Arkady Strugatsky: Monday Begins on Saturday

I was getting hungry, and it was time to go to the post office, where my friends might be waiting for me even then. I locked the car and went out the gate.

I was unhurriedly sauntering down Lukomoriye Street, hands in the pockets of my gray GDR jacket, looking down at my feet. In the back pocket of my favorite jeans, crisscrossed with zippers, jingled the crone’s coppers. I was reflecting. The skinny brochures of the “Znanie” society had accustomed me to the concept that animals were incapable of speech. Fairy tales from childhood, on the other hand, had insisted on the opposite. Of course, I agreed with the brochures, since never in my life had I seen talking animals. Not even parrots. I used to know one parrot who could growl like a tiger, but human-talk he could not do. And now—the pike, the tomcat Basil, and even the mirror. Incidentally, it is precisely the inanimate objects that speak the most often. And, by the way, it’s this last consideration which would never enter the head of my great granddaddy. In his ancestral viewpoint, a talking cat would be a much less fantastic item than a polished wood box, which howls, whistles, plays music, and talks in several languages. As far as the cat goes, it’s more or less clear. But how about the pike? A pike does not have lungs. That’s a fact. True, they do have an air ballast bladder whose function as far as I know is not entirely understood by icthyologists. My icthyologist acquaintance, Gene Skoromahov, postulates that it is truly totally unclear, and when I attempt to reason about it with arguments from the “Znanie” brochures, old Gene growls and spits in contempt. His rightful gift of human speech seems to desert him completely.

I have this impression that as yet we know very little about the potential of animals. Only recently it became clear that fish and sea animals exchange signals under water. Very interesting pieces are written about dolphins. Or, let’s take the ape Raphael. This I saw for myself. True, it cannot speak, but instead it has this developed reflex: green light—banana; red light—electric shock. Everything was just fine until they turned on the red and green lights simultaneously. Then Raphael began to conduct himself just like, for instance, old Gene. He was terribly upset. He threw himself at the window behind which the experimenter was seated, and took to spitting at it, growling and squealing hideously. And then there is the story—“Do you know what a conditioned reflex is? That’s what happens when the bell rings and all these quasi-apes in white coats will run toward us with bananas and candies,”—which one ape tells the other.

Naturally, all of this is not that simple. The terminology has not been worked out. Under the circumstances, any attempt to resolve the questions involving the potential and psychology of animals leaves you feeling totally helpless. But, on the other hand, when you have to solve, say, a system of integral equations of the type used in stellar statistics, with unknown functions under the integral, you don’t feel any better. That’s why the best thing is to—cogitate. As per Pascal: “Let us learn to think well—that is the basic principle of morality.”

I came out on the Prospect of Peace and stopped, arrested by an unusual sight. Marching in the middle of the pavement was a man with flags in his hands. About ten paces behind him, engine revving and laboring, a huge white truck was drawing a gigantic cistern-like silvery trailer, from which issued wisps of smoke. Fire Danger was written all over the cistern, and busy little fire engines, bristling with fire extinguishers, were rolling along, keeping pace on its right and left. From time to time, mixing in with the steady roar of the engine, a different sound issued forth, somehow chilling the heart with a strange malaise. Simultaneously yellow tongues of flame spurted out of the cistern’s ports. The faces of the firemen, hats pushed low on their ears, were stern and manly. Swarms of children swirled around the cavalcade, yelling piercingly, “Ti-li-lee ti-li-lay, they’re caning the dragon away.” Adult passersby fearfully hugged the fences. Their faces clearly depicted a desire to save their clothing from possible damage.

“There they go with dear Unc,” a familiar raspy bass pronounced in my ear.

I turned around. Behind me, looking miserable, stood Naina Kievna with a shopping bag full of blue packets of granulated sugar.

“Trucking him off,” she repeated. “Every Friday they take him.”

“Where to?” I asked.

“To the test pad, old friend. They keep experimenting. Nothing else to do!”

“And whom are they taking, Naina Kievna?”

“What do you mean—whom? Can’t you see for yourself?”

She turned and strode off, but I caught up with her.

“Naina Kievna, there was a telephonogram for you.”

“From whom would that be?”

“From H.M. Viy.”

“What about?”

“You are having some kind of fly-in today,” I said, looking at her hard. “On Bald Mountain. Dress—formal.”

The old woman was obviously pleased.

“Really?” she said. “Isn’t that nice! Where is the telephonogram?”

“In the entry, by the phone.”

“Anything about membership dues in it?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“In what sense?”

“Well, you know, such as, ‘You are requested to settle your arrears from seventeen hundred…’“ She grew quiet.

“No,” said I. “Nothing like that was mentioned.”

“Well enough. And how about transportation? Will there be a car to pick me up?”

“Let me carry your bags,” I offered.

She sprang back.

“What do you have in mind?” she asked suspiciously.

“You cut that out—I don’t like it. The bag he wants! Starting in young, aren’t you?”

No way do I like old crones, I thought.

“So how is it with transportation?” she repeated.

“At your own expense,” I gloated.

“Oh, the skinflints!” moaned she. “They took the broom for the museum, the mortar is in the shop, contributions are levied by the five-ruble bill, but to Bald Mountain—at your expense, please! The meter won’t read low, my good fellow, and then he has to wait. .

Muttering and coughing, she turned from me and walked away. I rubbed my hands and went off in my own direction. My suppositions were being borne out. The skein of wondrous events was getting tighter. And, shame to admit, but this seemed a lot more fascinating at the moment than, say, even the modeling of a reflex process.

The Prospect of Peace was now deserted. A gang of kids were loitering at the cross street, apparently playing tip-cat. Catching sight of me, they quit the game and took off in my direction. Sensing unfavorable developments, I passed them quickly and bore off toward downtown. Behind my back a stifled and excited voice exclaimed, “Stilyaga.” I quickened pace. “Stilyaga,” bawled several at once. I was almost running, pursued by yells of, “Stilya-aga! Spindle-legs! Papa’s Pobeda-driver… Passersby were looking at me with compassion.

In such eventualities, it’s best to dive into some refuge. I dived into the nearest door, which turned out to be a food store. I walked up and down the counters, assured myself that there was plenty of sugar, and found the choice of sausages and candies rather limited, which was amply compensated by the variety of fish products surpassing all expectations. Such appetizing and variegated salmon! I had a glass of soda water, and scanned the street. The kids were gone. Thereupon I left the store and continued my journey.

Presently the grain stores and log-cabin fortresses came to an end and were replaced by modern two-storied houses, interspersed with small parks. In the parks, small children were running about, old women were knitting warm things, and old men were playing dominoes as if for keeps. A spacious square turned up in the center of town, surrounded with two- and three-story buildings. It was paved with asphalt, punctuated in the center by the greenery of a garden. Above it rose a large red poster titled Honor RoIl and several smaller posters with plotted curves and diagrams. I discovered the post office right there, in the square. The fellows and I had agreed that the first one to get to the town would leave a note with his coordinates in general delivery. There was no note, and I left a letter with my address and instructions on how to find the cottage on hen’s legs. Next I decided to have breakfast