Arkady Strugatsky: Tale of the Troika

“According to the regulations and all the rules, I should speak last,” he began. “But there are times when the regulations and rules do not apply, and they must be thrown out. I am speaking first because this is one of these times. I am speaking first because I can not wait in silence. I am speaking first because I do not expect nor will I allow any objections.”

But there could be no thought of an objection. The rank and file members of the Troika were so impressed by this unexpected flurry of oratory that they only exchanged glances.

“We are the guardians of science,” continued Lavr Fedotovich. “We are the portals to its temple, we are the unprejudiced filters that protect it from falsehood, from frivolity, from error. We guard the seeds of knowledge from attack by philistinism and false wisdom. And when we do this, we are not human, we do not know compassion, pity, or hypocrisy. We have but one measure: the truth. Truth distinct from good or evil, truth distinct from man and humanity, but only as long as good and evil and man and mankind exist. If there is no humanity—who needs truth? If no one is seeking knowledge, that means there is no humanity, and there is no need for truth! If there are answers to all the questions, that means there is no need to seek knowledge, that means there is no humanity, and then what need is there for truth? When the poet said: ‘And there are no answers to the questions’ he described the most horrible condition of human society—its final state.

“Yes, this man standing before us is a genius. He embodies and expresses the final state of humanity. But he is a killer, for he kills the spirit. Moreover, he is a terrible killer, for he kills the spirit of humanity. And that is why we can no longer remain unprejudiced filters, and we must remember that we are men, and as men we must protect ourselves from a killer. And we should not be discussing it, we should be judging him! But there are no laws for such a judgment, and therefore we must not judge, but mete out punishment, the way those who are in the grip of horror punish. And I, as the senior member, breaking the regulations and the rules, I say: Death!” The rank and file shuddered and all spoke at once. “Which one?” asked Khlebovvodov, who had apparently understood only the final word.

“Impossible!” Vybegallo whispered, clasping his hands.

“Allow me, Lavr Fedotovich!” Farfurkis babbled.

“All this is correct, but do we have …”

Then Eddie clapped his hands again.

“Harrumph!” Lavr Fedotovich said and sat, turning his neck. “There is a motion to consider the fact that the dusk has gathered, and, accordingly, to turn on the lights.”

The commandant jumped up and turned on the lamp. Lavr Fedotovich, like an eagle looking at the sun, regarded the light without squinting and turned to the Remington.

“Expressing the general consensus,” he said; “it has been decided: Case 42 is considered rationalized. Moving to the question of utilization, I ask Comrade Zubo to read the resolution.”

The commandant began leafing through the case file, while Professor Vybegallo got up from his table, and emotionally shook hands with the old man and then, before I could turn away, with me. He was glowing. I did not know what to do with myself. I did not dare look at Eddie. While I was considering whether I should heave the Remington at Lavr Fedotovich, the old man grabbed me. He attached himself to my neck like a tick and kissed me three times, scratching me with his stubble. I do not remember how I got back to my seat. I do remember Eddie whispering: “Alex, Alex! Well, all right, it can happen to anyone.”

Meanwhile the commandant had gone through the file and announced that there had been no requisitions in this case. Farfurkis immediately protested and cited the paragraph in the regulations that made it clear that rationalization without utilization was nonsense and could be acknowledged only provisionally. Khlebovvodov began shouting that these tricks would not work, that he did not wish to take money for nothing, and that he would not allow the commandant to flush four hours of work time down the tubes. Lavr Fedotovich blew into his cigarette with a look of approval, and Khlebovvodov increased his attack.

“And what if he is a relative of my Babkin?” he yelled. “What do you mean there are no requisitions? There has to be! You just look at what a little old man he is! A unique and interesting figure he is! How can we squander little old men like that?”

“Public opinion will not allow us to squander little old men,” Lavr Fedotovich noted. “And public opinion will be right.”

“That’s it,” barked Vybegallo. “It’s public opinion! And it won’t allow it! How can it be, Comrade Zubo, that there are no requisitions? Why aren’t there any?” He rushed up and threw himself in a fury on the mound of papers in front of the commandant. “How can there not be any? What’s this? A common pterodactyl. Good. And this? Pandora’s Box. Why don’t you think it’s a box? All right, make it Mashkin’s Box, and not Pandora’s. We can’t stand on formality, you know. And what’s this: Talking Bedbug. Talking, writing, typing. Ah! What do you mean, there’s no requisition? Comrade Zubo, what is this, hah? Black Box! A requisition for the Black Box. And you said there was none.”

I was stunned.

“Wait!” I said, but no one listened to me.

“But that’s not the Black Box!” the commandant shouted, clutching his chest. “The Black Box has a completely different requisition number.”

“What do you mean, it’s not black?” Vybegallo shouted back, grabbing the black case of the Remington. “What color do you think this is? Green, maybe? Or white? You’re busy misinforming the people? Squandering society’s little old men?”

The commandant was trying to justify himself, saying that this, too, was a black box, and not green and not white, obviously black, but the wrong box, that black box was under Case 907, and the requisition was signed by Comrade Alexander Ivanovich Privalov, he had received it just today, and that black box here was no black box, but a heuristic machine and it was Case 42, and there was no requisition for it at all. Vybegallo was shouting that there should be no juggling of figures here and no squandering little old men either; black was black, it was not white or green, and there was no point in trying Machist tricks and all sorts of empiriocriticism, and just let the comrade members of the authoritative Troika look for themselves and say whether this was a black box, or a green one. Khlebovvodov was shouting something about Babkin, Farfurkis was demanding that there be no deviations from the letter of the regulations, Eddie was joyously shouting “Out with him,” and I, like a stuck record, kept repeating: “My Black Box—it’s not a box. My Black Box—it’s not a box.”

Finally Lavr Fedotovich became aware of a certain disorder.

“Harrumph!” he said, and everything quieted down. “Are there difficulties? Comrade Khlebovvodov, get rid of them.”

Khlebovvodov strode firmly over to Vybegallo, took the case in his hands, and examined it carefully.

“Comrade Zubo,” he said. “For what is that requisition you have?”

“For the Black Box,” the commandant said glumly. “Case 907.”

“I am not asking you the case number. I am asking: Do you have a requisition for a Black Box?”

“I do,” the commandant confessed.

“Whose requisition?”

“Comrade Privalov from the Research Institute for Magic and Wizardry. There he is.”

“Yes,” I said vehemently. “But my Black Box—it’s not a box, rather, it’s not only a box.”

But Khlebovvodov paid no attention to me. He examined the case under the light, then leaned up into the commandant’s face and hissed: