Arkady Strugatsky: Tale of the Troika

“You’re regular people,” Feofil said. “Amazing.”

The goat looked us over and settled on Khlebovvodov.

“This here is Khlebovvodov,” she said. “Rudolf Arkhipovich. Born in 1910 in Khokhloma. His parents got the name out of a romantic novel. Education, seventh grade. He is ashamed of his parents’ background, studied many foreign languages, speaks none.”

“ Oui ,” Khlebovvodov confirmed, giggling with embarrassment. “ Naturalichjawohl! ”

“Has no profession as such. At the present time is a public administrator. Traveled abroad to Italy, France, both Germanics, Hungary, England, and so on—a total of forty-four countries. Has bragged and lied everywhere. His distinguishing character trait is a high degree of tenacity and adaptability, based on his fundamental stupidity and an unwavering desire to out-orthodox orthodoxy.”

“Well,” said Feofil. “Is there anything you could add to that, Rudolf Arkhipovich?”

“No way!” Khlebovvodov said gleefully. “Except maybe that ortho—ortho—doro—orthxy, it isn’t quite clear!”

“To be more orthodox than orthodoxy is sort of like this,” explained the goat. “If the authorities are displeased by some scientists, you declare yourself to be an enemy of science in general. If the authorities are displeased by some foreigner, you are ready to declare war on everyone on the other side of the border. Understand?”

“Absolutely,” said Khlebovvodov. “How else could it be? Our education is awfully limited. Otherwise, I might make a mistake.”

“Does he steal?” asked Feofil casually.

“No,” said the goat. “He picks up things that fall off the gravy train.”

“Murder?”

“Don’t be silly,” laughed the goat. “Personally, never.”

“Say something,” Feofil asked Khlebovvodov.

“There have been mistakes,” Khlebovvodov said quickly. “People are not angels. Anyone can make a mistake. Horses have four legs and still they stumble. He who makes no mistakes does not exist, that is, does not work.”

“I understand,” said Feofil. “Are you going to go on making mistakes?”

“Never!” Khlebovvodov said firmly.

“Thank you,” said Feofil. He looked at Farfurkis.

“And this kind gentleman?”

“That’s Farfurkis,” said the goat. “No one has ever used his name and patronymic. Born in 1916 in Taganrog, higher education in law, reads English with a dictionary. Profession, lecturer. Candidate of oratorical sciences. Has never been abroad. Outstanding character trait is perspicacity and caution. Sometimes he risks incurring the wrath of his superiors, but his actions are always calculated to lead eventually to their gratitude.”

“That’s not quite right,” Farfurkis said softly. “You’re mixing your terms a bit. Caution and perspicacity are part of my character whether I deal with my superiors or not. They’re in my chromosomes. As for my superiors, well that’s my job, pointing out the legal parameters of their competence.”

“And if they go outside the parameters?” asked Feofil.

“You see,” said Farfurkis. “I can tell you’re not a lawyer. There is nothing more flexible than a legal parameter. You can delineate one, but you can’t overstep one.”

“How do you feel about perjury?” asked Feofil.

“I’m afraid that that’s a rather old-fashioned term,” Farfurkis said. “We don’t use it any more.”

“How’s he on perjury?” Feofil asked the goat.

“Never,” she replied. “He always believes every word he says.”

“Really, what is a lie?” said Farfurkis. “A lie is a denial or a distortion of a fact. But what is a fact? Can we speak of facts in our increasingly complex life? A fact is a phenomenon or action that is verified by witnesses. But eyewitnesses can be prejudiced, self-interested, or simply ignorant. Or, a fact is a phenomenon or action that is verified by documents. But documents can be forged or tampered with. Or finally, a fact is a phenomenon or action that is determined by me personally. However, my sensations can be dulled or even completely deceived under certain circumstances. Thus, it is evident that a fact is something ephemeral, nebulous, and unverifiable, and the elimination of the concept becomes necessary. But in that case falsehood and truth become primitive concepts, indefinable through any other general categories. There exist only the Great Truth and its antipode, the Great Lie. The Great Truth is so great and its validity is so obvious to any normal man, such as myself, that it is totally futile to try to refute or distort it, that is, to lie. And that is why I never lie and never perjure myself.”

“Tricky,” said Feofil. “Very neat. Of course, Farfurkis’ philosophy will remain after him?”

“No,” said the goat with a laugh. “I mean, the philosophy will remain, but Farfurkis had nothing to do with it. He didn’t invent it. He hasn’t invented anything at all, except his dissertation, which will be his only legacy, a model of such works.”

Feofil was thinking.

“Do I understand correctly?” asked Farfurkis. “Is everything finished? Can we continue our work?”

“Not yet,” Feofil replied, awakening from his meditations. “I would like to ask a few questions of this citizen.”

“What!” shouted Farfurkis. “Lavr Fedotovich?”

“The people …” said Lavr Fedotovich, gazing into the distance through his opera glasses.

“Question Lavr Fedotovich?” muttered Farfurkis in shock.

“Yes,” the goat said. “Lavr Fedotovich Vuniukov, born in ____”

“That’s it,” said Eddie. “I’ve run out of energy. That Lavr is a bottomless barrel.”

“What’s this?” shouted Farfurkis in dismay. “Comrades!! What’s going on? It’s improper!”

“That’s right,” said Khlebovvodov. “It’s not our concern. Let the police take care of it.”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Are there any other motions? Questions to the speaker? Expressing the general consensus, I move that Case 29 be rationalized as an unexplained phenomenon that should be of interest to the Ministry of the Food Industry and the Treasury. As part of preliminary utilization Case 29, known as Enchantings, should be turned over to the district attorney’s office of the Tmuskorpion Region.”

I looked toward the top of the hill. Feofil the forester leaned heavily on his stick, standing on his porch, and peered into the sunlight, shading his eyes. The goat wandered in the garden. I waved my beret at him in farewell. Eddie’s bitter sigh sounded in my ear simultaneously with the thud of the Great Round Seal.

The next morning, before I was fully awake, I immediately sensed how bitter and hopeless it all was. Eddie was sitting at the table in his shorts, his disheveled head in his hands. The shiny parts of the humanizer were spread out before him on a sheet of newspaper. I could tell that Eddie was also depressed and without hope.

I threw off my blanket, put my feet on the floor, and reached over to get cigarettes from my jacket pocket. I lit up. Under other circumstances this unhealthy action would have gotten an immediate reaction from Eddie, who could not stand moral weakness or air pollution. Under other circumstances I would not have tried to smoke in front of Eddie. But today we did not care. We were destroyed, we were hanging over an abyss.

First of all, we hadn’t had enough sleep. That was point one, as Modest Matveevich would have put it. We had glumly tossed and turned until three A.M., toting up the bitter sum of our experiences, opening windows, closing windows, drinking water. I had even chewed my pillow.

It was bad enough that we found ourselves helpless before those plumbers. We could have lived with that. After all, no one had taught us how to deal with them. We were too weak, and, I guess, too green.