by Arkady
The walk turned out to be marvelous. Fedya explained the universe to us, and incidentally, we discovered that he could see Saturn’s rings and the red spot on Jupiter with his naked eye. The envious bedbug heatedly tried to prove that all that was nonsense, and in reality, the universe was shaped like a mattress spring. Kuzma, a shy common pterodactyl, hovered around us. We never did get a good look at him in the dark. We could hear him tromping ahead of us or rustling in the nearby bushes with a feeble quack, and sometimes he would fly up, blocking the moon with his spread wings. We called to him, promising candy and friendship, but he never did come closer.
In the Colony we also met Konstantin, the visitor from outer space. Konstantin was very unfortunate. His flying saucer made a forced landing last year. The saucer was totaled, and Konstantin couldn’t remove the protective force field that was automatically created at landing. The field did not allow anything foreign to pass through. Konstantin could carry his clothes and engine parts through its lavender membrane without any problems. But the family of field mice that happened to be in the landing site had to stay there, and Konstantin was forced to feed them with his rapidly depleting supplies, since he couldn’t get earth food inside the protective shield even in his own stomach. Also left inside the shield were a pair of sneakers, forgotten by somebody on a park path, and these were the only earthly goods that were of any use to Konstantin. Besides the sneakers and the mice, the shield had trapped two bushes of spurge laurel, part of an ugly park bench, carved with all kinds of graffiti, and a quarter acre of damp soil that never dried out.
Things were bad for Konstantin. He couldn’t repair his ship. The local repair shops naturally did not have the right spare parts or the special tools he needed. He could have gotten some things from the scientific centers of the world, but for that he needed to work through the Troika. Konstantin had been waiting impatiently for many months to be allowed to see them. He had some hopes of being helped by earthlings, thinking that they would at least be able to remove the damned protective field and bring some famous scientists on board. But generally he was rather pessimistic, prepared for the fact that earth technology would be of no use to him for at least two hundred years.
Konstantin’s flying saucer, glowing like a huge gaslight, was parked not far from the road. His feet were sticking out from under the ship, shod in size twelve sneakers. The family of mice was staring at the feet, persistently demanding their supper. Fedya knocked on the shield, and Konstantin, seeing us, slid out from under the saucer. He yelled at the mice and came out to greet us. The famous sneakers naturally remained inside, and the mice immediately turned them into a temporary home. We were introduced, expressed our sympathy, and asked how things were going. Konstantin announced heartily that things seemed to be getting started, and listed two dozen items we had never heard of that he needed. He turned out to be a very convivial and friendly rational creature. Or maybe he had just grown lonely for company. We asked questions and he answered them readily. But he did not look at all well, and we told him that it was bad to work so much and that it was time for sleep. Ten minutes later we had explained what “sleep” was, and he allowed as how it did not interest him a bit and that it would be better if he didn’t take it up. And besides, it was time to feed the mice. He shook our hands and crawled back under the saucer. We bade Fedya and the bedbug goodnight and headed for the hotel. It was late, and the city was falling asleep—only far away we could hear accordion music and sweet pure girlish voices singing:
I told my three-eyed beau
That we shouldn’t kiss.
That it was in reasoning
That we would find our bliss.
CASE 72:
KONSTANTIN, THE VISITOR FROM OUTER SPACE
The morning sun had turned the corner and rushed in through the open windows of the meeting room when stone-faced Lavr Fedotovich appeared in the door and immediately moved that the blinds be drawn. “The people do not need this,” he explained. Khlebovvodov appeared next, nudging Vybegallo before him. Vybegallo, waving his briefcase, was heatedly telling him something in French, and Khlebovvodov kept muttering, “All right, all right, don’t get excited.” After the commandant had closed the curtains, Farfurkis appeared in the doorway. He was chewing something and wiping his mouth. He mumbled a quick apology for being late and gulped down the food. Then he shouted:
“I protest! Are you crazy, Comrade Zubo? Remove those curtains immediately! What’s the meaning of this—sealing us off from the world? Do you want to cast a shadow over the proceedings?”
An extremely unpleasant incident ensued. All during the time that the incident worked itself out, while Farfurkis was humiliated, tied in knots, and used to wipe the floor, Vybegallo pointedly shook his head and looked meaningfully in our direction, as if to say: “These are the fruits of evil!” Then they let the trampled, torn, tarred-and-feathered Farfurkis slink back ignominiously to his seat, while they caught their breath, rolled down their sleeves, cleaned the bits of skin from under their nails, licked clean their bloody fangs, and took their seats at the table and announced that they were ready for the morning session.
“Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said, giving one last look at the crucified remains. “Next! Report, Comrade Zubo!”
The commandant dug his hands into the open file, looked over the papers one last time at his beaten foe, kicked the floor with his hind legs one last time, and cleared his throat. When he inhaled the sweet smell of decay through his greedily dilated nostrils, he finally calmed down.
“Case 72,” he called. “Konstantin Konstantinovich Konstantinov, 213 B.C., city of Konstantinov, planet Konstantina, star Antares.”
“I must ask of you,” Khlebovvodov interrupted. “What are you reading? Are you reading us a novel? Or some farce? Look, brother, you’re reading a form to us and you make it sound like a farce.”
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 masse
s behind a broad hand.
“Point six,” the commandant read on uncertainly. “Education: Higher syn…cri…cre…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 this… 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 fr
om 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: