Arkady Strugatsky: The Snail on The Slope

On the village square, Kandid caught sight of Ears. Ears, staggering and crossing his bandy legs, was moving around in circles, sprinkling handfuls of brown grass-kiHer from a huge pot slung around his belly. Behind him the grass was already smoking and shriveling. Ears had to be avoided and Kandid tried to do just that, but Ears smartly changed direction and came face to face with him.

"Ah ... Dummy!" he cried joyously, hastily un-slinging the pot from his neck and setting it on the ground. "Where are you off to. Dummy? Home, is it to Nava? Well could be wrong but your Nava's not at home, your Nava's in the field, with these eyes I saw her going to the field, you may believe me or not... Maybe, of course, she hasn't gone to the field, could be wrong. Dummy, but your Nava definitely went along tha-at alley over there and if you go along there the field's the only place you come to, and where's else should she go, your Nava? Not looking for you, would she be..."

Kandid made another effort to get by but again ended up face to face with Ears.

"No need anyway to follow her to the field. Dummy," he went on convincingly. "Why go after her? I'm just killing off the grass then I'll be calling them all here, the land surveyor came and said the elder had told him to tell me to kill the grass on the square because there's to be a meeting on the square. As there's a meeting they'll all come here from the field, your Nava among them if it's to the field she's gone, and where else could she have gone along that alley? Although now I think of it, you can get to other places than the field there, you can..."

He suddenly stopped and gave a shuddering sigh. His eyes screwed up, his hands lifted palms upward, as if of their own accord. His face broke into a sweet smile, then abruptly sagged. Kandid about to make off, stopped to listen. A small dense purplish cloud had formed around Ears' bare head, his lips quivered and he began to speak swiftly and distinctly, in a voice not his own, a sort of announcer's voice; the intonation was alien and the style was one no villager would use, it was as if he spoke an alien language so that only certain phrases seemed comprehensible.

"In the far Southlands new ... are going into battle... retreating further to the South ... of the victorious march ... the Great Harrowing in the Northern lands has been temporarily halted owing to isolated and sporadic ... new advances in Swamp-making are giving extensive areas for peace and new progress toward ... In all settlements ... great victories ... work and efforts ... new detachments of Maidens ... tomorrow and forever calm and amalgamation."

The old man had caught up to Kandid and now stood at his shoulder interpreting wildly:

"All the settlements, hear that? That means here as well... 'Great victories.' It's what I always say, you can't ... calm and amalgamation ... you've got to understand. Here as well, if they say everywhere ... and new detachments of Maidens, got it?"

Ears fell silent and dropped to his haunches. The lilac cloud had dissipated. The old man impatiently tapped Ears on his bald pate. He blinked and rubbed his ears.

"What did I say?" he asked. "Was it a broadcast? How's the Accession going? Progressing or what? And you don't go to the field, Dummy, at a guess I'd say you're going after your Nava, but your Nava ..."

Kandid stepped over the pot of grass-killer and hurried on.

The old man was no longer audible-either he'd got caught up with Ears or else he'd gone into one of the houses to get his breath back and have a bite to eat on his own.

Buster's house stood on the very edge of the village, There an embattled old woman, neither aunt nor mother, said with a sneer full of malice that Buster wasn't at home, Buster was in the field and if he was at home, there'd be no point in looking for him in the field, but as he was in the field, why was he, Dummy, standing there for nothing?

In the field the sowing was in progress. The oppressive stagnant air was saturated with a powerful range of odors, sweat, fermenting fluid, rotting grain. The morning harvest lay in great heaps along the furrow, the seed already beginning to sprout. Clouds of working flies swarmed over the pots of fermenting fluid and in the heart of this black, metallic-glinting maelstrom stood the elder. Inclining his head and screwing up one eye, he was minutely examining a single drop of whey on his thumbnail. The nail was specially prepared, flat, polished to a gleam and cleaned with the necessary fluids. Past the elder's legs the sowers crawled along the furrows, ten yards apart. They had stopped singing by now, but the heat of the forest still oohed and aahed, obviously now, no echo.

Kandid walked along the chain of workers bending and peering into the lowered faces. Finding Buster, he touched him on the shoulder and Buster at once climbed out of the furrow without question. His beard was clogged with mud.

"Who're you touching, wool on yer nose?" he croaked, looking at Kandid's feet. "Somebody once touched me like that, wool on yer nose, and they took him by his hands and feet and threw him up in a tree, he's up there to this day, and when they take him down he won't do any more touching, wool on yer nose..." "You coming?" asked Kandid shortly. "Course I'm coming, wool on yer nose, when I've prepared leaven for seven; it stinks in the house, there's no living with it, why not go, when the old woman can't stand it and I can't bear to look at it-only where are we going? Hopalong was saying yesterday we were going to the Reeds, and I shan't go there, wool on yer nose, there's no people there, in the Reeds, never mind dames. If a man wants to grab somebody by the leg and throw him into a tree, wool on yer nose, there's nobody there, and I can't live without dames any longer and that elder'll be the death of me... Look at him standing there, wool on yer nose, staring his eyes out and him as blind as a mole, wool on yer nose ... somebody once stood like that on his own, he got one in the eye, doesn't stand anymore, wool on yer nose but I'm not going to the Reeds, just as you like..." "To the City," said Kandid.

"Oh well, the City, that's another affair altogether, I'll go there all right, specially as I hear tell there's no City there anyway, that old stump's lying his head off-he comes in the morning eats half a pot and starts, wool on yer nose, laying down the law: that's not right, you shouldn't do that... I ask him: who are you to tell me what's right and what's wrong, wool on yer nose? He doesn't say, he doesn't know himself... Mutters on about some City."

"We'll set off the day after tomorrow," said Kandid. "What are we waiting for then?" burst out Buster. "Why the day after tomorrow? I can't sleep at night in my house, the leaven is stinking, let's go this evening, somebody once waited and waited, they gave him round ears and he's stopped waiting, never waited since... The old woman's cursing there's no life, wool on yer nose! Listen, Dummy, let's take my old woman with us maybe the robbers would take her, I'd give her up all right!"

"The day after tomorrow we'll go," repeated Kandid patiently. "You're a good fellow, making up so much leaven, from New Village, you know..."

He failed to finish; from the fields came shouting.

"Deadlings! Deadlings!" roared the elder. "Women home! Run off home!"

Kandid looked around. Between the trees on the extreme edge of the field stood the deadlings: two blue and quite close, one yellow a bit farther off. Their heads with the round eye-holes and the black slash of a mouth slowly revolved from side to side. Their huge arms hung loosely along the length of their bodies. The earth where they stood was already smoking, white trailers of steam mingled with gray-blue smoke.

The deadlings knew a thing or two and so behaved with extreme caution. The yellow one had the whole of his right side eaten away by grass-killer while the blue ones were covered in rashes caused by ferment burns. In places, the skin had died off and hung in rags. While they stood and stared about them, the shrieking women fled to the village and the menfolk, muttering threats, crowded together with pots of grass-killer at the ready.