“No, no, Peter,” the owner said. “You’ve got to be reasonable. Human conscience is not just a matter of law.”
Simone, approaching carefully from one side, patted down my pocket. The keys clinked. Sweating in anticipation of the intense pain, I attempted to break free with all my strength. It didn’t work, and when I came to my senses, Simone was already leaving the room with the suitcase in hand. The owner, who was still holding me by the elbows, called after him anxiously:
“Hurry up, Simone, hurry, he’s not doing well…”
I wanted to say something, but my throat was closing up, and I could only grunt. The owner leaned over me in alarm.
“Jesus, Peter,” he said. “You look awful…”
“Crooks,” I croaked. “I’ll arrest…”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the owner agreed. “You’ll arrest us all, as you should, only wait a little, don’t struggle… you’re in pain, and I still can’t let you go…”
No, he wasn’t letting me go. I had thought before that he looked strong as a bear, but I hadn’t expected this kind of a grip. I leaned back against the chair and stopped fighting. I felt like I had to throw up; a dull indifference was overwhelming me. At the very bottom of my soul a feeling of relief burnt feebly—for the situation no longer depended on me, someone else had seized responsibility. I must have lost consciousness again, because suddenly I found myself on the floor, and the owner was on his knees next to me, moistening my forehead with an icy wet washcloth. I had hardly opened my eyes when he raised a bottle to my lips. He was very pale.
“Help me sit up,” I said.
He did what I asked without question. The open door was letting in a draft, and I could hear raised voices, then something crashed and rustled. The owner winced in pain.
“Damned trunk,” he said in a choked voice. “They smashed my doorpost again…”
From beneath the window, Moses’s voice barked with inhuman loudness:
“Ready? Let’s go… Goodbye, people! Until next time! Until our true meeting!…”
Simone’s voice shouted something I couldn’t make out in answer, and then the window shook from some kind of shrill shriek and whistle. It grew quiet. I got to my feet and went to the door. The owner was fussing around next to me; his broad face was pale and puffy, like cotton balls, and there was sweat running down his forehead. He was moving his lips silently—praying, probably.
We went out into the empty lobby, which was full of a chilly breeze, and the owner muttered, “All right, let’s go, Peter, you need some fresh air…” I shrugged him off and walked towards the stairs. Along the way I noted maliciously that the front door was completely off its hinges. On the stairs, on the first steps, I began to feel sick and grabbed the railing. The owner tried to hold me up, but once again I shoved at him with my good shoulder and said, “Didn’t you hear me? I said shove off…” He disappeared. I slowly made my way upstairs, clinging to the railing, I passed Brun who was pressed terrified against the wall, I made my way to the second floor and reached my room. The door to Olaf’s room was wide open, it was empty inside, the sharp pharmaceutical smell was wafting into the corridor. Just let me get to the couch, I thought. Just let me get to the couch and lie down… And then I heard a scream.
“There they are!…” someone shouted. “Too late! Damn it, too late!…”
The voice cut off. Downstairs in the lobby people were stomping, something fell and rolled, and then suddenly I heard a steady hum in the distance. I turned around and ran stumbling to the attic stairs.
The entire breadth of the snow-covered valley lay spread out beneath me. I squinted from the sun, managing after a second to distinguish a pair of blueish, completely straight ski tracks. They were pointed north, diagonally from the inn; where they ended I saw clearly, as if they had been drawn on the white, the figures of the escapees. I have excellent eyesight, I saw them distinctly, and it was the most wild and strange sight that I remember.
Mrs. Moses was in front, racing along with a gigantic black trunk under her arm, and on her shoulders sat slouched over old Moses himself. To the right and slightly behind them was Olaf, making very regular Finnish strides, carrying Luarvik on his shoulders. Mrs. Moses’s wide skirt was flapping in the wind, Luarvik’s empty sleeve was waving, as old Moses, not hesitating for a second, drove them on fiercely and relentlessly with a many-tailed whip. They moved quickly, with supernatural speed, while from one side a helicopter, its blades and glass cockpit glistening in the sun, was moving to intercept them.
The whole valley was filled with a powerful and even hum, as the helicopter decelerated slowly, as if taking its time, made its way over the fugitives, passed them, turned around, came in closer as they continued to race furiously through the valley (looking as if they hadn’t seen or heard anything), at which point a new sound appeared in the midst of that powerful monotone, an angry sharp crack, and the escapees scattered, and then Olaf fell and lay motionless, and then Moses toppled head-over-heels into the snow, and Simone grabbed my collar and sobbed into my ear, “You see? You see? You see?…” And then the helicopter was hovering above the motionless bodies and slowly began to descend, hiding from us both those who had fallen and those who were still trying to crawl away… The snow spun like a whirlwind from its blades, a sparkling white cloud rose against the background of steep blue cliffs. The harsh crack of a machine gun resounded again, and Alek squatted down, covering his eyes with his hands, and Simone continued to cry, shouting at me: “You did it! You won, you idiot, murderer!…”
The helicopter slowly rose from within the snowy cloud and, rising obliquely into the piercing blue sky, disappeared over the ledge. At which point Lel let out a howl full of sadness and pity from below.
EPILOGUE
More than twenty years have passed since then. It’s been a year since I retired. I have grandchildren, and sometimes I tell the youngest one this story. Admittedly, the version I tell her always ends happily: the aliens make it back home safely in their beautiful sparkling spaceship, and Champ’s band is successfully captured by the police, who get there just in the nick of time. The aliens in my story had been leaving for Venus, but when Earth’s first expeditions arrived on their planet, I was forced to send Mr. Moses to the Bootes system. But that’s not the story I’m telling here.
First the facts. It took two days to clear Bottleneck. I called the police and handed Hinkus over to them, along with one million one hundred fifteen thousand crowns and my detailed report. But I have to admit, nothing came of the investigation. True, more than five hundred silver bullets were found scattered in the snow, but after gathering up the bodies, Champ’s helicopter disappeared without a trace. A few weeks later a couple of newly married skiers on their honeymoon, who were making their way not far from our valley on that day, reported that they had seen some sort of helicopter fall into the Lake of Three Thousand Maidens right before their very eyes. A search party was put together, but nothing significant was found. As everyone knows, the depths of that lake reach four hundred meters in some parts, the bottom is icy, and its terrain is constantly changing. Champ, apparently, is dead—at least, he made no more appearances on the criminal scene. Thanks to Hinkus, who worked hard to save his own neck, parts of his band were captured or scattered throughout Europe. The gangsters, once they’d been arrested, added nothing significant to Hinkus’s testimony—all of them were convinced that Beelebub was a wizard or even the devil himself. It was Simone’s opinion that one of the robots, once they were in the helicopter, had come to life again and, in a final burst of activity, destroyed everything that it was able to reach. That’s very possible, and if it’s true, I don’t envy Champ his final minutes…