Arkadi Strugatsky - The Ugly Swans

"Stop, don't move," whispered a voice in the darkness, poking something familiar into his chest. Mechanically, Victor put up his hands.

"How dare you!" squealed R. Quadriga from behind his back.

"Quiet," said the voice.

"Help!" yelled Quadriga.

"Shut up, you fool," Victor told him. "I surrender unconditionally," he said into the darkness, addressing the heavy breathing at the other end of the submachine gun.

"I'll shoot," quavered the voice.

"Please don't," said Victor. "We've surrendered, can't you see." His throat was dry.

"Get undressed," the voice commanded.

"What?"

"Take off your shoes, take off your raincoat, take off your pants."

"Why!"

"And make it snappy!" hissed the voice.

Victor peered into the darkness, let down his hands, stepped to the side, and, grabbing the submachine gun, shoved it upwards. The robber let out a squawk and pulled back, but for some reason didn't shoot. The two of them, straining and grunting, fought for the gun.

"Banev! Where are you?" shrieked Quadriga, desperate.

Judging by the smell and feel of him, the man with the submachine gun was a soldier. He continued struggling for some time, but Victor was stronger.

"That's it," said Victor through his teeth. "That's the end. Don't move, or you'll get it in the face."

"Let me go!" hissed the soldier, resisting weakly.

"What do you need my pants for? Who are you?"

The soldier only panted.

"Victor!" shrieked Quadriga, already somewhere far off. "Heeere!"

A car turned the corner, for an instant casting light on a familiar freckled face, the eyes beneath the helmet round with fear. Then it tore off.

"Wait a minute, I know you," said Victor. "What are you doing robbing people? Give me the gun."

The soldier, clutching his helmet, slid out from under the strap.

"What do you want my pants for?" asked Victor. "Deserting?"

The soldier sniffled. Such a nice young soldier with freckles.

"Well, why aren't you saying anything?" said Victor.

"It doesn't matter now," he mumbled. "They'll shoot me no matter what. I left my post. I ran off my post, I quit my post, what can I do now? If only you'd let me go, sir, huh? I didn't mean any harm, I'm not some monster, don't turn me in, huh?"

He sniffled and blew his nose and in the darkness he probably even wiped it on the sleeve of his overcoat. He was pitiful, like all deserters, frightened, like all deserters, and ready for anything.

"All right," said Victor. "You'll come with us. We won't give you away. Clothes will turn up. Let's go, only don't fall behind."

He started off, and the soldier followed, still sniffling.

Quadriga, howling like a puppy, was not difficult to locate. Now Victor had a submachine gun around his neck. The sniffling soldier clutched at his left hand, the softly moaning Quadriga at his right. A nightmare. Of course, he could always give back the submachine gun and send the little snot-nose packing. No, he couldn't. He felt sorry for him, and the submachine gun might yet come in handy. We had a consultation with the people just now, and there is the opinion that disarmament at this stage would be premature. The submachine gun could prove useful in the coming battles.

"Stop whining, both of you," said Victor. "The patrols will converge on us."

They quieted down. Five minutes later, when the dim lights of the bus terminal flickered before them, Quadriga pulled Victor to the right, muttering joyfully.

"We've arrived, thank Thee, Lord."

Quadriga, of course, had left the key to the gate in the hotel, in his pants pocket. They climbed over the fence, swearing all the while, and still swearing, floundered for some time on the wet lilac bushes. They nearly fell into the fountain. Finally they reached the entrance, kicked in the door, and stumbled into the hall. With a flick of the switch, the hall lit up in a reddish half-light. Victor tumbled into the nearest armchair. While Quadriga ran around the house in search of towels and dry clothing, the soldier quickly stripped to his underwear, rolled his uniform into a small bundle, and shoved it under the couch. After that he calmed down and stopped sniffling. Then Quadriga returned. They spent a long time briskly rubbing themselves with the towels and then got dressed.

Chaos reigned in the hall. Everything had been overturned, thrown on the floor, trampled. Books were mixed up with filthy rags and rolled up with canvases. Glass crunched underfoot, squeezed-out tubes of paint were scattered everywhere. The television stared at them with its empty square screen, and the table was piled up with dirty dishes full of rotten food. The only thing missing was excrement in the corners, and maybe there was excrement in the corners -- it was too dark to tell. The smell in the house was such that Victor couldn't stand it and threw open a window.

Quadriga took up domestic duties. First he took hold of one end of the table and tipped it over, sending everything crashing to the floor. Then he wiped it with his wet robe, ran off somewhere, and returned with three crystal goblets of antique beauty and two rectangular bottles. Jumping up and down from impatience, he removed the corks and filled the goblets.

"To our health," he muttered incoherently, seizing his goblet and pressing it to his greedy lips. His eyes rolled in anticipation of the ecstatic moment.

Victor, straightening out a soggy cigarette, looked down at him with an indulgent laugh. On Quadriga's face there suddenly appeared an indescribable expression of wounded astonishment.

"Here too," he muttered with disgust.

"What's wrong?" asked Victor.

"Water," offered the timid voice of the soldier. "Plain water. Cold."

Victor took a gulp from his own goblet. It was water all right -- pure, cold, and possibly even distilled.

"What are you giving us, Quadriga?" he asked.

"What do you mean. It's scary. You shouldn't..."

Quadriga, without saying a word, picked up the second bottle and took a swig. His face contorted into a grimace. "My God," he said, spitting, and then, hunching over, tiptoed out of the room. The soldier sniffled again. Victor looked at the bottle labels: rum, whiskey. He took another gulp: water. It looked like an ordinary bit of deviltry -- floorboards were creaking of their own volition, and your flesh crawled under the constant stare of someone's eyes. The soldier's chin disappeared into the neck of Quadriga's huge sweater; his hands ascended into the sleeves. His round eyes were fixed on Victor.

"What are you staring at me for?" asked Victor. His voice was hoarse.

"What's wrong with you?" whispered the soldier.

'There's nothing wrong with me, I want to know why you're gawking like that."

"Calm down," said Victor to himself. "Nothing terrible. They're supermen. Supermen are capable of this sort of thing too. They're capable of anything, brother. Water into wine, wine into water. They sit around in restaurants and decompose. They're destroying the foundation, removing the cornerstone. The fucking teetotalers."

"Can't take it?" he said to the soldier. "Chicken shit."

"It's scary, you have no idea," said the soldier, getting animated. "You don't know what I went through there. You're on duty, it's nighttime, and he flies out of the zone, stares at you from up there, and flies off. One of the corporals even shat in his pants. And the captain kept on saying, you'll get used to it, it's your duty, you took the oath. But how can anybody get used to it? The other night one of them flew over, perched on the roof of the guard booth and stared at us. And his eyes weren't human, they were red and they glinted. And the sulphur fumes that were coming from him." The soldier took his hands out of his sleeves and crossed himself.

Quadriga emerged from the depths of the villa, still hunched over and on tiptoe.