Arkady Strugatsky - Hard to Be a God

“Don Pifa… Don Pifa…” the official droned, running a finger along the list. “Milkmen Street, Building Two.”

Don Pifa made a guttural noise.

“Number five hundred and four, Brother Tibak.”

Brother Tibak again wiped his head and stood up. “Number five hundred and four, Don Pifa, Milkmen, Two, not known to be guilty of anything toward His Grace—consequently clean.”

“Don Pifa,” the official said, “take your symbol of purification.” He bent down, pulled an iron bracelet from a chest next to the chair, and handed it to noble Pifa. “Wear it on your left arm, produce it as soon as a soldier from the Order demands it. Next.”

Don Pifa made a guttural noise and walked away, examining the bracelet. The official was already droning the next name. Rumata took a look at the line. There were many familiar faces here. A few were dressed in their customary rich fashion, others were clearly attempting to appear poor, but all were thoroughly smeared with mud. Somewhere from the middle of the line, loud enough for everyone to hear, Don Sera declared for the third time in five minutes, “I see no reason why even a noble don shouldn’t receive a couple lashes in the name of His Grace!”

Rumata waited until the next person was directed down the corridor (it was a well-known fishmonger, who had been given five lashes but no kiss for unenthusiastic ways of thinking), pushed his way through to the table, and brusquely put a hand on the papers lying in front of the official. “Pardon me,” he said. “I need the order for the release of Doctor Budach. I’m Don Rumata.”

The official didn’t raise his head.

“Don Rumata… Don Rumata…” he muttered and, shoving Rumata’s hand away, ran his nail along the list.

“What are you doing, you old inkwell?” said Rumata. “I need the order for the release!”

“Don Rumata… Don Rumata…” Apparently this automaton was impossible to stop. “Boilermakers Street, Building Eight. Number sixteen, Brother Tibak.”

Rumata felt everyone behind his back hold their breath. And he had to admit he also felt a bit uneasy. The sweaty, crimson Brother Tibak stood up: “Number sixteen, Don Rumata, Boilermakers, Eight, for special services to the Order has earned the particular gratitude of His Grace and will kindly receive an order for the release of Doctor Budach, with whom he will do whatever he pleases—see sheet six seventeen eleven.”

The official immediately pulled this sheet from underneath the lists and handed it to Rumata. “Through the yellow door, up to the second floor, room six, down the hall, go right then left,” he said. “Next.”

Rumata scanned the sheet. It wasn’t the order for Budach’s release. It was the justification for his receiving a pass into the fifth, special department of the office, where he was supposed to receive instructions to take to the secretariat of secret affairs.

“What did you give me, blockhead?” asked Rumata. “Where’s the order?”

“Through the yellow door, up to the second floor, room six, down the hall, go right then left,” the official repeated.

“I’m asking, where’s the order?” Rumata barked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Next!”

Rumata heard heavy breathing by his ear, and something soft and hot pressed up against his back. He moved away. Don Pifa squeezed up to the table again. “It doesn’t fit,” he squeaked.

The official looked dully at him. “Name? Rank?” he asked.

“It doesn’t fit,” Don Pifa said again, tugging on the bracelet, which barely fit over three fat fingers.

“It doesn’t fit… It doesn’t fit…” the official mumbled and suddenly jerked a thick book lying on the table to his right toward him. The book had an evil look—the binding was black and greasy. Don Pifa looked at it dumbfounded for a couple of seconds, then suddenly recoiled and, without saying a word, rushed toward the door. The people in line shouted, “Hurry up, get a move on!” Rumata also walked away from the table. What a quagmire, he thought. I’ll show you… The official started droning into space: “If the indicated symbol of purification does not fit onto the left wrist of the purified or if the purified has no left wrist as such…” Rumata walked around the table, stuck both hands into the chest with the bracelets, grabbed as many as he could and walked off.

“Hey, hey,” the official called without any expression in his voice. “Your justification!”

“In the name of the Lord,” Rumata said significantly, looking over his shoulder. The official and Brother Tibak stood up together and dissonantly replied, “In His name.” The people in line watched Rumata leave with envy and admiration.

Coming out of the office, Rumata slowly walked toward the Merry Tower, clasping the bracelets onto his left arm along the way. It turned out that there were nine bracelets, and only five of them fit on his left arm. The remaining four Rumata stuck on his right arm. The Bishop of Arkanar is trying to wear me out, he thought. It won’t work. The bracelets clinked with each step, and Rumata was holding an impressive-looking paper in his hand—sheet six seventeen eleven, adorned with multicolored seals. Every monk he met, both on foot and on horseback, quickly got out of his way. The insignificant spy-bodyguard kept appearing then disappearing in the crowd, keeping a respectful distance. Rumata, mercilessly bashing the dawdlers with his scabbards, made his way to the gates, barked menacingly at a guard who tried to butt in, walked through the courtyard, and descended the slimy, weathered stairs into a semidarkness lit by smoking torches. This was the where the holy of the holies of the former Ministry of the Defense of the Crown began—the royal prison and investigation chambers.

In the vaulted corridor, smoking torches stuck out of rusty sockets in the wall at intervals of ten feet. A black door was visible in a cavernous alcove beneath each torch. These were the entrances to the prison cells, locked from the outside by heavy iron bolts. The corridors were full of people. They were shoving, running, shouting, and giving orders. Bolts were creaking and doors were slamming; someone was being beaten and he wailed; someone was being dragged and he resisted; someone was being pushed into a cell that was already packed to full capacity; someone was being unsuccessfully dragged out of a cell, screaming hysterically, “Not me, not me!” and clutching his neighbors. The faces of the passing monks were businesslike to the point of severity. Every one of them was in a hurry; every one of them was involved in affairs of importance to the state. Rumata, trying to find his way, slowly walked through corridor after corridor, descending lower and lower. Things were calmer in the lower floors. Here, judging by the conversations, the graduates of the Patriotic School were taking their examinations. Half-naked, broad-chested young oafs in leather aprons were standing in clusters by the doors of the torture chambers, flipping through their greasy instruction manuals, occasionally walking over to a large tank with a cup chained to it to drink some water. Horrible screams and sounds of blows were coming from the chambers, and there was a thick burning smell. And oh, the conversations, the conversations!

“The bone-crusher has this screw-on top, and it broke. That my fault? He kicked me out. ‘You dumb lug,’ he says, ‘go get five lashes on your buttocks and come back.’”

“We oughta find out who’s doing the flogging, maybe it’s one of us students. So you could arrange it in advance, collect five coins a head and pay ’em off.”

“When there’s a lot of fat, no point in heating up the prong, it’ll cool off in the fat anyway. You should take the tweezers and tear a bit of lard off.”