The Inhabited Island

by Arkady Strugatsky

  Maxim packed up the two bundles and stood there for a few seconds looking around the room. Empty, warped bookcases, dark patches where pictures used to hang, and the pictures themselves, torn out of their frames and trampled underfoot . . . and no signs at all of any dentist’s equipment. He picked up the bundles and walked toward the door, but then remembered and went back for his automatic. Two photographs were lying under glass on the table. One of them showed the transparent-looking woman with a boy about four years old, sitting on her knees with his mouth wide open in amazement, and the woman was young, contented, and proud. The other photograph showed a beautiful spot up in the mountains, dark clumps of trees, and an old, half-ruined tower.

  Maxim swung his automatic behind his shoulder and went back to the bundles of books.

  7

  In the morning after breakfast the brigade formed up on the parade ground for the reading out of orders and assignment of activities. This was the most painful procedure of all for Maxim, if you didn’t count the evening roll calls. The reading out of any orders always concluded with a paroxysm of absolute ecstasy—a blind, senseless, unnatural ecstasy, for which there was no justification, and which therefore produced an extremely unpleasant impression on an outsider. Maxim forced himself to suppress his instinctive abhorrence of this abrupt fit of insanity, which swept through the entire brigade, from the commander to the lowliest candidate. He tried to persuade himself that he simply was not capable of displaying the same passionate enthusiasm for the activities of the brigade administration as the guardsmen; he rebuked himself for possessing the skepticism of an alien and an outsider and tried to seek inspiration by repeating to himself over and over again that in difficult conditions such outbursts of mass enthusiasm were no more than an expression of people’s solidarity, of their unanimity and readiness to completely devote themselves to the common cause. But he found it very difficult.

  Having been raised since his childhood to take a restrained and ironic attitude toward himself, to feel distaste for all high-flown words in general and for triumphal choral singing in particular, he felt almost angry at his comrades in formation, these good-hearted, guileless, basically quite excellent guys, when suddenly, after an order had been read out, sentencing Candidate Somebody or Other to three days in the punishment cell for an altercation with Active Private Such and Such, they opened their mouths wide, cast off their intrinsic amiability and sense of humor, started enthusiastically roaring “hoorah” and singing “The March of the Battle Guards” with tears in their eyes, and then repeated it for a second, third, and sometimes even fourth time. When this happened, even the cooks came pouring out of the brigade kitchen—fortunately for them, they weren’t standing in formation—and enthusiastically joined in, boisterously brandishing their ladles and knives. Bearing in mind that in this world he had to be like everybody else, Maxim also sang and also tried to lose his sense of humor, and he managed to do it, but it felt obnoxious, because he didn’t feel even the slightest enthusiasm—all he felt was a sense of awkward embarrassment.

  This time the outburst of enthusiasm came after order number 127, concerning the promotion of Active Private Dimba to the rank of corporal, order number 128, concerning an expression of gratitude to Candidate for the Rank of Active Private Sim, for bravery demonstrated in the course of an operation, and order number 129, concerning the assignment of the barracks of fourth company to refurbishment status. The moment the brigade adjutant thrust the pages of the orders into his leather map-case, the brigadier grabbed his cap off his head, filled his lungs with air, and shouted out in a squeaky falsetto, “The Battle! Guards! Advance!” And then it went on and on . . .

  Maxim felt especially awkward today, because he saw tears streaming down Cornet Chachu’s dark cheeks. The guardsmen roared like bulls, beating out the time with their rifle butts on their massive belt buckles. In order not to see or hear any of this, Maxim squeezed his eyes as tightly shut as he could and started bellowing like an enraged tahorg, and his voice drowned out all the other voices—or at least, so it seemed to him. “Forward, fearless Guards,” he roared, no longer hearing anybody but himself. What incredibly stupid words. Probably some corporal or other had written them. You had to really love your cause to go marching into battle with words like that. He opened his eyes and saw a flock of startled black birds darting about above the parade ground. “No diamond carapace will save you, our enemy! . . .”

  Then everything ended as abruptly as it had begun. The brigadier ran his bleary eyes over the formation, remembered where he was, and commanded in a sobbing, broken voice, “Gentlemen officers, divide up the companies for exercises!” The dazed guys blearily squinted at each other, shaking their heads. They didn’t seem able to grasp anything, and Cornet Chachu had to shout “Dress right dress!” twice before the ranks assumed the required appearance. Then the company was led off to the barracks, and the cornet gave his commands: “The first section is appointed to escort duty. Other sections commence exercises in accordance with the normal routine. Dismissed!”

  The sections separated, and Gai lined up his section and assigned postings. Candidate Maxim and Active Private Pandi were given the posting in the interrogation room. Gai hurriedly explained Mak’s responsibilities to him: “Stand to attention on the right of and behind the prisoner, and if the prisoner makes the slightest attempt to get up off the stool, prevent him from doing so by force. Obey the direct orders of the brigade commander. Private Pandi is the senior man—in short, watch Pandi and do everything he does. I wouldn’t have assigned you to this posting for anything, but the cornet ordered me to. You just keep your eyes peeled, Mak. I don’t really get what the cornet is up to. Either he wants to promote you as soon as possible—he really liked the look of you in action, yesterday at the review of the operation with the section commanders, he spoke well of you, and he put you in the order of the day—or he’s checking up on you. I don’t know why he’s doing it, maybe it’s my fault, with that report of mine, or maybe it’s your fault, with those little conversations of yours . . .” He anxiously looked Maxim over. “Give your boots another polish, pull in your belt, and put on your dress gloves—no, you don’t have any, candidates aren’t provided with them . . . OK, run to the store, and look lively, we go on duty in thirty minutes.”

  At the store Maxim ran into Pandi, who was changing a cracked beret badge. “Look at this, Corporal!” said Pandi, addressing the store commander and slapping Maxim on his shoulder. “How about that? The guy’s only been in the Guards eight days, and he has an expression of gratitude already. They’ve put him in the interrogation room with me . . . I reckon you must have come running for a pair of white gloves, right? Issue him some good gloves, Corporal, he deserves them. This guy’s as tough as a nail.”

  The corporal started discontentedly muttering, reached into the shelves piled high with official-issue clothing, tossed several pairs of white, string-knit gloves on the counter in front of Maxim, and said with a scornful grin, “A nail . . . you and these crazies are all nails. Of course, when the pain has completely pulverized his innards, you can just take him and put him in a sack. My old granddad would be a nail here like that. No arms, no legs . . .”

  Pandi took offense. “Your old granddad with no arms and no legs would have gone scuttling off on his eyebrows,” he said, “if someone leaped out at him with two pistols. I thought the cornet was a goner.”

  “A goner, a goner . . .” the corporal grouched. “In six months, when you get dumped on the southern border, then we’ll see who’ll go scuttling off on his eyebrows.”

  When they walked out of the store, Maxim asked, with all the respect he could muster (good old Pandi liked respect), “Mr. Pandi, why do these degenerates get such bad pains? And all of them at the same time. How come?”

  “It’s from fear,” Pandi replied, lowering his voice for greater solemnity. “They’re degenerates, you see. You need to read more, Mak. There’s this pamphlet called Degenerates: Who They Are and W
here They Come From. You read it, or you’ll always be the same ignorant bumpkin you are right now. Bravery on its own won’t get you very far . . .” He paused for a moment. “Take us now: we get all agitated, for instance, or, say, we get a scare—but that’s OK for us, except we’ll maybe break into a sweat or, say, our knees will start trembling. But their bodies are abnormal, degenerate. If one of them gets angry with someone or, say, he gets in a funk, or whatever . . . then right away he gets bad pains in his head and all over his body. Bad enough for him to black out, understand? That characteristic is how we recognize them, and of course we detain them—grab them . . . Those are good gloves, and just my size. What do you reckon?”

  “They’re a bit too tight on me, Mr. Pandi,” Maxim complained. “Why don’t we swap? You take these, and give me yours that have already been worn in.”

  Pandi was very satisfied. And Maxim was very satisfied. Then suddenly he remembered Fank, the way he had writhed in the car, squirming about in pain . . . and then the guardsmen on patrol had grabbed him . . . Only what could Fank have been frightened by? And who could he have been angry with there? He wasn’t agitated, was he? He was calmly driving the car, whistling, there was something he wanted very badly . . . probably to have a smoke . . . Of course, he did look back and he saw the patrol vehicle . . . or was that later? Yes, he was in a great hurry, and there was a truck blocking the road . . . maybe he got angry? Ah, no, I’m imagining things! You never know what kind of fits people might suffer from. And he was arrested for the accident. Though I wonder where he was taking me and who he was. I ought to find Fank . . .

  He polished his boots and spruced up, putting himself into absolutely perfect order in front of the big mirror, hung his automatic around his neck, took another look in the mirror—and just then Gai gave the order to fall in.

  After casting a critical eye over everybody and checking their knowledge of their duties, Gai ran over to the company office to report. While he was gone, the guardsmen played a game of “soap” and three stories of army life were told, but Maxim didn’t understand them because he didn’t know certain specific expressions, and then they started pestering Maxim to tell them how come he was so ginormous—that had already become a standing joke in the section—and they begged him to bend a couple of coins into little tubes as trophies. Then Cornet Chachu came out of the company office, accompanied by Gai. He also cast a critical eye over everybody, stepped back, and told Gai, “Lead the section on, Corporal,” and the section set off toward the HQ building.

  In the HQ building the cornet ordered Active Private Pandi and Candidate Private Sim to follow him, and Gai led the others away. The three of them walked into a small room with tightly curtained windows and a smell of tobacco and eau de cologne. There was a huge empty table at the far end of the room with soft chairs arranged around it and a darkened painting of some ancient battle hanging on the wall: horses, close-fitting uniforms, unsheathed sabers, and lots of clouds of white, eddying smoke. Ten paces away from the table, to the right of the door, Maxim saw an iron stool with holes in the seat. The single leg of the stool was screwed to the floor with massive bolts.

  “Take up your places,” the cornet commanded, then walked forward and sat at the table.

  Pandi carefully set Maxim behind and to the right of the stool, then stood on the left of it and commanded in a whisper: “Attention.” And he and Maxim froze. The cornet sat there with his legs crossed, smoking and casually examining the guardsmen. He seemed entirely indifferent and disinterested, and yet Maxim could sense quite clearly that the cornet was very intently observing him, and not only him.

  Then the door opened behind Pandi’s back. Pandi instantly took two steps forward, a step to the right, and made a left turn. Maxim gave a jerk too, but he realized that he wasn’t standing in the way, and this didn’t concern him, so he simply goggled even harder. There was something infectious about this grown-up game after all, despite all its primitiveness and its obvious inappropriateness in the catastrophic conditions of the inhabited island.

  The cornet got up, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray and lightly clicking his heels to greet the men walking toward the table: the brigadier, an unfamiliar man in plainclothes, and the brigade adjutant with a thick folder under his arm. The brigadier took a seat behind the table at the center. His expression was sour and peevish, and he thrust one finger in under his embroidered collar, pulled it out a bit, and twisted his head about. The plainclothes man, a nondescript little individual with a flabby, yellowish, poorly shaved face, took a seat beside him, without making any sound as he moved. Without sitting down, the brigade adjutant opened his folder and started sorting through his papers, handing some of them to the brigadier.

  Pandi, after standing where he was for a while, as if he was feeling uncertain, moved back to his place with the same crisp, precise movements. The men at the table started quietly talking.

  “Will you be at the meeting today, Chachu?” the brigadier asked.

  “I have business to deal with,” the cornet replied, lighting another cigarette.

  “That’s not good. There’ll be a dispute there today.”

  “They caught on too late. I’ve already expressed my opinion on that matter.”

  “Not in the best possible manner,” the plainclothes man gently remarked to the cornet. “And in addition, circumstances are changing, and opinions are changing.”

  “That’s not the way it is here in the Guards,” the cornet icily remarked.

  “Really and truly, gentlemen,” the brigadier said in a peevish voice, “let’s get together today at the meeting after all.”

  “I heard they’ve brought fresh shrimp,” the adjutant announced, still rummaging through his papers.

  “With beer, eh, Cornet?” said the plainclothes man, backing up the adjutant.

  “No, gentlemen,” said the cornet. “I have only one opinion, and I have already expressed it. And as for beer . . .” He added something in an indistinct voice, the entire company burst into laughter, and Cornet Chachu leaned back in his chair with a satisfied air. Then the adjutant stopped rummaging in his papers, leaned down to the brigadier, and whispered something to him. The brigadier nodded. The adjutant took a seat and declared, apparently addressing the iron stool, “Nole Renadu.”

  Pandi pushed open the door, stuck his head out, and spoke loudly into the corridor. “Nole Renadu.”

  There was a sound of movement in the corridor and an elderly, well-dressed, but oddly creased and crumpled man walked into the room. His feet stumbled slightly. Pandi took him by the elbow and sat him on the stool. The door clicked as it closed. The man loudly cleared his throat, propped his hands on his parted knees, and proudly raised his head.

  “Riiight, then . . .” the brigadier drawled, examining his papers, and suddenly started speaking in a rapid patter: “Nole Renadu, fifty-six years of age, property owner, member of the magistracy . . . riiight . . . Member of the Veteran Club, membership number such and such . . .” (The plainclothes man yawned, putting his hand over his mouth, pulled a brightly colored magazine out of his pocket, placed it on his knees, and started leafing through it.) “Detained at such and such a time at such and such a place; during the search the following items were confiscated . . . riiight . . . What were you doing at building number eight on Street of the Buglers?”

  “I own that building,” Renadu said with a dignified air. “I was consulting with my manager.”

  “Have the documents been checked?” the brigadier asked the adjutant.

  “Yes, sir. Everything is in order.”

  “Riiight,” said the brigadier. “Tell us, Mr. Renadu, are you acquainted with any of the prisoners?”

  “No,” said Renadu, with a vigorous shake of his head. “How would I be? However, the surname of one of them . . . Ketshef . . . I believe there is a Ketshef who lives in my building . . . But then, I don’t remember. Perhaps I’m mistaken, or perhaps it’s not in this building. I have another two buildings
, one of them—”

  “I beg your pardon,” the plainclothes man interrupted, without looking up from his magazine. “But what were the other detainees talking about in the cell, did you happen to notice at all?”

  “Uhhh . . .” Renadu drawled. “I must admit . . . You’ve got . . . uhhh . . . insects in there. So we mostly talked about them . . . Someone was whispering in the corner, but I must admit that I didn’t pay any attention . . . And then, I find these people extremely distasteful, I’m a veteran . . . I’d rather consort with the insects, heh-heh!”

  “Naturally,” the brigadier agreed. “Well then, we are not apologizing, Mr. Renadu. Here are your documents, you are free to go . . . Escort officer!” he added, raising his voice.

  Pandi opened the door and shouted, “Escort officer to the brigadier!”

  “There can be no question of any apologies,” Renadu solemnly declared. “I, and I alone, am to blame . . . And not even I, but my cursed genetic heritage. May I?” he asked, addressing Maxim and pointing to the table where his documents were lying.

  “Sit down,” Pandi said in a quiet voice.

  Gai walked in. The brigadier handed him the documents, asked him to return Mr. Renadu’s confiscated property to him, and Mr. Renadu was allowed to go.

  “In Aio Province,” the plainclothes man mused, “they have this custom: every degenerate who is arrested—I’m talking about the legal degenerates—pays a tax, a voluntary contribution to support the Guards.”

  “That is not customary here,” the brigadier replied in a dry voice. “In my opinion, it is illegal . . . Let us have the next one,” he ordered.