Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god


 © Copyright Arcady and Boris Strugatsky
 © Copyright Translated by Wendayne Ackerman, 1973
 © Copyright DAW Books, INC.
 Origin: "Trudno byt bogom"
 OCR: SCOUT


PROLOGUE
     The  stock of Anka's crossbow was made of  black plastic. The string of
chrome steel was operated by a noiselessly moving winch. Anton did not think
much of such  innovations. He owned a  conventional arquebus in the style of
Marshal Totz, King  Pitz the  first. It was overlaid with black copper and a
rope of steer sinews ran along small wheels.  Pashka, on the other hand, had
an air rifle.  Crossbows were childish weapons, he thought, for he  was lazy
by nature and lacked manual dexterity.
     They landed  on the  north shore at a  spot where the gnarled roots  of
mighty pine trees protruded from the yellow  sandy slope. Anka let go of the
rudder and looked  around.  The  sun had risen  above the forest. A blue fog
hung over the  lake. The pines glowed dark green  and a  yellow sandy  beach
stretched in the distance. A light blue sky arched over the whole landscape.
     The children bent over the side of the boat and looked into the water.
     "Can't see a thing," said Pashka.
     "A huge pike," said Anton, a trifle too sure of himself.
     "With fins like that?" asked Pashka.
     Anton did not reply. Anka, too, looked into the water, but she saw only
her own reflection in it.
     "How about taking  a swim?"  said Pashka, and plunged his arm into  the
water up to the elbow. "Cold," he reported.
     Anton  climbed  onto the bow and jumped ashore. The  boat rocked to and
fro.  Anton took hold  of the boat and glanced questioningly at Pashka.  Now
Pashka  rose, placed  the oar like  a water carrier's beam  across his neck,
bent his knees a bit and sang at the top of his voice:

     Old salt, sea-dog, Witzliputzli!
     Are you watching, on your guard?
     Look! A school of hard-boiled sharkies
     Are approaching, swimming hard!

     Anton rocked the boat.
     "Hey, hey!" yelled Pashka, trying not to lose his balance.
     "Why 'hard-boiled?'" Anka asked.
     "I  don't know,"  answered Pashka.  They climbed out  of the boat. "But
it's pretty good, isn't it? 'A school of hard-boiled sharkies!'"
     They pulled the boat ashore. Their feet  slipped on the wet sand, which
was  strewn  with  dried  needles and  pine  cones.  The boat was  heavy and
slippery but they dragged it all the way up onto the land. Then they stopped
for a while to catch their breath.
     "Almost squashed my foot,"  said  Pashka, and straightened his red fez.
He  made sure that the  tassel hung directly above his right  ear--just like
the  broad-nosed  Irukanian  pirates  were wont to do.  "life  isn't worth a
farthing, my dear!" he recited dramatically.
     Anka was intently sucking her finger.
     "A splinter?" asked Anton.
     "No. Got a scratch. One of you two must have long nails."
     "Let me see!"
     She showed him her finger.
     "Yes," said Anton. "A scratch.--Well, let's do something!"
     "Pick up your arms and let's walk along the shore!" suggested Pashka.
     "For that we didn't need to crawl ashore," Anton said.
     "It's chicken to stay in the boat," stated Pashka. "But along the shore
there  are  all kinds  of  things. Reeds, canyons,  whirlpools, eddies  with
eels--and catfish, too."
     "A school of hard-boiled catfish," said Anton.
     "Hey, did you ever dive into a whirlpool?"
     "Sure."
     "Funny that I didn't see you do it."
     "Lots of things you haven't seen yet"
     Anka turned her  back on them, raised  her crossbow and aimed at a pine
tree 20 feet away. The bark came off in splinters.
     "Wow,  did  you  see that!"  exclaimed Pashka with admiration.  Then he
aimed  his air rifle at  the same  spot. But  he  missed. "I  didn't hold my
breath properly," he said.
     "And even if you had held it properly, so what?" asked Anton. He looked
at Anka.
     With  a firm movement Anka retracted the steel bow  with the winch. She
had splendid  muscles,  and Anton watched with pleasure the hard ball of her
biceps rolling beneath her tanned skin.
     Anka took  aim carefully,  and  shot again. The second arrow penetrated
the tree trunk, a bit lower than the first
     "That  doesn't make  any sense," said Anka, and  let  the crossbow hang
down her side. "What?" asked Anton.
     "We're  only  damaging the trees, that's all. Yesterday, a  kid shot an
arrow at a tree and I forced him to pull that arrow out with his own teeth."
     "Pashka would have run away," said Anton. "You have good teeth."
     "I can whistle through my teeth, too," said Pashka.
     "Well," said Anka, "let's do something!"
     "I don't feel like climbing up and down canyons," said Anton.
     "Me neither. Let's walk straight ahead."
     "Where to?" asked Pashka.
     "Just follow your nose."
     "Meaning what?" said Anton.
     "Let's  go into the  forest!" said Pashka. "Toshka, do you remember the
'Forgotten Road'?"
     "Sure!"
     "You know, Anetchka--" said Pashka.
     "Don't you call me Anetchka," Anka cut in abruptly. She could not stand
to be called by any other name than Anka.
     Anton remembered very well that she did not like it, and said quickly:
     "Sure--the Forgotten Road. Nobody has driven over it for ages. It isn't
even marked on the map, and where it leads to, nobody knows."
     "Have you ever been there?"
     "Yes. But we didn't explore it."
     "A  road  coming from nowhere and leading nowhere," stated Pashka,  who
had regained his former self-assurance.
     "That's fine!" said Anka. Here eyes narrowed to black slits. "Let's go!
Will we get there by tonight?"
     "What are you talking about? Well be there by noon."
     They clambered up the steep slope.  Once they  had arrived  at the top,
Pashka tamed around. Down below was the blue  lake with yellow speckled sand
bars, and the boat on the sandy  beach. Close to the shore, where  the water
was as smooth  as oil, large concentric circles broke the surface-- that was
the  pike,  probably.  And  the  boy  felt,  as  always, that  vague  joy he
experienced whenever he and Toshka stole away from the boarding-school and a
whole day of  freedom lay before  them. A day filled with unexplored places,
strawberries,  sun-scorched deserted  meadows, lizards, and  ice cold  water
from unexpected springs amidst the rocks. And as always he felt  overcome by
a desire  to  shout  out  loud and  jump up into  the air.  Anton,  laughing
happily, watched him, and Pashka saw the understanding in his friend's eyes.
Anka placed two fingers in her mouth and gave forth with a piercing whistle.
And they entered the forest.
     It was a pine wood, with sparse vegetation. Their feet skidded over the
slippery, needle-covered  soil.  The slanting sun rays glittered between the
straight tree trunks, and golden spots danced on the ground. The air smelled
of resin, the nearby lake,  and strawberries. Somewhere, far above  them, an
invisible lark was warbling.
     Anka walked ahead.  She  carried her crossbow in one hand, and with the
other reached  now  and then for the strawberries  that occasionally  peeked
out, as  red as blood, from among the foliage. Anton marched behind her with
the solid battle gear of Marshal  Totz slung  over his shoulder. The quiver,
filled with mighty  battle arrows, rhythmically  banged against the seat  of
his  trousers  with every  step.  He  looked at Anka's neck:  it was  deeply
tanned,  and the vertebrae jutted out like  little knobs. Once in a while he
turned around and looked for Pashka, who had disappeared; only  the red  fez
flashed  from time to time  in the bright  sunlight. Anton  imagined  Pashka
prowling  silently  among  the  pine  trees, his air  rifle held  in  firing
position, his  lean face  with the hooked  nose pointing  forward  like some
predatory animal Pashka crawling through the underwood. But the forest knows
no mercy.  A challenge--and you  must react at  once,  thought Anton. He was
just about  to duck--but Anka  was walking  right  in front  of him, and she
might turn around any moment Wouldn't he look silly then!
     Anka tamed around and asked:
     "Did you sneak away real quietly?"
     Anton shrugged his shoulders. "Nobody sneaks away noisily!"
     "Well,  I  did. I  guess  I made some awful  noise," said Anka  with  a
worried expression.  "I dropped  a  cup--and suddenly I heard steps  in  the
corridor. Probably old maid Katja; she's on duty today. I had to jump out of
the  window  into  a  flower bed.  Guess what  kind  of flowers grow  there,
Toshka?"
     Anton frowned.
     "Under your window? I don't know, what kind?"
     "Pretty  tough flowers. No wind can rock them, no storm can break them.
You can jump around in them and trample on them and it won't harm them."
     "That's interesting," said Anton in a serious voice. He remembered that
he also had  a flower bed under his window, with flowers  that were  neither
rocked by  wind nor broken  by  storm.  But  actually he had never  paid any
attention to it.
     Anka stopped and waited until  Anton had  caught up  with her. She held
her  hand out  to him.  It  was full  of strawberries. With  the tip of  his
fingers, Anton seized exactly three berries.
     "Go ahead. Take some more," said Anka.
     "No, thanks," said Anton.  "I like to pick  them myself.-- But  listen,
Anka, it must be easy to get along with old maid Katja, isn't it?"
     "That all depends," said Anka. "Just imagine somebody telling you every
night how dirty and dusty your feet are--"
     She  fell  silent. It was good  to  walk with  her  through  the woods,
shoulder  to shoulder, and their bare  elbows touching now and  then. And it
felt good to  look at her--how pretty  she was, so nimble,  so friendly--and
how big and gray her eyes were, and what dark lashes she had.
     "Sure," said  Anton, and stretched out his hand to  grasp a  spider web
that glistened in the sun. "Her feet wouldn't get dirty. If somebody carried
you through every puddle, then you wouldn't get dirty either."
     "Who carries her?"
     "Henry from the weather station. A big, strong guy with blond hair, you
know."
     "Really?"
     "Didn't you know it? It's old hat, everybody knows they're in love."
     Both fell silent again. Anton looked at Anka. Her eyes were dark caves.
     "And when did that happen?" she asked.
     "Oh, on a moonlit  night," replied Anton, not too eagerly.  "Just  keep
this all to yourself, will you?"
     Anka laughed.
     "It wasn't hard to drag it  out of you, Toshka," She said. "Do you want
some more strawberries?"
     Quite  mechanically, Anton now  took  some berries from her red-stained
hand and  put them  in his mouth. I don't like gossip-mongers, he  thought I
can't stand people who tell tales about others. Suddenly he had a thought.
     "Some day somebody will carry you, too. How would you like it if people
talk about it then?"
     "I'm certainly not going to tell anybody about it," said Anka. "I don't
like gossip."
     Then  she continued in a  more confidential tone: "You know, I'm really
fed up with having to wash my feet two times every night."
     Poor old maid Katja, thought Anton. What an uphill fight she has.
     They reached a narrow lane. The path led up a steep slope and  the wood
became darker and darker. Ferns grew in profusion, and wood sorrel. The pine
trunks were covered with moss and the whitish foam of lichen.
     But the forest knows no  mercy. Suddenly a hoarse, shrill voice,  quite
unhuman, roared out:
     "Stop! Throw your  arms to the ground! You, milord, noble don  and you,
too, Dona!"
     If  there is a  challenge in the woods, you must react at  once,  Anton
knew.  With calculated precision, Anton  pushed Anka down into the ferns  to
the left of the path, while he himself leapt into the ferns to the right. He
slipped at first,  and then  hid behind the evil-smelling lichen  foam.  The
echo  of the  hoarse voice still  rang through  the wood,  but the  path was
empty. Suddenly everything was quiet.
     Anton turned to one side to bend his bow, when an arrow  hit  close by.
Dirt showered down on him. The hoarse, unhuman voice announced:
     "Milord has been hit in the heel!"
     Anton moaned and pulled up his left
     "Not that one, it's the right heel!" corrected the voice.
     He could hear Pashka  giggle nearby. Cautiously, Anton peered out  from
the ferns, but he could not see him anywhere in the dusky, green jungle.
     At that moment, a penetrating,  whistling sound came and a thud as if a
tree were falling to the ground.
     "Owoooooo!" howled Pashka in  a tortured voice. "Have mercy!  Spare  my
life! Don't kill me!"
     Anton  leapt to his feet.  From the  thicket of  ferns  he  saw  Pashka
approach in an unsteady  gait, both arms raised above his head. Anka's voice
asked:
     "Toshka, can you see him?"
     "Yes,  I  can," called  Anton cheerfully. "Don't  move!"  he yelled  in
Pashka's direction. "Put your hands on top of your head!"
     Pashka obediently clasped his hands above his head and declared:
     "I won't tell a thing."
     "What shall we do with him, Toshka?" asked Anka.
     "You'll find out in just a minute," said Anton, settling comfortably on
the ground and placing his crossbow across his knees.
     "Name!" he croaked, using the voice of the witch of Irukan.
     Pashka simply  arched his back and made a contemptuous  gesture. He did
not  want  to submit  to  defeat.  Anton  fired.  The  heavy  arrow  noisily
penetrated the branches above Pashka's head.
     "Wow!" exclaimed Anka.
     "They  call me Don Sarancha," grudgingly confessed Pashka. And  then he
began  to  recite:  "And  here  lies,  as  you  all  can  see,  one  of  his
accomplices."
     "An infamous  thug  and  murderer,"  Anton  clarified. "But he is known
never  to do  something for nothing.  On whose behalf  have you come here to
snoop around?"
     "Don Satarina the Pitiless has sent me," Pashka lied.
     Anton spoke with contempt in his voice:
     "This hand of mine cut the thread of Don Satarina's  stinking  life  on
the Square of the Heavy Swords just two years ago."
     "Shall I pierce him with an arrow?" suggested Anka.
     "Oh, I completely  forgot," said Pashka  quickly. "Actually,  I'm being
sent by Arata  the Fair.  He promised  me one hundred  gold pieces for  your
heads."
     Anton slapped his knees.
     "What  a liar!" he shouted. "Do you  believe  for an instant that Arata
would have anything to do with a swindler like you?"
     "Maybe  I'd  better  pierce him  with  an  arrow  after all?"  asked  a
bloodthirsty Anka.
     Anton laughed demonically.
     "By the way," said Pashka, "you were shot in your heel. You should have
collapsed long since from losing so much blood."
     "Nuts!" countered Anton. "First of all, I've had  a piece from the bark
of the  White Tree in  my  mouth the whole time; and, second, two  beautiful
barbarian maidens bandaged my wound."
     The  ferns  began to move and Anka stepped out onto the  path.  On  her
cheek was a long scratch and her knees were smeared with earth and lichen.
     "It's  about time we threw him  into the swamp," she  declared. "If the
enemy won't surrender, he must be destroyed."
     Pashka's arms dropped down and dangled at his sides.
     "You don't stick to the rules of the game," he said to Anton. "With you
it always turns out that the witch is a good person."
     "You don't know the first thing about it!" said Anton. He, too, stepped
out onto the path. 'The forest knows no mercy, you filthy mercenary."
     Anka returned the air rifle to Pashka.
     "You two  are real sharpshooters," said  Anka enviously. "Do you always
aim so close?"
     "What else did you expect from us?" Pashka asked. "We don't  run around
yelling 'Bang, bang--you're dead!' When we play, we always take risks."
     Anton added with nonchalance:
     "We play William Tell a lot."
     "We  take turns," volunteered Pashka. "One day I have to go stand there
with an apple on my head, and next time he's got to do it."
     "You  don't say." Her words  came slowly. "I'd love to watch that  some
time."
     "We'd show it to you right now--with pleasure," snapped Anton. 'Too bad
we don't have an apple!"
     Pashka grinned  from ear to ear.  But Anka  quickly yanked the pirate's
fez from his head and swiftly rolled it up into a cone.
     "It doesn't  have to  be  an apple!" she said. "This makes a  marvelous
target. Come on, let's play William Tell!"
     Anton took the red cone and examined  it carefully. He glanced at Anka;
her eyes were like dark wells. Pashka was dancing about; he felt great Anton
held the cone out to him.
     "I can  hit the bull's-eye  at  30 paces," he  said flatly. "Of course,
only with a pistol I'm familiar with."
     "Really?" said Anka, and she turned to Pashka. "And how about  you? Can
you score a direct hit from 30 feet away?"
     "I'm  known  as  the  fastest  gun this  side of  the lake!" he grinned
broadly. "Let's try it out."
     Anton made an about-face and walked down the path, counting out loud:
     "... fifteen... sixteen... seventeen..."
     Pashka said  something that Anton couldn't hear, and Anka laughed, much
too loud.
     "Thirty," said Anton and turned around.
     At a distance of thirty paces, Pashka looked pretty small. The red cone
sat on his  head like a  dunce cap.  Pashka  grinned. He was still  playing.
Anton leaned forward and leisurely drew his bow.
     "Bless you. Father  William!"  Pashka called out to him. "And  whatever
happens, thanks for everything!"
     Anton placed a  bolt  in the  slot which  would guide  the  missile. He
straightened up. Pashka and Anka  looked at him. They were standing close to
each other. The lane stretched ahead like a dark soggy passage between  tall
green  walls.  Anton  raised the crossbow. The battle  gear of  Marshal Totz
suddenly felt very heavy. My hands are trembling, thought Anton. That's bad.
What nonsense! He remembered how he and  Pashka  had amused themselves  last
winter for one full hour  by  aiming snowballs  at an icicle on a fence post
They  were  throwing  from  a distance of twenty  feet, then  fifteen,  then
ten--and they still could not hit it And finally, when  they had grown tired
of the game and were just  about to leave, Pashka pitched the last snowball,
without even taking aim, and made a direct hit.
     Anton  pressed  the  stock hard against his  shoulder. Anka is standing
much too close, he thought He was on the point of calling out to her to move
over a bit, but then  he  remembered  that  this  would  seem silly. Higher.
Higher still.  .  .  Higher . .. Suddenly  he was  firmly convinced that the
heavy  bolt was going to strike Pashka  right between the eyes, bore  deeply
between those merry, green eyes, even  if he turned around  now and  let the
arrow fly in the opposite direction.
     He opened his eyes and looked at  Pashka.  Pashka's grin had  vanished.
Anka raised her  hand very slowly, then ever  so slowly spread  her  fingers
apart.  Her  face  looked very intense  and grown-up.  Now Anton lifted  his
crossbow higher still and pulled the trigger. He did not see where the arrow
landed.
     "Missed it!" he said very loud.
     He  walked  along  the  path but his legs would  not properly obey him.
Pashka  wiped the  red cone across his face,  shook himself like a wet  dog,
unrolled the cone and formed it into a fez  again. Anka bent down and picked
up her crossbow. If shell hit me over the head with it, thought Anton,  I'll
even say thank you. But Anka did not even look at him.
     She tamed to Pashka and asked: "Are we leaving?"
     "Right away," said Pashka.
     He looked at Anton, tapping his finger against his forehead.
     "But you were scared too." Anton said. Pashka did not reply.  Once more
he tapped his finger against  his forehead.  Then he  followed  Anka.  Anton
ambled along in the rear, trying to cope with his doubts.
     What did I do, he thought.  His head felt very heavy  all  of a sudden.
Why are they so  put out? Pashka--well,  he was scared stiff. Who  knows who
was more afraid: Father William or his son? But what's the matter with Anka?
Maybe she was worried about Pashka. But what  should  I  have done? Now they
make me trot behind like an outcast. I should take off on my own. I can take
that tarn over there on the left, there's an interesting looking little pool
Maybe I can catch an owl; wouldn't that be something!
     But he did not even slow down. That's for good, he thought Somewhere he
had read that such things happened frequently.
     They reached the Forgotten Road  sooner than they had expected. By now,
the  sun  was high up in the  sky, and it  was  very hot.  The pine  needles
pricked  their bare skin. The road was paved  with concrete; it consisted of
two  rows of  cracked,  reddish-gray blocks. Thick tufts of dried grass were
growing in the cracks. The soft shoulders on either  side were full of dusty
thistles.  Above  the  road flew  fat blowflies, buzzing and  droning, and a
brazen one bumped right into Anton's forehead. The air was quiet and sultry.
     "Look, you two!" said Pashka.
     He pointed to a round metal sign hanging over the middle of the road on
a rusty  wire  that had  been strung  across. The paint was peeling off  the
sign.  They  could  barely  make  out  a  light-colored  crossbar  on a  red
background.
     "What is that?" asked Anka. She did not seem too interested.
     "A traffic sign," said Pashka. "Do Not Enter."
     "A one-way street," explained Anton.
     "What does that mean?" asked Anka.
     "That means that you can't enter that road," said Pashka.
     "But why do they have the road, then?"
     Pashka shrugged his shoulders.
     "It's a very old road," he said.
     "An anisotropic  road," Anton  explained. Anka stood  with her  back to
him. "Traffic can move only in one direction."
     "The wisdom  of  our forefathers,"  said Pashka  pensively. "There they
were,  driving  along  for  about  200 miles,  and  all of a  sudden--smash,
bang!--Do Not Enter! Wrong  Way! And you  can't  drive on, and  there  isn't
anybody you can ask."
     "Just imagine all the things  that might be there on the other side  of
that traffic  sign!" said Anka. She looked all around.  For many miles there
was  only the deserted forest and  not a person to ask what might lie beyond
that traffic sign. "Maybe it  isn't an anisotropic  traffic sign after all,"
said Anka. "The paint's almost all peeled off."
     Now Anton lifted his crossbow, took careful aim and shot  off an arrow.
How nice if the bolt would snap the wire and let the traffic sign fall right
before Anka's feet. But the  arrow hit  the upper part of the  sign, pierced
the rusty metal and nothing fell down except some flakes of dried paint
     "Silly ass!" said Anka without bothering to turn around.
     That  was the  first  remark she  had addressed  to him  since they had
played William Tell. Anton smiled wryly.
     "And  enterprises of  great  pitch and moment,"  he recited, "with this
regard their current turn away and lose the name of action."
     Faithful Pashka called out:
     "Hey, kids, a car was here! After the thunderstorm! The grass is  still
flat where the tires drove over it! And here--"
     That lucky Pashka, thought Anton. Carefully he examined the tire tracks
in the road. He, too, saw the trampled grass and the black skid marks  where
the car must have suddenly braked before a pothole in the concrete pavement.
     "I can see it now," called out Pashka. "The car must have come from the
other side, from behind the traffic sign."
     It seemed very obvious, but Anton said:
     "Baloney! He's come from the other direction!"
     Pashka regarded him with surprise:
     "What's gotten into you? You're blind as a bat!"
     "He's  come from this way here," Anton argued stubbornly. "Let's follow
his track."
     "You idiot!" Pashka sounded angry. "Who  in his right mind would  drive
into a one-way street the wrong way? And look here:  here is the pothole and
over there the skid mark --so where did the car come from?"
     "I don't care what  you say! I'm going  along this one-way street, even
if it's the wrong way."
     Pashka turned pale with fury. "Go right ahead!"
     He started  to hiccup.  "What idiocy!  The sun  must  have cooked  your
brain!"
     Anton turned around. He looked straight ahead, ducked under the traffic
sign and passed through to the other side. He only wished he could come upon
a collapsed bridge  and have  to work his way over to the other side. I have
nothing  more  to  do with  them,  he  thought.  Let them  go  wherever they
please--with her  darling Pashka.  Then he remembered how Anka  had  cut off
Pashka when  he  had called  her  Anetchka, and  feeling a bit relieved,  he
turned and looked back.
     His  eye fell on Pashka. Like a dog sniffing a scent, Don Sarancha  was
following the track  of the mysterious car. The rusty sign over the road was
gently  swaying in  the wind, and the blue sky gleamed  through the hole the
arrow  had made, Anka sat at the side of the road, her elbows resting on her
knees and her chin supported by her small, clenched fists.
     As they were returning home,  dusk began to fall.  The two  boys rowed,
while Anka sat at the rudder. A red moon stood above the dark forest and the
frogs croaked untiringly.
     "And we had planned everything so  nicely," said Anka  mournfully. "You
two--!"
     The boys remained silent. Then Pashka asked softly:
     "Toshka, what did you find behind the one-way street sign?"
     "A  collapsed bridge,"  answered Anton. "And the skeleton of a  German,
chained to a machine gun."  He thought a while, then he  added: "the machine
gun was halfway sunk into the ground already."
     "Hmm, yes,"  said Pashka. "These things  can happen. I  helped somebody
repair his car back there."

ONE
     As Rumata passed by the tomb of  the Holy  Mickey--the seventh  and the
last on  this stretch of the road--darkness had  already fallen.  The highly
praised  Chamalharian  stallion which he had won from Don Tameo in a game of
cards, was  in fact a miserable nag. The animal was dripping  with sweat; it
kept stumbling over its own legs, and its irregular trot reminded one of the
swaying motions  of a tossing ship.  Rumata pressed his knees hard into  the
animal's flanks and slapped  his  gloves  between the horse's ears. The  nag
responded  merely  with  a tired  nod; its pace remained the same. Under the
late  evening dusk, the bushes that lined  the road appeared like solidified
smoke  clouds. Swarms of flies buzzed annoyingly around the rider's head. Up
in  the  darkened  night  sky  a  few  yellowish  stars  dimly  nickered. An
alternately cold and warm  wind came in  gentle, irregular squalls,  typical
for this  coastal strip  during fall with  its sultry,  dust-filled days and
cold, frosty nights.
     Rumata drew his cloak  closer around his shoulders  and let  go of  the
reins. There was no use trying to hurry. Midnight was still  one hour  away,
and already he could  recognize the black jagged outline of Hiccup Forest on
the  horizon. To the left  and  the right  of  the road  carelessly ploughed
fields stretched into the distance. Swamps stinking of rotten vegetation and
decaying animals glimmered in  the faint light of the stars: here and  there
silhouettes of hills and  the  half-rotted wooden palisades from the time of
the Great Invasion loomed up horribly.  Far off in the distance the  sullen,
lambent  flames  of  a  fire  flickered:  most likely  a village was burning
somewhere over  there--one of the  innumerable  wretched  little  look-alike
places that until recently  had been known by names  such as "Death Hamlet,"
"Gallows Hill View,"  or "Robbers  Nest"; imperial  edicts had  renamed them
"Blossom Grove," "Peace Harbor View" and "Angel Rest."
     This land stretched over  hundreds of miles, from the shores of the Big
Bay  to  the eerie Hiccup Forest. The  terrain teemed with  hosts  of gnats,
gouged  by gorges, half smothered  by swamps;  its inhabitants were raked by
fever and forever threatened by pestilence and vile colds.
     Near a  bend  in  the road, a dark  figure stepped from the bushes. The
stallion gave a sudden  start and threw back its head. Rumata quickly seized
the  reins,  then with a swift movement  adjusted his  right sleeve--an  old
habit of his--and reached for his  sword. Then he had a closer look. The man
at the side of the road took off his hat.
     "Good evening, noble don," he said softly. "I beg your pardon."
     "What's  the  matter?"  inquired Rumata. He  cocked an ear  toward  the
bushes.
     There  is  actually  no such thing  as  a  silent  ambush. Robbers  are
betrayed  by the singing of  their bow strings;  the men of the Gray Militia
constantly  belch up  their sour beer;  the  hordes of the barons grunt with
greed  and rattle  their  sabers; and the monks  who hunt for slaves scratch
themselves noisily. No,  it was  all quiet  in the thicket. This  man was no
bushwhacker, thought Rumata.  He did not look at all like a sniper: he was a
short, stocky townsman wrapped in a rather inexpensive cloak.
     "Will  you permit  me  to run alongside your horse?" he asked the rider
and bowed deeply to him.
     "Come along,"  said Rumata, toying with the  reins. "You  can hold onto
the stirrup."
     The  man walked alongside, holding  his hat  in his  hand. His head was
completely bald. A stewart from some baronial estate, thought Rumata. Visits
barons and cattle dealers, buys up hemp and flax. A  stalwart man . . . Then
again, maybe  he's  no  stewart  after  all. Maybe he's  a "bookworm," or  a
fugitive. Maybe he's  a  ne'er-do-well--there are many of  that kind roaming
the roads at night--certainly more than there are  baronial stewarts. But be
could be a spy as well...
     "Who are you and where are you coming from?" asked Rumata.
     "They call me Kiun,"  answered the man  sorrowfully. "And I  come  from
Arkanar."
     "You mean you are fleeing from  Arkanar," said Rumata and bent  forward
slightly toward him. "Yes."  The man spoke with  sadness. Some freak, an odd
character, thought Rumata. Or is he a spy after all? I'll keep an eye on him
. . . But why should I  bother to keep an eye  on him? Who will be helped by
that? Who am I to scrutinize and test him? I don't even want to observe him!
Why shouldn't  I simply  believe  him?  There is  a man,  quite obviously an
intellectual, on the run, his life at stake ... He feels lonely, he's afraid
and  weak,  just  looking for  a  helping  hand--and then he  runs  into  an
aristocrat The aristocrats are  too  stupid and arrogant to  know much about
politics. Instead, they have very long sabers, and they  don't like the Gray
Militia, Why shouldn't citizen Kiun simply seek protection from some stupid,
arrogant aristocrat? That's  it. Of  course,  I  won't  keep my eye  on  him
especially. I have no special reason to. Let's rather chat for a while, kill
some time, and then we will part friends...
     "Kiun . . ." he said aloud. "I once  knew a  Kiun. A  quack doctor  and
alchemist on Klempner Street. Are you related to him?"
     "Oh dear, yes, I am," said  Kiun. "I'm  only a very distant relative of
his,  but  they  don't care.  They exterminate our kind  up  to  the twelfth
generation."
     "And where are you fleeing to, Kiun?"
     "Any place. As  far away  from  here as  possible. Many  have  fled  to
Irukan. Ill try my luck with Irukan, too."
     "Well, well," said Rumata. "And  you  think the noble don will lead you
safely through the sentry posts?"
     Kiun remained silent.
     "Or, maybe you think the noble don doesn't know what  kind of a man the
alchemist on Klempner Street really is?"
     Kiun  still  did not  answer. I think I'm talking a  lot  of  nonsense,
thought Rumata. But then  he rose high up in his stirrups and, imitating the
town crier on the Royal Square, puffed up his throat and shouted:
     "Accused  and  condemned  of the most  horrible and unforgivable crimes
against God, the Crown and the public safety!"
     Kiun still remained silent.
     "And  what if the  noble don adored and revered Don Reba, the father of
all abominations? What if he were devoted with all his heart to the cause of
the Gray Militia? Or do you think that is totally out of the question?"
     Kiun kept silent.  To the right of the road,  the black silhouette of a
gallows  tree loomed  in the dark. A  ghostly white naked body, strung up by
the feet, swung from a crossbeam.  Oh well, thought Rumata,  what's the good
of it all? He pulled tight his reins, seized Kiun by the shoulder and turned
the man's face around for him to see.
     "And how  would you like it if  the noble don  would hang you now right
next to that  gallows bird?" he said and stared into the white face and dark
orbs  of  Kiun.  "I'd  do  it  myself.  Swift  and  skillful.  With a strong
Arkanarian  rope? For  the  sake of ideals? Why do you keep silent, bookworm
Kiun?"
     Kiun  did not speak. His teeth were rattling with fright and he twisted
weakly under Rumata's strong grip like a captured lizard. Suddenly, a splash
could be heard as something fell into the canal alongside  the road. At  the
same time, as if  to drown out  the splashing  noise of the impact,  the man
shouted desperately:
     "Go ahead and hang me! String me up, you traitor!"
     Rumata caught his breath and let go of Kiun.
     "I was only joking," he said. "Don't be afraid."
     "Lies, lies," Kiun sobbed. "Nothing but lies everywhere!"
     "All right, then," said Rumata. "Forgive me! You'd  better  fish it out
of the water,  whatever you just threw in there. It will  get soaked through
otherwise."
     Kiun did not budge from the spot. His  upper body swayed back and forth
in indecision. He  continued to  sob softly, and beat  his palms senselessly
against  his  cloak.  Then, slowly, he crawled into the  canal.  Rumata  was
waiting. He was very tired  and he sank down into his saddle. That's the way
it's got to  be, he thought;  it can't  be  done  any other  way. Kiun  came
staggering out of the canal, a bundle hidden under his cloak.
     "Books, of course," said Rumata.
     Kiun gently shook his head.
     "No," he said hoarsely. "Only one book. My book."
     "What do you write?"
     "I'm afraid it wouldn't interest you, noble don."
     Rumata wrinkled his brow and sighed.
     "Hold onto the stirrup," he said, "and come on."
     Neither spoke for a long time.
     "Listen,  Kiun," said Rumata. "I  was only joking. Don't  be  afraid of
me."
     "What a world," grumbled Kiun. "What a funny world. Everybody is making
fun. And they all do it the same way. Even the noble Don Rumata.
     Rumata was startled.
     "You know my name?"
     "Yes,  I do,"  said  Kiun.  "I recognized you by  the  circlet  on your
forehead.  And at first I was so happy to have met you of all people here on
this road--"
     Why, of  course, Rumata thought.  That's what was  on  his mind when he
called me a traitor. He said:
     "You see, I thought you were a spy. And those I kill usually at once."
     "A  spy?"  Kiun  replied.  "Yes,  indeed.  Nowadays  it's  so  easy and
profitable to be a spy. Our shining eagle, our most noble Don Reba,  is very
anxious to know what the king's  subjects are saying and thinking.  I wish I
were  a  spy. A proper scout in the Gray Joy Tavern. How fine and honorable!
At six  o'clock, off  I go  to the inn. The  innkeeper will rush to my usual
table to bring me my first tankard, and I  can drink as much  as I can hold.
Don Reba is paying for the beer-- or to be exact, nobody really pays for it.
I  just sit there with my beer in front of me  and my ears open. Sometimes I
pretend to make some notes about  the conversations, and you  should see the
poor  frightened things crawl up to offer their friendship and their purses.
In their eyes I can see what I  always wanted to: the  devotion  of  whipped
dogs, awe and fear and impotent hatred. I can have any girl I want, any time
I like;  women melt in  my arms right in front of  their husbands' eyes--all
healthy, strapping men, who  stand  there  with obsequious giggles. Splendid
prospects, noble don, don't  you agree? I heard all this  first-hand  from a
fifteen-year-old kid, a pupil of the Patriotic School--"
     "And what did you tell him then?" Rumata's curiosity had been roused by
the fugitive's tale.
     "What should I have told him? He wouldn't have understood anyhow. So  I
told him about the men of Waga Koleso, the robber chief; whenever they catch
a spy, they simply slit his belly open and  stuff his guts with pepper. Then
again, there  are the drunken  soldiers who jam a spy into a sack  and drown
him in the village pond. And, what's more, I was telling the truth, the pure
truth--but he  wouldn't believe me. He said,  "That's not what they teach us
at school." Then  I  took a  piece of paper  and  started  to write down our
conversation. I needed it at the time for my book, but the  poor boy thought
it was a denunciation. He suddenly broke out in a sweat all over..."
     They could see lights twinkle through the foliage  of the  trees lining
the road. It  was coming  from the inn  called Bako's Skeleton. Kiun's steps
began to falter and he fell silent.
     "What's the matter?" asked Rumata.
     "A  patrol of the Gray Militia. Over  there," answered  Kiun under  his
breath.
     "Well, so  what?" said Rumata. "Listen--we love and revere these simple
rough men, our militant Gray boys. We need them. From now on the people will
have to  keep their tongues in check, if they don't want to  dangle from the
nearest branch of a tree!"
     He laughed because he  had  expressed it so splendidly--exactly  in the
language of the Gray Barracks.
     Kiun seemed to shrink; he pulled his head between his shoulders.
     "Simple folk  have to know their place.  God didn't give  them a tongue
for talking, but for licking the boots of their master,  the noble lord, who
has been placed above them from the very beginning of time..."
     In the paddock, behind  the  inn, the saddled horses of the Gray Patrol
pranced about.  Through an open window  came  the  raucous  cursing  of  the
players and the  knock  and rattle from their game of  knucklebones.  In the
doorway  stood  "Skeleton  Bako"  in  person,  blocking  the  way  with  his
tremendous belly.  He  wore an old leather  jacket whose seams  had burst in
innumerable places. The  edges  of  his sleeves dripped  with moisture.  His
mossy  paw gripped a club--evidently he had just slain a  dog for his broth,
had broken out in a heavy sweat with the effort, and had stepped  outside to
get his wind back. A Gray Sturmovik lolled on the stairs, his battle-ax held
between his knees. The massive handle of his ax pushed his face to one side.
It  was plain to see  that he was nursing a giant hangover. When  he noticed
the  rider,  be cleared  his  throat, spat  between  his  feet,  and  called
hoarsely. "Sto-o-o-p! Who goes there? St-o-o-op! No-o-o-ble d-o-n-n-n!"
     Rumata's chin barely jutted out as he rode past the man without so much
as a glance.
     ". . . But if their tongue is licking the wrong boots," he said  aloud,
"then it must be yanked out, for it is written: Your tongue--my enemy..."
     Hidden by the nag's croup, Kiun hopped alongside  with long leaps.  Out
of  the corner of  his eye, Rumata  noticed  Kiun's  bald head gleaming with
perspiration.
     "Stop, I said!" roared the Sturmovik.
     One could hear his ax scraping  against the steps as he dragged himself
down the stairs, cursing God, the devil, and all people of high birth.
     About five men,  pondered Rumata, and tugged at his lace cuffs. Drunken
butchers. So what!
     They had passed the inn by now and kept moving toward the woods.
     "I  can walk faster, if you so  desire," said Kiun with an  exaggerated
firm voice.
     "Certainly not!" said Rumata and slowed his horse down.
     "It would be boring to ride so many miles without a single brawl. Don't
you ever want to get  into a good fight, Kiun? Just talk, that's all you do,
don't you?"
     "No," said Kiun. "I have never any desire to get into a fight."
     "That's  exactly your  trouble," Rumata  grumbled, annoyed. He directed
the stallion to the side of the road, and tugged impatiently at his gloves.
     From  a bend in the road, two riders came galloping at full speed. They
halted as soon as they caught sight of him.
     "Hey, there, noble don!" shouted the first one. "Show your pass!"
     "You  boor!" Rumata's  voice was icy. "You  can't even  read, what good
will a pass do you!"
     He jerked his knees deeply into his horse's flanks, and the steed  took
off in  a  fast trot  straight toward the two  Gray Sturmoviks. Cowards,  he
thought. Let's just slap their faces a few times! No, what's the use. Here I
am, burning to vent  the rage that has been building up all day--but nothing
will come  of  it  anyhow. So  let's stay  calm  and humane,  let's  forgive
everyone, remain imperturbable like the gods. The gods are never in a hurry;
after all, they have all eternity ahead of them...
     He  rode  close  to the Sturmoviks. The  two  men,  no  longer sure  of
themselves, seized their axes and fell back.
     "W-e-e-ell?" Rumata asked slowly.
     "Oh--what's  the  matter  with me?"  stammered  the braver  of the  two
Sturmoviks, quite perplexed. "I mean--it's you, the noble Don Rumata?"
     His  companion  had already turned his  horse  around and made off in a
fast  gallop.  The first Sturmovik kept falling back and lowered  his raised
ax.
     "I  beg  your most humble pardon, noble don,"  he gushed. "We  did  not
recognize  you  right  away  ... it was  our fault.  Official business,  you
know--so  easy  to make a mistake  there. The fellows  have been drinking  a
little,  and  they  are burning  with  eagerness--" He maneuvered his  horse
around, ready  to take  off. "You will  understand, noble don, such restless
times .  . . We're hunting down those fleeing bookworms ... I hope you won't
make complaints about us, noble don--"
     Rumata turned his back on him. "A pleasant journey,  most  noble  don!"
shouted the Sturmovik after him, much relieved.
     As soon as the two riders were out of sight, Rumata called out  softly:
"Kiun!"
     There was no answer.
     "Hey, Kiun!"
     Still  no answer. He listened more closely; now he could hear a distant
rustling in the bushes that was set off distinctly against the background of
the constantly  singing gnats and mosquitoes. Kiun must be marching  hastily
across the  land, toward the West, in the direction of the Irukanian border.
That's that, thought  Rumata.  What was the good of the whole  conversation?
It's always  the  same  thing, over  and  over again. Cautious  exploring at
first, then guarded exchange  of ambiguous remarks . . . Week after week you
waste  your energy on stupid chatter with  any number of morons; but if  you
are  lucky  enough  to  meet  some  real  person,  there's  no  time  for  a
heart-to-heart  talk. You'd like  to  provide some cover for him, to protect
him, to help  him reach some refuge--and he walks away without  ever knowing
whether he encountered  a  friend  or a vain fop.  And  you don't  find  out
anything  about  him  either--his  desires, his  abilities, his  reason  for
living, his goals...
     His thoughts turned to Arkanar in the evening. Solid stone houses along
the  main  streets,  friendly  lanterns  over the  inn  gates,  kindhearted,
satisfied shopkeepers  drinking their beer at  clean tables, chatting  about
the world, how  it isn't  such a bad place after all; discussing the falling
bread prices  or  the rising harness prices; here and there a conspiracy  is
unveiled,  warlocks and suspect  bookworms are incarcerated, the king is  as
magnificent and grand as ever;  Don Reba, however,  is infinitely clever and
always on  his  guard.  "You don't say!"---"That's the way it's  supposed to
be!"-- "The world is round!"--"For all I care it might be square, only don't
you touch our learned men!"--"Believe me, brothers, all our misfortunes come
from those know-it-alls!"-- "Happiness is not  caused  by money; the peasant
is a human being, too, so  they say, fine, but go on--and all the time  more
and more of this inciting poetry: and they begin to  raise hell,  there  are
riots and  mutiny  . . ." "Throw  them  all in  jail,  brothers! Myself, for
example, what would I do? I would ask them directly: can you read and write?
Lock him up! You write poems?  Lock  him up! You  are an expert on diagrams?
Lock  him up! You know too much!--" "Bina,  my angel, another three tankards
of beer and a roast hare!"
     And outside  the window--stomp,  stomp, stomp--come marching  along the
nailed boots of the sturdy, red-nosed fellows in their gray shirts. And over
their right shoulder,  the heavy hatchets. "Brothers!  There  they  are, our
protectors! They keep this learned rabble at a proper distance, yes, indeed!
.  . . And  that one over there, that's my boy, my  son--Over  there on  the
right flank! It  was only yesterday that I tanned his  hide!  Yes, brothers,
we're living  in  a  wonderful time!  Our monarchy, so  solidly  entrenched,
prosperity, unshakable  law  and  order--and  justice. Hooray  for  our Gray
Troops! Hooray, Don Reba! Long live our King! That's the life, brothers!"
     Over the dark plains of  the kingdom  of  Arkanar,  however,  lit up by
raging  fires and  glowing woods,  hundreds  of miserable  men  are fleeing,
skirting the sentry  posts,  running, stumbling,  and running  on. Bitten by
gnats,  with  bleeding, sore feet, covered with  dust  and sweat, tormented,
frightened and tortured by despair, but  as hard as steel and  firm in their
convictions--they are unlawfully accused  and  persecuted. Why? Because they
heal  and  teach  their people, who  are riddled by disease  and swamped  by
ignorance;  because, like gods, they  create a second nature out of clay and
stone, wishing to beautify our existence,  for  a people that does not  know
beauty;  because they penetrate  into the secrets of nature hoping to  place
these secrets at the service of  and  for the benefit of the dull, apathetic
people, who have been kept in fear by ancient black arts. They are helpless,
good and awkward, way ahead of their own times...
     Rumata pulled off one  glove and  soundly  slapped his stallion between
the ears. "Let's go, you lame old  mare!" He  spoke  Russian. It was already
past midnight when he rode into the forest.
     Nowadays  nobody  could tell exactly  any more  where that strange name
came from--"Hiccup Forest." A rumor had been circulated via official sources
that some 300  years earlier the Iron Squads of Imperial  Marshal  Totz (who
later became the first  king of Arkanar) had penetrated this  forest as they
were pursuing the retreating  hordes of the copper-skinned barbarians. There
the brave  warriors had gathered the bark  of  the White Trees and  brewed a
kind of  domestic  beer which turned  out so miserably that whoever drank it
would suffer for hours from hiccups and belching.  The following morning, so
the  legend goes, when  said Marshal Totz came to inspect the camp, he tamed
up  his blue-blooded nose  and spoke,  the following words; "Indeed, this is
unbearable! The whole forest has the hiccups and reeks of bad beer!" That is
the origin, it is said, of this peculiar name.
     One might quarrel  about the veracity of  this  legend, but in any case
this was no ordinary forest. Giant trees with firm white trunks were growing
in  it,  of  the kind that could  no  longer  be found anywhere  else in the
country. Not even  in the  dukedom  of  Irukan, and  definitely not  in  the
Mercantile Republic of Sloan, where all the  timber had long  since been cut
down for  use in  the  construction of  ships. There were rumors  making the
round  that  many such woods  still existed beyond the Red Mountains, in the
country of  the  barbarians--but  there are all kinds of stories told  about
those barbarians, you know ...
     A  path had been cut  through the forest some 200 years back. This road
led to the silver mines  and by virtue of feudal law the noble family of the
Barons of Pampa, the descendants of  a comrade-in-arms of Marshal  Totz, had
been invested with these holdings. According  to this feudal law, the Barons
of Pampa  were  supposed  to pay  the  Arkanarian kings twelve poods of pure
silver each year. Thus each new king would gather  an army shortly  after he
ascended to  the throne, and march toward Castle Bau, where the barons dwelt
The walls of the castle were solid, the barons were brave, and each year, as
before, the  kingdom of Arkanar had yet to collect the  twelve poods of pure
silver. After their defeated armies had returned home, the Arkanarian  kings
would once again confirm  the  barons' legal  claims, in  addition to  other
privileges, including the right to pick one's nose  at the royal  table, the
right to go  hunting  in the  western regions of Arkanar  and,  finally, the
right to call the princes by their  first names,  without adding  their rank
and title.
     Hiccup  Forest  was  full of  dark secrets.  Throughout the day,  heavy
carloads of  silver ore would roll toward the South. But at night,  the road
was deserted, for few men dared walk there under the lights of the stars. It
was  said  that at night the Siu bird called from the High  Tree. No one had
ever  beheld  this bird,  for  it cannot  be seen by human  eyes,  being  no
ordinary bird. It  was  said that great  shaggy spiders would jump  from the
tree branches onto a horse's neck  to suck his blood in almost  no time.  It
was  said that the monstrous  primeval dragon Pech  roamed this forest;  the
monster  was said  to  be  covered with giant scales; to  bear  a live young
dragonlet  once  every twelve  years;  and to drag after it 12 tails pouring
with  sweat. And somebody  is said to have seen with  his own eyes, in broad
daylight, how the naked wild sow Y, cursed by the  Holy Mickey, was dragging
itself along the highway, moaning and  grunting--a rapacious beast of  prey,
invulnerable to iron but easily pierced by a bone.
     Here in this mysterious forest, you might encounter the fugitive slave,
the one  with the black tattoos  between his shoulder blades. He  was stupid
and pitiless, just like the shaggy, blood-sucking spiders. Or you might meet
the magician, the one who had  been mangled  by three deaths;  he was always
gathering mysterious mushrooms for his magic potions, which could make a man
invisible, or change him into  different animals, or even  give him a second
shadow.
     Everyone knew, of course, that  the  robber captain Waga Koleso and his
band  roamed  along  the road  all through  the  night,  and fugitive forced
laborers  from  the  silver mines,  with  their  black  hands  and  whitish,
transparent  faces.  The poisoners  would  gather here for  their  nocturnal
meetings, and the brazen hunters of the Barons  of Pampa  camped out in  the
glades  where they could roast their stolen buffaloes on a spit over an open
fire.
     In the  midst of  the  thicket, where the underbrush was growing denser
than anywhere, stood a giant tree, gouged with clefts and chinks by old age.
Beneath it leaned  a  warped wooden  hut, surrounded by a blackened,  wooden
palisade. The hut had been here since  time immemorial. The  door was always
closed. Idols hewn of entire logs leaned against the moldering wooden steps.
This  hut  was,  as everyone could testify, the most, most dangerous spot in
all Hiccup  Forest. Every  twelve years the old wild sow  Pech comes here to
bring forth its young. Then the sow crawls under this hut to die,  poisoning
the whole foundation of  the  hut  with its black venom. If ever this poison
seeps  to the outside, the end of the world  will be near. People  also  say
that on unclean nights, the  idols  will dig  themselves  out from the soil,
walk to the path, and make mysterious signs there. And they also say that at
times a demonic  light will shine in the dead windows of the hut, while dull
sounds  can be heard  from within, and  smoke can  be  seen rising from  the
chimney up to the sky.
     Not long ago, the village idiot  Kukisch from the hamlet "Sweet Stench"
(also popularly known as "Dung Heap") happened to chance upon this hut  and,
fool that  he is, stared  into a window. He  came  home completely mad,  and
after he  had regained the pitiful traces  of wit he had, he  told of having
seen a light inside the hut, a man sitting at a rough wooden table, his feet
propped up  on  the  rough bench, holding  a little casket  in his  hand and
drinking from it. His jowls drooped almost down to his belt and his skin was
all pockmarked. And that, naturally,  was the Holy Mickey  in person, before
he had seen the light,  in fact: a moll hunter, drunkard, and blasphemer. To
gaze upon him was only possible for those  who were entirely without fear. A
sweet, heavy odor had come  through the window and shadows  flitted  through
the trees.  People  came from all over  to listen  to the idiot's  tale. The
whole story  finally ended when the Sturmoviks appeared,  screwed his elbows
up to his shoulders and sent him packing. Still, of course, the rumors about
the old hut could not be quenched, and from  then on it was  generally known
as the "Drunkard's Lair."
     Rumata made  his  way  through the  prolific growths of  gigantic ferns
until he came to the entrance of the  Drunkard's Lair. He  tied his horse to
one of the idols. There was a light inside the  hut  and the door  was open,
hanging  by a  single  hinge. Father Kabani  sat at  the  table,  completely
disheveled.  A penetrating  odor of schnapps  filled the hut; on the  table,
amidst gnawed bones and boiled beets, sat a giant earthenware jug.
     "Good evening, Father Kabani," said Rumata as he crossed the threshold.
     "I  bid you welcome," replied Father Kabani with a  voice that  sounded
like a hunter's horn.
     Rumata approached the table with clicking spurs, dropped his  gloves on
the table  and looked again at Father Kabani, who sat motionless,  his heavy
drooping jowls supported in  his palms. His shaggy,  half-gray eyebrows hung
down onto his cheeks like dried grass tufts over a ravine. From the nostrils
of  his porous  large-pored nose the air came whistling whenever he breathed
out. It stank of half-digested alcohol.
     "I  invented it myself!" he  said  suddenly, unexpectedly.  With  great
effort he  pulled  up his  right  eyebrow  and  directed a  somber glance at
Rumata. "I myself! And what  for?" He withdrew his right hand from under his
jowl and his hairy finger gestured aimlessly in the air. "And despite all, I
am good for nothing!  I  have invented it--and  yet I'm no good,  eh? That's
right, that's  right, a failure. None  of us invents anything anyhow, nobody
has any new ideas, but-- oh, the devil with it all...!"
     Rumata unbuckled his belt, took off his fez and removed his swords.
     "Come, come," he said gently.
     "The box!"  Father Kabani wheezed. Then he  fell silent and  moved  his
cheeks in a strange fashion.
     Without taking his eyes off the old man, Rumata swung his feet, shod in
dusty boots, over the bench  and sat down. He placed both his swords next to
each other on the table.
     "The box  . . ." repeated Father Kabani. "We always say we invented it.
But  in  reality it  was all thought up  a  long time before us. Some person
invented it ages ago, put it in a box, made a hole in the box, and then made
off--maybe went to sleep somewhere--And what comes next? Then Father  Kabani
arrives,  closes his eyes and puts  his hand  into the hole."  Father Kabani
looked at his hand. "Ha!  Invented!  I, he said,  have thought up this thing
... ! And if you don't believe it,  then you are an ass. And I stick my hand
inside --One! What do I find? Barbed wire! What is that for? For the wolves,
naturally. Splendid! And I stick my hand inside again--Two! What do I  find?
What a cleverly conceived thing, a so-called meat grinder. What is that for?
For  finely  ground  meat. Splendid!  I stick my  hand  inside for the third
time--Three! What is  it?  Firewater. What  is that for? To make  damp  wood
burn, eh?"
     Father Kabani fell silent once, more  and arched forward as if  someone
had  grabbed him  by the  collar. Rumata took  the jug, peered  inside, then
poured  a  few drops on the back of  his  hand. The  liquid was  violet  and
smelled strongly of cheap alcohol. Rumata carefully dried his hand with  his
lace  handkerchief.  Greasy  spots  remained  on the  cloth. Father Kabani's
disheveled head touched the table. He suddenly straightened up again.
     "Whoever put  all  this  stuff into  the box knew what it was good for.
Barbed wire against the wolves? I made that up myself,  fool that I am. They
use the  barbed  wire  for fencing  the  mines  and  the  pits! So that  the
political prisoners don't run away  from there. But I won't play  along with
them! I'm  an enemy of the  state, too. But did they ask  me? Sure they did!
Barbed  wire, eh? Sure,  barbed wire,  what else.  Against the  wolves,  eh?
Against  the wolves .  .  .  Excellent  . . . Splendid chap! Let's fence the
mines and the pits with it! Don Reba in person, the first minister of state,
helped to  fence the  mines. And he even requisitioned my meat grinder. He's
got brains, all right! Splendid! And now he grinds the meat in the Tower  of
Joy--from  human  beings--And  that  works  miracles  during interrogations,
people say..."
     I know all that, thought Rumata. I know it all. I know how you screamed
in  your private  audience  with  Don  Reba,  how you crawled  at his  feet,
imploring  and  begging: Stop,  please. I'll confess! But it  was  too  late
already. Your meat grinder had already started...
     Father Kabani seized the jug and lifted it to his hairy mouth, tippling
the poisonous  swill  as he roared  like the wild sow Y. Then he set the jug
back on the table with a bang and popped a boiled beet into his mouth. Tears
flowed over his broad cheeks.
     "Yes, firewater!" he said when he found his voice again. "To be used as
tinder  for the  hearth  and  for  a jolly game  or  two. But  what  kind of
firewater is  that, my dear, if you  can drink it? Mix it with beer, and how
the price of beer  would soar! But no, I won't give it to you! I'll drink it
all myself.  And  how I drink it!  Night and day. I'm all bloated. And  it's
getting  worse all the time. The  other day I looked  in  a mirror  and--Don
Rumata,  you won't believe  it--I was scared of myself! I looked closer--may
the Good Lord protect me! What was left of  Father Kabani? A sea-monster,  a
polyp,  dotted all over with colored spots. Some  red, some blue  . . . They
say firewater was invented for merry games with fire--"
     Father Kabani spat on the floor, scraping his shoe over the spot to rub
out his spittle. Suddenly he asked: "What day is it today?"
     "The eve of Kata the Just," said Rumata.
     "And why isn't the sun shining?"
     "Because it's night."
     "Night  again," said Father Kabani painfully and fell forward, his face
splashing into the beets.
     Rumata  regarded him for a  while, whistling  softly between his teeth.
Then he rose from the bench and walked over  to  the back  porch. Amid small
piles of  beets  and sawdust glittered  the glass  pipes  of Father Kabani's
voluminous distillation equipment for home-brewed liquor. It was the amazing
creation  of a  born engineer and  a  masterful glass-blower. Twice,  Rumata
walked around the devilish machine, then, in the dark, groped for a piece of
iron  and began  to hit  about  at  random, without  aiming  at  anything in
particular.  There  was  the sound of  breaking  glass, rattling  metal, and
gurgling liquids. The cheap smell of soured spirits pervaded the small room.
As he walked over to the other  comer to switch on the  electric light,  the
broken glass crunched under his boots. In the comer stood a heavy strongbox,
containing  a "Midas" field  synthesizer. With his right  hand Rumata  swept
some rubble off the top of the safe, dialed a combination of various numbers
on  the  lock  and opened  it. Even  in the  bright  electrical  light,  the
synthesizer looked rather odd in  the midst of all  the rubbish and garbage.
Rumata grasped a handful of sawdust from a pile and threw it into the feeder
funnel. The synthesizer started humming at once, then automatically switched
on the indicator. With the tip of his boot, Rumata shoved a rusty pail under
the  output slot. And in no time--clink, clink,  clink--golden ducats, coins
with the aristocratic profile of Pitz the Sixth, King of Arkanar,  fell into
the battered pail.
     Rumata carried the old man  over  to an old creaking wooden cot, pulled
off his boots,  tamed him  over on his right side, and covered  him with the
almost hairless fur  of a  long-dead animal. In the process,  Father  Kabani
woke up briefly. He  could neither  move nor think clearly. So he  contented
himself with  reciting a few verses of  a  forbidden romance: "I am  like  a
crimson flower in your dear  little hand . . . ," whereupon he lapsed into a
hearty snore.
     Rumata  cleared  the table,  swept  the floor, and  cleaned the  single
window,  which was black  with  accumulated dirt and  soot from the chemical
experiments  that Father Kabani  conducted at the  window  sill.  Behind the
dilapidated stove  he found a bottle with alcohol  which  he  poured into  a
rathole.  Then  he  watered his Chamalharian stallion, fed him oats from his
saddlebag, washed his face  and hands, and sat down to wait.  He stared into
the little smoking flame of the oil lamp.
     He had been leading this strange dual existence for the past  six years
and had apparently adjusted to it by now. Only from  time to time--like  the
present, for instance--it suddenly seemed  to him that  there was no reality
behind the organized bestiality, the depressing cult of  the Grays.  He felt
as  if a strange theater performance were  unrolling in  front  of his eyes,
with himself, Rumata, playing the  principal part And any moment now,  after
some particularly successful rejoinder, the applause would begin to  thunder
and  the connoisseurs  and  art  lovers from  the Institute  of Experimental
History would shout enthusiastically from their loges:
     "Bravo, Anton, fantastic, great! Well done, Tony!"
     He  looked around  but there was no crowded theater, only  damp,  mossy
walls of rough-hewn logs, blackened by the smoking oil lamp.
     Outside, the Chamalharian stallion neighed softly and pawed the ground.
Gradually, a deep whistle came nearer. It sounded so familiar, so well known
from days  of  old, that  tears almost welled up in Rumata's eyes--the sound
was so unexpected in this  godforsaken place. Rumata listened  intently, his
mouth half  open. Now the throbbing stopped suddenly; the  tiny flame in the
oil lamp began to sputter,  then suddenly flared up again. Rumata  was about
to  get up from  the bench when Don Kondor emerged from the darkness of  the
night and came striding into the room.  Don Kondor was the Supreme Judge and
Keeper of the Great Seal of the Mercantile Republic of Soan,  Vice-President
of the Conference of the  Twelve Negotiators,  and  Cavalier of the Imperial
Order of Righteous Pity.
     Rumata jumped up and  knocked  the bench  over. He would have loved  to
embrace, his friend, kiss his cheeks, but his legs automatically bent at the
knee  (as  prescribed by etiquette),  his spurs clicked solemnly,  his right
hand swept in a semicircle from his  heart  over to his  right side, and his
head  lowered itself  so  swiftly that his  chin  almost  disappeared in his
scarf.  Don Kondor took off his velvet cap, adorned by a simple feather, and
quickly waved it in the direction  of  Don Rumata, as  if  he  were  shooing
flies. Then he threw the cap on the table and undid  the clasp at the collar
of his cloak. The cloak sank downwards along his back as he sat on the bench
and stretched  out his  legs.  His left hand was held akimbo,  and  with his
outstretched right hand he  held the hilt  of his  gilded  sword,  whose tip
stuck in the moldy wood of the floor. He was rather small and lean, and big,
somewhat protruding eyes marked  his pale face. His black hair was gathered,
like Rumata's, by a heavy golden circlet with a green stone on his forehead.
     "Are you alone, Don Rumata?" he asked hastily.
     "Yes, noble don," Rumata answered, depressed.
     Father  Kabani's  voice thundered suddenly: "Noble Don Reba!  You are a
hyena, that's what you are!"
     Don Kondor did  not pay any  attention  to him. He  did not  even  turn
around.
     "I've come with the helicopter," he said.
     "Let's hope nobody saw you."
     One legend  more or less. "What's the difference?" answered Don  Kondor
in a somewhat irritated voice. "I've simply not the time to ride around on a
horse. What's happened with Budach? I'm worried about  him. Do sit down, Don
Rumata, will you please? I'm getting a crick in my neck this way."
     Rumata obediently took a seat on the bench.
     "Budach has  disappeared," he said. "I  waited for him at the Square of
the Heavy  Swords. The  only person that  came was a  one-eyed vagabond, who
gave the password  and handed me a bag  full of  books. I waited for another
two hours; then I got in touch with Don Hug,  who told me he took  Budach as
far as the  border. Budach was in the company of  some  noble don, a man who
could be  trusted since  he had lost everything at a game of cards with  Don
Hug  and  therefore sold himself  over, body and soul.  Consequently, Budach
must be somewhere here in Arkanar. That's all I know."
     "Not much, I dare say," remarked Don Kondor.
     "But the affair with Budach is not that important," replied Rumata. "If
he is still alive,  I'll find him and  extricate  him from any tight spot he
might  be  in.  That's no problem really. But this wasn't  what I  wanted to
discuss with you. I must once more draw your attention to  the fact that the
situation in Arkanar is exceeding the bounds of the basis theory--"
     Don Kondor made a sour face.
     "No, no, hear  me out,"  said Rumata firmly. "I have the feeling I  can
never  make  myself  properly  understood  over  the  radio. And  in Arkanar
everything  is helter-skelter! A  new, systematically effective  factor  has
made  its appearance. It looks as if  Don Reba is intentionally hurtling the
whole depressing Grayness of the kingdom on the scientists. Anyone who rises
even slightly above the average Gray level puts his life in jeopardy. Listen
to me, Don Kondor! These are no vague, emotional impressions, these are real
facts!  It's enough to be  intelligent and educated, to dare to have doubts,
to say something out of the ordinary. Perhaps if some day you refuse a glass
of wine, your life will  be in danger. Any little grocery clerk can beat you
to death. Hundreds, thousands of people are being denounced. They are caught
by the Sturmoviks, strung up by their feet in the streets. Naked, with their
head dangling down. Only yesterday they trampled an old man  to  death in my
street with  their boots:  somebody told  them he could read and write. They
kept kicking  him  for two  hours,  these  stupid  pigs  with their  beastly
drooling snouts--"
     Rumata paused for  a  moment to collect  himself  and ended  in a  calm
voice:  "To  sum it  all  up,  it won't  be long  now  until  not  a  single
intelligent person will remain alive in Arkanar. Just like  in the domain of
the Holy Order after the slaughter of Barkan."
     Don Kondor fixed his dark eyes on Rumata and pressed his lips together.
     "I don't like what's happening with you, Anton," he said in Russian.
     "There are lots of things I don't like either, Alexander Vassilevitch,"
said Rumata. "For instance, I don't like the fact  that we have tied our own
hands,  the way we have set up  our problem here. I don't like the fact that
we  call  it  the 'problem  of  bloodless  procedure.'  For as far as  I  am
concerned, this is  equivalent to  scientific justification of inactivity. I
know  all your arguments!  And I am well  acquainted  with our theories. But
theories do  not work in such a situation, where every  minute  human beings
are attacked by wild beasts in a typical fascist manner! Everything is going
to pieces, going to rack and rum. What good  is our knowledge and our  gold?
It always comes too late."
     "Anton," said Don  Kondor, "calm  down. I believe you when you say that
the  situation  in Arkanar  has  reached  a critical  point.  But  I am also
convinced that you cannot propose a single constructive solution."
     "That's true," agreed Rumata. "I have no concrete solutions to propose.
But it gets to be more and more difficult  for  me to control myself in view
of these increasing signs of physical and moral corruption."
     "Anton,"  said  Don  Kondor. "There are  250 of  us altogether  on this
entire  planet. All of us exercise effective self-control, and it is equally
difficult for all of us. The most experienced among us  have lived here  for
twenty-two  years. They  came  only  as observers,  nothing  else.  They are
forbidden to intervene here in any way. Just  imagine: an out-and-out ban on
any intervention.  We don't  have  the  right to rescue Budach, even if they
trampled him to death in front of our eyes."
     "You don't need to talk to me as if I were a child," said Rumata.
     "But you are  as impatient as a child,"  replied Don  Kondor.  "And you
must display a lot of patience here."
     Rumata laughed bitterly.
     "And while we  are practicing patience and waiting  forever,"  he said,
"holding endless discussions  about the proper ways to behave, these  beasts
are attacking their fellow human beings every day, every single minute."
     "Anton," said Don Kondor, "there are  thousands of other planets in the
universe which we have not yet visited and where history runs its course."
     "But we did come to this planet!"
     "Yes.  Not  to  vent  our  righteous anger,  but rather  to  help these
creatures here. If you're too weak for the  job, then get out! Go back home!
After all, you're not a child. You knew what to expect here."
     Rumata did  not speak. Don Kondor's features relaxed; he seemed to have
aged  many years during his last words.  Slowly he strode the length of  the
table,  seized  his  sword and dragged it behind him  like  a stick. Then he
lapsed into an almost imperceptible, sad shaking of his  head; only his nose
seemed to move.
     "I can  understand all that," he said. "I've gone through all  of  this
myself.  There were times when this sensation of personal impotence, my  own
wretchedness,  appeared  to me  as  the most  horrible  thing.  Some  weaker
characters even went crazy over it and were sent back home for treatment. It
took  me fifteen years to understand what  the most horrible thing  is. It's
become dehumanized, Anton; to harden your  soul  by dragging  it through the
dirt.  We are the gods here, Anton, but  we have to  be wiser than the local
gods  that  men  here have created after their own image. Our path, however,
leads us along the edge of an abyss. One  wrong step and you are caught in a
morass,  and for the rest  of your days you cannot free and cleanse yourself
of it. In the Story of the Descent, Goran the Irukanian wrote: After God had
descended from  Heaven and emerged from the Pitanian swamps in order to show
himself to the people, lo and behold, his feet were covered with dirt."
     "Goran was  ultimately  burned  to death for  that," added Rumata in  a
somber voice.
     "True, they put him to  death by burning him alive. But these things do
not really concern us. I have been  here  now  for fifteen years. Even in my
dreams I don't see Earth any longer.  Some time ago while I was rummaging in
some old papers, I found the photo  of a  woman, and for the longest time  I
could  not remember who she was.  Sometimes I  am overcome by a sensation of
horror because in reality I am no longer a staff member of the Institute but
rather an exponent  of that  local institution,  the  highest judge  of  the
Mercantile Republic.  That, to my mind, is  the most  frightening thing:  to
become  adjusted  to  your  role. Inside  each  of  us, the noble  wild  sow
struggles with the communard. And while everyone around cheers for  the sow,
the  communard is all  alone.--Earth  is  a  thousand years  and a  thousand
parsecs  away  from here."  Don  Kondor  fell silent;  he patted  his knees.
"That's  the way it is, Anton,"  he said after a while, and  his  voice grew
firmer. "So let's remain communards!"
     He doesn't understand, thought  Anton-Rumata.  How should he after all?
He's lucky; he does not  know  the Gray Terror or Don  Reba. All that he has
seen on this  planet in the  course of these past fifteen years fits somehow
within the framework  of  the basis theory.  And  if  I  talk  to  him about
fascism, the Gray Sturmoviks, the rising militancy of the petty bourgeoisie,
he accuses me of emotional word games: "Don't fool around  with terminology,
Anton! Terminological confusion will bring about dangerous  results!"  He is
absolutely  incapable of  comprehending  that the average level  of medieval
bestiality corresponds to the  happy day yesterday on  Arkanar. In his  eyes
Don  Reba  is  another  Richelieu, a wise and farsighted  politician, who is
defending  the absolute regime from feudalistic  excesses. I am the only one
on this planet to see the terrible shadow spreading over the whole land. But
I just can't  understand where  this shadow is coming from, and why. And how
can I convince him,  when I  can clearly see in his eyes that he would  like
best to send me back to Earth on the spot for a cure?
     "How is the noble Synda?" asked Rumata.
     Don  Kondor  stopped inspecting him  with his eyes and  murmured: "Very
well,  thank you." Then he  added:  "We must  finally come to grips with the
fact that neither  you, nor I, nor anybody of our group here, will  ever see
the tangible results of our work. We are not physicists but historians.  Our
unit of time  is not the second  but the century. And what we are doing here
is not  meant to be the sowing of the seed but merely the preparation of the
soil.  And those emissaries from Earth, those--enthusiasts we get  from time
to time--I wish they'd go to hell, those eager beavers ..."
     Rumata put on a forced smile and tugged needlessly at his riding boots.
Eager beavers. Yes indeed.
     Ten  years ago, Stefan Orlovski,  alias  Don Kapada,  commander of  the
crossbow troops of His  Imperial Highness, had ordered his  soldiers to open
fire on the emperor's men as they  were publicly torturing eighteen Estorian
witches. With his own  hand he had slain the imperial  high judge and two of
his assistants  but in  the end  he had  been pierced  by the  spears of the
emperor's bodyguard. As he lay  dying, he called out  to the people watching
the public spectacle:
     "Remember, you are human beings! Defend yourselves, kill them, don't be
afraid of  them!" But his voice could scarcely  be heard over the din of the
roaring crowd as they were shouting, "Burn the witches! Burn them alive!"
     And it  was at about the same time that Karl Rosenblum, one of the most
highly  regarded  historical  experts on the Peasants'  War  in  Germany and
France, alias Pani-Pas, the wool merchant, incited a riot amongst the Murian
peasants, He  took two cities by assault and  was killed by an arrow in  his
back as he tried to put a stop to the looting. He was  still  alive when  he
was rescued by  a helicopter but he could no longer speak. His big blue eyes
expressed  guilt  and amazement  as  big tears trickled  down  his bloodless
cheeks ...
     And shortly before Rumata's arrival  on this planet,  the most powerful
fellow  conspirator,  confidant  of  the  Tyrant  of  Kaisan  (alias  Jeremy
Toughnut, specialist  in reforms  on Terra), had  staged a palace revolution
out of a clear sky,  had seized power and tried to introduce the  Golden Age
within two months; had stubbornly refused to reply to the strongest protests
and  interpellations  of neighbors  and  the  Earth  had earned the  dubious
reputation of a  crazy fool; had successfully evaded eight  rescue attempts;
and was finally captured  by the Institute's special commando  troop who had
taken him by submarine to an island base near the South pole...
     "Just  think  of  that!"  Rumata said under his breath. "And people  on
Earth still  firmly believe to this very day that our physicists are working
on the most complicated problems ..."
     Don Kondor suddenly sat up and took notice.
     "Ah, finally," he whispered.
     From  outside  came  the sound  of angry or  desperate neighing,  hoofs
pawing the ground, and energetic cursing in a voice with a strong  Irukanian
accent.  A man entered  the  room,  It was Don  Hug, the  first groom of the
chamber of His Lordship the Duke of Irukan. He was stout, red-cheeked with a
smartly  upturned mustache, grinned from ear to ear, and from under the wavy
curls of his  auburn wig peered two merry little eyes. And once again Rumata
wanted to obey the impulse  to  embrace the new arrival--it was his  boyhood
friend Pashka; but  Don Hug suddenly assumed  a formal posture, his fat face
took on  the sickeningly  sweet smile demanded by etiquette; he bowed nimbly
from the waist down, pressed his  hat against his chest and pursed his lips.
Rumata stole  a furtive  glance  over to  Alexander Vassilevitch.  Alexander
Vassilevitch  had vanished,  and in  his  place was  Don Kondor, the Supreme
Judge and Keeper of  the Seal; his legs stretched out, his left hand akimbo,
while his right hand clasped the hilt of his gilded sword.
     "You are very late, Don Hug," he said in an unpleasant tone of voice.
     "I  beg  your  most  humble  pardon!"  called  out  Don   Hug,  swiftly
approaching the table. "I swear  by  my Duke's  rickets, nothing but totally
unforeseen unfortunate circumstances! I was stopped four times by the patrol
of His  Highness, the King of Arkanar,  and  twice I had  to fight  off some
rascals." He  raised his left hand with an elegant movement to show  off his
blood-soaked,  bandaged limb. "By the way, noble  don,  whose helicopter  is
that behind the hut?"
     "It's mine," Don  Kondor answered snippishly.  "I have no time to waste
on brawls along the way."
     Don Hug gave him a  friendly smile  and sat down, straddling the bench.
"In other words, noble dons,  we are forced to state that  our most  learned
Dr.  Budach has mysteriously vanished somewhere between the Irukanian border
and the Square of the Heavy Swords-"
     Father  Kabani stirred  on  his  cot. He turned over  in  his sleep and
without waking he mumbled: "Don Reba ..."
     "Leave Budach to  me,"  said Rumata, in a desperate tone,  "and despite
everything, will you please try to understand me..."

TWO
     Rumata woke up with a start. He opened his eyes. It was broad daylight.
Down in  the  street, just below his windows, was some commotion.  Somebody,
probably a soldier, yelled at the top of his voice: "You  stinking bum! Look
at this  filth! I'll make you lap it up  with your tongue!  (Good morning to
you, thought Rumata.) Shut up, you! I swear by the hunchback of Holy Mickey,
you make me lose my temper!"
     Another voice, hoarse and coarse,  growled: "You've  got  to watch your
step in this  miserable street!  It rained this morning, but  who knows when
they last swept this place."
     "You'll show me where I'm supposed to look, all right."
     "You'd better let go of me, noble don, let go of my shirt, will you!"
     "Oh, you'll show me, all right--"
     Rumata heard a  loud slapping sound.  It was evidently the second slap;
the first one had woken him up.
     "You'd better stop hitting me, noble don." A familiar  voice. Who could
it be? Probably  Don Tameo. I'll let him  win back his decrepit Chamalharian
nag today. I wonder  if  I'll  ever learn to distinguish a good horse from a
poor  one. But  after all,  my family isn't  known for their  expertise with
horses.  Camels, yes; we are experts on fighter camels.  A good  thing there
are hardly, any camels here in  Arkanar. Rumata stretched his arms and legs,
until  his joints cracked.  He  groped  for a  silken rope  attached to  the
headboard of  his bed and tugged at  it several times. Little bells could be
heard ringing throughout the house. That fellow  is probably hanging  out of
the window, watching the racket down below.
     I could simply get  up, of course, and get dressed by myself, but  that
would only start tongues wagging again.
     He listened once more to the stream  of  abuse  coming from  below  his
windows. The inventiveness  of the human  tongue! What entropy, what measure
of the uncertainty of human knowledge!
     Lately, Rumata  continued with his  thoughts,  some  know-it-alls  have
emerged in the guard troops, declaring that only one sword alone can be used
for  noble warfare,  while the second  sword  must  be  used exclusively for
street  fights--and Don  Reba pays  too much attention to their  worries  in
beautiful Arkanar. By the  way, Don Tameo is  not one of them. Too much of a
coward, our dear Don Tameo, and an incorrigible armchair politician.
     How  horrible when  the day starts out with Don Tameo ... Rumata sat up
in bed  and clasped  his  hands  around his knees underneath  the patched-up
elegant coverlet. He  was  seized by a  feeling of leaden  hopelessness. You
could ponder forever, keep  thinking about how powerless and small we are in
the face of circumstances ... On Earth I wouldn't ever dream of doing such a
thing.  On  Terra  we  are  strong,   self-assured  men  with   specialized,
psychological training, men  who are ready  for  anything.  And  we do  have
strong nerves:
     We  manage,  for  instance, not to turn  away our  head  when some poor
person is beaten  or executed. We are capable of tremendous self-control: We
can stand to listen  unperturbed to the endless babblings of the most abject
cretins. We have also forgotten how  to feel disgusted:  We  don't mind when
someone puts a dish before us  from which the dogs eat, or when they wipe it
out afterwards with a duly rag. And aren't we marvelous actors?  Not even in
our dreams do we  lapse into our mother tongue or any of the other languages
of  Earth. And  after all,  we are equipped with an invincible  weapon:  The
basis theory of feudalism, worked out in the quiet offices of  our officials
and   in  our  laboratories,  based  on  studious   research   and   serious
discussions...
     It's  just too  bad that  Don Reba hasn't the slightest inkling  of the
theory. And too bad, also, that our special psychological training peels off
like sunburnt skin, that we  have  to  go to extremes, that we are forced to
submit to a steady mental reconditioning: grit  your teeth and remember that
you are a god  in disguise. Remember that  they  do  not know what they  are
doing; and that they are almost all free of  guilt. And that is why you must
have the patience of Job, patience, patience--and meanwhile the fountains of
humanism inside us, which on Earth seemed to be well-nigh inexhaustible, are
drying  up  here  with  frightening  speed.  Holy Mickey!  Weren't  we  real
humanists back on Terra, lovers of mankind, humanism was the mainstay of our
nature and in our respect for the human being, in our love for  man, we even
steered toward anthropocentrism--and now we discover with horror that we did
not  truly  love  mankind  but  only  the  communards,  our  compatriots who
resembled us ...  And more and more frequently we catch ourselves in the act
of wondering: Are these  human beings,  after all? Are  they even capable of
becoming human  beings  in time? And then we remember men like Kyra, Budach,
Arata,  the  hunchback,  or  the  unsurpassable  Baron  Pampa, and  we  feel
ashamed--but  this is equally rare  and unpleasant and, worse still, it does
not help us in the least...
     All right, thought Rumata, that's enough of that. At least not so early
in  the morning.  And  damn this Don Tameo! So  much  trouble, so  much  has
accumulated inside me, in my soul, and there is no place to get rid of it in
this isolated state. That's  what gets me: the isolation, the solitude. What
did they call us back home? "Strong and self-assured,  strapping young men."
When we were back home did we ever imagine in those days that  we would ever
have to  put up  with such loneliness? Nobody would  believe  it.  Anton, my
friend, what's happening to you? To the West from here,  barely three  hours
by plane, lives Alexander Vassilevitch, a good  man with a set of brains. To
the East is Pashka,  a merry, faithful  friend, who went to school  with you
for  seven  years.  It's just  a momentary  depression,  Anton. Too  bad--we
believed you had more endurance; but doesn't this  happen to all of us? What
a  wretched grind. We understand. So why don't  you go  back home to  Terra,
recuperate from all this, occupy yourself with theoretical research, and the
rest will follow...
     Incidentally, Alexander Vassilevitch is a dogmatist par excellence.  So
if  the  basis  theory doesn't  take in the Gray Ones--"In fifteen years  of
working  on this, my friend, I have never once come across an exception like
this ..." In other words, I am simply dreaming of the  Gray hordes. And if I
dream  about  them, it  simply means that I  am  overworked, under  too much
tension, that they should send me home for a rest. "All right, Don Rumata, I
promise to investigate this personally and advise you of my findings. But in
the meantime, give me your word, no  excesses, please . . ." And  then there
is Pavel, whom I used to call Pashka  when we were kids together: now he's a
scientist, an expert,  a  brain  full  of  information.  He  became  totally
immersed in  the history of two planets and proved with  enthusiasm that the
phenomenon of the  Gray hordes represents merely the most common  occurrence
in the relationship  of the  bourgeoisie  against the barons--" By the  way,
I'll pay you a brief visit in a  few days. To  be frank with  you, I'm quite
disturbed when I think about  the incident with  Budach . . ."  Many thanks!
And that's the end of it!  I'll take care of the Budach case myself, even if
I'm no longer much good for anything else.
     The most  learned  Doctor Budach.  A  great  physician,  a most devoted
citizen of Irukan; the duke almost  knighted  him,  but then he  changed his
mind and had  him incarcerated. The most distinguished  specialist for cures
by drugs  in  the  entire empire. Author  of  the widely  known  and  famous
treatise  Concerning Herbs  and Other Plants, which Items in Mysterious Ways
Cause and Occasion Sorrow,  Joy or  Tranquility; Concerning the Salivary and
Body Fluids of Reptiles, Spiders  and  the Hairless Wild Sow  Y,  which Last
Disposes  over said Characteristics and Many  Others  Besides. A  remarkable
person, undoubtedly, and a genuine mental  giant, at the same time a devoted
humanist and eccentric who never had any money. His entire fortune consisted
of a sack  full of books. Who needs you, Doctor  Budach,  in this country of
darkest ignorance that wallows in a bloody morass of conspiracy and greed?
     Let  us assume you are alive  and you are in Arkanar. Of course you may
have fallen  into the hands  of  the barbarians, who  periodically  raid the
countryside  from their  mountain strongholds.  If  this should be the case,
then  Don  Kondor  will  contact   with  our  friend  Schumtuletidovodus,  a
specialist  in the  history  of antique cultures,  who presently works as an
epileptic shaman for the chieftain  whose first name consists of  forty-five
syllables. But if  you should be in  Arkanar after  all--first  of  all, you
might have  been captured  by the nocturnal armies of the  robber  chieftain
Waga  Koleso. No, not "captured, " - but  simply taken along, for they would
consider your companion the far more desirable booty, your friend, the noble
don, who has gambled away his entire fortune. Either way, they will not kill
you: Waga Koleso is far too avaricious.
     There's  an equal chance, though, that some idiot of a baron has you in
his clutches.  Without  any malicious intentions,  merely out of boredom and
some warped idea of hospitality. He simply would like to drink together with
a  noble guest,  so  he  sends out his hordes and has  them drag  you to the
castle of your companion. And you  will be  sitting  in the stinking chamber
until the dons have drunk themselves into oblivion and finally part company.
In that case no harm will befall you.
     But it's quite another story with the remnants of the recently defeated
peasant army of Don Ksi and of Pert Posvonotchnik, who have retreated to the
hamlet "Rotten Nest" where they are secretly supported and fed by our bright
eagle, Don  Reba himself--just in case some complication should arise in his
relationship with the barons. These peasant  soldiers know no  mercy; better
not even imagine the eventuality.  And  then there is Don Satarina, a crabby
imperial aristocrat,  102  years  of age and, of course,  totally senile. He
carries on a family feud with the dukes of Irukan, and snatches--whenever he
revives sufficiently--anything that crosses the Irukanian border. He is very
dangerous;  when  he  is under  the influence  of  Cholezistit,  he is quite
capable of issuing commands with such catastrophic results that the churches
cannot collect the corpses from his cellars fast enough.
     And then there's the top possibility. Not the  most dangerous one,  but
the one most likely to occur: the Gray Patrol of Don Reba. The Sturmoviks on
the main  roads. You might have  fallen into their hands quite by  accident,
Budach, in which case your only hope would be the quick wit and cool head of
your companion  to get you out of this calamity. But what if Don Reba should
be  interested in you  personally? For Don Reba will occasionally display an
unexpected  concern .  .  .  His spies might report that you  are  traveling
through Arkanar, then a detachment under the command of some very eager Gray
officer will be sent out to meet you. And  this Gray cretin of low rank will
be responsible for your ending up in a bag of stones in the Tower of Joy...
     Rumata pulled once more  at the rope, very  impatient now. The  bedroom
door  opened with  a repulsive creak and  a thin, somber-looking boy entered
the room. His name was  Uno, and his fate might have served as the theme for
a  ballad. He bowed deeply as he stood on the threshold, scraping the  floor
with his torn shoes, and stepped up to the bed. On the  small  bedside table
he put down a tray with  letters, some coffee, and a stale bread crust to be
chewed, which  in turn  was  supposed  to strengthen and cleanse  the teeth.
Rumata glanced at him, very annoyed.
     "Tell me please, are you ever going to oil that creaky door?"
     The  boy looked silently at the  floor. Rumata threw the coverlet back,
let his bare feet dangle  down over the edge of the bed and reached for  the
tray.  "Washed  yourself this morning?" he  asked. The  boy shifted from one
foot  to the other; without answering  he wandered through the room, picking
up the scattered garments that lay on the floor.
     "I believe I asked you whether you washed yourself today?" said  Rumata
while he opened his first letter.
     "Water won't wash away your sins," muttered  the  boy under his breath.
"So why, noble don, should I wash myself?"
     "And what did I tell you about microbes?" said Rumata.  Carefully,  the
boy placed  his master's green trousers over  the back of the armchair, then
passed his thumb in a circle above it to chase away the wicked ghosts.
     "I prayed three times last night," he said. "What more could I do?"
     "You numbskull," said Rumata and started to read his letter.
     It was  from Dona Okana, a lady-in-waiting, the  latest favorite of Don
Reba. She invited  him to come and visit her  this very evening,  and signed
the letter "amorously languishing for you." The P.S. stated in clear, simple
language  what  she  really  expected  from  this  rendezvous.  Rumata  felt
embarrassed; he  blushed. Throwing  a side glance at the boy,  he  murmured:
"That's  really too much . . ." He  ought to think it  over. To go there was
disgusting; not to go there would be foolish. Dona Okana was a well-informed
person. He quickly drained his cup of coffee and  put the chewing-crust into
his mouth.
     The next envelope was made of heavy paper; the seal was damaged. It was
obvious that the letter had been opened. The letter was  from  Don Ripat, an
unscrupulous  careerist and  lieutenant  in the Gray  Militia,  who inquired
after his esteemed  well-being, expressed his belief in the imminent victory
of the Gray Cause, and begged to postpone payment  of  his  debt, by quoting
various unfavorable circumstances. "All right,  all  right,"  Rumata mumbled
and put the letter aside, picked the envelope up once again  and examined it
with great interest. Oh yes, they were working much more carefully now; much
more carefully.
     The third letter contained an invitation to a duel because of a certain
Dona Pifa, but the writer was willing to withdraw his challenge provided the
noble Don Rumata  would testify that he was making no claims upon the person
of Dona Pifa and had never made any such claims. The letter was typical: the
basic text had been written by a calligrapher and the blanks had been filled
in with names and times-- in a clumsy hand and full of mistakes.
     Rumata put the letter down and scratched the mosquito bites on his left
hand.
     "I want to wash up. Bring the things in!" he ordered.
     The  boy  disappeared  behind the door,  to return soon  with  a wooden
basin.  He  dragged the  tub  along the floor, his  behind wagging with  the
exertion. Then he ran once  more out of the room and dragged in an empty tub
with a big dipper.
     Rumata  now  jumped  to  his feet, pulled  the  elaborately embroidered
nightshirt over his  head, and noisily  unsheathed the swords that  had been
hanging over the headboard of his bed.  Cautiously, the  boy ducked behind a
chair. For ten minutes  Rumata practiced  attack and defense; then he leaned
the  swords  against the  wall, bent over the empty  tub,  and ordered: "The
water!" It was  rather miserable to wash without soap but  Rumata had become
used to it. The boy scooped up the water with the dipper and poured it  over
Rumata's back,  neck, and  head. Dipper after dipper filled with water.  All
the  while  he kept grumbling:  "Everywhere else  people  behave like  human
beings, only here in our house  must we  bother with  such refined nonsense.
Who has  ever  heard of such  a thing? To wash yourself with  two buckets of
water? Every day a fresh towel . . . And His Lordship jumps around all naked
with two swords every morning, without having said his prayers first.. ."
     While Rumata toweled himself vigorously, he spoke with an authoritative
tone:  "I  am a member  of the court, not just some lousy  baron. A courtier
must always be clean and sweet-smelling."
     "His Royal  Highness will  hardly  sniff  at  you,"  replied  the  boy.
"Everyone knows that  his Highness prays day and night for  us sinners.  And
Don Reba--he never washes. I have it  first-hand;  his  servant has told  me
so."
     "All right, don't fret,"  said Rumata and put on his  nylon undershirt.
The  boy  regarded  the undershirt  with  dismay.  Rumors  about it had been
circulating for  quite  some time now  amongst the servants in  Arkanar. But
there was nothing that  Rumata could do about it,  for  very natural reasons
growing out of his masculine mentality. As Rumata slipped on his shorts, the
boy jerked  his head to one side,  moving  his lips  as if he wanted to shoo
away the spirit of impurity.
     Still, it  wouldn't  be a  bad idea  to introduce here the  fashion  of
wearing undergarments, thought Rumata. But  such innovations could naturally
be carried out only  with  the help  of  the fairer sex. And in  this  area,
too--unfortunately   for  him--he  distinguished  himself  by  rather   high
requirements.  Quite inconvenient  for a spy. For a cavalier and  man of the
world, for  a renowned  connoisseur of court etiquette  and for a person who
was sent to  the provinces, there to fight duels to settle love affairs,  it
was only fitting to  have twenty mistresses. Rumata made heroic endeavors to
keep  up  with  his reputation. Half the members of his  agency, rather than
devote  their  time  to  more serious efforts, spread  the  most  despicable
rumors--rumors calculated to arouse the envy and delight of the young men of
the  Arkanarian Guard. Dozens of  overjoyed  and  disappointed  ladies  whom
Rumata  visited until late in the night--reciting poems  all the time (third
night  watch: fraternal  kiss on  the lady's cheek, a  mighty leap over  the
balcony's balustrade and right  into the arms of the commander of  the night
watch, whom  he  knew well)--dozens of  ladies would  outdo each other  with
tales of the  marvelous style  of  the genuine cavalier  from  the big city.
Rumata  used   the  vanity  of  these  women,  depraved  to  the   point  of
repulsiveness, for his own purposes. However, the question  of underwear was
never touched on.
     How much simpler had been the  business with the  handkerchiefs! On the
occasion of the very first ball be had pulled an elegant silk cloth from his
waistcoat pocket, and with flourish  had  proceeded to dry his lips with it.
And at the next ball, the manly  youths were drying their sweaty  faces with
large or small pieces of cloth of various colors, gaily embroidered and with
monograms. And within one month, the ladies' men were outdoing each other by
draping bedsheets over their hand, dragging the four comers elegantly  along
the floor behind them ...
     Rumata  put  on  his  green trousers and a white batiste shirt  with  a
freshly pressed, upturned collar.
     "Any callers?" he inquired of the boy.
     "The barber is waiting," said the boy.  "And there are two dons sitting
in the drawing  room,  Don Tameo  and Don Sera. They had me bring them  some
wine and are  quarreling violently. They are waiting to have  breakfast with
you."
     "Go and get the barber. Tell the  noble  dons that I'll join them  very
soon. But don't  be  rude  to them,  do you hear  me? You must always remain
polite."
     Breakfast was not very opulent and left  room for  an  early  lunch.  A
strongly spiced roast  was  served  along  with  dogs'  ears,  marinated  in
vinegar. They drank Irukanian  sparkling  wine, the viscous,  brown Estorian
and the white Soanian. While he skillfully dissected a leg of lamb with  the
aid  of two daggers, Don Tameo complained about the overbearing  temerity of
the lower  classes. "I  will  lodge a complaint at the highest instance," he
declared.  "The  nobility  demands that  the plebs, the  peasants,  and  the
artisans  be  forbidden to  show  their  faces in public  places and  in the
street. Let  them use  the courtyards and back entrances. In those instances
where  the appearance of a peasant cannot be avoided--for example, when they
deliver  bread, meat, or wine--they should obtain  a special permit from the
Ministry for the Protection of the Crown.'"
     "What a clever  brain!" Don Sera spoke  with enthusiasm and sprayed the
area  before him liberally with  saliva and juice  from the meat.  "But last
night at  the Court . .  ."  And  he related  the latest  gossip. Don Reba's
current flame.  Lady in  waiting Okana,  had been careless enough to step on
the king's sore foot. His Highness flew into a  rage and turned to Don Reba,
ordering him to mete out an exemplary  punishment to the evildoer. Whereupon
Don Reba, without even so much as batting  an eyelid, replied; "It  will  be
carried out, Your Highness. This very night!"
     "I laughed so hard that  two buttons popped off my waistcoat!" remarked
Don Sera, cocking his head to one side.
     Protoplasm, though  Rumata.  Nothing  but ingesting  and  digesting and
procreating protoplasm.
     "Indeed, noble dons," he said. "Don Reba is  truly  a very, very clever
man."
     "Ho, Ho!" said Don Sera. "Much more--he is an intellectual luminary!"
     "An outstanding statesman," said Don Tameo emphatically, with a knowing
expression.
     "Yes  it's really very strange," Don  Rumata continued with  a friendly
smile, "when you  remember  the kind of  things  people would tell about him
hardly a year  ago.  Do  you  recall, Don Tameo, how  wittily  you expressed
yourself on the subject of his bow legs?"
     Don  Tameo's  drink  almost  went  down  the  wrong  way  as he quickly
swallowed a little glass of Irukanian wine.
     "I can't remember a thing," he grumbled. "And besides I am not known as
a wit--"
     "Oh surely you must remember," said Don  Sera and  reproachfully wagged
his head.
     "Yes,  indeed!"   shouted  Don   Rumata.   "You  were  present  at  the
conversation,  Don Sera! I remember so well how you  laughed at Don  Tameo's
witty ideas. You laughed so  hard that  something popped off the clothes you
were wearing."
     Don Sera turned  red and  blue  in the face and started to  justify his
remarks with long-winded  and  distorted explanations. He  was  lying in his
teeth, of course. Don Tameo's face had grown somber. He made a long face. He
devoted himself wholeheartedly to the  strong  Estorian  wine, and  since he
had--according to his  own  words--"begun two mornings ago, and had not been
able to desist till now," he had to be supported from either side when  they
finally departed.
     It  was a sunny, friendly  day. The common people  stood  around in the
streets  and gaped as if  there  were something  to  look  at;  little  boys
whistled  and  screamed,  throwing  mud at  each  other;  prettily  bedecked
housewives  with bonnets on their heads  leaned out  of  the windows; daring
servant girls flashed their  shy glances  from moist eyes.  Don Sera's  mood
began to improve. He tripped a peasant and almost split his sides to see how
the man wallowed in the mud. Don  Tameo suddenly noticed that  he had put on
his fez with the double sword ornament back to front. He yelled: "Stop! Stay
put!" and raised his fez, held it up steady, while he tried to turn his body
180  degrees  underneath  the  fez.  Another  item  popped  off  Don  Sera's
waistcoat. Rumata seized  a pretty servant girl passing by the group, tugged
at her pink ear and begged her to put Don Tameo's headgear in order. A crowd
of onlookers  quickly  gathered  around the  three  noble dons,  all eagerly
dispensing  advice  to  the girl whose face was as red as  a beet--and Don's
Sera's waistcoat kept losing a steady stream of buttons, buckles, and hooks.
When finally they were on their way again, Don Tameo summoned up his courage
and on  the spot drew up an addenda to his  complaint wherein he pointed out
how necessary  it  was "To  keep pretty persons  of the  female gender at  a
proper distance from peasants and the common people."
     And then  a cart loaded with earthenware  pots blocked  their path. Don
Sera  unsheathed both his swords  and  stated that it was not fit and proper
for the noble dons to make a detour around pots of any kind and declared his
determination to pave  his way straight through the  cart. But  while he was
still busy  trying to aim properly and  distinguish where  the  wall of  the
house ended  and where the  pots  began, Rumata  grasped  the spokes  of two
wheels  and  turned the cart around, and thus  cleared the road. The  gaping
crowd, who had followed the incident with delight, began to cheer: Hip, hip,
hooray! The noble  dons  were  about to  continue on their way  when from  a
second-storey window  a fat  merchant's  gray-blue head  popped  out, loudly
giving forth with a  tirade concerning the rudeness of the courtiers against
whom "Our  Enlightened Eagle, Don Reba, would soon find some proper remedy."
Of course  they  had to  stop on the spot once more and  transfer the entire
load of pots into  the merchant's  window. Rumata saved the  last pot, threw
two gold pieces with the profile  of Pitz the Sixth inside  into  the vessel
and presented it to the petrified owner of the wagon.
     "How much did you give him?" asked Don Tameo as they started out again.
     "Oh,  it's  not  worth  mentioning,"  answered  Rumata,  shrugging  his
shoulders. 'Two pieces of gold."
     "I swear  by the  humpback of our Holy Mickey!" broke from Don  Tameo's
lips.  "You do have  money!  If you  want,  I'll sell  you  my  Chamalharian
stallion!"
     "I'd rather win that stallion from you in a game of knucklebones," said
Rumata.
     "Splendid!" shouted Don Sera and stopped in his  tracks. "Let's  have a
game of knucklebones!"
     "Right here?" asked Rumata.
     "Why not?" asked Don Sera.  "I see no reason why three noble dons can't
play a game of knucklebones wherever it pleases them!"
     Suddenly Don  Tameo stumbled  and sprawled full length in the mud.  Don
Sera's legs, too, suddenly became entangled and he fell down.
     "Oh, I completely forgot," he said. "We're supposed to be on guard duty
now."
     Rumata  dragged the two to their feet and led each by the arm along the
way. Before the giant dark house of Don Satarina he came to a halt
     "We ought to pay a visit to the old don," he suggested.
     "Sure, can't  see any reason why three noble dons shouldn't call on Don
Satarina," said Don Sera.
     Don Tameo opened his eyes.
     "In  the king's Service," he  managed the words painfully, "we must all
look ahead to  the future.  D-d-d-on Satarina-- that's a piece  of  the past
already. Onward, noble dons! I must get to my guard post."
     "Onward!" echoed Don Rumata.
     Don Tameo's head dropped  forward to rest on his chest; he did not wake
up  a second time. Don Sera cracked his knuckles and  began  to tell stories
about his ever-successful amorous adventures. They arrived at the palace and
went  to  the  guardroom  where Rumata, very relieved,  laid Don Tameo  on a
bench. Don  Sera, however, took a  seat  at the table, grandly swept aside a
pile of orders signed by the  king, and  declared that the time had  finally
come to drink a glass of cold Irukanian wine. The landlord ought to roll out
a little barrel, he stated, and these  old women (he pointed to the officers
of the guard on  duty who were playing cards at  another table)  should join
them  for a drink. The  commander of the  guard,  a  lieutenant of the guard
troop, came over. He eyed  Don Tameo and Don Sera from top to toe. And after
Don  Sera  had directed an inquiry  to  him--"Why are all the flowers fading
away in the shelter of my solitude?"--he decided it would not make any sense
to send them to their sentry post in the present condition; they'd be better
off to lie there for a while.
     Rumata won a gold  piece from the lieutenant and talked  with him about
the new ribbons on their uniforms  and the best method of polishing a sword.
He mentioned a short time later that he hoped to visit Don Satarina, who was
known to possess  some fine  grinding stones,  and seemed  visibly  upset to
learn that the honorable grandee  apparently had now lost his mind for good.
One  month earlier  he was  said to  have released all  his  prisoners,  had
dissolved his  bodyguard and handed over  to  the state his rich  arsenal of
instruments of torture.  At the age of  102 years, the old man declared,  it
was his intention from  now on to devote the rest of his life to good deeds.
He'd probably not be long for this world now.
     Taking his leave of  the lieutenant,  Rumata left the palace and ambled
over in the direction of the harbor. He had to walk around puddles and  jump
over deep wheel ruts filled with greenish-brown water. Without further  ado,
he pushed the loitering  onlookers out of his path, winked at the girls (who
seemed greatly impressed by his outfit), bowed deeply to the ladies who were
being  carried down the street in  sedan chairs, waved friendly greetings to
his  acquaintances  from  the   court  and  deliberately  ignored  the  Gray
Sturmoviks.
     Next, Rumata made a little detour to look in at the School of Patriots.
This school  had been founded two years previously  under the  protection of
Don  Reba himself  for  the  purpose  of  training  the adolescent  sons  of
merchants and  the lower middle class for positions as low-ranking  military
and administrative officials. The building was constructed of stone, without
any  columns or ornaments; it  had  thick  walls with narrow,  embrasurelike
windows; on  either side of the main entrance were two semicircular  towers.
If necessary, one could defend oneself there for quite a while.
     Rumata  climbed up a narrow circular  staircase  leading to the  second
floor, his  spurs clanking  on the stone floor. On his way to the  office of
the school's procurator he passed by the classrooms. A  monotonous,  uniform
hum of voices came  from the rooms;  answers were given in  unison. "What is
our king?"--"A  sublime person." "What are  our ministers?"--  "Faithful and
without the  spirit of  contradiction."  "And  God, the Creator,  spoke:  'I
pronounce a curse.' And He pronounced a curse . . ." ". . . and at the sound
of the  horn blowing twice, run two by  two  and form a  chain, holding your
spears  ready  to  thrust   ...""...  in  case  the   tortured  should  lose
consciousness, the torturing must be interrupted immediately..."
     The school, thought Rumata. The breeding ground of wisdom. The mainstay
of culture ...
     Without knocking, he pushed open  the low entrance door and entered the
office; it was dark and icy  as a crypt. Behind an immensely massive writing
desk, heaped with papers  and thrashing canes, a tall, angular man jumped to
his feet. A pair of deep-seated  eyes peered from his bald head,  and on his
tightly braided  gray uniform could be seen the  epaulets of the Ministry of
Security. He  was the procurator of the School of Patriots, the most learned
Father Kin, a sadist, a murderer, and a monk at the same time, author of the
Treatise Dealing with Denunciations, which had aroused Don Reba's interest
     "Well, how  are you  faring here?" asked  Don Rumata  with a benevolent
smile. 'The literate folk . . . Some we slaughter and others we teach, eh?"
     Father Kin smiled wryly.
     "Not every literate man is an enemy of the crown," he said. "The king's
enemies  are the  literate  dreamers,  skeptics,  and  disloyal  dissidents!
Whereas our task here--"
     "All right, all right," said Rumata. "I  believe  you. Are you  writing
anything new? I have read your treatise--a very useful work, but stupid. How
can  you harbor such thoughts? How do  you get such  ideas? That isn't  very
good, my dear ... procurator, is it... ?"
     "I make no boastful claims of special intelligence or wisdom," answered
Father Kin with dignity. "My only goal is the good of  the state. We need no
clever people. We need loyalty. And we--"
     "That will do, that will do," said Rumata. "All right then. But are you
writing anything new or not?"
     "In the  near  future I  will hand the minister an  outline of the  New
State for his perusal. I have used the  Realm  of the  Holy Order as a model
for it"
     "The very ideal"  Rumata was filled with wonder. "Do you intend to make
monks of all of us?"
     Father Kin pressed his palms together and leaned forward.
     "Permit  me, noble  don, to  make  myself  clear,"  he  said excitedly,
licking his lips. "The crux of the matter lies  somewhere else. The  crux of
the matter lies in the basic pillars of the New State. And the basic pillars
are rather simple; there are but three: blind belief in the infallibility of
the  law;  total  submission  to  the  law;  and  finally,  the  unrelenting
observation of everyone by all."
     "Hum," said Rumata. "And what for?"
     "What do you mean, what for?"
     "You  are stupid after all," said Rumata. "All right, I  believe you. I
wanted something  else. What was  it now? . . . Oh, yes. Tomorrow you'll get
two new teachers to add to your staff. Father Tarra, a venerable old man, is
dabbling  in  --cosmography; and  Brother Nanin,  also  a most  worthy  man,
specialist in  history. They are my people, and you are to treat them right!
Here is my pledge." He threw a money pouch of  leather on the table. "That's
for you, five gold pieces. All clear?"
     "Yes, noble don," said Father Kin humbly.
     Rumata yawned and looked around.
     "Just as  long as we understand each  other," he said. "For some reason
my father  used to love  these people very dearly, and charged me  with  the
task of making their lives as pleasant as possible. Would you  do me a favor
and explain, you learned man, why such a most noble don would be so inclined
toward the sciences?"
     "Some special merits perhaps?" guessed Father Kin.
     "What are you babbling about?"  asked Rumata angrily. "But  then again,
why not? Indeed, why not? There might be a beautiful daughter, or a sister .
. . Don't you have any wine here? Of course not--"
     Father Kin  shrugged his shoulders  guiltily. Rumata  took  one of  the
papers that  cluttered the  writing desk and held it against the light for a
while.
     "Defensive  belt  breakthrough,"  he  read  out  loud. "Oh,  you crafty
fellows!"
     He dropped the paper on the  floor and rose to his feet "Just make sure
that  your educated brood doesn't bother these  two. Ill come to  visit them
some time soon,  and if I hear that--" He pushed his fist under Father Kin's
nose.
     "All right, all right, don't worry." Father Kin snickered obsequiously.
     Rumata  nodded curtly and walked out the door, scraping his spurs along
the floor.
     On the Boulevard of Overwhelming Gratitude, he went  into an  armorer's
workshop  and bought  new rings for his sword  sheath.  He tried out  a  few
daggers, hurled them against  the wall, weighed them in his hand,  but could
not decide on any of them. Then he sat down on a  table and chatted with the
owner of the place, a certain Father  Hauk. Father Hauk  had kind, sad eyes,
and small pale hands, stained with inkspots. Rumata discussed with him for a
while the merits of Zuren's poetry, listened to an interesting commentary on
the  poem.  "It  weighs  upon my  soul like  fallen  leaves,"  and asked for
something new  to read. Before  leaving, he sighed with the author  over the
inexpressibly sad verses and recited  "To be or  not  to be" in an Irukanian
translation.
     "Holy  Mickey!"  Father  Hauk cried out  exuberantly. "Who  writes such
verses?"
     "I do," said Rumata and left the store.
     He made his way to the Gray Joy Inn, drank there  a  glass of Irukanian
white wine, patted the innkeeper's wife on the  cheek,  skillfully overthrew
with one thrust of his sword  a table where a government spy sat  staring at
him  with empty eyes. Then he walked to  a  far  comer of the inn  and found
there a ragged, bearded man, who had an inkwell suspended around his neck.
     "Good day, Brother Nanin," he greeted the man. "How many petitions have
you written today?"
     Brother Nanin's embarrassed smile displayed his small decayed teeth.
     "Nowadays people  want  to write  very  few petitions,  noble don,"  he
answered.  "Some believe that  it  is useless to beg for favors. And  others
count on the likelihood  that  they  will get  what  they  want soon anyhow,
without having to ask for it."
     Rumata bent  over  and  whispered in his  ear that he had  arranged the
matter with the School of Patriots.
     "Here are two pieces of  gold for you,"  he said finally. "Clean up and
put on some decent clothes. And weigh your words. At least for the first few
days. Father Kin, the procurator, is a dangerous man." .
     "I'll read him my treatise about rumors,"  said Brother Nanin  merrily.
"I thank you, noble don."
     "The things one does in memory of a dear departed father," said Rumata.
"But, tell me, where can I find Father Tarra?"
     Brother  Nanin's  smile vanished  suddenly and  a  nervous tick  played
around his mouth.
     'There was  a brawl here yesterday," he  said.  "And Father Tarra had a
bit too much to drink and got somewhat out of hand.  And, then, you know, he
has red hair . . . They broke his ribs."
     "What a mess!" Rumata said. "Why do you all drink so much?"
     "Sometimes it's hard to control oneself," said Brother Nanin sadly.
     "That's very true," said Rumata. "Well, here's a few more gold  pieces,
and try to take care of him, will you?"
     Brother Nanin bowed low and wanted  to  kiss  Rumata's hand  but Rumata
stepped back quickly.
     "Now, now," he said. "I have seen  you make better jokes in your  time,
Brother Nanin. Farewell!"
     The  harbor smelled  like  no  other  spot  in Arkanar.  It smelled  of
seawater and foul algae, of spices, tar,  smoke, and rotten corned beef, and
from the  taverns came a nauseating odor of boiled fish and home brewed beer
turned  sour. The  sultry air  was filled with a  jumble of curses  in  many
tongues. On the piers, in the narrow lanes between the warehouses and around
the  taverns,  thousands of people shoved and  pushed. They caught  the eye.
Down-and-out seamen, bloated merchants,  fishermen with somber faces,  slave
traders, pimps, heavily made-up whores, drunken soldiers,  men impossible to
classify, hung with arms from  head  to toe, and fantastic vagabonds in torn
clothes  with  golden bracelets  around their  dirty  wrists. And  all  were
excited and ill-tempered. Don  Reba  had issued an edict three days  before,
forbidding any ship or boat to leave the harbor.
     The Gray  Sturmoviks lounged on  the  quays,  playing  with their rusty
butcher cleavers. They  spat into  the  water and  bestowed impertinent  and
malicious glances on the  crowd. On some of the ships that were moored  near
the quays, groups  of five or six  men  huddled, brawny, copper-skinned  men
clad in heavy furs turned inside out. These were the barbarian  mercenaries.
They were no  good in  a  fight  at  close range, but  when  they were  at a
distance (as they  were now) they  were very dangerous with their  blowpipes
and poisoned  arrows.  In  the  distance loomed the  black  masts of the war
galleys of the royal fleet, like threatening fingers pointing skywards. From
time to time, streams of fire issued from them and landed on the  surface of
the water toward the quays: the oil slicks were ignited in this way in order
to intimidate the waiting crowd.
     Rumata passed the customs shed where the ship captains were  waiting in
front of closed doors in vain, trying to obtain their  permit  to depart. He
thrust through the noisy crowd that was busy at  bartering  and trading with
anything at hand: from slave girls and black pearls to narcotics and trained
spiders. He continued on to the quays, threw a swift glance over to the side
where corpses in sailors'  uniforms were publicly displayed. The dead bodies
had already swelled up under the hot sun. He  described a wide circle around
a square which  was littered with all kinds of junk and garbage, and finally
entered  an  evil-smelling  little side  street. It was  much quieter  here.
Half-naked  prostitutes  were sprawled  in  the doorways of cheap waterfront
dives; at a street crossing  a soldier lay, dead drunk, his nose  bashed  in
and  his pockets  tamed  inside out: suspicious figures  with pale nocturnal
faces crept along the walls of the houses.
     This  was the first time that Rumata  had come here during  the day. At
first he was  surprised at the lack of reaction to his presence. The  people
he encountered either looked past him with their watery eyes or saw straight
through him. Still,  they stepped aside to let him pass. Once  when he tamed
around  a comer and  then  swiftly  looked back, he  saw some twenty various
heads--male  and female, bushy-haired  and  bald--disappear instantly behind
doorways,  windows, and fences.  Suddenly he felt the  strange atmosphere of
this  nauseating  neighborhood,  an  atmosphere  filled  not  so  much  with
hostility or danger as with an evil, avaricious interest.
     He pushed a door open with his shoulder and entered one of the taverns.
Inside the darkened room a man dozed behind the bar. He was very old, with a
face like a mummy and an extraordinarily long nose. There were no patrons in
the room.  Rumata approached the bar and  was just about to flip his fingers
against the enormous nose of  the old  man when all  of a  sudden  he became
aware that the old man was not really asleep, but was watching him carefully
from  behind his  almost closed  eyelids. Rumata threw a  silver coin on the
table and the old man's eyes jerked open as if pushed by a button.
     "What would  you like,  noble don?" he inquired officiously. "Something
to eat? To sniff? Or maybe a girl?"
     "Don't ask such stupid  questions," said Rumata. "You  know  quite well
what I'm here for."
     "Well! Now isn't that the noble Don Rumata!"  shouted the old man as if
completely taken by surprise. "There  I am, just sitting there--and suddenly
I see a familiar face--"
     After this long speech, the old man closed  his  eyes again. Rumata got
the message: the  coast was clear. He  walked  around  the  bar  and crawled
through a  tiny door  into the adjoining room. It  was very crowded and dark
inside and the room was filled with  a penetrating odor of sour beer. In the
middle of the room, standing behind a high  desk,  was an elderly  man.  His
deeply wrinkled face was bent over a pile of papers. His head was covered by
a flat black cap.  A weak oil  lamp flickered on the high desk and its  pale
light barely illuminated the faces of the men sitting  motionless along  the
wall. Rumata used his two swords  like canes and groped for a low chair near
the wall. He sat down. Special laws and a special etiquette ruled here. None
of  those present  paid the slightest  bit  of attention to the newcomer. If
somebody entered, then that was the way it was  supposed to  be; but in case
it was not  the way it was supposed  to be, then you blinked  just once  and
that person disappeared. You could search the wide world over and never find
a trace  of him . . . The pucker-faced old man busily scratched his pen over
the paper; the people along the wall did not budge. From time to time one of
them  would  sigh  deeply.  Up  and  down   the  walls  scurried   invisible
salamanders, hunting for flies.
     The motionless men along  the  wall were the  leaders  of robber bands.
Rumata  had known some  of them  by sight  for quite a while now. These dull
brutes  were  not  worth  anything, actually.  Their  psyches were  no  more
complicated  than that of  the average shopkeeper. They were stupid, brutal,
and very handy with .knives and cudgels. But then there was the  man at  the
high desk.
     He was  called  Waga Koleso, and  he was  all-powerful;  there  was  no
competitor who  would  have  contested his  position  as chief  of  all  the
criminal forces in the land, from the Pitanian swamps in the Western regions
of Irukan to the maritime borders of the mercantile republic of Soan. He had
been cursed  and  expelled from all three official  churches of  the  empire
because of  his excessive  haughtiness,  for he claimed  to be  the  younger
brother of the ruling prince.  He had at his  disposal  a standing nocturnal
army, some  ten thousand men strong; had a  few hundred thousand gold pieces
in his treasure chests; and  his agents penetrated as  far as the very heart
of the government machine.  He  had been officially  executed  at least four
times  during  the past twenty  years,  each time in the presence of a large
populace. According to  an  official  version he  was  currently languishing
simultaneously in  three  of  the darkest  jails  of  the realm.  Don  Reba,
however, had repeatedly issued commands "regarding the rebellious  spreading
of rumors and legends  by enemies of the  State and other malevolent persons
regarding a certain so-called Waga  Koleso, who in actuality  does not exist
and thus belongs to the realm of legends."
     According to certain rumors, the same Don Reba summoned several barons,
who  disposed  of  strong  troops  of  warriors, and  promised the following
reward: five hundred gold pieces for Waga's body and seven thousand for Waga
alive. In his time, Rumata  himself had had to  spend a great deal of effort
and  money  in  order  to  establish contact with Koleso. He felt  violently
repelled  by the old  man  but Koleso was  occasionally  very  useful,  even
literally indispensable. Besides, Waga  was of scientific  interest  to him,
namely as a  most  intriguing specimen in  Rumata's  collection  of medieval
monsters, and as a person who apparently lacked any trace of a past.
     Finally,  Waga  put his quill aside, straightened up his back and  said
with a croaking voice:
     "Well, then, my  dear children. Two and a  half thousand pieces of gold
within three days. And expenses run only 1996. Five hundred  and four little
round  pieces of  gold in three days. Not bad, my dear children,  not bad at
all..."
     Nobody moved. Waga .left his place behind the high desk, took a seat in
a comer and forcefully rubbed his dry palms together.
     "Isn't  that something to make you jump  for joy, my dear children?" he
said. "These  are good times for us, these fruitful years  . . . But we must
work hard  for our daily bread. Indeed, how hard! My older brother, the king
of Arkanar, has set  his mind  on  annihilating  all learned  men in his own
kingdom as well as in mine. Well, he in his wisdom ought to know what should
be done. After all, who  are we to doubt the wisdom of his judgment? It does
not behoove us to  criticize his most exalted decisions. On the  other hand,
we may--nay, we must--extract some profit from these decisions. And since we
are his  loyal subjects,  we must  serve  him. As we are but  his  nocturnal
subjects we will not deliver into his hands our modest part of these profits
without further ado. He, of course, won't notice it,  and  therefore he will
not be annoyed at us. What is the matter?"
     Nobody moved.
     "I had the  impression that Piga was  sighing  over there. Am  I right,
Piga, my son?"
     There  was  a  slight  commotion,  somebody  fidgeting  in  his   seat,
apparently, as  nothing could be seen in the  darkened room.  A slight cough
came from a comer.
     "I didn't sigh, Waga," said a coarse voice. "I wouldn't.. ."
     "That's it, Piga, just keep  quiet! Excellent! Now hold your breath and
listen  to me carefully! Look sharp and  set to work  and nobody will bother
you at your difficult task. My older brother, His Royal Highness, has let it
be  known through his mouthpiece, the  noble Don  Reba,  that he  has  set a
rather considerable sum of money on the heads of several learned men who are
in hiding or who  wish to flee from here. We  must deliver these  heads into
his royal  hands, just to humor the old man. On the other hand, though, some
of these scientists want to  hide  from  my  older brother's wrath,  and are
willing to  remunerate whoever will assist them in it. Out of compassion, in
the name  of  pity, and also to guard my brother's soul  from the burden  of
excessive misdeeds, we  will help these people.  And  if later on  His Royal
Highness should  still be in need of these heads, he can still get them from
us. At a good price. Very cheap ..."
     Waga fell  silent and lowered his head. Tears  were trickling down  his
cheeks all of a sudden--the slow tears of an old man.
     "I am getting old," he sighed, trying vainly to stifle a sob. "My hands
are trembling  with  age, my legs  fail me  and  my  memory begins to  fade.
Indeed, I forgot completely that inside this tiny, stifling cage a noble don
is languishing in our midst--surely he does not care to hear about our petty
money deals. I am  leaving you, I will rest. But meanwhile, my children, let
us ask the noble don to be  gracious enough to forgive our oversight .  . ."
Moaning  and groaning he  rose  to his feet, arched over to make a  bow. The
rest  of  the  men  also got  to their feet and  bowed  before  Rumata,  but
indecision and fear showed plainly in  their faces. Rumata  could  literally
hear their  dull,  primitive brains crackling  with the strain of  trying to
interpret the old man's words and gestures.
     Things were  perfectly  clear, however. The  clever old man would seize
the opportunity at the right moment to inform Don Reba of his intention that
he and his  nocturnal army would join the Gray hordes in the pogrom they had
just  started. Now, however,  the time for  concrete  orders  had come, when
lists of names were to be handed out and  the exact date and hour were to be
determined when  the plans would be carried out. At this point  Don Rumata's
presence was, to  put  it mildly, considered  undesirable.  This way  it was
suggested  to the  noble don to state  quickly the purpose  of his visit and
then to take his leave as fast as possible. What a morose  old man! A  nasty
person! What was he doing here in town? Waga couldn't stand city life.
     "You are right, my dear Waga," said Rumata. "My time is limited. But it
is  I  who  must beg  your  pardon  because  I will  bother  you  with  some
inconsequential  little  business."  Rumata  remained seated while  all  the
others listened to him standing up.
     "It has come about that I am  in  need of your advice  . .. You may sit
down."
     Waga bowed once more and sat down.
     "This is what I came to tell you," continued Rumata. "Three  days ago I
was  supposed to meet my friend, a noble  don  from Irukan, at the Square of
the Heavy Swords. We failed to meet. He has vanished. But I knew for certain
that he  has crossed  safely  the Irukanian border.  Perhaps you might  know
something further about his fate?"
     Waga did not  reply for a long time. The  bandits  kept clearing  their
throats and sighed deeply. Then Waga, too, cleared his throat.
     "No, noble don," he said. "Nothing is known to us in this matter."
     Rumata instantly stood up.
     "Thank you, my friend," he said. Then he walked  over to the  high desk
in the middle of the room and set down a leather pouch with ten gold pieces.
"I'm leaving  this here with you with the following request: Should you hear
of  any  further  news, let me know about it, please."  He  touched his cap.
"Farewell!"
     He stopped once  more, just  before he reached the door,  turned around
and remarked casually:
     "You mentioned something  about learned men. A thought just occurred to
me. I  have the feeling that the  King of Arkanar won't succeed in capturing
any  proper bookworms even if he should  try for a whole  month. And I  must
found a university  in the capital  city. I once made such a  vow when I was
cured there from the plague. So  if you should seize any bookworms, will you
let me know  before you inform Don Reba. Maybe I might use one or the  other
for my university."
     "That will cost  you dearly," warned  Waga  with  a mawkish voice. "The
merchandise is hard to come by."
     "But my honor is dearer still," bragged Rumata as he turned to go.


THREE
     It would be most interesting, thought Rumata, to capture this Waga  and
bring him to Terra. Technically not difficult at all. Easy  to  arrange. But
what  would he do  on Earth? Rumata tried to imagine what  Waga would  do on
Earth. Throw a giant shaggy spider into a bright room with shining walls and
air conditioning pervaded  with pine scent or ocean breezes - and the spider
flattens  itself  against  the  shiny floor,  jerks  its wicked,  feverishly
contorted eyes to and fro and--what else can he do?--crawls sideways, always
sideways  into  the  farthest  little  comer,  doubles  up  into a ball  and
threateningly bares its poisonous mandibles. First and foremost,  Waga would
seek out the company of the dissatisfied and  the social outcasts. And  just
as  certain would it turn out, that  even the most stupid  grumbler of Earth
would still be  too  pure  and unsuitable for Waga's purposes.  The old  man
would simply deteriorate. Maybe even expire. But who really knew what he was
like? That is the whole difficulty  in  such an affair. The psyche  of these
monsters resembles a dark forest. Holy Mickey! To  find  your way through it
is  far more complicated than in nonhumanoid civilizations. It's possible to
explain  all their  actions but hellishly  difficult  to prognosticate them.
Yes, there  was definitely a  possibility  that  Waga might  die  of  grief.
Perhaps,  though, he  might  look  around,  get  adjusted  somehow,  quickly
understand what belongs where,  and then sojourn in some wildlife reserve as
a  sylvan spirit.  It's  most  unlikely  that  he wouldn't have  some small,
insignificant passion, some interest which is only in his way here, but that
on Earth  might become the center of his existence. I believe he is  fond of
cats. They say he has a  whole barrage  of them  somewhere in Hiccup Forest,
and a servant  who  does  nothing but take care of them.  And Waga even pays
that man, despite his reputation of being an old miser, and despite the fact
that he could simply string along  the caretaker with  promises and threats.
But I can't imagine  what he would do  on Earth with his tremendous lust for
power!
     Rumata stopped before a tavern. He  was about to enter when he  noticed
that  one of his  money pouches was missing.  He stood at the entrance door,
totally perplexed--he could not get used to such things for the life of him,
although this  was not the  first time that  it happened.  He  searched  and
rummaged through his pockets for  the longest time.  All told he had brought
along three  pouches  with ten gold coins in  each. One he had given  Father
Kin,  the procurator,  the second  to Waga. The third pouch had disappeared.
His pockets were empty. From his left  trouser leg all gold clasps had  been
carefully cut away and his dagger had been removed from his belt.
     Suddenly  he saw two  Sturmoviki a little way off who were  staring  at
him, grinning  and sneering. As  far as the collaborator and  member  of the
Institute of Experimental  History was concerned,  they could simply  go  to
Hell--but the noble don flew into a  rage. For  a moment he lost control. He
walked over to  the  two  Gray Soldiers  and raised his hand, which  somehow
clenched into a fist of its own accord.  Evidently some terrible change  had
also  come  over his face,  for the sneering soldiers were gripped  by sheer
terror,  their mocking faces  suddenly  frozen,  and  they fled  inside  the
tavern. Rumata  was  frightened.  Only  once  before  had he  ever  felt  so
horrible: the  time when (as a standby cosmonaut) he had been seized  by the
first  symptoms of  malaria.  Nobody  could  understand  how the malady  had
appeared  so  suddenly, and  two hours later he had been cured, and sent off
with some good words and a few jokes. But  he  had never been able to forget
the  shock,  the  shock  that  he  --who  had never  been sick before in his
life--had  felt  at the notion  that something was disintegrating inside his
body, the  realization  that  he was gradually  diminishing and  was somehow
threatened with loss of control over his body.
     I  didn't want to do it, he thought now. It would never have crossed my
mind. They didn't  even do anything in particular,  after all ... They  were
just standing  there, grinning, baring their teeth ... It was a stupid grin,
I admit, but I must have looked  quite  idiotic myself, rummaging through my
pockets like that. And I almost  tore  them to pieces, he suddenly realized.
If they hadn't run inside I would have killed them! He remembered the bet he
had recently made, how he had taken a dummy clad in a double Soanian suit of
armor and split it  from head  to toe with his  sword--cold shivers ran down
his back at the thought. They might now be lying here in a pool of their own
blood,  like stuck pigs, and  he would  be standing here, sword in hand, not
knowing what  to do ... A  fine god  you  are! You've  become  a  beast  ...
Suddenly all his muscles ached as if he had been doing heavy physical labor.
Come on, come on, he told himself. It wasn't so horrible after all. It's all
over now. Just an instant flash. Like a bolt of lightning and it's all gone.
I am a human being, in spite of everything, so there must be animal in me as
well. It's  only  nerves. Nerves and the tension  of the past few days.  The
worst thing,  though, is the sensation  of an approaching  shadow. You can't
tell whose shadow  it is or where it comes from but it keeps creeping closer
and closer and can't be stopped . . .
     This feeling of inevitability pervaded everything. It could be  felt in
the  fact that the Sturmoviks,  who  until recently had huddled like cowards
inside  their  barracks, now  paraded  brazenly in the middle of  the roads,
where hitherto only the noble dons had been permitted.  And in the fact that
the streetsingers had vanished from the city, the storytellers, the dancers,
the acrobats. And in the fact  that the  citizens no longer  sang songs with
political themes, had become very serious, and  could suddenly predict  with
utter certainty  what would benefit the  state.  And  in  the fact  that the
harbor  had suddenly been closed  without any explanation.  And  in the fact
that  "indignant  crowds"  had been  seen  destroying all  the old curiosity
shops, the only places in the kingdom  where it was still possible to buy or
borrow books and manuscripts in all  the languages of  the country, even  in
the  now dead languages of  the natives beyond the bay. And in the fact that
the landmark  of the  city,  the  shining tower of  the  observatory, loomed
against the sky like a blackened, decayed tooth: it had  been burned down by
a "careless conflagration." And in the fact that the consumption  of alcohol
had increased fourfold during  the past two years--in Arkanar of all places,
that had been notorious for its  heavy drinkers from days of old. And in the
fact  that the flogged  and  frightened  peasants  buried themselves  in the
cellars  of their  filthy  little  nests and  could not  bring themselves to
emerge even to deal with  the  most urgent  field chores. And finally in the
fact that the old buzzard  Waga Koleso had  transferred his headquarters  to
the city (evidently he must have gotten wind of some worthwhile spoils).
     Somewhere in  the interior of the palace, in  the luxurious apartments,
where the gout-ridden king resided, the king who had  not  seen the light of
the sun for the past twenty years for fear of anything that moved outside in
the world; the son of his own grandfather; the imbecile king  who would sign
one terrible edict after  the other, sending the most honorable and selfless
people to a cruel death--somewhere inside there ripened a tremendous abscess
that threatened to burst any moment now...
     Rumata stumbled  over  the  remains  of a squashed melon and raised his
head.  He was  on  the Boulevard of Overwhelming Gratitude, the neighborhood
where  the  better merchants  had  their stores,  the  moneylenders and  the
jewelers. The street was  lined with  solid old  houses, the  sidewalks were
wide  and  the road was paved with  granite. Usually one would find here the
noble dons and the moneyed aristocracy of  the town but now a dense crowd of
simple folk  poured toward  him. They made a wide and cautious detour around
Rumata. Some gaped at him with  curiosity; many, though, bowed deeply before
him, just to make sure. Fat shiny faces glowed from the upper-storey windows
like little light towers,  excited and  paralyzed with curiosity. Somewhere,
farther on ahead,  imperious  voices could  be heard: "Hey,  there, move on!
Disperse! Hurry up, will you? Move it on!" Comments came from the crowd:
     "They've got  the devil on their backs, got  to  watch  out for  those,
they're the worst kind. Look like ordinary, quiet, moral people. Like honest
folk. Just like any  other  merchant. But  just  look a bit  closer--there's
poison inside them, .. bitter poison..."
     "He had it  coming, the devil ... I'm used to quite a lot,  but my eyes
are still smarting from that..."
     "Put a fire under them!  Yes, that does my heart  good. We can count on
our boys."
     "Wasn't that a  little  too  cruel? After all, he is  a human being,  a
creature of flesh and blood . . . When someone sins, well, you should punish
him, set his mind right, but why--"
     "Cut out that nonsense! And please keep your voice down, my friend. You
aren't alone here, remember that, will you? People are listening ..."
     "My dear  sir! It's marvelous material, a  good  piece of  cloth.  Take
advantage of it now, before the price goes up again . . . Take  advantage of
it, before Pakin's agents snatch up everything again ..."
     "Above  all,  my son,  don't doubt!  Simply  believe,  that's the  most
important  thing. Once  the  authorities step in, you can be  sure that they
know what they are doing..."
     They've done it  again. Cruelly beaten some poor soul. Rumata wished he
could  turn  around, make a wide detour around this spot, from the  oncoming
crowd and the shouts of "Get a move on! Disperse!" But he did not turn back.
Instead, he  smoothed  back  his hair to  uncover  the stone in  the  golden
circlet around his forehead. In  fact, it was not a stone, but the lens of a
television camera, and  the circlet was  not  an ornament but a transmitter.
The historians back  on  Earth could  see and hear everything that  the  two
hundred  fifty  scouting emissaries saw and heard on the nine  continents of
this planet. And the emissaries were obligated to look and to listen.
     He made his chin jut out, spread the  two swords apart on each  side of
his body, in order to push as many  people out of his way  as he  could, and
marched directly toward the  middle  of the road. The idle onlookers quickly
jumped  aside  to  let him  pass. Four thick-lipped  porters,  their  mouths
heavily painted, were  carrying past a silvery sedan chair. From  behind the
curtains peered a  beautiful, cold face  with half-closed eyes. Rumata  took
off his hat with a flourish and made a bow. It  was Dona Okana,  the current
favorite of the Enlightened Eagle, Don Reba. Upon catching sight of the most
noble  cavalier, she  smiled at him, yearning  and  promise in her eyes. One
could have ticked off the names of  at least two  dozen noble dons who would
have given a great deal for that smile. Such a smile was a rare thing  these
days and could not be bought with gold. Rumata  paused for a moment and  let
his glance follow the sedan chair. I must come to a  decision, he thought. I
must finally make  up my mind . . . He shuddered at the thought of what this
would involve.  But  it had to be! I must .  .  .  My mind is  made up  now,
besides I have no choice,  there  is no other way. Tonight. He passed by the
armorer's workshop where he had tried out the daggers and listened to poetry
earlier in the day. He stopped. So that's what it was. It was your turn this
time, my dear Father Hauk ...
     The crowd had already  begun to thin out. The door of the shop had been
torn off its hinges, the windows smashed. A bully of a Gray Sturmovik leaned
in  the entrance,  his,  feet  crossed. Another Sturmovik  squatted near the
wall. The wind blew some  torn  papers with writing across  the  street. The
Sturmovik bully stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked at it for  a while,
pulled it out again and examined it carefully. The  finger was bleeding. The
Sturmovik caught Rumata's glance and said in a complacent, raucous voice:
     'That beast bit like a polecat."
     The second Sturmovik  chuckled, full of zeal. What a thin, pale  youth,
still  insecure,  with  pimples  around  his  mouth.  He  was  obviously:  a
greenhorn, a beginner, a young monster, a wolf cub.
     "What's going on here?" asked Rumata.
     "They went after a secret bookworm," the wolf cub said nervously.
     The  bully  stuck  his finger back  in his mouth, without  changing his
posture.
     "At-ten-tion!" commanded Rumata.
     The young  wolf cub jumped to his feet and took  his ax, holding it the
proper way. The bully thought a while, but then he straightened out his feet
and stood more or less at attention.
     "A bookworm? What kind? Who?" inquired Rumata.
     "Who knows?" said the young one. "On orders of Father Zupik..."
     "Well--did they catch him?"
     "Sure. They got him all right."
     "Splendid," said Rumata.
     It  wasn't too bad,  after all. There  was still  time left. Nothing is
more important than time, he  thought. One hour may cost  a life, one day is
invaluable.
     "And where did you take him to? To the Tower?"
     "Huh?" asked the wolf cub in a totally absentminded voice.
     "I'm asking you, is he in the Tower now?"
     An uncertain smile spread over the  pimply face. The bully laughed deep
in his belly. Rumata turned around quickly. Over there, on the other side of
the street, the body of  Father Hauk swung from a crossbeam of a house door.
He hung limply like a bag filled with  rags. A few neglected children stared
at him, their mouths wide open.
     "Not everyone gets to go to the Tower nowadays," came the raucous voice
of the bully from behind his back. "We do quick work these days. Rope around
the neck--and fare-thee-well..."
     The wolf  cub started giggling again. Rumata  glared at him  with blind
eyes and then walked slowly across the street. The face  of the sad poet was
black and unrecognizable.  Rumata lowered his  eyes.  Only the  poet's hands
looked familiar now, long, weak fingers, all covered with ink ...
     No one walks out on life these days.
     You're led out by the neck.
     Did anyone ask for
     Another choice?
     Limp and awkward
     his feeble hands will fall.
     Who knows where the heart of the polyp is located
     Or whether the polyp has a heart at all...
     Rumata turned  away and left. Good weak  Father Hauk ... The polyp does
have a heart. And we know where it is. And  that is the most horrible thing,
my silent,  forsaken friend. We know its location,  but we cannot destroy it
without  shedding the blood of thousands of frightened, corrupt, uncritical,
blind people. And there are so  many  of them, so  hopelessly  many  dismal,
desperate people, grown  hard  by  constant work without  proper recompense.
Debased human beings who are not yet capable of rising above  the ideal of a
few copper pennies. And they cannot yet be taught, united, guided, and saved
from  themselves. Too early, far too early, one  century too early  did  the
Gray vermin rise in Arkanar; there is no resistance  to meet it. So only one
thing  remains to be done:  save  the few that can  still be saved.  Budach,
Tarra, Nanin, and another dozen or two at most. . .
     But merely  the thought  that thousands of  others, perhaps less gifted
but still honest  and truly noble  human  beings, were  condemned to perish,
evoked in Rumata a  sensation  of  chill  horror  and a feeling  of his  own
baseness.  Occasionally this feeling would overwhelm him to the point  where
his conscious awareness grew dim; and then Rumata could visualize  in bright
daylight  rows  upon rows  of  Gray  soldiers,  their backs  turned to  him,
illuminated  by  flashes of gunfire; and Don Reba's insignificant face being
eaten up alive by stinking flies; and the  Tower of Joy slowly collapsing in
a  rubble heap  .  .  .  Wouldn't  that  be  a splendid, a  marvelous  feat.
Intervention in great style. But then later ... They were right back home in
the Institute. Then the inevitable will  follow. Bloody chaos throughout the
country. Koleso's nocturnal troops will rise to the  forefront, ten thousand
foul  assassins, the  rejects  of  society,  the  excommunicated, the  child
molesters,  the  rapists,   the   dregs  of   the  human   race;  hordes  of
copper-skinned  barbarians  pour down  from  their mountain  strongholds and
slaughter everyone,  babes-in-arms  and  the  old alike;  immense  crowds of
peasants, artisans and  burghers, blinded with fear, take to the woods, flee
to the  mountains,  the desert;  and your comrades-in-arms--those wonderful,
brave men!--will slit each other's bellies in a cruel struggle for power and
your machine gun, of course, after  you have come  to an inevitable, violent
end, your death . . . And this stupid, ugly death will rise to find you from
a goblet of wine some friend will offer you, or in an arrow shot from behind
a curtain. And  then the stony face of your successor, who will be sent from
Earth as your replacement and who will find the land drenched with blood and
ravaged by fire--a  land  where everything, yes, everything must  be started
all over again from the very beginning...
     Rumata pushed open his house door, and entered the magnificent entrance
hall, which already had fallen in a state of disrepair. His face was as dark
as an approaching thunderstorm. Muga, the hunchback, his gray-haired servant
who had worked as a lackey  for the past forty years, was frightened at this
sight He hunched his torso a bit more forward and drew his head still deeper
between  his shoulders,  as the furious young master tore off his hat, cape,
and gloves, hurled his swords on a bench, and  quickly ascended to his room.
The boy Uno awaited him in the drawing room.
     "Give orders to have my lunch served!" yelled Rumata. "In my study!"
     The boy did not move from the spot.
     "Somebody's waiting for you in there," he announced in a sulking voice.
     "Who?"
     "Some young woman. Perhaps a dona.  Very charming, dressed like a noble
lady; she is beautiful."
     Kyra, thought  Rumata, relieved. His tension began  to  fade  away. How
wonderful, how  good of her to come right at  this moment, sweet child . . .
He stood there, his eyes closed in order to regain his composure completely.
     "Want me to chase her away?" asked the boy solicitously.
     "Idiot," said Rumata. "I'll chase you away! Where is she?"
     "In the study," answered the boy and smiled sheepishly.
     "Lunch for two, Uno," Rumata said as he turned to go to the study. "And
no visitors! Not even  the king--or the devil --or Don Reba himself! I won't
let anybody in."
     He saw her as he entered  the study. She was sitting in a big armchair,
her legs tucked under sideways,  her  head cupped  in her little left  hand,
while she absentmindedly leafed through the Treatise Concerning Rumors.
     She  saw Rumata  come into the room and wanted to stand up.  But he did
not give her enough  time to do so, rushed over to her, embraced her, buried
his nose  in her thick, fragrant hair and said softly:  "You've come at  the
right time, Kyra! How wonderful!"
     There  was really  nothing very  special about  Kyra. A girl like  many
others, eighteen years old, upturned nose. Her father  an assistant clerk at
the courthouse,  her  brother a sergeant  in the Gray  Militia. She  had few
admirers,  since she had reddish-blond hair,  and redheads were not  much in
demand in  Arkanar.  This was probably the  reason she was  so  surprisingly
quiet and shy: she had nothing in common with those  loud, voluptuous  women
who were  the idols of rich and poor alike. Neither did she share any of the
characteristics  of those languid ladies of the court, who  were  forced  to
learn--far  too  soon, and for the rest of  their lives--what a woman's role
was. Kyra was capable of true love, the way women on Earth would love--quiet
and without any reservations.
     "Why have you been crying?"
     "What has upset you so much?"
     "No, tell me, why have you been crying?"
     "I'll  tell  you  in a moment.  Your  eyes  look  so  tired.  What  has
happened?"
     "Later. Who insulted you?"
     "Nobody insulted me. Just take me away from here! Please!"
     "I promise I will."
     "When will we leave?"
     "I don't know, sweetheart. But we will go away, most assuredly."
     "Far away?"
     "Very far."
     "To the capital?"
     "Yes... To the capital. To my home."
     "Is it beautiful there?"
     "Very beautiful. Nobody ever has to cry there."
     "And what are the people like there?"
     "Like me."
     "All?"
     "Not all. There are many far better than myself."
     "That's impossible!"
     "You'll see!"
     "Why is it  so easy to believe you? My father won't believe in anybody.
My brother says all men are pigs, filthy animals. But I don't  believe them,
I have no confidence in what they are saying, but I always believe you."
     "I love you..."
     "Wait. . . Rumata .. . Take off your circlet--you said it was sinful--"
     A happy smile came over Rumata's face. He removed the  circlet from his
head, placed it on the table and covered it with a book.
     "That is the eye of the God," he said. "Let it rest for a while."
     He took her in his arms.
     "It's really very sinful. But when I am with you, I don't need any god,
do I?"
     "Yes, you are right," she said softly.

     When  they finally sat down at the  table, the roast was  cold and  the
wine from the cool cellar had become warm. Uno came into the room and walked
noiselessly along the wall--the way  he  had been  trained by  old Muga--and
began to light the candles in the candlesticks, although it was still day.
     "Is that your slave?" asked Kyra.
     "No, he is free. A splendid boy, only very stingy."
     "Gold should stay in its place," said Uno without turning around.
     "You  probably still  haven't bought  any new  sheets, have you?" asked
Rumata.
     "Why should I?"  said  the boy.  "The  old  ones are still good enough.
They'll do for quite a while."
     "But I can't sleep on the same sheets for a whole month, Uno," remarked
Rumata.
     "Eh!"  said the  boy. "His Royal Highness sleeps on the same sheets for
half a year, and he doesn't complain."
     "And the candles?" said Rumata and winked at Kyra.  "The candles in the
candlesticks? Did you get those for free?"
     Uno paused for a moment.
     "But you have a visitor," he said finally with emphasis.
     "You see what he is like!" said Rumata.
     "He is a good person!" Kyra was serious. "He's  fond of you. Let's take
him along with us."
     "We'll see about that," said Rumata.
     The boy frowned with suspicion and said:
     "Where are we supposed to go? I won't leave."
     "We'll go to a place where all men are like Rumata."
     The boy pondered for a while, then said, full of contempt:
     "To paradise, eh, like nobility?"
     Then he snorted like a horse and shuffled out of the study.
     Kyra followed him with her eyes.
     "A fine  boy,"  she said.  "Grouchy as a bear cub. But  you have a real
friend in him."
     "All my friends are good people."
     "Baron Pampa, too?"
     "Where do you know him from?" wondered Rumata.
     "You  talk about no one else. All I hear from you is Baron  Pampa this,
Baron Pampa that."
     "Baron Pampa is a valuable comrade."
     "What do you mean: the Baron--a comrade?"
     "I meant  to say,  he is a good  fellow. Very kind and cheerful. And he
dearly loves his wife, more than anything."
     "I'd like to meet him ... or do you have second thoughts about me?"
     "N-n-n-o. But even if he is a good fellow, he's still a baron."
     "But--"she said.
     Rumata pushed back his plate.
     "Now,  tell  me,  why you  were crying. And why you came  running to my
house unaccompanied. You know it's not advisable these days to be out in the
streets all alone."
     "I couldn't stand it any longer at  home. I won't go  back  there. I'll
work for you as a servant. For free."
     Rumata smiled but he felt a lump in his throat at the same time.
     "Every  day  Father  copies  written confessions," she  continued, with
quiet desperation in her  voice,  "and the papers he copies from are stained
with blood. He gets them in the Tower of Joy. Oh, why did you ever  teach me
to read? Every  evening, every  night,  he  copies  these reports  from  the
hearings--and he  drinks. It's so  horrible, so horrible! 'Look,  Kyra,'  he
says. 'Our neighbor, the calligrapher, he  used to  teach people how to read
and write.  Can you imagine  what he is in  reality? He confessed  it in the
torture chamber: A magician and an Irukanian  spy.--'And who,' he says, 'who
should one believe now? I myself,' he  says, 'learned to read and write from
him.' And my brother comes home from patrol  service reeking of beer,  dried
blood on his hands . . . 'We are exterminating all of them,'  he says, 'down
to the twelfth generation.' He won't leave Father alone, he keeps asking him
why he can  read and write . . Today, he says he and his  friends dragged  a
man into our house .  .  . They beat him until they were splashed  all  over
with blood. Then he  finally stopped screaming.--I can't  go on like this, I
won't go back any more, I'd rather die..."
     Rumata stood beside her,  his hand softly caressing her  hair. Her dry,
shining eyes were fixed on  a far-away point. What could he  say  to her? He
swooped her up in  his arms, carried her to the divan, sat  down next to her
and began  to  speak.  He told  her  of  crystal  temples,  of  gay  gardens
stretching for many  miles--without filth, or swarms of flies and  gnats, or
garbage. He spoke  of the  table  that serves  dinner all by  itself, of the
flying carpet,  of the  charming city  of Leningrad,  of his friends--proud,
happy, good people, and of a wonderful country beyond the oceans, beyond the
seven  mountains,  the  so-called "Earth" . .  . She  listened  quietly  and
attentively, and pressed  closer to him as they heard  now down below in the
street--grrrrum, grrrum,  grrrum--rang out  the metallic sound  of boots  on
pavement.
     Kyra possessed a marvelous trait. She believed  unconditionally in what
was  good. If he were to tell  the  same story to some peasant serf, the man
would only make an unbelieving, stupid grimace, wipe the  snot off his  nose
on his sleeve and wordlessly gape at him as if he were a legendary creature,
all the while thinking: What a pity, such a good, clever, noble don! Too bad
he lost his marbles telling  such tales! Or  even  worse,  let him tell such
stories to Don Tameo or  Don Sera--they wouldn't bother hearing him out. One
would unfailingly fall asleep  and the  other  just belch and remark:  "Very
creditable, very creditable indeed . . . and how about the women over there,
any good?" Whereas Don Reba would listen attentively to the end, then give a
sign to his bloodhounds, the Sturmoviki,  to screw the noble don's elbows up
to his shoulder blades and find out for sure where the noble don had learned
such fairy tales and who else had heard them...
     After Kyra had calmed  down and  fallen asleep, he kissed her gently on
her peacefully slumbering face, covered her with his fur coat, and  left the
room  on tiptoe, closing the squeaking door  behind him softly. He descended
through the darkened house, down  the  servants'  quarters, looked  over the
heads bowed down in salute to him, and said:
     "I have  taken  on  a housekeeper.  Her  name  is  Kyra. She  will live
upstairs,  share my quarters. The room next to the study is to be thoroughly
cleaned tomorrow. You will obey the housekeeper's orders as if  they were my
own!" He threw  a  quick  glance at  his servants to see whether anyone  was
grinning.  No  one  as  much  as  batted  an eyelid; they  listened  to  his
instructions with  the respect due him. "And if anybody  here  dares whisper
behind my back, I'll pluck out his tongue!"
     After he had finished, he  lingered a while to let  his words take full
effect on them, then he turned and  walked back to his apartments. The walls
of his parlor were draped all over with rusty old weapons, and the  room was
filled  with  strange-looking  furniture, stained from  the dead  remains of
innumerable insects. He went to the window, pressed his forehead against the
dark, cold glass, and  looked down  into the street.  The  bells  were  just
chiming for the first  night watch. In  the  windows  across the  street the
lights were lit and the shutters closed,  to avoid attracting wicked men and
ghosts. All was quiet for a little  while. The silence was broken only once,
when a drunk roared out horribly; either he was being robbed or  else he had
stumbled against a strange house door.
     These evenings were  the most terrible thing  here:  miserable, lonely,
and hopeless.  We  believed it would be a long drawn-out  battle,  wild  but
victorious, reflected Rumata. We  believed we  would never deviate  from our
firm notions of  good  and bad, of friend and foe.  And in general our ideas
proved to be correct;  but  we did  not  foresee  everything. Evenings  like
these,  for instance--although we knew well enough that  they  were bound to
come.
     Downstairs he heard the sound of metal striking  upon  metal: they were
bolting the  doors to prepare for the night. The cook  prayed to Holy Mickey
to send her a man, any man, just as long as he had some pride in himself and
understanding  for  her. Old  Muga yawned and made little circles  with  his
thumb in the air. The servants in the  kitchen drank their evening  beer and
gossiped for all they were worth, while the boy Uno flashed angry glances at
them and scolded them like an adult:  "He'll wash your mouths out with soap,
you fools."
     Rumata stepped  back from the window and began to  pace the  room. It's
hopeless, he thought. No power  in this world is  strong enough to jerk them
out of their habits,  their worries, their ingrained traditions.  You  could
give   them   everything.  You   could   move   them   to  the  most  modern
spectro-acoustic housing, teach them the ionization--they'd still gather  in
their kitchens  at  night, play  cards till all hours, and let  loose on the
neighbor who  beats his wife. And there will be no better pastime  for them.
Don  Kondor  is right there:  Reba is  a louse, a nothing  compared  to  the
overwhelming  weight  of traditions, strict  rules  sanctified  through  the
centuries, time-honored, irrefutable, and familiar for even the most stupid.
They  relieve  you of  the  necessity to  think  and  to  be  interested  in
something.  And  Don Reba  will probably hardly be  mentioned in high school
textbooks:  "A  minor  adventurer  during  the  epoch  of  consolidation  of
absolutism."
     Don Reba,  Don Reba! Neither tall  nor short, neither fat nor lean; his
hair is not exactly full, but he's far from being  bald. When he moves, it's
neither energetic nor lethargic.
     You'd forget his face in a minute; there are thousands who resemble him
closely.  He  is  polite   and  gallant  toward  the  ladies;  an  attentive
conversationalist, if he so chooses, but not a brilliant one...
     Three  years  ago he  emerged  from  some  musty  basement  room in the
chancellery, a small, inconspicuous official . . . At that time he was still
servile,  and  his  complexion  was  rather  pale  (sometimes even  a little
grayish-blue). Shortly afterwards,  the prime minister was suddenly arrested
and executed. In the  torture chambers many high officials lost their lives;
they  went mad with fright and never even knew what had happened.  And  over
their  corpses grew a giant, colorless mushroom, this bull-headed, merciless
genius of mediocrity.
     He is a nobody. He comes from nowhere. He is not some brilliant mind in
the regime of a  weak ruler, the kind of man we know from history; nor is he
the great man who strikes fear in many hearts as he devotes  his entire life
to uniting the  country in the name of  autocracy. He isn't  even the greedy
parasite with nothing on his  mind except women and  gold,  who, drunk  with
power, will blindly lash out left and right, and who rules in order to kill.
Some people even whisper that he isn't  Don  Reba at all,  that  Don Reba is
actually quite a different person;  while the other one. God knows, may be a
werewolf, a Doppelganger, a changeling...
     Whatever  plan Don  Reba  hatched out, it was bound to fail. He incited
two princely houses of  the  kingdom  to battle and  intrigue  against  each
other, in order to weaken them,  and  tried to profit from  this  enmity  by
waging  a frontal  attack against  the barons.  But the two princely  houses
became  reconciled, swore eternal  blood-brotherhood over  the  clinking  of
champagne glasses,  and robbed the  king  of a fine piece of land that since
time  immemorial  had  belonged  to  the royal family Totz  of  Arkanar.  He
declared war  on  Irukan, personally led the army  to the  border, let  them
drown in the swamps or lost them in  the woods, left them to their fate, and
fled back to Arkanar. Due  to Don  Hug's endeavors--of  which he was totally
ignorant, of course--he succeeded in wresting a  peace treaty  from the Duke
of Irukan, albeit at  the cost of two fortified border  towns.  Furthermore,
the King  was forced to scrape  the bottom  of  the barrel  of his  depleted
treasury in order to cope with  the peasant rebellions that had  seized  the
entire country. Anyone else committing such foolish blunders would have been
strung up  by  his feet  in the Tower  of Joy.  Don Reba,  however,  somehow
managed  again and again to  remain in power. He issued a decree to dissolve
the ministries  of  culture  and  morals, founded  the Ministry of  Internal
Security for the Protection  of the Crown, removed the local aristocracy and
a few scholars from key positions,  totally upset the entire  economy of the
state,  wrote a treatise  Concerning the Foolishness of Cattle  Breeders and
Agriculture,  and just one year ago, organized his special troops,  the Gray
hordes.  Hitler was backed by the capitalists,  thought  Rumata, but  nobody
stands behind Don  Reba; it is as inevitable as night  follows day that  his
Sturmoviki will kill him like a fly sooner or later.--But he kept on hedging
and shuffling, committed one foolish act after the other, extricated himself
again and  again from the net that threatened to strangle him,  cheated  and
deceived  himself day after day, and was in the  grip of one ardent,  insane
desire: to destroy all culture. Like Waga Koleso, he had no past. Barely two
years ago,  every aristocratic parasite of the court had still talked of him
scornfully as  a  "contemptible swindler who cheats the  King." At  present,
however, you could ask any number of noblemen, and each would firmly declare
himself  to be a relative of the  minister of internal security, at least on
his mother's side.
     Right  now he seems to need Budach for one of his plans. It's  bound to
turn  into  another of his many  calamities.  Another  blunder. Budach  is a
bookworm. Into the hole with him! Make a lot of fuss and noise about  it, so
that all will know. But  there is no  fuss and outcry. Should that mean that
he  needs  Budach  alive? What for? Reba can't be naive enough to hope to be
able to force Budach to work for him? But maybe he is that stupid after all.
Could it be  that  Don Reba is merely a  dumb  (but successful)  spinner  of
intrigues,  who doesn't know what he wants himself, who acts the fool with a
sly face in front of everyone's  eyes?  It's ridiculous; I've  been watching
him now for the past three years,  and I still can't figure him out.  And if
he should watch me  in turn, he would not fare  any better.  But anything is
possible,  that's  the amusing part about it  all. The basis theory  may put
forth  a list  of  fundamental  aspects of  the  psychological goals  to  be
attained; but in reality  there are as many of these objectives as there are
human  beings  on Earth, and any  one--it doesn't matter who--can  ascend to
power, even one who  has devoted  his  life to playing pranks on  his fellow
human beings,  sabotaging and  ruining them. Eventually he is  swept off the
throne, of course, but  in the meantime he's had sufficient time to show his
contempt for  all  mankind, to cause harm  wherever there, is a chance, and,
worst of all, to enjoy his evil deeds. And  he is not in the least concerned
that history won't even wonder  who he  was, and  just as little affected by
the thought that his descendants will  rack their brains many years from now
to  categorize his  behavior to  fit  the  advanced  theory  of the laws  of
history. Suddenly Rumata remembered Dona Okana. Come on, make up your  mind,
he  thought.  Start at  once. Once a god  decides to  make a clean sweep  of
things, he needn't bother to make sure he has unsullied hands . .  . He felt
nauseated as he thought of what lay ahead of him. But this was preferable to
killing. Better filth than blood.
     He walked on tiptoe,  careful not  to awaken  Kyra, to his E study  and
changed his clothes. Undecided, he kept toying with his transmitter circlet,
but then put it  resolutely in a drawer of his  desk. Then he  stuck a white
feather  behind  his right ear as a symbol  of  passion,  buckled on his two
swords and threw his  best cloak over his shoulders. As he was unlocking the
gate downstairs, he thought: If Don Reba gets wind of this, that will be the
end of Dona Okana. But it was already too late to turn back.

FOUR
     The guests were assembled, but Dona Okana had not yet arrived. Gathered
around a small golden snack table, as if  on a wall gobelin, were the chiefs
of the royal guard, who were famous for their duels and  amorous adventures.
They leaned forward gracefully as they drank, while their fat  behinds stuck
out in the rear. Beside the fireplace giggled  thin-blooded  ladies who were
distinguished  in  nothing  whatsoever, and  who  for this  reason  had been
assigned to Dona Okana as  her  confidantes  and companions.  They sat  in a
simple  row  on small, low divans, and  before them  three elderly gentlemen
danced around constantly on  their thin legs: famed lounge  lizards from the
era of the previous king, the last  connoisseurs of long forgotten anecdotes
of the royal court. Every one knew that a salon was  no proper salon without
these  old gentlemen. In  the  middle of the  hall, legs spread  wide apart,
stood Don Ripat, lieutenant of the Gray Court Guard--a clever and dependable
agent for Rumata. He had  a splendid  mustache and was completely amoral. He
had hooked the thumbs  of  his  big  red hands  into  his leather  belt  and
listened to Don Tameo  who, totally disorganized  and with great  rushes  of
detail, tried  to present a project to revitalize business at the expense of
the  peasants;  at  the same time,  Don Ripat pointed  his  mustache  in the
direction  of Don  Sera,  who  groped his  way along  the  walls,  obviously
searching for some hidden door. Two famous portrait painters sat in a comer,
scanning the  room with alert eyes as they devoured  a roast  the size  of a
half-grown crocodile, and nearby in a bay window sat an elderly  lad clad in
black --  the  chaperone  assigned to  Dona Okana  by Don Reba.  She  stared
straight  ahead with a rigid face, looking very severe; only once in a while
would she suddenly jerk her whole body forward. Off to one side, a personage
of royal blood and the secretary of the Soanian embassy passed the time with
a  game of cards. The royal personage was cheating and the secretary  smiled
indulgently. He  was the only person  in the entire salon  who  was occupied
with  something serious: he was  gathering  material for the  diplomatic spy
forces.
     The  guard officers at  the little golden  tables  greeted Rumata  with
friendly shouts. Rumata gave them a comradely nod and went from one guest to
the  other. He  exchanged  bows  with  the  old  lounge lizards,  paid a few
compliments to the confidantes of Dona Okana, who immediately eyed the white
feather  behind his ear;  gave a friendly slap to the  blubbery  back of the
personage of royal blood; and then turned his attention to Don Ripat and Don
Tameo. As he passed the bay  window, the chaperone's upper torso happened to
fall forward once again; a strong odor of brew emanated from her.
     Upon  seeing  Rumata,  Don  Ripat pulled his  thumbs from  his belt and
clicked his  heels.  Don  Tameo, however,  called out loudly:  "It's you, my
friend?  Wonderful  that you have come, I  had  already given up all hope of
seeing you. Like a swan with a broken wing, sighing and staring up to a star
. . . I was filled with such a longing--And if it had not been for  the most
charming Don Ripat, I would have long since perished from grief!"
     It was obvious  that Don Tameo had  had  the best intentions to  remain
sober until lunch, but unfortunately had not quite made it.
     "Dear,  dear!" exclaimed Rumata. "Since when  do  we quote the words of
the rebel Zuren?"
     Don Ripat straightened up and flashed his catlike eyes at Don Tameo.
     "Eh, eh--" stammered Don  Tameo in confusion.  "Zuren? Yes, indeed, and
why am I quoting him? Yes, yes, if I may say so ... with sarcastic intent--I
assure you, noble dons!  Yes, for  who is  this Zuren? Nothing but a common,
ungrateful demagogue. I wanted simply to emphasize--"
     "That Dona Okana hasn't arrived yet," interrupted Rumata. "And you were
forced to drink without her company."
     "That's exactly what I wanted to emphasize."
     "By the way, where is she?"
     "We expect her  any moment now," answered Don Ripat, who then bowed and
walked away.
     The confidantes of the lady of the house, however, sat there with their
mouths wide open, still staring at the white feather. The old lounge lizards
snickered archly. Don Tameo finally noticed the feather,  too, and  began to
tremble.
     "My friend!" he whispered. "What is that supposed to mean? If Don  Reba
should see that . . . Even if we don't expect him tonight, but you can never
know for sure . . ."
     "Oh,  cut it out,"  said  Rumata, letting his  eyes  sweep  impatiently
across the room. He wanted to get it all over with as quickly as possible.
     The officers of the guard approached, wine cups in their hands.
     "How pale you are!" whispered Don Tameo. "I understand, passion is like
that  . .  . But, Holy Mickey! The state should come  first. And after  all,
it's so dangerous,  so very dangerous... An  insult  to  Don Reba's emotions
..."
     Something  in  his  face  changed  and  he  began  to  mince  his steps
restlessly; he stepped back a bit and then walked backwards out of the room,
bowing and scraping all the while. The officers of the guard gathered around
Rumata. Somebody handed him a full wine goblet
     "Let's drink to honor and to our Majesty, the King!" shouted one of the
officers.
     "And to love!" added another officer.
     "Just show her what the guard is capable of, noble don," said  a  third
officer.
     Rumata took the goblet; then suddenly  he saw Dona Okana. She  stood in
the doorway, fanning herself with her elegant fan and swaying her shoulders,
a languid expression animating  her features. She was very pretty. From this
distance she could even be called beautiful. Unfortunately she  was  not  at
all Rumata's type,  but she was undoubtedly  pretty,  this  stupid, sensuous
cow. Big,  blue eyes without  a  glimmer  of  intellect  or warmth,  a soft,
knowing mouth, a  voluptuous body whose contours were revealed intentionally
with  skill and with great care ... A guard officer behind Rumata apparently
could  not control  himself  any  longer and  he noisily smacked  his  lips.
Without turning around,  Rumata handed him his goblet and with  long strides
walked over to Dona Okana. All those  present in the salon turned their eyes
aside and began to talk busily about inconsequential things.
     "Your beauty is blinding my  eyes," murmured Rumata as  he bowed deeply
and  rattled his swords. "Permit me to lie at your  feet--like a  whippet at
the feet of an indifferent and beautiful woman."
     Dona Okana hid her face behind her fan and peeked out coquettishly.
     "You  are  very daring,  noble  don,"  she  said. "Poor ladies from the
provinces that we are, we  are simply unable to withstand such storms . . ."
She  had a deep,  rasping  voice, that occasionally failed.  "Alas, there is
nothing left for me to do but to open the gates of my fortress and admit the
victor..."
     Gritting his teeth with shame and anger, Don Rumata bowed deeper still.
Dona Okana lowered her fan and called out loudly:
     "My noble dons! Go on and amuse yourselves! I'll be right back with Don
Rumata! I have promised to show him my new Irukanian carpets ... I"
     "Don't  rob  us  too  long of  your presence,  you  bewitching beauty!"
bleated one of the old gentlemen.
     "What a magnificent woman!" called out another old man. And he added in
a sickeningly sweet tone of voice: "A fairy princess!"
     The officers of the guard rattled their sabers. "You must admit, he has
pretty good taste,"  said  the personage of  royal  blood.  Dona Okana  held
Rumata by his sleeve and  dragged him along behind her. Out in the corridor,
Rumata could hear  Don  Sera declare in an offended tone of voice:  "I can't
see why a noble don shouldn't have a look at some Irukanian carpets..."
     At the end of the corridor. Dona Okana suddenly came to a halt, clasped
her arms around his neck and with a deep moan to indicate a sudden  outburst
of  wild passion, she kissed him  hard on his mouth, clinging and sucking on
to his lips as tightly  as a leech. Rumata held his breath. The woman's body
radiated a sharp odor of strong Irukanian perfume mingled with  the smell of
unwashed  limbs. Her lips felt fiery  hot, moist and sticky from sweetmeats.
He tried  valiantly to  fight off nausea and  to return  the  kiss, and  was
apparently successful, for Dona Okana moaned again  loudly  and with tightly
shut eyes surrendered  herself  to  his  embrace.  That seemed  to  last  an
eternity. Well, you're going to get  it  now, you beast, thought  Rumata and
pressed  his arms  tightly around her  torso. Something  began to crack, the
corset--or  perhaps her ribs--;  the  beauty whined  pitifully,  opened  her
startled eyes and wiggled weakly trying to free herself from his firm clasp.
Rumata quickly let go of her.
     "You daredevil,  you, what a lover!" she said  breathing hard  and rapt
with desire. "You almost squashed me!"
     "I'm burning with desire," he murmured guiltily.
     "So am I. Oh, how I have been waiting for you! Let's go! Let's hurry!"
     She  led him by the hand through  some  icy cold rooms. Rumata took his
handkerchief  and  furtively  wiped  his  Ups. The  whole affair  seemed  so
senseless now. But it's got to  be,  he thought The  things we have to  bear
here! Can't  be  all done with words alone. Holy Mickey, why don't they ever
wash  here  at  court? And  on  top of that stench this  peculiar passionate
temperament ...  if only Don  Reba would surprise them now . . . She dragged
him  behind her, without  a  word, with purposeful strength, the way  an ant
drags  along  dead  larvae. Rumata  felt like  an  idiot  and kept murmuring
nonsense  about "swift little  feet" and  "rosy pink  lips." Dona Okana kept
giggling the whole way. She  whisked  him into an  overheated boudoir, whose
walls actually were decorated by  huge  rugs; threw herself on her  enormous
bed, gaped at him with  her moist, glittering eyes. Rumata's body stiffened.
There  was an  unmistakable odor of  bedbugs  in this boudoir. "You  are  so
beautiful!" she whispered loudly. "Do come closer,  come to me. I have  been
waiting for you such a long time!"
     Rumata turned away his eyes; he  felt nauseated. Perspiration beaded on
his forehead. I can't do it, flashed through his mind. To hell with  all the
information  I  can  drag  out  of her . .  .  what  a  beast she is, what a
caricature . . . It's unnatural, it goes against my grain, it's  dirty. Dirt
is preferable to blood, of course, but this here is far worse than dirt.
     "What  are  you waiting  for, noble don?"  panted Dona Okana.  "Oh,  my
sweet, do come to me, I'm waiting!"
     "Oh, go to hell!" Don Rumata hissed between his teeth impulsively.
     She jumped off the bed and hurried toward him.
     "What is the matter with you? Are you drunk?"
     "I don't know." He forced the words over his lips. "It's so hot here."
     "I'll have a cup brought for you."
     "What cup?"
     "Oh,  forget  it ... it'll pass .  ," Her fingers  were trembling  with
impatience as she started to unbutton his vest. "How gorgeous you are . - ."
she whispered breathlessly.  "But you are so  shy, like a virgin.  I'd never
have suspected that from you , . . But it's so exciting, I swear by the Holy
Bara!-"
     Whether  he wanted to or not,  he could  no longer  delay it; he had to
take her  by the  hands  now. He looked  down  on her and saw her lacquered,
untidy hair, her  round, bare  shoulders, dotted with tiny clumps of powder,
and her  tiny rose pink ears. Disgusting, he thought. Nothing doing here.  .
Too bad, though, she is bound to know a few things .  . . Don  Reba talks in
his  sleep  ...   He  takes  her  along  to  the  hearings,  and  she  loves
cross-examinations . . . No, I can't do it...
     "Well?" she asked, irritated.
     "Your carpets are beautiful indeed, Dona," he said. "Thanks for showing
them to me but I have to go now."
     At  first  she  failed  to  understand;  but  then  her  features  were
grotesquely contorted with fury.
     "How dare  you!" she demanded, but  he  had already groped for the door
knob,  slipped out  into the corridor and taken to his  heels. From now on I
won't wash myself any longer, he thought. One has to be a filthy swine here,
not a god!
     "You  old  nag!" she yelled. "You  miserable  old woman!  You should be
thrown into the dungeon!"
     Rumata yanked a window open and jumped down  into the yard. For a while
he stood underneath a tree, greedily breathing in big  gulps  of fresh, cold
air.
     Then he  remembered  the  stupid white feather. Furiously he pulled  it
from  behind  his ear and stomped  on it with  his boots.  My friend  Pashka
wouldn't have made  it  either, he  thought. None of  our crowd. (Are you so
sure?--Yes!--  Then  none   of   you  are   any  good.--But  it   makes   me
nauseated!--The experiment doesn't care what your feelings are. If you can't
do it, then keep out of it!--But I'm no animal!
     --If  it's required by  the  experiment,  then you must  turn  into  an
animal, if  need be.--The  experiment can't make such demands.--It  can very
well, as you see!--But then ... !
     --What, then?--He did not know what would follow after that--Then . . .
Then  . . . Well, then, well say that I am a bad historian.--He shrugged his
shoulders--so let's try to improve. Let's learn how to turn into a pig ...)
     It  was midnight when  he arrived home.  He undid the clasps of his fez
and, without getting undressed, threw himself down on a  couch in the salon,
where he fell into a deep sleep.
     He was  awakened  by the exasperated shouting of Uno and a good-natured
deep bass voice yelling:
     "Get away, you little beast. I'll skin you alive!"
     "My master is asleep, I'm telling you!"
     "Beat it! Don't crawl around my legs!"
     "You can't go in, I'm telling you!"
     The door flew open with a loud bang and into the room came storming Don
Bau, Baron Pampa, gigantic  like  the wild  monster Pech, red-cheeked,  with
white teeth, drooping mustache, a jaunty red velvet beret on his head and an
expensive  raspberry-colored  cape slung around his  broad  shoulders, and a
copper  mail shirt clearly visible underneath. He dragged Uno after him. Uno
frantically clung to the baron's right trouser leg.
     "Baron!"  called out Rumata and let his legs slide off  the couch. "How
do you happen to be in town, my friend? Uno, let go of the baron!"
     "What  a devoted  boy,  he  really  sticks by you," said the  baron and
walked toward Rumata  with open arms. "He  seems all right, I must say.  How
much  will you take for him? But let's  discuss this later . .  . Now let me
embrace you!"
     They  embraced.  The  baron exuded  a  pleasant smell of dusty  country
roads, horses, and a mixed bouquet of various wines.
     "I see you are totally sober," he said, sorrow in his voice. "But then,
you are always sober, you fortunate man!"
     "Please sit  down, my friend!"  said Rumata. "Uno! Bring  some Estorian
wine, and plenty of it!"
     "Not a drop!"
     "What? Not  a drop of Estorian wine? Uno, forget the Estorian and bring
us some Irukanian instead!"
     "No wine at all!" said the baron miserably. "I'm not drinking."
     Rumata sat down again.
     "What has happened?" he asked, worried. "Are you sick?"
     "I am as healthy as a  horse.  But these damned  family quarrels ... To
make a long  story short; I have had a terrible fight with the baroness. And
now I am here."
     "A fight with the baroness? You? Now  please  stop it, baron; what kind
of joke is that supposed to be?"
     "I can't understand it myself,  I'm like in a fog. Yes, I  came here on
horseback, riding 120 miles, my brain all in a fog!"
     "My  friend," said  Rumata,  "let's  start right away and  ride back to
castle Bau."
     "But  my horse is  still winded  and sweaty,"  replied the  baron. "And
what's more: I want to punish her!" "Who?"
     'The  baroness, damn  it!  Am I  a man  or  a  mouse?  You see,  she is
dissatisfied with Pampa,  the--drunk; let her find out for herself how sober
he  can be!  I'd rather  rot  away here with  plain water than return to the
castle!" Uno pouted:
     "Tell him to stop wiggling his ears."
     "Now be off, you little rascal!"  grumbled the good-humored deep  voice
of the baron. "And bring me some beer! I've sweated it  all  out; now I must
fill up again."
     Baron Pampa spent the next half hour  filling up  again  and chattering
away merrily all the  while. In between big gulps from a tankard of  beer he
reported his troubles.  He repeatedly cursed "those drunkards, my neighbors,
who come and invade my castle. They pretend they want to go hunting with me,
arrive early in the morning--and before you know it, they are all dead drunk
and smash  up  the  furniture.  They  come charging over the  entire castle,
befoul  everything, annoy the servants, spoil  the dogs  and set a  terrible
example for the young baron. Then they all depart, ride home again and leave
me behind,  drunk as a pig,  and I have to stay there with the baroness, all
alone, have to face her, eye to eye..."
     Toward the end of his story, the baron  lost  control  over himself and
was  just about to  ask  for  some Estorian  wine,  when  he  pulled himself
together again and said:
     "Rumata,  my  friend.  Let's  leave  here.  Your  wines  are  much  too
expensive! Let's go!" "But where to?"
     'That doesn't matter, where to! How about the Gray Joy?"
     "Hmm,"  said Rumata. "And  what are we  going to  do  there at the Gray
Joy?"
     The baron remained silent for a few moments and tugged mischievously at
his beard.
     "Come, come, now!"  he said  finally. "You ask the strangest questions.
What are we going to do there? We'll just sit and talk a bit."
     "At the Gray Joy?" asked Rumata doubtfully.
     "Yes," said the baron. "I understand what you mean . . . That's awful .
. . but still, let's go. Here I'm  constantly tempted  to  ask for  Estorian
wine!"
     "My horse!" said Rumata and went into his study in order to pick up his
sender.
     A few minutes later  the  two  were riding side by side  down  a narrow
lane,  enveloped by impenetrable darkness. The  baron had  regained his good
humor  and told with a  loud  voice about the huge boar they had killed  the
previous  day, then about  the  remarkable talents of the young  baron,  and
about  the  miracle at the monastery of the Holy Tukky, where  the abbot had
given  birth from his hip to a  six-fingered  boy. In between stories he did
not forget his own kind of  pranks. From time to time he would howl  like  a
wolf, sing  lullabies, and knock  with the heavy  handle of his  riding whip
against the shuttered windows.
     They arrived at the  Gray Joy and the baron stopped his horse and  fell
into deep  thoughts.  Rumata  waited.  The dirty  windows of  the inn  shone
gaudily,  the  horses were pawing the ground, the heavily made-up girls  who
were sitting on a bench underneath  the window  were quarreling noisily, and
two servants  were straining  to  roll  a giant barrel  through the entrance
door.
     The baron said sorrowfully:
     "Alone! How horrible to  think that  I have the whole night before  me,
and all alone! And she, too, is all alone!"
     "Don't be so sad, my friend," said  Rumata. "The young  baron  is there
with her, and I am here with you."
     'That is not the same thing," said the baron. "You haven't the faintest
idea, my friend.  You are young and light-hearted.  I believe you even enjoy
looking at these sluts here."
     "And  why not?"  replied  Rumata and  regarded the baron with interest.
"These girls are quite acceptable, I think."
     The baron shook his head and laughed sarcastically.
     "Just  look at  that  one  over  there,"  he  shouted,  "her  behind is
practically  flopping  to  the  ground.  And  the one  over  there,  the one
scratching herself, she hasn't any behind at all.  They are cows, my friend,
cows at  best.  Just think of the baroness! What  hands, what grace!  What a
body, my friend!"
     "Yes," agreed Rumata.  "The  baroness  is beautiful. Let's get  out  of
here."
     "Where to?"  asked the baron  depressed. "And  why?"  An  expression of
resoluteness came  suddenly  over his face. "No, my  friend.  I won't  leave
here. I won't go anywhere but  you can do  what pleases you." He got off his
horse. "Although I would feel insulted if you would leave me here alone."
     "I'll stay with you here, of course," said Rumata. "But--"
     "No buts," said the baron.
     They threw the reins to one of the servants who rushed up, and strutted
haughtily  past the girls into the inn.  The air was oppressively heavy. The
weak light of the tiny oil lamps hardly penetrated through the dense haze of
fumes and exhalations; the  place resembled a big and very filthy sauna bath
back on Earth. Soldiers with unbuttoned tunics, dripping with sweat, sailors
with colorful  kaftans  over their naked bodies,  women with  barely covered
breasts.  Gray Sturmoviks holding their battle axes between their knees, and
some down-at-the-heel  workers were all sitting  at some long tables, eating
and  drinking, cursing,  laughing,  crying,  and  singing filthy songs  with
roaring  voices.  To  the  left, one  could  vaguely  see a  bar,  where the
innkeeper sat on a platform surrounded by  huge barrels and directed a swarm
of skilled and fraudulent servants. On the right, a  large bright  rectangle
shone  through the mist, the entrance to the "private  room,"  the  room for
noble dons, reputable merchants, and Gray officers.
     "Why  shouldn't we wet  our  whistle, come to  think  of it?" asked the
baron in a tone of irritation. He seized Rumata by the  sleeve  and made his
way  toward the  bar,  passing through a  narrow aisle  between  the tables,
scratching  the  backs  of guests  who were seated  at the  tables with  his
slightly protruding belt-armor. At the counter he picked up a large jug, had
the innkeeper  fill  it up to the rim and without  a word drained the jug in
one large draught to the last drop;
     then he stated that all was lost anyhow and only one thing remained--to
have  a  good time.  Then he turned to the innkeeper and  inquired loudly if
this establishment had some accommodation where noblemen could pass the time
in a befitting  manner without having to be bothered by all kinds of rabble,
riff-raff and vermin. The innkeeper reassured him that there was indeed such
a suitable place on the premises.
     "Excellent!" said the  baron  with a grand flourish as  he  threw a few
gold coins to the innkeeper. "Will you  bring us  the  best you have in your
house?  But  don't have the  food served by some dolled-up  little whore--we
want to be waited on by some respectable older woman!"
     The innkeeper himself accompanied the noble dons to the "private room."
It  was  occupied by just a few guests.  In one  comer sat  a group of  Gray
officers,  two  lieutenants in  tight  uniforms  and  two captains in  short
soldiers' coats with the epaulets of the  Ministry of Internal Security. Two
aristocrats  were dozing  near the window over a slender jug  of wine: their
faces  looked pinched and sour, exuding an air of general depression. At the
nearby table sat  a little band of impoverished dons in  rumpled jackets and
mended cloaks. They sipped their beer and let their greedy eyes sweep around
the room ever so often.
     The  baron lumbered over to  a free  table, cast  a  mean glance in the
direction of the Gray officers and grumbled:
     "You just can't get away  from that rabble. Not  even here."  But now a
fat  old auntie waddled  into the  room bearing the first  course. The baron
croaked greedily, pulled  his dagger from his belt, and fell over the feast.
Silently he  devoured big  chunks of  roast  venison, mountains of marinated
mollusks, huge piles of crabs, enormous quantities of salads  and mayonnaise
dressings, washed everything down with cascades of wine, beer and home brew,
and  finally wine  mixed  with beer  and  home brew. The  impoverished  dons
attempted repeatedly to join  Baron Pampa  at his table, but  the baron sent
them packing with a majestic sweep of his hand and a nasty growl.
     Suddenly he stopped eating, stared at Rumata with protruding eyes,  and
roared like a  beast of prey:  "It's  quite a while  since I've been last in
Arkanar, my noble friend. And  I swear upon my  honor there is  something  I
don't like about this place!"
     "And what would that be?" inquired Rumata, interested,  while he gnawed
at a chicken wing.
     Awe and attention marked the faces of the impoverished dons.
     "Tell me, my  dear  friend," thundered  the baron and wiped his  greasy
hands at  his cloak,  "since when has it become the custom in our  beautiful
capital city, the seat of our Highness the King, that the descendants of the
oldest families of  the realm  can't take a step  without running into these
miserable shopkeepers and butchers?!"
     The noble dons exchanged quick glances  and withdrew  into their comer.
Rumata blinked  over  to  the other  corner  where  the  Gray  officers were
sitting. They put down their glasses and looked over to the baron's table.
     "I'll  tell you,  noble  dons,  where  the  fly  in  the  ointment is,"
continued Baron Pampa.  "The whole trouble is that you are a bunch of damped
cowards. You tolerate them because you are afraid  OF them. You  over there,
you are  scared stiff!" He yelled at the top  of his  voice and locked  eyes
with the  impoverished don  nearest to him.  But the  poor nobleman, smiling
weakly, left his table like a dog with his tail between his legs. "Cowards!"
trumpeted the baron. He was so excited that his mustache reared up skywards.
     But there wasn't much one could expect from the impoverished dons. They
were  obviously disinclined to get into a brawl; they only wanted to eat and
drink.
     Now the baron hurled one foot over the bench, twirled the right half of
his mustache around his fist, riveted  his  eyes on the comer where the Gray
officers were sitting and declared:
     "But I, gentlemen, I am not afraid, not even of the devil! I squash the
Gray pests under my foot wherever I encounter them!"
     "What's that beer  barrel  whining over  there?" loudly inquired a Gray
captain with a horse's face.
     A satisfied smile  played around the baron's lips. He rose Boisterously
from  the table  and  jumped onto the bench. Rumata raised  his eyebrows and
started to gnaw at his second chicken wing.
     "Hey, there, you Gray bastards from hell!" yelled the baron as  loud as
if the officers were miles  away. "Let it be known that  I, Baron  Pampa Don
Bau, gave a fine  object lesson to the likes of you just three days ago. You
know, my friend," Baron Pampa turned and spoke from the ceiling down to  Don
Rumata, sitting at  the table,  "I  had a  few drinks  the other night  with
Father  Kabani  at  my castle. Suddenly  my horse groom came  running up  to
announce  that  a  Horde of  Gray  Sturmoviks is just about to tear down the
Golden Horseshoe Inn. My inn! On my own grounds! I issued the command; Let's
ride!  And we were  there in no time. I swear  to you by my  spurs, we found
there  a whole horde, some twenty  men altogether! They'd caught three of my
men, got  as drunk as pigs--these bastards can't drink,  of course--and they
were just beginning to smash everything to smithereens. I grabbed one by the
legs, and that  started  the merry chase. I chased them as far as the  Heavy
Swords.  Blood was flowing--you  won't believe it, my friend--we were wading
in  it up  to our knees, and  I  don't know how many  battle axes were  left
behind!"
     Here the  baron's account was interrupted. The captain with the horse's
face swung his hand and hurled  his  heavy dagger against  the baron's chain
mail.
     "Finally!" said the baron and drew his giant two-fisted sword.
     He jumped  off  the  bench with  unexpected agility; his  sword  arched
expertly  through  the air and  cut through a  crossbeam supporting  the low
ceiling. The baron cursed. The ceiling sagged a little and  plaster and dust
fell from above on the men's heads.
     Everyone in the room had risen. The impoverished dons kept close to the
walls. The young  aristocrats climbed onto the tables to have a better view.
The Gray officers formed  a half-circle and  drew their swords  while slowly
advancing toward the baron.  Only Rumata  remained seated,  trying to figure
out on which side it would be safer to stand up without coming to grief. For
now  the  baron's  broad  sword  was  hissing  ominously  through  the  air,
describing flashing  circles above the baron's head. It was an awe-inspiring
sight. The baron reminded  Rumata of a freight helicopter with idly spinning
rotary blades.
     Now the baron was  hemmed in on three sides  by the  Gray officers, who
were forced to a halt  as soon as they  came  within  range of the  whirling
sword. One of  the officers  was  unfortunate  enough to  have his  back  to
Rumata, who leaned across the  table, seized the  hapless man by the collar,
yanked him down so that his back slammed into the dirty dishes on the table,
and gave him a sharp chop behind his ear. The Gray officer shut his eyes and
his body stiffened. The baron yelled:
     "Cut his throat, noble Rumata, I'll finish off the others!"
     He'll massacre the whole lot, thought Rumata uneasily.
     "Attention!"  he  said to the Gray officers.  "Why should we ruin  each
other's evening? You  don't have a ghost of a chance against us.  Throw down
your arms and beat it!"
     "Certainly  not! That  would  be the  limit!" put in the baron, visibly
upset.  "I want  to fight! I  want them to fight!  Stand up  and  fight, you
wretches!"
     With these  words he advanced towards the Gray officers, all the  while
whirling his sword faster and  faster above his head. The Gray officers fell
back, all pale in the face. Evidently this was the first  time they had ever
seen a freight helicopter.  Rumata jumped over the table. "Stop, my friend!"
he  called  out. "There  is really  no reason for  us to quarrel  with these
people. You don't care for their presence here? Fine, tell them to leave!"
     "We won't  leave without our weapons," grumbled one of the lieutenants.
"We'd be punished. We are on patrol duty now."
     "Go to hell and  take  your weapons with you!" decided  Rumata. "Sheath
your swords, hands on top of your head; leave one at a time! And  no tricks!
Or I'll beat you to a pulp!"
     "How can we get  out of the room?"  inquired the captain with the horse
face. His long upper  lip twitched with irritation. "This don blocks our way
as you can see!"
     "And will continue to do so!" insisted the stubborn baron.
     The young dons snickered.
     "All right  then," said Rumata.  "I'll hold  him down and you file out,
one  after  the  other, but hurry up. I  won't be  able to  control him much
longer!  Hey,  there, clear the doorway!  Baron," he said and grasped  Pampa
around his  broad waist, "it  seems  to  me you have  forgotten an important
fact. This famous sword was used by your ancestors only to do battle, for it
is written: Do not draw your sword in taverns!"
     The shadow of a doubt darkened the baron's features while  he continued
to swing his sword.
     "But I don't have another sword here with me," he said puzzled.
     "All the more relevant . . . ," answered Rumata emphatically.
     "Do you think that?" The baron was still hesitating.
     "You know the rules better than I do!"
     "That's true," said the baron. "You are  right."  He  looked up to  his
whirling hands. "You  wouldn't believe  it,  Don Rumata, I could go on  like
this easily for another three or four hours without stopping. And I wouldn't
even feel tired. Too bad that she can't see me like this now!"
     "Ill tell her all about it, rest assured," promised Rumata.
     The baron sighed and lowered his sword. The Gray officers crept out  of
the room, cowering in fear. The baron followed them with his eyes.
     "I don't know, I don't know," he said undecided. "Do you really think I
made the right decision, not smashing them to a pulp?"
     "You acted correctly, absolutely correctly," Rumata reassured him.
     "Well then,"  said the baron as he sheathed his sword. "If we were  not
fortunate enough to have a  good fight, let's have  something decent to  eat
and lots to drink."
     He grabbed the still unconscious Gray lieutenant by his legs and pulled
him  off the table, while  he  croaked out  loudly: "Hey, there,  innkeeper!
Bring us some wine and a bite to eat!"
     The  young aristocrats came to  their  table to  congratulate them most
humbly on their victory.
     "That's nothing, it was easy!" said the baron complacently. "Six skinny
milksops--and big cowards, like all shopkeepers are.  I've finished  off two
dozen like  that,  at the  Golden  Horseshoe--chased  them  out  . .  .  How
fortunate," and he  turned  to Rumata, "that I did not have my  battle sword
with me at the time!  I might have drawn it,  absentminded as I am. Although
the  Golden Horseshoe  is actually  not  a tavern, it's just a little  comer
bistro ..."
     "Some also say," remarked Rumata, "that it is written: Do not draw your
sword in the corner bistro!"
     The innkeeper's wife brought new dishes with meat  and some more  wine.
The baron rolled up his sleeves and set to work.
     "By  the way,"  said Rumata, "who were the three prisoners you set free
that time at the Golden Horseshoe?"
     The baron stopped  chewing and stared at  Rumata.  "But my dear friend,
maybe  I didn't make myself clear.  I did not set  anybody  free. True, they
were  all  prisoners,  had been  arrested,  but  these  are  affairs of  the
government.  Why should I have liberated them? It was  just  some old don, a
big  coward, an  old  bookworm  and  his  servant  . .  ."  He shrugged  his
shoulders.
     "Yes, of course," said Rumata.
     Suddenly the baron turned purple in the face; he rolled his  eyes  in a
most frightening manner.
     "What?! Again?!" he roared.
     Rumata turned around. Don Ripat stood in the doorway. The baron  jumped
up  from  his  seat,  overturning  benches and  dishes.  Don Ripat  threw  a
significant glance at Rumata and left the room again.
     "I  beg  your pardon,  baron,"  said Rumata,  rising to his  feet. "The
King's service is calling."
     "Oh, dear," mumbled the baron in  a disappointed  voice.  "I feel sorry
for you. I wouldn't serve for anything in this world!"
     Don Ripat was waiting for him outside the door.
     "What's new?" asked Rumata.
     "Two hours ago,"  reported  Don Ripat officiously, "I placed Dona Okana
under arrest  under the orders of our Minister of Internal  Security.  I had
her taken to the Tower of Joy."
     "Hmm," was all that Rumata said.
     "Dona Okana died one hour ago. She did not survive the tortures."
     "Hmm."
     "Officially she  was accused  of being  a spy. But--" Don  Ripat seemed
embarrassed and gazed down at the floor. "I think--I believe--"
     "I understand what you mean," said Rumata.
     Don Ripat looked at him with a guiltridden face.
     "I was powerless--" he started to say.
     "That's none of your concern," said Rumata hoarsely.
     Don Ripat's eyes became leaden. Rumata slightly  nodded his head to him
and went back to his table. The baron was just finishing off a platter  with
fried clams.
     "Estorian  wine! Let's have a lot of it!" Rumata could hardly choke out
the words.  He tried  to  swallow a  big lump in  his throat.  "Let's  enjoy
ourselves now! To hell with everything, let's have a good time!"
     When Rumata came  to again,  he  found himself lying in the middle of a
big  empty lot. A  gray  day  was dawning, in the distance roosters crowed a
raucous reveille. Dense flocks of blackbirds were crowing overhead, circling
above  something unpleasant nearby. It smelled of rot and decay.  The fog in
Rumata's head lifted quickly, the usual penetrating lucidity and reliability
of all his senses returned. A pleasant taste of mint seemed to linger on his
tongue. The fingers  of his right  hand hurt  badly. Rumata lifted his right
fist, all cramped up, to his eyes. The skin around his wrist was chafed.  He
opened his fist and found  that he had still been grasping an  empty vial of
Casparamid,  the  potent  medication  against  alcohol  poisoning  that  was
standard  equipment --just as  a precautionary  measure--for  all  Terranian
emissaries  sent  by  the various  institutes  to extraterrestrial  planets.
Apparently he had followed some blind instinct and poured the whole contents
of  the  vial  into  his mouth before  he  had  sunk completely  into  brute
unconsciousness here on this large empty lot.
     The   neighborhood  seemed  familiar.  The   charred  skeleton  of  the
observatory tower jutted skywards and to the left of the burnt-out ruin, the
watchtowers of the royal palace, thin as minarets, pierced the pale light of
the dawn.  Rumata breathed in  deeply the cold,  humid air, then set out for
home.
     Baron  Pampa had  had  a wonderful  night, exactly the kind  he  liked.
Accompanied  by  a little band of moneyless dons who were easily inclined to
lose their  dignity, he set out on a gigantic roving  expedition through the
cheap  saloons  of  Arkanar,  where  he downed  unbelievable  quantities  of
alcohol, accomplished amazing  feats of gluttony, and  became involved in no
less than  eight brawls.  At least this was the number  of times that Rumata
could clearly recall having intervened to separate the belligerents in order
to prevent the worst from  happening. The rest had vanished in a  haze. Only
occasionally the fog would lift and animallike, grimacing faces, knives held
in their teeth, would emerge, then again the bewildered, bitter face of  the
last of the moneyless dons, whom Don Pampa tried to sell as a  slave down in
the harbor area, then again an  Irukanian with a bulbous nose and mean eyes,
who, boiling with  rage, demanded from  the  noble  dons  the return of  his
horse.
     In the beginning Don Rumata  still remained a spy. He did not drink any
less  than the baron: Irukanian, Estorian, Soanian, and Arkanarian wine; but
every time  he changed  the brand of  wine  he  secretly  popped a  vial  of
Casparamid into his mouth. He retained his discerning power of  judgment and
noticed  that  the  Gray  Patrols were  stationing themselves  in far larger
numbers than usual  at intersections and bridges;  then  there was a  sentry
post of barbarians on horseback somewhere on the Soanian cross-country road,
who  would probably have shot the baron if Don Rumata had not understood and
mastered  their  dialect.  He remembered clearly  the  thought that  flashed
through  his mind at the motionless  rows of strange soldiers in long, black
cloaks  with  hoods, who  had taken  up position  in front  of the Patriotic
School:
     But  isn't that the  guard of the monks? What business  does the church
have in this  place?  he  had wondered. Since when  does  the church mix  in
secular affairs  here in Arkanar? Only very gradually did he get inebriated,
but then, all at once, he  was overcome by deep  intoxication. In a fleeting
moment  of lucidity he  noticed  a totally  wrecked table in some unfamiliar
room,  saw his own  hand brandishing a  sword  and  the  pitiful,  imploring
figures  of the impoverished dons around him. He almost thought it was  time
to go home; but by then it was already too late. He was seized by a  wave of
mad rage and by a disgusting, irresistible  joy to be able for once to throw
off  all  traces  of humaneness.  Nevertheless,  he  had  still  remained  a
Terranian and an  emissary of the  institute back on Earth, a descendant  of
man, the masters over fire and iron, who will  neither spare themselves  nor
stop before anything if it is  in the cause of a great goal  to be achieved.
He  could  not  remain  Rumata of  Estoria, flesh  from the  flesh of twenty
generations of his warrior  ancestors, who were famed  for their robbing and
drunkenness. But neither was  he a communard, a comrade any  longer.  He  no
longer felt any obligation to the great  Experiment.  He  was only concerned
now with obligations  toward  his own person.  And he  was  no more beset by
doubts. Everything  seemed  clear now, absolutely clear. He now knew exactly
who was to blame for everything and he knew exactly what he wanted to do: to
lash  out blindly, to hurl down into  the fire,  down from  the steps of the
palace, down onto the spears and pitchforks of the raging mob . . .
     Rumata gave a sudden start; he unsheathed his swords. There  were nicks
on the blades that were otherwise blank. He remembered vaguely having fought
with someone. But with whom? And how had it ended?
     They had  boozed away  their horses. The impoverished dons had vanished
somehow. Rumata had dragged the baron home--this he could recall, too. Pampa
Don Bau was enterprising, apparently  completely sober and good and ready to
continue with this most entertaining evening--only he could not stand on his
legs any longer. Besides, he  believed for  some obscure  reason that he had
just taken leave  of his beloved  baroness and that he was now on a campaign
against his arch enemy, Baron  Kaska,  who had already  had the  audacity to
commit  the most  outrageous feats ("Will  you  judge for  yourself, my dear
friend, this scoundrel brought  forth from his hip a  six-fingered  boy  and
named him Pampa...").
     "The  sun  is  about to  set,"  he  declared  as he regarded a  gobelin
representing a sunrise.  "We could drink all night  through, noble dons, but
we  need some  sleep before  the battle. And not  a drop of wine during  the
battle! Besides, the baroness would not care for it."
     "What?  A bed? Beds on  a battlefield? Our bed  is  our saddled steed."
With  these  words he  tore the gobelin off the wall,  wrapped it around his
entire body and stumbled noisily over to the comer under the big chandelier.
Rumata ordered the  boy Uno to place a tub  with pickled cucumbers and a tub
with sauerkraut beside the baron.  The boy's face was sleepy and very angry.
"There, look! He has  wrapped himself in  our  good  gobelin," he  muttered.
"Eyes that  look  in different directions . . ." "Shut up,  you  fool," said
Rumata in  answer, and--then something happened. Something very vulgar, that
had chased him  halfway across town to this empty lot. Something  very, very
vile, wretched, mean, unforgivable, embarrassing...
     The  memory of this distressing action reawakened  as he approached his
house. He stopped in his tracks.
     .  . . He had pushed Uno aside, climbed  up the stairs, pushed the door
open and stormed over to her. He was  her master.  And by the  light of  the
street  lantern he  saw her white  face and huge eyes filled  with  fear and
disgust--and in these eyes he  could see himself as he was: staggering, with
a drooping,  drooling lower lip, with fists whose skin hung  down in shreds,
in soiled  clothes.  He  saw  a  beastly, vile, blue-blooded  skunk. And her
glance hurled him  backwards, down the stairs,  into the entry hall,  out of
the door and out into the street, the dark nocturnal street and  on  and on,
farther and farther, as far away as possible ...
     He gnashed his teeth, felt his insides contort and turn to ice, then he
gently opened the house door and entered the hall.  Over in a comer, snoring
peacefully like a walrus, was the sleeping baron. "Who is that?" called Uno,
who  had  been slumbering  on a  bench,  a  spread lying across  his  knees.
"Quiet!"  commanded Rumata in  a whisper. "Go to the kitchen, bring a bucket
of water, vinegar and new clothes. Hurry up!"
     Leisurely  he poured  water over his body for  quite a while, and  with
great gusto  scrubbed himself with vinegar, thus  cleansing himself from the
filth of his  nightly  pleasures and fights. Contrary to his usual self, Uno
remained silent throughout while he assisted his master. Not until he helped
him  button up the ridiculous lilac-colored trousers with the pretty buckles
did he report sullenly:
     "During the night, after you ran out, Kyra came downstairs and asked if
the  master had come home or not,  but  then  said that  she must have  been
dreaming.  I told her  that you had not yet returned from your guard duty at
the palace, where you went last night..."
     Rumata  sighed  deeply and turned away.  But  this did  not help in the
least. It made things even worse.
     "And I've been sitting here the whole night through near the baron with
my  spear all  ready  across my knees. I was afraid he might  crawl upstairs
while he was so drunk."
     "Thanks, my  little one, thanks," Rumata uttered painfully.  He put  on
his shoes, went into the dressing room and stood in front  of his dark metal
mirror.  The  Casparamid  was  doing its work. Very  effectively. The mirror
reflected an  image of an  elegant, noble don with  a slightly fatigued face
after  the  long, strenuous  night  guard duty. But  definitely very  decent
looking.  His moist hair, framed  by  the  golden  circlet, fell  softly and
neatly  down on  either side of his face. With  an automatic gesture, Rumata
adjusted the lens  on his forehead. Lovely  scenes they're watching today on
Earth, he thought somberly.
     Meanwhile, the day broke. The sun began to peer into dusty windows. The
shutters rattled. Sleepy voices could be heard in the street. "Did you sleep
well, brother Kiris?"-- "Very well, brother Tika, praise the Lord. The night
is over,  thank God."--"Somebody was  beating  against the  windows  of  our
house. They say Don Rumata went out during the night"--"He is said to have a
house guest."--"So, and  he went out? I think he went to the  young  prince,
and  did not even notice how  they burnt down  half the town."-- "What can I
tell you,  brother Tika? Thank God that we have  such  a  noble don  in  our
neighborhood. Once a year he does guard duty, and that's a lot already."
     Rumata walked up  the stairs, knocked and entered the  study. Kyra  was
sitting  in the armchair as the day before. She raised  her eyes and looked,
restless and fearful, into his face.
     "Good morning, my darling," he said,  walked over to  her,  kissed  her
hands and sat down in an armchair across from her.
     She looked at him a while with questioning eyes and asked finally:
     "Are you tired?"
     "Yes, a bit. And I must go away once more today."
     "Would you like me to prepare something for you?"
     "No, thanks. Uno will take care  of  it.  Well. . . you might  iron  my
collar..."
     Rumata could feel a wall of lies rise between them. Very thin at first,
then thicker and thicker and more and more solid. For the rest of our lives!
Rumata  thought bitterly. He  sat in his  seat,  covered his eyes  with  his
hands, while she was rubbing carefully various lotions and perfumes onto his
strong neck, his cheeks, his forehead and his hair. Then she said:
     "You don't even ask how I slept."
     "How did you sleep, my darling?"
     "I dreamt. A terrible, horrible dream. Do you know what I mean?"
     The wall grew as thick as a rampart.
     "It's  usually  that way  in a new place,"  said Rumata hypocritically.
"The baron must have caused quite a commotion."
     "Shall I order breakfast for you?" she asked.
     "Go ahead!"
     "What kind of wine do you like in the morning?"
     Rumata opened his eyes.
     "I'd like some water," he said. "I don't drink in the morning."
     She went out and he heard how she spoke to Uno. Her voice sounded clear
and full. Then she returned, sat on  the arm of his  chair and began to tell
him her dream. Rumata listened, nervously plucking at his eyebrows, and felt
the wall grow thicker and more  unassailable by  the  minute, separating him
forever from  the only human being whom he loved  and cherished here on this
horrible world.  And, all of a sudden,  he  threw himself forcefully against
this wall.
     Kyra, he said. It was no dream!" And nothing extraordinary happened.
     "My poor darling," said Kyra. "Wait, I'll bring you some pickles..."
     FIVE
     Once,  not too long  ago the court of the Irukanian kings had been  one
that especially  concerned itself with refinement  and culture. A number  of
scholars were retained at court-- mostly charlatans, of course, but also men
like Bagir Kissenski, the discoverer of the curvature of the  planet, or the
king's personal  physician  Tata,  who  made the  brilliant  assertion  that
epidemics were caused by tiny worms, invisible to the naked  eye and  spread
by water and  wind,  or  Synda  the  alchemist,  who--true to  his kind--was
searching  for a  way of making gold from dirt, and  who  quite incidentally
discovered the  law of the preservation of energy. There were also poets  to
be  found at the Arkanarian court. Though the majority consisted  mainly  of
sycophants and parasites, there was also Pepin, the Great, the author of the
historical tragedy The Northern  Campaign;  then there  was  also Zuren, the
Just, who wrote over five hundred ballads and sonnets that became folksongs;
and finally the poet Gur, who wrote the  first secular novel in  the history
of the realm, a sad romance about a prince who fell in love with a beautiful
barbarian  maiden. There were also splendid artists, dancers  and singers at
the  court.  Remarkable painters covered  the walls  with immortal frescoes,
famous sculptors adorned the parks of the royal abode with their  creations.
Nevertheless it  cannot be said that  the Arkanarian kings were true patrons
of the arts and sciences or genuine  connoisseurs. All that served merely as
decoration, the same  as the ceremony  accompanying the awakening and rising
of the king or the spectacular officers of the guard at the castle entrance.
     The indulgence  of the monarchs would sometimes go as  far as to permit
some scientists and poets to become note-worthy little cogs in the machinery
of the  state. Thus,  for instance, barely fifty years had passed  since the
highly  learned  alchemist  Botsa  had held  the  post  of  Minister  of the
Department  of Mining--a position that had since been eliminated because  it
was no longer needed. In this  capacity he opened up several new  mines  and
made  Arkanar  famous  for its  high-grade,  alloys;  unfortunately, Botsa's
secret formulas  had been  lost  after his death.  Pepin, the poet, presided
until recently over the  state's educational program, but then his  Ministry
for History and  Language Sciences was declared to be detrimental to  mental
health, as it was known to have caused the disintegration of human minds.
     Although  it  had  occasionally  happened  that  the   king's  favorite
mistress, a dull, mawkish person, did not care for a particular scientist or
artist, who then might be either sold abroad  or poisoned by arsenic, it was
Don  Reba  who finally espoused the cause thoroughly and with  gusto. During
his  reign  as  omnipotent  Minister  of Security  for the Protection of the
Crown, he  would organize  such violent pogroms amongst the members  of  the
intelligentsia that he  would  even  manage  to evoke the dissatisfaction of
certain  noble  grandees,  who  pronounced  that  court  life  was  becoming
increasingly  more boring  and who  complained that they  heard  nothing but
silly gossip at the court balls.
     Bagir Kissenski  was accused of insanity  present to a degree bordering
on  treason,  and was then imprisoned in  a dungeon. It was only through the
efforts of Rumata that he was released and returned to the capital.  Bagir's
observatory  was  burned  to the ground and  those of his students  who  had
remained unmolested fled as far away as  possible. Tata, the king's personal
physician, together  with five other quacks,  suddenly  turned  out to  be a
common poisoner who  was  inciting the Irukanian Duke against the person  of
the King. He confessed  everything in the torture chamber and  was hanged in
public on  the Royal Square. While attempting to rescue  Tata,  Rumata spent
thirty poods  of  gold, lost  four of his  agents (noble  dons who  did  not
realize what they were doing) and came himself within an ace of being killed
when he was attacked during an attempt to abduct the condemned physician.
     That had  been  his  first  big  defeat.  And that was when  he finally
understood  that Don Reba  was no mere accident.  One week later he  learned
that Synda the alchemist was to be brought to trial for allegedly concealing
the  philosopher's  stone  from the state treasury. Rumata was still boiling
mad over  his latest defeat and  therefore decided to take matters  into his
own hands. He  laid an ambush around  the house  of the alchemist, disguised
himself with a black mask, and personally disarmed the  Sturmoviks who  were
about to  march the alchemist off to  prison;  locked  the Sturmoviks in the
cellar  of Synda's house  and  that  very night led  Synda, who had  not the
vaguest notion what was happening to  him, across the border to Soan. There,
after an initial shrug of his shoulders, the alchemist continued  his search
for the philosopher's stone under Don Kondor's supervision. Pepin, the poet,
suddenly donned a monk's garb and  retired to some distant monastery. Zuren,
the  Just,  had been unmasked only  recently.  He was found guilty of making
criminally ambiguous  utterances, and was further convicted of playing up to
the taste of the lower classes. He was declared to  have forfeited his honor
and fortune,  tried to fight for his rights, recited quite openly subversive
ballads  in disreputable inns and  was twice almost beaten to death by  some
patriotically minded persons. Not until  then did  he permit his  friend and
patron Don  Rumata to persuade him  to flee  to the  capital  of the  realm.
Rumata would never  be able to forget the sight  of the departing poet: pale
and blue at the same time,  totally drunk, his thin arms clung to the planks
of the ship as it left the dock,  while he roared out his farewell sonnet in
a resonant, surprisingly youthful voice: "It weighs upon my soul like fallen
leaves .,."
     As far as the poet Gur was concerned, he  was  informed by Don  Reba on
the  occasion of a private audience that  the  Prince  of Arkanar could  not
befriend his ilk, in view of the hostility expressed in his poems. Whereupon
Gur personally threw his own works into a bonfire on the  Royal Square. Ever
since that time, whenever the king was graciously pleased to go  for a ride,
Gur  would stand in the crowd  of courtiers, his head bowed, his face blank;
upon an  imperceptible  sign from Don Reba, he  would step forward from  the
courtiers'  ranks  and recite  ultrapatriotic poems--  which, however,  were
greeted with nothing but secretly stifled yawns.
     And on the stage the same play was presented over and  over again:  The
Downfall of the Barbarians; or Marshal  Totz, King Pits of Arkanar.  Musical
performances  were generally limited now to concerts with songs  accompanied
by orchestra.  Those  artists who had survived  painted  signboards.  Two or
three  of the cleverest  ones even  managed  to remain at court, where  they
painted portrait  after  portrait of the king and Don  Reba  (who was always
solicitously  and respectfully  supporting  the king). This characterization
was none  too  encouraging: the king was always  represented  as  a  radiant
twenty  year old  clad in a suit of armor, while Don Reba  was pictured as a
mature man with a very meaningful expression.
     It became very boring indeed at the Arkanarian court. Nevertheless, the
grandees, the noble dons  without occupation, the officers of the guard, and
the noble dons' frivolous beauties would fill the antechambers and salons of
the palace as of  yore--some  out  of  vanity,  others out of  fear.  To  be
truthful, many  were  quite unaware of any changes.  They were those who, in
the  olden days, when  they had had to attend concerts and  poetry readings,
had been  most appreciative of the intermission.  In fact, they could hardly
wait for the pause so that they  could discuss the merits  of various breeds
of hunting  dogs or  tell  each other  jokes.  They  were  still  capable of
participating in a short dispute about the characteristics of  souls in life
after  death, but problems such  as the  form of planets  or  the  cause  of
epidemics were already considered indecent. A certain nostalgia  was felt by
the officers of the  guard when the painters vanished; their representations
of nature in the raw had been so masterful...
     Rumata appeared at the palace, a  little too late.  The ceremony of the
king's toilette had already begun.  The rooms were  packed,  and the  king's
irritated voice could be heard over  the melodious commands of the master of
ceremony, who oversaw the formal dressing of His Majesty. The courtiers were
discussing  the events  of  the previous  night.  A  criminal with Irukanian
features had stolen  into the palace during the night, slain the  guard, and
crept  into the  king's  sleeping chamber.  There, it was said, he had  been
disarmed and captured by Don Reba in person; on the way to the Tower  of Joy
he had been torn to pieces by a pack of patriots whose servility and loyalty
to the  king had driven them wild with rage.  This was the sixth  attempt on
the king's life  in  one  month, and this  latest incident hardly roused any
particular  interest.  It  was  only  the  special  details that were  being
discussed. Rumata learned that His Majesty had set up in bed at the sight of
the murderer and had covered  the  most beautiful  Dona Midara with  his own
body, while  uttering  the historic words:  "Get away  with you, scoundrel!"
Most courtiers willingly  believed that these historic words had been spoken
but  assumed  that the  king had uttered them mistaking the  murderer for  a
servant. And  all agreed to a man that as usual Don  Reba  had  been on  his
guard and was invincible in a fight  at close quarters. Rumata expressed his
agreement with this opinion with some flowery expressions, and in reply told
a story  he thought  up on  the spur of  the  moment how  Don  Reba had been
attacked by twelve bandits: he finished  off  three  of them right then  and
there, and routed the  rest. The  story was received with  keen interest and
lively approval, whereupon Rumata  made the incidental  remark that  he  had
heard this story from Don Sera. All interest rapidly faded from the faces of
the listeners, for it  was  common knowledge what a notorious liar and cheat
Don Sera was. Not a word was said about Dona Okana. Either they had not  yet
heard about it or they pretended not to know anything.
     With pleasant  remarks,  gallantly kissing the  ladies'  hands,  Rumata
pushed his way step  by step through the crowd  of bedizened,  perfumed  and
profusely sweating people until he reached the front rows. The nobles of the
land spoke in soft voices: "Yes indeed, what a filly. She tried to barricade
herself but, confound it! if  he didn't gamble her  away that same night and
lost her to  Don Ke . .  ."--"And her hips, my noble  don, were of  the most
exquisite shape. How did Zuren phrase it so beautifully . . . hm, hm, hm . .
. mountains of  cool foam . . . hm, hm, hm . . . no,  hills of cool foam . .
.. be  it  as it  may,  they  were fine hips."--"So I  open the window  very
softly, take my dagger between my teeth, and just imagine, my dear friend, I
feel how the window grating above me is giving way . . ."--"I raked the hilt
of my sword  across his teeth so that the old gray dog spun twice around his
axis. By the  way,  you can admire  him  right over  there; there he  stands
looking like he  owned the world . . ." --". .  . and Don Tameo was spitting
on the floor, slipped and fell  head forward into the fireplace . . ."--". .
. then the monk says to her: 'Do tell me your dream.' Ha ha ha!"
     Nauseating,  thought Rumata. If somebody should chance  to do away with
me  at this moment, this group of morons would be the last thing  I had seen
in my life. Only ready wit, that's the  only thing that will save me. Me and
Budach. Seize the right moment and then suddenly let him  have it. Take  him
by surprise so he won't even have a chance to open his mouth! But don't give
them a chance to finish me off; there-is no reason for me to die here!
     At  a  measured  pace  he  advanced  toward  the  door  of  the  king's
bedchamber, touched his  swords  with both hands, bent  his legs slightly at
the knees according to the court's etiquette and approached the  royal  bed.
They  were  just  about  to put  on  the  king's  stockings. The  master  of
ceremonies followed with bated breath each movement of the skillful hands of
the two royal grooms. To the right of an open alcove stood Don Reba, talking
in  a hardly audible  voice with  a  tall, rawboned  man  in  a  gray velvet
uniform. It  was Father Zupik,  one  of  the  leaders  of the Sturmoviki,  a
colonel in the king's bodyguard.  Don Reba was a  well-experienced courtier.
To judge  by the expression on his face, his only concern here  was the nose
of  a certain  filly,  or the  virtuous  behavior of the royal niece. Father
Zupik, however,  a warrior  and  an ex-grocer, did not know how  to  control
himself.  His face grew dark, he  bit his lips, and his  fingers gripped his
sword hilt, then released it suddenly. Finally,  with a violent twitching of
his  cheeks, he turned around abruptly and--violating  all rules  of  proper
etiquette -- walked straight out of  the king's bedchamber  toward the crowd
of assembled courtiers, who stood there petrified by such rudeness. Don Reba
looked after him with an innocent smile, while Rumata  followed  the awkward
gray figure with his eyes and thought: another  dead man. Here we go  again!
He knew of  the  friction between Don Reba  and the leadership  of the  Gray
hordes. History was about to repeat itself; another one to share the fate of
Captain Ernst Rohm of Nazi fame!
     Now  the stockings  had  been  properly  pulled up  on the king's legs.
Obeying  the melodious orders of the master of  ceremony,  the  royal grooms
elegantly reached for the royal shoes  with their fingertips, when suddenly,
out  of the clear blue sky, the  king kicked at them and turned so violently
in the direction of Don  Reba,  that his belly flopped on  his knees  like a
fully packed sack.
     "I  am  sick  and  tired  of  your  attempts  on  my life!"  he  howled
hysterically. "Assassins,  assassins,  assassins! I want to sleep at  night,
and not to have to battle with assassins! Why can't it be arranged that they
attack me  sometime during the  day? You're a lousy  minister, Reba. Another
night like this and I will have you executed." Dona  Reba bowed and put  his
hand on his heart.  "I  always  get a headache after  these  attempts on  my
life!"
     All  of  a sudden  he fell  silent and quietly regarded  his belly. The
moment seemed favorable. The royal grooms were hesitating. Above all, he had
to draw the king's attention to himself. Rumata yanked the right shoe out of
the royal groom's hand, knelt down before the king and reverently pulled the
shoe onto  the heavy, silk-clad foot. For  this was the age-old privilege of
the house of the Rumatas:  to shoe with their own hand the right foot of the
crowned  heads  of  the  kingdom.  The king bestowed a dull glance  upon Don
Rumata; then suddenly, a glimmer of interest came into his eyes.
     "Ah, Rumata!" he said. "You are still alive? But Reba promised me to do
away with you!"
     He started to chuckle.  "What a  miserable  minister he is,  that Reba.
He's always  making promises but he only pretends. He promised to put an end
to all  these conspiracies but the conspiracies grow more and more frequent.
And these Gray monsters he's  shipped into my palace . . .  I'm a sick  man,
and he hangs all my personal physicians."
     Rumata had now completely  slipped  the shoe on, bowed and stepped back
two  paces. He  intercepted an  attentive glance from  Don Reba and tried to
give his face a snooty, dull expression.
     "I'm  a  very sick man," the  king continued. "Everything hurts me. I'd
like  to pass on to my  eternal rest.  I would have long since done so,  but
you'll all go to rot and ruin without me, you pigs..."
     Now  they put on his  other shoe. He rose to his feet but soon began to
moan, doubled over with pain, and clasped his knees.
     "Where are my physicians, my quacksalvers?" he roared with pain. "Where
is my good Tata? You hanged him, you  imbecile! And I  would  feel better at
the mere  sound  of  his  voice!  Be silent!  I know myself  that  he  was a
poisoner! But  I could not have cared less? So what if he concocted poisons?
He  was  a physician,  he was a good medical doctor! Do you understand that,
you murderer? He may have poisoned some people, but he cured others. But you
strangle everybody you  can  lay  your  hands on. How  I wish  you'd  hanged
yourself instead of  him!" Don Reba  bowed, placed a hand over his heart and
remained in  this position. "You had all of them hanged! Nobody stayed alive
except for the charlatans! And the priests who  administer  holy water to me
instead of medicine  .  . .  Who will prepare some medicine  for me now that
Tata is gone? Who will rub healing ointment on my foot?"
     "My King!" Rumata spoke up loud  and clear, and it seemed  to  him that
the whole palace froze in horror. "You have but to give  the command and the
best doctor in your entire kingdom will be here within one hour!"
     The king  stared  at him perplexed. The risk  was tremendous.  Don Reba
needed merely to blink an eyelid . .  . Rumata could sense with all his body
how  numerous eyes stared at him intensely, ready to attack at  any moment--
he  also knew  the  purpose of the  rows of round, black openings which were
visible  just below  the ceiling of the bed chamber. Don  Reba regarded  him
with an expression of both politeness and benevolent curiosity.
     "What is  that supposed to  mean?" asked the king  in  a sulking voice.
"Well, then, I am giving you an order: where is your quacksalver?"
     Rumata's  entire body began to tense up. He could almost feel the arrow
tips in his back already.
     "Your Majesty," he said quickly. "Please, order Don Reba to produce the
famous doctor Budach before your presence!"
     How amazing! He had  said the  most  important thing and  he was  still
alive. Should Don Reba harbor any  doubts about  his  position in this case?
The king directed his weary glance toward his Minister of Internal Security.
     "Your  Majesty,"  continued  Rumata,  now  without  haste  and  with  a
deliberate and  restrained  tone. "Inasmuch  as I have  known of  your truly
unbearable suffering,  and heedful  of  my  family's  duty toward  the royal
house, I arranged for the famous, most learned physician Budach to come here
from Irukan. Most regrettably I must report that the doctor's journey to you
was cut short. The soldiers  of our  honorable  Don Reba seized him one week
ago and his fate from that day on is known to Don Reba alone. I presume that
the physician is currently somewhere in this vicinity, probably in the Tower
of Joy.  I can  only hope that Don Reba's peculiar dislike of physicians has
not yet had a fateful effect on Doctor Budach's well-being."
     Rumata fell silent and held his breath. Apparently everything was going
smoothly. Hold your horses, Don Reba! He glanced swiftly in the direction of
the minister--and froze. The Minister  of Internal Security had firm control
over  himself. He nodded briefly toward Rumata--a tender, fatherly reproach.
This  was  the  last thing  Rumata expected from  him.  He seems triumphant,
thought  Rumata nonplussed. But the king, on the other hand, behaved true to
form.
     "You scoundre!" he shouted. "I'll wring your neck! Where is the doctor?
Where is the doctor, I am asking you!"
     Reba advanced a step, smiling pleasantly.
     "Your Majesty," he said, "you are truly a fortunate ruler, for you have
so many devoted subjects that they sometimes  interfere with  each  other in
their   desire   to  serve  you."  The  king  stared  at   him  with   dull,
uncomprehending  eyes.  "I  do  not  wish  to  conceal that our  zealous Don
Rumata's  noble intentions were  well  known to me, like everything else  in
your realm. I do not wish  to conceal that I  sent out  our Gray soldiers to
meet Doctor  Budach halfway for the sole purpose of protecting the honorable
old man from the discomforts of his long journey. Furthermore, I do not wish
to conceal that I was in no particular hurry to present the Irukanian Budach
to Your Majesty"
     "How dare you do that!" the king reproached him.
     "Your  Majesty, Don Rumata is young and as inexperienced in politics as
he is  experienced  in the  noble art of dueling.  Thus  he was, of  course,
totally unaware of the dastardly feats the Duke  of Irukan is capable  of in
his raging wickedness against the person of Your  Majesty. But you and I, we
two are naturally  aware of  that, aren't we, Your Majesty?" The king nodded
assent.  "And that  is why I deemed  it advisable to conduct some kind of an
investigation, merely as a precautionary  measure. I would  not  have rushed
matters, but  if you, my King (a  deep bow  toward  the  king), and you, Don
Rumata (a slight nod toward  Rumata), so  urgently  insist on it, I'll bring
Doctor  Budach into your presence this very day,  after your midday meal, so
that he can begin your treatment."
     "You  are  not  so stupid after  all, Don Reba," said the  king,  after
pondering a  little while over his minister's words. "An investigation . . .
that's fine . . . can never do any harm.
     The  cursed Irukanian  .  . ." He howled suddenly with pain and touched
his knee again. "Oh, damn that  leg! Good, right after the midday meal then?
I'll have to wait till then . . . have to wait."
     And leaning on the shoulder of  the master of ceremony, the king slowly
walked   into  the  presence  chamber,  past  Rumata,  who  was   completely
dumbfounded. And just  as Don  Reba  was about  to make his way  through the
crowd  of the courtiers, who politely stepped aside to let him pass through,
he bestowed a friendly smile on Don Rumata and asked:
     "Is it  correct, Don Rumata, that  it  is  you  who will  do guard duty
tonight in the Prince's bedroom? I have been properly informed, haven't I?"
     Rumata bowed in silence.
     Rumata  ambled  aimlessly  through  the  endless  corridors  and  cross
passages  of the palace. It was dark and humid there, and smelled of ammonia
and  putrefaction.  He passed  by  magnificent rooms,  decorated  with  rich
carpets  and wall hangings, and also by storage closets filled with junk and
old  furniture with  peeling gilding. One  rarely encountered anybody there.
Occasionally  some  courtier would lose  his  way and wander  around in this
labyrinth,  located  in  the  back  wings  of  the  palace  where the  royal
apartments gradually merged  into the  offices of  the Ministry of  Internal
Security. It was easy to  get lost here. Everyone remembered the time when a
patrol of  the guard, doing  their rounds, were frightened by the howling of
some man, who stretched his scratched hands out  to them through the  barred
window  of an embrasure. "Save me!" yelled the man. "I am a gentleman of the
bedchamber! I  don't  know how  to get out of here!  I haven't eaten in  two
days! Will  you get me out  of here!" (There was an  animated correspondence
for ten  days between the Treasurer  of  the Household and the Lord Stewart,
which  finally resulted  in a  decision to yank out the  window bars. During
these ten days  they fed the poor gentleman of the bedchamber with bread and
meat that was passed to him speared upon the tip of a lance.) Besides, there
lurked various  other dangers  in  these  passages.  Drunken soldiers of the
Household  troops, who were supposed  to guard  the person of  the king, and
drunken Sturmoviks, in charge of  watching over the ministry, would clash in
these  narrow corridors  and fight  bitter battles. But after they  had done
with beating each other up, they would separate and carry off their wounded.
And finally, this was  where the ghosts of the  slain would wander  about--a
quite considerable crowd of poor murdered souls  had accumulated here in the
palace during the course of the last two centuries.
     From a  deep  nook in the wall  he saw a Sturmovik emerging who was  on
guard duty. The Gray soldier raised his ax and said somberly:
     "No admittance."
     "A fat lot you know, stupid!" said Rumata and shoved him aside.
     As he was walking on, he could hear the Sturmovik scrape the floor with
his boots and stomp  his  feet, unable to decide how he should react  to Don
Rumata's  insult. Don  Rumata caught  himself thinking  that this  offensive
manner of  speaking and these  indolent  gestures had  almost  become second
nature to him: no longer  did he merely pretend  to act like a lout of noble
birth, but he had assumed such behavior as sort of an  automatic reflex.  He
visualized  the  effect  of such behavior back  on Earth and was overcome at
once by a feeling of shame and nausea.--Why should  I behave  that way? What
change has come over me? Whatever  became of the  respect and the confidence
in my peers that  constituted an  ingrained pattern of  conduct ever since I
was  a  child?  What kind  of relationship have  I developed to other  human
beings,  to  the  wonderful creature called "man"? But  I must be beyond all
help  anyhow by now . . . The horrifying thought raced  through his  mind: I
actually  hate and despise them.  I feel no pity for them--no, I truly  hate
and  despise them. Even if  I consider the dullness  and bestiality of  that
lump of flesh, the social circumstances and his horrible education ... I can
try as hard  as I might, but I now see quite clearly that  this is my enemy,
hostile to everything I hold dear, the enemy of my friends, the enemy of all
I personally hold sacred. And I do not  hate him in an abstract manner,  nor
as  a "typical representative," but as an  individual. I hate his disgusting
mouth, all smeared with saliva, the  stench  of his unwashed body, his blind
faith, his antipathy toward anything beyond  sexual needs and guzzling beer.
There he stands, shuffling his feet, this adolescent whose potbellied father
used to thrash his hide not more than half a  year ago in order to train him
with  such  methods to become a  merchant in maggoty flour  and  mouldy jam:
there he stands, moaning and groaning, this addlebrain, torturing himself as
he tries in vain to remember the pertinent paragraphs of the rules that were
crammed into his stupid head--and he cannot make up his mind  whether to use
his hatchet on the noble  don, to shout for  help, or to simply wave  him on
his way. Whichever way  he decides, no one  will ever find  out about it. He
shrugs off everything in the world that bothers him, returns to his niche in
the wall, puts a piece of chewing rind into  his fat mouth, smacks his lips,
chews  the cud  like a contented cow, and drips saliva like a teething babe.
And nothing in the world  will interest him. He will not  exercise his brain
for anything. God  forbid! But  how much  better than he is our  Enlightened
Eagle,  Don Reba? True, his psyche is more complicated, and his reflexes are
more intricate,  but  his thoughts definitely resemble those of this fellow,
who  is  reeking of  ammonia and these labyrinthine  corridors, studded with
crimes. And  he is indescribably  vile,  a horrid criminal, an  unscrupulous
spider. I have  come to this planet to love these people,  to assist them in
their task of self-development, to enable them to see the  light. No, I am a
poor emissary, he thought sadly. I am a failure as a historian. And when did
it happen that I fell into this abyss of which Don Kondor was speaking? Is a
god entitled to any other feelings besides pity?
     From  behind  his  back  came  a  hurried  clomping of boots  down  the
corridor. Rumata spun  around and seized both  swords  with his hands placed
crosswise  at  the  hilt.  Don Ripat  rushed  toward  him,  brandishing  his
unsheathed sword.
     "Don Rumata,  Don Rumata!" he called  out in a loud whisper while still
far away.
     Rumata released his grip on his  swords. Now Don Ripat  had come  quite
close;  he  looked carefully  in  all  directions,  then  whispered,  almost
inaudibly, into Rumata's ear:
     "I've been looking  for you for nearly an hour.  Waga Koleso is here in
the palace! He is talking with Don Reba in the lilac room."
     Rumata narrowed his eyes momentarily. Then he cautiously stepped to one
side and said with polite surprise:
     "You wouldn't be talking  about  the famous robber chief? I  believe he
has  been executed a long time ago, or  probably exists only as a figment of
popular imagination."
     The lieutenant licked his chapped lips.
     "He  does  exist . . . He is  in the palace ... I  thought  this  would
interest you."
     "My dear Don Ripat," said Rumata with emphasis. "I am always interested
in all kinds of rumors. Gossip. Anecdotes. Life  is so dull... You must have
misunderstood me."
     The  lieutenant regarded  him  with perplexed  eyes. Rumata  continued:
"Just  use  your own judgment, will you?  Why should I  be involved  in  Don
Reba's underhand dealings and fishy relationships? But don't forget how much
I do  appreciate Don Reba as a  person; I  would  be  unable  to condemn and
criticize his actions.--Please, will you forgive me, I am in a hurry. A lady
is expecting me."
     Don Ripat licked his lips again, bowed awkwardly and walked off  to one
side. Suddenly, Don Rumata had an inspiration.
     "By the way, my friend," he called after Don Ripat with kindness in his
voice,  "how did you  like the  little  trick  we  played  on Don Reba  this
forenoon?"
     Don Ripat willingly came to a halt.
     "We are most satisfied," he said.
     "Wasn't it charming?"
     "It was marvelous!  The leadership of the Gray soldiers is very pleased
that you finally have openly taken our side. Such a clever man like you, Don
Rumata, wasting your time with barons, these titled monsters ..."
     "My dear Ripat!"  said Rumata condescendingly, while turning  to leave.
"You  seem  to forget that seen from the pinnacle of  my lineage hardly  any
difference can be noticed between the king and your ilk. Goodbye!"
     He strode  off  confidently  through the  corridors,  turned  into side
passages without a trace of indecision and  pushed  the guards aside without
as much as a word being said. He had only some dim notion how to proceed now
but he was sure  that this was an amazing and very rare coincidence. He must
hear the conversation between the two  spiders. It was  not for nothing that
Don Reba had promised fourteen  times  the reward for  Waga brought in alive
rather than dead.
     From  behind  the  heavy   lilac-colored  curtains  stepped   two  Gray
lieutenants, their swords unsheathed.
     "Greetings  to  you, my  friends,"  said Don Rumata  and stopped  right
between the two men. "Is the minister in his apartment?"
     "The minister is busy, Don Rumata," said one of the two lieutenants.
     "I'll  wait for him, then," said  Rumata and passed between the drapes.
It was pitch  dark here, impossible to see  anything  at  all. He cautiously
groped  his  way through chairs, tables, and heavy cast iron lantern stands.
Then  he perceived  a thin ray of light, heard the familiar  tenor  voice of
Waga  Koleso, and came to a halt. Several  times he distinctly heard someone
breathe just behind his  head and he was enveloped in a cloud of garlic  and
beer  odors. Then he felt  a spear point pressed cautiously but unmistakably
between his shoulder blades. "Keep  calm, you moron!"  he said irritably but
softly. "It's me, Don Rumata!"
     The spear was  withdrawn. Rumata  pushed  a  chair toward  the chink of
light,  sat down, crossed  one  leg over the other, and yawned  so loud that
anyone could hear it. Then he started to observe.
     The  spiders  had  met.  Don Reba sat there, very tense,  elbows on the
table and  fingers  interlaced. At his right was a stack  of  papers  with a
heavy wooden-handled dagger placed on top.
     The minister's  face displayed a pleasant if somewhat  rigid smile. The
honorable  Waga  was  sitting on a  divan,  his  back  turned to  Rumata. He
resembled  a quaint old magnate who had been  spending the last thirty years
of his life on his country place in total seclusion.
     "The  murgles are crockled," he said, "and the crack-stampers have been
stubbing around our warrels with their  greems  quappered up. And  there are
twenty long  zackerlings  by  now. Crupply and cressly, I  would  shrab them
right on  the  snoller, crump over crass. But the zackerlings have a  zunker
way of sharmauning things. That's why we've been brimsing our trunks. That's
our expomple ..."
     Don Reba cupped his well-shaven chin in his hand.
     "Murbelously brickered out," he said pensively.
     Waga shrugged his shoulders.
     "That is krapul our expomple. I wouldn't flarry that you'd cruckle with
us. Well, groosby then?"
     "Groosby," said the Minister of Internal Security firmly.
     "And smucks off," said Waga and got to his feet.
     Rumata, who had listened totally perplexed to this nonsense, discovered
a bushy mustache in Waga's face and  a little, gray pointed beard. A genuine
courtier from the reign of the former king.
     "This was a very pleasant chat, Don Reba," said Waga.
     Don Reba rose, too.
     "I thoroughly enjoyed our  conversation,  a great  pleasure indeed," he
said. "I have never met such a courageous man as you, my dear Koleso..."
     "The same  here," replied Waga  with a slightly bored expression. "I am
as  amazed  as I  am  proud  of the boldness  of  the First Minister  of our
kingdom."
     Then he turned on his heels and walked toward the exit, leaning heavily
on his cane. Don Reba did not take his eyes off the old man.  He seemed lost
in thought and absentmind-ediy placed his hand on the  handle of his dagger.
Immediately afterwards  somebody standing  behind Rumata puffed with all his
might and  the long blue tube of a blow-gun pushed past his ear to the chink
in  the  drapes.  For a  moment,  Don  Reba  remained  motionless, intent on
listening, then he sat down again, pulled out a drawer, took out a bundle of
papers and began to study them. Somebody spat out in  back of Rumata and the
blowpipe disappeared. It  was  all very clear. The spiders  had found  their
solution. Rumata stood up,  stepped on someone's  feet  and finally left the
horrid room with the lilac-colored drapes.
     The king  was  dining  in a  gigantic  hall whose  ceiling took  up two
storeys. The  ninety-foot table  had been  set for 100 persons. The king was
joined at  table by  Don  Reba, personages of royal  blood  (two  dozen blue
bloods, gluttons, and experienced drunkards),  various masters  of ceremony,
several members  of the local aristocracy who  traditionally were the king's
dinner guests and among whom Rumata was counted, a few transient barons with
their  wooden-headed spouses,  and at  the  farthest  end of the  table, the
landed gentry,  the lesser nobility  that  had  been  invited with  or  even
without any special privileges.  The last group of guests received, together
with their dinner invitations, a seating number for the table, and a list of
instructions: "Sit quietly; the King does not like people to wiggle in their
seats. Keep your hands on top of the table; the King does not like people to
hide their hands underneath it. Do  not turn  around; the King does not like
people to turn then  back on him." At every meal they would devour  enormous
quantities  of the  choicest  foods,  guzzle  down rivers of old wines,  and
veritable  mountains of the famous Estorian porcelain dishes were broken. In
one of  his  reports  to the king, the Treasurer once boasted that one  such
dinner  at the royal table cost as much as was  spent for the  upkeep of the
Soanian Academy of Sciences during six months.
     While  Rumata was waiting  for the master of  ceremonies  to call three
times,  "Come to table!" and the accompanying sound of fanfares, he joined a
group of courtiers and  listened  for the tenth  time  to Don Tameo's famous
story about how he had  had the  honor to partake of another royal meal some
six months ago.  "... So I arrive at my designated seat, we're all standing,
the King enters, sits down,  so we,  too, sit down, and  the  meal takes its
normal course. But suddenly, just imagine, my  noble dons, all of a sudden I
feel  all wet on my seat. Wet! I don't dare to budge from  the spot, neither
turn  around,  nor put my  hand  down  there. But,  then, I  wait  for  some
propitious moment and cautiously feel down there with the fingers of my left
hand.  And would you  believe it, my dear  gentlemen, would  you believe it!
It's wet down  there! I quickly  sniff at my  fingers--no, they don't stink.
What the devil  is  going  on? Meanwhile  the dinner is over, everyone rises
from their chairs,  but--as you can  fully  imagine,  my dear  dons--I don't
quite feel like getting  up from my seat . . . Then, lo and behold, the King
comes toward me, His Majesty! But I remain seated like some yokel baron from
the hinterland  who knows nothing about  court etiquette. His Majesty  comes
quite close, smiles graciously and puts  his  hand on my  shoulder. 'My dear
Don Tameo,' he says. 'We have all gotten  up  from table  and  are  going to
watch the ballet  but you are  still  sitting on  your  chair.  What is  the
matter? Have  you  not had enough to  eat, perhaps?'--'Your Majesty,' I say,
'have my  head cut  off,  but my seat is wet."  His Majesty  was  graciously
pleased to break out in laughter, and ordered me to stand up. I rise from my
chair--and  guess  what?  Loud  laughter  all  around  us.  Noble  dons, all
throughout  dinner  I had  been sitting  on  a  rum torte!  His Majesty  was
graciously  roaring with laughter. Finally he said: 'Reba, Reba! Is that one
of  your pranks  again?  Just wipe the noble don's behind, he has  his pants
full!' Don Reba doubles over with laughter, pulls out his dagger and scrapes
the torte off the seat of my pants. Can you picture  what I felt like, noble
dons? I  won't hide it from  you,  I  was  trembling  and shaking  all over,
frightened to death at the thought of having humiliated Don Reba in front of
everyone, afraid  that he  now would revenge himself. Fortunately,  however,
all turned out all right  at the end. I  assure you, my noble dons, this was
the happiest event  in my life! I  made the King  enjoy himself.  Oh, how he
laughed! How he had fun!"
     The fanfares sounded,  the master of ceremonies called in his melodious
voice for all  to come to the  table.  The king entered the  hall,  slightly
dragging one leg behind. All took their seats at the royal table. The guards
on duty were  stationed in all four comers of the hall, immobile, leaning on
their double-fisted swords. Rumata's table  companions on either  side  were
silent. To his right,  the chair  was filled with the quaking, immense belly
of the somber glutton Don Pifa, married to a fabled  beauty. On his left sat
the poet  Our,  staring  into  his empty plate with a blank expression.  The
guests were all intently watching the king. The king fastened a napkin, more
gray than white, around his neck, quickly glanced at the  round of dishes in
front of  him,  and reached for a  chicken  leg. Hardly had  he fastened his
teeth on the meat than one hundred knives swept with a noisy clatter down on
the plates  and one  hundred hands greedily  dug into the dishes. The dining
hall was filled  with slurping and smacking of lips, the wine flowed  like a
torrent. The mustaches of the guardsmen, who were  leaning unmoving on their
swords, began to twitch in  a dance of greed. Once Rumata had been nauseated
by these affairs, but now he had gotten used to them.
     While he was carving  the thigh  of a ram with  his  dagger,  he  slyly
glanced to his right, but quickly looked away again:
     Don Pifa's torso was bent over an entire roast boar and working its way
into it  like a bulldozer. Not  even the bones  remained behind his steadily
advancing body. Rumata held his breath and emptied a full glass of Irukanian
wine. Then he turned slightly to his left. The poet Gur was poking his spoon
joylessly in a bowl of meat salad.
     "Writing something?"  inquired  Rumata in a subdued  voice. Gur  gave a
sudden start.
     "Writing something? I? I don't know ... sure, sure, lots of things.."
     "Poems?"
     "Yes, yes ... poems ..."
     "They're terrible poems, Father Gur." Gur looked at him with a  strange
expression "You're no poet!"
     "No  poet. . . Sometimes I reflect on what  I really am,  and what I am
afraid of. I don't know..."
     "Look into your plate and continue eating. I'll tell you what you  are.
A creative genius, the discoverer of new ways in literature,  and one of the
most productive  writers to boot." Gur's cheeks became flushed with red. "In
a hundred  years, and  maybe sooner,  dozens of  poets will follow  in  your
tracks."
     "God forbid!" The words escaped from the poet's lips. "Now I shall tell
you what you're really afraid of."  "I am  afraid of the  dark." The evening
darkness?"
     "This too. For dusk offers us up to the power of the ghosts.  But  most
of all I  fear the darkness at night, for  everything turns gray in the same
manner at night."
     "Well said.  Father Gur. But now,  something  else:  is your work still
obtainable?"
     "I don't know--and I do not want to know." "Let me assure you, one copy
is  in the capital, in the emperor's library. Another  copy  is preserved in
the Museum of Rarities  in Scan. And a third copy  is in my possession." Gur
took a spoonful  of  jelly,  his  hand  trembling heavily.  "I...  I do  not
know..."
     His large, deep-set  eyes were  depressed as he  looked  at  Rumata. "I
would  like to read it...  read it once more . .." "I  shall send  it to you
with  pleasure." "And then?"  "And then you'll return  it to  me." "Oh, yes,
give it back again!" said  Gur sharply.  "Don  Reba has intimidated you very
much Father Gur."  "Intimidated , . . Have you  ever had  to  burn your  own
children? What do you know of terror, of fear, noble don?"
     "I bow  my  head respectfully before  all  you have had to  go through,
Father Gur. But I condemn you with all my soul for giving up!"
     Suddenly Gur,  the poet, began to  whisper  so softly that Rumata could
hardly hear him over the general  babble of voices  and noisy eaters  at the
table.
     "And what is that all supposed to mean? What is the truth? Prince Chaar
really  did  love  that beautiful  copper-skinned woman.  They  had children
together.  I know their grandchildren. They  poisoned them, they really did.
But they  told me  this was all a lie.  They told me  truth  is whatever  is
beneficial for the King. All  else is nothing but lies and crimes. Only  now
am I finally  writing  the  truth . . ." He suddenly  rose from his seat and
recited in a lofty, declamatory singsong:
     Great and glorious, like eternity,
     Rules the King named Noblemind.
     Plotting princes grope uncertainly
     When their visions he strikes blind.
     The king interrupted his chewing for  a moment, parted his lips to show
a  mouth full of food. He regarded Gur out of dull eyes.  The  guests pulled
their heads back between  their shoulders.  Only Don Reba smiled and clapped
his  hands  a few times, almost  inaudibly. The king spat out  several bones
onto the carpet and said:
     "Glorious? Right. Eternity? Good! You can go on eating."
     The lip smacking and babbling started anew. Gur sat down.
     "How sweet and pleasant to tell the King the truth right to  his face,"
he said raucously.
     Rumata was silent. Then he said:
     "I'll  have  a  copy of the  book sent over, Father Gur.  One condition
though. You will immediately begin a new work."
     "No," said Gur.  "Too late. Let Kiun  write. I'm already  poisoned. And
anyway, I'm no longer interested in these things. The only thing I'd like to
do now--I want to learn to drink. Only I can't... My stomach hurts ..."
     One more defeat to chalk up, thought Rumata. Too late.
     "Listen, Reba,"  said  the king  suddenly.  "Where  is the  quack?  You
promised to bring me a physician after dinner!"
     "He is  here, Your  Highness," said Don Reba. "Are you  ordering me  to
call him?"
     "Am  I ordering you? That's more than flesh and blood  can bear! If you
had pains in your knee like mine,  you'd be squealing like a stuck pig! Have
him come in at once!"
     Rumata leaned back in his chair in order to see better. Don Reba raised
his hand above his  head  and snapped his  fingers. The  door  opened and in
walked an old, bent man, constantly  bowing, clad in a floor-length mantilla
embroidered with silvery spiders, golden stars and glittering snakes. He was
carrying  a  long,  flat  satchel under  his  arm.  Rumata was  worried  and
disappointed  at  the  same  time.  He  had imagined  Budach to  look  quite
different.  Could such  a wise man and  humanist, author of the encyclopedic
Treatise Concerning Poisons, have such restlessly  wandering, inflamed eyes,
lips  aquiver  with  fear, and such  a  pitiful, subservient smile? But then
Rumata remembered the poet Gur. Wouldn't the persecution of an Irukanian spy
be a worthwhile literary discussion  in  Don Reba's cabinet?  Wouldn't it be
fun to tweak Don Reba's  ear, he thought, and  mentally smacked his lips. He
should  be  dragged  off  to  the  dungeon.  And  the  torturers  should  be
instructed:  There  he  is,  that  Irukanian  spy  who pretends  to  be  our
Arkanarian Minister of Internal Security. The king demands that you drag out
of  him where  the real minister is being  kept. Go to  work! And woe betide
you, if he dies before the week is over . . . Rumata had to hide his face in
his hand.  A  wave of  hatred swept over  him. What  a terrible thing,  this
hatred...
     "There you are. Come  over here, you quack," said the king. "Come here,
my  dear  man,  you mental giant.  Well,  sit  down over  here--sit down,  I
said!--and begin!"
     The unfortunate Budach set to work, his face contorted with fright.
     "Go  on, go on!" winced the king. "Keep on going, I tell you!  Get down
on  your  knees,  your knees  can't  possibly hurt you.  Cured himself, that
devil! Now, let me see  your teeth! That's the way. I'll say a  fine set  of
teeth you have  here. If I only had teeth like that! And  your  hands are in
fine shape, too, good and strong. What a healthy chap he is ... and a mental
giant in spite of it  ... Well, then . . . Come on, my dove, go on, heal me,
what are you waiting for?"
     "If You-you-r Ma-majesty  .  . . would graciously  show me the sick leg
... the leg . . .," stuttered the physician. Rumata looked up.
     The physician knelt before the king and cautiously examined his leg.
     "Eh!" snorted the king.  "What's that  supposed to be? Don't you  touch
me! Now that you have started, cure me!"
     "I ... I ...  have seen everything I need,  Your Majesty," mumbled  the
physician nervously and started to rummage hurriedly in his satchel
     The  guests  stopped chewing. The aristocrats  of  lower rank, who were
sitting at the farthest end  of the table,  even  stood up and, burning with
curiosity, stretched their necks so as to be able to see better.
     Budach took a  few small stone bottles from his satchel, uncorked them,
sniffed at  each, one after the other,  then  placed them in one row  on the
table before  him.  Then he  took the king's goblet  and filled it half with
wine. While he  was executing mysterious hand motions above  the  goblet, he
whispered magic  formulas then  swiftly  emptied all the little bottles into
the cup. A distinct smell of  ammonia spread throughout the hall. The king's
lips became pencil-thin. He peered into the cup, puckered, up his mouth, and
glanced over  in Don  Reba's direction. The minister smiled sympathetically.
The courtiers held their breath.
     What on earth is he doing? wondered Rumata. The old king has gout! What
concoction has he  been brewing together in  that cup?  Yet  he stated quite
clearly in his treatise:
     "Rub the swollen limbs with the three-days-old poison of the Qu snake."
Perhaps he is going to use it to rub the potion into his skin?
     "What is this?" asked the  king,  full of  distrust, pointing with  his
right forefinger to  the goblet. "It's a  liniment, is it,  to  rub into  my
aching knee?"
     "Not at all, Your Majesty," said Budach. He seemed to have regained his
composure somewhat by now. "This is to be taken by mouth."
     "B-y-y mou-outh?" The king puffed out his cheeks and leaned back in his
armchair. "I don't want to take anything by mouth! Rub it in!"
     "Your wish  is my  command,"  said Budach  obediently. "But I take  the
liberty of  warning Your Majesty that  an external application will not help
you, not at all."
     "And why did  all the  others  used  to rub  my  knee  with ointments?"
inquired the  king in a surly tone. "And you insist on making  me drink this
abomination."
     "Your Majesty," said Budach and straightened up proudly. "This medicine
is known only to me. I have cured  the uncle of the Duke of  Irukan with it.
And what concerns those who advocate rubbing your  knee  with  salves . .  .
permit me to say ... these quacksalvers have not cured Your Majesty ..."
     The  king  glanced once  more over to Don Reba.  Don  Reba smiled  with
compassion, it seemed.
     "You swindler!" said the  king  to the physician  in  a  nasty  tone of
voice.  "You yokel! You flea-bitten know-it-all!" He seized  the cup. "Here,
that's what I'll do with this brew!  I'll throw it in your teeth!" He peered
into the goblet. "What if it makes me throw up?"
     "Then the procedure will have to  be  repeated. Your Majesty," answered
Budach with a sad face.
     "Well, I'll do it then," said the king and was  just about to raise the
cup to  his  lips when  he suddenly pushed it back again, so  violently that
some of the liquid spilled on the rug. "Ha, dear  man, you  drink some of it
first! I know your ilk, you tricky Irukanians have even sold our Holy Mickey
to the barbarians. Drink, I order you!"
     Budach  accepted the  cup, looking  rather offended, and  sipped  a few
drops from it.
     "Well, what does it taste like?"
     "Bitter, Your  Majesty," said Budach subdued. "But  you,  Your Majesty,
must drink this medicine now!"
     "Must, must!" wailed  the king. "I know all by  myself what I must  do.
Give it to me!  Half  has been spilt already anyhow. Well then,  hand  it to
me!"
     He drained  the cup at one draught. Compassionate sighs could be  heard
here  and there coming  from  the dinner guests. And suddenly all was quiet.
The king  grew rigid, his mouth wide open. Tears welled up in his eyes, then
ran down his  cheeks, one by one. His face became flushed, little by little,
then it turned blue. He stretched one hand out over the table, spasmodically
snapping his fingers. Don Reba quickly handed  him  a sour pickle. The  king
hurled the pickle at Don Reba and then stretched his hand out again.
     "Wine!" he croaked hoarsely.
     Somebody  bent down and handed him  a clay jug. The  long drank hastily
with huge  gulps,  madly rolling his  eyes  all the while.  Red stripes were
flowing down on his white vest. After he had drained the jug, he threw it at
Budach, but he missed.
     "You  dog's  son!" he said with an  unexpected deep basso. "Why do  you
want  to  kill me off? Haven't they  hanged enough  of your  kind? Go to the
devil!"
     He fell silent and touched his knee.
     "It  hurts!"  he said  in  the same whining tone as before. "It's still
hurting!"
     "Your Majesty!"  said  Budach. "To  obtain a complete cure your Majesty
ought to drink this mixture daily, for at least one week."
     Something seemed to burst in the king's throat.
     "Get away!" howled  the  king. "Go  and  be  hanged! All  of you!"  The
courders jumped up, rushed en masse to the doors, overturning some chairs.
     "Out of my sight! Ou-ou-ou-t!" screamed the king, beside  himself  with
fury, and swept the dishes from the table.
     After  Rumata had quickly  fled  the scene along  with the rest of  the
diners,  he  dived behind the nearest curtain  at hand and started to laugh.
Behind the curtain next to him, he heard the others  laughing too--fitfully,
gasping for breath and howling with delight.

SIX
     Rumata's  tour of  night duty in the prince's bedchambers did not begin
until midnight.  Rumata  decided,  therefore, to  go home in the meantime in
order to  check  if everything  was  in order and to  change clothes. He was
puzzled by the way the  town looked in the evening  light. The  streets were
enveloped in deep silence, the inns and taverns had shut their doors. At the
street crossings groups of the Gray Sturmoviks  rattled metallically,  their
torches in their  hands. They, too, did not utter a sound, and seemed to  be
waiting  for something definite. On several occasions one of them would come
quite close to  Rumata, stare at his  face, but as soon as he had recognized
him, would always silently permit him to proceed on his way. When Rumata was
within fifty feet of his own house, a group of suspicious-looking characters
followed hard behind him, yet keeping at a steady distance. Rumata came to a
brief halt and  rattled his swords. The figures  fell  back a bit,  but soon
afterwards he  heard behind  him  the  click  of  a  loaded crossbow. Rumata
hurried on his way, all the  time pressing close to the walls of the houses.
He  groped for  his house door, turned the key  in the lock and  was all the
time painfully aware of his unprotected back.  He leapt inside  the entrance
hall with a sigh of relief.
     All his servants had already assembled in the entrance hall, armed with
all kinds of weapons. They had checked the  gate already repeatedly  to make
certain it was well  secured. Rumata liked none of this. Perhaps I shouldn't
leave the house after all, he thought. To hell with the young prince.
     "Where is Baron Pampa?" he asked.
     Agitated greatly,  his crossbow slung over his shoulder,  Uno  answered
that the baron had not awakened until noon, had then drunk all the available
water from the sour pickle  jugs and  had then departed again to  have  some
more  fun.  Then Uno  reported in  a  serious  voice that  Kyra had inquired
several times after the master--she was most worried about him.
     "All  right," said Rumata  and  ordered his servants to  take  up their
posts.
     All  in all,  not counting  the  female  cooks,  he had  six  servants,
dependable people  generally,  used to street brawls. Of  course, they won't
start up anything with the Gray  Ones, thought  Rumata,  for  they  fear the
wrath of the omnipotent Minister of the Security Forces; but they can make a
stand  against the wretched characters of  the nocturnal army, all the more,
since the  robbers were expecting  to find easy prey without any resistance.
The servants were equipped with two crossbows, four battle-axes, several big
butcher knives, iron helmets; the gate  was secured, studded with  nails and
bound with iron in keeping  with  the good old local traditions. Or would it
perhaps be best not to leave the house tonight?
     Rumata walked upstairs and tiptoed into Kyra's  room. Kyra was sleeping
in her clothes, curled up on top of the bedspread. Rumata leaned over her, a
candlestick held in  his hand. Shall I go or not?  I  would dearly  like for
once not to have to leave.
     He put a light  blanket over her,  kissed her on the cheek and returned
to his  room. I must go.  Whatever happens, a scout must  always be right in
the thick of all that is going on. For the benefit of the historians back on
Terra. A bitter smile flitted across his  features, he  took the circlet off
his forehead, carefully cleaned the  lens with a  soft rag and then put  the
circlet back on again. Then he  called Uno and ordered him to bring his suit
of armor  and the  freshly polished  copper  helmet Shivering with cold,  he
pulled his  metalloplast shirt  over  his undershirt, right  underneath  his
vest.  The metalloplast  garment was  fashioned like chain  mail  (the local
chain mail provided good protection against injuries inflicted by daggers or
swords,  but  an arrow  from  a crossbow could easily  pierce it).  While he
girded himself with his uniform belt, fastening the metal clasps, he said to
Uno:
     "Listen, my boy. I trust you more than anyone else.
     Whatever might happen  here, Kyra must  remain alive and well. I  don't
care if  the whole house burns  down, or if they steal all the money I have,
but do protect Kyra  for me. Lead her,  if  necessary, over roofs or through
basements,  whichever way is best, but  look out for her, guard her. Is that
clear?"
     "Yes, sir," said Uno. "You shouldn't go out tonight"
     "Listen to me. If I'm not back in three days, take Kyra and lead her to
the  clearing in Hiccup Forest.  Do you know where that is? Well, there  you
will  find the Drunkard's Lair, a peculiar-looking hut not far off the road.
You need  only ask, people will show you where it is. But be careful who you
ask. A man by the name of Father Kabani lives there. Tell him everything. Is
that clear?"
     "Yes, sir. But it would be much better if you wouldn't leave tonight."
     "I would prefer to stay. But it's impossible. Duty calls. Well then, be
careful!"
     He gently patted the boy's cheek and  returned his awkward smile with a
friendly  glance.  Downstairs,  he  said  a  few encouraging  words  to  his
servants,  left the  house,  and disappeared  once more into  the  darkness.
Behind him, he heard the  clanking of  the heavy doors  as they  were barred
against intruders. Traditionally, the  prince's  apartments  had never  been
guarded very closely. Quite likely this was the reason no  one had ever made
an attack  against the life  of the Arkanarian princes.  And in  particular,
nobody seemed to be interested in  the present prince. There was no  one who
liked  this  sickly  blue-eyed boy, who  resembled everyone except  his  own
father. Rumata was fond of the  boy, though. His education  had been grossly
neglected and therefore his imagination had  remained unspoiled; he was  not
cruel like  the others, could not  stand  Don Reba--instinctively, it  would
seem--loved  to  sing songs to the  verses of Zuren and to play with  little
boats. Rumata had ordered some illustrated books to be sent for him from the
capital, told him about the starry sky and completely won the boy's sympathy
by regaling  him with fairy tales about flying ships. To Rumata,  who rarely
had any dealings with young children,  the ten-year-old prince  seemed to be
quite different from  the  other inhabitants of  this wild country. And  yet
these innocent, blue-eyed children, whichever strata of the population  they
came from, were the  ones who would later develop bestiality, ignorance, and
blind submission to the authorities.
     Still,  these  children showed  absolutely no traces  of  meanness.  It
wouldn't be  a  bad idea, he thought sometimes,  if there were no  adults on
this planet.
     The  prince  was already asleep. Rumata began his  guard duty. Together
with the  officer  he had come  to relieve, he approached the bed where  the
prince was sleeping, and they executed complicated figures  with their naked
swords as prescribed by  court etiquette.  Then  Rumata made the traditional
rounds to check if all windows  were closed and bolted, if the nursery-maids
were stationed at their assigned places and if  candlesticks were burning in
all the rooms.  Then  he  returned  to the antechamber,  played  a  game  of
knuckles with the  officer  of  the guard,  who  was now off duty,  and  who
inquired of the  noble don what he thought of the recent events in town. The
noble  don, a man of tremendous intellectual  prowess,  became lost in  deep
thoughts, then announced that in his opinion the  common folk were preparing
for Holy Mickey Day.
     After the officer had left, Rumata pushed a chair  to  the  window, sat
down  at ease and looked out over the city. The  house  of the  prince stood
atop a hill and during the day one had a splendid view all over the city and
as  far  as  the ocean. Now, however,  all was  enveloped  in darkness. Only
occasional  clusters  of  lights were visible where people gathered  at  the
crossroads,  waiting for  the torch signals of the  Sturmoviks. The city was
asleep, or at  least  pretended to be. How interesting it would  be to  know
whether the inhabitants  could sense that  something horrendous was about to
happen.  Or did  they  assume,  like  the  noble  don  with  the  tremendous
intellectual prowess, that these were just preparations for Holy Mickey Day?
Twenty  thousand  men  and  women.  Twenty  thousand  locksmiths,  armorers,
butchers,  cloth  merchants,   jewelers,   housewives,  prostitutes,  monks,
money-changers, soldiers, vagabonds, and bookworms who had still been spared
were  tossing  in  their  sticky  beds  that  reeked of bedbugs.  They  were
sleeping, making love, going over in  their minds  the  profits  of the day,
crying, gritting their teeth with wickedness or depression...
     Twenty  thousand human  beings! In the eyes of a  terrestrial observer,
they all had something in common. Probably it was the fact that all of them,
with almost no exceptions, were not yet human beings in the current sense of
the word, but rather preliminary stages, blocks of raw iron ore out of which
the bloody centuries of history  would eventually forge proud and free  men.
They   were  passive,   greedy,   and  incredibly   egoistic.  Seen  from  a
psychological  point of  view, almost  all  of them  were  slaves--slaves of
faith,  slaves of their own persons,  slaves of their powerful passions  and
slaves of their avarice. And  if by chance one of them was  born a nobleman,
or worked his way up  through diligence over the years, he did not even know
what to do with his freedom. He rushed to become a slave once more--enslaved
by  wealth, enslaved  by unnatural luxury,  enslaved by debauched companions
and enslaved by his own slaves. The majority could not really be  blamed for
this  at  all.  Their  enslavement was  rooted  in passivity and  ignorance.
Passivity  and  ignorance,  however,  would lead in  turn again and again to
their  enslavement.  If indeed  they all came  from the same mold, all would
merely twiddle their thumbs and not a glimmer of hope  would exist for them.
But they were nevertheless  human beings and bore the spark of intelligence.
And thus constantly,  sometimes here,  sometimes there, the fire of  a very,
very  distant but inevitable future would  flare up. It would  begin to bum,
despite  everything.  Despite  their  apparent   incompetence.  Despite  the
unending suppression  and persecution. Although they were kicked and beaten.
Although nobody in this world  needed  them, and all men were  against them.
Although at the very best they could count on uncomprehending, condescending
pity ...
     They did not realize that the future was ahead of them, that the future
was  impossible without  them. They did not recognize themselves as the only
real hope for the future in a world caught in the grip of horrible ghosts of
the past,  that they  are a ferment, the  vitamin in  the organism  of their
society. Once you destroy these ferments,  society will start to rot, social
decay will result, the  muscles grow  limp, the eyesight fade and  the teeth
fall out. No state can develop without the help of the sciences.--It will be
wiped out by  its neighbors. Without  art and culture a state will lose  its
capacity  for self-evaluation,  will give impetus to the  wrong drifts, will
constantly bring  forth hypocrites and scoundrels, encourage the development
of  overconsumption  of  goods  by  its  citizens,  engender  arrogance  and
eventually fall victim in turn to some  bolder neighbor. Let the authorities
persecute  the  bookworms  as much  as  it  pleases,  hinder  and  stop  the
activities  of  the  scientists,  destroy  the arts:  sooner  or  later  the
government leaders will stumble, and as they gnash their teeth they  will be
forced to  reopen all those avenues to  mankind  that are  so  hated  by the
power-hungry dunderheads and  ignoramuses.  And as thoroughly  as these Gray
men  in power might despise culture and knowledge, in the  long run they are
nevertheless impotent in the face  of  objective  historical necessity--they
can  only  delay the course  of  progress,  but they can not  bring it  to a
complete  standstill. And even if  they fear  and scorn educated minds, they
are  inescapably  forced  to  further  them eventually, simply  in  order to
survive. Sooner or later they  must  stand  by as universities  are founded,
scientific  societies are organized, scientific research centers are set up,
observatories and laboratories are built, to train cadres of experts who are
already beyond the rulers' control--to educate men with a totally  different
psyche, with completely different demands.
     These people, however, cannot exist--nor can they function properly--in
an  atmosphere  of  common greed, plebeian interests, dull self-sufficiency,
and  exclusively  sensual desires. They need a  new  type of  atmosphere--an
atmosphere of  general and  all-encompassing cognition, imbued with artistic
tension; they need writers, poets, painters, composers --and the mighty Gray
Ones will  see  themselves forced to make concessions  here,  too. Those who
resist will be swept away by cleverer rivals in the battle for power; those,
on the other hand, who agree to make such concessions, will be digging their
own  graves  against  their  own  will--inescapably and  paradoxically.  For
ignorant  egoists  and  fanaticists  are  doomed, once  the people's culture
awakens in all  areas, from scientific research to the ability to enjoy good
music. This is followed by an epoch of vast social upheavals, accompanied by
an upswing of  the  sciences such as  has  never  been  seen  before. And in
conjunction with the intellectualization  of society through all strata will
follow an era when the powers of Gray  will  gather  their final effort in a
battle whose cruelty will throw mankind back to the inhumanity of the Middle
Ages. This life-and-death  struggle will see  the  downfall of the powers of
Gray,  and they  will ultimately  go  under in  a society freed of all class
distinctions and the oppression of man .. .
     Rumata was still  looking out over the city, a petrified glob veiled in
gloom. Somewhere in its  midst,  in  some stifling little  room, was  Father
Tarra,  twisting and  squirming on  a  wretched  cot,  racked  by fever, but
Brother Nain was sitting  next  to  him at a lopsided  little  table--drunk,
happy, and mean--finishing  his  Treatise  about Rumors, the book wherein he
ridiculed with obvious  relish, and  with artfully chosen words, the life of
Graydom. Somewhere else, down there, Gur, the poet, was pacing  the floor of
his  empty,   elegant  rooms,  blind  with  despair  and  terrified  at  the
realization that in spite of everything  new worlds were trying  to  surface
from  the depths of his ravaged soul.  These new, bright worlds seemed to be
buoyed  up by  an  unknown force,  seemed to be filled with wonderful  human
beings and  staggering emotions. And somewhere down there Doctor Budach  was
spending the night, who knew how?  Humbled, forced to his knees, and beaten,
but still alive  . . . My brothers  all, thought  Rumata. I  am  one of you.
After  all,  we are  of the  same flesh! Suddenly  he was overwhelmed by the
insight that he was no god protecting the luminaries of the mind between the
palms of his hands, but rather a  brother  helping another brother, or a son
hurrying to his father's rescue. "I'll kill Don Reba."--'What for?"--"He has
destroyed  my brothers."--"He does not know what  he is  doing."--"But he is
murdering the future."--"He is innocent; a child of his time."--"You mean he
does  not realize his guilt?  But what does it matter  whether or  not he is
aware of his guilt?"--"And what about Father Zupik? What wouldn't he give if
someone were to slay Don Reba? Now you're silent. You'll have to do a lot of
killing,  won't  you?"  --"I don't know. Perhaps. One  after  the other. All
those who try to prevent the future from  happening."--"The same old  story.
Poison, homemade  bombs--they never  changed anything."--"Oh yes, they  did.
The  strategy  of the revolution was  born."--"What do you  care  about  the
strategy of  the revolution?  All you want  is  to kill."--"Yes,  I  want to
kill."--"Can  you really go through with it?"--"Yesterday I caused the death
of Dona Okana. I knew  she would  be killed  the moment I went  to her house
with  a  feather stuck  behind  my  ear.  I  only regret  having  killed her
senselessly. They've  almost  managed to teach me such  things here."-- "But
this is bad.  It's  a serious  matter, and a  dangerous one. Do you remember
Sergei  Koschin, George Lenni  or Sabine Krueger?"--Rumata ran his hand over
his  sweat-covered  forehead.  Here  you are,  pondering,  contemplating and
worrying--and all you have to show for it is a load of garbage.
     He  leapt  to his feet and  tore the window open. The widely  dispersed
concentrations  of  lights throughout  the  dark  city  were set  in motion,
broken, scattered, drifted  apart, moved along  in chains,  vanished  behind
invisible houses and appeared again. An indefinable roar surged  up over the
city, a distant, many-voiced din. Two conflagrations flared up, illuminating
the neighboring rooftops.  Something  exploded  in  the harbor area. It  had
begun.  In a few hours it would be known what  the  significance  was of the
union  between  the  Gray  hordes  and  the  nocturnal army, this  unnatural
alliance of little shopkeepers and robbers. And it would  also be known then
what  Don Reba had accomplished with  that and what new provocation  he  had
managed  to  finagle,  or--to put it  in a  plain  language--who  was to  be
slaughtered  tonight. Most likely this was the  beginning  of a night of the
long knives, a blood-letting among the leadership of  the Gray hordes and at
the same time the annihilation of those unfortunate barons who just happened
to be in town, as well as of  those aristocrats who represented the greatest
nuisance. I wonder what Pampa is doing, he thought. If only he isn't asleep.
Hell make out all right then.
     There was no more time now to give  free rein to his thoughts. The door
began to shake from a violent hammering with fists; somebody  was yelling in
a hoarse voice: "Open up! Open up!" Rumata pushed back the bolt. A man, half
undressed, blue with fright, rushed into the room, seized Rumata by his vest
and shouted with a trembling voice:
     "Where is  the prince? Budach has poisoned  the  king!  Irukanian spies
have started a riot in the city! Save the prince!"
     It  was the  marshal  of  the  prince's household,  a  stupid  man,  an
obsequious servant  of his master. He pushed Rumata aside  and ran into  the
prince's  bedchambers.  The  women  began  to  scream.  Meanwhile,  however,
brandishing their notched battle-axes, the Sturmoviks  in gray shirts rushed
through the open doors, their distorted faces drenched in perspiration.
     "Get back," he said as cool as a cucumber.
     From behind his  back,  from  the bedchamber,  came  a  brief,  muffled
outcry. We are  in  trouble, thought  Rumata.  He dashed  into  a  comer and
barricaded himself behind a table.  Panting  Sturmoviks began  to  fill  the
room. Fifteen men in all, it seemed.  A lieutenant in a gray uniform, in the
front row, raised his dagger.
     "Don  Rumata?"  he  asked, gasping  for  air.  "You  are  under arrest.
Surrender your swords."
     "Why don't you come and get them!" said Rumata and threw a quick glance
toward the window.
     "Seize him!" the lieutenant wheezed.
     Fifteen men, drunk and equipped with mere axes are no match for one who
is an expert  in defensive techniques that will become known here only three
hundred years hence. The crowd surged forward and then  fell back  again. On
the floor  remained several axes,  two Sturmoviks  writhing in  pain,  their
smashed hands  gingerly pressed against their stomachs as  they stumbled off
to the back rows of their comrades. Rumata was a master of the defensive fan
technique. The attackers were greeted by a dense, glittering curtain created
by  his whirling swords, and it seemed impossible to  penetrate this barrier
of steel.  The  Sturmoviks withdrew and looked  at each  other  with baffled
faces. A sharp odor of beer and onions emanated from them.
     Rumata moved the  table,  cautiously walked  along the wall toward  the
window,  all the  while keeping  an  eye on the Gray soldiers.  A knife  was
thrown at him from the back rows but it missed. Rumata laughed, set one foot
on the window ledge and said; "You try  once more and this time I'll cut off
your hands. You know me."
     They knew  him. They knew him very well,  and not one of the men budged
from his spot  despite the commands and curses from their officers  who were
careful not  to risk anything themselves.  Constantly threatening  them with
both swords, Rumata pulled himself  all the way up onto the window ledge. At
that moment a lance, coming from the street down below, hit him in the back.
The impact  was  terrific. Though the weapon did not pierce his metalloplast
shirt, it still swept  him  off  the ledge and threw him back into the room,
down to the  floor. Rumata held onto his two swords but they were of no help
in this situation. The whole mob pounced at once. All of them together  must
have weighed well over a ton but they were in  each  other's way and thus he
succeeded in getting back to his feet again.
     His  fist  smashed between  somebody's  wet  lips,  another fellow  was
wiggled under his  shoulder like a wounded  rabbit,  and Rumata kept hitting
out in all directions  with  his  fists, elbows,  shoulders (he had not felt
that free in a long time) but he could not shake them off. Dragging a throng
of bodies behind him, he managed to get as far as the door, where he finally
freed himself from the men who had dug their  fingers into his legs. Then he
felt a painful, mighty blow on his shoulder and he fell on his back. Several
Sturmoviks were struggling to get out from under him. Once  again he managed
to  get  back  on his  feet, dealing short blows that hurled the desperately
hitting and kicking Gray soldiers against the walls. For a moment he saw the
pockmarked face of the lieutenant loom up before him as he ducked behind his
discharged  crossbow,  when suddenly the door gave  way and a new  flood  of
sweating, grimacing  faces poured into the room. They threw a large net over
him, drew it together around his feet, and flung him to the ground.
     He stopped  resisting  at once in order to preserve his strength. For a
while  they  kicked  him  with  their  boots-- silently, straining hard  and
panting with delight.  Then they  grabbed him  by  his feet and dragged  him
away. As they  passed  the  open door of the bedchamber,  he  could see  the
master of the prince's household nailed to the wall by a spear, and a bundle
of bloody  sheets  on the bed. "It's a revolution!" thought Rumata.  'That's
what it  is  all about.  Poor boy. .." They pulled  him down the stairs, and
then he lost consciousness.

SEVEN
     He was lying  on  a grassy hill looking  up into the clouds that sailed
along the deep, blue sky. He felt quiet and at peace  but on the grassy hill
next to him sat the  embodiment of shooting pain. The pain was externalized,
and yet he could also feel it inside  himself, especially on his  right side
and on the back of  his neck. "Kicked the bucket, has he? I'll  cut off your
heads!" And then a  flood  of icy  cold water poured down on him from out of
the sky. True,  he was lying on his back and looking up into the sky, but it
was not  a grassy  hill,  but  a puddle of water; and the sky was  not  blue
either,  it was  leaden black with red  stripes.  "Not a bit," said  another
voice. 'That's  alive. Twitching with the  eyes." I am the one who is alive,
he thought.  They  are  talking about  me.  I  am  the one  whose  eyes  are
twitching. What's all this drivel? Don't they know how to speak properly?
     Someone  moved nearby  and  hit the  water with  some heavy object. The
black silhouette of a head with a flat cap appeared on the sky.
     "How about it, noble don, will you walk under your own power or shall I
have them carry you?"
     "Untie my legs!" snapped Rumata, and felt at once a sharp, burning pain
in his bruised lips. Gingerly he passed his  tongue over them. Some lips, he
thought. More like flabby pancakes.
     Someone  busied himself  about  his  feet,  pushing  and  pulling  them
unceremoniously. People were conversing nearby in subdued voices.
     "You certainly made a mess of him."
     "Had to, he almost got away . . . He's bewitched--arrows bounce off his
body ..."
     "I  knew  a fellow  once, you  could work  him over with an ax  and  he
wouldn't bat an eyelash."
     "Probably a peasant."
     "Of course he was."
     "So? But this one is a blue blood."
     "To hell with it. Look how they tied these knots! Even our Holy  Mickey
couldn't untie those. Pass me a torch!"
     "Better take, a knife!"
     "Hey,  fellows,  leave  his  legs tied  up. Hell start thrashing  at us
again. He almost knocked my head off."
     "No, no, he won't do anything."
     "Whatever anyone says, comrades, I sure let him have it with my  spear.
It went right through his armor."
     Some voice called out peremptorily from the darkness.
     "Finish up, will you!"
     Rumata felt now that his legs  were free; he  stretched them, tried  to
stand  up,  but fell down immediately. Several Sturmoviks who were crouching
on the ground watched in  silence as he wallowed in the muddy puddle. Rumata
gnashed his teeth  in  fury and  humiliation. He jerked his shoulder blades:
his hands were bound and turned up on his back, but so tightly that he could
not tell where his  palms and where his elbows were. He gathered up  all his
strength and  violently  jerked them upwards,  but  at once doubled over  in
pain. The Sturmoviks broke out in laughter.
     "Can't escape that way," said one of them.
     "I think he's a little tired. Hey, you, drop dead."
     "Hey, don, not too pleasant, is it?"
     "Shut up! Stop that silly babbling!" said the imperative voice from the
dark. "Come over here, Don Rumata!"
     Rumata  struggled to his feet and  walked  toward  the voice;  he  felt
himself  staggering uncertainly  from  side  to  side.  A man appeared  from
somewhere, holding a torch, and led the  way for  him. Rumata recognized the
locality. It was one  of the innumerable interior courts  of the Ministry of
Security, near the royal stables.
     He thought quickly. If they lead me  to the right, that  would mean the
Tower, the  dungeon. To the  left: The offices of  Don Reba's  Ministry.  He
shook  his  head. So what, he thought. I  am  still alive, I'll make out all
right.--They  turned  to the  left. These new,  bright worlds  seemed to  be
buoyed up by  an  unknown force,  seemed to be  filled with wonderful  human
beings and staggering  emotions. And  somewhere down there Doctor Budach was
spending the night,  who knew how? Humbled, forced to his knees, and beaten,
but still alive ... My brothers all,  thought Rumata. I am one of you; after
all, we are  of  the same flesh! All  of  a sudden he was  overwhelmed by an
insight that  he was actually no god  protecting the luminaries of  the mind
between the palms of his hands, but rather a brother helping another brother
or  a  son  hurrying  to  come  to  his  father's  rescue.  "I'll  kill  Don
Reba."--"What for?"--"He has destroyed my brothers."--"He does not know what
he is doing."--"But he is murdering the future!"--"He is not guilty; he is a
child of his time."--"You mean he does not realize his guilt? But what  does
it matter whether or not he is aware of his guilt?"--"And  what about Father
Zupik?  What  wouldn't he give if somebody were to slay Don Reba. Now you're
silent. You'll  have to do  a  lot  of killing, won't you?" --"I don't know.
Perhaps. One after the other. All those  that try to prevent the future from
happening!"--"That's an old story. Poison, homemade bombs--And  nothing ever
changed."--"Oh yes, something did change. The strategy of the revolution was
born."--"What do you care about the strategy of the revolution? All you want
is to  kill!"-- "Yes, I want to  kill."--"Can  you  really  go through  with
that?"--"Yesterday  I caused the death of Dona Okana.  I  knew  she would be
killed the moment I went to her house with a feather stuck behind my ear.  I
only regret having killed  her senselessly.  They've almost managed to teach
me  such things  here."--At least not right  away, thought  Rumata. First an
interrogation, a  cross-examination. Awful. In  that  case,  what  can  they
accuse me of? That's obvious enough. Inducing the  poisoner Budach to poison
the king, conspiracy,  plotting  against the crown. Maybe also murdering the
prince. And, of course, spying for Irukan, Soan, the barbarians, the barons,
the Holy  Order, and  so on and so on. Surprising  enough  that I  am  still
alive.  That  means he  has  been thinking  of  something  else  still,  the
toadstool.
     "This way,"  said the man  with the imperious  voice.  A  low door flew
open. Rumata  ducked  his  head and entered a large room,  lit up by a dozen
chandeliers. The men who sat or lay on the  worn  rug in  the center  of the
room  were tied up  and covered with blood.  Some were already  dead or  had
fainted. Almost  all  were barefoot  and wore  only  worn and  ripped  night
shirts. Along the walls, the red-nosed Sturmoviks were  leaning  negligently
on their hatchets and battle axes. They looked about with wild eyes and were
satisfied. They had been  victorious. The officer on  guard was striding  up
and down before them, his hands clasped on his back. He wore a gray  uniform
with a very greasy collar. Rumata's companion, a  tall man in a black cloak,
approached the officer  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear. The officer
nodded  his head, regarded  Rumata for  a  moment  with  great interest  and
disappeared behind the heavy, colorful drapes at the other end of the room.
     The Sturmoviks examined Rumata in turn, also  very interestedly. One of
them, with a dim eye, said:
     "Say, that's some precious stone there on his forehead!"
     "Not bad,  that  stone,"  agreed another  soldier.  "Some booty for the
king. And the circlet is made of pure gold."
     "We are the kings now."
     "Down with it then, eh, what do you think?"
     "Get away from there," growled the man in the black cloak.
     The Sturmoviks stared at him in surprise.
     "Another one to patronize us?" asked the Sturmovik with the blind eye.
     The man with the black cloak did not answer, but turned his back on him
and stepped close to Rumata. The  Sturmoviks  looked him up and down,  their
eyes filled with mistrust.
     "Perhaps a blackbird, a priest?" said the Sturmovik with the blind eye.
     "Hey, blackie, want a smackie?"
     The Sturmoviks cackled and  crowed in  amusement. The dim-eyed man spat
on his  palms, tossed his hatchet from hand to hand and moved toward Rumata.
He's going to  get it now, thought Rumata, and slowly pulled back his  right
foot.
     "The people I  have always beaten up," said the Sturmovik as he came to
a  halt before the man in  black,  and staring at him insolently,  "were the
priests, any learned trash and our so-called masters. Once I--"
     The  man with  the black cloak raised his outstretched hand.  A buzzing
click could be heard all of a sudden, just below the ceiling. Sh-sh-sh-! The
Sturmovik with the blind eye dropped his hatchet  and fell over backwards. A
thick,  feathered arrow  protruded from  the middle of  his forehead. All at
once  there was  absolute silence. The Sturmoviks shifted nervously from one
foot to the other, their eyes flitted anxiously along the openings below the
ceiling.
     "Get rid of that body, quick!"
     Several  Sturmoviks bent down, grabbed their comrade  by his  arms  and
legs  and  dragged him  outside. A Gray  officer came  out  from  behind the
curtains and beckoned to Rumata and the man in black.
     "Let's go, Don Rumata," said the man in black.
     Rumata passed  the  bodies  of the prisoners  and  walked  over  to the
curtains. I don't understand anything any more, he thought. Once behind  the
drapes,  he was  seized by invisible hands that expertly  frisked his
body in the  darkness, tore the empty scabbards  from  his belt, then pushed
him into the light.
     Rumata knew at once where he was.
     This was  the  infamous  cabinet  of  Don  Reba  in  the  lilac-colored
apartments.  Don Reba sat  at the same spot, striking  the identical pose as
once before; his back straight, elbows  resting on  the tabletop and fingers
clasped. I  bet the  old  man is suffering  from  hemorrhoids,  the  thought
abruptly flashed through Rumata's mind. He felt sorry for him. To the  right
of  Don Reba  was  enthroned Father Zupik, concentrating hard  and pompously
biting his lips. To Don Reba's left sat a kindly smiling potbellied man, the
epaulettes  on  his shoulders  marking him  as a captain of  the  Gray Army.
Nobody else was in the room besides these three- As Don  Rumata entered, Don
Reba said benevolently in a low voice:
     "Well, my friends, here we have finally the noble Don Rumata."
     Father Zupik smiled condescendingly and the fat man started to nod  his
head kindly.
     "Our old and very consistent enemy," said Don Reba.
     "An enemy? Hang him!" remarked Father Zupik hoarsely.
     "And  what is  your opinion,  Brother Aba?" asked Don Reba,  throwing a
warning glance at the potbellied man.
     "You know . .  .  somehow I  have  .  . ." Brother  Aba  smiled  rather
childishly and lost, fidgeting with his short arms in the air. "Somehow, you
know, I actually do not care.  But  maybe we ought to  hang  him anyhow?  Or
perhaps burn him, what do you say, Don Reba?"
     "Why not," said a pensive Don Reba.
     "You see," continued Brother Aba  desperately, and directed a strangely
friendly smile toward  Rumata, "in general we hang the riff-raff, the little
fish. But we must maintain a respectful relationship toward the aristocracy.
For the sake of the people. After all, he is a descendant from old nobility,
an important Irukanian spy. Irukanian, isn't that right?" He took a piece of
paper from the  table  and  stared  at  it with nearsighted eyes.  "Ah,  and
besides that, also a Seaman spy. Even worse!"
     "Burn him then," concurred Father Zupik.
     "Fine," said Don Reba. "Then we are all agreed. Burn him!"
     "By the  way, I believe Don Rumata  might ease  his  lot!" said Brother
Aba. "You know what I mean, Don Reba?"
     "To be quite frank with you, not quite."
     "His fortune!  My noble don, his fortune! The Rumatas are a  fabulously
wealthy family... !"
     "You're right, as always," said Don Reba.
     Father Zupik yawned, covered his mouth with his hand, and kept stealing
glances  toward the  heavy  lilac-colored  drapes to  the right side of  the
table.
     "All  right  then,  let's start according to the rules," said Don  Reba
with a sigh.
     Father Zupik still cast furtive glances at the drapes. Evidently he was
waiting  for  something definite and  was  not  at  all  interested in  this
cross-examination. What kind of a farce is that? thought Rumata. What is the
meaning of all this?
     "Well,  then, my noble  don,"  said Don Reba  and turned to Rumata, "it
would  be most  pleasant  to  hear your  answers  to some questions  we  are
interested in."
     "Remove these bonds from my hands," said Rumata.
     Father Zupik flinched, while  making desperate chewing motions with his
lips. Brother Aba moved his head from side to side excitedly.
     "Well?" said  Don Reba and looked  first at Brother Aba, then at Father
Zupik.  "I   do  understand   you,  my  friends.  However,  considering  the
circumstances and the fact that they will  also be clear to Don Rumata . .."
With a meaningful glance he let his eyes sweep along the rows of openings in
the  walls underneath the ceiling. "Untie him," he  said in  the same quiet,
even voice.
     Without  making  a sound, somebody stepped up to Rumata from behind. He
felt the oddly soft, skillful fingers touching his hands, and then heard the
ropes  being   cut  with  a   knife.  With  amazing  speed--considering  his
bulk--Brother  Aba  pulled  a huge crossbow  from underneath  the  table and
placed it directly in front of him on top of a pile of papers. Rumata's arms
fell to his sides like two braids. He had almost no feeling in them.
     "Well, then, let's begin," said Don Reba cheerfully. "Name, family, and
rank?"
     "Rumata,  descended  from  the  race  of  the Estorian  Rumatas.  Noble
courtiers for the past twenty-two generations."
     Rumata looked  around, saw  a sofa, sat down and started to massage his
wrists. Brother Aba gasped for air and aimed the crossbow at him.
     "Your father?"
     "My noble father--imperial councilor, loyal servant and personal friend
of the emperor."
     "Is he alive?"
     "He's dead."
     "When?"
     "Eleven years ago."
     "How old are you?"
     Rumata found no  time  to reply. From behind the lilac-colored curtains
came  suddenly  some  noises,  and Brother  Aba turned around  suspiciously.
Father Zupik rose slowly from his seat and laughed maliciously.
     "Well, there  you are, gentlemen ..." That was all he  managed  to say.
For three men jumped out from behind the heavy drapes, to  Rumata's greatest
surprise--they  were the last people he  would  have expected in this place.
Apparently  his  feelings were  shared by Father  Zupik.  The three men were
powerfully built, clad in black monk's garb, their  hoods  pulled  down over
their  eyes. Swiftly and noiselessly,  they leapt over  to  Father Zupik and
seized him by the elbows.
     "Devil  take  it!"  he  uttered somehow. A deathly pallor fell over his
face. Undoubtedly he had expected something quite different.
     "What do you think, Brother Aba?" inquired  Don Reba  calmly and leaned
slightly toward the fat man.
     "Yes, of course!" Father Aba answered resolutely. "Of course!"
     Don Reba motioned with his hand. The monks lifted Father  Zupik off his
feet and carried him, still treading noiselessly, behind the curtain. Rumata
frowned  in  disgust,  Brother Aba  rubbed his soft palms together  and said
boldly;
     "That went off splendidly. What did you think, Don Reba?"
     "Yes, not bad," nodded Don  Reba  in consent. "But let's go on. So. How
old are you, Don Rumata?"
     "Thirty-five years."
     "How long have you been in Arkanar?"
     "It has been five years."
     "Where did you come from?"
     "Till then I had been living in Estoria on my family's ancestral seat."
     "Why this change of residence?"
     "I was forced  by circumstances to leave Estoria. I was in  search of a
city that could challenge  the splendor of our capital." Finally he began to
feel  a  fiery tingling  in  his  arms.  Patiently  and  untiringly,  Rumata
continued to massage his swollen joints.
     "What kind of circumstances?" asked Don Reba.
     "I killed a member of the imperial household in a duel."
     "Oh? Who?"
     "The young Duke Ekin."
     "And what was the reason for this duel?"
     "A woman," answered Rumata briefly.
     He  became gradually suspicious that all these questions were  actually
meaningless.  That  they  were  just  as  much  part  of  the  game  as  the
consultation regarding the manner of his execution.
     The three  of us are waiting for something.  I  am waiting until I have
regained full use of my hands.  Brother Aba, the  dunderhead, is waiting for
me to drop all the gold of the family treasure of  the Rumatas  in  his lap.
Don Reba, too, is waiting for something. But  the monks, the  monks! How did
the monks come to be here at  court? And especially such skillful and nimble
fellows--?
     'The name of that woman?"
     Oh, these questions, thought Rumata.  One would be hard put to think up
a more witless batch. I'll try to throw him out of gear a bit.
     "Dona Rita," he replied.
     "I did not expect that you would answer me. Thank you."
     "Always at your service."
     Don Reba slightly bowed his head. "Have you ever been in lrukan?"
     "No."
     "Are you sure?"
     "Are you?"
     "We want  to  speak  the  truth!"  said Don Reba in a didactic tone  of
voice. Brother  Aba produced a  quivering nod of his head. "Nothing but  the
truth."
     "Aha!"  said Rumata. "And  I  was under  the impression  ..  ." He fell
silent.
     "Under what impression?"
     ".  .  .  that  you were mainly interested in  laying your hands  on my
fortune. But  for  the life of  me  I can't imagine, Don  Reba, how you will
finagle that?"
     "How about donating it? Yes, donate it!" shouted Brother Aba.
     Rumata laughed impudently.
     "You are an ass, Brother Aba, or whatever your name  might be.  One can
see with half an eye that you're nothing  but a miserable little shopkeeper.
You probably are not aware that the right of primogeniture is not subject to
transfer into other hands?"
     It was  plain to be  seen that the fat  man  was ready to explode  with
rage. But he managed to keep himself under control.
     "You are  not entitled to  speak in such a manner," said Don Reba in  a
gentle voice.
     "You want the truth?" countered Rumata. "Here it is, the truth, nothing
but  the truth--the  absolute  truth:  Brother Aba  is  an ass  and  a petty
shopkeeper."
     Meanwhile, Brother Aba had completely regained his composure.
     "It seems to me that we are not sticking to the point," he said  with a
smile. "What do you think, Don Reba?"
     "You're right, as always," said Don  Reba.  "My noble don, did you ever
go to Soan?"
     "I was in Soan."
     "For what purpose?"
     'To attend the Academy of Sciences."
     "What a peculiar occupation for a young man of your circumstances."
     "That's what I fancied."
     "And are you acquainted with the chief judge of Soan, Don Kondor?"
     Rumata became suspicious; he smelled a rat
     "He is an old friend of my family."
     "A most worthy man, isn't he?"
     "A most honorable person."
     "Are you  familiar with  the fact that Don Kondor  is a  member  of the
conspiracy against His Majesty the King?"
     Rumata's chin began to jut out imperceptibly.
     "Put your own house  in order first,  Don Reba," said Rumata haughtily.
"As  far as we,  the  old nobility of  the capital, are concerned, all these
Soanians and Irukanians, as well as the  Arkanarians, are and will always be
nothing but vassals of the imperial crown!"  He  crossed his legs and turned
away.
     Don Reba studied him pensively.
     "Are you rich?"
     "I  could buy up all  of  Arkanar if I  had  a  mind to.  But I am  not
interested in trash."
     Don Reba took a deep breath.
     "My  heart bleeds," he said,  "when I consider how I am forced to  chop
off the famous branch of such a famous and noble lineage! It would almost be
a crime if I were not driven to do it in the higher interests of State."
     "Don't worry so much about  the  interests of  the state," said Rumata.
"Better worry about how to save your own skin."
     "You are quite right," said Don Reba and snapped his fingers.
     Rumata  alternately  tensed  and  relaxed  his  muscles. His  body  was
apparently functioning normally again. From behind  the curtains,  once more
three monks jumped out, with the same incredible agility and precision which
bespoke  a  great  deal  of  experience.  They  surrounded the still smiling
Brother Aba and grasped his arms, twisting them up behind his back.
     "Ou-ou-ou-ouch!" he screamed in pain, his fat face distorted in agony.
     "Hurry up, get it over with quickly!" commanded Don Reba.
     As they were  dragging  him  behind the drapes,  the  fat  man resisted
furiously. He  could still  be  heard, crying and whining;  then suddenly he
roared briefly in a weird, hardly recognizable voice, and finally all became
quiet again.
     Don Reba stood up and  cautiously unloaded the  crossbow. Rumata, quite
perplexed, followed his motions with his eyes.
     Slowly,  Don  Reba began to  pace  the  floor, apparently  lost in deep
thought,  while  scratching  his  back  with  the  arrow.  "Good, good,"  he
murmured,  almost tenderly. "How perfect . . ." He seemed to have completely
forgotten Rumata's presence. He kept pacing faster and faster, twirling  the
arrow in  the air like a baton. Then, abruptly,  he stopped in his tracks by
the table, threw the arrow away, sat down gingerly, his face suddenly lit up
by a smile, and said:
     "Well,  what do  you say to that? Neither of  them even put  up a  good
fight. I don't think we'd get away as easily as that with you."
     "Ye-e-es ...," said Rumata slowly, thoughtfully.
     "All right then. Now let's  have a talk, Don Rumata. Or is it maybe not
even Rumata? And perhaps not even a don? How about it?"
     Rumata remained  silent and  examined him  interestedly.  Don  Reba was
pale, and little red  veins showed  on his  nose. He was nearly shaking with
excitement, as if he were about to clap his hands in glee and scream out: "I
knew it! I knew it!"--You know nothing at all, you dog, he thought. And even
if  you should find  out, you would not believe it anyhow. Go  ahead, speak,
I'm listening.
     "I'm listening," said Rumata.
     "You are not Don Rumata," explained Don Reba. "You are an  usurper." He
looked seriously into Rumata's eyes. "Rumata of Estoria died  five years ago
and is entombed in  the family crypt  of his ancestors. And the  saints have
long since quieted his rebellious and--excuse me--none too pure soul. So? Do
you confess or do you need some prompting?"
     "I confess," said Rumata.  "I am called Rumata of Estoria, and I am not
accustomed to people doubting my words."
     Let me annoy you a bit, thought Rumata. Look out, here we go.
     "I can  see  well have to continue  this talk somewhere else," said Don
Reba in an ominous tone.
     Remarkable  changes  came  over Don  Reba's  face.  The pleasant  smile
disappeared, his lips  narrowed to  a thin line. It was odd,  almost to  the
point of  eeriness: even the  skin on his forehead  started to twitch.  Yes,
thought Rumata, a man like that can be frightened. "You do have hemorrhoids,
don't you?" he asked solicitously.
     Something flashed in  the comers of Don Reba's eyes but he did  not bat
an eyelid. He acted as if he had not heard.
     "You  treated Budach very badly," said  Rumata.  "He  is  an  excellent
physician. That is to say, he was . . . ," he added significantly.
     For another moment, Don Reba's eyes flashed again. Aha, thought Rumata.
Budach is presumably still  alive  ... He settled more  comfortably  in  his
chair, clasped his hands around his knees.
     "You refuse to confess," said Don Reba.
     "What?"
     "That you are an usurper!"
     "My  most honorable  Don  Reba," said Rumata  with the intonation of  a
schoolmaster.  "Such  accusations  usually ought  to  be solidly  backed  by
concrete proof. You insult me!"
     Don Reba's face assumed an expression of utter sweetness.
     "My  dear Don Rumata," he said.  "Forgive  me if I continue to use that
name for the time being.  I am not usually in the habit of proving anything.
The proof comes  over there, in the Tower of Joy. For this purpose I have at
my service experienced, well-paid specialists who work with the meat grinder
of our Holy Mickey, with the weapons of the sole divine force, the gloves of
the holy martyr  Tata, or, for instance, with the seating accommodation--oh,
pardon me, with the iron chair of Totz, the fighter. They can prove anything
they  please  with these  implements.  That  God exists  or that He does not
exist. That human beings walk on their hands or even on  their sides. Do you
understand me?  You are perhaps unaware of it but we  have an entire science
devoted to obtaining confessions. Just think for a moment:
     Why should I try to prove what I already know? And what's more, no harm
will befall you after you have confessed . .."
     "I am not threatened by any harm, but you are," interrupted Rumata.
     Don Reba pondered for a while.
     "All right,"  he  said  finally.  "Apparently  I will have  to  make  a
beginning.  Let's  examine in what way Rumata  of Estoria has  distinguished
himself  during  the five years of his  stay in  the kingdom of Arkanar. And
then you will explain the meaning of it all. Agreed?"
     "I won't make any rash promises," said Rumata. "But I  am interested in
listening to what you have to say."
     Don Reba started to rummage in his writing desk, took out a  thick pile
of square papers and skimmed them with raised eyebrows.
     "You are probably aware of the fact," he started with a pleasant smile,
"that in my capacity as Minister of Internal Security I have undertaken some
steps--for the protection of  the  Crown--against the  so-called  bookworms,
scholars and other  elements that are useless  and  harmful for  the  State.
These actions encountered strange resistance. At the same time as the entire
population   helped   me   in   a   unanimous   wave   of   patriotism   and
loyalty--denouncing hidden criminals,  organizing trials on the spot, giving
useful  hints as to  who the suspicious characters were that had  escaped my
attention--just at  that  time  some unknown but extremely energetic  person
snatched away from right under my nose all the most important,  incorrigible
and detestable criminals and abducted them across the border. This way  many
have  gotten away, as for  instance the godless astrologer  Bagir Kissenski;
the  criminal  alchemist Synda,  who, it has  been definitely proven, was in
alliance with  the devil's  brood as well as  with the Irukanian potentates;
the  vile pamphleteer and disturber of the peace, Zuren; and several  others
of low rank. And the mad magician and mechanic Kabani has slunk away and  is
hiding in some hole somewhere. Some unknown person has  distributed enormous
sums of  gold in order  to prevent  the  people from venting their righteous
anger  on  those  blasphemous  spies  and  poisoners,  the  former  personal
physicians of His Majesty. Someone liberated Arata, the hunchback, under the
most fantastic circumstances  which once more lead us to suspect the unknown
to be in league with ungodly  forces--Arata, a  regular demon of  depravity,
who seditiously  poisons  the  nation's soul, the  instigator and  leader of
peasants' revolts ..."
     Don  Reba stopped,  wrinkled his forehead and  regarded  Rumata with  a
meaningful  glance. Rumata turned  his eyes up  to  the  ceiling  and smiled
dreamily. True, he had kidnapped  Arata,  the hunchback, yes, indeed--with a
helicopter at that. It had made a  tremendous impression on  Arata's guards.
On Arata, too, by the  way. I'm quite a guy, I must admit,  he thought. That
was a good piece of work.
     "You are probably also aware that the aforementioned Arata is currently
in the eastern sectors of the capital, leading a mutineering army of slaves,
shedding considerable quantities of noble blood--and he still  disposes over
sufficient money and arms."
     "I can  easily believe that," said Rumata. "He impressed me right  away
as a very determined man."
     "You confess then?" quickly asked Don Reba.
     "To what?" asked Rumata surprised.
     They remained silent for a while, just staring at each other.
     "I'll continue," said Don Reba. "In order to rescue all  these spoilers
of souls, you, Don Rumata, have poured out at least over one hundred  pounds
of  gold, according to my moderate  and incomplete  calculations. I will not
make mention  here of  the fact  that contact  with these forces of evil has
sullied your  soul for all  eternity.  Neither will I  discuss here the fact
that you did not receive a single copper penny from your Estorian estates as
long  as you have been  staying within  the borders of the Arkanarian realm;
surely, after all, why should you have gotten any money? Why provide  a dead
man with money even if he's a relative? But your gold, your gold!"
     He opened a strong-box that had been  buried  under a pile of papers on
the  table and took  out a handful of gold coins showing the profile of Pitz
the Sixth.
     "This gold  alone  would suffice to  have you burnt  at the  stake!" he
cried. 'This gold  is  the  devil's  work! Human  hands are not  capable  of
producing gold of such purity!"
     He literally  pierced  Rumata  with his  glance. I must  admit  in  all
honesty, Rumata thought, he's got me there.  Touche. We didn't think of that
one. Must give him credit for  that; he's the first to have noticed it .  ..
But Don Reba grew suddenly very mild  again. Paternal, solicitous tones came
into his voice:
     "And  in  general  you are behaving  in a  most imprudent  manner,  Don
Rumata. I  kept  worrying about you  the whole time. What a  duelist, what a
mischief-maker! One  hundred and twenty-six duels within five years! And not
a single  person killed . . .  After all, in the final analysis,  one  might
arrive at some conclusions. I, for instance, have done so.  And I am not the
only  one. Just take  Brother Aba, for example--well, we shouldn't speak ill
of the dead, but he was a very cruel man, and I never could really stand him
.  .  . Well, then.  Brother Aba  selected not  the most skillful,  but  the
biggest and strongest men to have you put under  arrest. And he was right in
the end.  A  few dislocated shoulders,  wrenched necks, not to  mention some
bashed-in teeth . .  . And here you are standing  in front  of me!  But  how
could you  know you were fighting for your life?  You  are a master! You are
undoubtedly the best sword fighter in the whole country. And there can be no
doubt that  you have sold  your soul  to  the  devil, for only in hell is it
possible to  learn such  fantastically masterful  swordsmanship.  I am  even
inclined  to  admit that you  were  given  this fabulous  skill  only  under
condition never to kill  anyone. Although  I am  hard put to imagine why the
devil  of all  creatures  should  insist on  such a stipulation.  But that's
something for our scholars to figure out..."
     A  thin, high scream, a  sound  like a  squealing  pig, interrupted Don
Reba's deliberations. Annoyed, he looked at the lilac-colored, heavy drapes.
Sounds of people scuffling  came from behind them. There were  thuds, blows,
and someone shouting, "Let go! Let go!" and then  hoarse voices, cursing and
shouting  in an incomprehensible dialect. Suddenly  the curtain  tore with a
crack like a  whip  and fell  to  the  ground. Into  the cabinet staggered a
bald-headed man on all fours, his chin bleeding and his eyes open wide. Huge
human paws pushed through  a chink of the  other curtains that were still in
place,  seized the  man  by  his-feet  and pulled  him  back  again.  Rumata
recognized the man--it was Budach.
     He screamed like a wild animal:
     "Betrayed! I have been betrayed! It was poison! Why?"
     They dragged him back into the darkness.  A man, clad in black, swiftly
picked up the fallen curtain and arranged  it  again. The sudden silence was
interrupted by sickening noises coming from behind the curtain--somebody was
vomiting. Rumata understood.
     "Where is Budach?" he asked harshly.
     "As you can see, he's had a little accident," answered Don Reba, but he
was clearly no longer as self-assured as he had been.
     "Don't  try  to pull the wool  over my eyes," said  Rumata.  "Where  is
Budach?"
     "My dear Don Rumata," said Don Reba, wagging his head. He had collected
himself again. "What  do  you want  with Budach? Is he  a relative of yours,
perhaps? You've never even set eyes on him in your life until now."
     "Listen to me, Reba," Rumata  was enraged. "I'm not joking. If anything
happens to Budach, you'll die like a dog. I'll strangle  you with my own two
hands!"
     "Hardly," Don Reba said quickly. He was very pale.
     "You're a  fool, Reba. You're a  master  at  intrigue, but you actually
don't know  your way  around.  You've never let  yourself  in for a game  as
dangerous as this one. And you don't even know it."
     Don Reba  bent over the table, his eyes like glowing coals. Rumata knew
that he himself had never been in  a situation as precarious as  the present
one. It was time to put the cards on the table; they would soon know who had
the  upper  hand  in the game. Rumata tensed his  muscles,  ready to spring.
There was  no  weapon, be it spear or arrow, that could  kill you instantly:
the  thought  was  written  on  Don Reba's face. And the  old man  with  the
hemorrhoids wanted to live. "What is it that you want?" he said in a whining
voice. "We've had a nice little chat here . . .  your Budach is alive. Alive
and healthy. He'll even live  to treat me one of these  days. Just don't get
excited."
     "Where is Budach?"
     "In the Tower of Joy."
     "I need him!"
     "So do I, Don Rumata."
     "Listen  to  me,  Reba," said  Rumata,  "don't  provoke  me.  And  stop
pretending. You are afraid of me. And well you  might be.  Budach belongs to
me, do you understand? To me!"
     Now  both  were standing,  facing each  other. Don Reba's  face was  an
alarming  sight: He turned blue, his lips  began to twitch feverishly and he
mumbled to himself with little spurts of saliva coming from his mouth.
     "You whippersnapper!"  he  hissed.  "I'm  not afraid of anybody! I  can
squash you like a leech!"
     He wheeled around abruptly  and  pulled down  a gobelin  that  had been
hanging behind his back. A wide window appeared.
     "There, have a look!"
     Rumata went  to the window. It opened onto  the square in  front of the
palace. Dawn was approaching by now. The smoke of  many fires rose  into the
sky. The square was  dotted with corpses. In the  center of the square was a
black, unmoving rectangular mass. Rumata examined it more closely. It was  a
group of riders,  lined  up with amazing exactitude. They  wore  long  black
cloaks, black hoods that were pulled down over their eyes, black, triangular
shields in their left hand--and long halberds in their right.
     "If  you please," said Don Reba with a rattling voice. He was trembling
all over. "The valiant, martial children of the Lord our God--the cavalry of
the Holy Order. They landed in the port of Arkanar during the night in order
to  crush the barbarian revolt  of the  nocturnal scoundrel Waga Koleso, who
allied himself with the snooty merchants and storekeepers. The rebellion has
been quelled. The Holy Order now rules over the  city and the entire country
whose name henceforth is the Arkanarian Province of the Holy Order..."
     Instinctively, Rumata scratched the  back of his neck. So,  that's what
it is! These are the  people for whom the unfortunate shopkeepers have paved
the way. What a coup! Don Reba was grinning triumphantly.
     "We haven't  properly met yet," he  continued  with  the same  rattling
voice.  "Allow me to introduce myself: Don Reba,  representative of the Holy
Order in  the Arkanarian Province. Bishop  and Councilor of War,  servant of
Our Lord!"
     It  isn't  so surprising  after  all, thought  Rumata. Wherever Graydom
triumphs,  the  blackbirds will  always  seize power. Oh, you historians, to
hell with you ... But he regained  his composure,  gripped  his hands behind
his back and began to rock back and forth on his heels.
     "I am tired now,"  he said in an affected manner.  "I  want to sleep. I
want to wash myself with warm water, to rinse off the blood and spit of your
cut-throats. Tomorrow . . . that is to say, today . . . let's  say, one hour
after sunrise ... I'll  come to your offices. The writ for Budach's  release
must be ready by then."
     "Look, down there!  Twenty  thousand men!" shouted Don Reba pointing to
the square below the windows. Rumata frowned.
     "Not quite so  loud, please," he said. "And just  remember, Don Reba: I
am absolutely  certain  that you are  not a bishop.  I know  you through and
through. You are nothing  but a filthy traitor and a clumsy, cheap schemer .
. ."  Don Reba licked his lips; his eyes assumed a glassy stare. "I  know no
pardon.  For any  foul  play, involving myself or any  of my friends, you'll
have to pay with your own life! I hate you, just remember that! I'll have to
tolerate  you,  but you  must learn  in  time  to  get  out of  my  way. You
understand?"
     Don Reba smiled pleadingly and said quickly: "I  have only  one wish. I
want you  to be near  me, Don Rumata.  I cannot loll you. I do not know why,
but I cannot do it!"
     "You are afraid," said Rumata.
     "All right,  then, so I am afraid," said Don Reba. "Maybe you  are  the
devil,  maybe the Son of God. Who  can tell? Maybe, on  the other  hand, you
come from some faraway, powerful  domain: People say they do actually exist.
I won't even try peering down into the abyss that has swallowed you. My head
begins to swim  and  I feel close to heresy. Yet, I can have you  killed any
time I want to. Now. Tomorrow. Yesterday... Do you understand that?"
     "I am not interested in any of that," said Rumata.
     "So? What does interest you?"
     "Nothing at all," answered  Rumata. "I simply want to have a good time.
I am neither  a devil nor a god, I  am Chevalier Rumata  of  Estoria, a  gay
nobleman,  a  courtier,  burdened   with  personal   whims  and  prejudices,
accustomed to be free in every respect. Bear that in mind, will you!"
     Don  Reba  had himself well  under control again. He dabbed his swollen
face with a handkerchief and smiled pleasantly.
     "I  appreciate your  stubbornness.  After  all,  even you  are striving
toward some  goal. And I respect these ideals, even if I fail  to comprehend
them.  I  am very  happy that  we  had a heart-to-heart talk. Quite possibly
sometime you will present your views to  me more  fully and,  who knows, you
might convince me  that  way to revise my own. All  men are liable  to  make
mistakes;  that's a human failing.  It may well be that I am the  one who is
making  a mistake, that I am not striving toward those goals that would make
it worthwhile to work as  arduously and strenuously as I do now. I am  a man
of broad views, and I can well imagine that some day we will work  together,
standing shoulder to shoulder..."
     "That remains  to be seen,"  said  Rumata  and left  the  room.  What a
bootlicker!"  he thought. Some  collaborator  he  would  make!  Shoulder  to
shoulder... "
     The city was shaken to the core by the unbearable terror. The blood-red
morning sun  illuminated  a somber scene  of empty  streets,  smoking ruins,
shattered window shutters and doors. Bloody glass splinters glittered in the
dust of the roads.  Innumerable swarms of crows descended on the city as  if
it were a churchyard. Patrols of two to three riders, clad in black, trotted
their horses across  open places and at crossroads. They  slowly tossed from
side to side in the saddles. Everywhere could be seen wooden stakes, hastily
rammed into the ground, with scarred bodies drooping over the embers  of the
pyre.  The  whole  city  gave   the  appearance  that   nothing  alive   had
remained--except  for   the  disgusting,  screeching  crows  and   the  busy
slaughterers in black.
     Rumata was  making his way  through the city. Most of  the time he kept
his  eyes  closed.  He  was  gasping  for  air,  his  bruised  body  hurting
furiously.--Can these  still  be  called  human beings? Some are slaughtered
openly in  the streets  while the  others sit inside their  houses,  waiting
obediently for their turn. And each one thinking: Who cares what happens, as
long  as  it  is  not  me--I'll  escape.   Cold-blooded  bestiality  of  the
slaughterers   and  cold-blooded   obedience  of   the  slaughtered.  Stupid
cold-blooded  attitudes, that  is the worst.  Ten people  will  stand  there
paralyzed with fear and wait obediently until someone comes by and chooses a
victim and cuts his  throat in cold blood. The souls  of  these  people  are
littered with filth, and  each  hour  of obedient waiting  will  sully  them
further and further. Quite unintentionally, these homes, cringing with fear,
will give birth to the vilest villains, informers,  and murderers. Thousands
of people who throughout all their lives will be wracked by fear and fright,
will teach fear and fright to their own children, and these children in turn
will teach their children.--I can't go on, Rumata kept repeating to himself.
I  am close  to losing my  mind and  then I'll become like these people;  it
won't  take much more before  I finally stop understanding the reason for my
being in  this place ... I must gain perspective again, turn my back on  all
of this for a while, get some peace and quiet...
     ". . . At the end of the  year of the Great Water--in the year X of the
new era--the centrifugal processes rapidly gained ground in the old  empire.
By taking  advantage of this  future, the  Holy Order  which represented the
interests  of the  most reactionary groups of the feudal  society  who tried
with every means to bring  to  a halt the general decay  . . ." But  are you
familiar  with the stench of smoldering corpses at the  stake?  Do you  know
what it  is like? Have  you  ever seen a  naked woman, her  belly slit open,
wallow in the dusty road?  Have you ever seen cities  where human beings are
silent and only  crows can be heard? Yet, the  still  unborn boys and girls,
who will be  sitting before the  dictascopes of the schools in the Communist
Republic of Arkanar?
     His chest bumped into something pointed and hard. He looked up  and saw
a  black  rider before him.  A  long spear with a  broad,  precisely toothed
blade, pressed  against  his chest. The  rider regarded him silently through
the slits of his black  hood. All the hood revealed were a thin-lipped mouth
and a small  chin.  I  must do something, thought Rumata. But what? Dismount
him? No. The rider slowly  drew back his right arm, readying his spear. This
gesture reminded Rumata of what he had to  do. Casually,  he raised his left
hand and pulled back his sleeve. An iron bracelet came to light; it had been
handed  to him  before  he  had  left the palace.  The rider  inspected  the
bracelet,  lowered  his weapon, moved aside to let Rumata pass. "In the name
of the Lord," he said with a strange accent. "Blessed be His name," murmured
Rumata. A short  stretch farther on  he passed another rider  who was busily
knocking down with his  spear some elaborately carved figurines representing
little  devils from  a roof ridge. On the second floor a fat face, distorted
with  fright, peeked out from  behind half-lowered shutters--probably one of
those shopkeepers who  barely three days ago  had enthusiastically hollered,
"Hooray for Don Reba!" while waving his beer stein and listening with  gusto
and relish to the crunch, crunch, crunch of the Gray horde's hobnailed boots
marching on the pavement. Oh, Graydom, Graydom... Rumata turned away.
     But what is  happening at home? he suddenly remembered, and he began to
quicken his steps, almost running during  the last stretch  of the  way. The
house  was unharmed. Two monks  were sitting  on the  small stoop. They  had
pulled back their hoods, exposing their badly shaved  heads to the sunlight.
The moment they saw him, they stood up. "In the name of the Lord," both said
in unison. "Blessed be His name," replied Rumata and demanded:
     "What business  have you to be here?" Both monks bowed and folded their
arms over their  stomachs. "Now that you have come  we  can leave," answered
one of the monks.  They descended  the few  steps and walked  leisurely off,
their crossed arms halfway  hidden in their  long  sleeves.  Rumata followed
them with  his eyes, remembering how  many  thousands of  times  he had seen
these humble figures in then-long black habits, walking down the street. But
then  they did not use to drag the scabbards of  long swords  behind them in
the  dust. We goofed on this  one. Oh,  and now  we goofed here, he thought.
What  a  delightful  pastime  it had  been  for  the  noble  dons  to attach
themselves to some  lone monk, ambling down the road, and to tell each other
naughty stories close to the monk's ears. And fool that I am, I pretended to
be drunk, and would walk behind  them, laughing out loud for joy because the
country,  at least,  was not ravaged by  religious fanaticism. But what else
could we  have done? Indeed, what else could we have done? "Who is it?" rang
out a voice. "Open up, Mugu, it's me," said Rumata softly. The bolts clicked
as they were pushed back; the door was Opened  slightly, and Rumata squeezed
himself through  the narrow  chink. Here  in the entrance  hall,  all was as
usual, and  Rumata breathed a sigh of relief. Old Mugu with the silvery hair
and  perpetually wagging head relieved his master of  his helmet and swords.
"How is Kyra?"
     "Kyra is upstairs,"  said  Mugu. "She is fine." "Splendid," said Rumata
while  he unbuckled his belt.  "And  where  is Uno? Why is  he  not here  to
welcome me?" Mugu took the belt.
     "Uno is  dead," he said in  a  calm,  firm tone.  "He  is  lying in the
servants' room."  Rumata closed his eyes. "Uno  dead..."  he repeated.  "Who
killed him?" Without waiting for an answer, he went into the servants' room.
Uno's body lay on the  table. He was covered with a  sheet up to  his waist.
His  hands were folded  over  his chest,  his  eyes wide open and his  mouth
distorted in  a  grimace.  The servants  surrounded the  table,  their heads
bowed, listening  to  the  murmurings of the monk who prayed in a comer. The
cook was sobbing. Without taking his eyes off the boy, Rumata unbuttoned his
collar.
     "The dirty  dogs," he said. "Oh, those filthy beasts!" He stumbled over
something, went very  close to the table, looked into the  dead eyes, raised
the sheet slightly, but dropped it again at once.
     "Yes, too  late," he said. "Too  late. Hopeless. Oh, you  bastards! Who
killed him? The monks?"
     He  turned to  the monk, seized him by  the scruff of his neck, pressed
him down to the ground and bent over his face.
     "Who killed him?" he said. "Was it one of you? Speak up!"
     "No,  not the  monks,"  spoke a  calm voice behind his  back. "The Gray
soldiers did it."
     For a while Rumata stared into  the emaciated  face of the  monk, whose
pupils slowly began to dilate. "In the name  of the Lord,"  croaked the monk
painfully. Rumata let him go,  sat down on a bench at  the boy's  feet,  and
began to cry. He covered his face with his hands, cried, and listened to the
quietly droning  voice of Mugu. The old servant told that shortly  after the
second watch, there was knocking at the house door: "Open up, in the name of
the King!" Uno called out not to open the gate, but then they were forced to
open it  after  all when  the Gray soldiers threatened  to set  the house on
fire.  They  forced  their way  into the  entrance hall,  beat and bound the
servants, then crept upstairs. Uno had  been standing  guard at the doors of
the  upstairs apartments; he started shooting with  his crossbow. He had two
bolts,  and shot off both. The  second arrow missed. The Gray soldiers threw
their knives, and Uno fell. They dragged him down  the  stairs and were just
about to kick him and hack  him with their cleavers, when suddenly the black
monks entered the house. They killed two  Gray soldiers, disarmed  the rest,
tied ropes around their necks and dragged them out into the street.
     Mugu fell silent  But Rumata  remained seated at the end  of the table,
his  elbows resting on the table top at the feet of the dead boy. Slowly  he
rose to his feet, wiped his eyes dry with his sleeve, kissed  the boy on his
cold forehead.  Then he  walked upstairs, placing  one foot  in front of the
other with great effort.
     He  was half dead with fatigue and  exhaustion. Only  with great effort
did he reach the landing, and walk through the guest room to his bed; there,
moaning, he fell face down on a pillow. Kyra hurried over to  him. He was so
exhausted  that  he  could not  even  help  her  as she removed  his  soiled
clothing. She  pulled  off his boots, cried over his swollen face, took  off
his uniform and the metalloplast shirt, and  continued  to weep quietly over
his bruised body. Now, suddenly, he felt his bones  aching, aching as if  he
had been bound on the torture rack. While Kyra washed his body with a sponge
dipped in vinegar water, he panted and  hissed through  his  teeth,  without
opening his eyes: "I  could have killed him  . . .He was standing right next
to me ... Wrung his neck  with my bare hands ... Is that a life, Kyra? Let's
leave this place . . . After  all,  this is an  experiment  with me, and not
with them." He did not even notice that he was speaking Russian. Kyra looked
anxiously at his eyes, glassy with tears,  and showered gentle kisses on his
cheeks. Covering him with the mended sheets (Uno had not bought any new ones
despite his  master's urging) she ran downstairs to prepare some mulled wine
for him. Moaning in physical  and mental  pain, Rumata crawled from  his bed
and staggered barefoot  into the study. There he opened a  secret  drawer in
his desk, rummaged in his medicine chest, and took several Sporamin tablets.
When  Kyra returned, bearing  a steaming  kettle  on  a  silver tray, he was
already back in bed. He felt the pain leave him, the din in his head quieten
down  and his body fill with new strength and energy. He  drained the kettle
and soon  felt  quite well  again. Then he called Mugu  and  asked that  his
clothes be made ready.
     "Don't go, Rumata," said Kyra. "Don't go! Stay here at home!"
     "I must go, my darling!"
     "I am afraid. Stay here... They'll kill you!"
     "You  don't  say. Why  should  they kill me? They're  all afraid of me,
aren't they?"
     She started  to  weep  again,  but  quietly,  as  if  she was afraid of
annoying him. Rumata pulled her down on his lap and gently stroked her hair.
     "The worst is  over," he said. "And remember, we're going to leave this
place..."
     She calmed down and pressed  her  body  against his. Mugu stood quietly
next to them, patiently  holding Rumata's  trousers with  the little  golden
bells.
     "But  before  we leave, I  have  a  lot to  do here," continued Rumata.
"Countless numbers of people have  been killed this night.  I  must find out
who  is still alive and who has been  slain.  And I must help those  who are
still in danger."
     "And who is going to help you?"
     "Fortunate the man who  thinks only of others  . . . And besides, there
are powerful people who will come to our assistance if necessary."
     "I cannot think of  others," she  said. "You came home  more dead  than
alive. I can  see  with my own eyes  how they have  beaten you. And Uno  was
beaten to death.  Where were your powerful  people when you needed them? Why
did they not prevent  all this slaughter? I do not believe you ...  I do not
believe..."
     She tried to wrest herself free from his arms but he held her tight.
     "It was unfortunate," he said. "This time they came a bit too late. But
now they are watching us again and will protect us. Why don't you believe me
today? You have always believed me. And didn't you  see for yourself: I came
home half dead, and now, just look at me!"
     "I don't want to look at you," she said hiding her face.  "I don't want
to cry again."
     "Oh, come, come! These  scratches here? Nothing!  The worst is over now
... at least for the two of us.  But there  are fine,  upstanding people for
whom the horror has not yet ended. And I must help them."
     She sighed deeply,  kissed  his neck and  freed herself gently from his
embrace. "Come tonight," she begged. "Will you come?"
     "You  can  count on it," he said firmly and  smiled. "I'll be home even
earlier than nightfall, and most likely  not alone. I'll  be back at  dinner
time."
     She walked over to an armchair,  sat down, clasped her hands around her
knee, and watched Rumata getting dressed. As he put on his trousers with the
bells  he mumbled to himself in Russian; Mugu  sat cross-legged on the floor
before him and  began  to fasten the innumerable buckles and buttons. Rumata
put a clean undershirt  over his  metalloplast  shirt. Finally he said in  a
desperate tone: "Darling,  please  do understand me, I  must go! What  can I
do?! It's simply out of the question for me to remain here!"
     Suddenly  she said  pensively: "Sometimes I  wonder why you don't  beat
me."
     Rumata was just buttoning his shirt with the lacy frills; he froze with
horror.
     "What  do  you  mean by that?"  he asked  perplexed. "How  could anyone
possibly want to beat you?"
     "You  are  not  only  a good, a very  good man," she continued  without
listening to him, "but you are also a strange man, almost like an archangel.
When you are  with me I feel very  strong.  Now,  for example, I  am strong.
Sometime  soon  I  shall ask  you  for  something. Won't you  tell  me about
yourself some  day? Not now, only when  all  this is over-- will you do that
for me?"
     Rumata   did  not   reply  for  a  long  time.  Mugu  handed   him  the
orange-colored  vest  with the red ribbons.  Rumata put  it on with  intense
dislike and buckled up his belt.
     "Yes,"  he  said  finally. "Someday I  shall tell  you  everything,  my
darling."
     "I'll wait till  then,"  she said seriously.  "But  now you must leave.
Don't let me detain you here any longer."
     Rumata walked over to her and pressed his bruised lips tenderly  on her
soft mouth. Then he pulled  the iron circlet  from his wrist and held it out
to her.
     "Put this on  your left arm,"  he  said. "I doubt that  they'll pay  us
another  visit  today . . . but in case they should turn  up  here just show
them this iron bracelet."
     She  followed him with her eyes and he felt that she was mutely calling
out after him.--I know, she is thinking: I do not  know who you are, perhaps
the devil or the Son of God, or maybe a man from legendary worlds across the
seas, but one thing is certain. If you do not return I will die.
     He was most grateful for her silence, for having to leave her  now  was
somehow quite unusually hard for him. Like diving  head  first from a sunny,
emerald-blue shore into an evil-smelling puddle.

EIGHT
     Rumata  decided  not  to take the  direct route to the  offices  of the
bishop of Arkanar. He crept stealthily through rows of backyards, hid behind
rags hung on washlines,  crawled through holes in fences--catching his rich,
colorful ribbons and  strips of  the finest Soanian lace on rusty nails--and
wriggled on all fours between mounds of potatoes. But for all his efforts he
failed to evade the watchful eye of the  black  soldiery. As he turned  into
the narrow, winding lane which led to the big dump heap, he  encountered two
somber, drunken monks.
     Rumata wanted to  get out of their way but the monks drew their  swords
and blocked his path. As  Rumata, too,  grasped both  his swords,  the monks
whistled for reinforcements. Rumata  was just about to withdraw to the  hole
in the fence through which he had emerged  a moment ago when an agile little
man  with a  nondescript face ran  toward him. He  brushed  against Rumata's
shoulder,  hurried  over to  the  monks,  and whispered  something  to them,
whereupon the monks pulled up their  long habits,  baring their legs wrapped
around with lilac-colored ribbons and made off in a trot, soon to  disappear
behind some houses. The little  man scurried after them without looking back
once.
     So that's the story, thought Rumata. A spy, a bodyguard. And he doesn't
even bother to do  his job  in an inconspicuous  manner;  our new  bishop of
Arkanar really thinks of everything. It would be interesting to know whether
he's  frightened for me or of  me. Following  the spy with his eyes,  Rumata
walked toward the  dump heap. The dump heap led to the rear buildings of the
former  Ministry  of Internal  Security. He  hoped  that  no guards had been
posted there.
     The lane was empty; not a living thing could be seen. But soon he could
hear the soft  creaking of  shutters,  doors being  opened and  shut, a baby
crying,  and  above  all  that  hung  anxious  whispering.  From  behind   a
half-rotten fence cautiously peered out an emaciated  face all  blackened by
deeply  imbedded layers of  soot.  Two  frightened,  hollow  eyes  stared at
Rumata.
     "I beg your pardon, noble don;  please forgive me. Could the  noble don
perhaps tell  me what is going  on in the city? I am Kickus, the smith, also
called the lame one; I want to go to my forge, but I am afraid ..."
     "Don't go there," advised Rumata. "One  can't  fool  around  with these
monks. The King is dead. Don Reba  has seized power. He is now the bishop of
the Holy Order. Just stay home, will you."
     The smith accompanied each of Rumata's  words with an eager  nod of his
head, his eyes filling with melancholy and despair.
     'The Holy Order,  you don't say,"  he mumbled  heavily. "I'll be damned
... I beg your  pardon, noble  don. So, the Order, well then .  . . They are
the Gray Ones, aren't they?"
     "No, no," said  Rumata and regarded  him with a certain curiosity. "The
Gray Ones have been beaten, you see. These are the monks."
     "Oh, dear me!" said the smith. "So the Gray Ones are ... well,  and the
Holy Order! The Gray Ones are defeated? Not bad, I say. But what is going to
happen with us now, noble don, what do you think? We'll have to conform, eh?
Conform to the Holy Order, yes?"
     "Why not," said Rumata.  "The Order  will have to eat  and drink,  too.
Adjust to them, I say!"
     All of a sudden the smith became quite animated.
     "That's what I think, noble don. We must adjust and conform. I  believe
the main thing is not to bother  others and  you will  be left in  peace. Is
that the idea?"
     Rumata shook his head.
     "Oh,  no,"  he said. "Those who  remain quiet  and peaceful will be the
first ones to be slaughtered."
     "That sounds right to me, after all,"  moaned the smith. "But what  are
we supposed to do? One man alone is  as weak as a little finger, and all the
snot-nosed  blackbirds are on his back.  Oh,  Glorious  Mother, if only they
would cut my master's throat!  He was an officer with the Gray Ones. What do
you think,  noble don, it's possible  that  they  did him  in, isn't it? You
know, I owe him five golden guilders."
     "I  wouldn't know," said  Rumata.  "They might have  finished  him off,
quite possible.  But  I'd like you to think about something: It's  true that
you alone are as weak as a little finger, but fingers like that exist by the
tens of thousands in this city."
     "So?" said the smith.
     "Just think about it, what that means!" said Rumata annoyed, and walked
on.
     A fat  lot of good that advice will do  him, thought Rumata. It's still
too early  for him to try  and think.  And  how simple  things could be here
really; Ten  thousand such  hammerlike fists--if properly  infuriated--would
make mincemeat  out  of any  foe. But they have not  yet reached that point.
They have not yet experienced the right kind  of fury. Only fear.  Every man
for himself, and one god for the lot of them.
     The elderberry  bushes  lining the road suddenly began to move and sway
and out jumped--Don Tameo. The  moment  he saw Rumata walking in  the harrow
lane,  Don  Tameo roared  with joy, and despite his  enormous  bulk he leapt
nimbly  to   his  feet,  then   staggered  toward   Rumata,  stretching  his
dirt-encrusted hands out to him.
     "My noble friend!" he roared. "What joy! I see you too are  on your way
to the chancellery offices?"
     "Yes, indeed,  my  noble don," answered  Rumata and quickly twisted his
body to free himself from Don Tameo's embrace.
     "Will you permit me to join you, noble don?"
     "It will be an honor for me, noble don."
     They bowed to each other. Apparently Don Tameo had not yet quenched his
thirst from earlier in the day.  He extracted a little bottle of the  finest
quality from the folds of his wide yellow trousers.
     . "Would  you care to  join me in a drink?" came his offer, accompanied
by an elegant flourish of the bottle.
     "No, thank you," said Rumata.
     "Rum!" explained  Don Tameo. "Genuine rum  from the capital! I've  paid
its weight in gold!"
     They  descended to the  dump heap.  They  held their noses as they made
their way  through  the  garbage piles,  past  dead  dogs, through  stinking
puddles swarming  with white  worms.  The  morning  air  was filled with the
constant hum of millions of emerald green flies.
     "Most  peculiar," said Don Tameo,  and  stoppered up the  bottle. "I've
never been in this place before."
     Rumata was silent.
     "I've  always been delighted by Don Reba," said Don Tameo.  "I knew all
along that he would sweep this good-for-nothing monarch from the throne  and
pave  new  ways for us  and open up new vistas for the country." With  these
words he slid with one  leg into  a  yellow-green puddle, splashing mud over
himself from head to toe, but managed to grasp Rumata's arm to avoid falling
flat on his face. "Oh, yes," he resumed his remarks after they  had regained
firm ground once again, "we, the young aristocracy, will always stand by Don
Reba's side! Now they'll finally show  the proper respect due to  us.  Judge
for  yourself, my noble friend, I've been walking now  for one hour  through
streets and gardens and I have not met a  single Gray bastard. We have wiped
the Gray scum off the face of the earth. Ah,  how wonderful and how sweet it
is now to be able to breathe freely in our newborn Arkanar! In  place of the
boorish  shopkeepers, in  place of  the impertinent  swindlers, and  peasant
louts, the streets have now been taken over by  the Servants of the Lord.  I
have seen it with my own eyes:  noblemen  are parading quite openly in front
of their  houses. No longer  must  they fear that  some fool in a coachman's
apron will  splash mud all over them with his dirty cart. And you  no longer
have  to  elbow  your way  through the throng of  butchers  and shopkeepers.
Inspired by the blessing of the great Holy Order, for which--I must admit--I
have  always  felt great admiration and great sympathy, we are now  striving
forward  to an era of unheard-of glory. No peasant will dare  any longer  to
raise  his  eyes up to  a nobleman without procuring first a  special permit
which will have to be signed by the district inspector of the Holy Order.  I
am just on my way to hand in a written petition for this purpose."
     "A nauseating stench," said Rumata with feeling.
     "Yes,  disgusting,"  agreed  Don  Tameo and  replaced  the  cork on his
bottle. "On the other hand, though--how freely we can breathe in our newborn
Arkanar I  And the price of  wine  has  gone down to half  what it  was just
yesterday..."
     By the time they reached the  end of the lane Don Tameo had emptied the
contents of his bottle, which  he flung to the side of the street. He became
unduly agitated,  fell twice flat on his face, refusing  both times to brush
the dirt off his soiled clothes, declaring that it was his natural state  to
be defiled and that he wished to come into the presence of his new master in
this condition. He began again  and again to recite  his petition at the top
of his lungs. "How marvelously said!"  he shouted.  "Just take this passage,
for instance, noble  dons: 'In  order that the stinking peasants .  . .' Eh?
Isn't that a splendid thought?"
     As  they  entered  the  courtyard  behind the  chancellery,  Don  Tameo
collided with a  monk,  burst into tears and begged  for  forgiveness of his
sins. The almost choking monk tried to ward  off his  iron clasp and whistle
for help but Don Tameo clung to the  monk's habit and thus both fell into  a
garbage  heap. Rumata  left  them lying there and walked  on.  From  quite a
distance he could still hear the fitful, pitiful whistling and the shouts of
"In order that the stinking peasants! . .. your blessi-i-ing! . . . with all
my heart! ... I felt sympathy, sympathy, understand, you peasant lout?"
     On  the  square  in front  of the  entrance  to the chancellery stood a
detachment of infantry monks, armed with blunt cudgels. They had removed the
dead from the street. The morning  wind  drove yellow columns of dust across
the square. The rectangular shadow of the Tower of Joy  fell across the monk
soldiers. Below the broad, conical roof of the tower  the crows  were cawing
and  quarreling  as  usual. A rafter  jutted out above; this  was where they
would  hang  the men head  downwards. The tower  had been built  two hundred
years before  by  the king's ancestors for the  exclusive purpose of warding
off the enemies in case of war. It had been erected  on a firm foundation, a
three-storey structure, which  served as storage rooms for  victuals in case
of a protracted siege. Later on the tower was  used as a prison. As a result
of an earthquake, all the floors and ceilings inside the tower collapsed and
the prison  had to  be  moved  to the  basement. Some  time  previously,  an
Arkanarian queen  complained  that  the  cries  of  the  tortured  prisoners
disturbed her, whereupon her  royal consort decreed that a military band was
to play in the tower from early in the  morning until late at night.  It was
from this  time that it received its present name. It was no longer anything
more than an empty stone  shell; the torture  chambers had long been shifted
to the newly  opened,  deeper cellar holes; and the orchestra had long since
stopped playing  its daily concerts; but the citizens still called it by its
old name, the Tower of Joy.
     Usually the area around the Tower of Joy. was deserted. But today there
was  a  great commotion.  The  soldier monks led, pushed, dragged  along the
ground hordes of Sturmoviks in torn  gray uniforms, miserable vagabonds clad
in  rags,  half-undressed  citizens,  frozen  with  fear,  and  hysterically
screaming  young girls. The down-at-the-heel soldiers of the nocturnal army,
casting  sullen looks about  them,  were driven there  like  whole herds  of
cattle. And from secret exits they pulled out the corpses with barbed hooks,
threw them on carts, and transported them out of the city. In the long queue
of  waiting courtiers  and privileged citizens  that still stood outside the
doors of the  chancellery, the last in line  observed  this dreadful traffic
with fear and horror.
     All were admitted to the chancellery; some, however, were guided inside
in a convoy. Rumata elbowed his way inside, where he found the air as sticky
and close as in  the dump  heap.  Behind an  enormous table, piled high with
papers, sat an  official with a yellow-gray complexion. A giant goose  quill
was stuck behind his right ear.  The petitioner, whose turn  it was now, the
noble Don Keu, haughtily twitched his mustache as he announced his name.
     'Take off your hat," said the official in  a  monotonous voice, without
raising his eyes from his papers.
     "The clan of the Keus has the privilege  to keep on their hats, even in
the presence of the King," stated Don Keu proudly.
     "Nobody has any privileges before the Holy Order," said the official in
the same monotonous tone of voice. Don Keu began to hiss and tamed beet red,
but removed his hat nevertheless. The official moved his  long yellow finger
across the paper.
     "Don  Keu . . . Don  Keu,"  he murmured. "Don  Keu . .  . King  Street,
number twelve?"
     "Yes," said Don Keu in his fat, irritated voice.
     "Number 485, brother Tibak."
     Brother  Tibak, his face purple from  obesity and  shortness of breath,
sat  at the next table. He rummaged in some documents, wiped the  sweat from
his brow, got to his feet and read out in a toneless voice:
     "Number 485, Don  Keu, King Street,  number twelve, guilty of blasphemy
against the name of His Magnificence, the  bishop of  Arkanar, Don Reba, two
years ago at a royal dance, is ordered to receive three dozen lashes on  his
bare buttocks, as well as to kiss the shoe of His Magnificence."
     Brother  Tibak resumed his place again. "Go to the corridor here," said
the official with the colorless voice.  "The lashings to the right, the shoe
to the left. Next, please."
     To  Rumata's great surprise, Don  Keu did not even  attempt to protest.
Evidently  he must  have seen a great deal while he was waiting  in line. He
croaked once briefly, stroked his mustache with great dignity and walked out
into the corridor.
     The  next in line was the  gigantic Don Pifa, who  wobbled with fat. He
had already taken off his hat as he stepped up to the table. "Don Pifa . . .
Don Pifa," cackled the  official and moved his finger along the paper before
him. "Milkjug  Street,  number  two?" Don  Pifa  emitted a  gurgling  sound.
"Number 504, brother Tibak."  Brother Tibak stroked his bald head  and stood
up.  "Number  504, Don Pifa, Milkjug Street, number two,  remained unnoticed
for any offenses by His Magnificence and consequently pure!"
     "Don Pifa," said the official, "receive the sign of blameless conduct."
He  bent down over a box  next to his  chair and took  out an  iron bracelet
which he handed to Don  Pifa. 'To be worn on the left wrist, to be presented
immediately  when requested  by  the warriors  of the Holy Order.  Next one,
please."
     Once more Don  Pifa  emitted a gurgling sound; his eyes were riveted to
his bracelet as he left the room. The official with the colorless voice  was
already calling out the next name. Rumata viewed the people who had lined up
to wait. There were many familiar faces among the  crowd. Some were  dressed
in fine clothes  as  usual, others  were obviously impoverished, but whether
they  were  rich  or  poor,  they  were  all thoroughly  splashed  with mud.
Somewhere in the  middle of the  line, Don Sera said in a loud voice and for
the third time in five minutes, "I fail to see why a noble don shouldn't get
a few sound whacks, too, in the name of His Magnificence!"
     Rumata waited until they sent the next man into the corridor (he  was a
well-known fishmonger, sentenced to five strokes with a cane--without having
to kiss  the  shoe-- because of  illicit  trains  of thought).  Then  Rumata
jostled  his  way to the table and without much ado placed  his hand on  the
official's stack of papers.
     "I beg your pardon,"  he  said. "I  need an  official order for  Doctor
Budach's release. I am Don Rumata."
     The official did not look up.
     "Don Rumata . . . Don Rumata,"  he mumbled, pushed Rumata's  hand aside
and ran a finger down a list of names.
     "What are you doing,  you old inkpot?" said Rumata. "I need an order of
release!"
     "Don  Rumata  . . . Don Rumata . .  ."  It  was impossible to stop this
ossified  automaton  of a bureaucrat, "Spengler Street, number eight. Number
sixteen. Brother Tibak." Rumata sensed how all behind him were holding their
breath. But  to be  quite  frank, he, too, felt  somewhat  ill at  ease. The
scarlet-faced, heavily perspiring Brother Tibak stood up!
     "Number sixteen, Spengler Street, number eight, for special services in
the cause of the Holy Order to receive an expression of special  recognition
by His  Magnificence. His  Magnificence will therefore graciously issue  for
him an  edict  for Doctor  Budach's  release, over  whose person  he will be
permitted to dispose at his own discretion, see form 6/17/11."
     The official proceeded  to pull this form immediately  from the pile of
documents to his right and handed it to Don Rumata.
     "Through the  yellow  door, to the  second floor,  room  six,  straight
through the corridor, make a right turn at first, then  one to the left," he
said without moving a muscle. "Next, please."
     Rumata quickly  skimmed the contents of the  document. It  was  not  an
order for Doctor Budach's release. It  was merely a  document to  obtain  an
entry permit  to the fifth special  department of the chancellery,  where he
was supposed  to  pick  up a recommendation for  the secretary of the secret
police. "What did you give me here, you nitwit?" asked Rumata. "Where is the
official release order?!"
     "Through the  yellow door,  to the  second  floor,  room six,  straight
through  the corridor, make  a  right  turn  first, then  one to  the left,"
repeated the official.
     "I am asking you, where is the release order!" yelled Rumata.
     "Haven't the faintest idea ... no idea . . . Next one, please!"
     A softly rattling breath sounded above Rumata's ears and something warm
and soft  leaned against  his  back. He  shook  it off with a brief resolute
movement.  It  was Don Pifa, who had pushed  his way  back once more to  the
front.
     "It doesn't fit," he complained in a whining voice.
     The official looked up and regarded him with his tired, dull eyes.
     "Name? Rank?" he inquired.
     "It doesn't fit," repeated Don Pifa, and pulled and pushed the bracelet
that would hardly fit over three of his fat fingers.
     "It doesn't  fit ...  it  doesn't fit .  .  ." murmured one of  the two
officials and suddenly seized a  fat book that had been lying  on the  table
over in a comer.  The book looked ominous in its greasy, black cover.  For a
few seconds Don Pifa stared in confusion at  the book, then swiftly recoiled
one  step and without another word quickly stomped toward  the exit.  Voices
from the  queue began to complain: "Don't keep us waiting!... hurry up, will
you!"
     Rumata, too, left the table. You filthy beast. I'll show you a thing or
two!  thought Rumata.  The official started  loudly  to read from the greasy
black book  in a droning  voice: "In case said bracelet  should not fit  the
left  wrist, or if the purified person should not have a  left  hand .  . ."
Rumata walked around to the other  side of the table, stuck both  hands into
the box with the  bracelets, took out as  many as he could hold in his hands
and went his way.
     "Hey, hey," shouted  the  official  in  the same  monotonous tone, "the
motivation ..."
     "In  the  name  of  the  Lord,"  said Rumata  over  his  shoulder  with
significant emphasis. The official and Brother Tibak rose swiftly from their
seats and answered  confused:  "In  His name!" The  people  waiting  in line
stared after Rumata with envy and admiration.
     Rumata left the chancellery and made his way  toward the  Tower of Joy,
merrily jingling the iron rings on his left hand. It turned  out that he had
snatched nine iron rings but he could find enough place for only five on his
left arm. So he slipped the other four over  his right wrist. That's the way
the  bishop of  Arkanar intended to get rid of  me, he  thought.  Well, he's
barking up the wrong tree! His metal bracelets were clanking with every step
he made and in his hand  he held an important-looking  piece  of paper--form
6/17/11--  decorated  with many colorful  stamps. The  monks in  the street,
walking or riding toward him, quickly gave him a wide berth. Occasionally he
caught a glimpse in the crowd of his faithful spy and bodyguard,  who always
kept at a  respectful distance.  Rumata arrived at the gate of  the Tower of
Joy. He rattled  his swords in a menacing manner at the guard  who stuck out
his  head  in curiosity,  but who just  as quickly withdrew it when he heard
Rumata's  growl.  Rumata  passed through  the courtyard  and  descended  the
slippery, worn-out state down into  the semidarkness, only  relieved by some
primitive, sputtering oil lamps. Here was the entrance to the Holy of Holies
of  the former  Ministry  of Internal Security, the  royal  prison,  and the
torture chambers.
     Every ten  paces  along the vaulted corridor  he  could  see a stinking
torch  fastened  in  a  rusty holder  on the wall. Below  each torch  was  a
cavelike recess that ended in a small black door with a tiny window provided
with iron bars.  This was the entrance  to the prison cells; heavy bolts  on
the outside secured the doors. The corridors were teeming with people.  They
bumped into each other, ran back and  forth, shouted and screamed, trying to
give orders to each other. Bolts rattled and clanked, doors were  opened and
slammed, somebody  was being  beaten and cried  out in pain,  another  tried
desperately to  hold onto  the railing as  he  was dragged away, another was
shoved into a cell that was already overflowing with too many prisoners, and
another prisoner, whom some men were unsuccessfully trying to drag out of  a
crowded cell, clutched his neighbor  with  an  iron grip,  screaming all the
while: "Not  me, not  me!" The faces  of  the passing  monks were  eager and
puckered  up. Everyone was in  a  hurry, everyone performed duties  of great
importance to the State. Rumata intended first of all to find  out what  was
going  on in  this place. He wandered leisurely through a number of passages
and corridors, gradually venturing farther down the stairs. The lower floors
were  somewhat quieter. Judging  by the conversations he overheard, this was
the place where the graduates of the School for Patriots were examined. Clad
only  in  leather breechcloths,  the adolescents stood at the  doors of  the
torture chambers, leafed through old greasy manuals, and occasionally walked
over to a big wooden tub to drink water  from a tin cup that was fastened by
a chain to the  wall above. Horrible cries came from the chambers, the sound
of  thrashings,  and it smelled unmistakably of burnt flesh. And their talk!
Oh, that talk!
     "You know, the  rack has a screw  on top, and it got worn  out and went
right  through. Is that my fault, I ask you?  He had  them whip me for that.
'You rotten, stupid pig,' he said. 'You ape, go get five on your naked butt.
Then let me see you again.'"
     "If we only could find out who does the whipping. Maybe it's one of us,
a student. We could grease his palm--a few copper pennies would do the trick
..."
     "If you get a fat man, the spikes won't leave a mark in his flesh.  The
best thing to do is take a couple of red-hot needles and push the lard aside
a bit..."
     "Yes, but the  Lord's bonds are intended for  torturing only  the legs,
and the martyr's gloves, those with the screws, are specially for the hands,
remember?"
     "I almost exploded, brothers, I laughed so hard! I go inside to have me
a look--and who's lying there, all chained up? Fika  with the red  hair, the
butcher from down our street, he  always used to  box my ears,  when  he was
drunk. Now it's my turn, I said to myself, just wait..."
     "And Pekor with  the  thick lips was  dragged away this morning  by the
monks. He hasn't come back yet. Didn't show up even for the exam."
     "I was supposed to  work the meat grinder but I accidentally placed the
man sideways. Well, he broke  a few ribs, so  what? But you should have seen
Father Kin! He grabs me by the hair and kicks me in my behind with his heavy
boots. Boy, can he aim well! I saw stars! 'What's the idea,' he screamed  at
me; 'you're damaging the goods!"
     Just look here, friends. Come take a good look, thought Rumata while he
slowly  turned  his  head  from side to  side to get a  sweeping view of the
scene.  We're not  dealing  with mere  theory here. No one on Earth has ever
seen anything like it before. Just watch, listen, and film it all! And learn
to appreciate and love our own  era on Earth--oh, damn it-- and bow to honor
the  memory of those who  have lived through  times  like these! Just take a
long, close look at these disgusting faces--young, dull, indifferent, inured
to the worst kinds of bestialities;  but  don't  turn up your noses. Our own
ancestors weren't any better in their time.
     By now the young students had noticed him. A dozen pairs of eyes of all
shades stared at him.
     "Hey, look, the  noble don  deigns  to visit us  down  here. A bit pale
around the gills, eh, milord?"
     "I  say! I thought we were all done with noblemen?"  "They say  in such
cases they put water in front of them, but make the chain too short for them
to reach it..." "What's he nosing around down here for?" "I'd love to lay my
hands on  that  character. He'd answer every question, confess  anything I'd
ask him to, I bet.,.."
     "Keep it quiet! Not so loud, friends! He's quite capable of drawing his
sword all  of a sudden, just watch out . . . Look at all the  iron bracelets
he is wearing--and that slip of paper!"
     "I don't like it the way he is looking  at us.  Let's beat it, boys; we
don't want to mix with such unsavory characters!"
     Finally  they withdrew and left the scene,  hiding in some dark  comers
where   occasional  flashes  from  suspicious  spider  eyes  revealed  their
presence. Good riddance,  thought Rumata, they won't bother  me any more. He
was just about to tug at the cloak of one of  the monks  who hurried by down
the corridor, when he noticed three other monks in a comer  who were less in
a hurry and  quietly  concentrated  on their  business  at hand.  They  were
systematically    beating    a    henchman--probably    guilty    of    some
insubordination--with their heavy sticks. Rumata approached them.
     "In the name of the Lord," he said and clanked his iron bracelets.
     The monks lowered  their cudgels and  examined  Rumata. "In  His name,"
said  the  tallest of the three. 'Take me to  the  section supervisor!" said
Rumata. The  monks quickly  exchanged some glances. Meanwhile,  the henchman
crawled  behind a water tub to hide.  "What do you need him for?"  asked the
tall monk. Without a word, Rumata shoved the paper under the monk's nose.
     "Aha," said the monk. "Well, for the time being I am the supervisor for
this section."
     "Splendid," said Rumata and rolled up the piece of paper.
     "I am  Don Rumata. His Magnificence has made a  present to me of Doctor
Budach. Have him brought here!"
     "Budach?"  he said frowning. "Who is that supposed to be?" The monk put
his  hand under  his hood  and  noisily  scratched  his  head. "Budach,  the
troublemaker?"
     "No, no," said another monk. "The troublemaker is called Rudach. He was
released last night already. Father Kin in person removed his chains and led
him out of the building. But I--"
     "Nonsense, nonsense!" said Rumata impatiently and slapped the rolled-up
paper against his thigh. "Budach is the one who poisoned the King!"
     "Ah-aah," said the supervisor. "Now I know who you mean.  He's probably
already in the dungeon. Brother Pacca, go and have a look in number twelve."
Then he turned again to Rumata. "So, and you want to take him out of here?"
     "Of course," said Rumata. "He belongs to me now."
     "All right. Your Honor. May I have that paper? I must record everything
properly." Rumata handed him the form. The supervisor examined both sides of
the  paper,  devoting  special  attention  to the  seal, and  then  remarked
delightedly:
     "That's what I call a fine document! Pardon me, don, will you just step
aside for a moment and wait until we have finished this little business here
. . . Now where did that henchman get to?"
     The  monks searched  for  the  hangman, who had  apparently treated the
tortured  prisoners  too tenderly for  the new master's taste. Rumata walked
away.  The monks found the hangman, pulled  him  from behind  the  water tub
expertly,  laid him out flat on the  floor and then started to work him over
again  with  their sticks  without  displaying  any  particular  passion  or
cruelty. Five minutes later, the first monk,  who had been sent off to fetch
Doctor Budach,  reappeared.  The monk  came  around  a bend in the  corridor
pulling behind him a  rope that had been  fastened  around  the neck  of  an
emaciated gray-haired old man in dark clothes.
     'There you have your man! You  old Budach!" shouted  the monk  joyfully
while still at a distance. "He hadn't been thrown into the dungeon yet; he's
alive and well! Just a bit weak, probably hasn't eaten in quite a while."
     Rumata  walked toward them, yanked the rope  out of  [:] the
monk's hand, and removed the noose from the old man's neck.
     "Are you Budach from Irukan?" asked Rumata.
     "Yes," said the old man.
     "I  am Rumata. Follow me and try to keep up with  me!" Rumata turned to
the monks. "In the name of the Lord," he said.
     The  supervisor straightened  up, let  his stick  sink  to his side and
answered, breathing heavily: "In His name!"
     Rumata turned his attention back to Doctor Budach. He saw that the  old
man was leaning against the wall, hardly able to keep on his feet
     "I am nauseated and  very weak," he said,  and a sickly smile came over
his face. "Please forgive me, noble don!"
     Rumata took him by the arm and led  him along the corridor. As soon  as
the  monks no longer could see them, he stopped and took from a small vial a
Sporamin pill. He handed it to Budach who questioned him with his eyes.
     "Just swallow it," said Rumata, "you'll feel better directly."
     Budach was  still  leaning against the  wall. He  took the tablet  from
Rumata's  hand,  examined  it  carefully,  sniffed at  it, raised his shaggy
eyebrows, then cautiously placed the pill on his tongue and tasted it.
     "Swallow it, just swallow it," said Rumata with a friendly smile.
     Budach swallowed the pill.
     "Mmm," he said.  "And  I thought I  knew  everything there was  to know
about medicines." He fell  silent again and observed the changes  that  soon
came over his body. "Mmm," he said again. "Interesting! Dried spleen  of the
wild sow Y? Np, can't be, I can't taste any putrefaction."
     "Let's go," said Rumata.
     They walked  along the corridors,  then  up  some  stairs,  turned into
another passage,  a  few  more steps  again. Suddenly Rumata stopped  in his
tracks as if struck by lightning. A wild and familiar roar filled the prison
vaults. From somewhere inside one of the cells curses boomed out damning God
and  the  world; it was the  thundering voice of  his dear  friend the baron
Pampa,  Don Bau de Suruga de Gatta de Arkanar.  With his stentorian voice be
cursed God  and all the saints he  could think of, Don Reba, the Holy Order,
and many  more.  So the  baron fell into their  clutches after  all, thought
Rumata  very contritely. I had  completely  forgotten about him. He wouldn't
have forgotten  me ...  Rumata quickly  slipped  two bracelets off  his  own
wrist, placed them on Doctor Budach's thin arms and said:
     "Walk upstairs now, but stay inside the building. Wait for me somewhere
in some hidden comer. If anybody should bother you, just show him these iron
circlets and you'll be left alone."
     Baron Pampa roared and howled like an atomic icebreaker plowing through
the Polar fog. A thundering  echo reverberated in the vaulted building.  The
people  in  the corridors  stiffened and  listened attentively, their mouths
wide open. Many quickly passed (heir  thumbs across their faces in  order to
chase  away  the evil spirits. Rumata raced down two stairs and hurled aside
the monks that tried to block his way. With his two swords he forced his way
through the throng of  the graduating students of the  School for  Patriots,
and kicked in the  door of the cell. The whole room shook with Baron Pampa's
bellowing  voice. The flickering  light of the  torches  revealed  a strange
sight: His friend Baron Pampa, this mountain of a man, had been strung up by
the legs  and was hanging face  down  and stark naked. His face had turned a
bluish-black  color  from the congestion  of blood in  his  head. At a small
table with crooked  legs sat  a hunchbacked official holding his  hands over
his ears;  a perspiring  torturer  --who somehow resembled a dentist--busied
himself with his clinking instruments in an iron vat.
     Rumata  dosed the  door,  stepped up to  the  torturer from  behind and
struck him on the  head with the hilt of  his sword.  The  torturer  wheeled
around, his  hands  flew  up to  his  head,  he lost  his balance  and  fell
backwards  into the  tub. Rumata drew  his other sword  from its  sheath and
hacked the table in  two  where the official  had been silting shuffling his
papers. The torturer sat in the tub hiccupping violently, while the official
swiftly crawled on  all fours into a  comer of the cell. Rumata stepped over
to  the baron and tried  to  loosen the chains by  which  his feet  had been
fastened to  the wall. At the second  try he succeeded in yanking the chains
down. Carefully,  he helped the baron to  get  back on his  feet. The  baron
abruptly  ceased to roar, stiffened in  a peculiar pose, then hastily pulled
and tugged at his bonds and freed his hands.
     "I can't believe my eyes,"  he bellowed, rolling  his blood  shot  eyes
from side to side. "It's you, my noble friend! I've found you at last!"
     "Yes,  my friend, here I am,"  said Rumata. "But let's get out of here.
This is no place for you!"
     "Beer!"  said the baron. "I've seen beer  somewhere in this place."  He
walked  around the cell, dragging the  rest of his chains behind him on  the
floor and  did not  stop roaring and  bustling about. "Half the night I  was
chasing through town! And damn it, they told me  you had been arrested, so I
beat up a number of people, one after the other. And I was convinced I would
find  you here in this prison!  Well, and  here  you are indeed, as it turns
out."
     He went over to the torturer  and with one move of his mighty arm swept
him and the tub aside as  if he were busy dusting off something.  Beyond the
space where the  tub had stood  appeared now  a small barrel.  With his bare
fist the baron smashed in its bottom, threw back his  head, opened his mouth
wide  and let the  contents pour  down  his throat.  A torrent  of beer  ran
gurgling into his gullet. What a guy, thought Rumata as he watched the baron
with great pleasure. Looks like an ox,  like some brainless bull, but still,
he went looking for me,  wanted to rescue me, and most likely landed here in
this prison because of me . .  . and he did all this out of  his own accord.
Thank God there are some human beings on this world  after all, as rotten as
it is. How lucky it's turned out all right in the end!
     The baron had drained the barrel dry and hurled it into the comer where
the official's  teeth could  be  heard loudly chattering. Now a  squeal came
from that comer.
     "That's  better," said the baron and wiped his beard  with the back  of
his hand. "Now I'm  ready to follow you. Does it matter that I have  nothing
on?"
     Rumata looked  around the room, walked  over  to the torturer and shook
him out of his leather breechcloth.
     "Take that for the time being," he said.
     "You are right,"  said the  baron  and  tied the breechcloth around his
loins. "It would be most improper to appear naked before the baroness."
     They  left the torture chamber. Nobody had  the courage  to block their
way and the corridor was suddenly quite deserted for twenty paces.
     "I'll kill all  of them!" shouted  the  baron.  "They're  occupying  my
castle--they've  ordered somebody  by  the name of Father  Arima  to take up
residence there. I don't know whose  father he is, but I swear  to you  that
his  children will soon be orphans! Devil take  it, dear.  friend, don't you
agree that these ceilings  here are mighty low? I've already skinned the top
of my skull to the bone..."
     Finally they got out of the tower. For a moment the  spy and  bodyguard
became visible but he disappeared directly again in the crowd. Rumata gave a
sign to Budach  to follow him. The  crowd in front of the gate parted before
them  as  if they  had tried  to scatter them  with a sword. They could hear
shrieks that an important state  criminal had fled, fingers pointed to them,
and voices  growled:  "Just  look at  that naked devil,  the famous Estorian
hangman!"
     The baron  walked to the center of the square,  stopped and halfway had
to close his eyes because of  the bright sunlight. Speed was  of the essence
now. Rumata quickly sized up  the situation. "My horse was somewhere  around
here," said the baron. "Hey you there! My horse!"
     Over in the paddock where the horses of the  cavalry of the order  were
prancing, a wild commotion arose.
     "Not that one!"  crowed  the  Baron. "That one  over  there,  the  gray
piebald stallion."
     "In the  name of  the  Lord!" yelled  Rumata belatedly and  pulled  his
circlet down over his forehead.
     A frightened little monk in a dirty cloak brought the Baron his horse.
     "Give  him something, Don  Rumata," said the baron  and raised  himself
with difficulty up onto his saddle.
     "Stop, stop!" came loud shouts from the tower.
     Several  monks  came  running  across  the  square,  brandishing  their
cudgels. Rumata gave the baron one of his swords.
     "Hurry up, baron. Quick!" he said.
     "Yes,"  said  Baron  Pampa. "I must  speed  on. That  Arima is probably
cleaning out my whole wine  cellar in the  meantime.  Ill  expect you  at my
castle,  tomorrow  or  the  day  after,  my friend.  Any  messages  for  the
baroness?"
     "Kiss her hand for me," said Rumata. The monks were almost upon them by
now. "Faster, faster, baron!"
     "Are  you out of danger yourself,  my  friend?" the baron pressed.  His
voice betrayed that he was still concerned about Rumata's safety.
     "Yes, damn it, yes! Move on!"
     The baron dashed off and rode at full  speed directly into the crowd of
monks. One of them fell to the ground, another one tumbled, there was a loud
whine, a great cloud of dust arose, the horses' hooves rapped sharply on the
cobblestones -- and the baron was out of sight. Rumata was just looking down
a lane which led off the square and where those who had been knocked over in
the  tumult  had  taken  refuge. Suddenly an  insistent  and  stealthy voice
sounded in his ear:
     "But,  my  noble  don,  don't  you  think  you are  taking  unwarranted
liberties here?"
     Rumata spun  around  and  found  himself  peering  into  the affectedly
smiling face of Don Reba.
     "Unwarranted?" said Rumata. "That word doesn't exist for me."
     Suddenly  he remembered Don Sera. "And  anyway,  I can't  see why noble
dons should not help each other in case of distress."
     A  group of  heavily breathing  monks  rode  quickly  past  them, their
halberds held ready for action, in hot pursuit of Baron Pampa. A change came
over Don Reba's face.
     "All right then,"  he said. "Forget it. Oh, isn't this the most learned
Doctor Budach here? You look splendid, Doctor. I think I ought to inspect my
prison. Criminals of  State, including  released prisoners, must never go on
foot when they leave. They should be carried out."
     Doctor Budach stormed toward Don Reba  with the  movements  of a  blind
man. Rumata quickly stepped between the two men.
     "By the way, Don Reba," he said, "what do you think of Father Arima?"
     "Father Arima?" Don Reba raised his eyebrows.  "An outstanding warrior.
Occupies a high position in my episcopate. What is that question supposed to
mean?"
     "As a faithful  servant of Your Magnificence," said Rumata with obvious
malicious  relish of the situation, "I hasten  to  inform  you  that you may
consider this high position as vacant."
     "How come?"
     Rumata glanced down the lane where the yellow dust had not yet settled.
Don Reba, too, looked that way. A worried expression came over his face.
     It was already late in the afternoon when Kyra asked her noble Lord and
his most learned guest to come to the table.
     Now that  Doctor Budach had bathed,  carefully shaved, and changed into
fresh clothes,  he made  a  pleasant  and imposing impression. His movements
were deliberate and  dignified, his intelligent  gray  eyes peered out  from
under his shaggy eyebrows in a benevolent and somewhat condescending manner.
First of  all he apologized to Rumata for his impetuous behavior  toward Don
Reba during their encounter on the square.
     "Please understand me," he  said. "He's a hideous person, a monster who
came into  this world  only  because  of  some  divine  oversight.  I  am  a
physician, but I'm not ashamed to admit  that I would kill him if I only had
an  opportunity  to  do so. It  has come to  my  ears that the King has been
poisoned.  And now I do understand how he  perished." Rumata sat up and took
notice. "That Reba came into my cell and demanded I should mix a poison  for
him which would  become effective a few hours later. Of course, I refused to
do so. He threatened to have me tortured -- I laughed in his face. In reply,
he  summoned his torturers and ordered them to bring a dozen boys and girls,
not more than  ten years  old. He lined  them up in  front of  me, opened my
medicine bag and declared  he would try out all my medications one after the
other on  these  pitiful human guinea pigs until he found the right one. And
this is the way the King was poisoned, Don Rumata."
     Budach's  lips began  to  tremble, but  he soon regained his composure.
Rumata  nodded knowingly  and  turned  aside, so  as  not  to embarrass  his
scholarly guest. Now  I  finally understand, he thought. I understand it all
now. The  king would never  have accepted  anything  from the hands  of  his
ministers,  not  even  a  dill  pickle.  So  the  wicked rogue foisted  some
fifth-rate charlatan  off  on the king by  promising  that no-good nobody to
make him the king's personal physician as a  reward  for  curing  his ailing
legs. And now it's clear why Don Reba  felt so triumphant when I compromised
him  in the royal  bedchamber:  one  would have  been hard-put to  imagine a
better way to  slip the king  a false  Budach. The entire responsibility now
fell on the  shoulders of Rumata from Estoria, the Irukanian conspirator and
spy.  We are real  greenhorns, he thought.  Just like silly little  innocent
puppies. They ought to teach a special course for feudal intrigues back home
at the Institute. And they should introduce another course on how to acquire
the right  qualifications for properly sizing up the Rebas of  the universe,
large  and small.  Doctor Budach was quite obviously starving. Nevertheless,
he  politely yet very  definitely refused  all  meat dishes  and devoted his
attention  exclusively to the  salads, pastas and desserts. He  also drank a
glass of fine Estorian wine and his eyes  began  to sparkle again; a healthy
blush spread over his cheeks. Rumata could not swallow even a bite. He could
still see  in his  mind's eyes the crackling,  smoking,  scarlet torches; he
could still smell the odor of burnt flesh. He felt a big lump in his throat.
And thus  he  waited, until  Doctor  Budach had eaten  his  fill, while  he,
Rumata,  leaned against  the window  sill, conversing politely,  slowly  and
calmly, to avoid disturbing the guest who was enjoying his meal.
     Slowly,  life returned  to  the city. People  appeared  in the  streets
again, voices could be heard, growing louder  and louder, accompanied by the
pounding of  hammers and the cracking  of wood: they were knocking down  the
wooden  idols  from the walls and the gabled roofs. A bald,  fat  shopkeeper
pushed a cart  laden with a barrel of beer in front of him  so he could sell
it later  on  the square  for  two pennies a  jug. People walked arm in arm,
slapping each other on the back in a friendly fashion. Under the arched gate
across the  street he  could  see his spy and bodyguard talking  with a thin
woman. Carts  passed under  his window  piled high with something.  At first
Rumata  failed  to  understand what  kind  of carts these were  but then  he
noticed blue-black hands and  feet sticking out from under the hemp matting.
He quickly walked away from the window.
     "Man's nature," said Budach while chewing leisurely, "is  characterized
by his ability to adjust to everything. There is nothing in this world  that
man  cannot  adjust  to. Neither  horses  nor  dogs  possess  this  ability.
Presumably when God created man he considered the tortures to which he would
subject man on  this  earth,  and therefore equipped him  with a  tremendous
capacity  for endurance. Of  course, it's difficult to  say whether  this is
good or bad. If man  had not  been  endowed with such potential for patience
and suffering, then all good people  would have  perished long  ago and only
the wicked and  soulless would  remain.  On the  other hand,  tolerance  and
adaptability  make men  dumb  beasts, distinguishable from animals  only  on
corporal  structure,  even  surpassing  the lowly  beasts  in their  lack of
ability to  defend themselves. And each new day brings forth  new horrors of
wickedness and brutality ..."
     Rumata glanced  over in Kyra's direction.  She  sat opposite Budach and
attentively listened to his words,  one cheek resting on her hand.  Her eyes
were filled with grief: it was obvious how sorry she felt for mankind.
     "You  are  probably right, dear Doctor  Budach," said Rumata. "But take
me,  for instance.  I am nothing but a simple  don  of high birth." Budach's
high  forehead became wrinkled like a washboard and his  eyes grew wide with
amazement and amusement. "I love learned people more than anything; I admire
their nobility  of  spirit. But on  the other  hand  I  completely  fail  to
understand why you, who are  men of science and the sole representatives  of
intellectual  life  and wisdom,  remain  so  hopelessly passive? Why  do you
surrender without any resistance  to contempt, why do you permit  yourselves
to be thrown into prisons, why do you accept your fate and let yourselves be
burnt at the stake? Why do you separate your raison d'etre -- the search for
new knowledge -- from the practical demands of life,  the  fight against all
evil?"
     Budach pushed back his empty dish.
     "You ask strange  questions, Don Rumata," he said. "Oddly enough, I was
confronted  with  these self-same questions  by  the honorable Don  Hug, the
duke's  chamberlain. Are  you  acquainted with him  by any  chance?  Yes,  I
thought so  .  . . Indeed, the fight against evil! But what  actually  do we
understand by 'evil'?  After  all,  everyone is at liberty to interpret this
concept of  evil  in his  own  way.  For  us,  the scholars,  evil  lies  in
ignorance; the Church, however,  teaches ignorance  to be bliss and that all
evil comes from knowledge. For the peasant, evil consists  of high taxes and
drought; for the grain merchant, however, drought is very propitious. Slaves
see  the evil embodied in the person of a drunken, hardhearted master, while
the artisans regard an avaricious  moneylender as evil personified. Tell me,
then, what is the evil  we  are supposed to  fight,  Don  Rumata?" He cast a
saddened glance at his interlocutor. "Evil  cannot be eradicated. No man  is
capable of curtailing its growth in this world. The individual might improve
his own lot, perhaps, but always only at  the expense of sealing the fate of
others.  And  there  will always be kings, who can be distinguished from one
another by the degree of their cruelty, and there will always be, too, crude
and debauched barons, the same  as  there will  always  be stupid folk,  the
ignorant  masses,   who  show  delight  toward  their  oppressors  and  who,
paradoxically, meet their liberators with hatred. This  can all be explained
by the strange phenomenon that servants and slaves  understand their masters
(even  the most  cruel)  so  much  better  than their liberators;  for  each
subjugated  slave can easily picture himself in the place of his master, but
it's a rare one who can visualize himself in the role of his liberator. This
is the way of human beings, Don Rumata; this is what our world is like."
     "The world undergoes constant changes. Doctor Budach," said Rumata. "We
know of a time when there were no kings at all..."
     "The world  cannot keep on changing  forever,"  countered Budach,  "for
nothing is  forever, not even change itself . . . We do not know the laws of
completed perfection but  completion  will be  reached  some day, sooner  or
later. Examine, for example, the structure of our society. How  pleasant for
the eye of the beholder to regard this geometrically perfect system! Down at
the very bottom come the peasants and the artisans, above them the noblemen,
then the clergy, and finally  the king. How meticulously everything has been
calculated! What  steadfastness, what constancy,  what  harmonic order! What
change  could ever  occur in this cut crystal from  the hand  of  our divine
jeweler?  There  is  no  structure in  this  world that  is  superior  to  a
pyramid--as  any well-trained architect will confirm."  He raised  a finger,
punctuating  each  remark with a slight stab in the  air.  "When grain pours
from a  sack, it does not spread  out flat in a plane area, but  will form a
so-called conical pyramid. Each  little grain adheres to the next, trying to
avoid the fall to the ground.  And this is the  way it goes with mankind. In
their attempt  to form some kind of  an entity, men must cling together, and
inevitably they form a pyramid."
     "Do you seriously consider this world the best of all possible worlds?"
asked  Rumata  astonished.  "After  your  encounter  with  Don   Reba,  your
experiences in jail?"
     "Of course not, my young friend! There are many things I do not like in
this world,  I'd like to see many things  changed. But what should we do? In
the eyes of the Supreme Power, perfection presents quite a different picture
than  in mine. What sense  would it make  for a tree  to complain that it is
rooted to the spot,  although it would be most happy to be able to move away
in order to escape from the woodcutter's ax?"
     "But if it were possible to change the decisions of the Supreme Power?"
     "Only the Supreme Power itself is capable of doing so,"
     "But just imagine you had divine authority to act . . ."
     Budach laughed.
     "If I could imagine being God, I would become God!"
     "All right, suppose you had the opportunity to give God some advice?"
     "You have a  fertile imagination,"  said Budach amused. "That  would be
splendid. You know the Holy Scriptures? Wonderful! I'd be happy, to carry on
a conversation with you."
     "You flatter  me. But still, what advice  would  you give the Almighty?
What, in your opinion, would the Almighty have to do  so that  you'd be able
to say: the world is now truly good and beautiful?"
     Budach  smiled approvingly, leaned comfortably back in his armchair and
folded his hands across his stomach. Full of interest and anticipation, Kyra
peered into the physician's face.
     "All  right  then,"  he  said,  "if  you  so  desire. I would tell  the
Almighty:  'Great Creator, I do not know  your plan; maybe it's  simply  not
your intention to make mankind good  and happy. Nevertheless, I beg you: let
it  happen--it  would be  so  easy for you to accomplish--that all men  have
sufficient  bread,  meat, and wine! Provide  them with shelter and clothing,
let  hunger  and want disappear  from the face of the  earth,  and  all that
separates men from each other."
     'That would be all?" asked Rumata.
     "Does it seem too little to you?"
     Rumata shook his head slowly from side to side.
     "God would  answer  you: This would be no blessing for mankind. For the
strong of your world take away from the  weak  whatever I gave them and  the
weak would be as poor as before."
     "I would beg  God to protect the poor. "Enlighten  the cruel rulers,' I
would say."
     "Cruelty  is a mighty force.  Once the  rulers  rid themselves of their
cruel ways they would lose their power. And other cruel men would take their
place."
     Budach's friendly face grew suddenly somber.
     "Then punish the cruel men," he said with determination, "and lead them
away  from the path  of  evil, so that the strong  may not be cruel to their
weaker brothers."
     "It is man's nature to be weak from the moment he is born. He will only
grow strong when there is no one  stronger than he is. And if the cruel ones
among the strong are punished and removed from their ranks, they will simply
be replaced by the  relatively stronger ones  from among  the  throng of the
weak. And the newly strong ones  will become cruel in their turn. That would
mean  that eventually all men would  have  to be punished, and this I do not
want to do."
     "You  have  greater  insight, Almighty  Lord.  Therefore  arrange  that
mankind will  obtain  all they  need and thus avoid that  they will rob each
other of whatever you gave them."
     'This  solution  wouldn't  be  a blessing for mankind  either,"  sighed
Rumata. "They would not reap profit from this. For if they obtain everything
from my hand  without any effort on their part, they will  forget what it is
to  work and  labor; they will lose their taste  for living. As time goes on
they'll become domestic animals  whom  I will have  to feed  and clothe--and
that for all eternity."
     "Don't give  them everything at once!"  said Budach excitedly. "Give it
to them slowly, gradually!"
     "Gradually mankind will take everything they need anyhow."
     Budach's smile became embarrassed.
     "Now I can  see that things are not quite  so simple,"  he said.  "I've
never really thought about the problems ... I believe we have  discussed all
possibilities now.  However," he leaned forward, "there exists still another
possibility:  Ordain that  mankind  will love work and knowledge  above all,
that  work and  wisdom will  be  regarded  by them as  their sole reason for
being!"
     Yes, thought Rumata, we've  already considered such  experiments.  Mass
hypno-induction,  positive  remoralization, exposure  to hypnotic  radiation
from three equatorial satellites ...
     This is an alternative I might choose  perhaps," he said. "But could it
be justified if I were to rob mankind of its history? Does it  make sense to
replace one type of man  with  another? Would  this not mean in the end that
one would wipe this mankind off the face  of the earth and create another in
its place?"
     Budach  frowned  and remained silent, busy with his own  thoughts. From
below the windows came again the melancholy groaning of heavily laden carts.
Suddenly Budach spoke softly:
     "Then,  oh,  Lord, remove  us from the face of the  earth and create us
anew,  make  us  better  men  this  time,  more  perfect beings. Or,  better
still--leave us the way we are, but ordain that we can follow our own path!"
     "My heart is  heavy with sorrow," Rumata  said slowly, "but this is not
within my power."
     And he suddenly became  aware of Kyra's eyes which she  had fastened on
him with great intensity. There was fear and hope in her glance now.

NINE
     Rumata led Doctor Budach to  a bedroom to  rest  for  the  long journey
ahead,  and then went to his study. The Sporamin  had  worn off, and he felt
exhausted;  his  wounds began  to  hurt again, and  his  wrists--they  still
smarted from the  rope burns--started to swell. I should  lie down and sleep
now  for a while, he thought, I simply  must get some sleep; then I ought to
get in touch  with Don Kondor.  I should also  communicate with Controls and
have them report everything  to  headquarters. We need  to decide what to do
now -- if there is anything we can do  at all.  And how we  should behave in
case there's nothing we can do.
     As Rumata entered his  study, he saw a black monk sitting at the table,
his  hood pulled down over  his eyes.  He was all bent over and had his arms
hidden in his wide sleeves.
     "What  are you doing here?" asked  Rumata,  very tired. "Who let you in
here?"
     "Greetings, noble Don Rumata," said the monk and pulled back his hood.
     Rumata shook his head gently.
     "Well, I'll be damned!" he said. "Greetings to you, my good Arata. What
brings you here? What has happened?"
     "The usual," said Arata. "The army has broken  up, the men are dividing
up the  land among  themselves and nobody wants  to  go  south. The  duke is
gathering those of his warriors who have escaped unscathed,  and it won't be
long now before  he starts stringing up my peasants by their  feet along the
Estorian tract. Everything as usual," he repeated.
     "I understand," said Rumata.
     He threw himself down on the divan, leaned his head back on his crossed
arms and regarded Arata. Twenty years earlier, when Anton  had built  models
with his erector set and played William Tell back on Earth, the man had been
known as Arata the Fair, and he was quite a different person at that time.
     At  that time Arata the Fair had not  yet acquired  the horrible purple
scar on  his high  forehead. He bore the scar ever since  the  mutiny of the
Soanian sailors--three thousand  naked, enslaved workers who had been driven
from all corners of  the  realm to the wharves of  Soan and who  had already
become so brutalized that they had almost lost their drive for survival. One
dark night they swarmed  out of  the harbor area  and attacked Soan, leaving
nothing but bodies  and raging fires behind. Finally they were received near
the edge  of the town by  the imperial infantry,  well equipped  with  steel
armor...
     And at that time, of course,  Arata still had two healthy eyes. He lost
his right eye through the vigorous blow of a cudgel, struck by a baron, when
a  peasants' army, twenty-thousand men strong, planned to invade the capital
in order to ferret out the baronial gangs, and when instead they encountered
the imperial guard, five  thousand men strong, on  the open field. They were
split up  into small groups, surrounded, and finally trampled to death under
the pointed iron shoes of the fighting camels ...
     In those days, Arata the Fair was still as  straight  as a poplar tree.
He acquired his hunchback (and with it his new nickname) after the battle in
the dukedom of Uban, two oceans removed from here, when after seven years of
pest  and drought, four-hundred-thousand living  skeletons seized their  hay
forks and threshing flails,  chased away the noblemen and besieged  the Duke
of Uban in his residence. However, the duke, whose weak mind suddenly became
strong  in  the face of this unbearable strain and fright, declared  himself
willing to forgive his subjects, lowered the price of intoxicating beverages
and promised his serfs freedom. Arata, seeing that all was lost, ordered and
implored  them in a desperate roar, not to swallow this treacherous bait; he
was  then seized by  the Atamans,  who believed that nothing good  should be
expected  from a good man; they beat him with iron rods and threw him into a
pit, leaving him to die a miserable death ...
     But the heavy iron ring on his  right  wrist probably went  back to the
time when he was still called the Fair One. The ring had been forged at  the
end of a chain to the rudder of a pirate's galley, and  Arata had ripped the
chain apart,  struck  a blow against the temple of Captain Ega the Gracious,
captured first the  ship and  then the entire pirate's fleet, and  then  had
tried to found  a free republic on the ocean. And the whole enterprise ended
in a blood fight, for at that time Arata was still a  young  man who had not
learned how to hate and who believed that the gift of freedom was sufficient
in itself to render a slave into a godlike creature...
     He  was a professional rebel, an avenger by the grace of God, a  figure
that is not often  encountered during the Middle Ages.  Historical evolution
gives birth  to such pikes only  from time  to time, releases them into  the
deep gulfs of society  to stir up the fat carps who sit and dream in the mud
at the bottom of the  abyss . . . Arata was the only person here whom Rumata
neither hated nor pitied. And in the heated dreams of this citizen of Earth,
who  had  spent almost  five  years in  blood and  stench, he frequently saw
himself  as a figure resembling Arata. He had gone through  all the infernal
torments of this universe and was rewarded for it with  the privileged right
to slay the murderers, to torture the torturers, and to betray the traitors.
     "Sometimes it seems," said Arata, "that we  are all powerless. I remain
forever the leader of  mutineers  and I realize that my strength is based on
my  extraordinary  vitality.  But  this  strength  does  not help me  in  my
powerless state. As if by magic,  my victories change into defeat. My allies
in  battle become my enemies,  the  most  courageous  desert  me,  the  most
faithful  betray  me  or perish. And  nothing  remains to me but my own bare
hands. But one cannot reach the golden idols behind  the fortress walls with
bare hands ..."
     "How did you get to Arkanar?" asked Rumata.
     "With the monks."
     "You're crazy! You're so easy to recognize."
     "But not among monks. Among the crowds of officers of  the  Holy  Order
nearly half are made up of divine fools and cripples like myself. The maimed
and the deformed are a pleasing sight in God's eyes."  He stared straight at
Rumata and laughed.
     "What do you intend to do now?" asked Rumata and lowered his eyes.
     "The same as always. I know the Holy Order. Before the year is out, the
people of  Arkanar will arm themselves and crawl out of their holes--they'll
chop  each other  to  bits  with  their  axes. I'll  lead them so  that they
slaughter not each other, but  rather  those  who  deserve it." "Do you need
some money?" asked Rumata.
     "Yes, as usual. And weapons . . ." He fell silent. Then he narrowed his
eyes and said; "Don Rumata, do  you remember how disappointed  I was when  I
found out who  you really are?  I hate the shavelings, and it hurts me  that
their tissue, of  lies proved  to  be the truth. But  unfortunately,  a poor
rebel is  forced to profit from  circumstances of all kinds. The priests are
saying that the gods have thunderbolts at their disposal . . . Don Rumata, I
urgently  need such  thunderbolts,  to be able to  smash the  walls of these
fortresses."
     Rumata  sighed deeply.  Following  his  miraculous  rescue,  Arata  had
ceaselessly  demanded explanations. Rumata had  once even  attempted to tell
about himself, he even once showed him  Sol, the sun of  his planet,  in the
nocturnal sky --a tiny, hardly  recognizable star. But the  rebel understood
only  one  thing:  The cursed  priests  were right, gods were indeed  living
behind  the  walls of the firmament, omniscient  and almighty gods. And from
that moment on, every conversation  he had with Rumata  would always lead to
the same point: God, since you do exist, lend me your strength, for this  is
the best that you can do for me. And each time Rumata made no reply or would
steer the conversation on to a different topic.
     "Don Rumata," said the rebel, "why don't you want to help us?"
     "Just a minute," said Rumata. "I beg your pardon, but first tell me how
you got into my house?"
     "That  isn't so important. No one besides me knows  the way.  But don't
try to sidetrack me, Don Rumata. Why don't you want to confer your powers on
us?"
     "We won't go into that."
     "Oh yes,  we will.  I did  not call  you. I have never asked a favor of
anybody. You came to me  of your own accord. Or did you  just want to have a
little fun?"
     It's hard to be a god, thought Rumata.
     Patiently, he answered:  "You  don't understand.  I have tried at least
twenty times to explain that I  am not a god-- and you wouldn't  believe me.
And neither will you comprehend why I cannot help you with my weapons."
     "Do you have thunderbolts?"
     "I cannot lend you the thunderbolt."
     "I've heard that story twenty times," said Arata. "Now  I want to know:
why not?"
     "I'll tell you once more: you won't understand."
     "So try once more to explain it to me."
     "What do you plan to do with the thunderbolt?"
     "I  will burn  the golden brood like  bedbugs, to  the  last man, their
cursed  kith  and  kin  down  to  the  twelfth  descendant I'll  wipe  their
fortresses off the face of  the earth. I'll burn their armies  and all those
whom they defend and support. You  can rest assured that your lightning will
serve a just cause, and once only the freed slaves remain on earth and peace
reigns everywhere, I shall  return  your thunderbolts to you and never again
ask you for them."
     Arata fell silent He was breathing heavily. His face had  turned almost
purple from  the  blood that had congested  his brain.  Apparently he  could
already see duchies and kingdoms going up in flames, the seared bodies lying
at  the scene  of  conflagration  and among  the  burnt-out  ruins, and  the
gigantic armies of the victors roaring triumphantly: "Liberty! Liberty!"
     "No," said Rumata. "I will not give the thunderbolt to you. It would be
a mistake. Try to believe me, I can see further than you can."
     Arata lowered his chin onto his chest. Rumata began to crack his finger
joints. "I'll tell  you just one of the reasons. Though it  is insignificant
compared  with the  main  reason,  you  will  understand  this one.  You are
brimming over with vitality, dear Arata, but even you are mortal. And if you
should perish  and the  thunderbolt should happen  to fall  into  the  wrong
hands,  those that are not quite as pure as yours, the mere thought of  what
this might lead to is unbearable ..."
     Neither spoke for some time. Then Rumata took out  a bottle of Estorian
wine and something to eat,  and placed  it  before his guest Without raising
his head, Arata started silently to bite off  chunks of bread and sip at the
wine. Rumata was overcome by a strange and morbid  schism within himself. He
knew he was right and yet this  awareness humbled him before Arata. Somehow,
Arata surpassed him; but  not him alone--Arata surpassed all the others that
came unbidden  to  this  planet  and observed with  full  impotent  pity its
teeming life from  the lofty peak of passionless hypotheses and alien  moral
standards.  And  for the first time  Rumata thought: Nothing can be acquired
without loss.  We  are  infinitely stronger than  Arata  within our realm of
goodness but infinitely weaker than he is within his realm of evil.
     "You  should not have descended from heaven," Arata remarked  suddenly.
"Go back. You are doing us here only harm!"
     "No, no," said Rumata. "We don't harm anybody here."
     "Oh, yes, you are harming us. You instill unfounded hopes in us."
     "Who, for instance?"
     "Me. You have weakened my will power, Don Rumata. It used  to be that I
relied only on myself, but now you have caused me to be always aware of your
strength standing  behind me. Formerly, I fought every battle  as if it were
my last  one.  But now I have noticed that  I preserve  my strength for  the
other battles, for  the decisive ones, because you will participate in them.
Leave this planet, Don Rumata, return to your  heavens,  and never come back
here. Or else, give  us  your thunderbolts, or  at least your iron  bird. If
nothing else, draw your sword and be our leader."
     Arata fell silent again and  reached for another piece of bread. Rumata
observed  Arata's hands, especially his fingers. Two  years ago, Don Reba in
person had torn out  the nails  of both hands with  some special device. You
know only  half  the  story,  thought Rumata . .  . You feel pacified by the
thought that you are the only one to be condemned to failure. You don't know
yet how hopeless your entire cause really is. You don't know that your enemy
is not to be found beyond the ranks  of your own soldiers, but rather within
themselves.  Perhaps  you will succeed in annihilating the Holy Order of the
Black monks and the  wave of the  peasant rebellion will carry you onto  the
throne  of Arkanar. You will  raze to  the ground the  castles of the feudal
lords and  drown  the barons  in the  bay. The rebellious masses will shower
you, their liberator, with  all  honors,  and you will be a  good  and  wise
ruler--the only good and wise man in your  entire kingdom; in your  goodness
you will  distribute all the land among your comrades-in-arms, but what good
will this land do your co-fighters without serfs? And the wheel will turn in
another direction again. And you'll be  getting off easy if you die a normal
death  and do not have to  watch the new barons and counts emerge from among
the ranks of your faithful collaborators of yesterday. All this has happened
time and again, my good Arata, back on Earth as well as on your planet.
     "You are silent?"  asked Arata. He pushed back his plate and  swept the
bread crumbs off the table with the sleeve of his cloak. "Once upon a time I
had a friend,"  he  said.  "You have probably heard  of him--Waga Koleso. We
started  out  together. Then he turned into a bandit, a dark prince  of  the
night. I have never forgiven him for this betrayal, and he  knows it. Later,
he would  help me a great deal--out of fear or vanity--but whichever way, he
did not wish to repent his ways: He had  goals of his own. Two years ago his
men  delivered  me into  the hands of Don Reba . .  ." He looked down at his
maimed fingers and clenched his  fist. "And this morning I caught him in the
harbor of Arkanar. Half-hearted friendships are impossible in our cause, for
half a friend--is always half an enemy."
     He rose and pulled the hood down  over his  eyes. "Will I find the gold
in  the usual place, Don Rumata?" "Yes," said  Rumata  slowly. "In the usual
place."  "I am  leaving now.  Thank  you, Don  Rumata." Almost inaudibly, he
crossed  the  study and disappeared  behind  the  door.  Downstairs, in  the
entrance hall, the door bolts clicked softly.

TEN
     "The Drunkard's Lair" was comparatively clean today; the floor had been
carefully swept and the table vigorously scrubbed. Bunches of sweet-smelling
herbs and  lavender lay in the comers.  Father  Kabani sat respectably  on a
bench  in  the comer. He was completely sober  and calm and  his clean hands
rested in his lap.
     While they waited for Budach  to fall asleep, they discussed everything
imaginable.  Budach,  who sat next  to  Rumata  at the  table, followed  the
lighthearted chatter  of the  noble dons with a  kind, indulgent smile. From
time  to time he would give a  sudden  start, when he was  just about to nod
off. His  hollow cheeks burned from the double dose of Tetraluminal they had
slipped  unnoticed into  his  food. The  old  man was highly excited and had
great difficulty falling asleep. Don Hug, filled with impatience, fingered a
camel's  horseshoe  underneath  the  table;  his  face,  however,  kept  its
appearance  of unaffected ease. Rumata  crumbled  his bread  into  balls and
followed with tired interest Don Kondor's  efforts to swallow his anger. The
Keeper of the Seal of State was  excessively  nervous since  he  had arrived
late  at the extraordinary  nocturnal  conference of  the twenty terrestrial
agents. The conference was to  deal with the  overthrow of the government in
Arkanar, and he was supposed to be the chairman.
     "My dear friends!" Doctor Budach said at last with a sonorous voice. He
stood up and immediately fell onto Rumata's shoulder.
     Rumata carefully put an arm around him.
     "Ready?" asked Don Kondor.
     "He won't  wake  up  till tomorrow morning,"  said Rumata, and  he took
Budach into his arms and carried him over onto Father Kabani's cot.
     Father Kabani said with jealousy:
     "You certainly take  good care of the doctor, but you forget  about old
Kabani. Well, then, gentlemen!"
     "I have fifteen minutes," Don Kondor said in Russian.
     "I  need only five minutes," answered Rumata. He could hardly  hide his
irritation. "And I've told you earlier so much about it that even one minute
will do now. In complete accordance with the basis theory of feudalism," his
furious glance was directed straight at Don Kondor's eyes, "this is merely a
normal confrontation between the burghers and the barons"--he looked over at
Don  Hug--"which developed, however, into  a  provoking intrigue of the Holy
Order and eventually made Arkanar a stronghold of feudal-fascist aggression.
We  are  sitting here,  racking  our  brains  in  an  attempt  to align  the
complicated, contradictory, and  enigmatic figure of  our Enlightened Eagle,
Don  Reba,  with  historical  personalities  of  similar  stature,  such  as
Richelieu, Oliver Necker, Tokugawa  Ledschasu, and Monk--and our eagle turns
out  to be  merely  a little insignificant hoodlum and dolt. He betrayed and
sold out anything  he could  lay his hands on; got caught in the web  of his
own intrigues, was overcome by mortal terror, then tried to save his skin by
throwing himself into the hands of the  Holy Order. Wait another six months:
they'll  cut  his  throat,  but  the  Order  will remain.  The  consequences
resulting from  this for the  coastal regions and eventually for the  entire
kingdom I simply dare not envision. One fact, though, is certain: our entire
work of  twenty years within the borders  of the kingdom  has  gone down the
drain.  There  is no  way  back under the regime  of the Holy Order.  In all
probability, Budach is the last person I'll be able to rescue. We won't save
anyone else; it's too late. That is all I have to say."
     Don  Hug finally broke the horseshoe in  two  and hurled  the fragments
into a comer.
     "That's quite a  setback,  to be sure," he  said.  "But  maybe it isn't
quite as bad as you think, Anton."
     Rumata glanced briefly at him.
     "You should have removed Don Reba," said Don Kondor suddenly.
     "What do you mean by 'removed'?"
     Red splotches spread over Don Kondor's face.
     "In a physical sense!" he said sharply.
     Rumata sat down.
     "Kill him?"
     "Yes! Yes! Yes!  Kidnap! Destroy!  Squash!  Kill  him! You  should have
acted and not  conferred with two idiots about  the  matter, men who had not
the vaguest notion what was really going on."
     "Neither did I!"
     "You sensed it, at least."
     There was an uneasy silence.
     Then  Don  Kondor started up  again. He spoke  softly and looked to one
side. "Something like the carnage at Barkan?"
     "Yes, something like it. Only better organized."
     Don Kondor bit his lips.
     "Would it be too late now to remove him from the scene?"
     "Completely senseless," said Rumata.  "First of all, they'll finish him
off  anyhow, with or without our assistance; and secondly,  it won't even be
necessary to kill him. He's eating out of my hand."
     "What do you mean?"
     "He's  afraid of me.  He senses that some mysterious power is  standing
behind me. He even suggested that we collaborate."
     "Really?" growled Don Kondor. "Then there's no point in doing it."
     Don Hug swallowed hard.
     "What  is the  matter  with you,  comrades,  are you  serious about all
this?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "Well, all this . . . everything ... to remove him, to kill him off ...
What has gotten into you, are you out of your mind?"
     "The noble don is cut to the quick," Rumata remarked softly. Don Kondor
chose his words deliberately and cautiously:
     "In  case of  extraordinary circumstances only extraordinary means  are
effective!"
     Don Hug let his eyes wander from one to the other, his lips trembling.
     "Do you ...  do you . .  . really know  what  you are getting into?" He
could hardly bring the words  to his lips.  "Do you realize  what this might
lead to?"
     "Calm down, please,"  said Don  Kondor. "Nothing will  happen. And now,
enough of that. What shall we do about the Holy  Order? I suggest a blockade
of the  area around  Arkanar.  What's your opinion, comrades? Make it quick,
will you, I'm in a hurry."
     "I have no opinion, not yet,"  replied Rumata. "And neither has Pashka.
Well have to confer with Controls. Let's wait a bit. We'll meet again in one
week and then come to a decision."
     "Agreed," said Don Kondor and stood up. "Let's go!"
     Rumata loaded Budach onto his  shoulders  and left  the hut. Don Kondor
lit  the way with a lantern. They  walked to the helicopter and  Rumata laid
Budach down on the back seat. Don Kondor's foot got caught in his long cloak
and he fell into the driver's seat with rattling swords.
     "Couldn't you take me home quickly?" asked Rumata.  "I have to get some
sleep."
     "Yes, yes," rumbled Don Kondor. "Make it quick, will you!"
     "I'll be right back," said Rumata and hurriedly returned to the hut.
     Don  Hug was still sitting at the table, staring vacantly ahead of  him
and rubbing his chin. Father Kabani, who stood beside him, said:
     "This is the way it always ends, my friend. You strive tooth  and nail,
try to do your best, and still it doesn't turn out right in the end ..."
     Rumata swiftly picked up his swords and his fez.
     "Cheer  up, Pashka," he said to Don Hug. "Don't  lose heart,  we're all
overtired and irritable."
     Don Hug shook his head vigorously.
     "Look  here,  Anton,"  he  said.  "Will you please  look!  I  won't say
anything about Uncle  Sasha. He's been here a long time, and we can't change
him any more. But you . . ."
     "I want to sleep, that's all I want now. Father Kabani, do me the favor
and take my horses and bring them to Baron  Pampa. I'll come to see him in a
few days."
     Outside, the  propeller started up a gentle  roar.  Rumata waved to his
friends  and ran  out  of the  hut. The  bright  light  streaming  from  the
helicopter's headlights  made the gigantic tangled growths  of the high fern
look ghostly against the  background  of the brilliant  white  trunks of the
birch trees. Rumata climbed into the cabin and slammed the little door.
     Inside  the  cabin it smelled  of  oxygen,  synthetic  wall-boards, and
cologne. Don  Kondor  let  the machine climb and  guided it with  nonchalant
assuredness  along the country road. I wouldn't be up  to that now,  thought
Rumata, a bit jealous. From  the back  seat came the  peaceful snore  of old
Doctor Budach.
     "Anton," said Don Kondor, "I'd like to ... that is, 1 don't ... I don't
want to be  tactless,  and please believe  me, I don't  want  to ...  uh ...
interfere with your personal affairs..."
     "I'm  listening," said Rumata. He knew  at once  what Don Kondor had in
mind.
     "We are scouts on a mission here," said Don Kondor. "And all we cherish
must either remain back on Earth or locked up inside ourselves. This way  it
can never be taken away from us or used for blackmail or as hostages against
us."
     "Are you referring to Kyra?" asked Rumata.
     "Yes, my friend. If  all  I have  heard about Don Reba is true, then it
will be neither easy nor safe  to  hold him back.  Do you  understand what I
mean?"
     "Yes, I understand," said Rumata. " I'll try to think of something."
     They lay next to each other holding hands in the  darkness. It was very
quiet now  in the city.  From the distance  came only an occasional neighing
and stomping of horses. From time to time Rumata would drop off into a light
sleep, but he woke up quickly again. Then Kyra would hold her breath; in his
sleep he clung tightly to her hand.
     "You  are  very,  very tired,"  said  Kyra  softly.  "Go to  sleep,  my
darling."
     "No, no, tell me all, I am listening."
     "You keep falling asleep, my darling."
     "I'm nevertheless  listening  to you.  You are  right,  I  am extremely
tired, but  I  am longing even more to be  near you  and to  listen to  your
words. I won't sleep. Just go an telling me, I'll pay attention, go ahead."
     Gratefully she rubbed her nose against his shoulder, kissed him  on the
cheek and picked up  her story again, how recently the  son of her  father's
neighbor had come to her one  evening at her father's bidding. "Your  father
is confined to his bed. They chased him from the office and beat him up with
sticks as a  farewell present. He hardly eats  anymore,  he just drinks. His
face looks bluish-gray, and he's got the shakes." The boy also told her that
her brother  had  appeared again, wounded,  but  happy and drunk,  in  a new
uniform. He gave some  money to  the father, had a few drinks with him, then
threatened  that  he  was  going to  slaughter all of  them.  He  is  now  a
lieutenant--goodness  knows  where--in some  special  detachment, has  sworn
loyalty to the Holy Order, and  will  soon  be knighted. Her father implored
her  not  to  come home,  at least  for  the  time being.  Her  brother  was
constantly threatening to disavow her since she, the red witch, had taken up
with some nobleman...
     Sure  enough, he  thought,  she  can't  go home  anymore. And under  no
circumstances can she stay here either. If anything should happen to her ...
He had vivid visions that some  evil would befall her.  Chills ran down  his
back at the mere thought.
     "Are you asleep?" asked Kyra.
     He gave a sudden start and relaxed the hand that had been squeezing her
little finger spasmodically.
     "No," he said, only half awake. "What else did you do?"
     "I tidied up your rooms; everything was in a terrible disorder. I found
a  book, a work by Father Our.  It  tells  about a noble prince who  loves a
beautiful but  primitive young girl from the mountain regions. She is really
a savage and thinks he is a god, but she still loves him with all her heart.
Then they become separated and she dies of grief."
     "It's a good book," said Rumata.
     "I even cried. I kept thinking it was about us, about you and me."
     "Yes, it concerns people like the two of us. And, in general, all human
beings  who are  in love  with  each  other. Except  that nobody  will  ever
separate us."
     The safest place for her  would be  on Earth, he thought. But  how will
she get along there without me? And how will I fare here, all alone? I could
ask Anka  to become your  friend. But  how  will  I  be able to  remain here
without you? No, we'll fly  to Earth,  but together! I myself will steer the
spaceship and you will sit beside me and I'll  explain everything to you. So
that you won't be afraid. So that you'll love Earth immediately. So that you
will never be homesick. This planet isn't  your  home at  all. Your home has
rejected  you. And you were  born  a thousand  years  before your  time.  My
darling,  you  good,  you dear,  you  selfless  girl,  willing to  sacrifice
yourself  .  . . people like you have been born in every epoch of the bloody
history  of our planets. Pure, unsullied souls who do not understand cruelty
and  who know no  hatred. Victims.  Unnecessary victims. Far  more senseless
still than the poet Our or Galileo. For people like  you are no fighters. In
order to be a fighter one has to  be able to  hate and this is  exactly what
you cannot do...
     Rumata dropped off to  sleep again. In his dreams he saw Kyra  standing
at the edge of a flat rooftop in Soviet Russia with  a degravitator fastened
to  her  belt. And  Anka, in gay and mocking mood, urging  Kyra  impatiently
toward the edge of a mile-deep abyss ...
     "Rumata," said Kyra, "I'm afraid!"
     "Of what, my darling?" .
     "You are always silent, forever silent I get an uncanny feeling..."
     Rumata pulled her closer to him.
     "All right, my darling,"  he said, "then I'll  talk  and you  pay close
attention to  me: Far, far  away from here,  beyond the  great forest, is  a
sinister-looking,  inaccessible  castle There  lives  Baron Pampa,  a merry,
happy  and good man the very best baron of  all of Arkanar. He has a wife, a
beautiful, kind woman, who loves Pampa when he is sober but who cannot stand
him when he is drunk..."
     He fell  silent and listened attentively. He heard the stomping of many
hooves in  the street and the loud snorting  of many men  and horses. "Looks
like it's here, eh?" asked a  coarse voice  under their windows. "Looks like
it, yes." "Ha-a-alt!"  The heels of many boots were clicked outside  on  the
steps  of  the terraced  staircase,  and  shortly  afterwards  several fists
hammered on the gate. Kyra was frightened and clung closely to Rumata.
     "Wait, my darling," he said and threw back the blankets.
     "They've come for me," she whispered, "I knew they would!"
     Rumata freed himself  with difficulty  from  her arms and rushed to the
window. "In the name of the Lord!"  they shouted down below. "Open up, it'll
go bad with you if  w have  to beat down  the front door!" Rumata pushed the
curtain  aside a bit and the dancing light of torches flitted into the room.
A  fairly large crowd of riders were  trampling  the  ground in front of the
house, somber  people, dressed in black  with pointed hoods on  their heads.
Rumata cast a  swift glance down below,  then looked and examined the window
frame. The frame was solidly anchored  in  the masonry. Downstairs they were
trying  to ram the front door. Rumata  groped for his sword  in the dark and
smashed the window  pane with the hilt A tinkling shower of splinters rained
down to the street.
     "Hey, you there!" he shouted down to them. "What's the matter with you?
You must be tired of living!"
     The pounding and ramming stopped.
     "They  always mess things up,"  came the  low voices  from below.  "The
master is home..."
     "And what should that matter to us?"
     "Don't you know? He's unbeatable with his swords in his hands..."
     "And they said he was away for  the night and wouldn't be  back  before
daybreak."
     "Scared?"
     "N-n-o,  we  aren't  scared. It's just  that we have no  orders  to  do
anything with him. No orders to kill him . . ."
     "Well tie him up, beat him  over the head, and then chain his legs  and
hands! Hey, who's fidgeting with their spears back there?"
     "If only he won't bash in our skulls ..."
     "No,  don't be afraid. They all say he  has the strange habit of  never
killing anybody."
     "I'll slit your throats like  puppies," said Rumata with  a frightening
voice.
     Kyra pressed herself against his back. Her heart was beating wildly; he
could  hear it. Downstairs the  screaming  commands  were flying: "Knock the
gate down, brothers! In the name of the Lord!"
     Rumata  turned around and looked into Kyra's eyes. She stared at him as
she had  done a little while ago,  with fear and  hope  in  her  glance. The
reflection of the torches shone in her dry eyes.
     "Come,  come, my little one,"  he said tenderly. "You aren't afraid  of
that mob? Go and get dressed. There's no sense in staying  here any longer."
Hastily  he  put on his metalloplast  shirt. "I'll chase them  away and then
well leave. We'll go to Baron Pampa's castle."
     She stood at the window and was looking  down  into the street Red dots
of light ran across her face. Sounds of smashing, splintering wood, clanking
metal came from downstairs. Rumata's heart seemed to  burst, it  was so full
of  pity and tender love for her.--I'll chase them away like mangy  dogs, he
thought. He bent down to pick up his other sword but when he straightened up
again, Kyra was no longer  standing at the  window. Her fingers clutched the
drapes as she slowly sank to the ground.
     "Kyra!" he cried.
     A bolt from  a crossbow had  pierced her throat, another stuck  in  her
chest. He seized her in his arms and carried her to the  bed, gently placing
her down  on the covers.  "Kyra . . . ," he called  out softly.  She  moaned
briefly and her limbs went limp. "Kyra,"  he said. She did not answer. For a
moment he  stood over her, then  he took his  swords, slowly walked down the
stairs  to the entrance hall and waited for the gate to give way under their
blows...


EPILOGUE
     "And then?" asked Anka.
     Pashka lowered  his eyes, slapped his knee several times with  the flat
of his palm, bent down and picked  a wild strawberry  growing on the  ground
near his feet. Anka waited.
     "Then .  .  .,"  he  murmured. "Actually, nobody  knows  for sure  what
happened then, Anka. He had left  his  transmitter  at home,  and  after the
house had burnt to the ground, they understood at Controls that things  were
not  going well, and  they  immediately  sent  a special emergency  squad to
Arkanar. They released a considerable amount  of sleeping gas over the city,
to cover all eventualities.  At first they looked at the house. But since it
was  totally burnt to the ground,  they were confused, not knowing  where to
look for him. But then they saw--"
     He became embarrassed and hesitated for a moment
     "Well, they saw the traces he had left behind."
     Pashka fell silent  again  and started popping one strawberry after the
other into his mouth.
     "And?" said Anka softly.
     "They came to the palace . . . That's where they found him."
     "How?"
     "Well ... he was  sleeping. And all the others  . , . around him . .  .
were also lying  on the ground. Some were asleep and others . . . well . . .
They also found Don Reba . . ." Pashka quickly glanced at Anka, then swiftly
lowered his eyes again. "They took him, that is, they took Anton and brought
him back to the station at the base . . . You see,  Anka, he doesn't tell us
about anything. And in general he talks very little now."
     Anka  sat bolt upright, very pale, and looked over Pashka's head toward
the  little meadow in front of the cabin in the woods. The fir trees rustled
their needles  as  they  swayed  in the breeze;  a pair of fat white  clouds
slowly drifted through the blue sky.
     "And what was the matter with the girl?" she asked.
     "I don't know," Pashka said firmly.
     "Listen, Pashka," said Anka, "maybe I shouldn't have come here at all."
     "Will you stop that nonsense! Of course he will be happy to see you..."
     "And  I have the  feeling he is  hiding somewhere here in  the  bushes,
watching us, and waiting for me to leave."
     Pashka laughed.
     "No, no," he said.  "Anton's  not hiding in the bushes, you can believe
me. He hasn't got the faintest idea  that you're here. He's gone off fishing
somewhere, as usual."
     "And how does he behave toward you?"
     "So-so. We get along all right. But didn't you want something else?..."
     They were both silent for a while.
     "Anka," said Pashka. "Do you remember the anisotropic road?"
     Anka frowned.
     "What kind of a road?"
     "The  anisotropic  road.  With  the  one-way  street  sign.  Don't  you
remember? We were there, the three of us ..."
     "Oh, yes. Now I remember. Anton used that word."
     "Yes, and then he entered the one-way road the wrong way and walked its
whole length; and when he returned he said he'd found a collapsed bridge and
the skeleton of a German chained to a machine gun."
     "I don't remember that part," said Anka. "What about it?"
     "Nowadays I often think back to that road," said Pashka. "Maybe there's
some connection somewhere ... the  road was anisotropic--just as history is.
There  is no way back.  And he went  right ahead  anyway. And  met up with a
chained skeleton."
     "I don't follow you. What do you mean by the chained skeleton?"
     "I don't know," admitted Pashka. "It's just an impression I have."
     Anka said:
     "See to it that he doesn't brood too much!  Try to keep him involved in
discussions about anything at all. Make small talk with him. Try to take his
mind off his worries."
     Pashka sighed deeply.
     "Oh, I know ... I've tried all of that. But what good does all my small
talk do him? He listens for a little while, smiles  and  says: 'Pashka,  why
don't you sit here? I'm going for a walk.' And then he goes off. And there I
sit ... In the beginning I used to follow him secretly; but  now I  only sit
here waiting for him to come back. Maybe you could--"
     All of a sudden  Anka got to her feet.  Pashka  stood up too and looked
around. Anka followed with bated breath as Anton emerged from  a clearing in
the woods  and  came walking toward them--very  tall, broad-shouldered,  his
face pale.  He seemed completely unchanged; he  had  always  had  a  serious
expression on his face.
     She walked to meet him.
     "Anka," he said tenderly. "Anka, my little friend ..."
     He  held his  long arms out to her.  Timidly she  leaned forward,  then
quickly jumped back a step. On his fingers . . .
     But it was not blood, only the stain of strawberries.
Last-modified: Fri, 09 Feb 2001 14:07:32 GMT










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