Tale of the Troika s-2

by Arkady Strugatsky

  “There is an opinion,” Lavr Fedotovich wound up, “that it is time to rest and have lunch. The Troika meeting is closed until eighteen hundred hours.” Then he turned to the commandant in the best of spirits. “And as for your crocodile, Comrade Zubo, we will put him in the zoological park. What do you think?”

  “Oh!” said the heroic commandant. “Lavr Fedotovich! Comrade Vuniukov! As Christ is my witness, our Savior, the city does not have a zoological park.”

  “It will!” Lavr Fedotovich promised. And then made a folksy joke: “We have a regular park, we have a kiddie park, and now we’ll have a zoological one, too. The Troika likes threes.”

  The roar of sycophantic laughter caused Kuzma to perform another impoliteness.

  Lavr Fedotovich gathered his accoutrements of chairmanship into his briefcase, stood, and moved sedately toward the exit. Khlebovvodov and Vybegallo, knocking the unalert Farfurkis to the floor, rushed to open the door for him, pushing each other out of the way.

  “Now a steak, that’s meat,” Lavr Fedotovich explained to them condescendingly.

  “Rare!” shouted Khlebovvodov loyally.

  “Why rare?” Lavr Fedotovich’s voice floated in from the reception area.

  Eddie and I opened all the windows. From the stairs came: “Now, please, Lavr Fedotovich. Allow me to say that a steak that is not rare, Lavr Fedotovich, is worse than drinking on an empty stomach.” “Science assumes, c’est, c’est, with onions, of course.” “The people love good meat—for instance, steak.”

  “They’re driving me to an early grave,” the commandant said. “They are the death of me, my seven plagues of Egypt.”

  CASE 15 AND FIELD SESSIONS

  There was no evening session. Officially we were informed that Lavr Fedotovich, as well as Comrades Khlebovvodov and Vybegallo, were poisoned at lunch by mushrooms, and that the doctor recommended bed rest all night. However the ever-meticulous commandant was not satisfied by the official version. He called his friend, the hotel maître d’. It turned out that at lunch Lavr Fedotovich and Professor Vybegallo had ganged up on Comrade Khlebovvodov on the issue of the relative merits of well-done versus rare steak. Striving to determine which of these two states of steak was more beloved by the people, and with the aid and sustenance of cognac and velvety Pilsner, each consumed four experimental portions from the chef’s stores. Now they were quite ill, flat on their backs, and could not appear in public before morning.

  The commandant rejoiced like a kid whose favorite teacher had unexpectedly fallen ill.

  We said good-bye to him, bought two ice-cream cones, and went back to our hotel. We spent the evening in our room, discussing our situation. Eddie admitted that Christobal Joséevich had been right: the Troika was a tougher nut to crack than he had expected. The rational part of their psyche turned out to be supernaturally conservative and superrigid. True, it did yield to the humanizer’s powerful field, but immediately returned to square one as soon as it was removed. I suggested that Eddie leave the field on, but he rejected my suggestion. The Troika’s reserves of the rational, good, and eternal were very limited, and Eddie was afraid that lengthy exposure to the humanizer would deplete them. Our business is to teach them to think, said Eddie, not to think for them. But they are not learning. These ex-plumbers have forgotten how. But all is not lost. There is still the emotional side of their psyche. Since we can not awaken their reason, we must try to awaken their consciences. And that was precisely what Eddie planned to do at the very next session.

  We discussed that problem until the excited Gabby burst in on us without knocking. It turned out that he had applied to be seen out of turn by the Troika to weigh a suggestion of his. He had just heard from the commandant that they would, and he wanted to know whether we would be present at the morning meeting, which would be historic. Tomorrow we would understand everything. Tomorrow we would learn just what he was. When grateful humanity carried him on their shoulders, he would not forget us. He shouted and waved his little legs, ran around the walls, and distracted Eddie from his planning. I had to take him by the scruff of his neck and toss him out into the hall. He did not take offense, he was above all that. Tomorrow everything would be clear, he promised, then asked for Khlebovvodov’s suite number and disappeared. I went to bed, and Eddie shuffled papers and sat over his dismantled humanizer for several hours.

  When the bedbug was called in, he did not enter the meeting room immediately. We could hear him in the reception area squabbling with the commandant, demanding an honor guard. Eddie was getting worried, and I had to go out into the reception area and tell Gabby to stop fooling around or things would go badly for him.

  “But all I’m demanding is that he take three steps toward me!” the bedbug said angrily. “Even if there is no honor guard, there has to be some pomp! After all, I’m not asking him to meet me at the door, hat in hand! Let him take three steps in my direction and nod!”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “What do you mean, who? What’s his name, your chief—Vuniukov, is it?”

  “You jerk!” I shouted. “Do you want them to listen to you? Get in there! You have thirty seconds!”

  Gabby gave in. Muttering something about breaking all the rules, he went into the meeting room and obnoxiously lolled on the demonstration table without greeting anyone. Lavr Fedotovich, his eyes puffy and yellow from yesterday’s debauch, peered through his opera glasses. Khlebovvodov, suffering from bilious gas, started the session.

  “What do we have to listen to him for? Everything is decided already. He’s just going to drive us crazy.”

  “Just a minute,” Farfurkis said, bright and cheery as usual. “Citizen Gabby,” he addressed the bedbug, “the Troika deemed it possible to receive you out of turn and hear what you described as your very important announcement. The Troika suggests that you be as brief as possible and not take up too much of its valuable work time. What do you wish to announce? We are listening.”

  Gabby maintained an orator’s silence for a few seconds. Then he gathered himself up noisily, struck a haughty pose, and puffing up his cheeks, began.

  “The history of the human race,” he said, “contains many shameful incidents of barbarism and stupidity. A rough ignorant soldier bumped off Archimedes. Lousy priests burned Giordano Bruno. Rabid fanatics attacked Charles Darwin and Galileo Galilei. The history of bedbugs also contains references to victims of ignorance and obscurantism. Everyone remembers the unbearable sufferings of the great encyclopedist bedbug Sapukol, who showed our ancestors, the grass and tree bugs, the path of true progress and prosperity. Imperutor, the creator of the theory of blood types, died a forgotten and impoverished bedbug, as did Rexophobe, who solved the problem of fertility, and Nudin, who discovered anabiosis.

  “The barbarism and ignorance of both our races could not avoid leaving its mark on their interrelationship. In vain have the ideas of the great Utopian bedbug Platun been preserved. He preached the idea of a symbiotic relationship between man and bedbug, no longer based on the age-old parasitism of the bedbug—a bright and shining future of friendship and mutual assistance. We know of instances when man proffered peace, protection, and patronage to the bedbug, under the slogan: ‘We are of one blood, you and I,’ but the greedy, always hungry bedbug masses ignored this call, repeating over and over: ‘We drank, we drink, and we will drink.’ ”

  Gabby gulped down a glass of water, wiped his lips, and continued, increasing in tempo and volume. “Now for the first time in the history of our two races we face a situation where the bedbug offers humanity peace, protection, and patronage, demanding only one thing in return: acknowledgment. For the first time, the bedbug has found a common tongue with man. For the first time, the bedbug communicates with man not in bed but across a conference table. For the first time, the bedbug seeks not material wealth but spiritual communication. Now at the crossroads of history, standing at the turn that may lead both races to undreamed-of heights, dare we waste time through indecisio
n, follow once more the road of ignorance and hostility, rejecting the obvious and refusing to acknowledge the miracle that has taken place? I, Gabby Bedbug, the only talking bedbug in the universe, the only link between our races, say to you in the name of millions upon millions: come to your senses! Throw away your prejudices. Throw off the shackles of stagnation, muster all that is good and reasonable in you and look with open and clear eyes into the eyes of a great truth: Gabby Bedbug is an exceptional individual, an unexplained phenomenon, and perhaps an inexplicable one!”

  Yes, the vanity of that insect was enough to stun the most jaded imagination. I felt that this would come to no good and nudged Eddie with my elbow. There was a chance that the digestive prostration that afflicted the larger, and better, part of the Troika would preclude any show of passion. Another hopeful factor was the absence of the dissipated Vybegallo, who was still bedridden. Lavr Fedotovich was not well, he was pale and sweating profusely. Farfurkis did not know what course of action to take and kept looking over at him uncertainly. I thought that perhaps it would pass, when suddenly Khlebovvodov spoke up.

  “ ‘We drank, we drink, and we will drink!’ Who do you think they’re talking about? Us! He’s talking about us, the bugger! Our blood! Hah!” He looked around wildly. “I’ll squash him right now, I will! Get no sleep at night from them, and now they torture us in the daytime too! Torturers!” And he set about scratching furiously.

  Gabby was frightened but continued to carry himself with dignity. However, he was eyeing a convenient corner in case it came to that. The odor of very strong cognac spread through the room.

  “Bloodsuckers!” Khlebovvodov rasped, as he jumped up and lunged forward. My heart stopped. Eddie grabbed my hand—he was frightened too. Gabby just squatted in horror. But Khlebovvodov, clutching his stomach, raced past the demonstration table, opened the door, and ran out. We could hear his footsteps on the stairs. Gabby wiped the cold sweat from his brow and dispiritedly lowered his antennae.

  “Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said pathetically. “Who else would like the floor?”

  “Allow me,” said Farfurkis. I realized the machine was starting up. “Citizen Gabby’s announcement has created a unique impression on me. I am sincerely and categorically incensed. And not only because Citizen Gabby is giving a perverted history of the human race as the history of the suffering of exceptional individuals. I am also willing to leave the orator’s totally un-self-critical pronouncements as to his own person to his conscience. But his idea, his offer of union—even the idea of such a union sounds, to me, both insulting and blasphemous. Just what do you take us for, Citizen Gabby? Or perhaps the insult was intentional? Personally, I am inclined to classify it as intentional. And on top of that, I looked through the minutes of the earlier meeting on the case of Citizen Gabby and noted with chagrin that, as far as I am concerned, there is a total lack of the necessary interlocutory decree for the case. This, comrades, is our mistake, our oversight, which we must correct with all due speed. What do I mean? I mean that in the person of Citizen Gabby we are confronted by nothing more than a typical talking parasite, in other words a sponging loafer with means of support that can only be classified as illegal.”

  At that moment the exhausted Khlebovvodov appeared in the doorway. As he walked past Gabby he brandished his fist at him and muttered, “You tailless, six-legged cur!” Gabby ducked his head. He finally understood that things were bad. “Alex,” Eddie whispered to me in a panic. “Alex, think of something.” I feverishly looked for a way out, while Farfurkis droned on.

  “Insulting humanity, insulting an authoritative body. This is typical parasitism, which belongs behind bars. Is this not a little much, comrades? Are we not displaying spinelessness, toothlessness, bourgeois liberalism, and abstract humanism? I don’t know the feelings of my respected colleagues in this matter, and I don’t know what decision will be reached in this case; however, as a man who is not malicious by nature but who is principled, I permit myself to address you, Citizen Gabby, with a word of warning. The fact that you, Citizen Gabby, have learned to speak, or rather to gab, in Russian, may be a temporizing factor in our attitude toward you. But beware! Don’t pull the string too tight!”

  “Squash the parasite!” rasped Khlebovvodov. “Here, I’ve got a matchstick.” He started patting his pockets.

  Gabby’s face was blank. So was Eddie’s. He was feverishly tinkering with the humanizer. And I still had not come up with a way out.

  “No, no, Comrade Khlebovvodov,” said Farfurkis, grimacing in disgust, “I am against illegal acts. Why this lynch law? We’re not in America, you know. Everything must be done according to the law. First of all, if Lavr Fedotovich has no objections, we must rationalize Citizen Gabby as an unexplained phenomenon, which will therefore put him in our competence.”

  Gabby, the fool, cheered up at those words. Ah, vanity!

  “Then,” continued Farfurkis, “we will classify the rationalized unexplained phenomenon as a dangerous one, and therefore one that can be expunged during the utilization procedure. The rest is ridiculously simple. We will write the decree along these lines: the decree on expunging the talking bedbug, hereafter referred to as Gabby.”

  “That’s right!” rasped Khlebovvodov. “We’ll get him with the Seal!”

  “This is arbitrary rule!” squeaked Gabby.

  “Excuse me!” Farfurkis was on the attack. “What do you mean arbitrary? We are expunging you in accordance with paragraph 75 of the Appendix on Expunging Social Vestiges, where it most clearly states …”

  “It’s still arbitrary!” Gabby was shouting. “Executioners! Gendarmes!”

  And that’s when I finally figured it out.

  “Hold on,” I said. “Lavr Fedotovich! I beg you to intervene! This is squandering your cadres!”

  Lavr Fedotovich barely managed his “Harrumph.” He was so sick that he didn’t care.

  “Do you hear that?” I asked Farfurkis. “And Lavr Fedotovich is absolutely right! You must pay less attention to form and look more closely at content. Our injured feelings have nothing to do with the best interests of the people’s resources. Why this administrative sentimentality? Is this a boarding school for young princesses? Or courses for improving qualifications? Yes, Citizen Gabby is rude and impertinent and uses questionable parallels. Yes, Citizen Gabby is far from perfect. But does that mean that we should expunge him as being unnecessary? What are you thinking of, Comrade Farfurkis? Or are you perhaps prepared to pull out another talking bedbug from your pocket? Maybe your circle of acquaintances includes a talking bedbug? Why this lèse majesty? ‘I don’t like the talking bedbug, let’s write off the talking bedbug.’ And you, Comrade Khlebovvodov? Yes, I can see that you are a man who has suffered deeply from bedbugs. I sympathize deeply with your sufferings, but I ask you: perhaps you have already found a means of combating these bloodsucking parasites? These pirates of the bed, these gangsters of the people’s dreams, these vampires of rundown hotels?”

  “That’s just what I’m saying,” said Khlebovvodov. “Just squash him without any to-do. All these decrees and nonsense …”

  “Oh, no, Comrade Khlebovvodov! We forbid it! We will not allow you to take advantage of the scientific consultant’s sickness to introduce and apply crude administrative methods instead of scientific administrative methods. We will not allow voluntarism and subjectivism to reign once more! Don’t you understand that Citizen Gabby here is the only opportunity we have so far to begin a reeducation program among these frenzied parasites? In the past, some homegrown talent turned peaceful vegetarian bugs to their present disgusting modus vivendi. Don’t you think that our contemporary, educated bedbug, enriched with the full power of theory and practice, is capable of doing the reverse? Armed with carefully composed instructions and the latest techniques of pedagogy, knowing that all of humanity supports him, he could become the Archimedean lever with whose help we will turn the tide of bedbug history back to the forests and fields, to Nature’s bosom, to a
pure, simple, and innocent existence. I beg the commission to take all these thoughts into consideration and carefully examine them.”

  I sat down. Eddie, pale with joy, gave me a thumbs-up sign. Gabby was on his knees, fervently praying. As for the Troika, it was dumbstruck by my oratorical power. Farfurkis stared at me with joyous amazement. I could tell that he thought my idea was a stroke of genius and that he was feverishly examining the best way to take over the command of this new undertaking. He was picturing how he would write a wide-ranging, detailed instruction manual; he could see the paragraphs, chapters, appendixes, and footnotes in his mind’s eye; in his imagination he was consulting with the bedbug, organizing courses in Russian for gifted bedbugs, being named head of the State Committee on Propaganda for Vegetarianism Among Bloodsuckers, whose expanding sphere of activity would also include mosquitoes and gnats, midges and leeches.

  “Grass bugs are no joy either, let me tell you,” grumbled the conservative Khlebovvodov. He had already capitulated, but he did not want to admit it, so he was picking on minor points.

  I shrugged expressively.

  “Comrade Khlebovvodov is thinking along rigid, narrow lines,” countered Farfurkis, pulling ahead by half a length.

  “They’re not narrow at all,” said Khlebovvodov weakly. “They’re quite broad, those … whatchamacallits. Boy, do they stink! But I realize that can be fixed up in the process, too. I mean, do you think we can trust this upstart. He just doesn’t seem serious—and he has no good record of anything.”

  “I have a motion,” said Eddie. “Perhaps a subcommittee should be set up, headed by Comrade Farfurkis, to study this matter. I would suggest Comrade Privalov, a man who is impartial, as a scientific consultant pro tern.”