Arkady Strugatsky - Hard to Be a God

Then he became frightened. He had only been this scared once in his life, when he—at the time still the second pilot of a passenger starship—felt his first attack of malaria. God knows where this disease had come from, and after two hours filled with surprised jokes and quips he was already cured, but he had never forgotten the shock that he, a perfectly healthy man who had never been sick, felt at the thought that something had gone wrong inside him, that he had become defective and had somehow lost unilateral authority over his body.

But I didn’t mean to, he thought. I wasn’t even considering it. They weren’t even doing much—OK, so they were standing around, so they were grinning. Grinning very foolishly, but I probably did look completely ridiculous digging through my pockets. I was this close to cutting them down, he suddenly realized. If they hadn’t cleared out, I would have cut them down. He remembered that on a recent bet, he had split a dummy dressed in Soanian double armor from top to bottom with a single sword stroke, and he felt the skin on his back crawl. They would have been lying here like pig carcasses, and I’d be standing here with a sword in my hand and wouldn’t have known what to do. Some god! Turning into a savage…

He suddenly noticed that all his muscles ached, as if after hard labor. Now, now, calm down, he told himself. Nothing happened. It’s over. Just an outburst. A momentary outburst, and it’s all over. After all, I’m human, and humans are still animals. It’s just my nerves. My nerves and the tension of the last couple of days… But mostly, it’s the feeling of a shadow creeping over us. I can’t tell whose shadow, or where it’s coming from, but it’s creeping over us, inexorably so.

This inexorability was palpable everywhere. It was palpable in the fact that the storm troopers, who had until very recently cowardly stuck close to their barracks, now strolled freely with their axes in plain sight in the middle of the street—a place where previously only noble dons were allowed to walk. And in the fact that all of the city’s street singers, storytellers, dancers, and acrobats had disappeared. And in the fact that the residents had stopped singing political ditties, had become very serious, and knew exactly what was needed for the good of the state. And in the sudden and inexplicable port closure. And in the fact that “angry mobs” had sacked and burned all the curiosity shops—the only places in the kingdom where it had been possible to buy or borrow books in all the languages of the empire, and in the ancient and now dead languages of the native people of the Land Beyond the Strait. And in the fact that the jewel of the city, the gleaming tower of the astrological observatory, now protruded into the sky like a black rotten tooth, burned down in an “accidental fire.” And in the fact that over the last two years, the consumption of alcohol had grown four-fold—in Arkanar, legendary for its rampant alcoholism since ancient times! And in the fact that the eternally oppressed, persecuted peasants had totally burrowed underground in their villages of Sweet Smells, Heavenly Shrubs, and Celestial Kisses, and didn’t even dare leave their mud huts for the necessary field labor. And finally, in the fact that the old vulture Waga the Wheel had moved to the city, sensing a big haul. Somewhere in the bowels of the palace, in luxurious apartments, sits a gouty king who hasn’t seen the sun for twenty years for fear of everything in the world. His own great-grandfather’s son, he giggles half-wittedly and signs one horrifying order after another, dooming to an agonizing death the most honest and selfless people. Somewhere over there, a monstrous abscess has matured and any day now will rupture…

Rumata slipped on a piece of cantaloupe and looked up. He was on the Street of Overwhelming Gratitude, in the domain of respectable merchants, money changers, and master jewelers. The street was lined with solid old-fashioned houses that had benches and storage sheds, the sidewalk here was wide, and the road was paved with granite blocks. The people he usually encountered here were noblemen and the rich, but right now a dense crowd of excited commoners was pouring toward Rumata. They carefully walked around him, glanced at him obsequiously, and many bowed just in case. The upper-story windows were full of fat faces, whose curiosity had been piqued and was now satisfied. Someone in front was shouting peremptorily: “Go on, keep walking! Break it up! Go on, quick!”

The people in the crowd were talking to each other: “That’s the worst kind, they’re the real dangerous ones. They seem so quiet, well mannered, respectable—a merchant like any other—but there’s bitter poison inside!”

“What they did to him, the poor devil… I’m used to everything, but believe it or not, it made me sick to watch.”

“And they’re none the worse for it. What boys! It warms my heart. They won’t let us down.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t do it like this? After all, he’s a man, a living creature. All right, so he’s a sinner—then punish him, teach him, but why this?”

“Hey, stop that, you! Be quiet, you. First, there are people around…”

“Master, master! The broadcloth’s good, and they’ll sell it to us without raising the price if you push ’em. Although we better hurry up or Pakin’s guys will beat us to it again.”

“My son, you must not doubt. You must have faith. If the authorities are taking steps, they know what they are doing.”

They got another one, thought Rumata. He wanted to change course and walk around the place from which the crowd streamed, where they were shouting to keep walking and break it up. But he didn’t change course. He only ran his hand through his hair, so that a stray strand wouldn’t cover the stone on his circlet. The stone wasn’t a stone but a camera lens, and the circlet wasn’t a circlet but a radio transmitter. Historians on Earth saw and heard everything that the 250 operatives saw and heard on the nine continents of the planet. And therefore, the operatives were required to keep their eyes and ears open.

Jutting out his chin and splaying his swords in order to take up as much room as possible, he headed right at the people in the middle of the street, and everyone going the opposite direction hastily jumped aside and gave way. Four stocky porters with painted faces were carrying a silver-hued sedan chair through the streets. A beautiful cold little face with mascaraed eyelashes peered out from behind the curtain. Rumata tore off his hat and bowed. This was Doña Ocana, the current favorite of our eagle Don Reba. When she saw the magnificent suitor, she smiled languidly and meaningfully at him. It was possible to immediately name two dozen noble dons who, after receiving such a smile, would have rushed to their wives and mistresses with the joyful news: “All the others better beware, I’ll buy and sell them all, I’ll show them who’s boss!” Such smiles were rare and often invaluable. Rumata stopped, following the chair with his eyes. I should make up my mind, he thought. I should finally make up my mind. He shuddered at the thought of what it would cost him. But I should do it! I really should…

My mind’s made up, he thought. There’s no other way. I’ll do it tonight. He reached the weapons shop he had gone into that morning to check the price of daggers and listen to poetry, and stopped again. So that’s what it was. That means it was your turn, my good Father Hauk.

The crowd had already dispersed. The shop’s door was torn from its hinges and the windows were broken. A huge storm trooper in a gray shirt stood in the doorway, his foot planted on the doorjamb. Another storm trooper, a scrawnier one, squatted by the wall. The wind was blowing crumpled sheets covered with writing along the pavement.