“I beg your pardon, your excellency, but this man—”
“Let me through at once!” ordered Strannik.
Brigadier Chachu saluted again, swung around on his heels, and waved to his men. One of the trucks moved aside, and Strannik sped into the open corridor.
“You see how it is, Mac,” he said. “One-two, you thought, and the whole thing would be over. Shoot Strannik, hang the Creators, drive the cowards and fascists out of the underground staff, and your revolution would be over.”
“No, I never thought it would be that simple.” Maxim felt defenseless and stupid.
Strannik glanced at him and smiled sadly. Maxim realized that he was neither devil nor monster, but a very kind and very vulnerable elderly man, burdened by enormous responsibilities, tormented by the loathsome disguise of a cold-blooded killer, and frustrated by another setback to a meticulously worked out plan. And he was particularly upset now because one of his own, an Earthling, had been the culprit.
“I didn’t reach you in time,” he said regretfully. “I underestimated you. Thought you were just a kid. Felt sorry for you.” He smiled ironically. “You boys in the Independent Reconnaissance Unit are fast workers.”
“I don’t think you should be so hard on yourself,” said Maxim. “I’m certainly not tormenting myself. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Call me Ernst.”
“No, I’m not tormenting myself, Ernst, and I don’t intend to. I’m going to get down to work. We’re going to make a revolution.”
“I think you had better go home,” Strannik advised him despairingly.
“But I am home.” Maxim was impatient. “Let’s change the subject. I’m interested in the mobile emitters. What should we do about them?”
“Nothing,” replied Strannik. “Think what you should do about famine.”
“I’m asking you about the emitters.”
Strannik sighed.
“They’re powered by batteries. They can be charged up only in my department. They’ll go dead in about three days. The invasion will begin in about a month. Usually we’ve managed to throw the subs off course, and only a few reached the coast. This time they’re preparing an armada. I had counted on the depression emitter, but now we’ll have to sink them.” He paused briefly. “So you’re home. Well, let’s see. What exactly are you planning to do now?”
They drove up to the department. The heavy gates were tightly shut, and the stone wall enclosure was studded with the dark slots of newly installed gun embrasures. The department resembled a fortress, ready for battle. Three figures stood near the pavilion, and Zefs red beard burned through the foliage like an exotic flower.
“I don’t know,” replied Maxim. “I’ll do anything that people who understand this world tell me. If necessary, I’ll work on economics. If I have to, I’ll sink submarines. But I’m damned sure about one thing: I’ll never permit another Center to be built as long as I live. Even with the best of intentions.”
Strannik remained silent. The gates were now close by. Zef shouldered his way through a hedge and came out onto the road. His gun hung from his shoulder, and even from afar it was clear that he was angry and bewildered. Now, amid a string of curses, he would demand an explanation. Why, massaraksh, had he been dragged away from his work, sold all that bull about Strannik, and forced to sit like a garden statue in a bed of petunias for two hours straight!
BORIS STRUGATSKY is an astrophysicist and computer expert who worked at the famous Pulkovo Observatory. ARKADY STRUGATSKY is a specialist in Japanese literature and has translated works from Japanese into Russian. Their works include Prisoners of Power, Roadside Picnic/Tale of the Troika, and Noon: 22nd Century.
HELEN SALTZ JACOBSON is a longtime enthusiast of Soviet science fiction and has translated several books from the Russian, including RUSSIAN SCIENCE FICTION (1968).