Arkady Strugatsky: Definitely Maybe

“Well, well, looks like there’s nothing there. I’m through with you, Dmitri. Please excuse me.”

“But I’m not through with you! I’d still like to know—”

“I don’t have the right!” Snegovoi said in clipped words and ended the conversation.

Of course, Malianov would not have let the matter rest with that, but then he noticed something that made him bite his tongue. There was a bulge in the left pocket of Snegovoi’s pants and there was a very definite gun handle peering out of the pocket. A big gun. Like a gigantic Colt .45 from the movies. And that gun killed Malianov’s desire to ask any more questions. Somehow it was very clear that something was fishy and he was not the one to ask questions. And Snegovoi got up and said:

“And now, Dmitri, I’ll be leaving again tomorrow.”

Excerpt 5…. lay on his back, waking up slowly. Trucks were rolling noisily outside the window, but it was quiet in the partment. The remnants of yesterday’s senseless evening were a slight buzz in his head, a metallic aftertaste in his mouth, and an unpleasant splinter in his heart or soul or wherever the hell it hurt. He had just begun to explore what the splinter was when there was a careful knock at the door. That must be Arnold with his keys, he guessed, and hurried to answer.

On the way to the door he noted that the kitchen was cleaned up and that the door to Bobchik’s room was shut tight. She must have gotten up, done the dishes, and gone back to bed, he thought.

While he struggled with the lock there was another delicate ring of the doorbell.

“Coming, coming,” he said in his sleep-hoarsened voice. “Just a minute, Arnold.”

But it turned out to be someone else. A complete stranger was wiping his feet on the rubber mat. The young man was wearing jeans, a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and large sunglasses. Just like a Tonton Macoute. Malianov noticed that on the landing, by the elevator, there were two other Tonton Macoutes in dark glasses, but before he had time to worry about them, the first Tonton Macoute said: “From the Criminal Investigation Department,” and handed Malianov a little book. Opened.

“Terrific!” thought Malianov. Everything was clear. He should have expected it. He was hurt. In his shorts he stood before the Tonton Macoute from the Criminal Investigation Department and stared dully into the book. There was a photograph, some seals and signatures, but his dazed sensations let only one pertinent fact through: “Office of the Ministry of Internal Affairs.” In big letters.

“Yes, of course, come in,” he mumbled. “Come in.”

“Thank you,” said the Tonton Macoute with extreme politeness. “Are you Dmitri Alekseevich Malianov?”

“I am.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Please do. Wait, my room’s not made up. I just got up. Would you mind going into the kitchen? No, the sun’s in there now. All right, come in here, I’ll clean it up.”

The Tonton Macoute went into the main room and stopped in the middle modestly, openly looking around, while Malianov straightened the bed, threw on a shirt and a pair of jeans, and opened the blinds and the window.

“Sit here, in the armchair. Or would you be more comfortable at the desk? What’s the problem?”

Carefully stepping over the papers strewn on the floor, the Tonton Macoute sat in the armchair and placed his folder on his lap.

“Your passport, please.”

Malianov went through the desk drawer and dug out his passport.

“Who else lives here?” the Tonton Macoute asked as he examined the passport.

“My wife, my son—but they’re away now. They’re in Odessa, on vacation, at her parents’.”

The Tonton Macoute placed the passport on top of his folder and took off his sunglasses. A fellow with a perfectly ordinary exterior. And no Tonton Macoute. A salesman, maybe. Or a television repairman.

“Let’s get acquainted,” he said. “I’m a senior investigator of the CID. My name is Igor Petrovich Zykov.”

“My pleasure.”

Then he remembered that he, damn it all, was no criminal, and that he, damn it all, was a senior scientific colleague and a Ph.D. And no boy, either, for that matter. He crossed his legs, got comfortable, and said coolly:

“I’m listening.”

Zykov lifted the folder in both hands, crossed his legs, and replacing the folder on his knee, said:

“Do you know Arnold Pavlovich Snegovoi?”

Malianov was not surprised by the question. For some reason—some inexplicable reason—he knew that they would ask about either Val Weingarten or Arnold Snegovoi. And so he could answer calmly.

“Yes. I am acquainted with Colonel Snegovoi.”

“And how do you know that he’s a colonel?” Zykov inquired immediately.

“Well, I mean…” Malianov avoided a direct answer. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

“How long?”

“Well, five years, I guess. Ever since we moved into this building.”

“And what were the circumstances of your meeting?”

Malianov tried to remember. What were the circumstances? Damn. When he brought the key the first time? No, we already knew each other then.

“Hm,” he said, uncrossing his legs and scratching the back of his head. “You know, I don’t remember. I do remember this. The elevator wasn’t working, and Irina, that’s my wife, was coming back from the store with groceries and the baby. Arnold Snegovoi helped her with the packages and the boy. Well, she invited him to drop in. I think he came over that same evening.”

“Was he in uniform?”

“No,” Malianov said with certainty.

“So. And from that time you became friends?”

“Well, friends is too strong a word. He drops in sometimes—borrows books, lends books, sometimes we have a cup of tea. And when he goes away on business he leaves his keys with us.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? You never…”

But actually, why did he leave the keys? It never even occurred to me to wonder. I guess, just in case, probably.

“Just in case, probably,” Malianov said. “Maybe his relatives might show up—or someone else.”

“Did anyone ever come?”

“No… not that I remember. No one when I was around. Maybe my wife might know something about this.”

Igor Zykov nodded thoughtfully, then asked:

“Well, have you ever talked about science, your work?”

Work again.

“Whose work?” Malianov asked darkly.

“His, of course. He was a physicist, wasn’t he?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea. I thought he was in rocketry.”

He hadn’t finished the sentence when he broke out in a sweat. What did he mean, was ? Why the past tense? He didn’t leave his key. God, what had happened? He was ready to scream at the top of his lungs, “What do you mean was? ” but Zykov knocked him for a loop. With the swift movement of a fencer he shot his arm out and grabbed a notebook out from under Malianov’s nose.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, his face suddenly looking older. “Where did you get it?”

“Just a—”

“Sit down!” Zykov shouted. His blue eyes ran over Malianov’s face. “How did this data get in your hands?”

“What data?” Malianov whispered. “What the hell data are you talking about?” he roared. “That’s my calculations.”

“That is not your calculations,” Zykov answered coldly, also raising his voice. “Where did this graph come from?”

He showed him the page from afar and pointed to a crooked line.

“From my head!” Malianov shouted. “Right from here!” He struck his temple with his fist. “That is the relation of the density to the distance from the star!”