he had been alone for an eternity; as if he had arrived here by magic, had been dropped into this dead place as in a nightmare. Except he could not wake up, and must remain here forever.

His mind in a whirl, wearing only one boot, Guy entered the water, slowly at first, then faster and faster; then running, raising his legs high, sobbing and swearing. The rusty hulk drew closer. He finally reached the side of the submarine and tried to climb aboard, but couldn’t. He skirted the stern, grabbed hold of a rope, and, skinning his hands and knees, scrambled onto the deck. He stopped to catch his breath. Tears trickled down his cheeks. “Hey!” he shouted.

Silence.

The deck was deserted. The bow’s superstructure hung above his head like an enormous speckled mushroom, and a broad jagged scar gaped in the armor. Guy skirted the superstructure and noticed a metal ladder, still wet, leading up above. Slinging his gun onto his back, he climbed. For what seemed like an eternity, he climbed in the stifling silence toward inevitable death, toward eternal death. He scrambled to the top and froze, remaining on all fours. The monster was waiting for him: the hatch was wide open. Guy crawled to the gaping black hole and peered in. Suddenly his head began to spin and his stomach churned. He imagined that Mac was down there, fighting for his life against a whole pack of devils, and calling out: “Guy! Guy!”; that the heavy silence, grinning, was swallowing his cries, stifling every last sound, suffocating and crushing Mac. Unable to bear it any longer, Guy climbed through the hatch.

In his panic he lost his foothold and went crashing down to a sandy floor. It was an iron corridor, dimly lit by a few dusty bulbs. The floor directly below the shaft was covered by fine sand, blown in over the years. Guy jumped up, still rushing, afraid he would be too late, and ran through the corridor shouting: “Mac, I’m here! I’m coming! I’m coming!”

“What the hell are you screaming about?” asked Maxim, popping up out of nowhere. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Guy stopped short. Feeling faint, he leaned against the bulkhead. His heart pounded in his ears like a drumbeat. He was tongue-tied. Maxim stared at him in surprise. Then, apparently realizing what had happened to Guy, he squeezed into the corridor, took him by the shoulder, and gently shook him. Slowly, Guy recovered his senses.

“I thought... I thought that you...”

“Never mind, never mind. It’s my fault. I should have called you to come right away. But I got involved; there are so many unusual things here.”

“I kept calling and calling you,” said Guy angrily. “I called out, then I fired a volley. The least you could have done was answer.”

“Massaraksh, I didn’t hear a thing,” said Maxim guiltily. “The receiver here is superb. I didn’t think you knew how to produce such powerful equipment.”

“Receiver, receiver.” Guy squeezed through the half-opened door. “You’ve been amusing yourself here while I almost went out of my mind because of you. All right, what’s so unusual?”

It was a rather large room with rotted carpeting. Only one of three semicircular light fixtures attached to the ceiling worked. In the middle of the room stood a large round table surrounded by chairs. Strange photographs and pictures hung on the walls. The remains of velvet upholstery dangled like rags. A large receiver crackled and howled in the corner. Guy had never seen one like it before.

“It seems to be the wardroom,” said Maxim. “Walk around, take a look. There’s plenty to see.”

“What about the crew?”

“Not a soul here. The lower compartments are flooded. I think they all drowned down there.”

Guy looked at him in amazement. Maxim turned away with a worried expression.

“Guy, we were damned lucky not to make it to the Island Empire. Go on, take a look around.”

Maxim sat down at the receiver and adjusted the fine tuner. Meanwhile Guy scanned the room, not knowing where to begin. He went over and studied the photographs. It took him a while to realize that they were X rays. The dim images of grinning skulls stared back at him. Illegible inscriptions, like autographs, had been attached to each picture. Members of the crew? Celebrities? Guy shrugged his shoulders. Maybe Uncle Kaan could figure it out.

He noticed a large bright-colored poster in the far corner, beautiful even though it had been touched by mold. It showed a blue sea, and from the sea emerged a handsome, very muscular, orange-colored figure with a disproportionately small head, half of which consisted of a powerful neck. One foot had stepped onto the black shore. The warrior clutched a scroll with an incomprehensible inscription in one hand, and, with the other, thrust a flaming torch into the ground. A city was set afire by the torch, and hideous freaks writhed in the flames. Another dozen freaks scattered on all fours in every direction. Something was written at the top of the poster in sweeping letters. The letters were familiar, but the words they formed were utterly unpronounceable.

The longer Guy studied the poster, the less he liked it. It reminded him of a poster in the barracks: a black-uniformed eagle-legionnaire (also with a small head and powerful muscles) boldly beheading hideous, warty snake with a gigantic pair of shears. He recalled the inscription on the blades: on one, “Fighting”, on the other, “Legion.” “Aha,” said Guy to himself as he cast a last glance at the poster, “we’ll see who burns who, massaraksh!”

He turned away from the poster, took several steps, and froze. A familiar face, square, with an auburn forelock over its brow and a perceptible scar on its right cheek, stared at him with glassy eyes from an elegantly varnished shelf. It was Captain Pudurash, an Iron Hero, a company commander in the Brigade of Immortals, nemesis of white submarines (he had sunk eleven of them) who had perished in unequal combat. His bust, crowned with a weath of immortelle, adorned every parade ground. Here his head, shrunken and yellowed, was displayed as a trophy. Guy stepped back. Yes, it was real thing. And over there was another head, an unfamiliar pointed face. And another, and still another. Lord, how many of them!

“Mac! Did you see this?”

“Yes. Take a look at the albums on the table,” said Maxim. With difficulty Guy tore his eyes away from this eerie collection and hesitantly went over to the table. The receiver shouted something in an unfamiliar language; music played briefly, static crackle, and someone spoke again in a velvety, authoritarian voice: “Extermination, complete and final extermination...”

Guy selected one of the albums at random and flung back its hard leather-bound cover. A portrait. An inhuman long face with bushy side whiskers hanging from cheeks to shoulders, hooker nose, oddly set nostrils. A nasty face—impossible to imagine it smiling. Strange uniform—two rows of badges or medals Quite a character. Probably some big shot.

Guy turned the page. The same character with other figures on the bridge of a white submarine; still morose, although his companions were grinning. Out of focus in the background was something that looked like a shore, some strange buildings and the blurred silhouettes of bizarre trees. Next page. Guy caught his breath; a burning “dragon” with its turret toppled over on one side; the body of a Legion tank driver hanging from an open hatch; two more bodies off to one side and, standing over them, that same character with a pistol in his hand. Dense black smoke issued from the dragon, but the places were familiar—the same shore, sandy beach, and dunes. Turning the page, Guy braced himself. A crowd of some twenty mutants, naked, all tied together with a rope; several efficient-looking pirates holding smoking torches; and that same character, evidently giving orders, extending his right hand and laying his left on the handle of a dagger. Those freaks were so ghastly that it was frightening to look at them. But what followed was even more frightening.

The same group of mutants, but their flesh consumed by fire. The same character, his back to the corpses, sniffing a little flower and chatting with another man.

An enormous tree in the forest, loaded with swaying corpses. Some hanging by their hands, some by their feet—and these were not mutants. One wore the checkered uniform of a rehab; another, the black jacket of a legionnaire.

An old man tied to a post. Face distorted, he was shouting something. Same character, with a concerned expression, checking a hypodermic needle.

More bodies hanging from trees, burned and burning mutants, rehabs, legionnaires, fishermen, peasants, men, women, old men, children. Panoramic snapshot: beach, four vehicles on the dunes, everything burning; two black-clothed figures with hands raised. Enough! Guy slammed down the cover and flung the album to the floor. He paused for a few seconds; then, cursing, he threw all the albums on the floor.

“And you want to negotiate with these... these...?” he shouted at Maxim. “You want to bring these killers to us?! That butcher?” He kicked the album hard.

Maxim turned off the receiver.

“Calm down,” he said. “I don’t want anything anymore. And there’s no reason to shout at me if your world is to blame. Your world has overslept, damn it, and descended to the level of animals. What should I do with you now? What? You don’t know? Well, speak up!”

Guy remained silent.

“I know,” Maxim said gloomily. “It’s over for now. No negotiating. We must not bring anyone against the North now. We’re surrounded by beasts, and it’s them we must—” He picked up one of the albums from the floor and flipped the pages. “God, what a beautiful world you’ve defiled! What a world! Just take a look, see what a beautiful world it was!”

Guy looked over his shoulder. There were no horrors in this album, only landscapes, color snapshots of startling beauty and clarity: blue bays bordered by magnificent foliage, a dazzling white city perched above the sea, a waterfall in a canyon, a splendid highway with a stream of vivid automobiles, ancient castles, snow-covered peaks above the clouds, a skier gliding along a mountain slope, and laughing girls playing in the surf.

“Where is all that now?” asked Maxim. “What did you do with it, damn you? Exchange it for your iron junk? You call yourselves people?” He threw the album on the table. “Let’s go!”

He stormed to the door, flung it open, and marched into the corridor. When they reached the deck, he asked Guy: “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“OK, we’ll eat in a few minutes. Into the water—let’s go!”

Guy reached shore first, removed his boot, undressed, and laid out his clothes to dry. Maxim was still in the water, and Guy watched for him anxiously: Mac had made a deep dive and had been underwater a long time. Finally he came up, dragging an enormous fish by the gills. It wore a baffled expression; it couldn’t understand how it could have been caught with only bare hands. Maxim threw it onto the beach.

“I think it will be safe. Barely radioactive. Probably a mutant. We’ll take our pills, and I’ll prepare it right away. We can eat it uncooked. I’ll show you how. You’ve never tried it? Give me the knife.”

Guy handed it to him and Maxim filleted the fish deftly and rapidly.

After they had finished eating, they lay down naked on the beach.

“If we got caught by a patrol and gave ourselves up, where would they take us?” asked Maxim after a lengthy silence.

“What do you mean—where? Wherever you were serving your sentence. And me—to my army post. Why do you ask?”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I couldn’t be more sure. Those are the commanding general’s orders. Why do you want to know?”

“We’re going to start looking for legionnaires right now.”

“Capture a tank?”

“No, Guy, we’ll use your story. You were kidnapped by degens and a convict rescued you.”

“Give yourself up?” Guy sat down. “And me, too? Back to the radiation field? What are you talking about?”

Maxim didn’t reply.

“Mac, I’ll become a damned fool blockhead again.”

“No,” replied Maxim. “Well, unfortunately, Guy... yes. But it won’t be the same as before. You will be believing in something else from now on, in a just cause. Look, I know it’s not the best way. But still, it’s better, much better.”

“But why? Why?” shouted Guy in despair. “Why must you do it?”

Maxim passed his hand over his face.

“Guy, war has broken out. It came through the receiver. I don’t know how it started: either we attacked the Khontis, or they attacked us. At any rate, it’s war!”

Guy stared at him horrified. War. And Rada? The same thing all over again.

“Our place is there,” continued Maxim. “A general mobilization has been declared. They’ve even declared an amnesty for the prisoners and ordered them into the ranks. We must join them, Guy. If only I could get into your unit.”

Guy scarcely heard him. Clutching his head, he rocked from side to side and kept repeating to himself: “Why, why? Damn you! Damn you!”

Maxim shook him by the shoulder.

“Get a grip on yourself!” he said sternly. “This is no time to go to pieces. We’re going to have to fight very, very soon.” He rose and wiped his face again. “Get your things on quickly and let’s go. We have to hurry.”

“Make it snappy, Fank, I’m late.”

“Yes, sir. About Rada Gaal... she’s been removed from the state prosecutor’s jurisdiction and we have her now.”

“Where?”

“At a private residence. The Crystal Swan. I feel it is my duty to tell you that I question the wisdom of this action. I doubt that such a woman can help us control Mac. Women like that are forgotten quickly, and even if Mac—” “Do you think that Smart is stupider than you are?”

“No, but...”

“Does Smart know who took her?”

“I’m afraid he does.”

“All right, so he does. Enough about that. What else do you have to report?”

“Sandy Chichaku met with Puppet. Apparently Puppet agreed to bring the Count and Sandy together on condition that—”

“I’m not interested in the underground at the moment. Do you have anything on the Mac Sim case? OK, then listen. This war has messed up all our plans. I’m leaving now and will return in thirty or forty days. I want you to finish the Mac Sim case in that time. By the time I return, Mac must be here, in this building. Give him a job, let him work, and don’t interfere with his freedom. But let him know—very discreetly—that Rada’s fate depends on him. Under no circumstances must they meet. Show him the institute, show him what we’re working on—within reasonable limits, of course. Tell him about me, describe me as an intelligent, fair person, an eminent scientist. Give him my articles, except the top-secret ones. Drop casual hints about my opposition to the government. He must not have the slightest desire to leave the institute. That’s all I have to say. Any questions?”

“Yes. What about security guards?”

“None. That would be foolish.”

“Should we put a tail on him?”

“OK, but use tact. No, better not. Don’t frighten him. The main thing is that he shouldn’t want to leave the institute. Massaraksh, what a time for me to have to leave! Is that all now?”

“One last question. Excuse me, Strannik.”

“Yes?”

“Who is he really? Why do you need him?”

Strannik rose, went to the window, and said without turning around: “I’m afraid of him, Fank. He is a very, very dangerous man.”

17.

When the troop train was held up on a siding next to a dingy, dirty station about two hundred miles from the Khonti border, Private Second Class Zef ran to the tank for boiling water and returned with a portable radio. He informed his companions that bedlam had broken out at the station, where two brigades were being shipped out; and the generals were barking at each other. While mingling with the crowd of orderlies and adjutants, he had managed to liberate a radio.

The trainload of soldiers greeted this announcement with shouts of approval. All forty of them quickly crowded around Zef. For a long time they were unable to settle down; they shoved, swore, and complained until Maxim finally yelled: “Shut up, you bastards!” When they quieted down Zef turned on the radio and tuned in one station after another.

Within minutes they learned some very strange things. First of all, it turned out that hostilities had not begun yet; there had been no bloody battles. The Khonti Fighting League was shouting righteously that those bandits, those usurpers, the All-Powerful Creators, were using their hirelings, the so-called Khonti Union for Justice, for treacherous provocation and were now concentrating their forces on the borders of long-suffering Khonti. The Khonti Union, in turn, castigated the Khonti League, those paid agents of the All-Powerful Creators, and described in detail how such-and-such a unit with superior forces had driven a small unit exhausted by previous engagements across the border and kept it pinned down. These were the facts, and they served as a pretext for the so-called All-Powerful Creators to launch their barbaric invasion, which was expected at any moment. Both the League and the Union, in almost identical statements, dropped veiled hints about atomic traps lying in wait for the invasion forces of the treacherous enemy.

Zef also tuned in on some broadcasts in languages that only he could understand. He told them that the Ondol Principality still existed as a sovereign state and, moreover, continued to launch its murderous attacks on Khazzalg Island. But the ether was filled mainly with cross-invective between the commanders of units trying to force their way through to the main bridgehead along two disorganized rail lines.

The ordinary prisoners felt that their main goal should be to cross the border, where each man would become his own master; the political prisoners were inclined to a pessimistic view of the situation. They were of the opinion that they were being sent to be blown up by atomic mines. None would survive the holocaust. Therefore it would be a good idea, when they arrived at the front, to hide until it all blew over. The men held such conflicting views that a coherent discussion was out of the question, and the dispute deteriorated very rapidly into monotonous invective directed at the dirty bastards serving in the rear who hadn’t served them any grub for two days and had probably ripped off all their whiskey rations. The soldiers in the penal battalion would spend the rest of the night developing variations on this theme, so Maxim and Zef forced their way through the crowd and climbed into their crude bunks.

Zef, hungry and irritated, was about to fall asleep, but Maxim wouldn’t let him. “You’ll sleep later. We’ll probably be at the front tomorrow and we haven’t come to agreement about anything yet.” Zef muttered that there was nothing to agree about; that one’s mind was always sharper in the morning; that Maxim was not blind and must see what a quagmire they were in; and that you couldn’t go anywhere with these feeble-minded sons of bitches. Maxim replied that he wasn’t concerned with that at the moment. The cause of the war, who needed it and why, was the issue he wanted to discuss—his understanding of it was still fuzzy.

Zef muttered, yawned, and rewound his foot bindings, but after being nagged and cajoled long enough, he finally acquiesced and expounded his views on the cause of the war.

There were at least three possible causes. The primary one was economic. Everyone knew that when a country’s economy was in rotten shape, the easiest dodge was to start a war as a pretext for gagging everyone immediately. Vepr, who knew a lot about the influence of economics on politics, had predicted this war several years ago. You can deceive people about the towers, but poverty is another story. How long can you tell a hungry man that he’s got a full belly? He’ll eventually go berserk; and it’s hardly pleasant to govern a country of madmen, especially when you consider that lunatics are not affected by radiation. Another possible cause was related to the colonial question—markets, cheap slave labor, raw materials, all sources of profit for the Creators’ personal investments. Finally, it had to be kept in mind that the Department of Public Health and the military had been bickering for years. Dog eat dog. The Department of Public Health was an insatiable organization, but if the military achieved any degree of success, the generals would make short work of the department. On the other hand, if the war ended in a stalemate, the department would make short work of the generals. Therefore, the possibility could not be excluded that the whole affair was a clever provocation concocted by the Department of Public Health. It could be the case, judging from the general chaos now rampant, and also from the fact that we had been shouting at the top of our lungs for a week and military operations hadn’t begun. And maybe they wouldn’t.

Just as Zef reached this point, the coupling buffers screeched, the car shuddered, shouting and whistling filled the air outside, and the troop train lurched forward. The ordinary prisoners struck up a song: “We Get No Whiskey Once Again.”

“All right,” said Maxim. “What you’ve said sounds quite plausible. Now, if the war does begin, how will it go for us? What will happen?”

Zef growled that he wasn’t a general, then launched into an exposition of his views. “During a brief respite between the end of the World War and the beginning of the Civil War, the Khontis fenced themselves off from their former suzerain with a powerful line of atomic mine fields. In addition, they undoubtedly had atomic artillery, and their politicians had the foresight not to exhaust all these riches during the Civil War but to save them for us. So the invasion picture looks roughly like this: Three or four penal tank brigades will be drawn up at the spearhead of the assault; an army corps will support them to their rear; and a detachment of legionnaires in heavy tanks equipped with emitters will follow. Degens like myself win rush forward, fleeing the radiation whips, and the army corps will race forward in a frenzy of enthusiasm induced by the same emitters. Those who fail to respond properly—and there will be some—will be destroyed by Legion fire. If the Khontis aren’t fools, they will open fire with their long-range guns and destroy the tanks, but the Khontis, we assume, are fools and hence will be engaged in mutual destruction. In the midst of this confusion, the League will attack the Union, and the Union will sink its teeth into the League’s throat. Meanwhile, our courageous forces will penetrate deep into enemy territory, and the most interesting part will begin—which we, unfortunately, will not see. Our glorious armored columns will break ranks and spread out through Khonti. If you are right about Guy, the men will then experience radiation withdrawal symptoms. And the symptoms will be especially severe because the legionnaires will have given them a super-radiation dose during the breakthrough into enemy territory.

“Massaraksh!” howled Zef. “I can just see those idiots climbing from their tanks, lying down on the ground and pleading to be shot. And the kindly Khonti citizenry, to say nothing of Khonti soldiers, enraged by the disgraceful state of affairs, will not deny their request. There’ll be a slaughter.”

The train picked up speed and the car swayed violently. In a far comer, prisoners were shooting dice; a light swung back and forth beneath the ceiling; and someone was mumbling in a monotone—probably praying.

Their eyes were burning from the dense tobacco smoke.

“I think the General Staff will take this into account and therefore there won’t be a sudden breakthrough. What we’ll have is trench warfare, and the Khontis, for all their stupidity, will figure out what’s going on, and they’ll start hunting for the emitters. I’m not sure what will happen,” he concluded. “I don’t even blow if we’ll get grub tomorrow morning. I’m afraid we won’t get anything more. Why on earth should they feed us now?”

There was a long pause.

“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? That our place is here?” asked Maxim.

“It’s a staff order,” muttered Zef.

“An order is an order,” retorted Maxim. “OK. But we, too, have brains in our heads. Maybe we should have bolted to the capital with Vepr? Maybe we could have been more useful there?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Vepr is counting on a nuclear attack. Lots of towers will be destroyed, and regions liberated. But suppose there isn’t any bombing? No one knows anything, Mac. I can imagine the bedlam at headquarters now.” He grew thoughtful and stroked his beard. “Vepr fed us this nonsense about bombing, but I don’t think that was the reason he bolted for the capital. I know him; he’s been trying to get to those underground leaders for a long time. So it’s entirely possible that heads will start rolling at headquarters.”

“So there’s bedlam there, too,” said Maxim slowly. “They aren’t prepared either.”

“How can they be prepared? Some of them hope to destroy the towers, others to save them. The underground is not a political party, but a hodgepodge of ideas.”

“Too bad. I was hoping that the underground was planning to use the war—you know, the difficulties, confusion—to take advantage of a potential revolutionary situation.”

“The underground doesn’t know a damn thing,” said Zef gloomily. “How can we know what it’s all about with emitters breathing down our necks?”

“Your underground isn’t worth a damn.” Maxim could restrain himself no longer.

Zef flared up. “Not so fast there! Who are you to judge us? Who are you, massaraksh, to make demands on us? You wanted a military assignment? OK, you got it. Watch everything, survive, return, and report. Does that sound too simple for you? Great! So much the better for us. Enough of this. I’m tired. Leave me alone, massaraksh. I want to sleep.”

He turned his back to Maxim and shouted at the men shooting dice: “Hey, you gravediggers! Hit the sack! Make it snappy, or else!”

Maxim lay down on his back, folded his hands behind his head, and stared at the low ceiling. Something was crawling along it. The gravediggers cursed each other softly as they bedded down for the night. The man on Maxim’s left groaned and cried out in his sleep: he had been condemned to death and was sleeping, perhaps, for the last time. And everyone around him was snoring, wheezing, and muttering probably for the last time. The world was a dreary yellow, stifling and hopeless. The wheels rumbled, the locomotive wailed, and fumes drifted through the tiny barred windows.

“Everything is rotten here,” thought Maxim. “There isn’t one real man among them. Not a single clear head. And I’ve gotten myself into a mess again because I relied on other people. You can’t rely on anyone or anything here. Only on yourself. But I’m of no use alone: I know enough history to realize that. Alone, a man can’t accomplish a damned thing. Maybe the Wizard was right. Maybe I should stand aside from all this? But I can’t. It goes against my grain. And this business of arriving at a balance of forces is frightening. But the Wizard did say that I was a force. And since we do have a definite enemy, we have a point where this force can be applied. Sure, I’ll be knocked offshore. No question about it. But not tomorrow! Not until I can show that I’m a real force. We’ll see... The Center. Yes, the Center. We must find it. All the underground’s efforts must be focused on this one task now. And I’m going to lead the way. Working with me, they will be doing real work, doing what must be done. Yes, Zef, you’re going to get down to some real work now... Listen to that guy snore. Snore away. Tomorrow I’m dragging you out of here. When will I ever get a decent night’s sleep? In aclean, spacious room, between two clean sheets? Massaraksh, what a strange custom they have here—sleeping night after night on the same sheets. Ah, yes, clean sheets, and a good book before I turn out the light and fall asleep. The train is still moving and we haven’t stopped for a long time. I suppose someone decided that the war couldn’t get going without us. I wonder how Guy is doing in the corporals’ car. I haven’t thought about Rada for a long time... Enough now, Mac, you hunk of cannon fodder. Get some sleep.”

He didn’t get much sleep. The train halted, a heavy door scraped open, and a stentorian voice barked: “Fourth Company. Out, on the double!” It was five o’clock in the morning and dawn was breaking. It was foggy and drizzling. Yawning and shivering in the morning chill, the penal detachment trudged sluggishly from the car. The corporals were already at their posts; angrily and impatiently they grabbed legs, pulled men off the train, and smacked them around, yelling: “Break up into teams! Take your positions! Where do you think you’re going? What’s your platoon? You, fathead, how many times do I have to tell you? Step lively. Take your positions!”

They split up into teams and fell in beside the cars. Some poor devil who had strayed in the fog ran around searching for his platoon and was yelled at from all sides. Zef, glum and tired, his beard all frizzy, called out in a wheezy but distinct voice: “Come on, step it up, fall in. You’ll get your bellyful of combat today.” A passing corporal slapped him in the face. Maxim reacted instantly, and the corporal rolled in the mud. The delighted prisoners laughed heartily. “Brigade, attention!” shouted an invisible figure. Battalion commanders shrieked orders; company commanders echoed them down the line, and platoon leaders began running. No one stood at attention: the shock troops were running in place to warm up; the lucky ones were smoking; there was grumbling in the ranks about food—it looked as if they wouldn’t be getting grub again—and there was cursing: “To hell with their damn war!”

“Brigade, at ease!” shouted Zef. “Fall out! Take a leak!” The crews were about to fall out, but the corporals rushed about again, and suddenly legionnaires in shiny black raincoats spread out in a thin line and ran with drawn guns along the cars. A frightened silence followed in their wake; the crews fell in quickly and straightened up their ranks.

An iron voice pierced the fog: “If any of you bastards open your traps, I’ll have you shot!” Everyone froze. The anxious waiting dragged on. The fog had dispersed somewhat, revealing an ugly station, wet rails, and telegraph poles. On the right, in front of the brigade, stood a dark crowd of people. Low voices drifted from it, and someone snapped: “Carry out your orders!”

Maxim glanced back out of the comer of his eye: to their rear stood motionless legionnaires, staring at them with suspicion and hatred from beneath their black rain hoods.

A baggy figure in camouflage fatigues emerged from the crowd. It was brigade leader Anipsu, an ex-colonel basted and imprisoned for trading government fuel on the black market.

Twirling his cane, he addressed the men:

“Soldiers! I know I am not mistaken when I address you as soldiers, although all of us, myself included, are still social outcasts. Be grateful that you are being permitted to enter into battle today. In a few hours most of you will be dead, and that will be to your honor. But those of you who survive will live well: soldiers’ rations, whiskey, and the rest. We’ll set out for our positions now, and when you reach them you’ll get into your tanks. Then about a hundred miles—no big deal. You’re not real tank soldiers, but you know that whatever you get will be yours. There is no turning back; whoever retreats will be shot on the spot. There will be no questions. Brigade! Right face! Forward! Close order, march! Blockheads! I said close order! Corporals, massaraksh! What the hell are you looking at? Cattle! Break up into fours. Corporals, break them up into fours! Massaraksh!”

With the legionnaires’ assistance the corporals arranged the brigade into columns of four, and the order to come to attention was repeated. Maxim was standing rather close to the brigade commander. The ex-colonel was blind drunk. He swayed, leaned on his cane, shook his head now and then, and wiped his hand across his savage bluish face. Battalion commanders, also blind drunk, stood behind him: one giggled senselessly; another tried stubbornly to light a cigarette; a third grabbed his holster and staggered through the ranks. The men sniffed the whiskey fumes enviously, and an approving murmur ran through the ranks. “Let’s go, let’s go,” muttered Zef. “You’ll get your bellyful of combat today.” Maxim, irritated, poked him with his elbow.

“Shut up,” he said through his teeth. “I’m sick of listening to that.”

Two men approached the colonel: a Legion captain, clenching a pipe between his teeth, and a heavyset man, a civilian wearing a long raincoat with a turned-up collar. The civilian seemed familiar to Maxim, and he studied him more closely. The civilian whispered something to the colonel. “Hub?” answered the colonel, looking at him dully. The civilian began again, pointing at the penal columns. The Legion captain puffed on his pipe indifferently. “What do you need him for?” yelled the colonel. The civilian took out a document, but the colonel waved it away. “You can’t have him,” he said. “They must die together, as one man.” The civilian insisted. “The hell with you!” replied the colonel. “And your department, too. They will all die, every one of them. Am I right?” he asked the captain. The captain agreed. The civilian grabbed the colonel’s sleeve and jerked him forcefully. The colonel almost fell, and his face darkened with anger; he slipped his hand into his holster and pulled out an army pistol. “I’m counting to ten,” he announced to the civilian. “One. Two.” The civilian spat and walked away alongside the penal column, peering into the men’s faces. The colonel continued to count; when he reached ten, he fired. The captain, alarmed, got him to put away his gun. “They’re all going to croak, every last one,” declared the colonel. “Together with me... Brigade! Forward march! Damn you all to hell!”

The brigade moved along the bumpy tracks made by caterpillar treads. The column, the men slipping and grabbing onto each other, descended into a swampy hollow and slogged away from the rail line. Here the platoon leaders overtook their columns. Guy moved up beside Maxim. His face was pale and tense, and he said nothing for a long time, although Zef had asked him what he had heard. The hollow widened gradually, bushes appeared, and a grove loomed up ahead. A clumsy tank of ancient vintage, equipped with a small square turret, stuck up from the shoulder of the road where it had tipped over into a muddy ditch. Morose figures in grease-stained jackets dawdled by the tank. Then came the shock troops, hands in pockets, rigid collars upturned, marching loosely, out of formation. Many glanced around cautiously, hoping to slip away into the underbrush. The bushes were very tempting, but black-clothed figures with submachine guns were stationed every two or three hundred paces. Three fuel trucks plunged into potholes and crawled toward the troops. Their glum drivers ignored the shock troops as they passed. The rain grew heavier, and the troops more dejected. They walked in silence, submissively, like cattle, glancing around less and less frequently.

“Listen, corporal,” muttered Zef, “is it true we’re not getting any grub?”

Guy took a piece of bread from his pocket and gave it to him.

“That’s it,” he said, “until we’re dead.”

Zef slipped the crust through his beard and chomped away at it.

“This is insane,” thought Maxim. “Everyone knows that he’s headed for certain death. Still they go, like cattle. Maybe they are counting on something unexpected? Docs each man have some sort of private plan? These fools know nothing about the emitters. Each one thinks that somewhere along the way he’ll jump out of the tank and hide, while the other fools advance. We should prepare leaflets about the emitters; we should set up radio stations, although the radios work only on two frequencies. No matter, we could still get our message through to the people—during pauses, during station breaks. Our underground people should be spreading counterpropaganda, not knocking down towers. But all that will have to come later; we must not divert our attention now. We must be vigilant and find the tiniest loopholes. We didn’t see a single cannon at the tank stations, only the Legion’s marksmen posted everywhere. I must keep that in mind. The hollow is a good, deep spot, and the guards will probably be removed as soon as we pass through. Guards? Everyone, including the guards, will dash forward as soon as the emitters are turned on.”

With amazing clarity he could see what lay ahead. The emitters would be turned on. The shock troops’ tanks would race forward with a roar, and the army would follow en masse behind them. The entire prefrontal zone would be deserted. “It’s difficult to determine the depth of the zone, since we don’t know the emitters’ effective radius—surely a good two miles. So for two miles inside the zone there won’t be a single clear head left, except mine. No, not for just two miles. More than that. All the stationary units and all the towers will be turned on, too, and full blast for sure. The entire border region will go crazy. Massaraksh, what about Zef? He won’t be able to hold out with a dose like that.” Maxim cast a sidelong glance at the red-bearded former psychiatrist moving peacefully through the woods. “No, he’ll hold out. At worst, I’ll have to help him, although I’m afraid there may not be time. And Guy—1 can’t take my eye off him for a minute. It’s going to be rough. Anyway, I’ll still be the boss in this murky whirlpool, and no one is going to stop me or even try to stop me.”

As soon as they passed the grove, they heard the hum of loudspeakers, the roar of exhausts, and exasperated cries. Ahead, on a gentle grassy slope rising to the north, stood three rows of tanks. Men were wandering among them, through a veil of blue-gray smoke.

“Well, men, there are your coffins!” shouted a cheerful voice ahead of them.

“Take a look at what they’re giving us,” said Guy. “Prewar machines, junk, tin cans. Mac, what’s going to happen to us? Are we really going to die here?”

“How far is it to the border?” asked Maxim. “And what’s beyond the crest of the hill?”

“A plain,” replied Guy. “Flat as a pancake. It’s about two miles to the border. Then the lulls begin and they go as far as—”

“A river?”

“No.”

“Ravines?”

“No. I don’t remember. Why?”

Maxim caught his arm and squeezed it firmly.

“Don’t give up, Guy. Everything will be all right.”

“You mean that? Otherwise, I can’t see any way out of this. They’ve taken away our weapons, given us blanks instead of real ammo. No machine guns. No matter which way we turn, we’re going to die.”

“Aha!” gloated Zef, picking at his teeth. “So, Guy, you’ve finally gotten your feet wet. It’s not as simple as giving your prisoners a smack across the mouth.”

The column straggled into the rows of tanks and halted. It was difficult to carry on a conversation over the noise. Huge loudspeakers had been set up on the grass, and a taped voice kept repeating: “Beyond the crest a treacherous enemy lies in wait. Forward! Forward! There is no retreat! Pull your accelerators back and go forward. Against the enemy. Forward! Beyond the crest a treacherous enemy lies in wait. Forward! Forward!...”Then the voice broke off in the middle of a sentence, and the colonel began to shout. He stood on the hood of his jeep while battalion leaders held his legs steady.

“Soldiers!” shouted the colonel. “Enough talk! Get into your tanks! And drivers, watch out, because I don’t give a damn about you: if any one of yon remains behind, I’ll...” He drew out his pistol and waved it in the air. “Do you understand, you numb-skulls? Captains, lead your crews to the tanks. ”

Pandemonium broke out. The colonel, swaying on the hood, continued to shout, but he was drowned out by the loudspeakers, repeating the same taped message. The shock troops dashed to the third row of tanks. A fight erupted and hobnailed boots flew through the air. A huge gray crowd swarmed slowly around the last row of tanks. Some tanks began to move, and people scattered. The colonel turned blue trying to make himself heard above the loudspeakers and in desperation fired over the soldiers’ heads. Legionnaires, like a long black chain, came running from the woods.

“Let’s go.” Maxim gripped Guy and Zef firmly by the shoulders and led them, on the double, to the last tank in the first row.

“Wait a minute,” babbled Guy, bewildered. “We’re in the Fourth Company; we’re supposed to be over there, in the second row.”

“Keep going, don’t stop!” said Maxim angrily. “Maybe you still want to lead your platoon?”

“It’s the soldier in his bones,” said Zef.

Someone grabbed Mac from the rear by his belt. Without turning, Maxim tried to free himself but couldn’t. He looked around. Behind his back, hanging onto him stubbornly with one hand and wiping a bloody nose with the other, trailed the fourth member of the crew, the driver. A criminal, nicknamed the Hook.

“Oh,” said Maxim, “I forgot about you. Come on, make it snappy.”

Annoyed at himself, he made a mental note of his oversight; in all the commotion he had forgotten about a man who had been assigned an important role in his plan. At that instant, the Legion’s submachine guns opened fire, and a hail of bullets pinged and hopped along the armor of surrounding tanks, forcing Maxim to bend over and race headlong toward the last tank. When they reached it, Maxim halted.

“Obey my orders,” he said. “Hook, you drive. Zef, to the turret! Guy, check the lower hatches. And thoroughly, or I’ll have your head!”

He circled the tank and examined its treads. Bullets were flying all around him and the loudspeakers grumbled monotonously, but he had promised himself not to let anything divert him. He made another mental note: the loudspeakers—Guy—don’t forget. The treads were in fairly good condition, but the front drive wheels didn’t exactly inspire confidence. “Never mind, it will do. We won’t be riding this monster for long.” Guy, covered with mud, crawled out from under the tank.

“The hatches are rusty!” he shouted. “I didn’t close them. I left them open. OK?”

“Beyond the crest, a treacherous enemy lies in wait!” repeated the taped voice. “Forward! Forward! Pull your accelerators back.”

Maxim caught Guy by the collar and pulled him close.

“You’re my buddy, right?” He stared hard into Guy’s wide-open eyes. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course!”

“Obey only me! No one else! Everything else you hear is a pack of lies. I am your buddy. You can trust only me and no one else. Remember that! I am giving you an order: remember it!”

Guy nodded hastily and repeated: “Yes, yes. Only you. No one else.”

“Mac!” someone shouted into his ear. Maxim swung around. Before him stood that strangely familiar man in the long raincoat. Massaraksh. That square, peeling face, those bloodshot eyes. It was Fank. He had blood on his cheek, and his lip was cut badly.

“Massaraksh!” yelled Fank, trying to be heard over the noise. “Are you deaf? Don’t you recognize me?”

“Fank!” said Maxim. “What are you doing here?”

Fank wiped the blood from his lip.

“Let’s go!” he shouted. “Hurry!”

“Where?”

“Let’s get the hell out of here!”

He grabbed Maxim by his belt and pulled him. Maxim pushed away his hand.

“We’d be killed!” shouted Maxim. “The legionnaires!”

Fank shook his head.

“Let’s go! I have a pass for you.” Maxim refused to budge. “I’ve been searching for you all over the country. I almost didn’t find you. We must go, at once!”

“I’m not alone!” shouted Maxim.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not alone,” snapped Maxim. “There are three of us. I won’t go without the others.”

“Nonsense! What kind of idiotic nobility is that? Are you tired of living?” Fank choked from the strain of shouting.

Maxim looked around. Pale, his lips trembling, Guy clung to his sleeve and looked at him. He had heard everything.

In the next tank two legionnaires were beating a soldier with their gun butts.

“One pass!” yelled Fank, coughing and choking. “One!” He held up one finger.

Maxim shook his head.

“There are three of us!” He held up three fingers. “I’m not going anywhere without the others!”

Zef’s red beard stuck out from the side hatch. Fank bit his lips. Obviously he didn’t know what to do.

“Who are you?” shouted Maxim. “Why do you need me?”

Fank glanced at him for an instant, then looked at Guy.

Is this fellow with you?” he shouted.

“Yes,” replied Maxim, “and this one, too!”

Fank’s eyes grew wild. He slid his hand under his raincoat, pull out a pistol, and aimed it at Guy. Maxim struck Fank’s hand upward with all his strength, and the pistol flew into the air Fank bent over, tucking his injured hand beneath his arm. With a short accurate blow Guy struck him in the neck, and he collapsed. Suddenly legionnaires appeared beside them teeth clenched, faces taut with rage.

“Into the tank!” Maxim bent over and grabbed Fank under the arms.

Fank was fat and Maxim had trouble shoving him. Maxim dived in after him, receiving a parting blow from a gun butt. Inside the tank it was as dark and cold as a crypt. Zef pulled Fank away from the hatch and laid him on the floor.

“Who is this?” he snapped. Maxim didn’t have a chance to reply. After tugging at the starter for a long time, Hook finally got the tank rolling. Maxim climbed through the turret and stuck his head out. The rows between the tanks were deserted now except for legionnaires. All the engines had been started, and the roar was incredible. Dense clouds of exhaust obscured the slope. Some tanks were moving: here and there heads protruded from turrets. The shock trooper in the next tank thrust his head out, signaled to Maxim, made a wry face, then disappeared. The tanks moved forward and up the slope.

Suddenly Maxim felt someone grab him around the waist and try to pull him down. Bending over, he saw Guy’s eyes staring at him idiotically. Massaraksh, it was the bomber scene all over again! Guy grabbed him with both hands and kept muttering; his face grew repulsive as all its youthful charm vanished and sheer inanity and murderous impulses seized control. “It’s begun,” thought Maxim, struggling to loosen Guy’s grip. “Yes, it’s begun all right. The emitters have been turned on.”

The tank climbed onto the crest, and clods of earth shot out from under its treads. Blue-gray smoke blocked visibility to the rear, and a gray, clayey plain suddenly opened ahead of them. In the distance stretched Khonti’s low hills, and the avalanche of tanks swept toward them relentlessly. No longer in formation, the tanks raced forward, brushing against each other now and then and swinging their turrets around comically. A tread flew from one tank racing full speed; the vehicle spun in place like a top and turned over; its other tread tore off and flew into the sky like a shiny snake; its front wheels continued to spin, and two men in gray jumped from its lower hatches. They landed on the ground, waved their arms, and rushed forward, forward, toward the treacherous enemy. A shell burst through the clanging and roaring tanks with a resounding crash. Long red tongues leaped simultaneously from the tanks’ guns. The tanks crouched, leaped up, and shrouded themselves in dense black gunsmoke. Within minutes everything was covered by a blackish-yellow cloud. Maxim was too fascinated to tear his eyes away from this spectacle, so impressive in its criminal absurdity. Meanwhile he patiently loosened Guy’s tenacious grip on him, while Guy called out and pleaded, consumed with a desire to shield Maxim from all perils with his own body.

Maxim remembered that he must take over the controls. As he dropped down, he slapped Guy on the shoulder; then grabbing onto metal braces and choking from the gasoline fumes, he surveyed the scene in the cramped, swaying box. He glanced at Fank’s dead-white face and at Zef, writhing under the ammunition case. He shoved Guy aside, and made his way to the driver.

Hook had pulled the accelerator back all the way, as hard as he could; and he sang so loudly that he could be heard over all the noise. Maxim could distinguish the words of “The Hymn of Thanksgiving. ” He must tranquilize him somehow, take his place at the controls, and look around in this smoke for a convenient ravine or deep hollow where they could shield themselves from nuclear explosions.

No sooner had he begun to unclench Hook’s fists, frozen on the levers, than faithful Guy, angered that his master was not being obeyed, lunged and struck half-crazed Hook on the temple with a heavy wrench. Hook crumpled, releasing the levers. Enraged, Maxim shoved Guy aside. There was no time to react with horror or sympathy. He pulled the body away, sat down, and took the controls.

Almost nothing was visible through the observation hatch: only a small patch of grass, and beyond that a dense shroud of blue-gray fumes. It would be impossible to find anything in this haze. He could do only one thing: slow down and move cautiously until the tank had made its way deep into the hills. But it would be dangerous to slow down: if the atomic mines went off before he reached the hills, they would be incinerated. Guy kept clinging to him, hoping to hear a command.

“Never mind, buddy,” muttered Maxim, pushing him away with his elbows. “К will pass. You’ll get over it. Hold out a little longer.”

The tank slipped through a thick stream of black smoke, and as they emerged they had to swerve sharply to the left to avoid a man flattened by tank treads. When the smoky shroud had partially cleared, Maxim saw brown hills not far away and the muddy romp of a tank crawling at an oblique angle to the rest of the tank force. Then he saw a burning tank. Turning to the left, he headed for a deep brush-covered hollow nestled between two hills. Just before he reached it, a flame spurted toward them, and the whole tank vibrated from the heavy blow. Maxim reacted instantly, racing the tank at top speed. Bushes and a cloud of whitish smoke leaped toward them; white helmets, faces distorted with hate, raised fists flashed by; then something made of steel crackled as it burst beneath the treads. Maxim clenched his teeth, made a sharp right, and maneuvered the heavily listing vehicle farther away, along the slope. It almost overturned as it skirted a hill. Finally he entered a narrow hollow overgrown with saplings. He decided to stop here.

He flung open the forward hatch and looked around. It was a suitable spot; high brown hills crowded the tank on all sides. No sooner had Maxim muffled the engine than Guy howled some nonsense, absurdly rhythmic words, a homemade ode in honor of his great and beloved master, Mac Sim.

“Shut up!” ordered Maxim. “Get the others outside and lay them next to the tank. Wait, I haven’t finished yet! These are my best friends, and yours, too, so take it easy. Be very gentle.”

“Where are you going?” Guy was terrified.

“Nowhere. I’ll be right here, nearby.”

“Don’t go away. Or can I go with you?”

“I gave you an order. Do as you’re told. And remember, gently.”

Guy protested, but Maxim ignored him. He climbed from the tank and ran up the slope. Somewhere in the distance, tanks were rolling, engines roaring full blast, treads clattering, and cannons thundering. A shell whined high in the sky. Crouching, Maxim ran to the top, squatted between the bushes, and congratulated himself for choosing such a suitable refuge for their tank.

Below, seemingly within arm’s reach, a wide corridor stretched between the hills, and tanks rolled through it from the smoke-covered plain. Low, snub-nosed, powerful, with enormous flat turrets and long cannons, the tanks streamed by in a solid mass. This was not the penal battalion, but the regular army. Maxim observed this awesome spectacle for several minutes, as if he were watching a historical film. Although the air reeled and shuddered from the frenzied thundering and roaring and the lull trembled beneath his feet like a frightened animal, Maxim felt as if the tanks were moving in sullen silence. He knew very well that beneath the armored plates half-crazed soldiers were gasping for breath. But all the hatches were sealed, and it seemed that each tank was a solid block of metal. When the last tanks had passed, Maxim glanced below at his own tank listing among the trees. It looked like a pitiful tin toy, a decrepit parody of a real military weapon. Yes, one army had passed below, to confront an opposing, more fearsome army. Maxim hastened back to the grove.

He skirted the tank and stopped short.

They lay in a row: Fank, his blood-drained face almost as blue as a dead man’s; the writhing, groaning Zef, his dirty fingers clutching his mop of red hair; and the cheerfully smiling Hook, with the dead eyes of a puppet. His order had been executed to the letter. But Guy, in tatters and covered with blood, lay there, too, a short distance away; his face, wearing a hurt expression, was turned away from the sky, and his arms were flung apart. The grass around him was crushed and trampled; a flattened white helmet with dark stains lay in the mud, and a pair of boots protruded from some broken bushes.

“Massaraksh,” muttered Maxim, imagining with horror how only a few minutes ago two snarling and howling dogs had grappled here to the last, each for the glory of his master.

At that instant, the opposing army inflicted a reciprocal blow. It caught Maxim in the eyes. He snarled with pain, closed his eyes as tightly as possible, and fell on Guy, trying to shield him with his body, although he knew Guy was already dead. It was an automatic reflex: he had no time to think about anything, to feel anything except the pain in his eyes. He was still falling when he blacked out.

Probably no more than several seconds had elapsed before he regained consciousness, but he was drenched in sweat. His throat was parched and his ears rang as if he had been hit on the head with a two-by-four. The world had suddenly changed: it had turned crimson. It was strewn with leaves and broken branches, with scorching air, with bushes torn up by their roots. Burning twigs and clods of hot, dry earth fell like rain from a red sky. The silence was morbid. Guy, spattered with leaves, lay face down about ten steps away. Next to him sat Zef, still clutching his head with one hand and shielding his eyes with the other. Fank had rolled into a gully, and was thrashing around and rubbing his face in the dirt. The tank had been swept below, where it had overturned. Thrown back against a tread. Hook was still smiling.

Maxim jumped up and pushed aside the fallen branches. He ran to Guy, grabbed him, lifted him, looked into his glassy eyes, and pressed his cheek to Guy’s. He cursed this world where he was so alone and helpless, where the dead were dead forever, where there was no way of restoring them to life. He cried, beat the ground with his fists, trampled the white helmet; but he recovered his senses when Zef screamed with pain. Now filled only with hatred and a thirst to kill, Maxim, without turning, plodded back up the hill to his observation post.

Here, too, everything had changed. The bushes had vanished, the baked clay smoked and crackled, and the hill’s northern slope was burning. To the north the crimson sky fused with a solid wall of blackish-brown smoke, and above the wall rose oily bright orange clouds, which swelled before his very eyes.

Maxim looked down at the corridor between the hills. It was deserted. The clay, plowed up by tank treads and burned by the nuclear strike, was smoking; thousands of flames danced on it. The plain to the south seemed very broad and deserted. It was no longer obscured by the haze of burning gunpowder; it was red beneath the red sky, and on it rested lonely boxes, the blackened ruins of the penal battalion tank corps. Along the plain, approaching the hills, rolled a thin broken chain of strange vehicles.

They resembled tanks, except that instead of gun turrets a high latticed cone with a dull circular object at its tip was mounted on each vehicle. They moved rapidly, rocking gently on the uneven ground. They were neither black, like the tanks of the ill-fated shock troops, nor grayish-green like the army tanks at the breakthrough; they were yellow, a vivid yellow, like the Legion’s patrol cars. Beyond the hills, the ranks of the right flank were no longer visible. Maxim managed to count eight emitters. How brazen they were, as if they knew they were masters of the situation. Imagine—plunging into combat without cover or camouflage! They deliberately flaunted their garish yellow paint, their ugly five-meter protuberance, and their absence of weapons. Their drivers probably believed themselves to be completely safe. From the way they rushed ahead, it appeared that they scarcely gave safety any thought. They spurred on the iron herd with their radiation whips, a herd now rolling through hell. Yet they themselves knew nothing about the whips, were unaware that they were lashing themselves. Maxim spotted an emitter on the left flank heading for the hollow. He set out to meet it.

He walked erect. He realized that force must be used to extract the black-uniformed legionnaires from their iron shells, and that was precisely what he wanted now. Never before had he craved the feel of human flesh beneath his fingers. By the time he had descended into the hollow, the emitter was very close. The yellow vehicle rolled straight at him, staring blindly with its glass periscopes. Its latticed cone rocked ponderously, out of phase with the vehicle’s bobbing motion. Now Maxim could make out a silver sphere, thickly covered with long shiny needles, rocking at the cone’s peak.

Realizing that they had no intention of stopping, Maxim yielded the road, let them pass, and ran alongside the vehicle for several yards. Then he jumped onto its armor plating.