Prisoners of Power

18.

The state prosecutor slept lightly. The telephone awakened him instantly. Without opening his eyes, he removed the receiver and said hoarsely: “Hello.”

His assistant’s whiny voice announced apologetically: “Seven o’clock, your honor.”

“Yes,” said the prosecutor, his eyes still closed. “Yes. Thank you.”

He turned on the light, threw off the covers, and sat on the edge of the bed. Staring at his pale, skinny legs, he sat there for some time, reflecting on his lot in sad surprise: he could not recall a single day in the past sixty years when his sleep hadn’t been interrupted. Someone was always waking him up. When he was a lieutenant, that pig of an orderly would awaken him after a drinking spree. When he was chairman of the Black Tribunal, that idiot secretary would awaken him for his signature on death sentences. As a schoolboy, he would be awakened for school by his mother, and that was the most miserable of all awakenings. He was always told: You must! You must, your honor. You must, Mr. Chairman. You must, my dear little boy. Now he was telling himself that he must. He rose, threw off his robe, splashed eau de cologne over his face, inserted his bridgework, stared at himself in the mirror as he massaged his cheeks, then entered his study.

A glass of warm milk and a dish of salted crackers under a starched napkin waited for him on his desk. Before partaking of his special diet, he went to the safe, removed a green folder, and placed it on the desk beside his breakfast. While he munched crackers and sipped milk, he inspected the folder thoroughly, until he was convinced that no one had tampered with it since last night. How much had changed, he thought. Only three months had passed, but how everything had changed! He glanced mechanically at the yellow telephone and could not tear his eyes from it for several seconds. The phone was silent—as bright and frivolous as a toy, but as frightening as an infernal time bomb that cannot be defused.

The prosecutor seized the green folder with both hands and frowned. He sensed fear getting the better of him and hastened to check it. No, this wouldn’t do: he must remain absolutely calm, must reason with total objectivity. “Besides, I have no choice. If I’m taking a risk, well, I’ll simply have to take it. But I must keep it to a minimum. And I will. Yes, massaraksh, to a minimum!... So, you aren’t so sure about that, eh. Smart? Oh, so yon doubt it? You’re always doubting. Well, let’s try and dispel your doubts. Have you ever heard of a certain Maxim Kammerer? Have you really? Aha, you only think you have. You’ve never heard of the man before. Well, get set. Smart, you’re going to hear about him right now for the first time. Hear this out and form the most objective and unbiased judgment of him. Smart, it’s very important for me to know your objective opinion: my hide, you know, depends on it.”

He chewed the last cracker and drained the milk.

“All right, Mr. Smart, let’s get down to business!” he said aloud.

He opened the folder. “The man’s past is hazy. A rather feeble introduction to our acquaintance. But we not only know how to deduce the present from the past; we can deduce the past from the present. And if we need to know the past of our friend Mac, we can eventually deduce it from the present. We call that extrapolation. So, what do we have here? Our Mac begins his present with his escape from the penal colony. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Precisely at the moment when Strannik and I were about to lay our hands on him. Here’s the commanding general’s panicky report, the classical howling of an idiot who has screwed something up and doesn’t expect to escape punishment: he is completely innocent, he merely carried out orders; he did not know that the subject had volunteered for service with a sapper detachment of condemned men and that said subject was blown up in a mine field. He didn’t know. Nor did Strannik and I. But we should have known! The subject is an unpredictable individual, and you should have anticipated something of the sort, Mr, Smart. Yes, at the time I was shocked by the news, but now we understand what happened: someone told Mac the truth about the towers; he decided that he could not accomplish anything in the Land of the All-Powerful Creators, so he escaped to the South, pretending he had perished.” The prosecutor rubbed his forehead sluggishly. “Yes, that was the beginning of everything. It was the first miss in a series of misses: I believed that he had perished. And why shouldn’t I have? What normal man would escape to the South? Anyone would have believed that he had perished. But Strannik didn’t.”

The prosecutor picked up the next report. “Oh, that Strannik! Clever! A genius! That’s the way I should have operated, like him! I was sure Mac was dead. After all, the South is the South. Strannik saturated the other side of the river with his agents. Fat Fank—too bad I never got to him, never took him in hand. That greasy pig wore himself out running around the country, sniffing, spying. He lost Kura to malaria on Route Six, and Rooster was captured by mountaineers; and then Fifty-five—whoever he is—was grabbed by pirates on the coast. But Fifty-five managed to get a message through: Mac, he said, had turned up and surrendered to the patrols.

“That’s how people with brains operate: they don’t believe a damn thing or feel sorry for anyone. That’s how I should have acted. I should have pushed everything else aside and concentrated on finding Mac. Even then I realized very well what an awesome force Mac was. But instead of working on his case exclusively, I hooked up with Puppet and lost the game. Then I got involved in this idiotic war and lost again. And now I would have lost again if I hadn’t had a stroke of luck: Mac turned up in the capital, in Strannik’s lair, and I learned about it before Strannik did. Yes, Strannik, you boney-eared bastard, you’re the loser now. You had to dash off somewhere on business. And I don’t know where or why you went, but that doesn’t disturb me in the least. Well and good! Naturally you relied on your Fank for everything, and your Fank delivered Mac to you. But what bad luck—your Fank collapsed from his strenuous military exploits and is lying unconscious in the palace hospital. Ah, yes, he’s a very important figure: only the big shots get hospitalized there! And this time I won’t miss. This time he’ll lie there as long as I consider it necessary. You aren’t here, Fank isn’t, but our boy Mac is, and that is a lucky break.”

The joy of triumph surged through him. He stifled it at once. “There go my emotions again, massaraksh. Calm down. Smart. You are getting to know a new man, by the name of Mac, and you must be very objective. Especially since this new Mac bears no resemblance to the old one. He’s no longer a child; he knows now what finance and juvenile delinquency are all about. Our Mac has grown a good deal wiser and more serious. For example, he made his way into the underground’s leadership (his sponsors, Memo Gramenu and Allu Zef) and hit them like a bolt out of the blue with a proposal to expose the real purpose of the towers to the entire underground. The staff screamed bloody murder, but Mac convinced them. He frightened and confused them. They accepted his proposal and assigned Mac the task of working it out. He learned the ropes very quickly and sized up the entire situation correctly. They understood this and realized who they were dealing with. Ah, here’s the last report: a faction of educators among the leadership involved him in a discussion of a plan to reeducate the population, and he agreed to it with enthusiasm. Immediately he proposed a host of ideas. Lord only knows what they were, but that’s not important. The whole idea of reeducation is idiotic. What’s important is that he is no longer a terrorist, has no desire to blow up anything or kill anyone; that he is now busy with his career, building prestige among the underground leadership, delivering speeches, criticizing, and moving upward; that he has ideas and is anxious to implement them—and that, my dear Mr. Smart, is precisely what you need.”

The prosecutor leaned back in his chair.

“Ah, here’s something else I need: a report on his life style. He works hard in the laboratory and at home; still remembers that girl, Rada Gaal; takes part in sports; doesn’t smoke, rarely drinks, and eats in moderation. On the other hand, he clearly leans toward a luxurious life style and knows his worth. For example, cars. After expressing dissatisfaction with a staff car’s low power and ugly appearance, he appropriated it as if it were due him. He is also dissatisfied with his apartment; he feels it is too small and lacks basic comforts. He has decorated his quarters with original paintings and antiquarian art, spending almost his entire advance on them. And so on. Good material, very good. I wonder how much money he has at his disposal? So-o, he’s a project leader in a chemical synthesis laboratory. They set him up rather elegantly, and probably promised him still more. I wonder what reasons they gave Mac for Strannik’s needing him? Fank, the fat pig, knows, but he’d die rather than breathe a word. If only I could drag it out of him. Then it would give me great pleasure to finish him off. How much unnecessary worry he’s caused me. And he stole Rada from me. How useful she could be to me now. Rada—an excellent weapon when you’re dealing with pure, honest, courageous Mac! Well, maybe things haven’t worked out so badly after all. Mac, I’m not the one who’s holding your girl under lock and key. It’s all Strannik’s doing, that blackmailer.”

The prosecutor started: the yellow phone jingled softly. He passed his trembling fingers across his forehead. No, it had to be a mistake. Of course it was. The call was not for him. The telephone is a complicated device; some wires had probably crossed. He wiped his hands on his robe. At that instant the ringing of the telephone tore through him like a bullet, like a dagger in the throat. He picked up the receiver.

“State prosecutor speaking.”

“Smart? This is Chancellor.”

There it was. Any moment he’d hear: “I’ll expect you in an hour, Smart.”

“I recognized your voice,” he said weakly. “How are you?”

“Have you read the report?”

“No.” He was waiting for him to say: “You haven’t? Well, come over and I’ll read it to you myself.”

“You’ve really screwed up the war.”

The prosecutor swallowed. He must say something. He must—immediately. Some good-natured banter. But tactfully. Please God, tactfully!

“You’ve nothing to say? What did I tell you? Keep your nose out of it. Stick to civilian matters and leave military affairs alone.”

“You know, Chancellor, we are all your children. And children don’t always listen to their parents.”

Chancellor tittered. “Children. But where is it said: ‘If your child fails to obey you...’ How does the rest of it go. Smart?”

“Oh, God!” thought the prosecutor, “I remember. Those were his very words then: ‘Wipe it from the face of the earth.’ And Strannik had picked up a heavy black pistol from the desk, raised it slowly, and fired twice, and Chancellor’s child had clasped its balding head with both hands and sunk to the floor.”

“Has your memory failed you? So, what are you going to do, Smart?”

“I made a mistake,” he said hoarsely. “A mistake. It was all because of Puppet.”

“So, you made a mistake. Well, all right, think about it. Smart. Think it over. I’ll call you again.”

And that was it. Chancellor had hung up, and he didn’t know where to phone him—to cry, to plead. “Oh, how stupid, how stupid of me. All right, hold on. Get a grip on yourself, you coward!” With all his might he struck his open hand against the edge of the desk, to draw blood, to inflict pain, to stop the trembling. It helped a little. Still bent over, he opened the lower desk drawer with his other hand, removed a flask and took a few swallows. The warmth coursed through him. “Now, that’s the way. Take it easy. This thing isn’t over yet. The race is to the swiftest. You’re not finished with Smart yet. You won’t get him so easily. If you could have, you would have done it already. The call doesn’t mean a thing. He always does that. There’s still time. Two, three, even four days. Yes, there’s time!” he shouted to himself. “Don’t get hysterical.” He rose and began to circle the room rapidly.

“You see, I have a hold over you. I have Mac. I have a man who doesn’t fear radiation. A man for whom no obstacle exists. Who wants to change the system. Who hates us. A man so pure he is open to all temptations. A man who believes in me. Who wants to meet me. He is anxious to meet me: my agents have told him many times that the state prosecutor is a good man, a just man, and a fine legal expert, a real guardian of the law; that the Creators detest him and tolerate him only because they distrust each other. My agents have already pointed me out to him in secret, and he was favorably impressed. And most important of all, a hint was dropped to him in the strictest confidence that I knew the Center’s location. Although he has excellent control over his physical expressions, I was told that he gave himself away that time. Yes, that’s the kind of man I have—a man who is eager to seize the Center. The only man who can do it. Of course, I don’t actually have this man in my hands yet, but the line has been cast, the bait swallowed, and today I’ll set the hook. Otherwise, I’m finished. Yes, finished.”

He turned sharply and stared at the yellow telephone.

His imagination went wild. He visualized the cramped room upholstered in purple velvet, stuffy, sour-smelling, windowless, with a bare dilapidated table and five gilded chairs. “And the rest of us stood there: myself, Strannik with murderous eyes, and that bald-headed butcher. He must have known where the Center was: God, how many people he’d killed to find out. What a drunkard and braggart! How could he blab about such monstrous deeds to his relatives? And to what relatives! And he’s the chief of the Department of Public Health, the Creators’ eyes and ears, the nation’s sword and shield. I remember Chancellor’s words: ‘Wipe him from the face of the earth!,’ and Strannik fired point-blank twice. And Baron was annoyed: ‘You’ve spattered the upholstery again.’ Then they argued about why the room reeked, and my legs felt like water, and I thought: ‘Do they or don’t they know?’ Strannik stood there, grinning and looking at me knowingly. But he didn’t know a thing. Now I understand why—he always took great pains to prevent anyone from learning the secret of the Center. He always knew its location and was waiting for a chance to seize it himself. Too late, Strannik, too late. And you, too, Chancellor, are too late. You, too. Baron. And you. Puppet—well, there’s no point talking about you.”

He pushed aside the drapes and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. He had almost stifled his terror. Attempting to stamp out the last vestige of fear, he tried to visualize Mac bursting into the Center’s control room.

“Of course, Voldyr could have done it, too, with his personal bodyguard, that gang of relatives—cousins, nephews, adopted brothers, and protégés, those dregs who have always known only one law: shoot first. You had to be a Strannik to dare point a finger at Voldyr. That same evening they had attacked Strannik at the gates of his mansion, shot up his car, killed his chauffeur and secretary, and then, in some mysterious fashion, every last one of them was knocked out, all twenty-four of them and their two machine guns. Yes, Voldyr, too, could have made it to the control room, but he wouldn’t have gotten any farther, because a barrier, a depression emitter, maybe two by now, would have stopped him. Actually, one is sufficient. No one could get through it: a degen would pass out from pain, and an ordinary, loyal citizen would fall to his knees and cry quietly, overcome by a severe depression. Mac alone could get through, thrust his skillful hands into the generator, and switch the Center and the entire tower network onto the depression field. I can see it now: with nothing to bar his way, he climbs to the radio studio and broadcasts a taped speech simultaneously on all frequencies. The entire country, from the Outlands to the Khonti border, is overcome by depression; millions of idiots drop to their knees and drown in tears, sunk in total apathy. And the loudspeakers roar full blast that the All-Powerful Creators are criminals, their names are so-and-so, they are now at such-and-such place, kill them, save the nation. This is Mac Sim addressing you, Mac Sim, a living god (or the legitimate heir to the Imperial Throne—or the great dictator—whichever Mac prefers). To arms, my Legion! To arms, my army! To arms, my subjects! While the tape is playing, he returns to the control room and switches the generators to the heightened attention field; then the entire country listens, open-mouthed, trying to catch every word, memorizing and repeating everything silently. The loudspeakers roar on, the towers blast away, and all this continues for another hour. Then he switches the emitters to ‘ecstasy,’ thirty minutes of ecstasy, and that ends the broadcast. When I come to, after ninety minutes of agonizing pains—which I must bear— Chancellor and the rest of them will be wiped out. There will be only Mac, the Great God Mac, and his loyal adviser, the former state prosecutor, now chief of the Great Mac’s government. I’ll be safe. Mac is not the kind who abandons useful friends, or even those who aren’t. And I shall be a very useful friend. Oh, what a useful friend I’ll be!”

He interrupted his reverie and returned to his desk. Casting a sidelong glance at the yellow telephone, he smiled ironically, picked up the receiver of the green telephone, and called the deputy chief of the Department of Special Investigation.

“Hed? Good morning. This is Smart. How are you feeling? How’s your stomach? Well, that’s fine. Strannik’s still away? Baron’s office called, asked us to take a look at your department. No, no, it’s a mere formality. I don’t have the slightest understanding of your work, anyway. So prepare a report. You know, conclusions regarding the inspection and that sort of thing. Be sure that everyone is in his place, not like the last time. Around eleven o’clock. Arrange things so I can be out of there with all the documents by noon. See you later. Emitters go on in a few minutes. Well, let’s go suffer. You do, don’t you? Or maybe you figured out some defense against it a long time ago and are keeping it from the authorities. Take it easy. I’m only kidding. So long.”

He hung up and glanced at the clock. Nine forty-five. He began to groan loudly and dragged himself to the bathroom. That nightmare again. Thirty minutes of agony. No defense against it. No escape from it. God, all you want to do is die. How humiliating: Strannik must be spared. We’ll need him.

The tub was already filled with hot water. The prosecutor flung off his robe, pulled off his nightshirt, and placed an analgesic under his tongue. And so it went, day after day. One twenty-fourth of his life was pure hell. More than four percent. Not counting the times he was summoned to the palace. That part would be over soon, but he must tolerate the four percent for the rest of his life. “Well, we’ll see about that, too. When everything is settled, I’ll take Strannik in hand myself.” He climbed into the tub, made himself comfortable, relaxed, and began to devise ways of taking Strannik in hand. He didn’t get very far; the familiar pain struck him in the temple, traveled down his spine, dug its claws into every nerve, every cell, and began beating, methodically, ruthlessly, to the rhythm of his madly pounding heart.

When everything was over, he lay a little while longer in languid exhaustion. Yes, those infernal pains had their compensation: the half-hour nightmare was succeeded by a few minutes of heavenly bliss.

He climbed out, dried himself in front of the mirror, opened the door slightly, and received a fresh towel from his valet, dressed, returned to the study, drank another glass of warm milk, ate a bowl of thin gruel with honey, sat idly for a while until he had completely recovered from his ordeal, then phoned his assistant and ordered his car.

A road reserved for government vehicles, deserted at this hour, led to the Department of Special Investigation. Ignoring traffic lights, the chauffeur turned on a loud, deep-throated siren from time to time. At three minutes to eleven they reached the department’s high yellow gates. A legionnaire in dress uniform crossed over to the car and glanced in. Recognizing the prosecutor, he saluted. Instantly, the gates swung open, revealing a thickly planted garden, yellow and white apartment houses, and, behind them, the institute’s gigantic rectangular building.

As they rolled slowly along the narrow road posted with speed-limit signs, they passed a playground, a squat building that housed a swimming pool, and the club restaurant’s colorful building. All of this was bathed in clouds of dense foliage and the purest air. It had a fragrance that no field or forest could duplicate. “Ah, that’s Strannik for you. It’s all his doing. What a mint of money he’s squandered on this project. But it certainly has produced results. His employees like him. This is the way to live; this is the way to do it. A mint of money was squandered, and Sultan was terribly annoyed, and still is. What about the risk? Of course there was one; Strannik took it, but the result is that the department is really his. His people would never betray him or scheme against him. He has five hundred employees working for him, mostly young people. They don’t read newspapers or listen to the radio; they don’t have time—they’re too involved in important research. So the emitters are missing their mark here; or rather, they’re aiming elsewhere, where it benefits Strannik. Yes, Strannik, if I were in your place, I’d take my time with those protective helmets. Most likely you are. But, damn it, how can I get my hands on you? If only I could find another Strannik. No, there isn’t another brain like his in the whole world, and he knows it. He keeps a sharp eye out for talent. Gets a solid hold on a person when he’s young; is very kind to him; takes him away from his parents—and the parents, the fools, are tickled pink!—and another little soldier joins his ranks. What a lucky break for me that Strannik is away now!”

The car halted and his assistant opened the door wide. The prosecutor climbed out, walked up the steps to a glass-enclosed lobby. Hed and his assistants were waiting for him. Deliberately assuming a bored expression, he shook Hed’s hand flaccidly, glanced at his assistants, and allowed them to escort him to the elevator. They filed in according to protocol: first the state prosecutor, next the deputy chief of the department, then the state prosecutor’s assistant and the deputy chief’s senior assistant. The rest remained in the lobby. The group proceeded to Hed’s office and filed in according to protocol again: the state prosecutor, then Hed; the prosecutor’s assistant and Hed’s senior assistant remained in the reception room. As soon as they entered the inner office, the prosecutor sank into an armchair wearily and Hed busied himself at once. He pressed the buttons at the edge of the desk; when a whole horde of secretaries came running into his office, he ordered tea.

To amuse himself, the prosecutor spent the first few minutes studying Hed. He had an uncommonly guilt-ridden face. He avoided direct eye contact, smoothed his hair, nibbed his hands convulsively, and made numerous senseless, restless movements. He always behaved this way. It constituted, so to speak, his basic capital. Constantly arousing suspicions of a guilty conscience, he was continuously subjected to meticulous checks. The Department of Public Health investigated his life around the clock. And since it was impeccable, every new check merely confirmed his surprising innocence. Hed’s rise up the ladder was spectacular.

The prosecutor knew all this very well: he had checked Hed personally on three occasions, and yet, while studying him now and amusing himself with his antics, he suddenly caught himself wondering if the old fox knew where Strannik was and was scared stiff that the information would be dragged out of him. The prosecutor couldn’t resist the temptation.

“Regards from Strannik,” he said casually, tapping his fingers on the arm rest.

Hed focused on the prosecutor for an instant and then looked away.

“Yes,” he said, biting his lip. “Uh, we’ll have tea in a minute.”

“He asked that you phone him,” said the prosecutor even more casually.

“What? Uh... all right. The tea will be exceptionally good today. My new secretary is an expert at brewing tea... that is... uh... where should I call him?”

“I don’t understand,” said the prosecutor.

“I mean that if I’m to phone him, I need his number. He neve lleaves his number.” Flushing painfully, Hed began to fuss about the desk, slapping it here and there until he found a pencil. “Where did he say I should call him?”

The prosecutor abandoned his probe.

“I was only kidding.”

Flickers of suspicion crossed Hed’s face. “Ah! So you were kidding?” He roared with forced laughter. “You sure put one over on me. Some joke! And I really thought... ha-ha-ha! Ah, here’s the tea.”

The prosecutor accepted a glass of strong tea from the well-groomed secretary’s well-groomed hands.

“All right, Hed, let’s get down to business. I don’t have much time. Where’s the report?”

After making many superfluous movements, Hed drew the inspection report from his desk and handed it to the prosecutor. His hesitant manner suggested that the report was full of false information, was aimed at misleading the inspector, and had been composed with subversive intentions.

“Well now.” The prosecutor sipped his tea. “Let’s see what you have here. ‘Inspection Report.’ Well. Interference Phenomena Laboratory. Integral Radiation Laboratory. I don’t understand anything. It beats me! How do you manage to understand this stuff?”

“I... you know, I don’t understand it either. I’m really an administrator. Yes, an administrator. My job is to provide general guidance and leadership.”

Hed avoided the prosecutor’s eyes, bit his lips, and ruffled his hair with a sweeping gesture. It was now quite clear that this man was not an administrator but a Khonti spy with very highly specialized training.

The prosecutor returned to the report. He made a profound remark about the power amplification sector’s overexpenditure of funds; he asked who Zon Barutu was, and if he wasn’t related to Moru Barutu, the well-known writer and propagandist; he reproved Hed for acquiring a lensless refractometer that had cost an outlandish sum and still hadn’t been put into operation. He summed up the work of the radiation research and development sector by saying that evidence of significant progress was lacking (“And thank God!” he added to himself) and that this opinion must be included in the final draft of the Inspection Report.

He was even more casual about the part of the report dealing with the work of the antiradiation sector. It was engaged in research on protective devices.

“You’re on a treadmill, Hed. You’ve made no progress with either physical or physiological defense. The physiological approach is all wrong: if I were to let you cut me up, you’d turn me into an idiot. Your chemists, on the other hand, are doing a fine job. They’ve won another minute for us. One minute last year, and a minute and a half the year before. Now when I take a pill, I experience only twenty-two minutes of agony instead of thirty. Well, not bad. Almost a thirty percent reduction. Insert my opinion in your report: increase the tempo of work on physical defense, encourage the personnel in the chemical defense sector. That’s all.”

He tossed the report back to Hed. “Have a final draft typed up and include my opinion. And now, for the sake of formality, take me to... well, I visited your physicists last time. Take me to your chemists; I’d like to see what they’re doing.”

Hed jumped up and struck the buttons on his desk again. Wearing an expression of utter fatigue, the prosecutor rose from his chair.

Accompanied by Hed and his day assistant, he toured the chemical defense laboratories at a leisurely pace, smiling politely at personnel with one service stripe on the sleeves of their smocks, slapping the stripeless ones on the shoulder, pausing by the two-stripers to shake hands, nodding in a knowing way and inquiring if there were any complaints.

There weren’t any. They all were working or pretending they were. Lights flickered on various devices, liquids bubbled in vessels, some stuff emitted a terrible odor, and somewhere in the laboratory animals were being tormented. The laboratory was clean, bright, and spacious; people seemed satisfied and serene. They didn’t display enthusiasm and conducted themselves very correctly with the inspector, but without any warmth and, in any case, without servility.

Strannik’s portrait adorned the walls of many offices and laboratories: it hung above work counters, next to charts and graphs, in wall space between windows, above doors, sometimes beneath plate glass on desk tops. There were photographs, pencil and charcoal sketches, even a portrait in oils. Here was Strannik playing ball; Strannik delivering a lecture; Strannik chewing an apple; Strannik meditating, fatigued, furious, and even roaring with laughter. Those sons of bitches had also drawn caricatures of him, which they hung in the most visible places. Shocking! Just imagine, thought the prosecutor, entering the office of junior attorney Filtik and finding a caricature of himself there. Massaraksh, that would be inconceivable, impossible!

He continued smiling, slapping shoulders, shaking hands, thinking all the while that this was his second visit to the laboratory since last year and nothing seemed to have changed. But until today he had never paid any serious attention to it. “Today I must,” he thought to himself. “What did Strannik mean to me a year or two ago? Formally he was one of us; in reality, a cabinet officer without any influence on policy, without a role in policy-making, without political aspirations. Since then he has made a great deal of progress: the nationwide operation to clean up foreign spies was Strannik’s doing.” The prosecutor himself had conducted the trials and was shaken when he realized that they were dealing not with your ordinary spy-degens but with real, experienced intelligence agents planted everywhere by the Island Empire to gather scientific and economic information. Strannik had caught them all, down to the last one, and since then he had become the permanent chief of Special Counterintelligence.

It was Strannik who had exposed the conspiracy engineered by Voldyr. That character had been solidly entrenched in his position and had been dangerously undermining Strannik’s control over counterintelligence. Not trusting anyone else to do the job, Strannik had knocked him off himself. He always operated openly and alone. No coalitions, no temporary alliances. He had overthrown three successive chiefs of the War Department in the same manner (before they could even open their mouths, they were summoned upstairs), until he finally secured Puppet’s appointment. Puppet was scared stiff of war. It was Strannik who, a year ago, had killed Project Gold, presented upstairs by the Imperial Union of Industry and Finance. At that time it appeared that Strannik would be sacked at any moment because Chancellor himself was very enthusiastic about the project. Somehow Strannik convinced him that the project’s benefits were very temporary, and in ten years there would be an epidemic of insanity and utter devastation. “He always manages to prove what he wants to prove to them; no one but Strannik is successful at that. Generally, one can understand why. He never fears anything. True, he hid himself in his office for a long time, but eventually he realized his power. He realized that we all needed him, regardless of who we were and how we fought among ourselves. Only Strannik is capable of developing a defense against radiation; only Strannik can save us from its torments. And to think that those snotnoses in white smocks draw caricatures of him.”

His assistant opened the door. He caught sight of Mac. Mac, in a white smock with one stripe on his sleeve, was sitting on a window ledge and looking out. If any attorney were to take the liberty of sitting on a window ledge to count shingles during working hours, one could with an easy conscience have him deported as a downright loafer, even a saboteur. But in this case, massaraksh, one had to keep quiet. Try taking him by the scruff of the neck and he’d tell you off in a hurry: “Excuse me! I am performing a mental experiment! Kindly move aside and don’t disturb me!”

The Great Mac was counting shingles. He glanced briefly at the visitors, started to return to his work, then glanced around again for a closer look. “He’s recognized me,” thought the prosecutor. “Ah, he’s recognized me, my clever boy.” He smiled politely at Mac and clapped a youthful laboratory assistant on the shoulder. Halting in the middle of the room, he glanced around.

“Well,” he said, standing between Mac and Hed, “what do we have here?”

“Mr. Sim,” said Hed, flushing. “Explain to the inspector what you are—”

“I believe I know you,” said the Great Mac. “Pardon me if I’m mistaken, but aren’t you the state prosecutor?”

Dealing with Mac was not an easy matter: his carefully thought out plan had just gone down the drain. Mac wouldn’t think of concealing anything; he feared no one and was curious about everything. Drawn up to his full height, the giant looked down at the prosecutor as if he were gazing at some exotic animal. He would have to play it by ear.

“Yes, I am.” The prosecutor stopped smiling and looked at Mac in cold surprise. “As far as I know, I am the state prosecutor, although I don’t understand...” He frowned and looked into Mac’s face. Mac smiled broadly. “Well, well, of course. Mac Sim. Maxim Kammerer. Pardon me, but you were supposed to have perished. Massaraksh, how did you ever get here?”

“It’s a long story,” replied Mac, waving his hand. “By the way. I’m surprised to see you here. I never realized that the Department of Justice was interested in our work.”

“The most surprising people are interested in your work.” He took Mac by the arm and led him to a far window. In a confidential whisper he inquired: “When will you have those pills for us? Real ones, that will last a full half hour?”

“Are you one, too?” asked Mac. “That’s right, you’d have to be.”

The prosecutor shook his head sadly. “It’s our blessing and our curse. The good fortune of our state and the misfortune of its rulers. Massaraksh, I’m awfully glad you’re alive and well, Mac. I must tell you that your trial was one of the few in my career that left me with a most unhappy feeling. No, no, don’t try to dismiss it: according to the letter of the law you were guilty. From that point of view everything was proper. You attacked a tower and evidently killed a legionnaire. For such an action, as you well know, one doesn’t deserve a pat on the head. But I must confess that my hand trembled when I signed your sentence. Please don’t be offended, but I felt as if I were sentencing a child. When it comes down to brass tacks, it must be said that the escapade was of our rather than your making, and the entire responsibility—”

“I’m not offended. What you say isn’t far from the truth: the tower escapade was childish. Thank God you didn’t have us shot.”

“It was all I could do for you. I remember how upset I was when I learned of your death.” He laughed and gave Mac’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Awfully glad that everything turned out all right. Delighted to meet you.” He glanced at his watch. “By the way, Mac, why are you here? No, no. I’m not going to arrest you. That’s not my job; let the military authorities worry about you. But what are you doing in this institute? Are you really a chemist? And this, too.” He pointed to the service stripe on his sleeve.

“You might say I’m a little bit of everything. Part chemist, part physicist—”

“And part underground conspirator.” The prosecutor laughed good-naturedly.

“A very small part of me,” said Mac firmly.

“Part conjurer,” said the prosecutor.

Mac looked at him attentively.

“Part dreamer,” continued the prosecutor, “part adventurer.”

“That’s no longer a profession,” replied Mac. “It is, if I may say so, simply a trait possessed by any decent scientist.”

“And decent politician.”

“A rare combination of words,” quipped Mac.

For a moment the prosecutor looked at him quizzically, then laughed again.

“Yes,” he said, “political activity has its unique character. Never lower yourself to politics, Mac. Stay with your chemistry.” He looked at his watch unhappily: “Oh, damn it. I’m terribly pressed for time. I would have liked to stay and chat with you. I looked at your dossier. You’re a very interesting individual. Well, I suppose you’re terribly busy, too.”

“Yes,” replied his clever Mac. “Although not as busy, naturally, as the state prosecutor.”

“Come now, Mac, your chief assures me that you work day and night. Now, take me, for example... I can’t say that about myself. The state prosecutor does have some free evenings. You’ll be surprised to know that I have lots of questions for you. I must confess that I wanted to talk with you, even then, after the trial. But I had so many cases, an endless stream of cases.”

“I’m at your service,” said Mac. “Especially since I have a lot of questions for you.”

“Now, now, Mac!” the prosecutor thought to himself. “Don’t be so open about it. We’re not alone.” He said aloud, calmly: “Fine! I’ll do my best. Now I must ask you to excuse me. I must run.”

He shook Mac’s enormous hand. Ah, yes, he had finally hooked his Mac. He was all his now. “He fell right into my hands. He’s anxious to meet with me, and now I’ll set the trap.” The prosecutor paused in the doorway, snapped his fingers, and said as he turned around: “Oh, Mac, what are you doing this evening? I just realized that I’m free tonight.”

“This evening? Well, tonight I have—”

“Then come together!” exclaimed the prosecutor. “That’s even better. You’ll meet my wife and we’ll have a fine evening. Is eight o’clock all right? I’ll send a car for you. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

The prosecutor was jubilant. He made the rounds of the chemistry sector’s remaining laboratories, smiling, clapping shoulders, and shaking hands. “He agreed!” be thought as he signed the re-port in Hed’s office. “He agreed, massaraksh, agreed!” he chortled to himself triumphantly on the way home.

He gave instructions to his chauffeur and ordered his assistant to inform the department that the prosecutor was occupied. “Don’t admit anyone, disconnect the phone. Go to the devil, get out of my sight, but stay within easy reach.” He summoned his wife, kissed her on the neck, remembering in passing that they hadn’t seen each other in about ten days. He asked her to arrange a supper—a light, tasty meal for four—to be a good hostess, and to be prepared to meet a most interesting person. Be sure, he added, to have plenty of wine. An assortment of the very best.

He shut himself up in his study, laid out the case in the green folder, and reviewed it again, from the very beginning. Only once was he disturbed, when a messenger from the War Department delivered the latest bulletin from the front. The front had collapsed. Someone had drawn the Khontis’ attention to the yellow vehicles, and last night they had destroyed ninety-five percent of the emitter-equipped tanks with nuclear weapons. No news had been received yet about the fate of the army. It was the end. The end of the war. The end of General Shekagu and General Odu. The end of Ochkarik, Chainik, Tucha, and other rather minor figures. Very possibly the end of the Count. And it certainly would mean the end of Smart, too, if Smart weren’t so clever.

He dissolved the report in a glass of water and paced around his study. He felt a tremendous sense of relief: now, at least, he knew precisely when he would be summoned upstairs. “First they will finish off Baron, and it will take at least twenty-four hours to choose between Puppet and Zub. Then they will have to deal with Ochkarik and Tucha. That will take another twenty-four hours. While they’re at it, they’ll knock off Chainik. It will take them at least two days to knock off General Shekagu. And that will be it.”

He didn’t leave his study until his guest had arrived.

The guest made a most pleasant impression. He was splendid. So splendid that the prosecutor’s wife, a cold high-society matron, shed twenty years and behaved in an incredibly feminine manner from the moment she laid eyes on Mac... as if she knew the role Mac would play in her future.

“Why are you alone?” She was surprised. “My husband ordered supper for four.”

“Yes, I did,” said the prosecutor. “I thought you would becoming with your girlfriend. I remember that girl. Because of you she almost got into a lot of trouble.”

“She did,” said Mac calmly. “But, with your permission, we’ll discuss that later.”

They dined for a long time; they laughed a lot, drank a little. The prosecutor repeated the latest gossip; his wife told some very risquй jokes; and Mac described his flight on the bomber. As he roared with laughter, the prosecutor thought to himself with horror what would have happened to him if even one rocket had hit its mark.

When supper was over, the prosecutor’s wife excused herself. The prosecutor took Mac by the arm and led him into his study for a wine that no more than three dozen people in the country had had the chance to savor.

They settled down in comfortable chairs on either side of a coffee table in the study’s coziest corner, sipped the precious wine, and looked at each other. Mac wore a very serious expression. He obviously knew what was coming, so the prosecutor abruptly rejected his original plan for their discussion, a clever plan built on innuendoes and the gradual recognition of each other’s goals. Rada’s fate, Strannik’s intrigues, the Creators’ machinations—all these issues had lost their significance. He recognized with an amazing clarity that reduced him to despair that all his skill in conducting such conversations was superfluous with this man. Mac would either agree to his proposals or reject them outright. It was extremely simple, as simple as the question of the prosecutor’s fate; he would either live or be crushed in a few days. His fingers trembled; he set the wineglass on the table quickly and went straight to the point.

“I know, Mac, that you are a member of the underground, a member of its staff, and an enemy of the existing order. And that you are an escaped convict who murdered the crew of a special operations tank. Now, about myself. I am the state prosecutor, a trusted government official with access to the highest state secrets, and also an enemy of the existing order. Here is my proposal: I am preparing a coup. You are to overthrow the Creators. When I say ‘you,’ I mean you and only you: this does not concern your organization. You must understand that any interference by the underground will lead to total disaster. The conspiracy I am proposing to you is based on my knowledge of the highest state secret. I shall tell you this secret. Only you and I must know it. If a third party should learn it, we will be exterminated very quickly. Keep in mind that the underground and its staff are teeming with provocateurs. So don’t consider trusting anyone, not even your closest friends.”

Without savoring its contents, he drained the glass of wine. Then, leaning toward Mac, he continued.

“I know where the Center is. You are the only man capable of seizing control of it. I am now proposing a plan I’ve worked out for the Center’s capture and subsequent measures. You will exe-cute this plan and become Chief of State. I shall remain with you as your political and economic adviser, since you are completely unschooled in such matters. I am familiar with the general features of your objectives. I am not opposed to them. I support them simply because nothing can be worse than what we have now. That’s it. I’m finished. Now it’s your turn.”

Mac said nothing. He twirled the wineglass in his fingers and remained silent. The prosecutor waited: he felt a peculiar sense of detachment from his body, as if he were not in it, but suspended somewhere in space; as if he were looking down upon this softly illuminated cozy corner, upon the silent Mac, and upon something stiff, unseeing, and lifeless propped in a chair beside Mac.

Finally Mac broke the silence.

“When I capture the Center, what are my chances of survival?”

“Fifty-fifty. Maybe better. I don’t know.”

Mac paused again for a long time.

“It’s a deal,” he said finally. “Where is the Center?”

19.

Toward noon the phone rang. Maxim picked up the receiver. It was the prosecutor.

“I would like to speak with Mr. Sim.”

“Speaking,” replied Maxim. “Hello.” He sensed instantly that something had happened.

“He’s back. Can you begin at once?”

“Yes,” replied Mac in a low voice. “But you promised me something....”

“I didn’t have time.” There was a note of panic in his voice. “And there isn’t time now. Begin at once. We can’t delay another minute! Mac, do you hear me?”

“Yes. Fine. Is that all?”

“He’s on his way to the institute now. He’ll be there in thirty or forty minutes.”

“I understand. Anything else?”

“That’s all. Get going, Mac. Good luck!”

Maxim hung up the receiver and sat there for several seconds, pondering his next move. “Massaraksh, what a mess. But I still have time to think.” He grabbed the receiver again. “Professor Allu Zef, please.”

“Speaking!”

“This is Mac.”

“Massaraksh, I asked you not to disturb me today.”

“Keep quiet and listen. Go down to the lobby immediately and wait for me.”

“Massaraksh, I’m busy!”

Maxim ground his teeth and cast a glance at his assistant. He was diligently computing on the calculator.

“Zef, get down to the lobby right now! Do you understand? Now!” He hung up and dialed Vepr’s number. He was in luck: Vepr was home. “This is Mac. Go outside and wait for me. It’s urgent!”

“Fine,” said Vepr. “I’m on my way.”

Maxim hung up, thrust his hand into a desk drawer, and pulled out the first folder he could lay his hands on. While he leafed through it mechanically, he feverishly reviewed in his mind the preparations he had made. “The car is in the garage. The bomb is in the trunk. And we have a full gas tank. No weapons. The hell with it, we don’t need them. The documents are in my pocket, and Vepr is waiting. It’s a good thing I thought about taking Vepr. True, he might refuse to go along with this. No, I doubt that he will; I wouldn’t. Well, that seems to be about everything.” He gave instructions to his assistant. “If anyone calls, tell them I’m at the Construction Department. I’ll return in an hour or two. See you later.”

He tucked the folder under his arm, left the laboratory, and ran down the stairs. Zef was already pacing the lobby. When he spotted Maxim, he halted, placed his hands behind his back, and scowled.

“What the hell’s going on? Massaraksh!”

Maxim grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the exit.

“What the hell is going on here?” muttered Zef. “Where are we going? Why?”

Maxim shoved him out the door, pulled him along the asphalt path and around the corner toward the garage. The area was deserted except for a lawn mower chugging in the distance.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” shouted Zef.

“Shut up and listen! Get all our people together at once. All of them. Whoever you can lay your hands on. To hell with their questions! Listen! Whoever you can get. And with weapons. There’s a pavilion opposite the gate. You know where it is? Dig in and wait. In about thirty minutes. Are you listening to me, Zef?”

“Well?” said Zef impatiently.

“In about thirty minutes Strannik will arrive at the gate.”

“He’s back?”

“Don’t interrupt me. Strannik will probably arrive at the gate in about thirty minutes. If he doesn’t—fine. Just sit tight and waitfor me. If he does come—shoot him.”

“Have you gone out of your mind?” asked Zef. Maxim kept walking, and Zef ran after him, cursing. “We’ll all be killed, massaraksh! There are guards! Police spies all over the place!”

“Do your best. Strannik must be shot.”

They walked up to the garage. Maxim leaned his weight against the bolt and rolled open the door.

“This is insane,” said Zef. “Why Strannik? He’s not that bad a guy; everyone likes him.”

“Suit yourself!” said Maxim coldly. He opened the trunk, felt the fuse and timing device through the oiled paper, and slammed it shut again. “I can’t tell you anything right now. But we have a chance. Our only chance.” He sat behind the wheel and inserted the ignition key. “And keep this in mind: if you don’t finish him off, he’ll finish you off. You don’t have time. Get going, Zef!”

He turned on the engine and backed out of the garage slowly.

Zef stood in the doorway. It was the first time Mac had ever seen Zef like this—frightened, stunned, bewildered.

The car rolled toward the gate. A stony-faced legionnaire recorded the license number unhurriedly, opened the trunk, looked in, closed it, returned to Maxim.

“What do you have in the trunk?”

“A refractometer,” said Maxim, extending his pass and a permit to transfer equipment.

“Refractometer RL-seven, inventory number...,” muttered, the legionnaire. “I’ll write it down in a minute.”

He poked around in his pocket for a pad.

“Hurry, please. I’m in a rush,” said Maxim.

“Who signed this permit?”

“I don’t know. Probably Hed.”

“You don’t know? If I could make out his signature, everything would be OK.”

Finally he opened the gate and Maxim drove onto the road. “If this doesn’t work out,” he thought, “and I manage to survive, I’ll have to escape. Damn Strannik, he sensed that something was up and returned. Suppose we’re successful—then what? Nothing is ready, we don’t have a plan of the palace. Smart didn’t have time to get it, and he didn’t get those photos of the Creators either. Our people aren’t prepared; we don’t have a plan. Damn Strannik! If it weren’t for him. I’d still have three days left to work out a plan. And then there’s the army and the staff, too, to worry about. Massaraksh! They’re going to get moving fast. We’ll have to take care of them. Well, that’s Vepr’s job. He’ll be glad to do it. He knows how to handle it.”

Maxim turned off the main thoroughfare into a narrow lane between two gigantic pink stone skyscrapers and drove along the cobblestones toward a ramshackle blackened cottage. Vepr was waiting for him, leaning against a lamp post and smoking a cigarette. When the car pulled up, he threw away the butt, squeezed through the small door, and sat down beside Maxim. As usual, he was calm.

“Hi, Mac. What’s up?”

Maxim swung the car around and returned to the main thoroughfare.

“Do you know what a thermal bomb is?”

“I’ve heard about them,” replied Vepr.

“Good. Have you ever handled synchronized fuses?”

“Only yesterday,” said Vepr.

“Excellent.”

They rode in silence for some time. The traffic was heavy. Tuning out everything, Maxim concentrated exclusively on breaking through, on squeezing between huge trucks and old buses without hitting anyone or being hit, on making green lights and maintaining his speed, as slow as it was. Finally, they broke through onto a familiar expressway lined with enormous trees.

“It’s strange,” thought Maxim suddenly. “I entered this world on this very same route—or, I should say, Fank brought me into it. It’s entirely possible that I shall leave this world, and all worlds, by the very same route, and take a good man with me.” He cast a sidelong glance at Vepr’s serene face: he sat there with his artificial arm hanging out the window, waiting patiently for an explanation from Mac. Perhaps he was surprised or excited, but his face remained impassive. Maxim felt proud that a man of his caliber trusted him and relied on him implicitly.

“I’m very grateful to you, Vepr,” he said.

“How’s that?” asked Vepr, turning to him.

“Do you remember how you called me aside once at a staff meeting and gave me some good advice?”

“I do.”

“So, I’m grateful to you for it. I listened to you.”

“Yes, I noticed. But you disappointed me a little, too.”

“You were right then,” said Maxim. “I took your advice. As a result, a very special opportunity has just presented itself: the opportunity to capture the Center.”

Vepr started.

“Now?” he asked quickly.

“Yes, now. We must hurry. I didn’t have time to prepare anything. It’s possible that I’ll be killed; then the whole thing will be a waste. That’s why I brought you along.”

“Keep talking.”

“I’ll enter the building, and you’ll stay in the car. An alarm will go off after a while and shooting may begin. Don’t let that bother you. Stay put in the car and wait. Wait twenty minutes. If you receive a radiation strike during that time, it means that everything went OK. You can pass out with a happy smile on your face. If there’s no radiation strike, step out of the car. You’ll find a bomb in the trunk. It has a synchronized fuse set for ten minutes. Unload the bomb on the roadway, turn on the fuse, and leave. Panic will break out. Play it for all it’s worth.”

Vepr pondered Mac’s instructions.

“Can I make a call?”

“No.”

“Listen, Mac, if you’re still alive, you’ll need people who are prepared to fight. If you’re dead, I’ll need them. That’s why you brought me along. If I’m alone, all I can do is begin. And then there will be too little time. So people must be warned beforehand. I’d like to warn them.”

“The underground staff?” asked Maxim hostilely.

“Certainly not. I have my own group.”

Maxim said nothing. A familiar gray five-story building with a stone wall along its pediment loomed ahead of them. Somewhere along its corridors wandered Fishface, and enraged Hippo was shouting and sputtering. This was the Center. He had come full circle.

“OK,” agreed Maxim. “There’s a phone booth by the entrance. When I enter—but no sooner—you can leave the car and call.”

“Good,” said Vepr.

As they approached the exit ramp from the expressway, thoughts of Rada crossed Maxim’s mind; he wondered what would become of her if he failed to return. She would have a bad time of it. Perhaps nothing would happen, and they would release her. “Still, she’ll be all alone. With Guy gone. And myself, too. Poor girl.”

“Do you have a family?” he asked Vepr.

“Yes, a wife.”

Maxim bit his lip.

“I’m sorry that things turned out so awkwardly.”

“Forget it, Mac,” said Vepr calmly. “I said my farewells. I always do when I leave the house. So this is the Center. Whoever would have thought?”

Maxim parked the car, maneuvering it between a shabby compact and a luxurious state limousine.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” he said. “Wish me luck, Vepr.”

“With all my heart.” Vepr’s voice broke. “Still, I’ve lived to see this day.”

Maxim rested his cheek on the wheel.

“If only we live through this day,” he said. “To see the evening.”

Vepr looked at him anxiously.

“It’s hard for me to go, Vepr,” explained Maxim. “Damned hard. By the way, remember this and be sure to tell it to your friends: you people do not live on the inner surface of a sphere, but on the outer surface. The universe has many more such spheres. The inhabitants of some are far worse off than you, and the inhabitants of others live much better than you. But I can tell you this: nowhere else in the universe do people live more stupidly than you. You don’t believe it? Then the hell with you. I’m going.”

He opened the door and climbed out. He walked through the parking lot and ascended the stone steps. Step by step he went up, groping in his pocket for the entrance pass prepared for him by the prosecutor, for the building pass that the prosecutor had stolen, and for the plain pink piece of cardboard, representing another pass that the prosecutor could neither counterfeit nor steal for him. It was hot, and the inhabited island’s impenetrable sky glistened like aluminum. The steps seemed to burn through his soles. What a senseless venture! “Why the hell go through with it if we didn’t have the time to prepare properly? Suppose, instead of one officer in that little room, there are two, even three, waiting for me with their guns? Captain Chachu used a pistol, but there’s going to be a lot more bullets this time. I was in much better condition then, and Chachu almost did me in. This time they won’t let me slip away. I’m a fool. I was a fool then and I still am. The prosecutor sure hooked me. But how come he trusted me? I can’t figure it out. Ah, how nice it would be to escape from all this and run off to the mountains, breathe the pure, fresh mountain air. I never did manage to get to them. Such a clever, distrustful man—yet he trusted me with such a precious secret! His world’s supreme treasure!”

He opened a glass door and handed a legionnaire his entrance pass. Crossing the lobby, he went past a bespectacled girl stamping passes and an administrator exchanging curses with someone on the telephone. He showed his building pass to another legionnaire at the corridor entrance. The legionnaire nodded amicably to the familiar figure: Mac had been coming here daily for the past three days.

He kept walking.

He passed through the long, doorless corridor and turned left.

This was his second visit here. Yesterday, he had been here “by mistake.” (“What room are you looking for, sir?” “Sixteen, corporal.” “You’re in the wrong corridor, sir. It’s in the next one.” “Sorry, corporal. Thank you.”)

He handed the corporal his building pass and cast a sidelong glance at two strapping legionnaires, armed with submachine guns and standing stiffly at either side of the door opposite him. Then he looked at the other door, through which he would be passing in a few seconds. “Department of Special Transportation.” The corporal inspected his pass carefully and pressed a button on the wall. A bell rang behind the door. “Now the officer sitting beside the green drapes has been alerted. Maybe two officers. Or even three. They are waiting for me to enter. If I frighten them and jump back, I’ll run into the corporal and those legionnaires guarding the other door. And that room is probably crawling with soldiers.”

The corporal returned the pass and said: “Please have your documents ready.”

Taking out the pink piece of cardboard, he opened the door and entered the room.

Massaraksh! Not one room. But three. A suite of rooms, green drapes at one end. A runner beneath his feet, leading directly to the green drape. Thirty meters, at least.

And not two officers, or three. Six!

In the first room, two in army gray. Guns already trained on him. In the second room, two in Legion black. Guns not aimed, but drawn. In the third room, two in civilian clothes, on either side of the drapes.

One turned his head.

“Go to it, Mac!”

He sprang forward with a tremendous leap and wondered in that split second if he would pull a tendon. Air rushed into his face.

“There it is: the green drapes.

“Civilian on the left is looking to one side. Give it to him—a chop in the neck.

“Civilian on the right blinks. His eyes freeze.

“Now, clobber him, and then into the elevator.

“The elevator is dark. Where’s the button? Massaraksh, where is it?”

Alone submachine gun clattered slowly, echoing through the corridors. Instantly, a second one joined in.

“But they’re still firing at the door, where they saw me last. They haven’t realized yet what happened. Purely a reflex.

“The button! Where is it? Massaraksh, here it is, in the most obvious place.”

He pressed the button and the car descended. The car moved rapidly: it was an express elevator. His foot began to hurt. “Did I sprain my ankle? Forget it, that’s unimportant now. Massaraksh, I got through!”

The car stopped, Maxim jumped out, and the shaft rumbled and rang as chips started to fly. Three guns kept firing from above at the roof of the car. “Fire away. You’ll realize in a minute that you’re wasting your time, that you have to get the elevator back upstairs so you can come down yourselves. You missed your chance.”

He glanced around. “Massaraksh, wrong again. Not one entrance, but three. Three absolutely identical tunnels. Aha, two are only spare generators. While one’s working, the others are being overhauled. Which one is working now? Looks like this one.”

He dashed into the middle tunnel. The elevator growled behind his back. “You guys are too late. You’ll never make it, even though the tunnel is long and my ankle hurts. Ah, here’s a turn. You turds will never get me now.” He reached the generators rumbling beneath a steel plate and rested for a few seconds. “Most of the job is finished; the rest is easy. In a few minutes they’ll come down in the elevator and barge into the tunnel. But they don’t know that the depression emitter will drive them back. What else could happen now? They might toss a tear-gas shell down the corridor. But I doubt it: they probably don’t have any. They’ve probably sounded the alarm by now. Of course the Creators could turn off the depression barrier. But they won’t bring themselves to do it. And they couldn’t do it in time even if they wanted to. Five of them would have to assemble with five keys, and all agree on a decision; first, they would have to consider whether one of their number is playing a trick, or some sort of provocation is involved. After all, who in this world could breakthrough the radiation barrier? Possibly Strannik, if he has secretly invented a protective device. But those six armed guards up-stairs would have stopped him. And there’s nobody else.”

Submachine guns were chattering away around the comer in the dark tunnel. “Fire away, jerks. I don’t mind.” He bent over the power switchboard, removed the casing carefully, and tossed it into the corner. “Yes, a very primitive device. It’s a good thing I read up on their electronics. Suppose I hadn’t? And suppose Strannik had returned two days ago? Yes, my fine friends, here I am like a novice mechanic who must troubleshoot in a big hurry. I don’t even know what to look for. Massaraksh, what kind of design is this—no insulation! Aha, there you are. Well, good luck, as the state prosecutor would say!”

He sat down on the floor in front of the power switchboard and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He had done his job: the powerful blows of a depression field were overwhelming the entire country, from the Outlands to the Khonti frontier, from the ocean to the Alebastro Mountains.

The guns were quiet. The guards had been laid low by the depression field. “I’ll have to see how they look when they’re sunk in depression.

“For the first time in his life the prosecutor is welcoming a radiation strike. But I’m really not interested in seeing how he looks. The Creators never knew what hit them and are now writhing in pain, hoofs up, as Captain Chachu used to say. He’s been laid low, too, with the rest of them. And I’m damn glad.

“Zef and the boys are lying there, too, hoofs up.

“Strannik! Great! That bastard Strannik is down, too, hoofs up, with those enormous ears of his spread out on the floor. The biggest ears in the whole country. Maybe they’ve shot him by now. That would be even better.

“Rada, my Rada, is lying somewhere in a fit of depression. Never mind, it probably isn’t painful, and it will soon be over.

“Vepr.”

He jumped up. How much time had passed? He dashed back through the tunnel. Vepr had probably been laid low, too. But if he had heard the shooting before the strike, he might not have stayed put.

He ran toward the elevator and paused briefly to glance at the officers laid out by the strike. It was a distressing scene: all three had flung down their guns and were crying; they were even too weak to wipe away their tears. “Fine, cry, it will do you some good. Cry over my buddy Guy; cry over Ordi; over Gel; over my friend Forester. From the looks of you, you haven’t cried since you were kids; in any case, you’ve never cried over those you’ve killed. So cry, at least, before your own death.”

The elevator carried him to the surface quickly. The suite of rooms was full of officers, noncoms, legionnaires, civilians—all armed, all sitting or lying and grieving. Sobbing, mumbling, shaking their heads, and beating their breasts. “Massaraksh, what a sight. The black radiation... I can see why the Creators were saving it for a rainy day.”

He ran into the lobby, leaping over bodies stirring feebly on the floor. After nearly toppling head over heels down the stone steps, he halted in front of his car and caught his breath. Vepr’s nerve shad held out after all: he lay on the front seat with his eyes closed.

Maxim dragged the bomb from the trunk, removed it from the wrapping, and returned to the elevator unhurriedly. He examined the fuse thoroughly, set the timer, laid the bomb inside the elevator, and pressed the “down” button. The car vanished, carrying into the nether world a fiery spirit that would explode into freedom in ten minutes.

Returning to his car, he propped Vepr into an upright position and maneuvered the car from its parking space. The gray building rose above him, heavy, stupid, doomed, packed with doomed people who could neither walk nor understand what was happening.

“The place is a nest, a snake’s nest, full of the most choice trash, trash collected with great care, gathered here for the ex-press purpose of converting into more trash all those within reach of the emitters’ sorcery. All of them are enemies of the people, and not one of them would hesitate for a moment to shoot, betray, or crucify me, Vepr, Zef, Rada—all my friends. Still, it’s just as well that my thoughts didn’t run this way before. If they had, they would have gotten in my way. I would have remembered Fishface. She’s the only person in this doomed snake’s nest who—why am I so concerned about Fishface? What do I really know about her? That she taught me their language? And made my bed? Forget about her; you realize very well that there’s much more at stake here than Fishface. The point is that from now on, you must fight in dead earnest, as everyone else does. And you will have to struggle against fools, vicious fools created by the radiation strikes; against clever, ignorant, greedy idiots who directed the radiation strikes; against well-meaning idiots who, using the same emitters, would be glad to transform vicious, diabolic puppets into ingratiating, quasidecent puppets. And every one of them will try to wipe out you, your friends, and your cause. The Wizard said: ‘Don’t let your conscience interfere with clear thinking, and let your reason learn to stifle your conscience when circumstances demand it.’ He was right. A bitter truth. Yes, what I accomplished here today, my friends would call a feat! Vepr lived to see the day; and he believed in it as in a fairytale with a happy ending. So did Forester, Ordi, Green, and Gel Ketshef, and my buddy Guy, and dozens of others, and hundreds and thousands of people I’ve never laid eyes on. Yet, I feel bad. But if I want people to trust and follow me in the future, I must never tell anyone that the most courageous moment for me today was not when I leaped and ran through a hail of bullets, but now, right now, when there is still time to turn back and deactivate the bomb, and I’m speeding away from this accursed place.”

He drove along the straight expressway, where Fank had driven him six months ago in a luxurious limousine and had passed an endless column of armored vehicles. Fank had driven at a furious speed to deliver him to Strannik. Now he understood why Strannik wanted him. “He knew then that I was immune to radiation, that I was very naive, that he could manipulate me as he pleased. Yes, Strannik knew all right. Damn him! He’s the devil himself; the most terrifying man in the country, perhaps on the entire planet. ‘He knows everything,’ the prosecutor said. No, not everything. You’ve gained the upper hand, Mac. You’ve won around from the devil. Now you must kill him before it’s too late, before he manages to recover his senses. Maybe they’ve killed him already—right at the gates of his own den. No, I don’t believe they got him; he’s too much for them. Even with twenty-four relatives and a couple of machine guns, Voldyr couldn’t get him. Massaraksh! Too bad I didn’t have time to contact the General. He’s serving time in the penal colony. I wanted him to be prepared to start an insurrection among the political prisoners and send them here by troop train. But whatever happens there, I must knock off Strannik. Yes, I must knock him off and hold out for several hours until the army and the Legion are overwhelmed by radiation deprivation. None of them know about radiation deprivation—not even Strannik. How could he?”

The expressway was strewn with cars parked at every conceivable angle; some had toppled over the shoulder into the drainage ditch. Drivers and passengers were overwhelmed by the depression strike: some sat grieving on running boards; others were drooped over their seats or sprawled along the shoulders. It slowed Maxim down, forcing him to skirt vehicles and bodies, to brake, to detour. He failed to notice a bright yellow car speeding toward him from the city. It, too, skirted and detoured but rarely slowed down.

The two vehicles met on a relatively deserted section of the expressway and almost collided as they sped past each other. Maxim caught sight of a bare skull, round green eyes, and enormous protruding ears, and his heart sank. Everything was fouled up again. “Strannik! Massaraksh! The whole country is knocked out by the depression field, every degen is out cold, and this bastard, this devil, has managed to escape it. Which means that he’s invented a protective device. And I don’t have a gun on me.” Maxim glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the long yellow car turn around. “Well, I’ll have to manage without one. My conscience won’t bother me in the least when I finish off that guy.” Maxim pushed the accelerator to the floor. “Step on it, let’s go. Come on, baby.” The flat, yellow hood moved closer and closer until a pair of steely green eyes were visible behind the wheel.” Come on, Mac!”

Shielding Vepr with one hand, Maxim braced himself and slammed on the brakes. Amid the squealing and screeching of brakes, the grinding and crunching of metal, the yellow hood smashed into his trunk, collapsed like an accordion, and stood on end. Glass scattered everywhere. Kicking out the door, Maxim tumbled out. Pain wracked his body, tearing through his heel, broken knee, and skinned arm, but it was quickly forgotten at the sight of Strannik standing before him. Strannik! Impossible! Butt here he was. Diabolical Strannik, cool and menacing, his arm raised to strike a blow.

Maxim rushed at him, swinging at him with every ounce of his remaining strength. Missed! A terrific blow at the back of his head sent him reeling. Regaining his balance, he saw Strannik looming before him again: the bare skull, the steely green eyes, and the arm raised to strike again. His face a frozen mask, Strannik stared over Maxim’s head. Maxim lunged at him again, and this time he hit his mark. The dark, lanky figure folded up and sank to the pavement slowly. Maxim caught his breath and turned around.

The Center, a cube, was clearly visible. But then it flattened before his eyes, flowing downward and collapsing inward. Above it rose shimmering hot air, steam, and smoke; and something blindingly white, whose heat was felt even at this distance, showed through the long vertical girders and window frames. OK, everything was going according to plan. Maxim turned to Strannik triumphantly. The devil lay on his side, eyes closed, clasping his stomach with his long arms. Maxim approached him cautiously. Vepr stuck his head out of the twisted car. Wriggling and squirming, he tried to force his way out. Maxim halted next to Strannik and leaned over, debating how and where he should deliver the final blow. As he raised his arm over the sprawled figure, Strannik opened his eyes slightly and gasped hoarsely in Lingcos: “Idiot!” Maxim felt himself go limp.

“You goddamn idiot! You snotnose!” continued Strannik.

Out of the gray emptiness came Vepr’s voice, loud and clear: “Step aside, Mac, I have a gun.”

Maxim caught Vepr’s hand.

Strannik sat up with difficulty, still clasping his stomach. “Damn it,” he whispered painfully. “Don’t just stand there. Find a car. Get a move on!”

Maxim looked around vacantly. The expressway had sprung to life again. The Center had vanished: it was now a puddle of molten metal, steam, and stench. The towers were not functioning, the puppets had ceased to be puppets. Stunned figures tramped around near their cars, trying to figure out what had happened to them, how and why they had come here, and what to do next.

“Who are you?” asked Vepr.

“None of your business,” said Strannik in Lingcos. He was in obvious pain.

“I don’t understand,” said Vepr, raising his gun.

“Kammerer,” called Strannik, “get your terrorist to shut up. And go find a car.”

“A car?” said Maxim vacantly and helplessly.

“Massaraksh,” groaned Strannik, still pressing his hand against his stomach. He managed to rise to his feet, then walked unsteadily to Maxim’s car, and crawled inside. “Sit down!” he said from the driver’s seat. He glanced over his shoulder at the flame-tinged column of smoke. “What the hell did you plant there?”

“A thermal bomb.”

“In the basement or lobby?”

“In the basement.”

Strannik groaned, rested briefly with his head thrown back, and then started the engine. The car shook and rattled.

“For God’s sake, get in!” he yelled.

“Who is he?” asked Vepr. “A Khonti?”

Maxim shook his head, jerked open the jammed rear door, and ordered Vepr to get in.

Maxim walked around the car and sat down beside Strannik. The car lurched, then wobbled along the expressway.

“What are you planning to do now?” asked Strannik.

“Hold on,” said Maxim. “At least tell me who you are.”

“I’m an agent of the Galactic Security Council,” replied Strannik bitterly. “I’ve been here five years. We’ve been laying the groundwork for an important operation; we’re trying to save this planet. We’ve been planning thoroughly, taking into consideration all possible consequences. All! Do you understand? Then you came along. Who the hell are you to stick your nose into other people’s affairs and mess up everything, set off explosions? Who do you think you are?”

“How was I supposed to know?” Maxim’s voice fell.

“You knew damn well that independent intervention was forbidden. As a member of the Independent Reconnaissance Unit, you should have known. Back on Earth your mother is going out of her mind with worry, your girlfriends keep phoning, your father quit his job. What the hell were you going to do?”

“Shoot you,” replied Maxim.

“What?”

The car swerved sharply.

“Yes,” said Maxim submissively. “What else could I have done? I was told that you were responsible for all the evil I saw.”

“And that wasn’t so hard to believe, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Well, all right. Then what were you planning to do?”

“A revolution was supposed to begin.”

“For whose benefit?”

“Well, with the Center destroyed and no more radiation, I thought that...”

“You thought what?”

“That they would understand at once that they were being oppressed, that their lives were miserable, and that they would revolt.”

“Why would they revolt?” said Strannik sadly. “Who would revolt? The Creators are alive and thriving; the Legion is intact and unharmed; the army is mobilized, and the country is at war. What were you counting on?”

Maxim bit his lip. Of course he could tell Strannik about his plans and goals, but it would be pointless since nothing was ready and everything had turned out this way...

“It’s up to them to take care of the rest.” Maxim pointed over his shoulder to Vepr. “This man, for example. Let him take over. My job was to give them the opportunity to do the planning themselves.”

“Your job,” muttered Strannik, “was to stay put until I caught you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

“You will return to Earth today!” commanded Strannik.

“I don’t think I will,” replied Maxim.

“You will return to Earth today!” Strannik raised his voice. “I’ve enough trouble on this planet without you. Pick up your Rada and clear out.”

“Do you have Rada?”

“Yes. She’s alive and well. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you for taking care of her,” said Maxim. “I’m very grateful to you.”

The car rolled into the city. The main street was jammed with weaving, honking cars, and reeked of exhaust fumes. Strannik turned into a side street and passed through the slums. Everything was dead here. On street corners military police in combat helmets, hands clasped behind their backs, stuck up like lamp posts. The reaction to events had been very rapid here: a general alarm had been sounded, and everyone was at his station as soon as he recovered from the depression strike. “Maybe I blew up the Center too soon. Maybe I should have stuck to the prosecutor’s plan? No, massaraksh! It’s just as well. Let them figure out for themselves what’s what.” Strannik turned onto the main thoroughfare again. Vepr tapped Strannik on the shoulder gently with his pistol. “Please drop me off. Over there. Where those people are standing.”

Beside a newsstand five figures huddled, their hands thrust deep inside the pockets of their long gray raincoats. The sidewalks were deserted. Apparently, the depression strike had frightened people badly and sent them scurrying for cover.

“What are your plans?” asked Strannik, slowing down.

“To breathe the fresh air,” replied Vepr. “The weather is exceptionally beautiful today.”

“He’s one of us,” Maxim explained to Vepr. “Feel free to say anything you want.”

The car stopped by the shoulder. The raincoated figures retreated cautiously behind the newsstand and peered out.

“One of us?” Vepr raised his eyebrows.

Maxim looked at Strannik awkwardly, but Strannik made no attempt to help him.

“I believe you, Mac,” said Vepr. “We must get to work on the staff now. That’s where we must begin. You know what I’m talking about. There are people on it who must be removed before they dominate the movement.”

“Good thinking,” muttered Strannik. “By the way, I think I know you. You are Tik Fesku, alias Vepr. Am I right?”

“Yes, you are. Mac, get to work on the Creators. It’s a tough job, but right up your alley. Where can I get in touch with you?”

“Hold on, Vepr, I almost forgot,” said Maxim. “In a few hours the entire country will be knocked out by radiation deprivation. Everyone will be completely helpless.”

“Everyone?” Vepr was dubious.

“Everyone except the degens. You will have to take advantage of those few days.”

Vepr thought about it.

“That’s great if it’s true. Then we’ll get to the degens at once. Where can I reach you?”

Maxim didn’t have time to reply.

“Same phone number as before,” said Strannik. “Same place. Now, here’s what you must do. Organize your committee. Revive the organization that existed under the Empire. Some of your people work for me at the institute. Massaraksh! We don’t have enough time or people. Damn you, Maxim!”

“The main thing,” said Vepr, placing a hand on Maxim’s shoulder, “is that the Center is gone. You’ve done a great job, Mac. Thanks.” He squeezed Mac’s shoulder, and dangling his artificial arm, climbed from the car clumsily.

The car darted forward. Maxim glanced back. Vepr was standing in a cluster of men in gray raincoats, talking to them and waving his pistol with his good arm. The men remained impassive. They didn’t understand yet. Or didn’t believe.

The street was deserted. Armored trucks filled with legionnaires rolled toward them. Up ahead, where the road turned into the institute, vehicles had already straddled the road, and men in black were pouring from them. A revoltingly familiar bright yellow patrol car, equipped with a long telescopic antenna, appeared among the column of armored trucks.

“Massaraksh,” muttered Maxim. “I completely forgot about them.”

“You seem to have forgotten about a lot of things,” said Strannik. “You forgot about the mobile emitters; you forgot about the Island Empire; you forgot about economics. Do you know that the country is about to collapse, economically? That it’s threatened by famine? That the soil is not producing? Do you know that you failed to set aside grain reserves and medical supplies? Do you know that your radiation deprivation will lead to insanity in twenty percent of the cases?” He wiped his forehead with his palm. “We need doctors, twelve thousand of them. We need protein synthesizers. We must, for a beginning, decontaminate one hundred million acres of contaminated soil. We must halt the deterioration of the biosphere. Massaraksh, we need at least one Earthling on the Islands. Our own people can’t hold out there; they can’t even give us a clear picture of what’s going on.”

Maxim said nothing. They approached the roadblock. A strangely familiar stocky officer moved toward them, waving his hand, and demanded to see their documents. Strannik thrust a shiny badge under his nose. The officer saluted glumly and glanced at Maxim. It was Captain... no, not Captain, but Brigadier Chachu of the Fighting Legion!

“Is this man with you, your excellency?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m in a hurry. Order them to let me through at once.”

“I beg your pardon, your excellency, but this man—”

“Let me through at once!” ordered Strannik.

Brigadier Chachu saluted again, swung around on his heels, and waved to his men. One of the trucks moved aside, and Strannik sped into the open corridor.

“You see how it is, Mac,” he said. “One-two, you thought, and the whole thing would be over. Shoot Strannik, hang the Creators, drive the cowards and fascists out of the underground staff, and your revolution would be over.”

“No, I never thought it would be that simple.” Maxim felt defenseless and stupid.

Strannik glanced at him and smiled sadly. Maxim realized that he was neither devil nor monster, but a very kind and very vulnerable elderly man, burdened by enormous responsibilities, tormented by the loathsome disguise of a cold-blooded killer, and frustrated by another setback to a meticulously worked out plan. And he was particularly upset now because one of his own, an Earthling, had been the culprit.

“I didn’t reach you in time,” he said regretfully. “I underestimated you. Thought you were just a kid. Felt sorry for you.” He smiled ironically. “You boys in the Independent Reconnaissance Unit are fast workers.”

“I don’t think you should be so hard on yourself,” said Maxim. “I’m certainly not tormenting myself. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Call me Ernst.”

“No, I’m not tormenting myself, Ernst, and I don’t intend to. I’m going to get down to work. We’re going to make a revolution.”

“I think you had better go home,” Strannik advised him despairingly.

“But I am home.” Maxim was impatient. “Let’s change the subject. I’m interested in the mobile emitters. What should we do about them?”

“Nothing,” replied Strannik. “Think what you should do about famine.”

“I’m asking you about the emitters.”

Strannik sighed.

“They’re powered by batteries. They can be charged up only in my department. They’ll go dead in about three days. The invasion will begin in about a month. Usually we’ve managed to throw the subs off course, and only a few reached the coast. This time they’re preparing an armada. I had counted on the depression emitter, but now we’ll have to sink them.” He paused briefly. “So you’re home. Well, let’s see. What exactly are you planning to do now?”

They drove up to the department. The heavy gates were tightly shut, and the stone wall enclosure was studded with the dark slots of newly installed gun embrasures. The department resembled a fortress, ready for battle. Three figures stood near the pavilion, and Zefs red beard burned through the foliage like an exotic flower.

“I don’t know,” replied Maxim. “I’ll do anything that people who understand this world tell me. If necessary, I’ll work on economics. If I have to, I’ll sink submarines. But I’m damned sure about one thing: I’ll never permit another Center to be built as long as I live. Even with the best of intentions.”

Strannik remained silent. The gates were now close by. Zef shouldered his way through a hedge and came out onto the road. His gun hung from his shoulder, and even from afar it was clear that he was angry and bewildered. Now, amid a string of curses, he would demand an explanation. Why, massaraksh, had he been dragged away from his work, sold all that bull about Strannik, and forced to sit like a garden statue in a bed of petunias for two hours straight!