Tale of the Troika s-2

by Arkady Strugatsky

  Lavr Fedotovich took his opera glasses and aimed them at the commandant. The commandant sank.

  “I remember, it was in Syzran,” Khlebovvodov continued, “they threw me in as head of the qualifying courses for intermediary personnel, and there was this fellow there, he refused to sweep the street. No, it wasn’t in Syzran, as I recall, it was in Saratov, that’s right, in Saratov! First I upgraded the school for master flour grinders, and then, they threw me into those courses. That’s right, in Saratov, in fifty-two, in the winter, it was as cold as Siberia. No,” he said sorrowfully, “it wasn’t Saratov. It was in Siberia, but I can’t remember the city—it’s gone clear out of my head. I knew it just yesterday, I was thinking how nice it had been in that city.”

  He stopped talking with his mouth open. Lavr Fedotovich waited a bit, inquired if there were any questions for the speaker, was assured that there were none, and then suggested that Khlebovvodov continue.

  “Lavr Fedotovich,” Khlebovvodov spoke movingly. “You see, I’ve forgotten the city. I’ve plumb forgotten it. Let him go on reading, and I’ll think of it. But make sure he reads the form right, point by point, without skipping around, it’s a mess otherwise.”

  “Go on with your report, Comrade Zubo,” Lavr Fedotovich said.

  “Point five,” the commandant read meekly. “Nationality.”

  Farfurkis allowed himself to move slightly and immediately froze in fright. However, Khlebovvodov had caught the movement and shouted at the commandant:

  “From the beginning! Start at the beginning!”

  While he read it from the beginning I examined Eddie’s humanizer. It was a flat shiny box with windows, like a little toy car. Eddie was very deft in its use. I could never be like that. His fingers moved like snakes. I was staring.

  “Kherson!” Khlebovvodov suddenly shouted. “It was in Kherson, that’s where! Go on, go on,” he told the commandant. “I just remembered it, you know.” He leaned over to Lavr Fedotovich’s ear and bursting with laughter, he whispered something that made Comrade Vuniukov’s wooden features begin to soften, and he had to hide his face from the democratic masses behind a broad hand.

  “Point six,” the commandant read on uncertainly. “Education: Higher syn … cri … ere … tical.”

  Farfurkis twitched and squealed but did not dare speak. Khlebovvodov rushed in jealously.

  “What? What kind of education?”

  “Syncretical,” the commandant repeated in one breath.

  “Aha,” said Khlebovvodov and looked over at Lavr Fedotovich.

  “That’s good,” Lavr Fedotovich pronounced portentously. “We like people to be self-critical. Continue, Comrade Zubo.”

  “Point seven. Knowledge of foreign languages: All without dictionary.”

  “What, what?” asked Khlebovvodov.

  “All of them. Without dictionaries.”

  “Some self-criticism,” said Khlebovvodov. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

  “Point eight. Profession and place of work at the present time: Reader of poetry, amphibrachist, at present on a short-term leave. Point nine …”

  “Wait,” said Khlebovvodov. “Where does he work?”

  “At present he is on leave,” the commandant explained. “Short term.”

  “I understood that without you,” countered Khlebovvodov. “I asked what his specialty was.”

  The commandant raised the file to his eyes.

  “Reader,” he said. “I guess he read poems.”

  Khlebovvodov slammed his fist on the table.

  “I’m not deaf,” he shouted. “I heard what he reads. He reads and let him go on reading in his spare time. I want to know his specialty! Where does he work, what does he do!”

  Vybegallo kept quiet, and I couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “His specialty is reading poetry,” I said. “He specializes in reading amphibrachs.”

  Khlebovvodov looked at me suspiciously.

  “No, I understand amphibrachs—that’s, um, well … What am I trying to clear up here? I want to make clear what it is that he is paid a salary for?”

  “They do not have salaries,” I clarified.

  “Ah! He’s unemployed!” he exulted. But then he became wary.

  “No, no, it doesn’t work. Your ends don’t come together here. No salary, but he gets a vacation. You’re trying to pull something off here.”

  “Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “There is a question for the speaker and for the scientific consultant as well. The profession of Case 72.”

  “Reader of poetry,” Vybegallo said quickly. “And as, also, he is … an amphibrachist.”

  “Place of work at present time?”

  “On a short-term vacation. Resting, that is, for a short term.”

  Lavr Fedotovich, without turning his head, looked in the direction of Khlebovvodov.

  “Are there any other questions?” he inquired.

  Khlebovvodov squirmed longingly. Anyone could see that the lofty glory of solidarity with management opinion was struggling with the equally lofty feeling of civic duty. Finally civic duty won out, though suffering noticeable damage.

  “I have something I must say, Lavr Fedotovich!” Khlebovvodov began. “Here is what I must say! An amphibrachist, that’s completely understandable. The amphibrach is, um, well, um … And everything is perfectly clear about the poetry, too. That’s your Pushkin, Mikhalkov, and Korneichuk. But, reader. That’s the problem. There is no such profession! And I can understand why not. Because what would happen then? Here I am, reading limericks to myself, and for that I get wealth, for that I get vacations? That’s what I must clear up.”

  Lavr Fedotovich trained his opera glasses on Vybegallo.

  “We will hear the opinion of the consultant,” he announced.

  Vybegallo rose.

  “That is,” he said and ran his fingers through his beard. “Comrade Khlebovvodov correctly raises the question and puts the accents in the right place. The people like poetry—je vous parle à coeur ouvert. But do the people need all kinds of poetry? Je vous demande un peu, do they need all kinds? You and I know, comrades, that it’s not all kinds. That is why we must strictly follow, c’est … a specific, that is, of course, and not lose sight of our landmarks and, c’est, le vin est tiré, il faut le boire. My personal feeling is this: Aides-toi et Dieu t’aidera. But I would suggest that we also listen to the representative from below, Comrade Privalov, call him as a witness, so to speak.”

  Lavr Fedotovich turned his opera glasses on me.

  “Well, why not. He’s always interrupting anyway, he has no patience, he might as well clear things up if he knows so much.”

  “Voilà,” Vybegallo said hotly. “L’éducation qu’on donne aux jeunes hommes d’aujourd’hui.”

  “That’s just what I said. Let him talk,” said Khlebovvodov.

  “They have a lot of poets there,” I explained. “They all write poetry, and naturally every poet wants to have a reader. Readers are unsystematic beings and do not understand that simple fact. They love to read great poetry and even commit it to memory. And they don’t want anything to do with bad poetry. Inequity arises, unfairness. And since the inhabitants there are very sensitive and try to make everyone happy, they created a special profession—reader. Some specialize in reading iambic poetry, others trochaic. Konstantin Konstantinovich is a renowned specialist in amphibrachs and now he is mastering the alexandrine, developing a second specialty. This is a hazardous field, of course, and readers are entitled to double rations, as well as frequent short-term leaves.”

  “I understand all that!” Khlebovvodov’s shriek pierced the air. “Iambs, and those alexandrines. There’s one thing I don’t understand. What are they paying him for? All right, so he sits and reads. I know it’s hazardous. But reading is a quiet business, an internal one, how are you going to check whether he’s reading or faking? I remember, I used to run a section in the Department of Inspecting and Quarantine of Plants, and once I had thi
s … He would just sit at meetings and look as if he was listening, even writing something in his notebook, but actually the sneak was sleeping! Now many throughout the offices of the land have learned how to sleep with their eyes open! So I don’t understand how it works. What if he’s lying? There should not be professions where inspection is impossible. How can you tell if the man is working or sleeping?”

  “It’s not that cut-and-dried,” Eddie interrupted, tearing himself away from tuning the humanizer. “He not only reads; they send him all the poems written in amphibrachs. He must read them all, understand them, find the root of exquisite pleasure in each and every one, love them, and naturally find some fault with them. Then he must regularly send the authors his feelings and thoughts on the poems and give readings at evenings devoted to the poets and at readers’ conferences, and read them so well that the poets are satisfied and feel that they are needed. This is a very demanding profession,” he concluded. “Konstantin Konstantinovich is a true hero of labor.”

  “Yes,” said Khlebovvodov. “Now I understand. It’s a valuable profession. And I like the system. It’s a good, fair system.”

  “Continue your report, Comrade Zubo,” said Lavr Fedotovich.

  The commandant again raised the file to his eyes.

  “Point nine. Have you been abroad? Yes. In connection with engine problems, I spent four hours on Easter Island.”

  Farfurkis squeaked indistinctly, and Khlebovvodov picked up on it right away.

  “Whose territory is it now?” he asked Vybegallo.

  Professor Vybegallo, smiling jovially, motioned to me with an expansive, condescending gesture.

  “I give the floor to youth.”

  “Chilean territory,” I explained.

  “Chile, Chile,” Khlebovvodov muttered, anxiously peering at Lavr Fedotovich. Lavr Fedotovich smoked calmly. “Well, if it’s Chile, all right then,” said Khlebovvodov reluctantly. “And only four hours. All right. What’s next?”

  “I protest,” Farfurkis whispered with unbelievable courage, but the commandant had resumed reading.

  “Point ten. A brief description of the unexplainable: A rational being from the star Antares. Pilot of a space ship called a flying saucer.”

  Lavr Fedotovich had no objections. Khlebovvodov looked at him, nodded approvingly, and the commandant continued.

  “Point eleven. Statistics on close relatives—There’s a long list here.”

  “Read on, read on,” said Khlebovvodov.

  “There are seven hundred seventy-six people,” warned the commandant.

  “And don’t argue. Your job is to read. So read. And clearly.”

  The commandant sighed and began.

  “Parents—A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H …”

  “What are you doing? Hold it, wait!” said Khlebovvodov, who had lost his gift of politeness from the shock. “Where are you, in school? What do you think we are, children?”

  “I’m reading what’s written,” the commandant snarled and went on, raising his voice: “I, J, K …”

  “Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said. “There is a question for the speaker. The father of Case 72. Surname, name, and patronymic.”

  “Just a minute,” I interrupted. “Konstantin Konstantinovich has seventy-seven parents of seven distinct sexes, ninety-six spouses of four sexes, two hundred seven children of seven sexes, and three hundred ninety-six siblings of seven sexes.”

  The effect of my statement exceeded all expectations. Lavr Fedotovich was so confused that he raised his opera glasses to his lips. Khlebovvodov kept licking his lips, and Farfurkis avidly flipped through his notes.

  We could not count on Vybegallo, and I prepared myself for a major battle—I deepened the trenches, mined the tank-endangered approaches, and protected cut-off positions. The magazines were overflowing with ammunition, the artillery men were glued to their weapons, and the infantrymen were issued a shot of vodka each. The silence dragged on, thunderclouds glowered, the air was charged with electricity, and my hand was on the telephone—I was ready to call for an atomic attack. But all the expected screams, noise, and shouting came out as a whimper. Khlebovvodov suddenly broke out in a grin, bent over to whisper in Lavr Fedotovich’s ear, his oily eyes glancing back and forth, and Lavr Fedotovich lowered his bespittled opera glasses, covered his face with his hand, and said in a quavering voice:

  “Continue your report, Comrade Zubo.”

  The commandant readily put away the list of relatives and reported:

  “Point twelve. Place of permanent residence: The Galaxy, star Antares, planet Konstantina, state of Konstantia, city of Konstantinov, call number 457 point 14—9. That’s all.”

  “I protest,” shouted Farfurkis.

  Lavr Fedotovich looked at him kindly. The silent treatment was over, and Farfurkis, tears of joy glistening in his eyes, spoke: “I protest! There was an obvious discrepancy in the age description. The form gives the date of birth as 213 B.C. If that were so, then Case 72 would be over two thousand years old, which exceeds the known maximum by two thousand years. I demand that the date be corrected and the guilty party punished.”

  Khlebovvodov said jealously:

  “Maybe he’s from one of those places in the Caucasus where people live a long time? How do you know?”

  “But allow me,” Farfurkis sputtered. “Even in the Caucasus …”

  “I will not allow it,” said Khlebovvodov. “I will not allow you to downplay the achievements of our glorious Caucasus dwellers! If you must know, their maximum possible age has no limit!” And he looked triumphantly at Lavr Fedotovich.

  “The people,” said Lavr Fedotovich, “the people are eternal. Space visitors come and go, but our people, our glorious people, will live on through the ages.”

  Farfurkis and Khlebovvodov stopped to think, trying to figure out in whose favor the chairman had spoken. Neither one wanted to risk it. One was at the top and did not wish to fall from the peak over some lousy visitor. The other, deep down below, was hanging over a precipice but he had just been thrown a lifeline. And then Lavr Fedotovich spoke.

  “Is that all, Comrade Zubo? Any questions? No questions? Then the motion is to call in the case known as Konstantin Konstantinovich. Any other motions? Let the case come in.”

  The commandant bit his lip, pulled out a mother-of-pearl marble from his pocket, and, closing his eyes, squeezed it. There was a sound like a cork popping, and Konstantin appeared next to the demonstration table. He must have been summoned while he was working: he was wearing coveralls smeared with fluorescent grease, his front hands were in metallic work gloves, and he was wiping his back hands on his pants. All four eyes still were engrossed in the repairs. There was a strong smell of chemicals in the room.

  “Hello,” said Konstantin, happily discovering where it was he was. “You have summoned me at last. Of course, my problem is slight, I’m almost embarrassed to bother you with it, but I’ve reached a dead end and the only way out is to ask for help. So that I do not burden your attention for too long, I will tell you what I need.” He commenced ticking off the points on his fingers. “A laser drill—but of the highest power. An acetylene torch, I know you already have those. Two incubators with a capacity of a thousand eggs each. That will hold me for the beginning, but it would be nice to also have a qualified engineer, and to have permission to work in the laboratories of FILIL.”

  “What kind of alien from outer space is this?” Khlebovvodov demanded with amazement and indignation. “What kind of alien can he be, I ask you, when I see him in the hotel dining room every day? Look here, citizen, who are you really and how did you get here?”

  “I am Konstantin from the Antares system.” Konstantin was perplexed. “I thought you knew all that. I filled in forms, I was interviewed.” He saw Vybegallo and smiled at him. “It was you, wasn’t it, who interviewed me?”

  Khlebovvodov also turned to Vybegallo.

  “So this, in your opinion, is a visitor from outer space?” he asked acidly.
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  “He is,” said Vybegallo with dignity. “Contemporary science does not deny the possibility of visitors from outer space, Comrade Khlebovvodov, you should keep in touch. This is an official opinion, not just mine, but of much more responsible scientific workers. Giordano Bruno, for instance, has made completely official statements on this subject, so has Academician Levon Alfredovich Volosianis … and … c’est … writers, like Wells, for instance, or say, Chugunets.”

  “Strange things are going on here,” said Khlebovvodov suspiciously. “The space aliens seem awfully strange lately.”

  “I’m examining the picture that’s included in the file,” Farfurkis chipped in, “and I see that while there is a general resemblance, the comrade in the photo has two arms, and this unknown citizen has four. How can this be explained from the point of view of science?”

  Vybegallo released a very long citation in French, the point of which was that some guy named Arthur liked to go to the sea in the mornings after having a cup of hot chocolate. I interrupted him.

  “Konstantin, please face Comrade Farfurkis.”

  Konstantin obeyed.

  “Ah, I see,” said Farfurkis, “the matter has been cleared up. I must tell you, Lavr Fedotovich, that the resemblance between this comrade and the photograph is indisputable. I see four eyes here, and four eyes there. No nose. Yes. Crooked mouth. Everything’s in order.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Khlebovvodov. “It had been clearly stated in the press that if there were visitors from outer space, they would announce themselves. And since they do not, then they do not exist and are no more than a hoax perpetrated by scoundrels. Are you a visitor from space?” he croaked at Konstantin.

  “Yes,” Konstantin said, backing away from him.

  “Did you announce yourself?”

  “No,” said Konstantin. “I wasn’t planning on landing. And that’s not the point here.”

  “Oh, no, dear citizen, you just drop that. That is precisely the point. If you had announced yourself, then welcome aboard, share our bread, drink and make merry. But since you didn’t, then it’s not our fault. Your amphibrach is fine, but we have to make a living here, too. We have work to do, and can’t be sidetracked. That is my general opinion.”