Arkadi Strugatsky - The Ugly Swans

"The hell with inventors," said Victor. He felt drunk and a little giddy. Everything was as it should be. He didn't want to go anywhere, he wanted to stay where he was, in the half darkness of this empty, not quite dilapidated hall, with its stained walls, loose floorboards, and kitchen smells. Especially since it was raining outside, raining over the whole world, over the cobble stoned pavements and the peaked roofs, over the hills and valleys. "Someday the rain will wash everything away, but that won't happen for a while ... although, if you think about it, you can't say that it would be very long either. Yes, my friends, the time is long past when the future was nothing but a repetition of the present and changes hovered on a far horizon. Golem's right: there's no future anymore, it's merged with the present, and now you can't tell the difference."

"Raped by a slimy," said Pavor maliciously.

Dr. R. Quadriga appeared at the restaurant door. For a few seconds he stood in place, staring heavily at the rows of empty tables. Then his face brightened. In a sudden burst of speed, he made for his seat.

"Why do you call them slimies?" asked Victor. "Did they get moldy from all the rain?"

"Why not?" said Pavor. "What would you prefer?"

"four-eyes," said Victor. "A good old word. Since time immemorial."

Dr. R. Quadriga was approaching. In front he was sopping wet -- somebody had probably washed him over a sink. He looked tired and disillusioned.

"Goddamnit," he grumbled, still some distance away. "That never happened to me before. There wasn't any entrance. No matter where you turn, nothing but windows. ... I seem to have made you wait, gentlemen." He fell into his chair and saw Pavor. "He's here again," he informed Golem in a confidential whisper. "I hope he's not disturbing you. But you know, the most amazing thing just happened to me. They got me all wet."

Golem poured him some cognac.

"Much obliged," said R. Quadriga, "but I think I'll skip a few rounds. I've got to dry out."

"In general," said Victor, "I'm for good old things. Let four-eyes stay four-eyes. And in general I don't want to see any changes. I'm a conservative. Attention!" he said in a loud voice. "I propose a toast to conservatism. One minute." He poured himself some gin and stood up, leaning on the back of the chair. "I'm a conservative," he said. "And every year I get more conservative, only not because I'm getting older, but because I feel that way."

Pavor, sober, his glass suspended in mid-air, was looking at him with pointed attention. Golem slowly ate his marinated eel, and Dr. R. Quadriga seemed overwhelmed by the problem of who was talking. Everything was fine.

"People love to criticize the government for being too conservative," Victor continued. "People love to extol progress. This is a new tendency, and it's stupid, like everything else that's new. People should pray God for the most sluggish, backward, conformist government possible."

Now even Golem raised his eyes and looked at him, and Teddy stopped wiping bottles at the bar and strained to listen. But then the back of his head began to ache, and he had to put down his glass and rub his lump.

"The government apparatus, gentlemen, has throughout time considered its primary task to be the maintenance of the status quo. I don't know to what extent this was justified before, but now it's absolutely necessary. I would formulate it as follows: do everything possible to prevent the future from extending its feelers into our own time, chop off these feelers, or sear them with hot iron. Make it hard for inventors, but encourage windbags and pedants. Institute an exclusively classical education in all schools. All candidates for the highest government posts should be old codgers burdened with families and debts, minimal age fifty, to foster bribe taking and sleeping at committee meetings."

"What's all this bullshit for, Victor," said Pavor reproachfully.

"Why, what's wrong with it?" said Golem. "It's a rare pleasure to hear a speech of such moderation and loyalty."

"I haven't finished yet, gentlemen! Talented scientists should be turned into highly paid administrators. All inventions are to be accepted and then shelved. Inventors must be poorly paid. Draconic taxes should be extracted for all commercial or industrial innovations." "Why am I standing up anyway," thought Victor suddenly and sat down. "Well, how do you like it?" he asked Golem.

"You are absolutely right," said Golem. "We have nothing but radicals around here. Even the director of the middle school. Conservatism is our only salvation."

Victor tossed off his gin. He was starting to get pathetic. "There isn't going to be any salvation. Because all these idiot radicals don't only believe in progress, they love it, they think they can't live without it. Because progress, in addition to everything else, means cheap cars, domestic gadgets, more for less. So every government is forced to use one hand -- that is to say, not a hand, of course -- to use one foot to step on the brakes and the other to step on the gas. Like a racing car driver on a curve. The brakes keep you from losing control and the gas keeps you from losing speed, so that some demagogic champion of progress doesn't shove you out of the driver's seat."

"It's difficult to argue with you," Pavor said politely.

"So you see," said Victor in a didactic tone. "Progress. Let's have another drink to conservatism."

"Don't," said Victor. "It's a bad idea. Arguments may, God forbid, yield truth." He tenderly stroked his lump. "However, this is no doubt the result of my ignorance. All scientists are champions of progress and I'm not a scientist. All I am is a not unknown versifier."

"Why do you keep poking at the back of your head?" asked Pavor.

"Some bastard lit into me," said Victor. "With brass knuckles. Am I right, Golem? Brass knuckles?"

"Looks like it," said Golem. "Although it could have been a brick."

"What are you talking about?" said Pavor. "What brass knuckles? In this backwoods?"

They had another drink to conservatism. The clock struck nine. A familiar pair appeared in the hall, a young man with thick glasses and his lanky companion. They took their accustomed seats, lit the table lamp, meekly glanced around the room, and set to studying the menu. The man in glasses had, as usual, come with his attache case, which he put on an empty armchair next to him. He was always very kind to his attache' case. The two dictated their order to the waiter, straightened up, and stared silently into space. "A strange pair," thought Victor. "An astonishing lack of correspondence. As though you were seeing them through bad binoculars -- as soon as one comes into focus, the other fades out, and vice versa. Complete incompatibility. You could have a chat about progress with the one in glasses, but not with the lanky one. Whereas the lanky one could slug me with a set of brass knuckles, but not the one in glasses. But now I'm going to bring you both into focus. Only how? Well, let's see... . The cellar of some government bank. Cement, concrete, a security system. The lanky one works on the combination lock and the steel block rotates, revealing the entrance to the depository. The two enter, the lanky one works on a second combination lock, the doors of the safe roll back, and the one in glasses is up to his elbows in diamonds."

Dr. R. Quadriga suddenly burst into tears and grabbed Victor's hand. "Sleep," he said. "My place. All right?"

Victor rushed to pour him some more gin. Quadriga gulped it down and wiped his chin.

"My place. My villa. There's a fountain. All right?"

"A fountain -- that's a good one," said Victor, putting him off. "What else?"

"A cellar," moaned Quadriga. "Footprints. Frightening. It's awful. Want to buy it?"

"Make it a gift," said Victor.