Аркадий Стругацкий - The Inhabited Island

“Yes, probably,” said Maxim. “Next time I’ll bear that in mind.”

“You’re going straight back to Earth today,” Wanderer harshly said.

“I’ll see you burn first!” Maxim protested.

“You’re going straight back to Earth today,” Wanderer repeated, raising his voice. “I’ve got enough trouble on this planet without you. Collect your Rada and be on your way.”

“You have Rada?” Maxim eagerly asked.

“Yes, she’s been with me for a long time. Alive and well, don’t worry.”

“For Rada—thank you,” said Maxim. “Thank you very much.”

The car drove into the city. On the main street a monstrous traffic jam was honking and pouring out smoky fumes. Wanderer turned onto a side street and started driving though the slums. Everything here was dead. Military policemen jutted up like columns on the corners, their hands clasped behind their backs, their faces surmounted by battle helmets. Yes, they had rapidly responded to events. A general alarm and everyone was at their posts. As soon as they recovered from the depression. Maybe I shouldn’t have blown everything up immediately—maybe I ought to have followed the prosecutor’s plan? No, no, massaraksh, let everything go on just as it is now. I don’t want to hear his pointless rebukes. Let them figure out what’s what for themselves—they’re sure to figure things out, after all, just as soon as their heads clear…

Wanderer turned back out onto the main highway. Boar delicately slapped him on the shoulder with the barrel of his pistol. “If you don’t mind, let me out here. Right over there, where the men are standing…”

The men were standing beside a newspaper kiosk, with their hands thrust deep into the pockets of their gray raincoats—about five of them—but apart from them there was nobody out on the sidewalks; the local residents had obviously been badly frightened by the depressive radiation strike and had all hidden away in various places.

“And what do you intend to do?” Wanderer asked, slowing down.

“Breathe a bit of fresh air,” Boar replied. “The weather’s really glorious today.”

“He’s one of ours,” Maxim told him. “You can say anything in front of him.”

The car halted at the roadside. The men in raincoats went behind the kiosk, and Maxim could see them peeping out from there.

“One of ours?” asked Boar. “Who are they, ours?”

At a loss, Maxim looked at Wanderer. Wanderer had no intention of trying to help him out.

“Anyway, OK,” said Boar. “I trust you. We’re going to deal with HQ now. I think HQ is the right place to start. There are people there—you know who I’m talking about—who need to be gotten out of the way, before they can put a halter on the movement.”

“Good thinking,” Wanderer suddenly growled. “And by the way, I think I recognize you. You are Tik Fesku, otherwise known as Wild Boar. Is that right?”

“Exactly right,” Boar politely said. Then he told Maxim, “And you deal with the Fathers. It’s a difficult job, but it’s just right for you. Where can I find you?”

“Wait, Boar,” said Maxim. “I almost forgot. In a few hours the whole country will collapse for days from radiation deprivation. Everybody will be absolutely helpless.”

“Everybody?” Boar doubtfully asked.

“Everybody except the degenerates. We need to make good use of that period of several days.”

Boar thought and raised his eyebrows. “Well now, that’s excellent,” he said. “If it’s true… As it happens, it’s degenerates that we’ll be dealing with. But I’ll bear it in mind. So where can I find you?”

Before Maxim could reply, Wanderer spoke for him. “At the same phone number,” he said. “And the same place. And I’ll tell you this. Set up your committee, since that’s how things have worked out. Reestablish the same organization that you had under the empire. Some of your people work for me in the institute… Massaraksh!” he suddenly hissed. “We have no time, and none of the people we need are close at hand… Damn you to hell, Mak!”

“The most important thing,” said Boar, setting his hand on Maxim’s shoulder, “is that there isn’t any more Center. Well done, Mak. Thank you…” He squeezed Maxim’s shoulder and awkwardly clambered out of the car, grappling with his artificial hand. Then suddenly his feelings broke through. “Lord,” he exclaimed, standing beside the car with his eyes closed, “is it really and truly gone? That’s… it’s…”

“Close the door,” said Wanderer. “Harder, harder…”

The car sped away. Maxim looked back. Boar was standing in the middle of the small group of men in gray raincoats and saying something, waving his good arm around. The men were standing there without moving. They still hadn’t understood what had happened. Or they didn’t believe it.

The street was empty. Armored personnel transports carrying guardsmen came trundling toward them along the edges of the sidewalks, and far up ahead, where the turn for the department was, trucks were already parked across the road and little figures in black were running across it. And suddenly a sickeningly familiar orange-yellow patrol vehicle with a long telescopic antenna appeared in the column of personnel transports.

“Massaraksh,” Maxim murmured. “I completely forgot about those gizmos!”

“You forgot about lots of things,” Wanderer growled. “You forgot about the mobile radiation emitters, you forgot about the Island Empire, you forgot about the economy… Are you aware that there is inflation in this country? Do you even have any idea what inflation is? Are you aware that famine is imminent, that the land is infertile? Are you aware that we have not had time to establish reserves of bread or reserves of medical supplies here yet? Do you know that in twenty percent of cases this radiation deprivation of yours leads to schizophrenia? Huh?”

He wiped his mighty forehead with the receding hair at the temples. “We need doctors… twelve thousand doctors. We need protein synthesizers. We need to decontaminate a hundred million hectares of polluted soil—just for a start. We need to halt the degeneration of the biosphere… Massaraksh, we need at least one earthman on the Islands, in that blackguard’s admiralty… Nobody can stay in place there—none of our men can even get back and tell us for certain what’s going on there…”

Maxim didn’t say anything. They reached the vehicles blocking the way through, and a dark-faced, stocky officer, waving his arm in a strangely familiar manner, walked up to them and demanded their documents in a croaking voice. Wanderer angrily and impatiently thrust a glittering ID card under his nose. The officer morosely saluted and glanced at Maxim. It was Mr. Cornet—no, now already Mr. Brigadier of Guards Chachu. His eyes opened wide. “Is this man with you, Your Excellency?” he asked.

“Yes. Order them to let me through immediately.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, but this man—”

“Let me through immediately,” Wanderer barked.

Brigadier Chachu sullenly saluted, swung around, and waved to the soldiers. One of the trucks moved aside and Wanderer hurled the car into the gap that opened up.

“That’s the way it is,” he said. “They’re ready; they were always ready. And you thought it was all Abracadabra and it’s done. Shoot Wanderer, hang the Fathers, disband the cowards and fascists at your HQ, and the revolution will be over.”

“I never thought that,” said Maxim. He was feeling very miserable, crushed, helpless, and hopelessly stupid.

Wanderer squinted at him and gave a crooked grin. “Well, all right, all right,” he said. “I’m just angry. Not with you—with myself. I answer for everything that happens here, and it’s my fault that things have turned out this way. I simply couldn’t keep up with you.” He grinned again. “You guys in the FSG are quick on your feet.”