Аркадий Стругацкий - The Inhabited Island

Maxim looked in the mirror: the long yellow car was turning around. Well then, I’ll have to get by without a gun. At least this is something that my conscience won’t torment me about… Maxim stepped on the accelerator. Speed, speed… come on, come on, sweetheart, more… The flat yellow hood was moving closer, growing larger, Maxim could already see the intent green eyes above the steering wheel… Right, Mak!

Maxim splayed out his legs to brace himself, barricaded Boar in place with one arm, and stamped down on the brake with all his strength.

With an ear-shredding howling and squealing of brakes, the yellow hood smashed into Maxim’s trunk, grinding and crunching, crumpling up into a concertina and standing up on end. Glass showered everywhere. Maxim kicked open the door and tumbled out of his car. The pain was terrible—there was pain in his heel, pain in his smashed knee, pain in his skinned arm—but an instant later he forgot about it, because Wanderer was already standing there in front of him. It was impossible, but it was true. A long, lean devil, with his hand menacingly drawn back to strike…

Maxim flung himself at Wanderer, putting everything he had left into that leap. He missed! And then there was a terrible blow to the back of his head… The world tilted over and Maxim almost fell, but he didn’t after all, and then Wanderer was back in front of him again, with his naked cranium, intent green eyes, and hand drawn back to strike… Stop, stop, he’s going to miss… Aha!… What’s he looking at?… Come on, you can’t fool us like that… With his face frozen still, Wanderer was staring over Maxim’s head; Maxim pounced again and this time he hit the target. The long, black man doubled over and slowly collapsed onto the asphalt. Then Maxim looked around.

The gray cube of the Center was clearly visible from here, but it was no longer a cube. It was caving in as he watched, heaving up and collapsing into itself; a trembling haze of sultry air, steam, and smoke was rising up from it, and something blindingly white, hot even at this distance, was peeping out in appalling merriment through the long vertical cracks and the window holes… OK, so everything’s in order there.

Maxim triumphantly turned back to Wanderer. The devil was lying on his side, clutching his stomach in his long arms, and his eyes were closed. Maxim cautiously moved a little bit closer. Boar stuck his head out of the crumpled little car. He wriggled and squirmed around as he tried to clamber out. Maxim stopped beside Wanderer and leaned down, trying to figure out how to strike to instantly finish this. Massaraksh, his damned hand refused to strike at a man on the ground…

And then Wanderer half-opened his eyes and said in a hoarse voice, “ Dummkopf! Rotznase! ”

Maxim didn’t immediately understand him, and when he did, his legs almost buckled underneath him.

Fool…

Snot-nose…

Fool…

Snot-nose…

Then he heard Boar’s voice speak out of the gray, echoing void, “Just move away, Mak, I’ve got a pistol.”

Without even looking, Maxim grabbed hold of his hand.

Wanderer sat up with a struggle, still clutching his stomach. “Snot-nosed kid…” he hissed, straining to speak. “Don’t just stand there stock-still… go find a car… move it, move it. Don’t just stand there like that, look around!”

Maxim obtusely looked around. The highway was coming to life. There was no more Center, it had been transformed into a puddle of molten metal, into steam and stench, the towers weren’t working any longer, the puppets had ceased to be puppets. As they came to, dumbfounded people were sullenly gazing around, shuffling their feet beside their cars, trying to figure out what had happened to them, how they had ended up here, and what to do next.

“Who are you?” asked Wild Boar.

“None of your business,” Wanderer replied in German. He was in pain, groaning and gasping for breath.

“I don’t understand,” said Boar, raising the barrel of his pistol.

“Kammerer…” Wanderer exclaimed. “Shut your terrorist’s mouth… and go find a car…”

“What car?” Maxim dim-wittedly asked.

“Massaraksh…” Wanderer croaked. He raggedly struggled to his feet, still hunching over and pressing his hand against his stomach, staggered over to Maxim’s little car, and climbed inside.

“Get in… quickly…” he said from behind the steering wheel. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the pillar of smoke illuminated by flames. “What did you plant in there?” he asked in a despairing voice.

“A thermobaric bomb.”

“In the basement or in the vestibule?”

“In the basement,” Maxim said.

Wanderer groaned and sat there for a moment with his head thrown back, then switched on the engine. The car gave a shudder and started rattling. “Get in will you, at last!” he yelled.

“Who are you,” asked Boar. “A Hontian?”

Maxim shook his head, tore open the door that was jammed shut, and told him, “Climb in.”

He himself walked around the car and got in beside Wanderer. The car jerked, and something inside it started squealing and crunching, but it was already rolling down the highway, grotesquely wobbling along, jangling its doors that wouldn’t close properly and loudly backfiring.

“What are you intending to do now?” Wanderer asked.

“Wait…” Maxim asked him. “At least tell me who you are.”

“I work as a Galactic Security agent,” Wanderer said in a bitter voice. “I’ve been here for five years. We’re working on trying to save this unfortunate planet. Painstakingly, taking into account all the possible consequences. All of them, do you understand? And who are you? Who the hell are you to go meddling in somebody else’s business, ruining all our calculations, blowing things up, shooting—who the hell are you?”

“I didn’t know,” Maxim said in a crestfallen voice. “How could I have known?”

“Yes, of course you didn’t know. But you did know that independent interference is forbidden—you’re an employee of the FSG… You ought to have known… Back on Earth his mother’s going insane over him… Some girls or other keep calling all the time… His father’s abandoned his job… What were you intending to do next?”

“I was intending to shoot you,” said Maxim.

“ Whaaat ?” The car swerved.

“Yes,” Maxim humbly said. “And what was I supposed to do? I was told that you were the head villain here, and…”—he chuckled—“…and it wasn’t hard to believe it.”

Wanderer dubiously squinted at him with a round, green eye. “Well, OK. And what then?”

“Then the revolution was supposed to start.”

“And why should it?”

“But the Center is destroyed, isn’t it? There’s no more radiation.”

“So what?”

“Now they’ll immediately realize that they’re being oppressed, that their life is wretched, and they’ll rise up—”

“Where will they rise up to?” Wanderer sadly asked. “Who will rise up? The Unknown Fathers are still alive, and thriving, the Guards are alive and well, the army is mobilized, the country is on a war footing… What exactly did you calculate would happen?”

Maxim lowered his head. Of course, he could have told this sad monster about his plans, his intentions for the future and the rest of it, but what was the point, since nothing was ready, since things had turned out like this…

“They’ll do their own calculating.” He pointed over his shoulder at Boar. “Let this man do the calculating, for instance… My job was to give them a chance to calculate a few things for themselves.”

“Your job…” Wanderer sputtered. “Your job was to sit in a corner and wait for me to catch you.”