A small II/Secretary/44 with respectful familiarity and modest consciousness flitted through the door on hummingbird-like wings, its end-effector clutching some papers for Oblonsky.
“Sir? Sir?” it said, sir being the one word this Class II was programmed to employ, and flapped the papers. “Si-” Stepan Arkadyich, distracted by his enjoyment of the conversation with Levin, zapped the thing in the face.
“Drat!” Stiva said in frustration, as the II/Secretary/44 sputtered. For a moment Oblonsky thought the machine might be recovered, but the sizzler was a powerful device. The Class II’s faceplate was already melting, bits of exterior plating dripping like tears along its flesh-tinted skull, while it made crazy circles around the room, banging against the desk and the walls. “Small Stiva?” Oblonsky said with resignation. The dutiful Class III opened his torso and, for the second time that day, destroyed a fellow robot inside of himself.
During this incident Levin had completely recovered from his embarrassment. He was standing with his elbows on the back of a chair, and on his face was a look of ironical attention.
“I don’t understand it, I don’t understand it,” he said.
“What don’t you understand?” said Oblonsky, trying to maintain his sardonic smile, though the small cloud of blue-black smoke emerging from Small Stiva’s Third Bay darkened the room along with his mood. Stepan Arkadyich was a relatively prestigious personage, but two destroyed machines in one day was pushing the limits of what would go unnoticed. The last thing he needed, to compound the difficulty of a household in disarray, was the curious attention of the Higher Branches.
“I don’t understand what you are doing,” Levin continued, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing at the sizzler, still smoking in Stiva’s hand. “How can you do all this seriously?”
“Why not?”
“Why, because there’s nothing in it.”
“You think so, but we’re overwhelmed with work.”
“On paper. But, there, you’ve a gift for it,” added Levin.
“That’s to say, you think there’s a lack of something in me?”
“Perhaps so,” said Levin. “But all the same, I admire your grandeur, and am proud that I’ve a friend in such a great person. You’ve not answered my question, though,” he went on, with a desperate effort looking Oblonsky straight in the face.
“Oh, that’s all very well. You wait a bit, and you’ll come to this yourself. It’s very nice for you to have over six thousand acres of groznium-saturated soil in the Karazinsky district, and such muscles, and the freshness of a girl of twelve; still you’ll be one of us one day. Yes, as to your question, there is no change, but it’s a pity you’ve been away so long.”
“Oh, why so?” Levin queried, panic-stricken.
“Oh, nothing,” responded Oblonsky. “We’ll talk it over. But what’s brought you up to town?”
“Oh, we’ll talk about that, too, later on,” said Levin, reddening again up to his ears.
“All right. I see,” said Stepan Arkadyich. “I should ask you to come to us, you know, but my wife’s not quite the thing. But I tell you what: if you want to see them, they’re sure now to be at the skate-maze from four to five. Kitty skates. You drive along there, and I’ll come and fetch you, and we’ll go and dine somewhere together.”
“Capital. So good-bye till then.”
CHAPTER 6
WHEN OBLONSKY HAD ASKED Levin what had brought him to town, Levin blushed, and was furious with himself for blushing, because he could not answer, “I have come to make your sister-in-law an offer,” though that was precisely what he had come for.
As he reflected on this lack of will, he and Socrates sat down across from one another at a small café along the banks of the Moskva. Together they had wandered some miles from the Tower, but could still see its tall spire in the distance, slowly rotating, scanning, keeping watch, ensuring the safety of the city and her people.
“Our tireless protectors,” Levin said absently, and then activated Socrates’ monitor. Sipping his tea, he viewed the Memories he had already viewed so many times, over and over in the carriage, all the way from his country estate.
The families of the Levins and the Shcherbatskys were old, noble Moscow families, and had always been on intimate and friendly terms. This intimacy had grown still closer during Levin’s student days. He had trained in mine management with the young Prince Shcherbatsky, the brother of Kitty and Dolly, and had entered Moscow Groznium Institute at the same time with him. In those days Levin used often to be in the Shcherbatskys’ house, and he was in love with the Shcherbatsky household. Strange as it may appear, it was with the household, the family, that Konstantin Levin was in love, especially with the feminine half of the household. Why it was the three young ladies had one day to speak French, and the next English; why it was that at certain hours they played by turns on the piano, the sounds of which were audible in their brother’s room above, where the students used to work; why they were visited by those professors of French literature, of music, of drawing, of dancing; it was the first time he had heard French spoken in a household.
A ragged, high-pitched scream interrupted Levin’s enjoyment of these reveries. He looked up from his Memories, and saw the source of the screaming: a dusty-faced woman in a tattered apron stood on the stoop of her home, yelling the words, “No, it cannot be!” in a high-pitched, desperate voice. An equally disheveled-looking man, evidently her husband, was being hoisted and his arms pinned behind his body by the strong metallic arms of a 77. More 77s stood on either side of the doorway, their onion-bulb-shaped heads revolving slowly, visual sensors glowing from within, constantly taking in and analyzing the surroundings. One of them, with his thick pipe-like arms, was restraining the woman; meanwhile, a tall, handsome Caretaker, his gold uniform glittering in the midday sun, directed the 77s with sharp commands to secure the block and search the house.
“Ah! They have captured a Janus,” said Levin admiringly.
“This close to the market, it is likely a black marketeer,” suggested Socrates, “or a groznium hoarder.”
“Yes, or even an agent of UnConSciya,” Levin agreed, becoming excited despite himself at this close-up look at the function of the state apparatus. He marveled at the brisk efficiency of the Caretaker and his cadre of 77s as they went about the business of interrogating the Janus. It had been some months since his last visit to Moscow, and in the countryside one rarely got to see the assured work of the majestic bulb-headed 77s in action.
At last Levin tore himself away and turned back to Socrates’ monitor, and his precious Memories. He watched how the three young Shcherbatsky sisters drove along the Tversky Boulevard, dressed in their satin cloaks: Dolly in a long one, Natalia in a half-long one, and Kitty in one so short that her shapely legs in tightly drawn red stockings were visible to all beholders; how they had to walk about the Tversky Boulevard escorted by their parents, their parents’ stately Class IIIs, and a II/Gendarme/439 with a copper-plated smoker, drawn and engaged-all this and much more that was done in their mysterious world he did not understand, but he was sure that everything that was done there was very good, and he was in love precisely with the mystery of the proceedings.
When he looked up from this pleasing Memory stream, Levin saw that a crowd had grown at either end of the cordoned block. The Caretaker had dispatched a 77 to keep the onlookers from becoming too curious, while the massive 77 holding the Janus lifted him high into the air, clutching the man’s arms with his fat, gloved end-effectors, and shook him roughly back and forth. Now Levin heard the tromp of metal boots close at hand, and saw that 77s were fanning through the crowd at the café. Levin, accurately judged a nobleman by the presence of his Class III robot, was left alone, even as the 77s began briskly running their physiometers over the other diners.