Tale of the Troika

CASE 72: KONSTANTIN, THE VISITOR FROM OUTER SPACE

The morning sun had turned the corner and rushed in through the open windows of the meeting room when stone-faced Lavr Fedotovich appeared in the door and immediately moved that the blinds be drawn. “The people do not need this,” he explained. Khlebovvodov appeared next, nudging Vybegallo before him. Vybegallo, waving his briefcase, was heatedly telling him something in French, and Khlebovvodov kept muttering, “All right, all right, don’t get excited.” After the commandant had closed the curtains, Farfurkis appeared in the doorway. He was chewing something and wiping his mouth. He mumbled a quick apology for being late and gulped down the food. Then he shouted:

“I protest! Are you crazy, Comrade Zubo? Remove those curtains immediately! What’s the meaning of this—sealing us off from the world? Do you want to cast a shadow over the proceedings?”

An extremely unpleasant incident ensued. All during the time that the incident worked itself out, while Farfurkis was humiliated, tied in knots, and used to wipe the floor, Vybegallo pointedly shook his head and looked meaningfully in our direction, as if to say: “These are the fruits of evil!” Then they let the trampled, torn, tarred-and-feathered Farfurkis slink back ignominiously to his seat, while they caught their breath, rolled down their sleeves, cleaned the bits of skin from under their nails, licked clean their bloody fangs, and took their seats at the table and announced that they were ready for the morning session.

“Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said, giving one last look at the crucified remains. “Next! Report, Comrade Zubo!”

The commandant dug his hands into the open file, looked over the papers one last time at his beaten foe, kicked the floor with his hind legs one last time, and cleared his throat. When he inhaled the sweet smell of decay through his greedily dilated nostrils, he finally calmed down.

“Case 72,” he called. “Konstantin Konstantinovich Konstantinov, 213 B.C., city of Konstantinov, planet Konstantina, star Antares.”

“I must ask of you,” Khlebovvodov interrupted. “What are you reading? Are you reading us a novel? Or some farce? Look, brother, you’re reading a form to us and you make it sound like a farce.”

Lavr Fedotovich took his opera glasses and aimed them at the commandant. The commandant sank.

“I remember, it was in Syzran,” Khlebovvodov continued, “they threw me in as head of the qualifying courses for intermediary personnel, and there was this fellow there, he refused to sweep the street. No, it wasn’t in Syzran, as I recall, it was in Saratov, that’s right, in Saratov! First I upgraded the school for master flour grinders, and then, they threw me into those courses. That’s right, in Saratov, in fifty-two, in the winter, it was as cold as Siberia. No,” he said sorrowfully, “it wasn’t Saratov. It was in Siberia, but I can’t remember the city—it’s gone clear out of my head. I knew it just yesterday, I was thinking how nice it had been in that city.”

He stopped talking with his mouth open. Lavr Fedotovich waited a bit, inquired if there were any questions for the speaker, was assured that there were none, and then suggested that Khlebovvodov continue.

“Lavr Fedotovich,” Khlebovvodov spoke movingly. “You see, I’ve forgotten the city. I’ve plumb forgotten it. Let him go on reading, and I’ll think of it. But make sure he reads the form right, point by point, without skipping around, it’s a mess otherwise.”

“Go on with your report, Comrade Zubo,” Lavr Fedotovich said.

“Point five,” the commandant read meekly. “Nationality.”

Farfurkis allowed himself to move slightly and immediately froze in fright. However, Khlebovvodov had caught the movement and shouted at the commandant:

“From the beginning! Start at the beginning!”

While he read it from the beginning I examined Eddie’s humanizer. It was a flat shiny box with windows, like a little toy car. Eddie was very deft in its use. I could never be like that. His fingers moved like snakes. I was staring.

“Kherson!” Khlebovvodov suddenly shouted. “It was in Kherson, that’s where! Go on, go on,” he told the commandant. “I just remembered it, you know.” He leaned over to Lavr Fedotovich’s ear and bursting with laughter, he whispered something that made Comrade Vuniukov’s wooden features begin to soften, and he had to hide his face from the democratic masses behind a broad hand.

“Point six,” the commandant read on uncertainly. “Education: Higher syn … cri … ere … tical.”

Farfurkis twitched and squealed but did not dare speak. Khlebovvodov rushed in jealously.

“What? What kind of education?”

“Syncretical,” the commandant repeated in one breath.

“Aha,” said Khlebovvodov and looked over at Lavr Fedotovich.

“That’s good,” Lavr Fedotovich pronounced portentously. “We like people to be self-critical. Continue, Comrade Zubo.”

“Point seven. Knowledge of foreign languages: All without dictionary.”

“What, what?” asked Khlebovvodov.

“All of them. Without dictionaries.”

“Some self-criticism,” said Khlebovvodov. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

“Point eight. Profession and place of work at the present time: Reader of poetry, amphibrachist, at present on a short-term leave. Point nine …”

“Wait,” said Khlebovvodov. “Where does he work?”

“At present he is on leave,” the commandant explained. “Short term.”

“I understood that without you,” countered Khlebovvodov. “I asked what his specialty was.”

The commandant raised the file to his eyes.

“Reader,” he said. “I guess he read poems.”

Khlebovvodov slammed his fist on the table.

“I’m not deaf,” he shouted. “I heard what he reads. He reads and let him go on reading in his spare time. I want to know his specialty! Where does he work, what does he do!”

Vybegallo kept quiet, and I couldn’t stand it any longer.

“His specialty is reading poetry,” I said. “He specializes in reading amphibrachs.”

Khlebovvodov looked at me suspiciously.

“No, I understand amphibrachs—that’s, um, well … What am I trying to clear up here? I want to make clear what it is that he is paid a salary for?”

“They do not have salaries,” I clarified.

“Ah! He’s unemployed!” he exulted. But then he became wary.

“No, no, it doesn’t work. Your ends don’t come together here. No salary, but he gets a vacation. You’re trying to pull something off here.”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “There is a question for the speaker and for the scientific consultant as well. The profession of Case 72.”

“Reader of poetry,” Vybegallo said quickly. “And as, also, he is … an amphibrachist.”

“Place of work at present time?”

“On a short-term vacation. Resting, that is, for a short term.”

Lavr Fedotovich, without turning his head, looked in the direction of Khlebovvodov.

“Are there any other questions?” he inquired.

Khlebovvodov squirmed longingly. Anyone could see that the lofty glory of solidarity with management opinion was struggling with the equally lofty feeling of civic duty. Finally civic duty won out, though suffering noticeable damage.

“I have something I must say, Lavr Fedotovich!” Khlebovvodov began. “Here is what I must say! An amphibrachist, that’s completely understandable. The amphibrach is, um, well, um … And everything is perfectly clear about the poetry, too. That’s your Pushkin, Mikhalkov, and Korneichuk. But, reader. That’s the problem. There is no such profession! And I can understand why not. Because what would happen then? Here I am, reading limericks to myself, and for that I get wealth, for that I get vacations? That’s what I must clear up.”

Lavr Fedotovich trained his opera glasses on Vybegallo.

“We will hear the opinion of the consultant,” he announced.

Vybegallo rose.

“That is,” he said and ran his fingers through his beard. “Comrade Khlebovvodov correctly raises the question and puts the accents in the right place. The people like poetry—je vous parle à coeur ouvert. But do the people need all kinds of poetry? Je vous demande un peu, do they need all kinds? You and I know, comrades, that it’s not all kinds. That is why we must strictly follow, c’est … a specific, that is, of course, and not lose sight of our landmarks and, c’est, le vin est tiré, il faut le boire. My personal feeling is this: Aides-toi et Dieu t’aidera. But I would suggest that we also listen to the representative from below, Comrade Privalov, call him as a witness, so to speak.”

Lavr Fedotovich turned his opera glasses on me.

“Well, why not. He’s always interrupting anyway, he has no patience, he might as well clear things up if he knows so much.”

“Voilà,” Vybegallo said hotly. “L’éducation qu’on donne aux jeunes hommes d’aujourd’hui.”

“That’s just what I said. Let him talk,” said Khlebovvodov.

“They have a lot of poets there,” I explained. “They all write poetry, and naturally every poet wants to have a reader. Readers are unsystematic beings and do not understand that simple fact. They love to read great poetry and even commit it to memory. And they don’t want anything to do with bad poetry. Inequity arises, unfairness. And since the inhabitants there are very sensitive and try to make everyone happy, they created a special profession—reader. Some specialize in reading iambic poetry, others trochaic. Konstantin Konstantinovich is a renowned specialist in amphibrachs and now he is mastering the alexandrine, developing a second specialty. This is a hazardous field, of course, and readers are entitled to double rations, as well as frequent short-term leaves.”

“I understand all that!” Khlebovvodov’s shriek pierced the air. “Iambs, and those alexandrines. There’s one thing I don’t understand. What are they paying him for? All right, so he sits and reads. I know it’s hazardous. But reading is a quiet business, an internal one, how are you going to check whether he’s reading or faking? I remember, I used to run a section in the Department of Inspecting and Quarantine of Plants, and once I had this … He would just sit at meetings and look as if he was listening, even writing something in his notebook, but actually the sneak was sleeping! Now many throughout the offices of the land have learned how to sleep with their eyes open! So I don’t understand how it works. What if he’s lying? There should not be professions where inspection is impossible. How can you tell if the man is working or sleeping?”

“It’s not that cut-and-dried,” Eddie interrupted, tearing himself away from tuning the humanizer. “He not only reads; they send him all the poems written in amphibrachs. He must read them all, understand them, find the root of exquisite pleasure in each and every one, love them, and naturally find some fault with them. Then he must regularly send the authors his feelings and thoughts on the poems and give readings at evenings devoted to the poets and at readers’ conferences, and read them so well that the poets are satisfied and feel that they are needed. This is a very demanding profession,” he concluded. “Konstantin Konstantinovich is a true hero of labor.”

“Yes,” said Khlebovvodov. “Now I understand. It’s a valuable profession. And I like the system. It’s a good, fair system.”

“Continue your report, Comrade Zubo,” said Lavr Fedotovich.

The commandant again raised the file to his eyes.

“Point nine. Have you been abroad? Yes. In connection with engine problems, I spent four hours on Easter Island.”

Farfurkis squeaked indistinctly, and Khlebovvodov picked up on it right away.

“Whose territory is it now?” he asked Vybegallo.

Professor Vybegallo, smiling jovially, motioned to me with an expansive, condescending gesture.

“I give the floor to youth.”

“Chilean territory,” I explained.

“Chile, Chile,” Khlebovvodov muttered, anxiously peering at Lavr Fedotovich. Lavr Fedotovich smoked calmly. “Well, if it’s Chile, all right then,” said Khlebovvodov reluctantly. “And only four hours. All right. What’s next?”

“I protest,” Farfurkis whispered with unbelievable courage, but the commandant had resumed reading.

“Point ten. A brief description of the unexplainable: A rational being from the star Antares. Pilot of a space ship called a flying saucer.”

Lavr Fedotovich had no objections. Khlebovvodov looked at him, nodded approvingly, and the commandant continued.

“Point eleven. Statistics on close relatives—There’s a long list here.”

“Read on, read on,” said Khlebovvodov.

“There are seven hundred seventy-six people,” warned the commandant.

“And don’t argue. Your job is to read. So read. And clearly.”

The commandant sighed and began.

“Parents—A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H …”

“What are you doing? Hold it, wait!” said Khlebovvodov, who had lost his gift of politeness from the shock. “Where are you, in school? What do you think we are, children?”

“I’m reading what’s written,” the commandant snarled and went on, raising his voice: “I, J, K …”

“Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said. “There is a question for the speaker. The father of Case 72. Surname, name, and patronymic.”

“Just a minute,” I interrupted. “Konstantin Konstantinovich has seventy-seven parents of seven distinct sexes, ninety-six spouses of four sexes, two hundred seven children of seven sexes, and three hundred ninety-six siblings of seven sexes.”

The effect of my statement exceeded all expectations. Lavr Fedotovich was so confused that he raised his opera glasses to his lips. Khlebovvodov kept licking his lips, and Farfurkis avidly flipped through his notes.

We could not count on Vybegallo, and I prepared myself for a major battle—I deepened the trenches, mined the tank-endangered approaches, and protected cut-off positions. The magazines were overflowing with ammunition, the artillery men were glued to their weapons, and the infantrymen were issued a shot of vodka each. The silence dragged on, thunderclouds glowered, the air was charged with electricity, and my hand was on the telephone—I was ready to call for an atomic attack. But all the expected screams, noise, and shouting came out as a whimper. Khlebovvodov suddenly broke out in a grin, bent over to whisper in Lavr Fedotovich’s ear, his oily eyes glancing back and forth, and Lavr Fedotovich lowered his bespittled opera glasses, covered his face with his hand, and said in a quavering voice:

“Continue your report, Comrade Zubo.”

The commandant readily put away the list of relatives and reported:

“Point twelve. Place of permanent residence: The Galaxy, star Antares, planet Konstantina, state of Konstantia, city of Konstantinov, call number 457 point 14—9. That’s all.”

“I protest,” shouted Farfurkis.

Lavr Fedotovich looked at him kindly. The silent treatment was over, and Farfurkis, tears of joy glistening in his eyes, spoke: “I protest! There was an obvious discrepancy in the age description. The form gives the date of birth as 213 B.C. If that were so, then Case 72 would be over two thousand years old, which exceeds the known maximum by two thousand years. I demand that the date be corrected and the guilty party punished.”

Khlebovvodov said jealously:

“Maybe he’s from one of those places in the Caucasus where people live a long time? How do you know?”

“But allow me,” Farfurkis sputtered. “Even in the Caucasus …”

“I will not allow it,” said Khlebovvodov. “I will not allow you to downplay the achievements of our glorious Caucasus dwellers! If you must know, their maximum possible age has no limit!” And he looked triumphantly at Lavr Fedotovich.

“The people,” said Lavr Fedotovich, “the people are eternal. Space visitors come and go, but our people, our glorious people, will live on through the ages.”

Farfurkis and Khlebovvodov stopped to think, trying to figure out in whose favor the chairman had spoken. Neither one wanted to risk it. One was at the top and did not wish to fall from the peak over some lousy visitor. The other, deep down below, was hanging over a precipice but he had just been thrown a lifeline. And then Lavr Fedotovich spoke.

“Is that all, Comrade Zubo? Any questions? No questions? Then the motion is to call in the case known as Konstantin Konstantinovich. Any other motions? Let the case come in.”

The commandant bit his lip, pulled out a mother-of-pearl marble from his pocket, and, closing his eyes, squeezed it. There was a sound like a cork popping, and Konstantin appeared next to the demonstration table. He must have been summoned while he was working: he was wearing coveralls smeared with fluorescent grease, his front hands were in metallic work gloves, and he was wiping his back hands on his pants. All four eyes still were engrossed in the repairs. There was a strong smell of chemicals in the room.

“Hello,” said Konstantin, happily discovering where it was he was. “You have summoned me at last. Of course, my problem is slight, I’m almost embarrassed to bother you with it, but I’ve reached a dead end and the only way out is to ask for help. So that I do not burden your attention for too long, I will tell you what I need.” He commenced ticking off the points on his fingers. “A laser drill—but of the highest power. An acetylene torch, I know you already have those. Two incubators with a capacity of a thousand eggs each. That will hold me for the beginning, but it would be nice to also have a qualified engineer, and to have permission to work in the laboratories of FILIL.”

“What kind of alien from outer space is this?” Khlebovvodov demanded with amazement and indignation. “What kind of alien can he be, I ask you, when I see him in the hotel dining room every day? Look here, citizen, who are you really and how did you get here?”

“I am Konstantin from the Antares system.” Konstantin was perplexed. “I thought you knew all that. I filled in forms, I was interviewed.” He saw Vybegallo and smiled at him. “It was you, wasn’t it, who interviewed me?”

Khlebovvodov also turned to Vybegallo.

“So this, in your opinion, is a visitor from outer space?” he asked acidly.

“He is,” said Vybegallo with dignity. “Contemporary science does not deny the possibility of visitors from outer space, Comrade Khlebovvodov, you should keep in touch. This is an official opinion, not just mine, but of much more responsible scientific workers. Giordano Bruno, for instance, has made completely official statements on this subject, so has Academician Levon Alfredovich Volosianis … and … c’est … writers, like Wells, for instance, or say, Chugunets.”

“Strange things are going on here,” said Khlebovvodov suspiciously. “The space aliens seem awfully strange lately.”

“I’m examining the picture that’s included in the file,” Farfurkis chipped in, “and I see that while there is a general resemblance, the comrade in the photo has two arms, and this unknown citizen has four. How can this be explained from the point of view of science?”

Vybegallo released a very long citation in French, the point of which was that some guy named Arthur liked to go to the sea in the mornings after having a cup of hot chocolate. I interrupted him.

“Konstantin, please face Comrade Farfurkis.”

Konstantin obeyed.

“Ah, I see,” said Farfurkis, “the matter has been cleared up. I must tell you, Lavr Fedotovich, that the resemblance between this comrade and the photograph is indisputable. I see four eyes here, and four eyes there. No nose. Yes. Crooked mouth. Everything’s in order.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Khlebovvodov. “It had been clearly stated in the press that if there were visitors from outer space, they would announce themselves. And since they do not, then they do not exist and are no more than a hoax perpetrated by scoundrels. Are you a visitor from space?” he croaked at Konstantin.

“Yes,” Konstantin said, backing away from him.

“Did you announce yourself?”

“No,” said Konstantin. “I wasn’t planning on landing. And that’s not the point here.”

“Oh, no, dear citizen, you just drop that. That is precisely the point. If you had announced yourself, then welcome aboard, share our bread, drink and make merry. But since you didn’t, then it’s not our fault. Your amphibrach is fine, but we have to make a living here, too. We have work to do, and can’t be sidetracked. That is my general opinion.”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Any one else have an opinion?”

“I do, if I may,” said Farfurkis. “Comrade Khlebovvodov has given a correct picture of the situation in general. However, it seems to me that despite our work load, we should not dismiss our comrade. I feel that we should treat this one instance with a more individualized approach. I am for a more thorough examination of the problem. No one should be able to accuse us of hastiness, bureaucracy, and heart-lessness, on the one hand, or of negligence, exuberance, or a lack of vigilance, on the other hand. With Lavr Fedotovich’s permission, I would like to recommend a supplementary interview with Citizen Konstantinov with the aim of determining his identity.”

“Why should we try to replace the police?” said Khlebovvodov, feeling that his vanquished enemy was inexorably scaling the heights once again.

“I beg your pardon!” Farfurkis said. “We will not replace the police, but we will be complying with the spirit and letter of the regulations, where in Paragraph 9, Chapter i, Part 6, it says in this regard …” He raised his voice to a solemn peal. “ ‘In cases when the identification made by the scientific consultant with the representative of the administration, who knows well the local conditions, produces doubt among the Troika, a supplementary investigation into the case with the aim of determining the identification is called for either by a plenipotentiary of the Troika or at one of the sessions of the Troika.’ And that’s what I’m suggesting.”

“The regulations, the regulations,” said Khlebovvodov nasally. “We’ll follow the law and he’ll waste our time, the four-eyed crook, he’ll steal our time. The people’s time!” he shouted, casting a martyred eye in Lavr Fedotovich’s direction.

“Why am I a crook?” Konstantin demanded. “You are insulting me, Citizen Khlebovvodov. And I can see that you don’t give a fig whether I’m a visitor or not, all you want to do is to undermine Citizen Farfurkis and make yourself look good in the eyes of Citizen Vuniukov.”

“Slander!” yelled Khlebovvodov, turning deep red. “He’s libeling me! What’s this, comrades? For twenty-five years I’ve gone where they sent me. Not one reprimand. Always with a promotion.”

“You’re lying again,” Konstantin said calmly. “You were kicked out twice without any promotion.”

“This is calumny! Lavr Fedotovich! Comrades! You’re taking on a big responsibility, Citizen Konstantin! We’ll see just what your hundred parents did, what kind of parents they were. He’s collected himself a whole institute of relatives.”

“Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich muttered. “There is a motion to end the debate and to conclude the session. Are there any other motions?”

There was silence. Farfurkis barely hid his glee. Khlebovvodov was mopping himself with his handkerchief. Konstantin was staring deep into Lavr Fedotovich, vainly trying to read his thoughts or at least get a glimpse of his soul, but it was obvious that all his efforts were wasted. His four-eyed, noseless face displayed the growing disillusionment of a professional archaeologist who rolls back an ancient stone, sticks his arm into the age-old treasure trove, and feels nothing there but insubstantial dust, sticky cobwebs, and some blobs of indeterminate origin.

“Since there are no other motions before the floor,” Lavr Fedotovich announced, “we shall proceed to the investigation of the case. The floor goes to …” He paused for a long time, during which Khlebovvodov grew faint. “Comrade Farfurkis.”

Khlebovvodov found himself at the bottom of the pit and followed with wild eyes the narrowing circles of the buzzard flying in the official skies now beyond his reach. Farfurkis was in no rush to begin. He circled a few more times, splattering Khlebovvodov with his droppings, and then perched on the peak, preened and, casting a coquettish glance at Lavr Fedotovich, began speaking.

“You maintain, Citizen Konstantinov, that you are a visitor from another planet. What documents do you have to substantiate this claim?”

“I could show you my ship’s log,” said Konstantin. “But first of all, it can’t be moved, and second, I would not like to be bothered or to bother you with proofs. I came here to ask for help. Any planet that subscribes to the cosmic convention is obligated to help accident victims. I have already told you what I need, and now I await your answer. If perhaps you are incapable of giving me that help, then it would be better to tell me straight out. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Just a minute,” Farfurkis interrupted. “We’ll set aside the question of the competence of the present committee to aid representatives from other planets. Our problem now is to verify your identity as that visitor. Just a minute, I haven’t finished. You mentioned your log and said that unfortunately it could not be transported. Then perhaps the Troika could have the opportunity to examine the log on board your ship?”

“No, that is impossible as well,” Konstantin sighed. He was studying Farfurkis carefully.

“Well, that’s your right,” Farfurkis said. “But in that case, perhaps you could offer some other document to certify your identity and background?”

“I see that you actually do want proof that I am an alien,” said Konstantin with some surprise. “True, your motives aren’t clear to me. But let’s not talk about that. As for proof, surely my physical appearance must lead you to think that I am from space?”

Farfurkis sorrowfully shook his head.

“Alas,” he said, “nothing is that simple. Science does not give us a clear enough concept of what man is. That is natural. If, for instance, science defined man as a creature with two arms and two eyes, then certain elements of the population who have only one arm or no arms at all would find themselves in a tenuous position. On the other hand, contemporary medicine is performing miracles. I myself recently saw a dog with two heads and six legs on TV and I have no right …”

“Then, perhaps, seeing my ship. It is not typical of your earth technology.”

Farfurkis shook his head again.

“You must understand,” he said softly, “that in our atomic age it would be difficult to impress the members of an authoritative organ, who have top-priority clearance, with any technological contraption.”

“I can read minds,” Konstantin offered. He was clearly interested.

“Telepathy is unscientific,” Farfurkis said softly. “We don’t believe in it.”

“Is that so?” Konstantin was surprised. “That’s strange. But listen to this. You are about to tell me of the special case of the Nautilus, and Citizen Khlebovvodov …”

“Calumny!” shouted Khlebovvodov, and Konstantin stopped.

“Understand us correctly,” said Farfurkis, pressing his hands to his plump chest. “We do not maintain that telepathy doesn’t exist. We only maintain that telepathy is unscientific and that we don’t believe in it. You mentioned the case of the submarine Nautilus, but it is well known that this was just a bourgeois decoy to divert the attention of the peoples of the world from the pressing problems of the day. Thus your telepathic abilities, whether actual or imagined by you, are merely a fact of your personal biography, which at this moment in time is the object of our research. Do you see the logical fallacy?”

“I do,” agreed Konstantin. “What if I were to fly around for you a bit?”

“That would be very interesting, of course. But unfortunately we are at work now and can not expend time on performances, no matter how absorbing they might be.”

Konstantin looked at us quizzically. I felt that his position was hopeless and I had no time for jokes. Konstantin did not know it, but the Great Round Seal was suspended over him like the sword of Damocles. Eddie was still fooling around with his toy, and I didn’t know what to do. I had to stall for time.

“Go ahead, Konstantin,” I said.

Konstantin did. First he was rather tentative, afraid to break things, but then he got carried away and demonstrated a series of magnificently impressive exercises with the space-time continuum, with various transformations of a living colloid and with the critical state of the reflective organs. When he had stopped, I was dizzy, my pulse was crazy, my ears were humming, and I could barely hear the space creature’s tired voice.

“Time is flying. I have no more time. Tell me what you have decided.”

No one answered him. Lavr Fedotovich was meditatively twirling the dictaphone mike with his long fingers. His intelligent face was calm and pensive. Khlebovvodov was not paying attention to anything, or making believe that he was not. He scribbled off a note and tossed it to Zubo, who read it carefully and let his fingers run silently over the keyboard of the computer. Vybegallo was suffering. He bit his lip, frowned, and even sighed quietly. A white card plopped out of the computer, and Zubo passed it to Khlebovvodov.

I looked at Eddie. He had the humanizer on his knee and was keeping an eye on the mirrored window while he fiddled with a tiny knob. I held my breath and watched.

“A thousand-year leap,” Vybegallo said softly. “A leap backward,”

Farfurkis muttered through his teeth. He was still leafing through a reference book.

“I don’t know how we’ll be able to work now,” Vybegallo said. “We have glimpsed the future, where all the answers are.”

“But you didn’t see the answers, did you?” Farfurkis mocked. “Do you want to see them?”

“What’s the difference once we see that they do exist? It’s dull and boring to go on searching for answers that we know someone else has already found.”

The visitor was waiting impatiently. He was uncomfortable in the low armchair and he had to sit up unnaturally straight. His large unblinking eyes glowed an unpleasant red. Khlebovvodov threw away the card, wrote another note, and Zubo bent over the keyboard again. “I know that we must refuse,” said Vybegallo, “and I know that we will curse ourselves twenty times over for having done so.”

“That’s not the worst thing that could happen to us,” said Farfurkis. “It would be worse if we were cursed twenty times over by others.”

“Our grandchildren and maybe even our children would simply take it for granted.”

“We should not be indifferent to what our children will take for granted.”

“The moral criteria of humanism,” said Vybegallo giving a short laugh.

“We have no other criteria,” Farfurkis countered. “Unfortunately.”

“Fortunately, my colleague, fortunately. Every time that mankind has turned to others, it suffered cruelly.”

“I know that. I would rather not know even that.” Vybegallo looked over at Lavr Fedotovich. “The problem before us has not been stated correctly. It is based on confused conceptions, vague formulations, and intuition. As a scientist I do not take it upon myself to solve it. That would not be serious or responsible. There is only one thing left: to be a man. With all the resulting consequences. I am against contact. But not for long!” he shouted excitedly. “You must understand us correctly. I am sure that this will not be for long. Give us time, we have been out of chaos for such a short time. We are still waist-deep in chaos.” He stopped and dropped his head to his hands.

Lavr Fedotovich looked at Farfurkis.

“I can only repeat what I said before.” Farfurkis said in a low voice. “No one has changed my mind about that. I am against any contact for a long period. I am absolutely sure,” he added, “that the other treaty-negotiating party would take any other decision on our part as proof of presumptuousness and social immaturity.” He bowed curtly in the direction of the visitor.

“You?” asked Lavr Fedotovich.

“I am categorically against any contact,” replied Khlebovvodov, still scribbling away. “Categorically and unequivocally.” He threw Zubo another note. “I will not state my reasons just yet, but ask to be able to say a few more words on the subject in ten minutes.”

Lavr Fedotovich carefully set down the dictaphone mike and rose slowly. The visitor also stood up. They stood opposite each other, separated by the huge table piled high with reference works, cases of microbooks, and reels of videotape.

“It is difficult for me to speak right now,” he began. “Difficult because, for one thing, circumstances demand lofty rhetoric and words that are not only precise but also solemn. However, here on earth, lofty words have suffered from inflation in the past century. So I will aim only for accuracy. You offer us friendship and cooperation in all aspects of civilization. This offer is unprecedented in the history of man, just as the fact of the arrival of a creature from another planet is unprecedented and our answer to your offer is unprecedented. We answer with a refusal on all points of the agreement you offer, we categorically refuse to offer any counteragreement, we categorically demand a complete end to any contact whatsoever between our civilizations and between individual representatives of them. We wish to announce that we find the idea of contact between two different civilizations in the cosmos to be fruitful and promising in principle. We wish to stress that the idea of contact has long been held as one of the most cherished and noble goals of our humanity. We wish to assure you that our refusal in no way must be seen by you as a hostile act, based on hidden enmity or connected in any way with physiological or other instinctual prejudices. We would like you to know the reasons for our refusal, and for you to understand and if not approve, then at least to keep them in mind.”

Vybegallo and Farfurkis had their eyes fixed on Lavr Fedotovich. Khlebovvodov received an answer to his last note, put the cards together in a neat pile, and also looked at Lavr Fedotovich.

“The inequality between our two civilizations is enormous,” continued Lavr Fedotovich. “I’m not speaking of biological differences—nature bestowed a greater wealth upon you than upon us. There’s no need to speak of social inequalities—you have long passed the stage of social development that we are just entering. And of course, I do not speak of scientific and technological inequalities—even the most conservative estimates put you several centuries ahead of us. I will speak about the direct result of these three aspects of inequality—about the gigantic psychological inequality that in fact is the major reason for the failure of our negotiations.

“We are separated by a gigantic revolution in mass psychology, preparations for which we have only begun and which you have probably already forgotten. This psychological gulf does not allow us to obtain a correct understanding of the aims of your arrival. We do not understand how our friendship and cooperation could benefit you. We have only emerged from a state of constant warfare, from a world of bloodshed and violence, from a world of lies, baseness, and greed; we have not yet washed off the dirt of that world. When we come up against a phenomenon that our reason cannot yet grasp, when all we have at our command is our vast but as yet not assimilated experience, our psychology prompts us to create a model of the phenomenon in our own image. Crudely put, we do not trust you the way that we still do not trust each other.

“Our mass psychology is based on egotism, utilitarianism, and mysticism. The establishment and development of contact with you first of all threatens unthinkable complications of the already complex situation on our planet. Our egotism, our anthropocentrism, the thousand years of education by religions and naive philosophers who taught us to trust in our primordial superiority, in our uniqueness, and in our privileged position in the universe—all this suggests that there will be a monstrous psychological shock, an irrational hatred of you, a hysterical fear of the unimaginable possibilities that you present, a feeling of sudden debasement, and a dread that the rulers of nature have been dethroned.

“Our utilitarianism will lead to a desire in the majority of our people to participate in the wealth of material progress, obtained without effort, for free, and will turn many to parasitism and consumerism, and God knows, we have trouble enough struggling against this as a result of our own scientific and technological progress. As for our ingrained mysticism, for our age-old hope for benevolent gods, benevolent tsars, and benevolent heroes, our hopes for the intervention of a trustworthy authority who would relieve us of all our cares and responsibilities, as for this reverse side of the coin of our egotism, I think that you cannot even imagine what the results of your appearance on our planet would be.

“I hope that you can see now that permission for contact would destroy what little we have managed to do to prepare the way for a revolution in psychology. And you must understand that the cause of our refusal lies not in you, not in your good points or in your bad—the cause is only in our unpreparedness. We understand this perfectly well, and while categorically turning from contact with you today, we do not plan to make this position permanent. Therefore, on our part, we propose …”

Lavr Fedotovich raised his voice, and everyone stood.

“We propose that exactly fifty years after your takeoff a meeting be held between authorized representatives of both civilizations on the north pole of the planet Pluto. We hope that by that time we will be better prepared to undertake a thought-out and fruitful cooperative venture between our civilizations.”

Lavr Fedotovich finished, and we all sat down. Only Khlebovvodov and the visitor remained standing.

“While subscribing wholly and completely to the content and form of the statement of the chairman,” Khlebovvodov said harshly and drily, “I feel it my duty, however, to leave no doubt in the mind of the other party of our determination to use all our might to resist contact until the agreed-upon time. While completely acknowledging the technological, and therefore military, superiority of your civilization, I nevertheless feel it is my duty to leave no room for misunderstanding: any attempt to force contact upon us will be seen from the moment of your takeoff as an act of aggression and will be met with the entire power of earth’s armaments. Any ship that appears in the range of our military might will be destroyed without warning.”

“Is that enough?” asked Eddie in a whisper.

Everyone froze, as if in a photograph.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It seems a pity. I could listen forever.”

“It did come out rather well, didn’t it?” said Eddie. “But I must stop it. Such an expenditure of brain energy …”

He turned off the humanizer, and Farfurkis started whining immediately.

“Comrades! It’s impossible to work, what are we doing?”

Vybegallo chewed on his lip, looked around blankly, and scratched his beard.

“That’s right!” Khlebovvodov said and sat down. “We have to finish up. I’m in the minority here, but who am I? It doesn’t matter! If you don’t want to turn him over to the police, then don’t. But rationalizing this trickster as an unexplained phenomenon is pointless. Big deal, so he grew himself another two arms.”

“It isn’t taking!” Eddie said bitterly. “It’s rough going, Alex. They have no humanity, these plumbers.”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich, and delivered a short speech that made it clear that the public did not need unexplained phenomena that could, but would not for one reason or another, present the credentials that proved that they were unexplained. On the other hand, the people have long demanded a ruthless paring down of bureaucratic red tape in all departments. Therefore, Lavr Fedotovich expressed his opinion that the examination of Case 72 should be postponed until December of this year in order to give Comrade K. K. Konstantinov time to get back to his permanent residence and return with the appropriate documents. As for giving Comrade K. K. Konstantinov material aid, the Troika has the right to give such aid or to facilitate it only in those instances where the request comes from what has been certified by the Troika as an unexplained phenomenon. And since Comrade K. K. Konstantinov has not yet been certified as such, then the question of giving him aid is also postponed until December—and more precisely, until the moment of his certification.

The Great Round Seal did not appear on the scene and I heaved a sigh of relief. Konstantin, who never did grasp the situation fully and who had been getting angrier and angrier, spat demonstratively on the floor, very humanly, and disappeared.

“That’s an attack!” Khlebovvodov shouted gleefully. “Did you see him spit? The whole floor is wet!”

“That’s disgusting!” Farfurkis concurred. “I consider this an insult!”

“I told you he was a crook!” said Khlebovvodov. “We have to call the police. Let them give him fifteen days, let him sweep the streets with his four hands.”

“No, no, Comrade Khlebovvodov,” Farfurkis argued. “This is no police matter anymore, you underestimate the gravity of the situation. This was spitting in the face of the public and the administration. He should be tried!”

Lavr Fedotovich did not speak, but his freckled fingers were agitatedly scampering across the table—he was looking for some button, or maybe the telephone. It began to reek of political crime. Vybegallo, who didn’t give a damn about Konstantin, did not respond. I coughed and asked for their attention. Attention was granted, but not very readily—their eyes were glistening excitedly, their fur was bristling, their fangs were ready to tear, and their claws to scratch.

Trying to speak as pompously as possible, I reminded the Troika that it was in their interest to hold galactocentric and not anthropocentric positions. I pointed out that the customs and expressions of emotion might and probably do differ greatly in extraterrestrial creatures. I fell back on the weary analogy of the customs of the different tribes and peoples of Planet Earth. I expressed my confidence that Comrade Farfurkis would not be satisfied with rubbing noses for a greeting, in common usage among several northern peoples, but neither would he consider such rubbing to be degrading to his position as a member of the Troika. As for Comrade Konstantinov, the custom of spitting out a liquid of a certain chemical composition that forms in the oral cavity, a custom that among several peoples of the earth signifies dissatisfaction, irritation, or the desire to insult one’s interlocutor, might and must mean completely the opposite for an extraterrestrial creature, including gratitude for your attention. The so-called spitting of Comrade Konstantinov could also have been a purely neutral act, related to the physiological functioning of his organism.

“Don’t give me that function stuff!” shouted Khlebovvodov. “He spat all over the floor, the bandit, and ran away!”

“And finally,” I concluded, ignoring him, “we must not rule out the possibility that the above-mentioned physiological act of Comrade Konstantinov might have been an action connected with his lightning-like movement through space.”

I was warbling like a nightingale and watched with relief as Lavr Fedotovich’s fingers kept slowing down, finally coming to rest on the blotter. Khlebovvodov was still barking threats, but the sensitive Farfurkis had caught the change in the wind and brought the brunt of the blow on an unexpected victim. He suddenly attacked the commandant, who, thinking himself safe from danger, was enjoying the spectacle with simple curiosity.

“I have long been noticing,” thundered Farfurkis, “that the educational system in the Colony of Unexplained Phenomena is very poorly organized. There are almost no political education lectures. The visual aids in agitation reflect yesterday’s lessons. The Evening Institute of Culture barely functions. All of the cultural events in the Colony boil down to dances, foreign films, and tacky variety shows. The slogan-making industry has fallen into neglect. The colonists are left to their own devices, many of them are morally bankrupt, almost no one understands the international situation, and the most backward of the colonists, for example, the ghost of one Weiner, do not even comprehend where they are. The results are amoral behavior, hooliganism, and complaints from the populace. The day before yesterday Kuzma the Pterodactyl left the territory of the Colony and, definitely not sober, flew over the Club of Working Youth, biting off the bulbs that spell out WELCOME. One Nikolai Dolgonosikov, self-styled telepathist and spiritualist, tricked his way into the women’s dormitory of the pedagogical technicum and carried on discussions and actions that were classified by the administration as religious propaganda. And today we have run across another sad consequence of Comrade Zubo’s criminally negligent attitude toward education and propaganda as commandant of the Colony. Whatever the meaning of Comrade Konstantinov’s expectoration of liquids found in his oral cavity, it proves that he does not fully appreciate where he is and how he must behave, and this in turn proves that it is the fault of Comrade Zubo, who has not taught the colonists the meaning of the folk saying ‘Don’t bring your own rules to somebody else’s monastery.’ And I feel that we must warn Comrade Zubo and order him to raise the level of educational work in the Colony that is entrusted to him!”

Farfurkis tapered off, and Khlebovvodov took on the commandant. His speech was muddled, but full of vague hints and threats so terrifying that the commandant faltered completely and openly swallowed pills. Khlebovvodov bellowed: “I’ll show you! Don’t you understand, or are you completely crazy?”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich finally and began setting matters straight. Comrade Zubo was reprimanded for behavior unworthy of the Troika, expressed in the expectoration by Comrade Konstantinov, and also for losing the administrative aura. Comrade K. K. Konstantinov was given a warning for walking on the ceiling and walls in his shoes. Farfurkis was given a verbal reprimand for always going over the time limit when he had the floor, and Khlebovvodov for violating administrative ethics by trying to lie to Comrade K. K. Konstantinov. Vybegallo was reprimanded verbally for appearing at the session unshaven.

“Are there any other motions?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich. Khlebovvodov immediately leaned over and whispered in his ear. Lavr Fedotovich listened and then added: “There is a motion to remind certain representatives from below to participate more actively in the work of the Troika.”

Now everybody had gotten it. No one had been forgotten, and nothing had been overlooked. The atmosphere cleared up, and everyone, including the commandant, cheered up. Only Eddie frowned, deep in thought.

“Next,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Report, Comrade Zubo.”

“Case 2,” read the commandant. “Surname: Blank. Name: Blank. Patronymic: Blank. Nickname: Kuzma. Year and place of birth: Uncertain. Probably the Congo.”

“What is he, mute?” asked Khlebovvodov jovially.

“He doesn’t know how to talk. He only quacks.”

“Has he been that way from birth?”

“I would assume so.”

“That means poor heredity,” Khlebovvodov grumbled. “That’s why he became a bandit. Is there a criminal record?”

“Whose?” the confused commandant asked. “Mine?”

“No, why yours? Does he have one, that bandit? What’s his nickname? Vaska?”

“I protest,” said Farfurkis. “Comrade Khlebovvodov is operating under the mistaken prejudice that only bandits have nicknames. However, the regulations state in Paragraph 8, Chapter 4, Part 2, that nicknames will be given to phenomena classified as animate creatures without reason.”

“Ah!” said the disappointed Khlebovvodov, “it’s some dog, I guess. And I thought it was a bandit. When I was in charge of the box office of the Mutual Aid Fund of Theater Figures under the auspices of the VTO, I had a bookkeeper …”

“I protest!” Farfurkis wailed. “This is in violation of the regulations! We won’t get out of here before nightfall!”

Khlebovvodov glanced at his watch.

“That’s right,” he said. “Forgive me. Go ahead, brother, where did you stop?”

“Point five. Nationality: Pterodactyl.”

They all shuddered, but it was getting late, and no one said a word.

“Education: Blank,” continued the commandant. “Knowledge of foreign languages: Blank. Profession and place of work at present time: Blank. Have you been abroad? Probably.”

“Oh, that’s bad,” Khlebovvodov muttered. “Bad! Oh, vigilance! A pterodactyl, you say? What color? Is he white or black?”

“He’s sort of gray.”

“Aha!” said Khlebovvodov. “And he can’t talk. Only quacks. Well, all right, go on.”

“Brief summary of the unexplainable: considered to be extinct fifty million years ago.”

“How many?” Farfurkis demanded.

“Fifty million it says here,” the commandant said.

“That can’t be serious,” Farfurkis grumbled and looked at his watch. “Read on,” he moaned. “Read on.”

“Data on close relatives: Probably all died out. Place of permanent residence: Kitezhgrad, Colony of Unexplained Phenomena.”

“Has he been given papers?” Khlebovvodov demanded severely.

“Sort of. When he arrived he was written in the register of honored visitors, and he’s been here ever since. You might say that Kuzma has grown to live here.” A tender note had crept into the commandant’s voice. It was obvious Kuzma was his protégé.

“Is that all?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich. “Then there is a motion to call in the case.”

There were no other motions. The commandant pulled back the curtains and called lovingly:

“Here, Kuz, Kuz, Kuz, here boy. There he is, sitting on a chimney, the bum,” he said tenderly. “He’s shy, very shy. Kuz, Kuz, Kuz, here. He’s coming,” he announced, stepping away from the window.

There was a leathery rustle and a whistle, a huge shadow blocked the sky for a second, and Kuzma, his membranes quivering, smoothly lowered himself onto the demonstration table. He folded up his wings, raised his head, opened his big toothy jaw, and quacked softly.

“He’s saying hello,” the commandant explained. “He’s very polite, the little bugger. Understands everything.”

Kuzma looked over the Troika, met the deathly gaze of Lavr Fedotovich, and suddenly became terribly shy. He tucked his head under his wing, hiding his jaws on his chest, and peeked out from under his leathery wings with one eye—it was a huge green anachronistic eye. He was a dream, that Kuzma. Of course, on an unprepared person, he could have a terrifying effect. Just to be safe, Khlebovvodov dropped a pencil under the table and slid down after it. “I thought it would be a quacking dog or something,” he muttered.

“Does he bite?” asked Farfurkis.

“Of course not!” the commandant said, “he’s a docile animal, he runs away if anyone says boo. Of course, if he gets angry—but he never gets angry.”

Lavr Fedotovich examined the pterodactyl through his opera glasses, throwing the poor thing into a complete panic. Kuzma quacked nervously and tucked his head completely under his wing.

“Harrumph!” Lavr Fedotovich said with satisfaction and put away the opera glasses.

The situation was shaping up well.

“I thought it was some kind of horse,” Khlebovvodov muttered, crawling around under the table.

“Allow me, Lavr Fedotovich,” said Farfurkis. “I can see definite difficulties with this case. If we were involved in examining an unusual phenomenon, I would be the first to call for immediate ratonalization. Indeed, a crocodile with wings is a rather unusual phenomenon in our climate. However, our goal is to examine unexplained phenomena, and here I have my doubts. Is there an element of the unexplained in Case 2? If there isn’t, then why are we examining the case? If, on the other hand, there is, what precisely is it? Perhaps, our comrade the scientific consultant could say a few words in this regard?”

Comrade scientific consultant could indeed say a few words. In his mixed French and Russian he informed the Troika that Marie Briboa’s hairdo definitely pleased all the hunting guests gathered at the Baron de Baudreille’s, and that the scientific consultant must admit that the inexplicability of the pterodactyl Kuzma lies, that is to say, in one plane, which, he, the scientific consultant, feels it is his bitter, but honorable, duty to remind his, the scientific consultant’s, friends in science; and that the winged state of the crocodile, or rather, the fact that some crocodiles have two or more wings has not yet been explained by science, and therefore, he, the scientific consultant, would ask your gardener to show him those marvelous tuberoses that you spoke about last Friday; and finally, he, the scientific consultant, sees no particular reason to put off the rationalization of the case in question but on the other hand would like to have the right to disagree with the above at a later time.

While Vybegallo was killing time, working up a sweat to earn his ridiculous salary, I quickly devised a plan for the coming battle. I liked Kuzma a lot and one thing was clear to me: if we did not intervene right now, things would be bad for him.

“Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said. “Questions for the speaker?”

“I have no questions,” said Khlebovvodov, who, once assured that Kuzma did not bite, had become obnoxious. “But I feel that this is a simple crocodile with wings and nothing more. And the scientific consultant is throwing dust in our eyes for nothing. And then, I notice that the commandant has developed favorites within the colony and is feeding them on government funds. I do not want to imply that there is nepotism involved or that the commandant is taking bribes from the crocodile, but the facts are obvious. A crocodile with wings is a simple enough thing, but he is being treated like something special. He should be chased out of the colony. He should be working.”

“Working at what?” asked the commandant, worried about Kuzma.

“Working! Everyone works here! Look at the creature. He should be hauling logs, or loading stones at a quarry. Are you going to say that his arteries are weak? I know these crocodiles, I’ve seen all kinds, with wings, and all.”

“How can that be?” the commandant worried. “He’s not human, you know, he’s an animal. He has a special diet.”

“So what! Animals work here too. Horses for instance. Let him go to work as a horse! He has a diet—well so do I, and I’m missing lunch because of him.”

But Khlebovvodov realized that he had gone a bit too far. Farfurkis was giving him a mocking look, and Lavr Fedotovich’s pose led one to think. Taking all the above circumstances into account, Khlebovvodov made a sharp U-turn. “Hold on, hold on!” he yelled. “What Kuzma is this here? Isn’t this the Kuzma who ate up the light bulbs at the club? Why yes, it’s the very same! Well, what do you have to say about this? Does this mean that the law doesn’t apply to him either? Don’t try to weasel out of this, Zubo. Just tell me, was action taken on the matter?”

“It was,” the commandant answered hotly.

“What precisely?”

“He was given a laxative.” It was clear that he would defend Kuzma to the death.

Khlebovvodov slammed his fist down on the table, and a small puddle appeared under the frightened Kuzma. I lost my temper and shouted, directly at Lavr Fedotovich, that this was a mockery of a valuable scientific specimen. Farfurkis objected that Khlebovvodov was trying to hang other duties on the Troika. As for Lavr Fedotovich, he sucked his index finger and then brusquely flipped several pages of his minutes, a sure sign of extreme irritation. There were storm warnings.

“Eddie,” I begged.

Eddie, carefully following developments, aimed the humanizer at Lavr Fedotovich. Lavr Fedotovich rose and took the floor.

He spoke of the aims of the Troika entrusted to him, expressed in its authority and its responsibilities. He called on his listeners to increase their mortal struggle for increased labor discipline, against red tape, for high moral levels for one and all, for healthy criticism and healthy self-criticism, against dehumanization, for increased fire protection, for personal responsibility for everyone, for exemplary contents in bookkeeping, and against underevaluation of personal strength. The people will thank us if we fulfill these goals even more actively than before. The people will not forgive us if we do not fulfill these goals even more actively than before. What concrete motions will be made to organize the Troika’s work in view of the changes in conditions?

I took malicious pleasure in the lack of concrete motions. Khlebovvodov kept blowing hot air from habit and offered to take on more responsibilities—for example, making sure that with the increased authority of the Troika, Comrade Commandant Zubo lengthen his work day to fourteen hours and that Comrade Scientific Consultant Vybegallo skip lunch. However, this partisan decision was not met with enthusiasm. On the contrary, it drew a heated rejection from the named parties. A brief flurry ensued, in the course of which it was revealed that the lunch hour had long been upon them.

“There is an opinion,” Lavr Fedotovich wound up, “that it is time to rest and have lunch. The Troika meeting is closed until eighteen hundred hours.” Then he turned to the commandant in the best of spirits. “And as for your crocodile, Comrade Zubo, we will put him in the zoological park. What do you think?”

“Oh!” said the heroic commandant. “Lavr Fedotovich! Comrade Vuniukov! As Christ is my witness, our Savior, the city does not have a zoological park.”

“It will!” Lavr Fedotovich promised. And then made a folksy joke: “We have a regular park, we have a kiddie park, and now we’ll have a zoological one, too. The Troika likes threes.”

The roar of sycophantic laughter caused Kuzma to perform another impoliteness.

Lavr Fedotovich gathered his accoutrements of chairmanship into his briefcase, stood, and moved sedately toward the exit. Khlebovvodov and Vybegallo, knocking the unalert Farfurkis to the floor, rushed to open the door for him, pushing each other out of the way.

“Now a steak, that’s meat,” Lavr Fedotovich explained to them condescendingly.

“Rare!” shouted Khlebovvodov loyally.

“Why rare?” Lavr Fedotovich’s voice floated in from the reception area.

Eddie and I opened all the windows. From the stairs came: “Now, please, Lavr Fedotovich. Allow me to say that a steak that is not rare, Lavr Fedotovich, is worse than drinking on an empty stomach.” “Science assumes, c’est, c’est, with onions, of course.” “The people love good meat—for instance, steak.”

“They’re driving me to an early grave,” the commandant said. “They are the death of me, my seven plagues of Egypt.”