The Inhabited Island

by Arkady Strugatsky

  “It’s a long story,” Mak replied with a casual wave of his hand. “And as it happens, I was also surprised to see you here. I never supposed that our activities were of any interest to the Department of Justice.”

  “Your activities are of interest to the most surprising people,” said the prosecutor. He took Mak by the arm, led him to the window farthest away, and inquired in a confidential whisper, “When are you going to let us have the pills? The real pills, for the full thirty minutes.”

  “Why, are you really also—” Mak began. “But then, yes, naturally . . .”

  The prosecutor woefully shook his head and rolled up his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Our blessing and our curse,” he said. “The good fortune of our state and the wretched misfortune of its leaders . . . Massaraksh, I am terribly glad that you’re alive, Mak. I ought to tell you that the case in which you were tried is one of the few in my career that has left me with a sense of nagging dissatisfaction . . . No, no, don’t try to deny it—according to the letter of the law you were guilty, so from that point of view everything is in good order . . . you attacked a tower and I think killed a guardsman; that sort of thing doesn’t earn you a pat on the head, you know. But in essence . . . I confess that my hand trembled when I signed your sentence. As if I were sentencing a child—please don’t be offended. After all, in the final analysis, it was more our initiative than yours, and the entire responsibility—”

  “I’m not offended,” said Mak. “And you’re not so very far from the truth: the escapade with that tower was puerile . . . In any case, I’m grateful to the state prosecutor’s office for not having us shot at the time.”

  “It was all that I was able to do,” said the prosecutor. “I recall that I was very upset when I heard that you had been killed . . .” He laughed and squeezed Mak’s elbow in a friendly fashion. “I’m devilishly glad that everything has turned out so well. And devilishly glad to make your acquaintance . . .” He looked at his watch. “But tell me, Mak, why are you here? No, no, I’m not going to arrest you, it’s none of my business, the military police can deal with you now. But what are you doing in this institute? Are you really a chemist? And apart from that . . .” He pointed to Maxim’s chevron.

  “I’m a little bit of everything,” said Mak. “A little bit of a chemist, a little bit of a physicist . . .”

  “A little bit of an underground operative,” the prosecutor said with a good-natured laugh.

  “Only a very little bit,” Mak decisively replied.

  “A little bit of a conjuror,” the prosecutor said.

  Mak looked at him intently.

  “A little bit of a fantasizer,” the prosecutor continued, “a little bit of an adventurer.”

  “But those are not professions,” Mak objected. “They are, if you like, simply the qualities of any decent scientist.”

  “And any decent politician,” said the prosecutor.

  “An uncommon combination of words,” Mak remarked.

  The prosecutor cast a quizzical glance at him, then caught on and laughed again. “Yes,” he said. “Political activity does have certain specific characteristics. Politics is the art of washing things clean with very dirty water. Never descend into politics, Mak, stick with your chemistry.” He looked at his watch and said in annoyance, “Ah, damn it, I have absolutely no time, and I really did want to have a chat with you . . . I’ve looked at your file, you’re a highly intriguing individual . . . But you’re probably very busy too.”

  “Yes,” said the clever fellow Mak. “But, of course, not so very busy as the state prosecutor.”

  “Well now,” said the prosecutor, laughing once again. “Your bosses assure us that you work day and night . . . But I, for instance, cannot say the same for myself. A state prosecutor does sometimes find himself with a free evening . . . It will surprise you to hear that I have a whole heap of questions for you, Mak. I must admit that I wanted to have a talk with you back then, after the trial. But work, work, work, there’s never any end to it.”

  “I’m at your disposal,” said Mak. “Especially since I also have a few questions for you.”

  Oh, come on! the prosecutor mentally rebuked him. Don’t be so open about things, we’re not alone here. Out loud he replied, beaming brightly, “Excellent! I’ll do everything I can . . . And now, please pardon me, I have to run . . .”

  He shook the enormous hand of his Mak, the Mak he had already caught, the Mak who had already conclusively taken the bait. He played along quite excellently, he undoubtedly does want to meet, and now I’ll sink the hook home . . .

  The prosecutor halted in the doorway and clicked his fingers, and looked back: “Let me see now, Mak, what are you doing this evening? I’ve just realized that I have a free evening today . . .”

  “Today?” said Mak. “Well, why not? Of course, I have—”

  “Bring someone along!” the prosecutor exclaimed. “That’s even better, I’ll introduce you to my wife, it will be a splendid evening . . . Eight o’clock—does that suit you? I’ll send a car to pick you up. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Agreed, the prosecutor triumphantly thought as he walked around the final laboratories in the division, smiling, slapping shoulders, and shaking hands. Agreed! he thought as he signed the report in Brainiac’s office. “Agreed, massaraksh, agreed!” he triumphantly shouted to himself on the way home.

  He gave the driver his instructions. He told his secretary to inform the department that the prosecutor was busy—nobody was to be received, the phones were to be disconnected, and in general they should all clear out and go to hell, but in a way that meant they would still remain within easy reach all the time. He summoned his wife and kissed her on the neck, recalling in passing that it had been ten days since they saw each other, and asked her to make arrangements for a good dinner, something light and delicious for four, to behave herself at the table and prepare herself to meet a very interesting man. And plenty of wines, various kinds and all of the very best quality. . .

  After that he locked himself in his office, laid out the contents of the green folder on his desk again, and started thinking everything through once more from the very beginning. He was only disturbed once, when a Military Department courier brought the latest communiqué from the front. The front had fallen apart. Someone had tipped off the Hontians that they should focus on the blocking detachments, and last night they had bombarded the radiation emitter tanks with atomic shells, destroying up to 95 percent of them. No more information had been received concerning the fate of the army that had broken through. This was the end. This was the end of the war. It was the end of General Shekagu and General Odu. It was the end of Four-Eyes, Teapot, Stormcloud and other, more minor figures. It could very possibly be the end of Father-in-Law and Stepbrother. And of course, it would have been the end of Egghead, if only Egghead weren’t such a smarty pants . . .

  He dissolved the report in a glass of water and started walking around the office in circles. He felt a tremendous sense of relief. Now, at least, he knew for certain when he would be summoned to the top. They would finish off Father-in-Law first, and then spend at least twenty-four hours choosing between Twitcher and Tooth. Then they would have to waste a bit of time on Four-Eyes and Stormcloud. That was another twenty-four hours. Well, they would casually whack Teapot in passing, and then just dealing with General Shekagu would take them at least forty-eight hours. And after that, and only after that . . . After that they wouldn’t have any “after that.”

  He didn’t leave his office until the very moment when his guest arrived.

  The guest made a quite exceptionally pleasant impression. He was magnificent. He was so magnificent that the prosecutor’s wife, who was a cold woman, sophisticated in the most formidable meaning of the word, and had long ago ceased to be a woman in his eyes but was his old battle comrade, shed twenty years at the first sight of Mak and acted in a devilishly natural manner—she could not have acted any more naturally even if she ha
d known the part that Mak was destined to play in her fate.

  “But why are you alone?” she asked in surprise. “My husband ordered dinner for four.”

  “Yes, indeed,” the prosecutor put in. “I thought you would come with your lady friend—I remember the young woman, she almost came to grief because of you.”

  “She did come to grief,” Maxim calmly replied. “But with your permission, can we talk about that later? Which way would you like me to go?”

  They sat over dinner for a long time, in a cheerful atmosphere, laughing a lot and drinking a little bit. The prosecutor recited the latest lines of gossip—those that had been approved and were recommended for release by the Department of Public Health. The prosecutor’s wife very charmingly cracked indiscreet little jokes, and Mak described his flight in the bomber in humorous tones. As the prosecutor laughed at the story, he thought in horror about what would have become of him if even a single missile had hit the target . . .

  When everything had been eaten and drunk, the prosecutor’s wife made her excuses, suggesting that the men prove their ability to survive without a lady for at least one hour. The prosecutor combatively accepted this challenge, grabbed Mak by the arm, and drew him into the study to regale him with a wine that only thirty or forty people in the country had ever had a chance to try.

  They settled into soft armchairs on each side of a low table in a very cozy corner of the study, took a sip of the precious wine, and looked at each other. Mak was very serious. This smart fellow Mak clearly knew what the conversation would be about, and on a sudden impulse the prosecutor abandoned his initial plan for a discussion that would be artful and wearying, constructed out of veiled allusions and designed to facilitate gradual mutual revelations. Rada’s fate, Wanderer’s intrigues, the Fathers’ machinations—all that was not of the slightest importance. With breathtaking clarity that induced a sense of desperation, he acknowledged that all his mastery in conversations of that kind would be redundant with this man. Mak would either agree or refuse. It was absolutely simple, as simple as the fact that the prosecutor would either carry on living or be splatted in a few days. Hastily setting down his little glass on the little table with trembling fingers, he began without any preliminaries:

  “I know, Mak, that you are an underground activist, a member of Central HQ, and a passionate enemy of the existing order of things. In addition to which, you are also a fugitive convict and the killer of the crew of a special forces tank . . . And now about me. I am the state prosecutor, a trusted agent of the government who has access to the highest state secrets, and also an enemy of the existing order of things. I am proposing that you should depose the Unknown Fathers. When I say ‘you,’ I mean you and only you, in person—this does not concern your organization. I ask you to please understand that any intervention by the underground can only make a hash of the job. I am proposing a conspiracy with you, based on my knowledge of the most important state secret of all. I shall inform you of that secret. Only the two of us must know it. If any third person discovers it, we shall be eliminated in the very, very near future. Don’t forget that the underground and its HQ are teeming with agent provocateurs. Therefore, do not even think of putting your trust in anybody—especially in your close friends.”

  The prosecutor drained his little glass in a single gulp, without even tasting the wine.

  “I know the location of the Center. And you are the only man who is capable of capturing this Center. I am proposing to you a complete, detailed plan for seizing the Center and the actions to follow that. You carry out this plan and become the head of the state. I remain as your political and economic adviser, because you know absolutely damn all concerning matters of that kind. I am familiar with the general outline of your political program: use the Center for reeducating the people in a spirit of humane values and elevated morality, and on that basis build a just society in the absolute shortest term possible. I don’t have any objections. I accept it—simply because nothing could be worse than the present situation. That’s all I have to say. You have the floor.”

  Mak didn’t say anything. He remained silent, twirling the precious glass of precious wine in his fingers. The prosecutor waited. He couldn’t feel his own body. It seemed to him that he wasn’t here, that he was dangling somewhere in the celestial void, looking down at the softly lit, cozy little corner, with Mak sitting in the armchair beside him, saying nothing—a vision of something that was dead and stiff, neither speaking nor breathing . . .

  And then Mak asked, “What are my chances of staying alive if I capture the Center?”

  “Fifty-fifty,” said the prosecutor. Or rather, he imagined that he had said it, because Mak knitted his brows and repeated his question in a louder voice.

  “Fifty-fifty,” the prosecutor hoarsely said. “Perhaps even better than that. I don’t know.”

  Mak remained silent for a long time again.

  “All right,” he eventually said. “Where is the Center located?”

  19

  At about noon the phone rang. Maxim picked up the receiver and the prosecutor’s voice said, “Mr. Sim, please.”

  “I’m on the line,” said Maxim. “Hello.”

  He immediately sensed that something bad had happened. “He’s arrived,” said the prosecutor. “Start immediately. Is that possible?”

  “Yes,” Maxim said through his teeth. “But you promised me a few things.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to do anything,” the prosecutor said, his voice tinged with a slight note of panic. “And now I won’t get a chance. Start immediately, at once—we can’t wait for even a single minute. Do you hear, Mak?”

  “All right,” said Maxim. “Is that all?”

  “He’s coming to see you. He’ll be there in thirty or forty minutes.”

  “I understand. Now is that all?”

  “Yes. Go on, Mak, get on with it. Go with God!”

  Maxim hung up and sat there for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts. Massaraksh, everything is going down the drain . . . But I still have a chance to think . . . He grabbed the phone again. “Professor Allu Zef, please.”

  “Yes,” Zef roared.

  “This is Mak.”

  “Massaraksh, I asked you not to pester me today—”

  “Shut up and listen. Come down into the lobby immediately and wait for me there.”

  “Massaraksh, I’m busy!”

  Maxim grated his teeth and squinted at the lab assistant. The assistant was assiduously calculating something on an arithmometer.

  “Zef,” said Maxim. “Come down to the lobby immediately. Do you understand me? Immediately!” He cut off the call and dialed Wild Boar’s number. He was lucky: Boar was home. “This is Mak. Go outside and wait for me—some urgent business has come up.”

  “All right,” said Boar. “I’m on my way.”

  Maxim dropped the receiver, reached into his desk, pulled out the first folder he came across, and started leafing through the pages while feverishly trying to weigh up whether everything was ready. The car was in the garage, the bomb was in the trunk, the tank was full of fuel . . . he didn’t have a gun, but to hell with it, he didn’t need a gun . . . the documents were in his pocket, Boar was waiting . . . It was smart of me to think of Boar . . . Of course, he could refuse . . . No, he’s not likely to refuse, I wouldn’t refuse . . . That’s all. I think that’s all . . .

  He told the lab assistant, “I’ve been called to a meeting, say I’m at the Department of Construction. I’ll be back in an hour or two. See you later.”

  He tucked the folder under his arm, walked out of the laboratory, and ran down the stairs. Zef was already striding around the lobby. When he saw Maxim, he stopped, clasped his hands behind his back, and scowled.

  “What the hell, massaraksh—” he began before Maxim had even reached him.

  Without dawdling, Maxim grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward the exit. “What the hell’s going on?” Zef muttered, digging his heels in. �
��Where to? What for?” Maxim shoved him out through the door, then dragged him along the asphalt path and around the corner to the garages. There was no one around, only a lawnmower chattering away on the lawn in the distance.

  “Will you tell me just where you’re dragging me off to?” Zef yelled.

  “Be quiet,” said Maxim. “Listen. Get all our guys together immediately. Everybody you can get hold of . . . To hell with any questions. Listen! Everybody you can get hold of. With weapons. There’s a pavilion just beside the gates, know it? Hole up in there. Wait. In about thirty minutes—Are you listening to me, Zef?”

  “Well come on, then,” Zef impatiently said.

  “In about thirty minutes, Wanderer will drive up to the gates—”

  “So he’s come back, then?”

  “Don’t interrupt. In about thirty minutes—maybe—Wanderer will drive up to the gates. If he doesn’t, that’s good. Just sit there and wait for me. But if he does drive up, shoot him.”

  “Have you gone wacko, or what?” asked Zef, stopping dead. Maxim kept on walking and Zef ran after him, cursing and swearing. “They’ll kill all of us, massaraksh! The guards! And cops all over the place!”

  “Do the best you can,” said Maxim. “Wanderer has to be shot.”

  They reached the garage. Maxim heaved on the bolt and rolled the door aside.

  “This idea’s totally insane,” said Zef. “What for? Why Wanderer? He’s a perfectly decent kind of guy, everyone here likes him.”

  “Suit yourself,” Maxim said in a cold voice. He opened the trunk, felt for the primer and the timing mechanism through the oil-impregnated paper, and slammed the lid shut again. “I can’t tell you anything right now. But we have a chance. Our one and only chance . . .” He got into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. “And don’t forget this: if you don’t whack this perfectly decent kind of guy, he’ll whack me. You don’t have very much time. Go to it, Zef.”