Arkady Strugatsky - Hard to Be a God

No one moved. Waga walked away from the desk, sat down in a corner, and vigorously rubbed his dry palms together.

“I have happy news for you, my children,” he said. “Good times are coming, abundant times… But we’ll have to work hard. Oh, so hard! My elder brother, the king of Arkanar, has decided to exterminate all the learned men in our kingdom. Well, he knows best. And anyway, who are we to argue with his august decisions? However, we can and must capitalize on this decision. And since we’re his loyal subjects, we shall serve him. But since we’re his subjects of the night, we will not neglect to take our small share. He will not notice and will not be angry with us. What did you say?”

No one moved.

“I thought that Piga sighed. Is that true, Piga, my son?”

Someone fidgeted and cleared his throat in the dark. “I didn’t sigh, Waga,” said a coarse voice. “Why would I—”

“You wouldn’t, Piga, you wouldn’t! That’s right! Now is the time to listen to me with bated breath. You will all leave here and begin difficult labors, and then you will have no one to advise you. My elder brother, His Majesty, through the mouth of his minister Don Reba, promised us a considerable sum for the heads of certain escaped fugitive learned men. We must deliver these heads to him and make the old man happy. On the other hand, certain learned men wish to hide from my elder brother’s wrath and will spare no expense in doing so. In the name of mercy, and in order to relieve my elder brother’s soul from the burden of additional villainies, we will help these people. However, if his majesty also needs these heads in the future, he will receive them. For a good price, a very good price…”

Waga stopped talking and bowed his head. An old man’s slow tears suddenly started flowing down his cheeks.

“I’m getting old, my children,” he said with a sob. “My hands tremble, my legs buckle beneath me, and my memory is beginning to fail me. I’d forgotten, completely forgotten, that a noble don has been languishing amongst us in this stuffy, cramped little room, and that he cares nothing for our financial affairs. I will go now. I will go and rest. In the meantime, my children, let us apologize to the noble don.”

He stood up and bowed with a groan. The others also stood up and also bowed, but with obvious hesitation and even fear. Rumata could practically hear the whirring of their dull, primitive brains as they vainly attempted to keep up with the meaning of the words and deeds of this hunched old man.

Of course, it was a very simple matter: the outlaw had taken advantage of an extra opportunity to bring to Don Reba’s attention the fact that in the ongoing massacre, the night army intended to work together with the gray forces. And now, when the time had come to give specific instructions, to name the names and dates of the campaigns, the presence of the noble don became irksome, to say the least, and he, the noble don, was invited to quickly state his business and clear out of there. A dark old man. A terrifying old man. And why is he in the city? thought Rumata. Waga can’t stand the city.

“You’re right, honorable Waga,” Rumata said. “I must be on my way. However, I’m the one who should be apologizing, since I’ve come to trouble you about a completely trivial matter.” He stayed seated, and everyone who was listening to him remained standing. “I happen to need your advice. You may sit down.”

Waga bowed again and sat down.

“The case is as follows,” Rumata continued. “Three days ago, I was supposed to meet a friend of mine, a noble don from Irukan, in the Territory of Heavy Swords. But we never met. He’s disappeared. I know for a fact that he had safely crossed the border from Irukan. Perhaps you know what has become of him?”

Waga didn’t respond for some time. The bandits wheezed and sighed. Then Waga cleared his throat. “No, noble don,” he said. “We know nothing of this matter.”

Rumata immediately stood up. “Thank you, honorable Waga,” he said. He stepped into the center of the room and put a pouch with ten gold pieces onto the desk. “Before I leave, I have a favor to ask: if you do find anything out, let me know.” He touched his hat. “Good-bye.”

When he was almost out the door, he stopped and casually said over his shoulder, “You had been saying something about learned men. Something just occurred to me. I have the feeling that by the king’s efforts, in another month it will be impossible to find a single decent bookworm in Arkanar. And I made a vow to establish a university back home after being healed from the black plague. If you’d be so kind, whenever you get ahold of some bookworms, let me know first, and only then tell Don Reba. It’s possible that I’ll select one or two for the university.”

“It’ll cost you,” said Waga in a honeyed voice. “The product is rare, flies off the shelf.”

“My honor is worth more,” Rumata said haughtily and left.

It would be very interesting, thought Rumata, to catch this Waga and take him back to Earth. Technically, it wouldn’t be difficult. We could do it right now. What would he do on Earth? Rumata tried to imagine it. Take a bright, air-conditioned room with mirrored walls that smells like pine needles or the sea, and toss a huge hairy spider inside it. The spider presses down to the gleaming floor, looks around frantically with its beady eyes, and then—what else can it do?—scurries sideways into the darkest corner and crouches down, menacingly displaying its poisonous mandibles.

Of course, first of all Waga would search for the resentful people. And of course, the stupidest of the resentful would seem to him too clean and unsuitable for use. You know, the old man might sicken. He’d probably even waste away. Although who can tell? That’s the thing—the psychology of these monsters is very much a dark forest. Holy Míca! Making sense of it is much more difficult than making sense of the psychology of a nonhumanoid civilization. All of the actions of these men can be explained, but they are fiendishly difficult to predict.

Yes, maybe he’d die from melancholy. Or maybe he’d look around, adapt, figure out how things stand, and get a job as a ranger in some national park. After all, it can’t be the case that he doesn’t have a single small, harmless hobby—which only gets in his way here, but there could become the meaning of his life. I think he likes cats. He keeps a whole herd of them, they say, in his lair, and he has a special keeper for them. And he even pays this keeper, although he’s stingy and could have simply threatened him. But what he’d do on Earth with his monstrous lust for power—that’s hard to know.

Rumata stopped in front of a tavern and was about to go in, but then realized that his coin purse was missing. He stood in front of the door in complete confusion (he just couldn’t get used to such occurrences, although this wasn’t the first time) and spent a long time digging through his pockets. There had been three pouches, with ten gold pieces in each. He gave one to the procurator, Father Kin, and another to Waga. The third one had disappeared. His pockets were empty, all gold buckles had been carefully cut off his left pant leg, and the dagger had disappeared from his belt.

Then he noticed two storm troopers standing nearby, gawking at him and grinning stupidly. The employee of the Institute couldn’t care less, but the noble Don Rumata of Estor went berserk. For a second he lost control of himself. He took a step toward the storm troopers, and unconsciously raised his hand, clenching it into a fist. Apparently, his face had become horrifying, because the mockers shied away, grins frozen as if they’d been paralyzed, and hurriedly ducked into the tavern.