The Inhabited Island

18

The state prosecutor was a light sleeper and the purring of the telephone immediately woke him. He picked up the receiver without opening his eyes. The rustling voice of his night secretary notified him, as if apologizing, “Seven thirty, Your Excellency…”

“Yes,” said the prosecutor, still not opening his eyes. “Yes. Thank you.”

He switched on the light, threw back the blanket, and sat up. For a while he sat there, staring at his own pale, skinny legs and thinking with sad amazement that here he was, already in his sixth decade, but he couldn’t remember a single day when he had been allowed to get a good sleep. Somebody had always woken him up. When he was a cornet, he had been woken after a drinking bout by his doltish brute of an orderly. When he was the chairman of an extraordinary tribunal, he had been woken by his fool of a secretary with documents that hadn’t been signed yet. When he was a grammar school boy, his mother used to wake him so that he would go to his lessons, and that was the most heinous time—those were the most repulsive awakenings. And they had always told him You have to.

You have to, Your Excellency… You have to, Mr. Chairman… You have to, my little son… And now he was the one who told himself “You have to…” He got up, pulled on his robe, splashed a handful of eau de cologne on his face, put in his teeth, glanced into the mirror, massaging his cheeks with a hostile grimace, and walked through into his office.

The warm milk was already sitting on the desk, and the saucer of salty biscuits was lying under a starched napkin. They had to be drunk and eaten, as medication, but first he went over to the safe, pulled the door open, took out a green folder, and put it on the desk beside his breakfast. Crunching on a biscuit and sipping the milk, he thoroughly examined the folder until he was certain that nobody had opened it since yesterday evening. How much has changed, he thought. Only three months have gone by, but how everything has changed!

He mechanically glanced at the yellow telephone, and for a few seconds he couldn’t take his eyes off it. The telephone remained silent, as bright and elegant as a jolly toy… as appalling as a ticking time bomb that is impossible to defuse… The prosecutor convulsively gripped the green folder between his finger and thumb and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the fear growing and hastily checked himself: no, this was no good, right now he had to remain absolutely calm and reason absolutely impassively… I have no choice in any case. So it’s a risk…

Well, then take the risk. There has always been a risk and always will be, it just has to be reduced to the minimum. And I shall reduce it to the minimum. Yes, massaraksh, to the minimum!… You appear not to be convinced of that, Egghead? Ah, you have doubts? You always have doubts, Egghead, that’s a certain quality that you have—and good for you…

Well then, let us try to dispel your doubts. Have you heard of a man by the name of Maxim Kammerer? Have you really heard about him? You just think that you have. You have never heard about this man before. You are going to hear about him right now for the first time. And I ask you please to hear me out and reach the most objective, most unprejudiced judgment possible concerning him. It is very important to me to know your objective opinion, Egghead—you know, at this point in time the very integrity of my skin depends on it. The pale skin with blue veins that is so very dear to me…

He finished chewing the final biscuit and drained the milk in a single gulp. Then he said out loud, “Let us begin.”

He opened the folder. This man’s past is hazy. And that, of course, is a poor start when getting to know someone new. But you and I know not only how to deduce the present from the past but also how to deduce the past from the present. And if our Mak’s past really is so necessary to us, when all is said and done we can always do that, deduce it from the present. This is called extrapolation…

Our Mak begins his present by escaping from penal servitude. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. At the very moment when Wanderer and I are reaching out our hands for him. Here is the panic-stricken report from the commandant-general, a classic howl from an idiot who has messed things up and has no hope of escaping punishment: he is not to blame for anything, he did everything according to his instructions, he did not know that the individual concerned had voluntarily joined the suicide sappers, but the individual concerned did join them and got himself blown up in a minefield. He didn’t know… And Wanderer and I didn’t know that, either. But we ought to have known! The individual concerned is an unpredictable kind of person—you ought to have anticipated something of the kind, Mr. Egghead… Yes, at the time I was staggered by the news, but now we understand what happened: someone explained about the towers to our Mak, he decided that there was no point hanging around in the Land of the Fathers, and he took off to the South, feigning his own death…

The prosecutor lowered his head into his hands and feebly rubbed his forehead. Yes, that was when the whole business started… That was the first screwup in my series of screwups: I believed that he had been killed. But how could I not have believed it? What normal man would go running off to the South, to the mutants, to certain death? Anybody would have believed it. But Wanderer didn’t.

The prosecutor picked up the next report. Oh, that Wanderer! That smart Wanderer, that brilliant Wanderer… That was how I should have acted—the way he did. I was certain that Mak had been killed: the South is the South. But he flooded the territory beyond the river with his agents. Fat Fank—ah, I didn’t get to him when I should have. I didn’t get my claws into him! That fat swine with the peeling skin even lost weight running around the country, nosing around, keeping his eyes open, and his agent Chicken died of a fever on Highway 6, and his Tapa the Cock was captured by the Highlanders, and then Fifty-One—I don’t know who he is—got captured by pirates way out on the coast, but still managed to report back just in time that Mak had shown up there, surrendered to the patrols, and been sent back to his penal colony… That’s the way people with brains do things: they don’t believe anything and they have pity on nobody. And that’s the way I should have acted at the time. Dropped all my other business and focused only on Mak—after all, even then I realized what a terrible force Mak is, but instead I got into a scrap with Twitcher and lost, and then I got involved with this idiotic war and lost again.

And I would have lost again now too, but I’ve finally had a stroke of luck. Mak has turned up in the capital, in Wanderer’s lair, and I’ve found out about it before Wanderer. Yes, Wanderer, with your gristly ears, yes, now you’re the one who has lost. How terrible that you just had to go away again at this precise moment! And do you know, Wanderer, I’m not even offended by the fact that once again it remains entirely unknown where you went to and what for. So you went away—fine! Of course, you relied on that Fank of yours in all of this, and your Fank brought you Mak, but then—what a disaster!—Fank collapsed after all his military adventures. He’s lying unconscious in the Palace Hospital—such an important individual, people like him are only ever put in the Palace Hospital!—and I shan’t botch things up this time around; now he’ll stay lying there for as long as I need him to. So you’re not here, and Fank isn’t here, but our Mak is, so things have turned out really well…

Noticing the onset of an incipient feeling of joy, the prosecutor immediately extinguished it. Emotions again, massaraksh. Calmly now, Egghead. You are making the acquaintance of a new individual by the name of Mak—you have to be very objective. Especially since this new Mak is nothing at all like the old one; he is very grown-up now, he knows what finance and juvenile criminality are now. Our Mak has grown wiser and sterner… Look at the way he has broken through into the underground’s Central HQ (on the recommendations of Memo Gramenu and Allu Zef), descending on them like a bolt from the blue with his proposal for counterpropaganda. And Central HQ wailed and lamented, because it meant revealing the true function of the towers to the rank-and-file membership—but Mak convinced them, didn’t he? He frightened them, entangled them in his arguments, and they accepted the idea of counterpropaganda and assigned Mak to develop it… He figured out the situation very quickly, quickly and correctly. And they understood that—they realized just who they were dealing with. Or they simply sensed it…

And here is the latest report: the faction of enlighteners invited him to participate in discussion of the program of reeducation, and he was delighted to accept. He immediately suggested a whole heap of ideas. Pretty useless ideas, but that’s not the point—reeducation is idiotic nonsense in any case—the important thing is that he is no longer a terrorist, he does not want to blow anything up, and he does not want to kill anyone; the important thing is that he has turned to political activity, that he is actively building up his authority at Central HQ, making speeches, criticizing, climbing upward; the important thing is that he has ideas and is just yearning to put them into practice, and that is precisely what we want, Mr. Egghead…

The prosecutor leaned back in his chair.

And here’s another thing that we need: reports on his way of life. He works a lot—both in the laboratory and at home—he is still pining for that woman, for Rada Gaal, he exercises, has almost no friends, doesn’t smoke, hardly drinks at all, and eats very moderately. On the other hand, he displays a clear inclination for luxury in his daily life and is well aware of his own worth: he accepted the automobile to which he is entitled by his position as an automatic given, while expressing his dissatisfaction with its low power and ugly appearance; he is also dissatisfied with his two-room apartment—he considers it too cramped and lacking in basic comforts; he has decorated his home with original paintings and antique works of art, spending almost his entire advance on them… well, and so on. Good material, very good material… And by the way, how much money does he have, what resources does he possess now? Riiight, a project coordinator in the chemical synthesis laboratory… salary paid in a blue envelope… his own car… a two-room apartment on the grounds of the Department of Special Research… They’ve set him up pretty well. And they’ve probably promised him even more.

I’d like to know how they explained what it was that Wanderer needed him for. Fank knows, the fat swine, but he won’t tell, chances are he’ll croak anyway… Ah, if only I could somehow drag everything that he knows out of him! What pleasure I would take in terminating him after that—the amount of trouble that he has caused me, that mangy brute… He stole that Rada from me too, and she would be really useful to me right now. Rada… What a weapon she is for dealing with pure, honest, courageous Mak! But then, right now perhaps it’s not really such a bad thing… I’m not the one keeping your beloved under lock and key, Mak, it’s Wanderer—it’s all that odious blackmailer’s scheming…

The prosecutor shuddered: the yellow telephone had quietly tinkled. Merely tinkled, and nothing more. Quietly, even melodically. Come to life for a split second and then frozen again, as if simply reminding him it was there… Keeping his eyes fixed on it, the prosecutor ran his trembling fingers across his forehead. No, it was a mistake. Of course, a mistake. It could have been anything—a telephone is a complicated device, some spark or other simply jumped the wires inside it…

He wiped his fingers on his robe. And the phone immediately gave a thunderous roar. Like a shot at point-blank range… Like a saber slash across the throat… Like a sudden fall from the roof to the asphalt… The prosecutor picked up the receiver. He didn’t want to pick up the receiver, he didn’t even know that he was picking up the receiver, he even imagined that he wasn’t picking up the receiver but was quickly tiptoeing into the bedroom, getting dressed, driving the car out of the garage and racing off at top speed… But where to?

“State prosecutor,” he said in a hoarse voice, and coughed to clear his throat.

“Egghead? It’s Dad speaking.”

There… This is it… Now it will be We’re expecting you in about an hour…

“I realized,” he helplessly said. “Hello, Dad.”

“Have you read the communiqué?”

“No.”

Ah, you haven’t? Well, come over, and we’ll read it to you…

“It’s over,” said Dad. “They’ve botched up the war.”

The prosecutor gulped. He needed to say something. He urgently needed to say something, best of all to crack a joke. Crack a subtle joke… Oh God, help me crack a subtle joke!

“Nothing to say? But what did I tell you? Steer clear of that mess, stick with the civilians, the civilians and not the military men! Oh, Egghead…”

“Well, you are Dad,” the prosecutor managed to force out. “And children always disobey their parents, don’t they?”

Dad giggled. “Children…” he said. “Remember that saying: ‘If your child disobeys you…’? How does it go on, Egghead?”

My God, my God! “…wipe him off the face of the earth.” That was what he said that time: “Wipe him off the face of the earth,” and then Wanderer picked up a heavy black pistol off the table, slowly raised it, and fired two shots, and the child clutched his shattered bald head in his hands and toppled over onto the carpet…

“Lost your memory?” Dad asked. “Oh, Egghead. What are you going to do, Egghead?”

“I made a mistake…” the prosecutor wheezed. “A mistake. It was all because of Twitcher…”

“You made a mistake… All right, then, think, Egghead. Ponder on it for a while. I’ll call you back…”

And that’s all. He’s gone. And I don’t know where to call him to weep and implore… That’s stupid, stupid. That has never done anyone any good… OK… Hang on… Just hang on, will you, you bastard!

He swung his open hand and smashed it hard against the edge of the desk—to make it bleed, to make it hurt, to make it stop trembling… That helped a bit, but he still leaned down, opened the lower drawer of the desk with his other hand, took out a flask, tugged out the cork with his teeth, and took several swallows. He felt a rush of heat. That’s the way… Calmly, now…

We’ll see about this. This is a race—we’ll see who runs faster. You can’t do away with Egghead that easily; it will cost you a bit more effort than that. Egghead can’t instantly be summoned just like that. If you could have summoned him, you would have… It’s all right that he called. He always does that. There’s still time. Two days, three days, four days… “There is still time!” he shouted at himself. “Don’t get jittery.” He got up and started walking around the office in circles.

I do have a hold over you. I have Mak. I have a man who is not afraid of the radiation. For whom no barriers exist. Who wishes to change the order of things. Who hates you. A man who is pure and, therefore, open to all temptations. A man who will trust me. A man who will want to meet with me… He already wants to meet with me as it is—my agents have told him many times that the state prosecutor is benevolent and just, a great expert on the laws, and a genuine guardian of law and order, that the Fathers dislike him and only tolerate him because they don’t trust each other… My agents have shown me to him, in secret, in advantageous circumstances, and he liked my face… And, most important of all, they have hinted to him, in the strictest secrecy, that I know where the Center is located. He has excellent control of his face, but it was reported to me that just at that moment he gave himself away… That’s the kind of man I have—a man who really wants to seize the Center and who can do it—the only one out of all of them… That is, I don’t actually have this man just yet, but the nets have been cast, the bait has been swallowed, and today I’ll strike and hook him. Or I’m finished. Finished… Finished…

He abruptly swung around and glanced in horror at the yellow telephone.

He couldn’t control his imagination any longer. He saw that cramped room, upholstered in dark red velvet, a stifling, musty room, with no windows, a dingy, bare desk, and five gilded chairs… And the rest of us were all standing there: me, Wanderer, with the eyes of a ravenous killer, and that bald butcher… that bungler, that blabbermouth, he knew where the Center was, didn’t he, he destroyed so many people to find out where the Center was, and then—the windbag, the drunk, the braggart—how could he go talking to anybody about such things? Let alone to relatives… And especially to relatives like that. And he was the head of the Department of Public Health, the eyes and ears of the Unknown Fathers, the armor and the battle-ax of the nation… Dad scowled as he said, “Wipe him off the face of the earth,” Wanderer fired twice at point-blank range, and Father-in-Law grumbled, “Now the upholstery’s all splattered again…” And they started arguing again about why the room stank like that, and I stood there with my legs turned to rubber, thinking, Do they know or don’t they? and Wanderer stood there, grinning like a hungry predator, and looking at me, as if he could guess…

He didn’t guess a damn thing. But now I understand why he always took such pains to make sure nobody could penetrate the mystery of the Center. He always knew where the Center was and was just looking for a way to take it over himself… Too late, Wanderer, too late… And you’ll be too late as well, Dad. And you, Father-in-Law. And as for you, Twitcher, you’re not even in the running…

He jerked open a curtain and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. He had almost smothered his fear. And in order to finally trample it underfoot, to extinguish the final spark, he pictured Mak bursting into the instrument room of the Center and taking it by storm…

Blister could have done that too, with his personal bodyguard, with that gang of his brothers, cousins, nephews, blood brothers, and protégés, with those appalling scum who have never even heard of the law, who have only ever known one law—shoot first… Wanderer had had good reason to raise his hand against Blister—that very evening he had been attacked right outside the gates of his mansion, his car was riddled with bullets, his driver and secretary were killed, and in some mysterious way the attackers were all killed themselves, right down to the last man, all twenty-four of them with two machine guns… Yes, Blister could have burst into the instrument room too, but he would have gotten bogged down there, without going any farther, because then comes a barrier of depressive radiation, and maybe now there are even two barriers, although one would be enough. No one can get through there: a degenerate will collapse in a faint from the pain, and a simple, loyal citizen will just drop to his knees and start quietly weeping in mortal anguish…

Only Mak will get through there, and he will sink his skilled hands into the generators, and first of all switch the Center, and the entire system of towers, to a depressive field. And then, entirely unopposed, he will walk up into the radio studio and put on a tape with a previously recorded speech for cyclical repeat transmission… The entire country, from the Hontian border to beyond the Blue Serpent, will be in a state of depression, millions of fools will be just lying there in floods of tears, with no desire to even to stir a finger, and the loudspeakers will be roaring at the tops of their voices that the Unknown Fathers are criminals, reviling them for this and castigating them for that, and saying they are here, and they are there, kill them, save the country, it is I who am telling you this, Mak Sim, a living god on earth (or something else, like the legitimate heir to the imperial throne, or the great dictator—or whatever he likes the best)… To arms, my guardsmen! To arms, my army! To arms, my subjects! And meanwhile he’ll go back to the instrument room and switch the generator to a field of heightened attention, and then the entire country will listen open-mouthed, straining not to miss a single word, learning the message by heart, repeating it to themselves, and the loudspeakers will keep roaring, the towers will keep working, and it will go on like that for another hour, and then he will switch the radiation emitters to enthusiasm, just half an hour of enthusiasm—and that’s the end of the broadcasts…

And when I come around—massaraksh, an hour and a half of hellish agony, but I’ll just have to put up with it, massaraksh—there won’t be any more Dad, none of them will be left, there will only be Mak, the great god Mak, and his faithful adviser the former state prosecutor, now the head of the great Mak’s government… Ah, never mind about the government, I shall simply be alive, and nobody will be threatening me, and then we shall see… Mak isn’t the kind to abandon useful friends—he doesn’t even abandon his useless friends—and I’ll be a very useful friend. Oh, what a friend I shall be to him!

He abruptly broke off, went back to the desk, squinted at the yellow phone, laughed, picked up the receiver of the green phone, and asked for the deputy head of the Department of Special Research.

“Brainiac? Good morning, this is Egghead. How are you feeling? How’s your stomach? Well, that’s excellent… Is Wanderer still not back yet?… Uh-huh… Well, OK… I got a call from upstairs, instructing me to inspect you a bit… No, no, I think it’s purely a formality, I understand damn all about what you do anyway, but you should draw up some kind of a report… the draft conclusions of an inspection visit and what have you. And make sure that everybody’s where they should be this time, not like last year… Huh… About eleven o’clock, probably… Arrange things so that I can leave with all the documents at twelve… Well, I’ll see you then. Let’s go and suffer… Do you suffer too? Or perhaps you long ago invented a form of defense? Only you’re hiding it from the bosses? All right now, I’m only joking… See you.”

He put down the receiver and glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to ten. He gave a loud groan and dragged himself off to the bathroom. This nightmare again… half an hour of nightmare. Against which there is no defense. From which there is no salvation… Which destroys the very desire to live… How very annoying it is that I’ll have to spare Wanderer.

The bath was already full of hot water. The prosecutor flung off his robe, tugged off his nightshirt, and stuck a painkiller under his tongue. The same thing all my life. One twenty-fourth of my entire life is hell. More than 4 percent… And that’s not counting the summonses from on high. Well, the summonses will end soon, but this 4 percent will remain until the very end… But then, we’ll see about that. When everything is settled, I’ll deal with Wanderer myself… He clambered into the bath, arranged himself as comfortably as possible, relaxed, and started thinking about how he would deal with Wanderer. But he didn’t have time to think of anything. The familiar pain struck him on the top of his head, traveled down along his spine, sinking a claw into every cell and every nerve, and started fiercely and methodically shredding him to pieces, in time to the wild jolting of his heart.

When it was all over, he continued lying there for a while in languid exhaustion—the torments of hell also had their compensations: a half hour of nightmare presented him with several minutes of heavenly bliss—then he climbed out, rubbed himself down in front of the mirror, opened the door a little, accepted some clean underwear from his valet, got dressed, went back into his office, drank another glass of warm milk, this time mixed with medicinal water, ate some sticky mush with honey, simply sat there for a little while, finally recovering his wits, then called his day secretary and ordered the car to be made ready.

The way to the Department of Special Research lay along the Government Highway, which was empty at this time of day. It was lined with curly trees that looked as if they were artificial. The driver drove hard, without stopping at the traffic lights, occasionally turning on a booming, bass siren. They drove up to the tall iron gates of the department at three minutes to eleven. A guardsman in dress uniform walked up to the car, leaned down, glanced in, recognized the prosecutor, and saluted. The gates immediately swung open to reveal a view of a rich, green park with white and yellow blocks of apartment buildings, and behind them the gigantic glass parallelepiped of the institute. They slowly drove along the narrow road with its forbidding warnings about speed, past a children’s playground, past the squat building of the swimming pool and the cheerful, brightly colored building of the restaurant. And all of this was surrounded by greenery, billowing clouds of greenery, and wonderful, absolutely pure air and—massaraksh!—what an amazing smell hung in the air here; there was nothing like it absolutely anywhere else, not in any field or any forest…

Oh, that Wanderer—all of this is his initiative, immense damned sums of money have been blown on all of it, but how everyone loves him here! This is the right way to live; this is the right way to set yourself up. Immense damned sums of money were blown on it and Stepfather was terribly displeased, and he’s still displeased now… Risk? Yes, of course there was a risk, but Wanderer took the risk, and now his department is his own, the people here won’t betray him, they won’t try to squeeze him out… He has five hundred people here, most of them young, they don’t read the newspapers, they don’t listen to the radio; they have no time, you see, they have important scientific research work… so here the radiation misses the target completely, or rather, the target it strikes is a completely different one.

Yes, Wanderer, if I were you, I would drag out the development of those protective helmets for a long time. Perhaps you are dragging it out? You almost certainly are. But damn it all, how can I get a serious grip on you? Now, if only a second Wanderer would just turn up… But there isn’t another mind like that one in the entire world. And he knows it. And he keeps a very close watch on any man with even a modicum of talent. He takes him in hand when he’s still young, coddles him and estranges him from his parents—and the parents, the fools, are utterly delighted!—and there, look, he has another little soldier in his ranks… Oh, what a great thing it is that Wanderer isn’t here right now, what a stroke of luck!

The car stopped and the day secretary swung the door open. The prosecutor clambered out and walked up the steps into the glass-walled vestibule. Brainiac and his minions were already waiting for him. With an appropriate expression of boredom on his face, the prosecutor flaccidly shook Brainiac’s hand, glanced at the minions, and allowed himself to be escorted to the elevator. They entered the cabin in regulation order: Mr. State Prosecutor, followed by Mr. Deputy Head of the Department, followed by the state prosecutor’s minion and the deputy head of the department’s senior minion. They left the others in the vestibule. They entered Brainiac’s office in regulation order too: the state prosecutor was followed in by Brainiac, and Mr. Prosecutor’s minion and Brainiac’s senior minion were left outside the door in the reception office. The prosecutor immediately lowered himself into an armchair in a state of exhaustion, and Brainiac immediately started fussing about, pressing buttons at the edge of the desk with his fingers, and when an entire mob of secretaries came running into the room, he ordered tea to be served.

The prosecutor spent the first few minutes amusing himself by studying Brainiac. Brainiac was looking incredibly guilty. He avoided looking the prosecutor in the eyes, kept smoothing down his hair, pointlessly rubbing his hands together, unnaturally coughing, and making a large number of meaningless, fussy movements. He always looked this way. His appearance and behavior were his main assets. He constantly roused suspicions that he had a guilty conscience and drew down constant, thoroughgoing checks and audits on himself. The Department of Public Health had studied his life hour by hour. And since his life was irreproachable, and each new check merely confirmed this rather unexpected fact, Brainiac’s rise up the professional ladder had proceeded at record speed.

The prosecutor knew all of this perfectly well—he himself had personally checked Brainiac three times, each time in the most thorough manner possible, and each time raising him one rung higher—and nonetheless at this moment, as he amused himself by scrutinizing Brainiac, he suddenly caught himself thinking that, by God, Brainiac, the artful rogue, knew where Wanderer was and was terribly afraid that this information would be dragged out of him now. And the prosecutor couldn’t resist it. “Greetings from Wanderer,” he casually said, tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

Brainiac cast a quick glance at the prosecutor and immediately looked away. “Mm… uh… yes,” he said, biting his lip and clearing his throat. “Um… In just a moment… um… they’ll bring the tea…”

“He asked you to give him a call,” the prosecutor said even more casually.

“What? Uhhh… OK… The tea today will be quite exceptional. My new secretary is a genuine connoisseur of teas… That is…”—he cleared his throat again—“…where should I call him?”

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

“No, well, it’s just that… um… in order to call him, I have to know the… the telephone number… but he never leaves a number…” Brainiac suddenly started fussing about, blushing in his distress, and slapping his hands around on the table. He found a pencil and asked, “Where did he say I should call?”

The prosecutor backed off. “I was joking,” he said.

“Eh? What?” A range of suspicious expressions instantly started flickering across Brainiac’s face in rapid succession. “Ah! Joking?” He guffawed in sham laughter. “You really caught me there… How amusing. And I was thinking… Ha-ha-ha! And here’s the tea!”

The prosecutor accepted a glass of hot, strong tea from the pampered hands of the pampered secretary and said, “OK, I was just joking, enough of that. There’s not much time. Where’s your piece of paper?”

After performing a whole heap of unnecessary movements, Brainiac extracted the draft of a certified report of inspection from the desk. If the way in which he shrank and cringed as he did this was anything to go by, the draft simply had to be crammed absolutely full of false information that was intended to lead the inspector astray, and in general must been composed with subversive intentions.

“Riiight then,” said the prosecutor, smacking his lips on a small lump of sugar. “What’s this you have here? ‘Report of Verificatory Investigation’… Riiight… The interference phenomena laboratory… the spectroscopic research laboratory… the integral radiation laboratory… I don’t understand a thing, can’t make head or tail of it. How do you make any sense out of all this?”

“Well, I… hmm… You know, I don’t really know anything about it either—after all, my professional background is as… a manager, I don’t interfere in these matters.” Brainiac kept hiding his eyes, biting on his lip, and vigorously ruffling up his hair, making it absolutely clear beyond the slightest possible doubt that he wasn’t any kind of manager but a Hontian spy with specialized higher education. Well, what a character!

The prosecutor turned his attention back to the report. He made a profound remark about the excessive expenditure of the power amplification group, asked who Zoi Barutu was, and whether he was related to Moru Barutu, the well-known propaganda writer, passed a reproachful comment with regard to the lensless refractometer, which had cost absolutely crazy money although they hadn’t even gotten a handle on it yet, and summed up the work of the radiation research and improvement sector by saying that there was no substantial progress to be observed (and thank God, he added to himself), and that his opinion on this point definitely must be included in the final draft of the report.

He looked through the section of the report dealing with protection against radiation even more casually. “You are merely marking time,” he declared. “In terms of physical protective measures, absolutely nothing had been achieved, and in terms of physiological protective measures, even less than that… In any case, physiological measures aren’t what we need at all: why would I want to let myself be hacked to pieces, you could reduce me to an idiot… But the chemists have done well—they’ve won us another minute. A minute last year, and a minute and a half the year before last… What does that mean? It means that now I can take a pill, and instead of thirty minutes, I’ll be in agony for twenty-two. Well, now that’s not bad. Almost thirty percent… Make a note of my opinion: increase the tempo of work on physical protection and pay the staff of the chemical protection division an incentive bonus. That’s all.”

He tossed the sheets of paper across to Brainiac. “Have a clean copy typed out… and my opinion too… And now, strictly pro forma, show me around… well now, let’s say… uh… I visited the physicists last time, take me to see the chemists, I’ll have a look at what they’re up to.”

Brainiac jumped to his feet and pressed more buttons, and the prosecutor got up with an air of extreme exhaustion.

Accompanied by Brainiac and his own day secretary, the prosecutor took a leisurely stroll through the laboratories of the division of chemical protection, politely smiling at people with a single chevron on the sleeve of their white coats, sometimes slapping on the shoulder those who didn’t have any chevrons, and halting beside those who had two chevrons to shake their hands, sagely nod his head, and inquire if they had any complaints.

There weren’t any complaints. They were all apparently working, or pretending to work—in this place you couldn’t tell. Little lights were blinking on various instruments, liquids were boiling in various vessels, there was a smell of some kind of garbage, and in some places they were torturing animals. Everything here was clean, bright, and spacious, the people looked well fed and calm, and they didn’t manifest any enthusiasm, behaving perfectly correctly with the inspector—but without any warmth at all, and in any case without the appropriate obsequiousness.

And hanging in almost every room—whether it was an office or a laboratory—was a portrait of Wanderer: above a desk, beside tables of figures and graphs, above a door, sometimes under glass on a desk. The portraits were amateur photographs and pencil or charcoal sketches, and one of them was even painted in oils. In this place you could see Wanderer playing ball games, Wanderer giving a lecture, Wanderer gnawing on an apple, Wanderer looking severe, thoughtful, weary, or infuriated, and even Wanderer laughing his head off. These sons of bitches even drew cartoons of him and hung them in the most obvious places!… The prosecutor imagined himself walking into the office of the junior counselor of justice, Filtik, and discovering a caricature of himself there. Massaraksh, it was unimaginable, absolutely impossible!

He smiled, slapped shoulders, and shook hands, but all the time he was thinking that this was the second time he had been here since last year, and everything seemed to be the same as before, but previously he somehow hadn’t taken any notice of it all… But now he had. Why only now?

Ah, that was why! What was Wanderer to me a year or two years ago? Formally, he was one of us, but in actuality he was merely an armchair presence who had no influence on politics, no place of his own in politics, and no goals of his own in politics. However, since then Wanderer had succeeded in doing a great deal. The statewide operation for the elimination of foreign spies was his initiative. The prosecutor had conducted those trials himself and had been astounded at the time to find that he was not dealing with the usual sham degenerate spies but with genuine, seasoned intelligence agents, planted by the Island Empire to gather scientific and economic information. Wanderer had fished them all out, every last one, and after that he had become the regular chief of special counterintelligence.

And moreover, it was Wanderer who had exposed the conspiracy led by bald Blister, an appalling character, who had been very firmly entrenched and vigorously and dangerously undermined Wanderer’s stewardship of counterintelligence. And he had whacked Blister himself—he didn’t trust anybody else to do it. He always acted openly, never used any kind of camouflage, and only acted alone—no coalitions, no unions, no temporary alliances. In this way he had brought down three heads of the Military Department, one after another—they were summoned to the top before they even had an inkling of what was happening—and then managed to get Twitcher, a man whose fear of war amounted to panic, appointed…

It was Wanderer who had hacked down Project Gold a year ago, when it presented to the top level by the Patriotic Union of Industry and Finance… At the time Wanderer had seemed to be on the verge of being toppled himself, because the project had aroused Dad’s enthusiasm, but Wanderer had somehow managed to persuade him that all the advantages of the project were strictly temporary, and in ten years’ time there would be a general epidemic of insanity and a total collapse…

He always somehow contrived to persuade them; nobody else could ever persuade them of anything, only Wanderer could. And basically it was clear why. He was never afraid of anything. Yes, he did spend a long time sitting in his office, but eventually he realized his own true worth. He realized that we needed him, whoever we might be, and no matter how fiercely we might fight among ourselves. Because only he can create protection, only he can free us from our torments… And snot-nosed kids in white coats draw caricatures of him, and he allows them to do it…

The day secretary opened the next door for the prosecutor, and the prosecutor saw his Mak. Wearing a white coat with a single chevron on the sleeve, Mak was sitting on the windowsill looking out. If a counselor of justice took the liberty of lounging on the windowsill and counting crows during work hours, he could with a clear conscience be dispatched under armed guard to the labor camps as an obvious idle parasite and even a saboteur. But in this particular case, massaraksh, it was quite impossible to say anything. Take him by the scruff of the neck and he would tell you, I beg your pardon! I am conducting a thought experiment here! Go away and don’t interfere!

The great Mak was counting crows. He briefly glanced at the men who had come in and returned to this occupation, but then he turned back and looked more closely. You recognized me, thought the prosecutor. You did, my smart fellow… He politely smiled at Mak, slapped the young lab assistant who was twirling the handle of an arithmometer on the shoulder, stopped in the middle of the room, and looked around.

“Well now…” he said into the space between Mak and Brainiac. “What do we have going on here?”

“Mr. Sim,” said Brainiac, blushing, blinking, rubbing his hands together, and clearing his throat, “explain to the inspector what you… uh… hmm…”

“But I know you, don’t I?” said the great Mak, somehow or other popping up with startling suddenness only two steps away from the prosecutor. “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but aren’t you the state prosecutor?”

Yes, dealing with Mak wasn’t easy—the entire thoroughly thought-out plan had immediately gone up in smoke. Mak hadn’t even thought of trying to hide anything, he wasn’t afraid of anything, he was curious, and from the elevation of his own immense height, he peered down at the prosecutor as if he were examining some kind of exotic animal… The prosecutor had to regroup and think on his feet.

“Yes,” he said in a tone of cold surprise, ceasing to smile. “As far as I am aware, I am indeed the state prosecutor, although I don’t understand…” He frowned and peered into Mak’s face. Mak gave a broad smile. “Ah!” the prosecutor exclaimed. “Why, of course… Mak Sim, also known as Maxim Kammerer! However, pardon me, but I was informed that you had been killed while serving penal labor… Massaraksh, how did you come to be here?”

“It’s a long story,” Mak replied with a casual wave of his hand. “And as it happens, I was also surprised to see you here. I never supposed that our activities were of any interest to the Department of Justice.”

“Your activities are of interest to the most surprising people,” said the prosecutor. He took Mak by the arm, led him to the window farthest away, and inquired in a confidential whisper, “When are you going to let us have the pills? The real pills, for the full thirty minutes.”

“Why, are you really also—” Mak began. “But then, yes, naturally…”

The prosecutor woefully shook his head and rolled up his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Our blessing and our curse,” he said. “The good fortune of our state and the wretched misfortune of its leaders… Massaraksh, I am terribly glad that you’re alive, Mak. I ought to tell you that the case in which you were tried is one of the few in my career that has left me with a sense of nagging dissatisfaction… No, no, don’t try to deny it—according to the letter of the law you were guilty, so from that point of view everything is in good order… you attacked a tower and I think killed a guardsman; that sort of thing doesn’t earn you a pat on the head, you know. But in essence… I confess that my hand trembled when I signed your sentence. As if I were sentencing a child—please don’t be offended. After all, in the final analysis, it was more our initiative than yours, and the entire responsibility—”

“I’m not offended,” said Mak. “And you’re not so very far from the truth: the escapade with that tower was puerile… In any case, I’m grateful to the state prosecutor’s office for not having us shot at the time.”

“It was all that I was able to do,” said the prosecutor. “I recall that I was very upset when I heard that you had been killed…” He laughed and squeezed Mak’s elbow in a friendly fashion. “I’m devilishly glad that everything has turned out so well. And devilishly glad to make your acquaintance…” He looked at his watch. “But tell me, Mak, why are you here? No, no, I’m not going to arrest you, it’s none of my business, the military police can deal with you now. But what are you doing in this institute? Are you really a chemist? And apart from that…” He pointed to Maxim’s chevron.

“I’m a little bit of everything,” said Mak. “A little bit of a chemist, a little bit of a physicist…”

“A little bit of an underground operative,” the prosecutor said with a good-natured laugh.

“Only a very little bit,” Mak decisively replied.

“A little bit of a conjuror,” the prosecutor said.

Mak looked at him intently.

“A little bit of a fantasizer,” the prosecutor continued, “a little bit of an adventurer.”

“But those are not professions,” Mak objected. “They are, if you like, simply the qualities of any decent scientist.”

“And any decent politician,” said the prosecutor.

“An uncommon combination of words,” Mak remarked.

The prosecutor cast a quizzical glance at him, then caught on and laughed again. “Yes,” he said. “Political activity does have certain specific characteristics. Politics is the art of washing things clean with very dirty water. Never descend into politics, Mak, stick with your chemistry.” He looked at his watch and said in annoyance, “Ah, damn it, I have absolutely no time, and I really did want to have a chat with you… I’ve looked at your file, you’re a highly intriguing individual… But you’re probably very busy too.”

“Yes,” said the clever fellow Mak. “But, of course, not so very busy as the state prosecutor.”

“Well now,” said the prosecutor, laughing once again. “Your bosses assure us that you work day and night… But I, for instance, cannot say the same for myself. A state prosecutor does sometimes find himself with a free evening… It will surprise you to hear that I have a whole heap of questions for you, Mak. I must admit that I wanted to have a talk with you back then, after the trial. But work, work, work, there’s never any end to it.”

“I’m at your disposal,” said Mak. “Especially since I also have a few questions for you.”

Oh, come on! the prosecutor mentally rebuked him. Don’t be so open about things, we’re not alone here. Out loud he replied, beaming brightly, “Excellent! I’ll do everything I can… And now, please pardon me, I have to run…”

He shook the enormous hand of his Mak, the Mak he had already caught, the Mak who had already conclusively taken the bait. He played along quite excellently, he undoubtedly does want to meet, and now I’ll sink the hook home…

The prosecutor halted in the doorway and clicked his fingers, and looked back: “Let me see now, Mak, what are you doing this evening? I’ve just realized that I have a free evening today…”

“Today?” said Mak. “Well, why not? Of course, I have—”

“Bring someone along!” the prosecutor exclaimed. “That’s even better, I’ll introduce you to my wife, it will be a splendid evening… Eight o’clock—does that suit you? I’ll send a car to pick you up. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Agreed, the prosecutor triumphantly thought as he walked around the final laboratories in the division, smiling, slapping shoulders, and shaking hands. Agreed! he thought as he signed the report in Brainiac’s office. “Agreed, massaraksh, agreed!” he triumphantly shouted to himself on the way home.

He gave the driver his instructions. He told his secretary to inform the department that the prosecutor was busy—nobody was to be received, the phones were to be disconnected, and in general they should all clear out and go to hell, but in a way that meant they would still remain within easy reach all the time. He summoned his wife and kissed her on the neck, recalling in passing that it had been ten days since they saw each other, and asked her to make arrangements for a good dinner, something light and delicious for four, to behave herself at the table and prepare herself to meet a very interesting man. And plenty of wines, various kinds and all of the very best quality…

After that he locked himself in his office, laid out the contents of the green folder on his desk again, and started thinking everything through once more from the very beginning. He was only disturbed once, when a Military Department courier brought the latest communiqué from the front. The front had fallen apart. Someone had tipped off the Hontians that they should focus on the blocking detachments, and last night they had bombarded the radiation emitter tanks with atomic shells, destroying up to 95 percent of them. No more information had been received concerning the fate of the army that had broken through. This was the end. This was the end of the war. It was the end of General Shekagu and General Odu. It was the end of Four-Eyes, Teapot, Stormcloud and other, more minor figures. It could very possibly be the end of Father-in-Law and Stepbrother. And of course, it would have been the end of Egghead, if only Egghead weren’t such a smarty pants…

He dissolved the report in a glass of water and started walking around the office in circles. He felt a tremendous sense of relief. Now, at least, he knew for certain when he would be summoned to the top. They would finish off Father-in-Law first, and then spend at least twenty-four hours choosing between Twitcher and Tooth. Then they would have to waste a bit of time on Four-Eyes and Stormcloud. That was another twenty-four hours. Well, they would casually whack Teapot in passing, and then just dealing with General Shekagu would take them at least forty-eight hours. And after that, and only after that… After that they wouldn’t have any “after that.”

He didn’t leave his office until the very moment when his guest arrived.

The guest made a quite exceptionally pleasant impression. He was magnificent. He was so magnificent that the prosecutor’s wife, who was a cold woman, sophisticated in the most formidable meaning of the word, and had long ago ceased to be a woman in his eyes but was his old battle comrade, shed twenty years at the first sight of Mak and acted in a devilishly natural manner—she could not have acted any more naturally even if she had known the part that Mak was destined to play in her fate.

“But why are you alone?” she asked in surprise. “My husband ordered dinner for four.”

“Yes, indeed,” the prosecutor put in. “I thought you would come with your lady friend—I remember the young woman, she almost came to grief because of you.”

“She did come to grief,” Maxim calmly replied. “But with your permission, can we talk about that later? Which way would you like me to go?”

They sat over dinner for a long time, in a cheerful atmosphere, laughing a lot and drinking a little bit. The prosecutor recited the latest lines of gossip—those that had been approved and were recommended for release by the Department of Public Health. The prosecutor’s wife very charmingly cracked indiscreet little jokes, and Mak described his flight in the bomber in humorous tones. As the prosecutor laughed at the story, he thought in horror about what would have become of him if even a single missile had hit the target…

When everything had been eaten and drunk, the prosecutor’s wife made her excuses, suggesting that the men prove their ability to survive without a lady for at least one hour. The prosecutor combatively accepted this challenge, grabbed Mak by the arm, and drew him into the study to regale him with a wine that only thirty or forty people in the country had ever had a chance to try.

They settled into soft armchairs on each side of a low table in a very cozy corner of the study, took a sip of the precious wine, and looked at each other. Mak was very serious. This smart fellow Mak clearly knew what the conversation would be about, and on a sudden impulse the prosecutor abandoned his initial plan for a discussion that would be artful and wearying, constructed out of veiled allusions and designed to facilitate gradual mutual revelations. Rada’s fate, Wanderer’s intrigues, the Fathers’ machinations—all that was not of the slightest importance. With breathtaking clarity that induced a sense of desperation, he acknowledged that all his mastery in conversations of that kind would be redundant with this man. Mak would either agree or refuse. It was absolutely simple, as simple as the fact that the prosecutor would either carry on living or be splatted in a few days. Hastily setting down his little glass on the little table with trembling fingers, he began without any preliminaries:

“I know, Mak, that you are an underground activist, a member of Central HQ, and a passionate enemy of the existing order of things. In addition to which, you are also a fugitive convict and the killer of the crew of a special forces tank… And now about me. I am the state prosecutor, a trusted agent of the government who has access to the highest state secrets, and also an enemy of the existing order of things. I am proposing that you should depose the Unknown Fathers. When I say ‘you,’ I mean you and only you, in person—this does not concern your organization. I ask you to please understand that any intervention by the underground can only make a hash of the job. I am proposing a conspiracy with you, based on my knowledge of the most important state secret of all. I shall inform you of that secret. Only the two of us must know it. If any third person discovers it, we shall be eliminated in the very, very near future. Don’t forget that the underground and its HQ are teeming with agent provocateurs. Therefore, do not even think of putting your trust in anybody—especially in your close friends.”

The prosecutor drained his little glass in a single gulp, without even tasting the wine.

“I know the location of the Center. And you are the only man who is capable of capturing this Center. I am proposing to you a complete, detailed plan for seizing the Center and the actions to follow that. You carry out this plan and become the head of the state. I remain as your political and economic adviser, because you know absolutely damn all concerning matters of that kind. I am familiar with the general outline of your political program: use the Center for reeducating the people in a spirit of humane values and elevated morality, and on that basis build a just society in the absolute shortest term possible. I don’t have any objections. I accept it—simply because nothing could be worse than the present situation. That’s all I have to say. You have the floor.”

Mak didn’t say anything. He remained silent, twirling the precious glass of precious wine in his fingers. The prosecutor waited. He couldn’t feel his own body. It seemed to him that he wasn’t here, that he was dangling somewhere in the celestial void, looking down at the softly lit, cozy little corner, with Mak sitting in the armchair beside him, saying nothing—a vision of something that was dead and stiff, neither speaking nor breathing…

And then Mak asked, “What are my chances of staying alive if I capture the Center?”

“Fifty-fifty,” said the prosecutor. Or rather, he imagined that he had said it, because Mak knitted his brows and repeated his question in a louder voice.

“Fifty-fifty,” the prosecutor hoarsely said. “Perhaps even better than that. I don’t know.”

Mak remained silent for a long time again.

“All right,” he eventually said. “Where is the Center located?”

19

At about noon the phone rang. Maxim picked up the receiver and the prosecutor’s voice said, “Mr. Sim, please.”

“I’m on the line,” said Maxim. “Hello.”

He immediately sensed that something bad had happened. “He’s arrived,” said the prosecutor. “Start immediately. Is that possible?”

“Yes,” Maxim said through his teeth. “But you promised me a few things.”

“I haven’t had a chance to do anything,” the prosecutor said, his voice tinged with a slight note of panic. “And now I won’t get a chance. Start immediately, at once—we can’t wait for even a single minute. Do you hear, Mak?”

“All right,” said Maxim. “Is that all?”

“He’s coming to see you. He’ll be there in thirty or forty minutes.”

“I understand. Now is that all?”

“Yes. Go on, Mak, get on with it. Go with God!”

Maxim hung up and sat there for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts. Massaraksh, everything is going down the drain… But I still have a chance to think… He grabbed the phone again. “Professor Allu Zef, please.”

“Yes,” Zef roared.

“This is Mak.”

“Massaraksh, I asked you not to pester me today—”

“Shut up and listen. Come down into the lobby immediately and wait for me there.”

“Massaraksh, I’m busy!”

Maxim grated his teeth and squinted at the lab assistant. The assistant was assiduously calculating something on an arithmometer.

“Zef,” said Maxim. “Come down to the lobby immediately. Do you understand me? Immediately!” He cut off the call and dialed Wild Boar’s number. He was lucky: Boar was home. “This is Mak. Go outside and wait for me—some urgent business has come up.”

“All right,” said Boar. “I’m on my way.”

Maxim dropped the receiver, reached into his desk, pulled out the first folder he came across, and started leafing through the pages while feverishly trying to weigh up whether everything was ready. The car was in the garage, the bomb was in the trunk, the tank was full of fuel… he didn’t have a gun, but to hell with it, he didn’t need a gun… the documents were in his pocket, Boar was waiting… It was smart of me to think of Boar… Of course, he could refuse… No, he’s not likely to refuse, I wouldn’t refuse… That’s all. I think that’s all…

He told the lab assistant, “I’ve been called to a meeting, say I’m at the Department of Construction. I’ll be back in an hour or two. See you later.”

He tucked the folder under his arm, walked out of the laboratory, and ran down the stairs. Zef was already striding around the lobby. When he saw Maxim, he stopped, clasped his hands behind his back, and scowled.

“What the hell, massaraksh—” he began before Maxim had even reached him.

Without dawdling, Maxim grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward the exit. “What the hell’s going on?” Zef muttered, digging his heels in. “Where to? What for?” Maxim shoved him out through the door, then dragged him along the asphalt path and around the corner to the garages. There was no one around, only a lawnmower chattering away on the lawn in the distance.

“Will you tell me just where you’re dragging me off to?” Zef yelled.

“Be quiet,” said Maxim. “Listen. Get all our guys together immediately. Everybody you can get hold of… To hell with any questions. Listen! Everybody you can get hold of. With weapons. There’s a pavilion just beside the gates, know it? Hole up in there. Wait. In about thirty minutes—Are you listening to me, Zef?”

“Well come on, then,” Zef impatiently said.

“In about thirty minutes, Wanderer will drive up to the gates—”

“So he’s come back, then?”

“Don’t interrupt. In about thirty minutes—maybe—Wanderer will drive up to the gates. If he doesn’t, that’s good. Just sit there and wait for me. But if he does drive up, shoot him.”

“Have you gone wacko, or what?” asked Zef, stopping dead. Maxim kept on walking and Zef ran after him, cursing and swearing. “They’ll kill all of us, massaraksh! The guards! And cops all over the place!”

“Do the best you can,” said Maxim. “Wanderer has to be shot.”

They reached the garage. Maxim heaved on the bolt and rolled the door aside.

“This idea’s totally insane,” said Zef. “What for? Why Wanderer? He’s a perfectly decent kind of guy, everyone here likes him.”

“Suit yourself,” Maxim said in a cold voice. He opened the trunk, felt for the primer and the timing mechanism through the oil-impregnated paper, and slammed the lid shut again. “I can’t tell you anything right now. But we have a chance. Our one and only chance…” He got into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. “And don’t forget this: if you don’t whack this perfectly decent kind of guy, he’ll whack me. You don’t have very much time. Go to it, Zef.”

He switched on the motor and backed out of the garage. Zef was left standing in the opening of the door. It was the first time in Maxim’s life that he had ever seen Zef looking that way—frightened, stunned, at a loss. “Good-bye, Zef,” he said to himself, just in case.

The car rolled up to the gates. The guardsman unhurriedly noted down the number, opened the trunk, glanced in, closed the trunk, went back to Maxim, and asked him, “What are you taking out?”

“A refractometer,” said Maxim, holding out his pass and the permit to remove the equipment.

“Who signed the permit?”

“I don’t know… Brainiac, probably.”

“You don’t know… If he’d signed it a bit more clearly, everything would be in order.”

The guardsman finally opened the gates. Maxim drove out onto the highway and squeezed everything he could out of his set of wheels. If it doesn’t come off, he thought, and I’m still alive, I’ll have to run for it… That damned Wanderer, he sensed something, the son of a bitch, and came back.

But what am I going to do if it does come off? Nothing’s ready, I don’t have any plans of the palace—Egghead didn’t get a chance to do anything, and he didn’t get me any photos of the Fathers either… The guys aren’t prepared, there isn’t any plan of action… That damned Wanderer—if not for him, I’d have another three days to work out a plan… Probably I should do things in this order: the palace, the Fathers, the central telegraph office and telephone exchange, an urgent dispatch to the labor camps telling General to gather all our guys together and get the hell out of there… Massaraksh, I don’t have a clue about how to seize power… And then there are still the Guards… and there’s the army… and our HQ, damn it! They’re the ones who’ll immediately spring into action! I have to start with them. Well, that’s Boar’s job. He’ll be glad to deal with it; he knows all about that side of things… And the white submarines are still hovering somewhere on the horizon… Massaraksh, that means another war!

He switched on the radio. Through the strains of a brisk march, a hoarse-voiced announcer was shouting: “…time and time again the infinite wisdom of the Unknown Fathers has been clearly demonstrated to the whole world—and on this occasion it is their military wisdom. It is as if the strategic genius of Gabellu and the Iron Warrior had come back to life! As if the glorious spirits of our invincible warrior ancestors had risen once again, racing into the action to take their place at the head of our tank columns! The Hontian provocateurs and fomenters of conflict have suffered such a crushing defeat that henceforth they will never again dare to poke their noses across our borders, never again will they covet our sacred land! The woefully inept Hontian military launched a massive armada of many thousands of bombers, rockets, and guided missiles at our cities, but here too the victory went not to the strategy of brute force and predatory aggression but to the wise strategy of infinitely subtle calculation and constant preparedness to repel the enemy. Yes, it was to good purpose that we endured deprivations, contributing the final coppers in our pockets to the consolidation of our defenses, to the creation of an impenetrable antiballistic shield! ‘Our ADT system has no equals in the world,’ retired field marshal and recipient of two Golden Banners Iza Petrotsu declared only six months ago. And you were right, old warrior! Not a single bomb, not a single rocket, and not a single missile fell on the sacred ground of the Land of the Fathers! ‘The insuperable network of steel towers is not only our indestructible shield, it is a symbol of the genius and preternatural astuteness of those to whom we owe everything—our Unknown Fathers,’ writes today’s edition of—”

Maxim switched off the radio. Yes, the war seemed to be over. But then, who could tell what else they were concocting now… Maxim turned off the main street onto a narrow side street between gigantic skyscrapers of pink stone, drove over the cobblestones past a long line for a bread shop, and pulled up at a dilapidated, blackened little house. Boar was already waiting, smoking a cigarette and leaning back against a streetlamp. When the car stopped, he flung his cigarette butt away, squeezed in through the little door, and sat down beside Maxim.

He was as calm and cool as always. “Hello, Mak,” he said. “What’s happened?”

Maxim turned the car around and drove back out onto the main street. “Do you know what a thermobaric bomb is?” he asked.

“I’ve heard about them,” said Boar.

“Excellent.”

For a while they drove in silence. The traffic was heavy and Maxim switched off, concentrating on how to cut in, work his way forward, and squeeze his way through between the immense trucks and old, stinking buses without scraping anybody or letting anybody scrape him so that he could catch the green light and then catch the next green light without sacrificing any of the pitiful speed that they already had, and eventually their car broke out onto Forest Boulevard, the familiar highway lined with huge, branching trees.

It’s amusing, Maxim suddenly thought. I drove into this world along this very road—or, rather, poor old Fank drove me into it, and I didn’t have a clue about anything, I thought he was a specialist in aliens. And now maybe I’m driving out of this world along the same road, and maybe even out of the world altogether, and I’m carrying a good man away with me… He squinted sideways at Boar. Boar’s face was absolutely calm; he was sitting there with the elbow above his false hand sticking out of the window and waiting for when he would be given an explanation. Maybe he was surprised, maybe he was agitated, but it wasn’t obvious, and Maxim felt proud that a man like this trusted him and relied on him without the slightest hesitation.

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

“How’s that?” Boar asked, turning his dry, yellowish face toward Maxim.

“Do you remember, at one of the HQ sessions you called me aside and gave me some sensible advice?”

“I remember.”

“Well then. I’m grateful to you for that. I took your advice.”

“Yes, so I noticed. You even disappointed me a bit by doing that.”

“You were right back then,” said Maxim. “I listened to your advice, and now as a result of that, things have turned out so that I have a chance to get into the Center.”

Boar gave a sudden jolt. “Right now?” he quickly asked.

“Yes. I’ve got to hurry, I haven’t had a chance to prepare anything. I might be killed, and then it will all have been in vain. That’s why I’ve taken you with me.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ll go into the building, you’ll stay in the car. After a while the alarm will be raised, and maybe shooting will break out. But it shouldn’t involve you. You keep sitting in the car and waiting. You wait for…” Maxim thought for a moment, calculating… “You wait for twenty minutes. If you get a jolt of radiation during that time, it means everything has worked out fine. You can pass out with a happy smile on your face… If not—get out of the car. There’s a bomb in the trunk with a synchronous fuse set for ten minutes. Unload the bomb onto the road, activate the fuse, and drive away. There’ll be a panic. A very great panic. Try to squeeze everything you can out of it.”

Boar pondered for a while. “Will you just let me call a couple of places?” he asked.

“No,” said Maxim.

“You see,” said Boar. “If they don’t kill you, then as I understand it, you’re bound to need men who are ready for a fight. If they do kill you, then I’ll need them. That’s what you took me along for, in case they kill you… But on my own I can only make a start, and there won’t be much time, and the men have to be warned in advance.”

“HQ?” Maxim asked in a hostile tone.

“Absolutely not. I’ve got my own group.”

Maxim didn’t say anything. A five-story building with a stone wall running across its pediment was already rising up ahead of them. That building. Somewhere inside it Fish was wandering along the corridors and the infuriated Hippopotamus was yelling and sputtering. And the Center was in there. The circle was closing.

“All right,” said Maxim. “There’s a pay phone at the entrance. When I go inside—but not before—you can get out of the car and make your calls.”

“OK,” said Boar.

They were already approaching the turn off the highway. For some reason Maxim remembered Rada and imagined what would happen to her if he didn’t come back. Things would be bad for her. Or maybe, on the contrary, they would let her go. But anyway, she’ll be alone, with Gai gone, and me gone… The poor little girl…

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

“Yes. A wife.”

Maxim bit his lip. “I’m sorry things have turned out so awkward,” he muttered.

“Never mind,” Boar calmly said. “I said good-bye. I always say good-bye when I leave the house… So this is the Center, then? Who would ever have thought it? Everybody knows that the television center and the radio center are here, and now it turns out that the Center is here too…”

Maxim stopped in the parking lot, squeezing in between a dilapidated little old car and a luxurious government limousine.

“Well, this is it,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

“With all my heart,” said Boar. His voice broke and he started coughing. “So I’ve lived to see this day after all,” he murmured.

Maxim laid his cheek on the steering wheel. “It would be good to survive this day,” he said. “It would be good to see the evening.” Boar looked at him in alarm. “I really don’t feel like going,” Maxim explained. “Oh, I don’t feel like it at all… By the way, Boar, don’t forget to tell your friends that you don’t live on the inner surface of a sphere. You live on the outer surface of a sphere. And there are many such spheres in existence on which people live far worse than you do, and some on which they live far better. But nowhere do they live more stupidly… You don’t believe me? Well, to hell with you anyway. I’m going.”

He swung open the door and clambered out. He walked across the asphalt surface of the parking lot and started walking up the stone steps, one step at a time, fingering in his pocket the entry pass that the prosecutor had had made for him. It was hot and the sky was shimmering like aluminum—the impenetrable sky of the inhabited island. The stone steps burned his feet through the soles of his shoes, or maybe he was just imagining it.

It was all stupid. The entire undertaking was amateurish. Why the hell should he do all of this when they hadn’t had a chance to properly prepare… What if there are two officers sitting there instead just one? Or even three officers sitting there in that little room, waiting for me with their automatic rifles at the ready? Cornet Chachu shot me with a pistol, the caliber’s the same, only there’ll be more bullets, and I’m not the same man I used to be; it’s really worn me down, this inhabited island of mine. And this time they won’t just let me just creep away… I’m a fool. I always was a fool and I still am. Mr. State Prosecutor snared me, hooked me on his rod… But how could he have trusted me? It doesn’t make any sense… It would be good to slope off and head for the mountains right now, breathe some pure mountain air—I’ve never had a chance to visit the mountains here… And I really love mountains… Such a clever, distrustful man—and he trusted me with such a valuable thing! The greatest treasure of this world. This abominable, repulsive, iniquitous treasure! Curse and confound it, massaraksh, and three more massarakshes, and another thirty-three massarakshes!

He opened the glass door and held out his pass to the guardsman. Then he walked across the vestibule—past the girl in glasses, who was still stamping pieces of paper, past the administrator in the peaked cap, who was bawling somebody out on the phone—and at the entrance to the corridor he showed his internal pass to another guardsman. The guardsman nodded to him—they were already acquainted, you could say: Maxim had come here every day for the last three days.

Onward.

He walked down a long corridor without any doors and turned left. This was only the second time he had been here. The first time had been the day before yesterday, by mistake. (“Where is it that you are actually trying to get to, sir?” “I’m actually trying to get to room number sixteen, Corporal.” “You’ve taken a wrong turn, sir. You need the next corridor.” “Sorry, Corporal, I beg your pardon. Yes, indeed…”)

He handed the corporal his internal pass and squinted at the two beefy guardsmen with automatic rifles standing motionless at each side of the door facing him. Then he glanced at the door that he was about to enter: SPECIAL TRANSPORTATION DIVISION. The corporal carefully examined the pass and then, still examining it, pressed a button in the wall, and a bell rang on the other side of the door. Now he had readied himself, that officer who was sitting in there beside the green curtain. Or two officers had readied themselves. Or maybe even three officers… They’re waiting for me to walk in, and if I panic at the sight of them and dart back out, I’ll be met by the corporal, and the guardsmen guarding the door without a plaque on it, which no doubt has a whole pack of soldiers lurking behind it.

The corporal handed back his pass and said, “Please go through. Have your credentials ready.”

Taking out a piece of pink cardboard, Maxim opened the door and stepped into the room.

Massaraksh. Just as he had feared.

Not one room. Three. An enfilade. And at the end—the green curtain. And a carpet runner stretching from under his feet all the way to the curtain. At least thirty yards.

And not two officers. Not even three. Six.

Two in army gray—in the first room. They had already aimed their automatics.

Two in guardsmen’s black—in the second room. They hadn’t aimed yet, but they were also ready.

Two in civilian clothes—one at each side of the green curtain in the third room. They had their heads turned and were looking off to one side.

Right then, Mak!

He went hurtling forward. It was something like a hop, skip, and jump from a standing start. He just managed to think, I’d better not rupture any tendons. The air firmly struck him in the face.

The green curtain. The civilian on the left was looking off to the side, his neck was exposed. A blow with the edge of the hand.

The civilian on the right was probably blinking. His eyelids were motionless, half-lowered. A blow up across the sinciput—and straight into the elevator.

It was dark in the elevator. Where’s the button? Massaraksh, where’s the button?

An automatic rifle started stuttering slowly and sonorously, and immediately a second one started up. Well now, excellent reactions… . But they’re still firing at the door, at the place where they saw me. They still haven’t realized what happened. It’s merely a reflex response.

The button!

A shadow slowly crept across the curtains, moving diagonally downward—one of the civilians was falling

Massaraksh, there it is—in the most obvious place.

He pressed the button and the cabin started moving downward. It was a high-speed elevator and the cabin crept down quite fast. But then, that wasn’t important now… Massaraksh, I’ve broken through!

The cabin stopped. Maxim darted out and rumbling and clanging immediately erupted in the elevator shaft, and chips of wood started flying. They were firing at the roof of the cabin from above with three barrels. OK, OK, fire away… Now they’ll realize that they don’t need to shoot, they need to get the elevator back up and come down themselves… They missed their chance, got flummoxed.

He looked around. Massaraksh, stymied again. Not one entrance but three. Three absolutely identical tunnels… Ah, but they’re simply duplicate generators. One’s working, the others are on preventive maintenance. Which one of them is working now? I think it’s that one…

He dashed toward the middle tunnel. Behind his back the elevator started growling. Oh, no, too late already… Too slow, you won’t get here in time… although, I must say, this is a long tunnel, and my foot hurts… Now here’s a turn, and now there’s no way you can get me…

He ran up to the generators, rumbling on a deep bass note under a steel slab, stopped, and rested for a few seconds with his arms lowered. Right, three-quarters of the job is already done. Even seven-eighths… What’s left is a mere trifle, no more than a half of one thirty-fourth… now they’ll come down in the elevator and plunge straight into the tunnel, about which they definitely know damn all, and the depressive radiation will drive them back out again… What else can happen? They could fling a gas grenade along the corridor. Not likely—where would they get them from? They’ve probably already raised the alarm.

The Fathers could have switched off the depressive barrier, of course… Oh, they wouldn’t decide to do that, and they won’t have time, because the five of them need to get together, with five keys, come to an agreement, figure out whether this is a stunt by one of them, a provocation… And really, who in the world can break his way in here through the radiation barrier? Wanderer, if he has secretly invented a protective device? He would be detained by the six men with automatics… There isn’t anybody else… All right, while they squabble, look for answers, and try to figure things out, I’ll get the job finished…

Around the corner in the tunnel automatics yammered into the darkness. That’s permitted. I don’t object… He leaned down over the distribution device, carefully removed the cover, and flung it into a corner. Mm-hmm, an extremely primitive little item. It’s a good thing I thought of reading up a bit on their electronics here… He lowered a finger into the circuit assembly… What if I hadn’t thought of doing that? And what if Wanderer had come back the day before yesterday? Mm-hmm, gentlemen… Massaraksh, that current is really intense… Yes, gentlemen, I would have found myself in the position of an embryomechanic who has to urgently figure out… I don’t even know what… a steam boiler? An embryomechanic would have figured that out. A camel harness? Yes, a camel harness. Eh? OK then, embryomechanic, would you have figured it out? I don’t think it’s very likely…

Massaraksh, why don’t they have any insulation on anything? Ah, so that’s where you are… Right, go with God, as Mr. State Prosecutor says!

He sat down right there on the floor and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The job was done. An immensely powerful field of depressive radiation had descended on the entire country—from south of the Blue Serpent all the way to the Hontian border, from the ocean all the way to the Alabaster Mountain Range.

The automatics around the corner have stopped firing. The gentlemen officers are feeling depressed. Now I’ll take a look at what that’s like: gentlemen officers in a depressed state.

For the first time in his life the state prosecutor is delighted to feel a burst of radiation.

The Unknown Fathers, who haven’t yet managed to figure things out and understand what’s happening, are writhing in pain, with their toes turned up, as Cornet Chachu used to say. And Cornet Chachu, by the way, is also in a state of deep depression, and the thought of that delights me.

Zef and the guys are also lying stretched out with their toes turned up. Sorry, guys, but it’s necessary.

And Wanderer! Now, isn’t that great? The terrible Wanderer is also lying there with his toes turned up, and his huge ears spread out across the floor—the hugest ears in the whole country. Or maybe he has already been shot. That would be even better.

Rada, my poor little Rada is lying in a fit of depression. Never mind, little girl, it probably isn’t painful, and it will all be over and done with soon…

Boar…

He jumped up. How much time had gone by? He went dashing back through the tunnel. Boar must also be lying with his toes turned up, but if he had heard the shooting, his nerves might have given way… Of course, that was highly doubtful—what nerves did Boar have?

He ran up to the elevator, pausing for a moment to glance at the gentlemen officers in their depressed state. It was a painful sight: all three of them had dropped their rifles and were weeping—they didn’t even have the strength to wipe away their tears and snot. Fine, weep a bit, it’s good for you. Weep over my Gai, weep over Bird… over Gel… over my Forester… I guess you haven’t wept since you were kids, and in any case you never wept over the people you killed. So weep a little bit at least before you die…

The elevator shot him up to the surface. The enfilade of rooms was full of people: officers, soldiers, corporals, guardsmen, civilians, all of them armed, all lying or sitting there lamenting, some wailing at the top of their lungs, some muttering, shaking their heads, and hammering one fist against their chests… and this one here had shot himself. Massaraksh, what a terrible thing it is, this Black Radiation, no wonder the Fathers were saving it for a rainy day.

He ran out into the vestibule, leaping over the feebly stirring people, almost flying head over heels down the stone steps, and stopped in front of his own car, relieved to be able to catch his breath. Boar’s nerves had held out. He was slumped in the front passenger seat with his eyes closed.

Maxim lugged the bomb out of the trunk, freed it from the oil-impregnated paper, carefully set it under his arm, and went back to the elevator without hurrying. He thoroughly examined the fuse, activated the timer, placed the bomb in the elevator cabin, and pressed the button. The cabin fell down and away, carrying with it a lake of fire that would be unleashed in ten minutes—or, rather, nine minutes and a number of seconds.

He ran back.

In the car he sat Boar up more or less straight, got in behind the wheel, and drove out of the parking lot. The gray building towered up over them, oppressive, grotesque, and doomed, chock full of doomed people incapable of moving or of understanding what was happening.

It was a nest, a hideous nest of vipers packed with the very choicest garbage, deliberately and thoughtfully selected garbage, and this garbage had been collected together here especially in order to transform into garbage everybody who was within reach of the hideous sorcery of radio, television, and radiation from the towers. All of them in there are enemies, and none of them would pause for even a second before riddling us with bullets, before betraying and crucifying me, Boar, Zef, Rada, and all my friends and dear ones.

And it’s a good thing that I’ve only just remembered this now; any earlier that thought would have been a hindrance to me. I would immediately have remembered Fish… The only human being in the doomed nest of vipers, and that human being happens to be a Fish. But what about Fish? he thought. What do I actually know about her? That she taught me to speak their language? And made up my bed after me? Come on now, leave Fish out of it, you know perfectly well that it’s not just a matter of Fish.

The point is that as of today you’re coming out to fight seriously, to the death, the way everybody else here fights, and you’ll have to fight against blockheads—against malicious blockheads, who have been reduced to dummies by the radiation; against cunning, ignorant, ravenous blockheads who directed that radiation; against benevolently motivated blockheads who would be glad to use the radiation to transform rabid, brutalized puppets into amiable, quasi-benign puppets… And they will all do their best to kill you, and your friends, and your cause, because—and remember this very well, master this lesson now for the rest of your life!—because in this world they don’t know any other way to change the opinion of those who don’t share their views.

The Sorcerer said, Do not let your conscience prevent you from thinking clearly; let reason learn to stifle your conscience when it is necessary. That’s right, thought Maxim. The truth of it is bitter, a terrible truth… They call what I have just done a heroic deed. Boar has lived to see this day. And Forester, Bird, Green, and Gel Ketshef all believed in this day like a heartwarming fairy tale, and so did my Gai, and hundreds and thousands of people whom I have never seen… But even so, I feel bad about it. And if I want people to trust me in the future, I must never tell anyone that the greatest feat of courage I performed wasn’t when I cavorted about under a hail of bullets but right now, when there is still enough time to go back and defuse the bomb but I’m driving this car as hard as I can push it, away from that cursed place…

He drove hard along the straight highway, the same road along which Fank had driven him six months earlier in his luxurious limousine, trying to overtake the endless column of armored trucks, hurtling along the road in order to hand Maxim over to Wanderer… and now it was clear why… Could he really have already known that the radiation didn’t affect me, that I didn’t understand anything and I could be turned and twisted any way at all? He must have known, that damned Wanderer did know. And that means he really is a devil, the most terrifying man in the country, and maybe on the planet.

“He knows everything,” the state prosecutor told me, fearfully glancing back over his shoulder… But no, not everything—you have outsmarted Wanderer, Mak, you have beaten the devil. And now you have to finish him off before it’s too late, before he has time to bounce back. Or maybe he has already been finished off—right in front of the gates of his own lair… Oh, I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it, the guys aren’t up to that job. Blister had twenty-four relatives with machine guns…

Massaraksh. It’s true that I don’t know how revolutions are made. I didn’t make any preparations for seizing the telegraph office, the telephone exchange, and the bridges right at the very outset, I have hardly any men at all, the rank-and-file underground members don’t know me, Central HQ will be against me… I didn’t even manage to inform General in the penal labor camp to get ready to rouse the political prisoners and shoot them up here on a special train. But no matter what happens there, I have to finish Wanderer off. I have to be able to finish Wanderer off and hold out for a few hours until the army and the Guards are knocked out by radiation deprivation. None of them know about radiation deprivation, do they? Even Wanderer probably doesn’t know—how could he know? After all, in the entire country, Gai is the only one who has ever been removed from the radiation field—by me.

There were lots of cars on the highway, all of them standing in chaotic disarray—across the roadway, at a slant, slumped over into the roadside ditches. The drivers and passengers, crushed by depression, were sitting, dolefully lamenting, on the running boards, helplessly slouching off the seats, and lying around at the edge of the road. All of this was a hindrance; Maxim constantly had to brake, doubling back and driving around blockages, and he didn’t immediately notice that moving toward him from the direction of the city, also doubling back and driving around blockages, was a low, flat, bright yellow government automobile.

They met on a relatively clear section of the highway and shot past each other, almost colliding, and Maxim had time to spot a naked cranium, round green eyes, and immense, protruding ears. He cringed bodily, because suddenly everything had gone down the tubes again… Wanderer! Massaraksh! The entire country is lying around in a state of depression, and that bastard, that devil, has wormed his way out of things again! So he did invent his protective device after all… And I don’t have a gun…

Maxim looked in the mirror: the long yellow car was turning around. Well then, I’ll have to get by without a gun. At least this is something that my conscience won’t torment me about… Maxim stepped on the accelerator. Speed, speed… come on, come on, sweetheart, more… The flat yellow hood was moving closer, growing larger, Maxim could already see the intent green eyes above the steering wheel… Right, Mak!

Maxim splayed out his legs to brace himself, barricaded Boar in place with one arm, and stamped down on the brake with all his strength.

With an ear-shredding howling and squealing of brakes, the yellow hood smashed into Maxim’s trunk, grinding and crunching, crumpling up into a concertina and standing up on end. Glass showered everywhere. Maxim kicked open the door and tumbled out of his car. The pain was terrible—there was pain in his heel, pain in his smashed knee, pain in his skinned arm—but an instant later he forgot about it, because Wanderer was already standing there in front of him. It was impossible, but it was true. A long, lean devil, with his hand menacingly drawn back to strike…

Maxim flung himself at Wanderer, putting everything he had left into that leap. He missed! And then there was a terrible blow to the back of his head… The world tilted over and Maxim almost fell, but he didn’t after all, and then Wanderer was back in front of him again, with his naked cranium, intent green eyes, and hand drawn back to strike… Stop, stop, he’s going to miss… Aha!… What’s he looking at?… Come on, you can’t fool us like that… With his face frozen still, Wanderer was staring over Maxim’s head; Maxim pounced again and this time he hit the target. The long, black man doubled over and slowly collapsed onto the asphalt. Then Maxim looked around.

The gray cube of the Center was clearly visible from here, but it was no longer a cube. It was caving in as he watched, heaving up and collapsing into itself; a trembling haze of sultry air, steam, and smoke was rising up from it, and something blindingly white, hot even at this distance, was peeping out in appalling merriment through the long vertical cracks and the window holes… OK, so everything’s in order there.

Maxim triumphantly turned back to Wanderer. The devil was lying on his side, clutching his stomach in his long arms, and his eyes were closed. Maxim cautiously moved a little bit closer. Boar stuck his head out of the crumpled little car. He wriggled and squirmed around as he tried to clamber out. Maxim stopped beside Wanderer and leaned down, trying to figure out how to strike to instantly finish this. Massaraksh, his damned hand refused to strike at a man on the ground…

And then Wanderer half-opened his eyes and said in a hoarse voice, “Dummkopf! Rotznase!”

Maxim didn’t immediately understand him, and when he did, his legs almost buckled underneath him.

Fool…

Snot-nose…

Fool…

Snot-nose…

Then he heard Boar’s voice speak out of the gray, echoing void, “Just move away, Mak, I’ve got a pistol.”

Without even looking, Maxim grabbed hold of his hand.

Wanderer sat up with a struggle, still clutching his stomach. “Snot-nosed kid…” he hissed, straining to speak. “Don’t just stand there stock-still… go find a car… move it, move it. Don’t just stand there like that, look around!”

Maxim obtusely looked around. The highway was coming to life. There was no more Center, it had been transformed into a puddle of molten metal, into steam and stench, the towers weren’t working any longer, the puppets had ceased to be puppets. As they came to, dumbfounded people were sullenly gazing around, shuffling their feet beside their cars, trying to figure out what had happened to them, how they had ended up here, and what to do next.

“Who are you?” asked Wild Boar.

“None of your business,” Wanderer replied in German. He was in pain, groaning and gasping for breath.

“I don’t understand,” said Boar, raising the barrel of his pistol.

“Kammerer…” Wanderer exclaimed. “Shut your terrorist’s mouth… and go find a car…”

“What car?” Maxim dim-wittedly asked.

“Massaraksh…” Wanderer croaked. He raggedly struggled to his feet, still hunching over and pressing his hand against his stomach, staggered over to Maxim’s little car, and climbed inside.

“Get in… quickly…” he said from behind the steering wheel. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the pillar of smoke illuminated by flames. “What did you plant in there?” he asked in a despairing voice.

“A thermobaric bomb.”

“In the basement or in the vestibule?”

“In the basement,” Maxim said.

Wanderer groaned and sat there for a moment with his head thrown back, then switched on the engine. The car gave a shudder and started rattling. “Get in will you, at last!” he yelled.

“Who are you,” asked Boar. “A Hontian?”

Maxim shook his head, tore open the door that was jammed shut, and told him, “Climb in.”

He himself walked around the car and got in beside Wanderer. The car jerked, and something inside it started squealing and crunching, but it was already rolling down the highway, grotesquely wobbling along, jangling its doors that wouldn’t close properly and loudly backfiring.

“What are you intending to do now?” Wanderer asked.

“Wait…” Maxim asked him. “At least tell me who you are.”

“I work as a Galactic Security agent,” Wanderer said in a bitter voice. “I’ve been here for five years. We’re working on trying to save this unfortunate planet. Painstakingly, taking into account all the possible consequences. All of them, do you understand? And who are you? Who the hell are you to go meddling in somebody else’s business, ruining all our calculations, blowing things up, shooting—who the hell are you?”

“I didn’t know,” Maxim said in a crestfallen voice. “How could I have known?”

“Yes, of course you didn’t know. But you did know that independent interference is forbidden—you’re an employee of the FSG… You ought to have known… Back on Earth his mother’s going insane over him… Some girls or other keep calling all the time… His father’s abandoned his job… What were you intending to do next?”

“I was intending to shoot you,” said Maxim.

“Whaaat?” The car swerved.

“Yes,” Maxim humbly said. “And what was I supposed to do? I was told that you were the head villain here, and…”—he chuckled—“…and it wasn’t hard to believe it.”

Wanderer dubiously squinted at him with a round, green eye. “Well, OK. And what then?”

“Then the revolution was supposed to start.”

“And why should it?”

“But the Center is destroyed, isn’t it? There’s no more radiation.”

“So what?”

“Now they’ll immediately realize that they’re being oppressed, that their life is wretched, and they’ll rise up—”

“Where will they rise up to?” Wanderer sadly asked. “Who will rise up? The Unknown Fathers are still alive, and thriving, the Guards are alive and well, the army is mobilized, the country is on a war footing… What exactly did you calculate would happen?”

Maxim lowered his head. Of course, he could have told this sad monster about his plans, his intentions for the future and the rest of it, but what was the point, since nothing was ready, since things had turned out like this…

“They’ll do their own calculating.” He pointed over his shoulder at Boar. “Let this man do the calculating, for instance… My job was to give them a chance to calculate a few things for themselves.”

“Your job…” Wanderer sputtered. “Your job was to sit in a corner and wait for me to catch you.”

“Yes, probably,” said Maxim. “Next time I’ll bear that in mind.”

“You’re going straight back to Earth today,” Wanderer harshly said.

“I’ll see you burn first!” Maxim protested.

“You’re going straight back to Earth today,” Wanderer repeated, raising his voice. “I’ve got enough trouble on this planet without you. Collect your Rada and be on your way.”

“You have Rada?” Maxim eagerly asked.

“Yes, she’s been with me for a long time. Alive and well, don’t worry.”

“For Rada—thank you,” said Maxim. “Thank you very much.”

The car drove into the city. On the main street a monstrous traffic jam was honking and pouring out smoky fumes. Wanderer turned onto a side street and started driving though the slums. Everything here was dead. Military policemen jutted up like columns on the corners, their hands clasped behind their backs, their faces surmounted by battle helmets. Yes, they had rapidly responded to events. A general alarm and everyone was at their posts. As soon as they recovered from the depression. Maybe I shouldn’t have blown everything up immediately—maybe I ought to have followed the prosecutor’s plan? No, no, massaraksh, let everything go on just as it is now. I don’t want to hear his pointless rebukes. Let them figure out what’s what for themselves—they’re sure to figure things out, after all, just as soon as their heads clear…

Wanderer turned back out onto the main highway. Boar delicately slapped him on the shoulder with the barrel of his pistol. “If you don’t mind, let me out here. Right over there, where the men are standing…”

The men were standing beside a newspaper kiosk, with their hands thrust deep into the pockets of their gray raincoats—about five of them—but apart from them there was nobody out on the sidewalks; the local residents had obviously been badly frightened by the depressive radiation strike and had all hidden away in various places.

“And what do you intend to do?” Wanderer asked, slowing down.

“Breathe a bit of fresh air,” Boar replied. “The weather’s really glorious today.”

“He’s one of ours,” Maxim told him. “You can say anything in front of him.”

The car halted at the roadside. The men in raincoats went behind the kiosk, and Maxim could see them peeping out from there.

“One of ours?” asked Boar. “Who are they, ours?”

At a loss, Maxim looked at Wanderer. Wanderer had no intention of trying to help him out.

“Anyway, OK,” said Boar. “I trust you. We’re going to deal with HQ now. I think HQ is the right place to start. There are people there—you know who I’m talking about—who need to be gotten out of the way, before they can put a halter on the movement.”

“Good thinking,” Wanderer suddenly growled. “And by the way, I think I recognize you. You are Tik Fesku, otherwise known as Wild Boar. Is that right?”

“Exactly right,” Boar politely said. Then he told Maxim, “And you deal with the Fathers. It’s a difficult job, but it’s just right for you. Where can I find you?”

“Wait, Boar,” said Maxim. “I almost forgot. In a few hours the whole country will collapse for days from radiation deprivation. Everybody will be absolutely helpless.”

“Everybody?” Boar doubtfully asked.

“Everybody except the degenerates. We need to make good use of that period of several days.”

Boar thought and raised his eyebrows. “Well now, that’s excellent,” he said. “If it’s true… As it happens, it’s degenerates that we’ll be dealing with. But I’ll bear it in mind. So where can I find you?”

Before Maxim could reply, Wanderer spoke for him. “At the same phone number,” he said. “And the same place. And I’ll tell you this. Set up your committee, since that’s how things have worked out. Reestablish the same organization that you had under the empire. Some of your people work for me in the institute… Massaraksh!” he suddenly hissed. “We have no time, and none of the people we need are close at hand… Damn you to hell, Mak!”

“The most important thing,” said Boar, setting his hand on Maxim’s shoulder, “is that there isn’t any more Center. Well done, Mak. Thank you…” He squeezed Maxim’s shoulder and awkwardly clambered out of the car, grappling with his artificial hand. Then suddenly his feelings broke through. “Lord,” he exclaimed, standing beside the car with his eyes closed, “is it really and truly gone? That’s… it’s…”

“Close the door,” said Wanderer. “Harder, harder…”

The car sped away. Maxim looked back. Boar was standing in the middle of the small group of men in gray raincoats and saying something, waving his good arm around. The men were standing there without moving. They still hadn’t understood what had happened. Or they didn’t believe it.

The street was empty. Armored personnel transports carrying guardsmen came trundling toward them along the edges of the sidewalks, and far up ahead, where the turn for the department was, trucks were already parked across the road and little figures in black were running across it. And suddenly a sickeningly familiar orange-yellow patrol vehicle with a long telescopic antenna appeared in the column of personnel transports.

“Massaraksh,” Maxim murmured. “I completely forgot about those gizmos!”

“You forgot about lots of things,” Wanderer growled. “You forgot about the mobile radiation emitters, you forgot about the Island Empire, you forgot about the economy… Are you aware that there is inflation in this country? Do you even have any idea what inflation is? Are you aware that famine is imminent, that the land is infertile? Are you aware that we have not had time to establish reserves of bread or reserves of medical supplies here yet? Do you know that in twenty percent of cases this radiation deprivation of yours leads to schizophrenia? Huh?”

He wiped his mighty forehead with the receding hair at the temples. “We need doctors… twelve thousand doctors. We need protein synthesizers. We need to decontaminate a hundred million hectares of polluted soil—just for a start. We need to halt the degeneration of the biosphere… Massaraksh, we need at least one earthman on the Islands, in that blackguard’s admiralty… Nobody can stay in place there—none of our men can even get back and tell us for certain what’s going on there…”

Maxim didn’t say anything. They reached the vehicles blocking the way through, and a dark-faced, stocky officer, waving his arm in a strangely familiar manner, walked up to them and demanded their documents in a croaking voice. Wanderer angrily and impatiently thrust a glittering ID card under his nose. The officer morosely saluted and glanced at Maxim. It was Mr. Cornet—no, now already Mr. Brigadier of Guards Chachu. His eyes opened wide. “Is this man with you, Your Excellency?” he asked.

“Yes. Order them to let me through immediately.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, but this man—”

“Let me through immediately,” Wanderer barked.

Brigadier Chachu sullenly saluted, swung around, and waved to the soldiers. One of the trucks moved aside and Wanderer hurled the car into the gap that opened up.

“That’s the way it is,” he said. “They’re ready; they were always ready. And you thought it was all Abracadabra and it’s done. Shoot Wanderer, hang the Fathers, disband the cowards and fascists at your HQ, and the revolution will be over.”

“I never thought that,” said Maxim. He was feeling very miserable, crushed, helpless, and hopelessly stupid.

Wanderer squinted at him and gave a crooked grin. “Well, all right, all right,” he said. “I’m just angry. Not with you—with myself. I answer for everything that happens here, and it’s my fault that things have turned out this way. I simply couldn’t keep up with you.” He grinned again. “You guys in the FSG are quick on your feet.”

“No,” said Maxim, “don’t torment yourself like that. I’m not tormenting myself—I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Call me Rudolf.”

“Yes… I’m not tormenting myself, Rudolf. And I don’t intend to. I intend to work. And make a revolution.”

“You’d better intend to go home,” said Wanderer.

“I am home,” Maxim impatiently said. “Let’s not talk about that any more… I’m interested in the mobile radiation emitters. What can be done about them?”

“Nothing has to be done about them,” Wanderer replied. “You’d do better to think about what can be done about inflation.”

“I’m asking about the radiation emitters,” said Maxim.

Wanderer sighed. “They work on batteries,” he said. “And they can only be recharged at my institute. In three days’ time they’ll croak… But in a month’s time an invasion is due to begin. Usually we manage to throw the submarines off course so that only a few of them reach the coast. But this time they’re assembling an armada… I was counting on the depressive radiation, but now we’ll simply have to sink them…” He paused for a moment. “So you’re at home, are you? Well, let’s suppose you are… Then what precisely do you intend to do now?”

They were already approaching the department. The heavy gates were tightly closed, and there were black gun ports that Maxim had never seen before in the stone wall. The department had become like a fortress, ready for battle. But three men were standing in front of the pavilion, and Zef’s ginger beard blazed as brightly as an exotic flower among the greenery.

“I don’t know,” said Maxim. “I’m going to do what well-informed people tell me to do. If I have to, I’ll deal with inflation. If I have to, I’ll sink submarines… But I know my most important task now: as long as I’m alive, nobody will ever be able to build another Center. Not even with the very best intentions in the world.”

Wanderer didn’t say anything to that. The gates were very close now. Zef scrambled through the hedge and walked out into the road. His automatic rifle was hanging behind his shoulder, and it was obvious from a distance that he was angry, and now he would start cursing and demanding explanations for why, massaraksh, they had dragged him away from his work, filled his head with all sorts of nonsense about Wanderer, and left him hanging around here among the flowers for more than an hour like a little kid.