And shortly before Rumata’s arrival, the magnificently placed confidant of the Caisan tyrant (Jeremy Tafnat, a specialist in the history of agrarian reforms) suddenly staged a palace coup, usurped power, and for two months attempted to start a golden age. He stubbornly refused to reply to furious queries from his neighbors and from Earth, earned the reputation of a lunatic, managed to avoid eight assassination attempts, and was finally kidnapped by an emergency team of Institute workers and transferred by submarine to an island base by the planet’s southern pole.
“Just think!” muttered Rumata. “And all of Earth still imagines that the hardest problems are in null-physics.”
Don Condor looked up. “Finally!” he said quietly.
There was a clattering of hooves, the Hamaharian stallion let out an angry, shrill neigh, and they heard energetic swearing with a strong Irukanian accent. In the doorway appeared Don Gug, the Chamberlain of His Grace the Duke of Irukan, fat, ruddy, with a dashing upturned mustache, a smile from ear to ear, and merry little eyes underneath the chestnut curls of his wig. And once again, Rumata was about to jump up and hug him, because this was actually Pashka, but Don Gug suddenly assumed a formal posture, an expression of cloying sweetness appearing on his plump-cheeked face. He bent slightly at the waist, pressed his hat to his chest, and pursed his lips. Rumata briefly glanced at Alexander Vasilievich—but Alexander Vasilievich had disappeared. On the bench sat the Chief Justice and Keeper of the Great Seals, his legs apart, his left hand on his hip, and his right hand holding the hilt of his gilded sword.
“You’re very late, Don Gug,” he said in an unpleasant voice.
“A thousand apologies!” cried Don Gug, smoothly approaching the table. “I swear by the rickets of my duke, there were completely unforeseen circumstances! I was stopped four times by the patrols of His Majesty the King of Arkanar, and I got into two fights with various boors.” He gracefully lifted his left hand, wrapped in a bloody rag. “By the way, noble dons, whose helicopter is that behind the house?”
“That’s my helicopter,” Don Condor said crossly. “I don’t have time for roadside brawls.”
Don Gug smiled pleasantly, sat down on the bench, and said, “Well, noble dons, we’re forced to acknowledge that the highly learned Doctor Budach mysteriously disappeared somewhere between the Irukanian border and the Territory of Heavy Swords—”
Father Cabani suddenly tossed in his bed. “Don Reba,” he said thickly, without waking up.
“Leave Budach to me,” Rumata said in despair, “and try to understand what I’m saying…”
Chapter 2
Rumata started and opened his eyes. It was already light out. There was a commotion in the street underneath his window. Someone, probably a military man, was shouting, “Scum! You’ll lick this dirt off with your tongue!” (Good morning, thought Rumata.) “Silence! By Holy Míca’s back, you’ll make me lose my temper!” Another voice, rough and hoarse, mumbled that this was the sort of street where a man ought to watch his step. “In the morning it rained, and God knows when they paved it last…” “He dares tell me what to do!” “You should let me go, noble don, don’t hold on to my shirt…” “He dares order me around!” There was a ringing crack. This was apparently the second slap—the first had woken Rumata up. “You shouldn’t hit me, noble don,” someone mumbled below.
A familiar voice—who could it be? Probably Don Tameo. I should let him win back his Hamaharian nag today. I wonder if I’ll ever know much about horses. Although we, the Rumatas of Estor, have never known much about horses, we’re experts in military camels. Good thing there are almost no camels in Arkanar. Rumata stretched, cracking his back, groped for a twisted silk cord by his head, and pulled on it a few times. Bells started jangling in the depths of the house. The boy is gawking at the scene outside, of course, thought Rumata. I could get up and dress myself, but that’ll only breed rumors.
He listened to the profanity outside the window. What a powerful language! It has incredible entropy. I hope Don Tameo doesn’t kill him. In recent years, certain enthusiasts in the Guard had announced that they reserved only one sword for noble battle, and used their other blades specifically for street trash—which, thanks to Don Reba, had really proliferated in glorious Arkanar. Although Don Tameo isn’t one of those enthusiasts, Rumata thought. Our Don Tameo is a bit of a coward, and a well-known politician too.
How rotten when the day starts with Don Tameo. Rumata sat up and hugged his knees under his splendid torn blanket. That’s the kind of thing that gives you a feeling of leaden hopelessness and makes you want to mope around and ponder how you are weak and helpless in the face of circumstances. This didn’t occur to us on Earth. Over there, we are healthy, confident men who have gone through psychological conditioning and are ready for anything. We have excellent nerves; we know how not to flinch when faced with beatings and executions. We have amazing self-control; we’re capable of putting up with the blathering of the most hopeless idiots. We’ve forgotten how to be fastidious—we can make do with dishes that, according to the custom, have been licked by dogs and then wiped with a dirty hem for the sake of beauty. We’re fantastic impersonators—even in our dreams we do not speak the languages of Earth. We have a foolproof weapon—the basis theory of feudalism, developed in quiet offices and laboratories, at dusty archaeological digs, in thoughtful discussions.
Too bad that Don Reba has never heard of this theory. Too bad that the psychological conditioning peels off like a sunburn, that we fall into extremes, that we’re constantly forced to remind ourselves: grit your teeth and remember that you’re a god in disguise, they know not what they do, almost none of them are to blame, and therefore you must be patient and tolerant. It turns out that the reservoirs of humanism in our souls, which seemed bottomless on Earth, dry up at an alarming rate. Holy Míca, we were true humanists over there, on Earth. Humanism was the backbone of our personalities; in our worship of Man, in our love of Man, we even approached anthropocentrism—and here we are suddenly horrified to catch ourselves thinking, Are these really humans? Is it possible they are capable of becoming humans, even with time? And then we remember about people like Kira, Budach, Arata the Hunchback, and we feel ashamed—and this, too, is unfamiliar and unpleasant and, most important, completely useless.
I shouldn’t think about this, thought Rumata. Not in the morning. Curse that Don Tameo! There’s a sour taste in my soul, and there’s no way to get rid of it in such loneliness. That’s exactly right, loneliness! Did we, so healthy, so confident, ever think that we’d be lonely here? No one would believe it! Anton, my friend, what’s happening to you? To the west of you, a three-hour flight away, is Alexander Vasilievich, a kind, wonderful man; to the east is Pashka, with whom you shared a school desk for seven years, a merry, loyal friend. You’re just feeling depressed, Toshka. It’s too bad, of course; we thought you were hardier, but who hasn’t felt this way? The work is hellish, I understand. You’ll go back to Earth, have a rest, do some theoretical work, and then we’ll see.
Alexander Vasilievich, by the way, is a true dogmatist. If basis theory doesn’t allow for the grays (In my fifteen years of work, dear boy, I haven’t noticed such deviations from theory…), I must be imagining them. Since I’m imagining things, I must be having a nervous breakdown, and I should be forced to take a vacation. Well, all right, I promise, I’ll take a look for myself and give you my opinion. But in the meantime, Don Rumata, I beg you, nothing extreme. And Pavel, childhood friend, a polymath, a scholar, a treasure trove of information—he dives headfirst into the history of the two planets and gives a trivial proof that the gray movement is nothing more than a commonplace rebellion of the city residents against the barony. Although one of these days I’ll come see you, take a look. To be honest, I feel kind of uncomfortable about Budach. And thank you for that! That’ll do! I’ll busy myself with Budach, since I’m not good for much else.