Arkady Strugatsky: Tale of the Troika

“I don’t like any of this,” I said with courageous forthrightness. “These bones …”

“I think they’re ivory,” Eddie said. “But that’s not important. We can’t go back, can we?”

“Maybe we could write a note and throw it down the shaft? Otherwise we’ll disappear without a trace.”

“Alex, don’t forget that we are in telepathic communication. It’s embarrassing. Get yourself together.”

I got myself together. I stuck out my jaw again and resolutely strode toward the middle door. Eddie walked next to me.

“The Rubicon is crossed!” I announced and kicked the door.

The effect was wasted. There was a barely noticeable sign on the door that said “Pull,” and the Rubicon had to be crossed a second time, without the grand gestures and with the humiliating application of force to the powerful springs.

There was a park bathed in sunlight on the other side of the door. We saw sandy paths, trimmed hedges, and warning signs: “Do not walk on the lawn and do not eat the grass.” There was a cast-iron park bench with a broken back, and a strange man wearing a pince-nez was sitting on it, reading a newspaper and wriggling his bare toes. Seeing us, he became embarrassed for some reason, and without lowering the paper, removed the pince-nez agilely with his toes, wiped the lenses on his trousers, and put it back. Then he set aside the paper and rose. He was tall, very hairy, and wore a clean white vest and blue linen pants with suspenders. The gold-rimmed pince-nez squeezed the broad bridge of his nose and gave him a foreign look. He resembled something out of a political cartoon in the central newspapers. His big pointy ears twitched, and he took several steps toward us and spoke in a hoarse but pleasant voice:

“Welcome to Tmuskorpion, and allow me to present myself. I am Fedya the Abominable Snowman.”

We bowed silently.

“You’re from below, no? Thank God. I’ve been waiting for you for over a year—ever since I was rationalized. Let’s sit down. There’s still an hour until the evening session of the Troika. I would very much like, with your permission, for you to appear at the meeting with some preparation. Of course, I do not know that much, but permit me to tell you all that I do.”

We crossed the threshold of the meeting room exactly at five o’clock. We had been briefed, we were prepared for anything, and we knew what to expect. Or so I thought. I must admit that Fedya’s explanations had calmed me somewhat. But Eddie had become depressed. I was surprised by his depression, but I attributed it completely to the fact that Eddie had always been a man of pure science far removed from lost shipments, paper punching, and expense forms. And so his depression made me, a man of wider experience, feel superior. I felt more mature and I was ready to act accordingly.

There was only one man in the room—judging by Fedya’s descriptions, it was Comrade Zubo, the Commandant of the Colony. He sat at a small table, holding an open folder, and was blinking with barely repressed excitement. He was emaciated, his lips were in constant motion, and his eyes were white, like an antique statue’s. He did not notice us at first, and we quietly found seats under the sign on the wall that said “Representatives.” The room was three windows wide, and a bare demonstration table stood by the door. Another table, a huge one covered with green baize, stood against the opposite wall. A hideous brown safe towered in the corner; the commandant’s table, littered with manila folders, huddled next to it. There was still another table in the room, under the “Scientific Consultant” sign, as well as a gigantic cloth banner, covering a wall and a half, that read: “The people do not need unhealthy sensationalism. The people need healthy sensationalism.” I looked over at Eddie. He was staring at the banner, utterly crushed.

The commandant suddenly looked up, sniffed with his big nose, and unearthed our presence.

“Outsiders!”

We stood and bowed. The commandant, keeping his eyes fixed on us, got up from his little table, took a few stealthy steps, and stopped before Eddie and extended his hand. Polite Eddie, smiling weakly, shook hands and introduced himself, then stepped back and bowed once more. The commandant seemed shaken. For a few seconds he remained in position, then brought his hand up to his face and examined it suspiciously. Something was wrong. The commandant blinked rapidly and then anxiously examined the floor at his feet, as though looking for something he had dropped. Then I got it.

“The documents! Show him the documents!”

The commandant, smiling nervously, kept looking around him. Eddie quickly shoved his ID and requisition at him. The commandant came to life. His movements became rational. His eyes devoured the requisition, then the photograph on the papers, and then Eddie himself for dessert. The resemblance between the photograph and the original brought him obvious joy.

“Very pleased!” he exclaimed. “The name is Zubo. Commandant. Glad to welcome you. Make yourself comfortable, Comrade Amperian, make yourself at home, you and I still have a lot of work ahead of us.” He stopped and looked at me. I already had my papers in my hand. The process of devouring was repeated.

“Very pleased!” the commandant exclaimed with exactly the same intonation. “The name is Zubo. Commandant. Glad to welcome you. Make yourself comfortable, Comrade Privalov, make yourself at home.”

“What about a hotel?” I asked in a businesslike manner. I felt that that would be the right tone to take with him. But I was wrong. The commandant let my question fall on deaf ears. He was examining the requisition.

“Box, Black, Ideal,” he muttered. “We do have one, it hasn’t been examined yet. The Talking Bedbug has been rationalized, Comrade Amperian. I don’t know, I don’t know. It all depends on Lavr Fedotovich. I’d be worried if I were you.”

He suddenly clammed up, listened, and dashed back to his seat. There were footsteps, voices, and coughing in the foyer. The door opened, pushed by a powerful hand, and the Troika, that mighty triumvirate, appeared in the room in full complement—all four of them.

Lavr Fedotovich Vuniukov, in complete agreement with the description, white, sleek, and strong, moved to his seat without looking at anyone. He sat down, set his large briefcase in front of himself, opened it with a flourish, and started arranging on the green baize all the objects necessary for a successful chairmanship: a blotter trimmed in alligator leather, a selection of pens in a calfskin holder, a pack of Herzegovina-Flor cigarettes, a lighter in the shape of the Arc de Triomphe, and a pair of prismatic opera glasses.

Rudolf Arkhipovich Khlebovvodov, shriveled and yellow, sat on Lavr Fedotovich’s left and immediately began whispering in his ear, letting his eyes roam aimlessly from corner to corner.

Redheaded and baggy Farfurkis did not sit at the table. Democratically, he seated himself on a wooden chair across from the commandant, opened a fat notebook with a tattered cover, and immediately made a notation.

The scientific consultant, Professor Vybegallo, whom we recognized without any description, looked us over indifferently, frowned, glanced up at the ceiling, as though trying to remember where he had seen us. He may have remembered, maybe not, but he sat at his table and prepared for his important duties. He began setting up The Small Soviet Encyclopedia, volume by volume, on his table.

“Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said and looked around with a gaze that penetrated walls. Everyone was ready: Khlebovvodov was whispering, Farfurkis made a second notation, the commandant, like a student making last-minute preparations, was hysterically leafing through his papers, and Vybegallo set up Volume Six. As for the representatives, that is, us, we apparently were of no significance. I looked at Eddie and quickly turned away. Eddie was close to total demoralization—Vybegallo’s appearance was the last straw.