The Inhabited Island

by Arkady Strugatsky

  Massaraksh, why don’t they have any insulation on anything? Ah, so that’s where you are . . . Right, go with God, as Mr. State Prosecutor says!

  He sat down right there on the floor and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The job was done. An immensely powerful field of depressive radiation had descended on the entire country—from south of the Blue Serpent all the way to the Hontian border, from the ocean all the way to the Alabaster Mountain Range.

  The automatics around the corner have stopped firing. The gentlemen officers are feeling depressed. Now I’ll take a look at what that’s like: gentlemen officers in a depressed state.

  For the first time in his life the state prosecutor is delighted to feel a burst of radiation.

  The Unknown Fathers, who haven’t yet managed to figure things out and understand what’s happening, are writhing in pain, with their toes turned up, as Cornet Chachu used to say. And Cornet Chachu, by the way, is also in a state of deep depression, and the thought of that delights me.

  Zef and the guys are also lying stretched out with their toes turned up. Sorry, guys, but it’s necessary.

  And Wanderer! Now, isn’t that great? The terrible Wanderer is also lying there with his toes turned up, and his huge ears spread out across the floor—the hugest ears in the whole country. Or maybe he has already been shot. That would be even better.

  Rada, my poor little Rada is lying in a fit of depression. Never mind, little girl, it probably isn’t painful, and it will all be over and done with soon . . .

  Boar . . .

  He jumped up. How much time had gone by? He went dashing back through the tunnel. Boar must also be lying with his toes turned up, but if he had heard the shooting, his nerves might have given way . . . Of course, that was highly doubtful—what nerves did Boar have?

  He ran up to the elevator, pausing for a moment to glance at the gentlemen officers in their depressed state. It was a painful sight: all three of them had dropped their rifles and were weeping—they didn’t even have the strength to wipe away their tears and snot. Fine, weep a bit, it’s good for you. Weep over my Gai, weep over Bird . . . over Gel . . . over my Forester . . . I guess you haven’t wept since you were kids, and in any case you never wept over the people you killed. So weep a little bit at least before you die . . .

  The elevator shot him up to the surface. The enfilade of rooms was full of people: officers, soldiers, corporals, guardsmen, civilians, all of them armed, all lying or sitting there lamenting, some wailing at the top of their lungs, some muttering, shaking their heads, and hammering one fist against their chests . . . and this one here had shot himself. Massaraksh, what a terrible thing it is, this Black Radiation, no wonder the Fathers were saving it for a rainy day.

  He ran out into the vestibule, leaping over the feebly stirring people, almost flying head over heels down the stone steps, and stopped in front of his own car, relieved to be able to catch his breath. Boar’s nerves had held out. He was slumped in the front passenger seat with his eyes closed.

  Maxim lugged the bomb out of the trunk, freed it from the oil-impregnated paper, carefully set it under his arm, and went back to the elevator without hurrying. He thoroughly examined the fuse, activated the timer, placed the bomb in the elevator cabin, and pressed the button. The cabin fell down and away, carrying with it a lake of fire that would be unleashed in ten minutes—or, rather, nine minutes and a number of seconds.

  He ran back.

  In the car he sat Boar up more or less straight, got in behind the wheel, and drove out of the parking lot. The gray building towered up over them, oppressive, grotesque, and doomed, chock full of doomed people incapable of moving or of understanding what was happening.

  It was a nest, a hideous nest of vipers packed with the very choicest garbage, deliberately and thoughtfully selected garbage, and this garbage had been collected together here especially in order to transform into garbage everybody who was within reach of the hideous sorcery of radio, television, and radiation from the towers. All of them in there are enemies, and none of them would pause for even a second before riddling us with bullets, before betraying and crucifying me, Boar, Zef, Rada, and all my friends and dear ones.

  And it’s a good thing that I’ve only just remembered this now; any earlier that thought would have been a hindrance to me. I would immediately have remembered Fish . . . The only human being in the doomed nest of vipers, and that human being happens to be a Fish. But what about Fish? he thought. What do I actually know about her? That she taught me to speak their language? And made up my bed after me? Come on now, leave Fish out of it, you know perfectly well that it’s not just a matter of Fish.

  The point is that as of today you’re coming out to fight seriously, to the death, the way everybody else here fights, and you’ll have to fight against blockheads—against malicious blockheads, who have been reduced to dummies by the radiation; against cunning, ignorant, ravenous blockheads who directed that radiation; against benevolently motivated blockheads who would be glad to use the radiation to transform rabid, brutalized puppets into amiable, quasi-benign puppets . . . And they will all do their best to kill you, and your friends, and your cause, because—and remember this very well, master this lesson now for the rest of your life!—because in this world they don’t know any other way to change the opinion of those who don’t share their views.

  The Sorcerer said, Do not let your conscience prevent you from thinking clearly; let reason learn to stifle your conscience when it is necessary. That’s right, thought Maxim. The truth of it is bitter, a terrible truth . . . They call what I have just done a heroic deed. Boar has lived to see this day. And Forester, Bird, Green, and Gel Ketshef all believed in this day like a heartwarming fairy tale, and so did my Gai, and hundreds and thousands of people whom I have never seen . . . But even so, I feel bad about it. And if I want people to trust me in the future, I must never tell anyone that the greatest feat of courage I performed wasn’t when I cavorted about under a hail of bullets but right now, when there is still enough time to go back and defuse the bomb but I’m driving this car as hard as I can push it, away from that cursed place . . .

  He drove hard along the straight highway, the same road along which Fank had driven him six months earlier in his luxurious limousine, trying to overtake the endless column of armored trucks, hurtling along the road in order to hand Maxim over to Wanderer . . . and now it was clear why . . . Could he really have already known that the radiation didn’t affect me, that I didn’t understand anything and I could be turned and twisted any way at all? He must have known, that damned Wanderer did know. And that means he really is a devil, the most terrifying man in the country, and maybe on the planet.

  “He knows everything,” the state prosecutor told me, fearfully glancing back over his shoulder . . . But no, not everything—you have outsmarted Wanderer, Mak, you have beaten the devil. And now you have to finish him off before it’s too late, before he has time to bounce back. Or maybe he has already been finished off—right in front of the gates of his own lair . . . Oh, I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it, the guys aren’t up to that job. Blister had twenty-four relatives with machine guns . . .

  Massaraksh. It’s true that I don’t know how revolutions are made. I didn’t make any preparations for seizing the telegraph office, the telephone exchange, and the bridges right at the very outset, I have hardly any men at all, the rank-and-file underground members don’t know me, Central HQ will be against me . . . I didn’t even manage to inform General in the penal labor camp to get ready to rouse the political prisoners and shoot them up here on a special train. But no matter what happens there, I have to finish Wanderer off. I have to be able to finish Wanderer off and hold out for a few hours until the army and the Guards are knocked out by radiation deprivation. None of them know about radiation deprivation, do they? Even Wanderer probably doesn’t know—how could he know? After all, in the entire country, Gai is the only one who has ever been removed from the rad
iation field—by me.

  There were lots of cars on the highway, all of them standing in chaotic disarray—across the roadway, at a slant, slumped over into the roadside ditches. The drivers and passengers, crushed by depression, were sitting, dolefully lamenting, on the running boards, helplessly slouching off the seats, and lying around at the edge of the road. All of this was a hindrance; Maxim constantly had to brake, doubling back and driving around blockages, and he didn’t immediately notice that moving toward him from the direction of the city, also doubling back and driving around blockages, was a low, flat, bright yellow government automobile.

  They met on a relatively clear section of the highway and shot past each other, almost colliding, and Maxim had time to spot a naked cranium, round green eyes, and immense, protruding ears. He cringed bodily, because suddenly everything had gone down the tubes again . . . Wanderer! Massaraksh! The entire country is lying around in a state of depression, and that bastard, that devil, has wormed his way out of things again! So he did invent his protective device after all . . . And I don’t have a gun . . .

  Maxim looked in the mirror: the long yellow car was turning around. Well then, I’ll have to get by without a gun. At least this is something that my conscience won’t torment me about . . . Maxim stepped on the accelerator. Speed, speed . . . come on, come on, sweetheart, more . . . The flat yellow hood was moving closer, growing larger, Maxim could already see the intent green eyes above the steering wheel . . . Right, Mak!

  Maxim splayed out his legs to brace himself, barricaded Boar in place with one arm, and stamped down on the brake with all his strength.

  With an ear-shredding howling and squealing of brakes, the yellow hood smashed into Maxim’s trunk, grinding and crunching, crumpling up into a concertina and standing up on end. Glass showered everywhere. Maxim kicked open the door and tumbled out of his car. The pain was terrible—there was pain in his heel, pain in his smashed knee, pain in his skinned arm—but an instant later he forgot about it, because Wanderer was already standing there in front of him. It was impossible, but it was true. A long, lean devil, with his hand menacingly drawn back to strike . . .

  Maxim flung himself at Wanderer, putting everything he had left into that leap. He missed! And then there was a terrible blow to the back of his head . . . The world tilted over and Maxim almost fell, but he didn’t after all, and then Wanderer was back in front of him again, with his naked cranium, intent green eyes, and hand drawn back to strike . . . Stop, stop, he’s going to miss . . . Aha! . . . What’s he looking at? . . . Come on, you can’t fool us like that . . . With his face frozen still, Wanderer was staring over Maxim’s head; Maxim pounced again and this time he hit the target. The long, black man doubled over and slowly collapsed onto the asphalt. Then Maxim looked around.

  The gray cube of the Center was clearly visible from here, but it was no longer a cube. It was caving in as he watched, heaving up and collapsing into itself; a trembling haze of sultry air, steam, and smoke was rising up from it, and something blindingly white, hot even at this distance, was peeping out in appalling merriment through the long vertical cracks and the window holes . . . OK, so everything’s in order there.

  Maxim triumphantly turned back to Wanderer. The devil was lying on his side, clutching his stomach in his long arms, and his eyes were closed. Maxim cautiously moved a little bit closer. Boar stuck his head out of the crumpled little car. He wriggled and squirmed around as he tried to clamber out. Maxim stopped beside Wanderer and leaned down, trying to figure out how to strike to instantly finish this. Massaraksh, his damned hand refused to strike at a man on the ground . . .

  And then Wanderer half-opened his eyes and said in a hoarse voice, “Dummkopf! Rotznase!”

  Maxim didn’t immediately understand him, and when he did, his legs almost buckled underneath him.

  Fool . . .

  Snot-nose . . .

  Fool . . .

  Snot-nose . . .

  Then he heard Boar’s voice speak out of the gray, echoing void, “Just move away, Mak, I’ve got a pistol.”

  Without even looking, Maxim grabbed hold of his hand.

  Wanderer sat up with a struggle, still clutching his stomach. “Snot-nosed kid . . .” he hissed, straining to speak. “Don’t just stand there stock-still . . . go find a car . . . move it, move it. Don’t just stand there like that, look around!”

  Maxim obtusely looked around. The highway was coming to life. There was no more Center, it had been transformed into a puddle of molten metal, into steam and stench, the towers weren’t working any longer, the puppets had ceased to be puppets. As they came to, dumbfounded people were sullenly gazing around, shuffling their feet beside their cars, trying to figure out what had happened to them, how they had ended up here, and what to do next.

  “Who are you?” asked Wild Boar.

  “None of your business,” Wanderer replied in German. He was in pain, groaning and gasping for breath.

  “I don’t understand,” said Boar, raising the barrel of his pistol.

  “Kammerer . . .” Wanderer exclaimed. “Shut your terrorist’s mouth . . . and go find a car . . .”

  “What car?” Maxim dim-wittedly asked.

  “Massaraksh . . .” Wanderer croaked. He raggedly struggled to his feet, still hunching over and pressing his hand against his stomach, staggered over to Maxim’s little car, and climbed inside.

  “Get in . . . quickly . . .” he said from behind the steering wheel. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the pillar of smoke illuminated by flames. “What did you plant in there?” he asked in a despairing voice.

  “A thermobaric bomb.”

  “In the basement or in the vestibule?”

  “In the basement,” Maxim said.

  Wanderer groaned and sat there for a moment with his head thrown back, then switched on the engine. The car gave a shudder and started rattling. “Get in will you, at last!” he yelled.

  “Who are you,” asked Boar. “A Hontian?”

  Maxim shook his head, tore open the door that was jammed shut, and told him, “Climb in.”

  He himself walked around the car and got in beside Wanderer. The car jerked, and something inside it started squealing and crunching, but it was already rolling down the highway, grotesquely wobbling along, jangling its doors that wouldn’t close properly and loudly backfiring.

  “What are you intending to do now?” Wanderer asked.

  “Wait . . .” Maxim asked him. “At least tell me who you are.”

  “I work as a Galactic Security agent,” Wanderer said in a bitter voice. “I’ve been here for five years. We’re working on trying to save this unfortunate planet. Painstakingly, taking into account all the possible consequences. All of them, do you understand? And who are you? Who the hell are you to go meddling in somebody else’s business, ruining all our calculations, blowing things up, shooting—who the hell are you?”

  “I didn’t know,” Maxim said in a crestfallen voice. “How could I have known?”

  “Yes, of course you didn’t know. But you did know that independent interference is forbidden—you’re an employee of the FSG . . . You ought to have known . . . Back on Earth his mother’s going insane over him . . . Some girls or other keep calling all the time . . . His father’s abandoned his job . . . What were you intending to do next?”

  “I was intending to shoot you,” said Maxim.

  “Whaaat?” The car swerved.

  “Yes,” Maxim humbly said. “And what was I supposed to do? I was told that you were the head villain here, and . . .”—he chuckled—“. . . and it wasn’t hard to believe it.”

  Wanderer dubiously squinted at him with a round, green eye. “Well, OK. And what then?”

  “Then the revolution was supposed to start.”

  “And why should it?”

  “But the Center is destroyed, isn’t it? There’s no more radiation.”

  “So what?”

  “Now they’ll immediately realize that they�
��re being oppressed, that their life is wretched, and they’ll rise up—”

  “Where will they rise up to?” Wanderer sadly asked. “Who will rise up? The Unknown Fathers are still alive, and thriving, the Guards are alive and well, the army is mobilized, the country is on a war footing . . . What exactly did you calculate would happen?”

  Maxim lowered his head. Of course, he could have told this sad monster about his plans, his intentions for the future and the rest of it, but what was the point, since nothing was ready, since things had turned out like this . . .

  “They’ll do their own calculating.” He pointed over his shoulder at Boar. “Let this man do the calculating, for instance . . . My job was to give them a chance to calculate a few things for themselves.”

  “Your job . . .” Wanderer sputtered. “Your job was to sit in a corner and wait for me to catch you.”

  “Yes, probably,” said Maxim. “Next time I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “You’re going straight back to Earth today,” Wanderer harshly said.

  “I’ll see you burn first!” Maxim protested.

  “You’re going straight back to Earth today,” Wanderer repeated, raising his voice. “I’ve got enough trouble on this planet without you. Collect your Rada and be on your way.”

  “You have Rada?” Maxim eagerly asked.

  “Yes, she’s been with me for a long time. Alive and well, don’t worry.”

  “For Rada—thank you,” said Maxim. “Thank you very much.”

  The car drove into the city. On the main street a monstrous traffic jam was honking and pouring out smoky fumes. Wanderer turned onto a side street and started driving though the slums. Everything here was dead. Military policemen jutted up like columns on the corners, their hands clasped behind their backs, their faces surmounted by battle helmets. Yes, they had rapidly responded to events. A general alarm and everyone was at their posts. As soon as they recovered from the depression. Maybe I shouldn’t have blown everything up immediately—maybe I ought to have followed the prosecutor’s plan? No, no, massaraksh, let everything go on just as it is now. I don’t want to hear his pointless rebukes. Let them figure out what’s what for themselves—they’re sure to figure things out, after all, just as soon as their heads clear . . .