Братья Стругацкие - Monday Starts on Saturday

“Well, how can I put it…?”

“I get it,” I said.

“Actually, they haven’t debugged it yet,” said the bearded one. “If you stayed with us you could debug it.”

“We could arrange the transfer in no time at all,” added the hook-nosed one.

“What’s your line of work?” I asked.

“Like all science,” said the hook-nosed one, “our work deals with human happiness.”

“I see,” I said. “Something to do with space?”

“Yes, space too,” said Hook-Nose.

“I’m happy enough where I am,” I said.

“A capital city and good pay,” the bearded passenger muttered in a low voice, but I heard him.

“That’s not the point,” I said. “You can’t measure everything in money.”

“I was only joking,” said the bearded one.

“It’s just his sense of humor,” said the hook-nosed one. “You won’t find any place more interesting than here with us, though.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“But I’m not.”

The hook-nosed one laughed. “We’ll come back to that later,” he said. “Are you going to be in Solovets for long?”

“Two days at the most.”

“Then we’ll talk about it the day after tomorrow.”

The bearded passenger declared, “Personally I see the finger of fate in this—there we are strolling through the forest and we run into a programmer. I think it’s your destiny.”

“Do you really need a programmer that badly?” I asked.

“We need a programmer desperately.”

“I’ll have a word with the guys,” I promised. “I know a few who aren’t too happy.”

“We don’t need just any old programmer,” said the young man with the hooked nose. “Programmers are in short supply; they’ve gotten spoiled, but we need an unspoiled one.”

“Yes, that’s a bit more difficult,” I said.

The hook-nosed passenger started bending down his fingers as he counted: “We need a programmer who is (a) not spoiled; (b) keen and willing; (c) who’ll agree to live in a hostel…”

“And (d),” put in the bearded one, “for 120 rubles a month.”

“Perhaps you’d like one with wings?” I asked. “Or maybe with a halo around his head? That’s one in a thousand!”

“We only need one,” said Hook-Nose.

“And what if there are only nine hundred?”

“We’ll make do with nine-tenths.”

The forest opened up in front of us. We drove across a bridge and trundled on between fields of potatoes.

“It’s nine o’clock,” said the hook-nosed one. “Where are you planning to spend the night?”

“I’ll sleep in the car. How late do your shops open here?”

“Our shops are already closed,” said the hook-nosed one.

“You can stay in the hostel,” said the bearded one. “I’ve got a spare bed in my room.”

“You can’t drive up to the hostel,” the hook-nosed one said pensively.

“I suppose not,” said the bearded one, and for some reason he laughed.

“You could park the car by the police station,” said the hook-nosed one.

“This is just plain stupid,” said the bearded one. “I’m talking drivel and you’re no better. How will he get into the hostel?”

“Yeah, damn it,” said the hook-nosed one. “You’re right, take one day off work and you clean forget all these little wrinkles.”

“Maybe we could transgress him?”

“Oh, sure,” said the hook-nosed one. “He’s no sofa. And you’re no Cristóbal Junta, and neither am I…”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll sleep in the car. I’ve done it before.” But I suddenly felt a terrible longing to sleep between sheets. I’d already spent four nights in a sleeping bag.

“I know,” said the hook-nosed one. “Oho! The Lohuchil!”

“Right!” exclaimed the bearded one. “We’ll take him to the curving seashore!”

“Honestly, I can sleep in the car,” I said.

“You’re going to sleep in a house,” said the hook-nosed one, “in more or less clean sheets. We have to thank you somehow.”

“We can’t just slip you fifty kopecks,” said the bearded one.

We drove into the town, with its lines of sturdy old fences and massive timber houses built out of gigantic blackened logs, with carved lintels around the narrow windows and wooden cockerels on their roofs. We passed a few dirty brick buildings with metal doors, and at the sight of them my memory threw up the half-forgotten word “emporium.” The street was straight and wide and it was called Peace Prospect. Ahead of us, closer to the center of town, we could see two-story cinder block buildings with small open yards.

“The next side street on the right,” said the hook-nosed one.

I signaled, braked, and turned right. The roadway here was overgrown with grass, but there was a brand-new Zaporozhets car nestling against one gate. The numbers of the houses hung above the gateways, the figures barely discernible on the rusty tin-plate signs. The alley bore the elegant name of Curving Seashore Street, but its narrow passage was squeezed in between massive old fences that had probably been erected in the days when Swedish and Norwegian pirates roamed these parts.

“Stop,” said the hook-nosed passenger. I braked sharply and he banged his nose against the barrel of his gun again. “All right,” he said, rubbing his nose. “You wait for me while I go and arrange everything.”

“Really, there’s no need,” I said one last time.

“No arguments. Volodya, you keep a close eye on him.”

The young man with the hooked nose got out of the car, hunched over, and wedged himself through a low wicket gate. I couldn’t see the house behind the towering gray fence. The main gates were absolutely immense, like the gates of a railway depot, with rusty iron hinges that must have weighed sixteen kilograms apiece. I was astonished when I read the signs, of which there were three. On the left-hand gate there was a respectable-looking blue sign with silver letters glinting behind thick glass:

Hanging on the right-hand gate was a rusty tin plate with the legend 13 CURVING SEASHORE STREET, N. K. GORYNYCH, and below it was a quaint piece of plywood with a crooked, sprawling inscription in ink:

CAT NOT WORKING

“What CAT’s that?” I asked. “The Committee for Advanced Technology?”

The young man with the beard chuckled. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” he said. “This is a funny old place, but everything will be just fine.”

I got out of the car and started wiping the windshield. Suddenly I heard a commotion above my head. I glanced up. Settling down on the gate, trying to make himself comfortable, was a gigantic cat—I’d never seen one like it—a black and gray tabby. When he finally settled down, he peered at me with his well-fed, indifferent yellow eyes. “ Puss-puss-puss ,” I said automatically. The cat opened its sharp-toothed jaws with polite indifference, emitted a hoarse, throaty sound, then turned and began looking back into the yard, beyond the fence, from where I heard my hook-nosed passenger’s voice say, “Vasily, my friend, I’m sorry to trouble you.”

The bolt squeaked. The cat stood up and vanished into the yard without a sound. The gates swayed ponderously, creaking and groaning in a quite terrifying manner, and the left-hand gate slowly swung open to reveal the young man with the hooked nose, red faced from the effort.