Arkadi Strugatsky - The Ugly Swans

"Nothing but water," he said. "Victor, let's get out of here. The car's in the garage, it's got a full tank of gas, all we do is get in, and off we go. How about it?"

"Don't go off the deep end," said Victor. "There's always time to escape. But all right, have it your way. You go ahead -- I'm staying here. And you'll take the kid with you."

"No," said Quadriga. "I'm not going without you."

"Then stop shaking and go get us something to eat. I assume the bread hasn't turned to stone yet?"

The bread had not turned into stone. The canned foods remained canned foods, and they weren't bad canned foods either. They ate, and the soldier told them about the fearful events of the past two days, about the flying slimies, about an invasion of earthworms, about the children who had grown into adults in two days, about his friend, Private Krupman, a guy of about twenty, who was so scared he'd shot himself in order to get a discharge. And then about how they'd brought their dinner into the guard booth and tried to heat it up, and it sat on the stove for two hours but nothing happened, so they had to eat it cold.

"So this evening I went out on guard duty, it was eight o'clock and raining cats and dogs, and hailing too. There were these prohibited lights over the zone, and this weird music coming from God knows where, and this weird voice keeps on talking and talking but you can't understand a word of it. And then these tornadoes start rolling out of the steppe and right into the zone. And no sooner do they get there than who should come flying out in his car but the captain himself. I didn't even have time to come to attention, all I could see was the captain in the back seat, without his cap, without his raincoat, and he's flogging the driver in the neck and hollering, 'Speed up, you son of a bitch!' And it was like something snapped inside me, like some voice was telling me, 'Beat it, buddy, split, or you'll never know what hit you.' So I split. And not along the road either, but right across the steppe, through the ravines. I almost got stuck in a swamp, and then I left my poncho somewhere, it was a new one too, we got them yesterday. So I got to the city, and I see these patrols there. The first patrol nearly gets me, the second patrol nearly gets me, and finally there I am at the bus terminal. So I take a good look, and there are all these people running, and they're letting civilians through, but when they see one of us it's 'Show us your pass or else.' So I made up my mind."

Having finished his story, the soldier curled up in his armchair and went to sleep. The painfully sober Quadriga once again started insisting that they had to get out of there, and at once.

"Now there's a man for you," he declared, pointing his fork in the direction of the sleeping warrior. "He understands. And you're thick, Banev, you're absolutely impenetrable. How can you not feel it, I can sense it physically, there's something in the north that's pushing me south. Believe me. I know you don't believe me, but believe me now, I've been telling you for a long time, we can't stay here. Golem pulled the wool over your eyes, the long-nosed drunk. Can't you understand, the roads are clear now, everyone's waiting for daylight, and then they'll clog the bridges, nineteen forty all over again. You're incredibly thick, Banev, and you always were, even in school."

Victor ordered him to go to sleep or get lost. Quadriga sulkily finished his meal and then climbed onto the couch, covering himself with a mohair blanket. For some time he tossed around, grunting and muttering apocalyptic warnings. Then he fell silent. It was four o'clock in the morning.

At ten after, the lights flickered and then went out. Victor stretched out on the armchair, covered himself with something dry and lay there quietly, staring out the darkened window and listening. The soldier was sleeping fitfully, his moans punctuated by the snores of the fagged-out doctor honoris causae. From somewhere, probably the bus terminal, came the sound of motors starting and people's muffled shouts. Victor tried to figure out what was happening. He came to the conclusion that the slimies had broken with General Pferd, cleaned his forces out of the leprosarium, and moved their headquarters rather recklessly into town. They probably imagined that changing wine into water and terrorizing the populace qualified them for taking on a modern army. "A modern army indeed -- as if they could even cope with the police. Idiots. They'll ruin the city, they'll perish themselves, and people will be left without shelter. And the children. They'll destroy the children, the bastards. And what for? What are they up to? Could it really be just another power struggle? Some supermen you are. How intelligent and talented can you be, you're the same shit that we are. Just another new order, and the newer the order, the worse it gets, that much we know. Irma, Diana...."

He shook himself, groped for the telephone, and took the receiver. The telephone was dead. "So once again they've failed to divvy things up between them. And the rest of us, who want nothing to do with either side, who want only to be left in peace, have to leave our homes and run for our lives, trampling each other in the process. And it could get worse, we could have to choose between them without understanding anything and without knowing anything, taking them at their word or at whatever they happen to dish out to us. And we'll have to shoot each other and claw at each other.

"Familiar thoughts in a familiar vein. It must be the thousandth time. That's the way we've been trained. Since childhood. It's either hip, hip, hooray or go to hell, I don't believe anyone. You're incapable of thinking, Mr. Banev, that's the problem. And that's why you oversimplify. Whatever complex social change you've managed to meet up with, your first instinct is to oversimplify. Either you believe in it or you don't. And if it's belief, then you'll push it to the point of stupefaction, to the devoted yelping of a faithful pup. And if it's disbelief, then you'll passionately spew your poisoned bile on all ideals, the true along with the false. Perry Mason used to say that there's no such thing as a damaging piece of evidence, what's damaging is a false interpretation. It's the same way with politics. The crooked ideologists interpret things to their own advantage, and the rest of us innocents lap it up whole hog. Because we can't think for ourselves, we're incapable of it, and we don't want to. And when the innocent Banev, who in his whole life has seen nothing but crooks, begins to interpret things on his own, he immediately falls flat on his face. Why? Because he's uneducated, because nobody's ever taught him how to think and so, not surprisingly, he can only interpret things in crooked terms. The new world, the old world -- and right away the associations click into place: neue Ordnung, alte Ordnung. Well, all right. But the innocent Banev has still been around for a while, he's picked up a thing or two. He's not a total imbecile. What about Diana, Zurzmansor, Golem? Why should I believe that fascist Pavor, or some snot-nosed provincial dropout, or a sober Quadriga? Why am I so sure that it'll end in blood, pus, and mud? So the slimies have revolted against Pferd. Wonderful! Give him hell. It's high time. And they won't let anyone hurt the children, it's not their style. And they won't bare their chests to us to show us how sincere they are. They won't appeal to our national self-awareness and they won't rouse our primitive instincts. It's precisely what is most natural that is least fitting for man -- right you are, Bol-Kunats. And it's really possible that this new world won't have any new order. Frightening? Cold? But that's the way it has to be. 'The future is created by you, but not for you.' Just look how I flared up when I broke out in those spots of the future. How badly I wanted to go back to my old world, to my eel and my vodka. Now I hate myself for it, but in fact that's the way it had to be. I detest the old world. I detest its stupidity, its indifference, its ignorance, its fascism. But what am I without all that? It's my bread and my water. Purify the world around me, make it the way I want it to be, and there'll be no place for me any more. I'm no good at glorification, I detest it, and there won't be anything to criticize, there won't be anything to hate. It's impossibly boring, it's death. This new world is severe and just and wise and sterile -- and it doesn't need me, I'm just a zero in it. It needed me when I was fighting for it. But if it doesn't need me now, then I don't need it, and if I don't need it then why am I struggling for it? Oh, for the good old days, when it was possible to give your life for the creation of a new world and die in the old one. Acceleration, another instance of acceleration. But it's impossible to fight against something and not fight for something else! Well, what can you do, when you start a fire that big, you're bound to burn your own skin."