Arkady Strugatsky: Monday Begins on Saturday

I was approaching my destination. All around, pressing up against the very edge of the road, the green of the forest yielded now and then to a meadow overgrown with yellow sedge. The sun had been setting for an hour and still couldn’t make it, hanging low on the horizon. The car rolled along, crunching on a gravel surface. I steered around the bigger rocks, and each maneuver caused the empty canisters to rattle and clang in the trunk.

A couple of men came out of the woods on the right and stopped on the shoulder, looking in my direction. One of them raised his hand. I took my foot off the gas, scrutinizing the pair. They seemed to be hunters, young, and maybe a bit older than myself. Deciding I liked their looks, I stopped.

The one who had raised his hand stuck his swarthy, hawk-nosed face through the window and asked, grinning, “Could you give us a lift to Solovetz?”

The second man, with a reddish beard and without a moustache, peering over his shoulder, was also smiling. These were positively nice people.

“Sure thing. Get in,” I said. “One in the front and one in the back, “cause I have some junk on the rear seat.”

“A true philanthropist,” pronounced the hawk-nosed one joyfully as he slid the gun off his shoulder and sat down next to me.

The bearded one was looking through the rear door in a quandary of indecision and said, “Eh, could you maybe move it a little?”

I leaned over the back of the seat and helped him clean off a space occupied by a sleeping bag and a rolled-up tent. He sat down gingerly, placing his gun between his knees.

“Shut the door tighter,” I said.

Everything was going along normally. The car started off. The hawk-nosed one turned around and started an animated discourse about how much nicer it was to be riding in a passenger car than to be traveling on foot. The bearded one mumbled assent and kept slamming the door. “Pick up the poncho,” I counseled, looking at him through the rear-view mirror. “You’re pinching it in the door.” After five minutes everything finally settled down. I asked, “Is it some ten kilometers to Solovetz?”

“Right” answered Hawk-nose, “or a little more. Though, in truth, the road isn’t very good, made mostly for trucks.”

“The road is quite decent,” I contradicted. “I was promised I couldn’t get through at all.”

“On this road you can get through even in the fall.”

“Here, maybe but from Korobetz on it’s just a plain dirt road.”

“It’s a dry summer this year; everything is dried out from the drought.”

“Over by Zatonyie there have been some rains, they say,” noted the bearded one on the rear seat

“Who said?” asked Hawk-nose.

“Merlin said.”

For some reason they both laughed. I fished out my cigarettes, lighted up, and passed them around.

“Clara Tsetkin brand,” said Hawk-nose, studying the pack. “Are you from Leningrad?”

“Yes.”

“Touring?”

“Touring,” I said. “And you—are you from around here?”

“Native,” said Hawk-nose.

“Me, I am from Murmansk,” offered the bearded one.

“For Leningrad it must be all the same—North, whether it’s Murmansk or Solovetz,” said Hawk-nose.

“Well, not really,” I said politely.

“Are you going to stop over in Solovetz?” asked Hawk-nose.

“Of course,” I said. “It’s Solovetz I am going to.”

“You have friends or relatives there?”

“No,” I said, “just going to wait up for some friends. They are taking the shore route and Solovetz is our rendezvous point”

I saw a heap of gravel piled up ahead, braked, and said, “Hang on tight” The car bounced and pitched. Hawk-nose banged his nose on the gun barrel. The engine roared, rocks flew up against the undercarriage.

“Poor old car,” said Hawk-nose.

“Can’t be helped,” I said.

“It’s not everyone who would drive on a road like this with his own car.”

“I would,” I said. The freshly graveled section came to an end.

“Oh, so it’s not your own car,” guessed Hawk-nose with some tone of disappointment, it seemed to me. I felt piqued.

“And what sense would there be in buying a car so you could drive on pavement? Where there is pavement there is nothing of interest and where it’s interesting—there’s no pavement.”

“Yes, of course,” Hawk-nose commented diplomatically.

“It’s dumb to make an idol out of a car,” I asserted.

“So it is,” said the bearded one. “But not everyone thinks so.”

We started talking cars and came to the conclusion that if you were going to buy anything at all, a GAZ-69 would be best, but unfortunately they were not for sale to the public. Later Hawk-nose asked, “So, where do you work?”

I answered, “Colossal!”

Exclaimed Hawk-nose, “A programmer! That’s exactly what we are looking for. Listen. Quit your institute and join up with us!”

“And what do you have to offer?”

“What do we have?” asked Hawk-nose, turning around.

“Aldan-three,” said The Beard.

“A well-endowed machine,” I said. “Has it been running well?”

“Well, how shall I say…

“I get it,” I said.

“As a matter of fact, it hasn’t been debugged yet,” said The Beard. “Stay here with us and fix it up.”

“We’ll arrange your transfer before you can count to two,” added Hawk-nose.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

“As with all science—the happiness of man.”

“Understood,” I said. “Something to do with space?”

“That too,” said Hawk-nose.

“Well, you know what they say—let well enough alone,” said I.

“Big city and good pay,” said The Beard in a low voice, but I heard him.

“Don’t,” I said, “don’t judge it in terms of money.”

“No, really, I was just kidding,” said The Beard. “It’s his idea of a joke,” said Hawk-nose. “You couldn’t find more interesting work anywhere else than with us.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I am positive.”

“But I am not convinced.”

Hawk-nose chuckled. “We’ll talk about that some more,” he said. “Are you going to stay long in Solovetz?”

“Two days maximum.”

“So we’ll talk on day two.”

The Beard announced: “Personally, I see the hand of fate in this. There we were walking through the woods and we meet a programmer. I sense that we are committed.”

“You really need a programmer that badly?” I asked.

“Our need is dire indeed.”

“I’ll talk to the fellows,” I promised. “I know some who are unhappy.”

“We don’t need just any programmer,” said Hawk-nose. “Programmers are in short supply, and are spoiled, but we don’t need a prima donna.”

“That’s more complicated,” I said.

Hawk-nose started counting his fingers. “We need a programmer who: a—is not spoiled; b—is a volunteer; c—is willing to live in a dorm—”

“D,” picked up The Beard, “will take one hundred and twenty rubles.”