Tale of the Troika s-2

by Arkady Strugatsky

  “It did come out rather well, didn’t it?” said Eddie. “But I must stop it. Such an expenditure of brain energy …”

  He turned off the humanizer, and Farfurkis started whining immediately.

  “Comrades! It’s impossible to work, what are we doing?”

  Vybegallo chewed on his lip, looked around blankly, and scratched his beard.

  “That’s right!” Khlebovvodov said and sat down. “We have to finish up. I’m in the minority here, but who am I? It doesn’t matter! If you don’t want to turn him over to the police, then don’t. But rationalizing this trickster as an unexplained phenomenon is pointless. Big deal, so he grew himself another two arms.”

  “It isn’t taking!” Eddie said bitterly. “It’s rough going, Alex. They have no humanity, these plumbers.”

  “Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich, and delivered a short speech that made it clear that the public did not need unexplained phenomena that could, but would not for one reason or another, present the credentials that proved that they were unexplained. On the other hand, the people have long demanded a ruthless paring down of bureaucratic red tape in all departments. Therefore, Lavr Fedotovich expressed his opinion that the examination of Case 72 should be postponed until December of this year in order to give Comrade K. K. Konstantinov time to get back to his permanent residence and return with the appropriate documents. As for giving Comrade K. K. Konstantinov material aid, the Troika has the right to give such aid or to facilitate it only in those instances where the request comes from what has been certified by the Troika as an unexplained phenomenon. And since Comrade K. K. Konstantinov has not yet been certified as such, then the question of giving him aid is also postponed until December—and more precisely, until the moment of his certification.

  The Great Round Seal did not appear on the scene and I heaved a sigh of relief. Konstantin, who never did grasp the situation fully and who had been getting angrier and angrier, spat demonstratively on the floor, very humanly, and disappeared.

  “That’s an attack!” Khlebovvodov shouted gleefully. “Did you see him spit? The whole floor is wet!”

  “That’s disgusting!” Farfurkis concurred. “I consider this an insult!”

  “I told you he was a crook!” said Khlebovvodov. “We have to call the police. Let them give him fifteen days, let him sweep the streets with his four hands.”

  “No, no, Comrade Khlebovvodov,” Farfurkis argued. “This is no police matter anymore, you underestimate the gravity of the situation. This was spitting in the face of the public and the administration. He should be tried!”

  Lavr Fedotovich did not speak, but his freckled fingers were agitatedly scampering across the table—he was looking for some button, or maybe the telephone. It began to reek of political crime. Vybegallo, who didn’t give a damn about Konstantin, did not respond. I coughed and asked for their attention. Attention was granted, but not very readily—their eyes were glistening excitedly, their fur was bristling, their fangs were ready to tear, and their claws to scratch.

  Trying to speak as pompously as possible, I reminded the Troika that it was in their interest to hold galactocentric and not anthropocentric positions. I pointed out that the customs and expressions of emotion might and probably do differ greatly in extraterrestrial creatures. I fell back on the weary analogy of the customs of the different tribes and peoples of Planet Earth. I expressed my confidence that Comrade Farfurkis would not be satisfied with rubbing noses for a greeting, in common usage among several northern peoples, but neither would he consider such rubbing to be degrading to his position as a member of the Troika. As for Comrade Konstantinov, the custom of spitting out a liquid of a certain chemical composition that forms in the oral cavity, a custom that among several peoples of the earth signifies dissatisfaction, irritation, or the desire to insult one’s interlocutor, might and must mean completely the opposite for an extraterrestrial creature, including gratitude for your attention. The so-called spitting of Comrade Konstantinov could also have been a purely neutral act, related to the physiological functioning of his organism.

  “Don’t give me that function stuff!” shouted Khlebovvodov. “He spat all over the floor, the bandit, and ran away!”

  “And finally,” I concluded, ignoring him, “we must not rule out the possibility that the above-mentioned physiological act of Comrade Konstantinov might have been an action connected with his lightning-like movement through space.”

  I was warbling like a nightingale and watched with relief as Lavr Fedotovich’s fingers kept slowing down, finally coming to rest on the blotter. Khlebovvodov was still barking threats, but the sensitive Farfurkis had caught the change in the wind and brought the brunt of the blow on an unexpected victim. He suddenly attacked the commandant, who, thinking himself safe from danger, was enjoying the spectacle with simple curiosity.

  “I have long been noticing,” thundered Farfurkis, “that the educational system in the Colony of Unexplained Phenomena is very poorly organized. There are almost no political education lectures. The visual aids in agitation reflect yesterday’s lessons. The Evening Institute of Culture barely functions. All of the cultural events in the Colony boil down to dances, foreign films, and tacky variety shows. The slogan-making industry has fallen into neglect. The colonists are left to their own devices, many of them are morally bankrupt, almost no one understands the international situation, and the most backward of the colonists, for example, the ghost of one Weiner, do not even comprehend where they are. The results are amoral behavior, hooliganism, and complaints from the populace. The day before yesterday Kuzma the Pterodactyl left the territory of the Colony and, definitely not sober, flew over the Club of Working Youth, biting off the bulbs that spell out WELCOME. One Nikolai Dolgonosikov, self-styled telepathist and spiritualist, tricked his way into the women’s dormitory of the pedagogical technicum and carried on discussions and actions that were classified by the administration as religious propaganda. And today we have run across another sad consequence of Comrade Zubo’s criminally negligent attitude toward education and propaganda as commandant of the Colony. Whatever the meaning of Comrade Konstantinov’s expectoration of liquids found in his oral cavity, it proves that he does not fully appreciate where he is and how he must behave, and this in turn proves that it is the fault of Comrade Zubo, who has not taught the colonists the meaning of the folk saying ‘Don’t bring your own rules to somebody else’s monastery.’ And I feel that we must warn Comrade Zubo and order him to raise the level of educational work in the Colony that is entrusted to him!”

  Farfurkis tapered off, and Khlebovvodov took on the commandant. His speech was muddled, but full of vague hints and threats so terrifying that the commandant faltered completely and openly swallowed pills. Khlebovvodov bellowed: “I’ll show you! Don’t you understand, or are you completely crazy?”

  “Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich finally and began setting matters straight. Comrade Zubo was reprimanded for behavior unworthy of the Troika, expressed in the expectoration by Comrade Konstantinov, and also for losing the administrative aura. Comrade K. K. Konstantinov was given a warning for walking on the ceiling and walls in his shoes. Farfurkis was given a verbal reprimand for always going over the time limit when he had the floor, and Khlebovvodov for violating administrative ethics by trying to lie to Comrade K. K. Konstantinov. Vybegallo was reprimanded verbally for appearing at the session unshaven.

  “Are there any other motions?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich. Khlebovvodov immediately leaned over and whispered in his ear. Lavr Fedotovich listened and then added: “There is a motion to remind certain representatives from below to participate more actively in the work of the Troika.”

  Now everybody had gotten it. No one had been forgotten, and nothing had been overlooked. The atmosphere cleared up, and everyone, including the commandant, cheered up. Only Eddie frowned, deep in thought.

  “Next,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Report, Comrade Zubo.”

  “Case 2,” read
the commandant. “Surname: Blank. Name: Blank. Patronymic: Blank. Nickname: Kuzma. Year and place of birth: Uncertain. Probably the Congo.”

  “What is he, mute?” asked Khlebovvodov jovially.

  “He doesn’t know how to talk. He only quacks.”

  “Has he been that way from birth?”

  “I would assume so.”

  “That means poor heredity,” Khlebovvodov grumbled. “That’s why he became a bandit. Is there a criminal record?”

  “Whose?” the confused commandant asked. “Mine?”

  “No, why yours? Does he have one, that bandit? What’s his nickname? Vaska?”

  “I protest,” said Farfurkis. “Comrade Khlebovvodov is operating under the mistaken prejudice that only bandits have nicknames. However, the regulations state in Paragraph 8, Chapter 4, Part 2, that nicknames will be given to phenomena classified as animate creatures without reason.”

  “Ah!” said the disappointed Khlebovvodov, “it’s some dog, I guess. And I thought it was a bandit. When I was in charge of the box office of the Mutual Aid Fund of Theater Figures under the auspices of the VTO, I had a bookkeeper …”

  “I protest!” Farfurkis wailed. “This is in violation of the regulations! We won’t get out of here before nightfall!”

  Khlebovvodov glanced at his watch.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Forgive me. Go ahead, brother, where did you stop?”

  “Point five. Nationality: Pterodactyl.”

  They all shuddered, but it was getting late, and no one said a word.

  “Education: Blank,” continued the commandant. “Knowledge of foreign languages: Blank. Profession and place of work at present time: Blank. Have you been abroad? Probably.”

  “Oh, that’s bad,” Khlebovvodov muttered. “Bad! Oh, vigilance! A pterodactyl, you say? What color? Is he white or black?”

  “He’s sort of gray.”

  “Aha!” said Khlebovvodov. “And he can’t talk. Only quacks. Well, all right, go on.”

  “Brief summary of the unexplainable: considered to be extinct fifty million years ago.”

  “How many?” Farfurkis demanded.

  “Fifty million it says here,” the commandant said.

  “That can’t be serious,” Farfurkis grumbled and looked at his watch. “Read on,” he moaned. “Read on.”

  “Data on close relatives: Probably all died out. Place of permanent residence: Kitezhgrad, Colony of Unexplained Phenomena.”

  “Has he been given papers?” Khlebovvodov demanded severely.

  “Sort of. When he arrived he was written in the register of honored visitors, and he’s been here ever since. You might say that Kuzma has grown to live here.” A tender note had crept into the commandant’s voice. It was obvious Kuzma was his protégé.

  “Is that all?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich. “Then there is a motion to call in the case.”

  There were no other motions. The commandant pulled back the curtains and called lovingly:

  “Here, Kuz, Kuz, Kuz, here boy. There he is, sitting on a chimney, the bum,” he said tenderly. “He’s shy, very shy. Kuz, Kuz, Kuz, here. He’s coming,” he announced, stepping away from the window.

  There was a leathery rustle and a whistle, a huge shadow blocked the sky for a second, and Kuzma, his membranes quivering, smoothly lowered himself onto the demonstration table. He folded up his wings, raised his head, opened his big toothy jaw, and quacked softly.

  “He’s saying hello,” the commandant explained. “He’s very polite, the little bugger. Understands everything.”

  Kuzma looked over the Troika, met the deathly gaze of Lavr Fedotovich, and suddenly became terribly shy. He tucked his head under his wing, hiding his jaws on his chest, and peeked out from under his leathery wings with one eye—it was a huge green anachronistic eye. He was a dream, that Kuzma. Of course, on an unprepared person, he could have a terrifying effect. Just to be safe, Khlebovvodov dropped a pencil under the table and slid down after it. “I thought it would be a quacking dog or something,” he muttered.

  “Does he bite?” asked Farfurkis.

  “Of course not!” the commandant said, “he’s a docile animal, he runs away if anyone says boo. Of course, if he gets angry—but he never gets angry.”

  Lavr Fedotovich examined the pterodactyl through his opera glasses, throwing the poor thing into a complete panic. Kuzma quacked nervously and tucked his head completely under his wing.

  “Harrumph!” Lavr Fedotovich said with satisfaction and put away the opera glasses.

  The situation was shaping up well.

  “I thought it was some kind of horse,” Khlebovvodov muttered, crawling around under the table.

  “Allow me, Lavr Fedotovich,” said Farfurkis. “I can see definite difficulties with this case. If we were involved in examining an unusual phenomenon, I would be the first to call for immediate ratonalization. Indeed, a crocodile with wings is a rather unusual phenomenon in our climate. However, our goal is to examine unexplained phenomena, and here I have my doubts. Is there an element of the unexplained in Case 2? If there isn’t, then why are we examining the case? If, on the other hand, there is, what precisely is it? Perhaps, our comrade the scientific consultant could say a few words in this regard?”

  Comrade scientific consultant could indeed say a few words. In his mixed French and Russian he informed the Troika that Marie Briboa’s hairdo definitely pleased all the hunting guests gathered at the Baron de Baudreille’s, and that the scientific consultant must admit that the inexplicability of the pterodactyl Kuzma lies, that is to say, in one plane, which, he, the scientific consultant, feels it is his bitter, but honorable, duty to remind his, the scientific consultant’s, friends in science; and that the winged state of the crocodile, or rather, the fact that some crocodiles have two or more wings has not yet been explained by science, and therefore, he, the scientific consultant, would ask your gardener to show him those marvelous tuberoses that you spoke about last Friday; and finally, he, the scientific consultant, sees no particular reason to put off the rationalization of the case in question but on the other hand would like to have the right to disagree with the above at a later time.

  While Vybegallo was killing time, working up a sweat to earn his ridiculous salary, I quickly devised a plan for the coming battle. I liked Kuzma a lot and one thing was clear to me: if we did not intervene right now, things would be bad for him.

  “Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said. “Questions for the speaker?”

  “I have no questions,” said Khlebovvodov, who, once assured that Kuzma did not bite, had become obnoxious. “But I feel that this is a simple crocodile with wings and nothing more. And the scientific consultant is throwing dust in our eyes for nothing. And then, I notice that the commandant has developed favorites within the colony and is feeding them on government funds. I do not want to imply that there is nepotism involved or that the commandant is taking bribes from the crocodile, but the facts are obvious. A crocodile with wings is a simple enough thing, but he is being treated like something special. He should be chased out of the colony. He should be working.”

  “Working at what?” asked the commandant, worried about Kuzma.

  “Working! Everyone works here! Look at the creature. He should be hauling logs, or loading stones at a quarry. Are you going to say that his arteries are weak? I know these crocodiles, I’ve seen all kinds, with wings, and all.”

  “How can that be?” the commandant worried. “He’s not human, you know, he’s an animal. He has a special diet.”

  “So what! Animals work here too. Horses for instance. Let him go to work as a horse! He has a diet—well so do I, and I’m missing lunch because of him.”

  But Khlebovvodov realized that he had gone a bit too far. Farfurkis was giving him a mocking look, and Lavr Fedotovich’s pose led one to think. Taking all the above circumstances into account, Khlebovvodov made a sharp U-turn. “Hold on, hold on!” he yelled. “What Kuzma is this here? Isn’t this the Kuzma who a
te up the light bulbs at the club? Why yes, it’s the very same! Well, what do you have to say about this? Does this mean that the law doesn’t apply to him either? Don’t try to weasel out of this, Zubo. Just tell me, was action taken on the matter?”

  “It was,” the commandant answered hotly.

  “What precisely?”

  “He was given a laxative.” It was clear that he would defend Kuzma to the death.

  Khlebovvodov slammed his fist down on the table, and a small puddle appeared under the frightened Kuzma. I lost my temper and shouted, directly at Lavr Fedotovich, that this was a mockery of a valuable scientific specimen. Farfurkis objected that Khlebovvodov was trying to hang other duties on the Troika. As for Lavr Fedotovich, he sucked his index finger and then brusquely flipped several pages of his minutes, a sure sign of extreme irritation. There were storm warnings.

  “Eddie,” I begged.

  Eddie, carefully following developments, aimed the humanizer at Lavr Fedotovich. Lavr Fedotovich rose and took the floor.

  He spoke of the aims of the Troika entrusted to him, expressed in its authority and its responsibilities. He called on his listeners to increase their mortal struggle for increased labor discipline, against red tape, for high moral levels for one and all, for healthy criticism and healthy self-criticism, against dehumanization, for increased fire protection, for personal responsibility for everyone, for exemplary contents in bookkeeping, and against underevaluation of personal strength. The people will thank us if we fulfill these goals even more actively than before. The people will not forgive us if we do not fulfill these goals even more actively than before. What concrete motions will be made to organize the Troika’s work in view of the changes in conditions?

  I took malicious pleasure in the lack of concrete motions. Khlebovvodov kept blowing hot air from habit and offered to take on more responsibilities—for example, making sure that with the increased authority of the Troika, Comrade Commandant Zubo lengthen his work day to fourteen hours and that Comrade Scientific Consultant Vybegallo skip lunch. However, this partisan decision was not met with enthusiasm. On the contrary, it drew a heated rejection from the named parties. A brief flurry ensued, in the course of which it was revealed that the lunch hour had long been upon them.