Аркадий Стругацкий - The Inhabited Island

He dissolved the report in a glass of water and started walking around the office in circles. He felt a tremendous sense of relief. Now, at least, he knew for certain when he would be summoned to the top. They would finish off Father-in-Law first, and then spend at least twenty-four hours choosing between Twitcher and Tooth. Then they would have to waste a bit of time on Four-Eyes and Stormcloud. That was another twenty-four hours. Well, they would casually whack Teapot in passing, and then just dealing with General Shekagu would take them at least forty-eight hours. And after that, and only after that… After that they wouldn’t have any “after that.”

He didn’t leave his office until the very moment when his guest arrived.

The guest made a quite exceptionally pleasant impression. He was magnificent. He was so magnificent that the prosecutor’s wife, who was a cold woman, sophisticated in the most formidable meaning of the word, and had long ago ceased to be a woman in his eyes but was his old battle comrade, shed twenty years at the first sight of Mak and acted in a devilishly natural manner—she could not have acted any more naturally even if she had known the part that Mak was destined to play in her fate.

“But why are you alone?” she asked in surprise. “My husband ordered dinner for four.”

“Yes, indeed,” the prosecutor put in. “I thought you would come with your lady friend—I remember the young woman, she almost came to grief because of you.”

“She did come to grief,” Maxim calmly replied. “But with your permission, can we talk about that later? Which way would you like me to go?”

They sat over dinner for a long time, in a cheerful atmosphere, laughing a lot and drinking a little bit. The prosecutor recited the latest lines of gossip—those that had been approved and were recommended for release by the Department of Public Health. The prosecutor’s wife very charmingly cracked indiscreet little jokes, and Mak described his flight in the bomber in humorous tones. As the prosecutor laughed at the story, he thought in horror about what would have become of him if even a single missile had hit the target…

When everything had been eaten and drunk, the prosecutor’s wife made her excuses, suggesting that the men prove their ability to survive without a lady for at least one hour. The prosecutor combatively accepted this challenge, grabbed Mak by the arm, and drew him into the study to regale him with a wine that only thirty or forty people in the country had ever had a chance to try.

They settled into soft armchairs on each side of a low table in a very cozy corner of the study, took a sip of the precious wine, and looked at each other. Mak was very serious. This smart fellow Mak clearly knew what the conversation would be about, and on a sudden impulse the prosecutor abandoned his initial plan for a discussion that would be artful and wearying, constructed out of veiled allusions and designed to facilitate gradual mutual revelations. Rada’s fate, Wanderer’s intrigues, the Fathers’ machinations—all that was not of the slightest importance. With breathtaking clarity that induced a sense of desperation, he acknowledged that all his mastery in conversations of that kind would be redundant with this man. Mak would either agree or refuse. It was absolutely simple, as simple as the fact that the prosecutor would either carry on living or be splatted in a few days. Hastily setting down his little glass on the little table with trembling fingers, he began without any preliminaries:

“I know, Mak, that you are an underground activist, a member of Central HQ, and a passionate enemy of the existing order of things. In addition to which, you are also a fugitive convict and the killer of the crew of a special forces tank… And now about me. I am the state prosecutor, a trusted agent of the government who has access to the highest state secrets, and also an enemy of the existing order of things. I am proposing that you should depose the Unknown Fathers. When I say ‘you,’ I mean you and only you, in person—this does not concern your organization. I ask you to please understand that any intervention by the underground can only make a hash of the job. I am proposing a conspiracy with you, based on my knowledge of the most important state secret of all. I shall inform you of that secret. Only the two of us must know it. If any third person discovers it, we shall be eliminated in the very, very near future. Don’t forget that the underground and its HQ are teeming with agent provocateurs. Therefore, do not even think of putting your trust in anybody—especially in your close friends.”

The prosecutor drained his little glass in a single gulp, without even tasting the wine.

“I know the location of the Center. And you are the only man who is capable of capturing this Center. I am proposing to you a complete, detailed plan for seizing the Center and the actions to follow that. You carry out this plan and become the head of the state. I remain as your political and economic adviser, because you know absolutely damn all concerning matters of that kind. I am familiar with the general outline of your political program: use the Center for reeducating the people in a spirit of humane values and elevated morality, and on that basis build a just society in the absolute shortest term possible. I don’t have any objections. I accept it—simply because nothing could be worse than the present situation. That’s all I have to say. You have the floor.”

Mak didn’t say anything. He remained silent, twirling the precious glass of precious wine in his fingers. The prosecutor waited. He couldn’t feel his own body. It seemed to him that he wasn’t here, that he was dangling somewhere in the celestial void, looking down at the softly lit, cozy little corner, with Mak sitting in the armchair beside him, saying nothing—a vision of something that was dead and stiff, neither speaking nor breathing…

And then Mak asked, “What are my chances of staying alive if I capture the Center?”

“Fifty-fifty,” said the prosecutor. Or rather, he imagined that he had said it, because Mak knitted his brows and repeated his question in a louder voice.

“Fifty-fifty,” the prosecutor hoarsely said. “Perhaps even better than that. I don’t know.”

Mak remained silent for a long time again.

“All right,” he eventually said. “Where is the Center located?”

At about noon the phone rang. Maxim picked up the receiver and the prosecutor’s voice said, “Mr. Sim, please.”

“I’m on the line,” said Maxim. “Hello.”

He immediately sensed that something bad had happened. “He’s arrived,” said the prosecutor. “Start immediately. Is that possible?”

“Yes,” Maxim said through his teeth. “But you promised me a few things.”

“I haven’t had a chance to do anything,” the prosecutor said, his voice tinged with a slight note of panic. “And now I won’t get a chance. Start immediately, at once—we can’t wait for even a single minute. Do you hear, Mak?”

“All right,” said Maxim. “Is that all?”

“He’s coming to see you. He’ll be there in thirty or forty minutes.”

“I understand. Now is that all?”

“Yes. Go on, Mak, get on with it. Go with God!”

Maxim hung up and sat there for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts. Massaraksh, everything is going down the drain… But I still have a chance to think… He grabbed the phone again. “Professor Allu Zef, please.”

“Yes,” Zef roared.

“This is Mak.”

“Massaraksh, I asked you not to pester me today—”

“Shut up and listen. Come down into the lobby immediately and wait for me there.”

“Massaraksh, I’m busy!”