Arkady Strugatsky: Tale of the Troika

A country doctor from the village of Bubnovo wrote to tell them that during a stomach operation on Citizen Pantsermanov, age 115 years, he discovered an ancient Sogdian coin in his appendix. The physician called their attention to the fact that the late Pantsermanov had never been to Middle Asia and had never seen the discovered coin before. The remaining forty-two pages of the letter revealed the highly erudite doctor’s views on telepathy, telekinesis, and the fourth dimension. He appended tables, graphs, and full-scale photographs of the coin, obverse and reverse.

Action was taken thoughtfully and leisurely. After the reading of each letter, there was a long pause, filled with profound interjections. Then Lavr Fedotovich would take a Herzegovina-Flor, turn his gaze to Vybegallo, and ask the comrade scientific consultant to draft an answer for the Troika. Vybegallo would smile broadly with his red lips, smooth his beard with both hands, and asking permission not to rise, would give the reply. He did not spoil the correspondents with variety. He had a standard reply: “Dear Sir (Madam, Sirs): We have received and read your interesting letter. The facts you relate are well known to science and are of no interest to it. Nevertheless we thank you warmly for your alertness and wish you success in your work and personal life.” Signature. That was it. In my opinion it was Vybegallo’s best invention. One could not help but experience great satisfaction in sending that letter in reply to a declaration that “Mr. Shchin has drilled a hole in my wall and is sending poisonous gases through it.”

The machine went on with deadening monotony. The commandant droned on nasally. Lavr Fedotovich burped. Vybegallo smacked his lips. A deadly apathy overpowered me. I knew that this was decay, that I was falling into a quagmire of spiritual entropy, but I did not want to struggle any longer. “All right,” I thought. “So what? People live this way too. Everything rational is actual, and everything actual is rational. And as long as it is rational, it must be good. And since it’s good, it’s probably eternal. And really, what difference is there between Lavr Fedotovich and Fedor Simeonovich Kivrin? They’re both immortal, and they’re both omnipotent. So why argue? I don’t understand. What does man need? Mysteries? I don’t need them. Knowledge? Why know things when the salary is so high anyway? Lavr Fedotovich even has his good points. He does no thinking himself and doesn’t let others do it either. He doesn’t allow his fellow workers to strain themselves. He is a good man, and an attentive one. And it will be easy to get ahead under him. It’ll be easy to get rid of Farfurkis and Khlebovvodov. After all, they’re fools, they only undermine the authority of the leadership. And authority must be supported. If God did not give the leader a brain, he must at least be allowed to have authority. You give him authority, and he gives you everything else. The important thing is to become useful to him, his right hand, or at least his left.”

And I would have perished, poisoned by the horrible emanations from the Great Round Seal and the band of plumbers, and at best I would have ended my life as an exhibit in our institute’s vivarium. Eddie too would have perished. He was still moving, he was still striking poses, but it was all a show. Actually, as he later confessed to me, he was trying to figure out how to get rid of Vybegallo and get a piece of land in the suburbs to build on. Yes, we surely would have perished. They would have trampled us, taking advantage of our despair and depression.

But at that moment silent thunder shook our universe. We came to our senses. The door opened, and Fedor Simeonovich and Christobal Joséevich stood before us.

Their rage was indescribable. They were terrible to behold. Their gaze made walls smoke and windows melt. The poster about the people and sensationalism went up in flames. The house shook and shuddered, the parquet floor buckled, and the chairs squatted on their terror-weakened legs. It was impossible for even the Troika to endure it.

Khlebovvodov and Farfurkis, pointing at each other with trembling fingers, howled in unison: “It wasn’t me! It’s all his fault!” and turned into yellow smoke and disappeared without a trace.

Professor Vybegallo yelped “Mon Dieu!” and dove under his table. Pulling out his large briefcase, he handed it over to the thundergods—“ C’est, all the materials, that is, I have the goods on these scoundrels, all here!”

The commandant tore at his collar and fell on his knees.

As for Lavr Fedotovich, he sensed some discomfiture around him. Turning his head anxiously, he rose, leaning on the green baize.

Fedor Simeonovich approached us, put his arms around us, and hugged us to his ample stomach. “There, there,” he said as we fell against him, bumping our heads, “It’s all r-r-right, b-b-boys. You held out for th-th-three d-d-days. M-m-marvelous.” Through my tears, I saw Christobal Joséevich, brandishing his cane, approach Lavr Fedotovich and address him through clenched teeth:

“Get out.”

Lavr Fedotovich slowly registered surprise.

“The people …” he said.

“OUT!!!”

They eyeballed each other for a second. Something human flickered across Lavr Fedotovich’s face—maybe shame, maybe fear, maybe anger. He slowly put his accoutrements of chairmanship into his briefcase.

“There is a motion: in view of special circumstances the session of the Troika will be postponed for an indefinite period.”

“Forever,” said Christobal Joséevich Junta, laying his cane on the table.

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich doubtfully.

He majestically circled the table, without looking at anyone, and went to the door. Before leaving, he announced:

“There is an opinion that we shall meet again in another place and at another time.”

“I doubt it,” said Junta with disdain, biting off the end of his cigar.

We really did run into Lavr Fedotovich in another place and at another time.

But, of course, that’s another story.