In the morning after breakfast the brigade formed up on the parade ground for the reading out of orders and assignment of activities. This was the most painful procedure of all for Maxim, if you didn’t count the evening roll calls. The reading out of any orders always concluded with a paroxysm of absolute ecstasy—a blind, senseless, unnatural ecstasy, for which there was no justification, and which therefore produced an extremely unpleasant impression on an outsider. Maxim forced himself to suppress his instinctive abhorrence of this abrupt fit of insanity, which swept through the entire brigade, from the commander to the lowliest candidate. He tried to persuade himself that he simply was not capable of displaying the same passionate enthusiasm for the activities of the brigade administration as the guardsmen; he rebuked himself for possessing the skepticism of an alien and an outsider and tried to seek inspiration by repeating to himself over and over again that in difficult conditions such outbursts of mass enthusiasm were no more than an expression of people’s solidarity, of their unanimity and readiness to completely devote themselves to the common cause. But he found it very difficult.
Having been raised since his childhood to take a restrained and ironic attitude toward himself, to feel distaste for all high-flown words in general and for triumphal choral singing in particular, he felt almost angry at his comrades in formation, these good-hearted, guileless, basically quite excellent guys, when suddenly, after an order had been read out, sentencing Candidate Somebody or Other to three days in the punishment cell for an altercation with Active Private Such and Such, they opened their mouths wide, cast off their intrinsic amiability and sense of humor, started enthusiastically roaring “hoorah” and singing “The March of the Battle Guards” with tears in their eyes, and then repeated it for a second, third, and sometimes even fourth time. When this happened, even the cooks came pouring out of the brigade kitchen—fortunately for them, they weren’t standing in formation—and enthusiastically joined in, boisterously brandishing their ladles and knives. Bearing in mind that in this world he had to be like everybody else, Maxim also sang and also tried to lose his sense of humor, and he managed to do it, but it felt obnoxious, because he didn’t feel even the slightest enthusiasm—all he felt was a sense of awkward embarrassment.
This time the outburst of enthusiasm came after order number 127, concerning the promotion of Active Private Dimba to the rank of corporal, order number 128, concerning an expression of gratitude to Candidate for the Rank of Active Private Sim, for bravery demonstrated in the course of an operation, and order number 129, concerning the assignment of the barracks of fourth company to refurbishment status. The moment the brigade adjutant thrust the pages of the orders into his leather map-case, the brigadier grabbed his cap off his head, filled his lungs with air, and shouted out in a squeaky falsetto, “The Battle! Guards! Advance!” And then it went on and on . . .
Maxim felt especially awkward today, because he saw tears streaming down Cornet Chachu’s dark cheeks. The guardsmen roared like bulls, beating out the time with their rifle butts on their massive belt buckles. In order not to see or hear any of this, Maxim squeezed his eyes as tightly shut as he could and started bellowing like an enraged tahorg, and his voice drowned out all the other voices—or at least, so it seemed to him. “Forward, fearless Guards,” he roared, no longer hearing anybody but himself. What incredibly stupid words. Probably some corporal or other had written them. You had to really love your cause to go marching into battle with words like that. He opened his eyes and saw a flock of startled black birds darting about above the parade ground. “No diamond carapace will save you, our enemy! . . .”
Then everything ended as abruptly as it had begun. The brigadier ran his bleary eyes over the formation, remembered where he was, and commanded in a sobbing, broken voice, “Gentlemen officers, divide up the companies for exercises!” The dazed guys blearily squinted at each other, shaking their heads. They didn’t seem able to grasp anything, and Cornet Chachu had to shout “Dress right dress!” twice before the ranks assumed the required appearance. Then the company was led off to the barracks, and the cornet gave his commands: “The first section is appointed to escort duty. Other sections commence exercises in accordance with the normal routine. Dismissed!”
The sections separated, and Gai lined up his section and assigned postings. Candidate Maxim and Active Private Pandi were given the posting in the interrogation room. Gai hurriedly explained Mak’s responsibilities to him: “Stand to attention on the right of and behind the prisoner, and if the prisoner makes the slightest attempt to get up off the stool, prevent him from doing so by force. Obey the direct orders of the brigade commander. Private Pandi is the senior man—in short, watch Pandi and do everything he does. I wouldn’t have assigned you to this posting for anything, but the cornet ordered me to. You just keep your eyes peeled, Mak. I don’t really get what the cornet is up to. Either he wants to promote you as soon as possible—he really liked the look of you in action, yesterday at the review of the operation with the section commanders, he spoke well of you, and he put you in the order of the day—or he’s checking up on you. I don’t know why he’s doing it, maybe it’s my fault, with that report of mine, or maybe it’s your fault, with those little conversations of yours . . .” He anxiously looked Maxim over. “Give your boots another polish, pull in your belt, and put on your dress gloves—no, you don’t have any, candidates aren’t provided with them . . . OK, run to the store, and look lively, we go on duty in thirty minutes.”
At the store Maxim ran into Pandi, who was changing a cracked beret badge. “Look at this, Corporal!” said Pandi, addressing the store commander and slapping Maxim on his shoulder. “How about that? The guy’s only been in the Guards eight days, and he has an expression of gratitude already. They’ve put him in the interrogation room with me . . . I reckon you must have come running for a pair of white gloves, right? Issue him some good gloves, Corporal, he deserves them. This guy’s as tough as a nail.”
The corporal started discontentedly muttering, reached into the shelves piled high with official-issue clothing, tossed several pairs of white, string-knit gloves on the counter in front of Maxim, and said with a scornful grin, “A nail . . . you and these crazies are all nails. Of course, when the pain has completely pulverized his innards, you can just take him and put him in a sack. My old granddad would be a nail here like that. No arms, no legs . . .”
Pandi took offense. “Your old granddad with no arms and no legs would have gone scuttling off on his eyebrows,” he said, “if someone leaped out at him with two pistols. I thought the cornet was a goner.”
“A goner, a goner . . .” the corporal grouched. “In six months, when you get dumped on the southern border, then we’ll see who’ll go scuttling off on his eyebrows.”
When they walked out of the store, Maxim asked, with all the respect he could muster (good old Pandi liked respect), “Mr. Pandi, why do these degenerates get such bad pains? And all of them at the same time. How come?”
“It’s from fear,” Pandi replied, lowering his voice for greater solemnity. “They’re degenerates, you see. You need to read more, Mak. There’s this pamphlet called Degenerates: Who They Are and Where They Come From. You read it, or you’ll always be the same ignorant bumpkin you are right now. Bravery on its own won’t get you very far . . .” He paused for a moment. “Take us now: we get all agitated, for instance, or, say, we get a scare—but that’s OK for us, except we’ll maybe break into a sweat or, say, our knees will start trembling. But their bodies are abnormal, degenerate. If one of them gets angry with someone or, say, he gets in a funk, or whatever . . . then right away he gets bad pains in his head and all over his body. Bad enough for him to black out, understand? That characteristic is how we recognize them, and of course we detain them—grab them . . . Those are good gloves, and just my size. What do you reckon?”
“They’re a bit too tight on me, Mr. Pandi,” Maxim complained. “Why don’t we swap? You take these, and give me yours that have already been worn in.”
Pandi was very satisfied. And Maxim was very satisfied. Then suddenly he remembered Fank, the way he had writhed in the car, squirming about in pain . . . and then the guardsmen on patrol had grabbed him . . . Only what could Fank have been frightened by? And who could he have been angry with there? He wasn’t agitated, was he? He was calmly driving the car, whistling, there was something he wanted very badly . . . probably to have a smoke . . . Of course, he did look back and he saw the patrol vehicle . . . or was that later? Yes, he was in a great hurry, and there was a truck blocking the road . . . maybe he got angry? Ah, no, I’m imagining things! You never know what kind of fits people might suffer from. And he was arrested for the accident. Though I wonder where he was taking me and who he was. I ought to find Fank . . .
He polished his boots and spruced up, putting himself into absolutely perfect order in front of the big mirror, hung his automatic around his neck, took another look in the mirror—and just then Gai gave the order to fall in.
After casting a critical eye over everybody and checking their knowledge of their duties, Gai ran over to the company office to report. While he was gone, the guardsmen played a game of “soap” and three stories of army life were told, but Maxim didn’t understand them because he didn’t know certain specific expressions, and then they started pestering Maxim to tell them how come he was so ginormous—that had already become a standing joke in the section—and they begged him to bend a couple of coins into little tubes as trophies. Then Cornet Chachu came out of the company office, accompanied by Gai. He also cast a critical eye over everybody, stepped back, and told Gai, “Lead the section on, Corporal,” and the section set off toward the HQ building.
In the HQ building the cornet ordered Active Private Pandi and Candidate Private Sim to follow him, and Gai led the others away. The three of them walked into a small room with tightly curtained windows and a smell of tobacco and eau de cologne. There was a huge empty table at the far end of the room with soft chairs arranged around it and a darkened painting of some ancient battle hanging on the wall: horses, close-fitting uniforms, unsheathed sabers, and lots of clouds of white, eddying smoke. Ten paces away from the table, to the right of the door, Maxim saw an iron stool with holes in the seat. The single leg of the stool was screwed to the floor with massive bolts.
“Take up your places,” the cornet commanded, then walked forward and sat at the table.
Pandi carefully set Maxim behind and to the right of the stool, then stood on the left of it and commanded in a whisper: “Attention.” And he and Maxim froze. The cornet sat there with his legs crossed, smoking and casually examining the guardsmen. He seemed entirely indifferent and disinterested, and yet Maxim could sense quite clearly that the cornet was very intently observing him, and not only him.
Then the door opened behind Pandi’s back. Pandi instantly took two steps forward, a step to the right, and made a left turn. Maxim gave a jerk too, but he realized that he wasn’t standing in the way, and this didn’t concern him, so he simply goggled even harder. There was something infectious about this grown-up game after all, despite all its primitiveness and its obvious inappropriateness in the catastrophic conditions of the inhabited island.
The cornet got up, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray and lightly clicking his heels to greet the men walking toward the table: the brigadier, an unfamiliar man in plainclothes, and the brigade adjutant with a thick folder under his arm. The brigadier took a seat behind the table at the center. His expression was sour and peevish, and he thrust one finger in under his embroidered collar, pulled it out a bit, and twisted his head about. The plainclothes man, a nondescript little individual with a flabby, yellowish, poorly shaved face, took a seat beside him, without making any sound as he moved. Without sitting down, the brigade adjutant opened his folder and started sorting through his papers, handing some of them to the brigadier.
Pandi, after standing where he was for a while, as if he was feeling uncertain, moved back to his place with the same crisp, precise movements. The men at the table started quietly talking.
“Will you be at the meeting today, Chachu?” the brigadier asked.
“I have business to deal with,” the cornet replied, lighting another cigarette.
“That’s not good. There’ll be a dispute there today.”
“They caught on too late. I’ve already expressed my opinion on that matter.”
“Not in the best possible manner,” the plainclothes man gently remarked to the cornet. “And in addition, circumstances are changing, and opinions are changing.”
“That’s not the way it is here in the Guards,” the cornet icily remarked.
“Really and truly, gentlemen,” the brigadier said in a peevish voice, “let’s get together today at the meeting after all.”
“I heard they’ve brought fresh shrimp,” the adjutant announced, still rummaging through his papers.
“With beer, eh, Cornet?” said the plainclothes man, backing up the adjutant.
“No, gentlemen,” said the cornet. “I have only one opinion, and I have already expressed it. And as for beer . . .” He added something in an indistinct voice, the entire company burst into laughter, and Cornet Chachu leaned back in his chair with a satisfied air. Then the adjutant stopped rummaging in his papers, leaned down to the brigadier, and whispered something to him. The brigadier nodded. The adjutant took a seat and declared, apparently addressing the iron stool, “Nole Renadu.”
Pandi pushed open the door, stuck his head out, and spoke loudly into the corridor. “Nole Renadu.”
There was a sound of movement in the corridor and an elderly, well-dressed, but oddly creased and crumpled man walked into the room. His feet stumbled slightly. Pandi took him by the elbow and sat him on the stool. The door clicked as it closed. The man loudly cleared his throat, propped his hands on his parted knees, and proudly raised his head.
“Riiight, then . . .” the brigadier drawled, examining his papers, and suddenly started speaking in a rapid patter: “Nole Renadu, fifty-six years of age, property owner, member of the magistracy . . . riiight . . . Member of the Veteran Club, membership number such and such . . .” (The plainclothes man yawned, putting his hand over his mouth, pulled a brightly colored magazine out of his pocket, placed it on his knees, and started leafing through it.) “Detained at such and such a time at such and such a place; during the search the following items were confiscated . . . riiight . . . What were you doing at building number eight on Street of the Buglers?”
“I own that building,” Renadu said with a dignified air. “I was consulting with my manager.”
“Have the documents been checked?” the brigadier asked the adjutant.
“Yes, sir. Everything is in order.”
“Riiight,” said the brigadier. “Tell us, Mr. Renadu, are you acquainted with any of the prisoners?”
“No,” said Renadu, with a vigorous shake of his head. “How would I be? However, the surname of one of them . . . Ketshef . . . I believe there is a Ketshef who lives in my building . . . But then, I don’t remember. Perhaps I’m mistaken, or perhaps it’s not in this building. I have another two buildings, one of them—”
“I beg your pardon,” the plainclothes man interrupted, without looking up from his magazine. “But what were the other detainees talking about in the cell, did you happen to notice at all?”
“Uhhh . . .” Renadu drawled. “I must admit . . . You’ve got . . . uhhh . . . insects in there. So we mostly talked about them . . . Someone was whispering in the corner, but I must admit that I didn’t pay any attention . . . And then, I find these people extremely distasteful, I’m a veteran . . . I’d rather consort with the insects, heh-heh!”
“Naturally,” the brigadier agreed. “Well then, we are not apologizing, Mr. Renadu. Here are your documents, you are free to go . . . Escort officer!” he added, raising his voice.
Pandi opened the door and shouted, “Escort officer to the brigadier!”
“There can be no question of any apologies,” Renadu solemnly declared. “I, and I alone, am to blame . . . And not even I, but my cursed genetic heritage. May I?” he asked, addressing Maxim and pointing to the table where his documents were lying.
“Sit down,” Pandi said in a quiet voice.
Gai walked in. The brigadier handed him the documents, asked him to return Mr. Renadu’s confiscated property to him, and Mr. Renadu was allowed to go.
“In Aio Province,” the plainclothes man mused, “they have this custom: every degenerate who is arrested—I’m talking about the legal degenerates—pays a tax, a voluntary contribution to support the Guards.”
“That is not customary here,” the brigadier replied in a dry voice. “In my opinion, it is illegal . . . Let us have the next one,” he ordered.
“Rashe Musai,” the adjutant said to the iron stool.
“Rashe Musai,” Pandi repeated through the open door.
Rashe Musai turned out to be a thin, completely jaded little man in a tattered night robe and one slipper. As soon as he sat down, the brigadier, with his face flushed bright red, yelled at him, “So, lying low, are you, you scum?”—at which Rashe Musai started verbosely and confusedly explaining that he wasn’t lying low at all, that he had a sick wife and three children, that he worked in a factory, as a cabinetmaker, and that he wasn’t guilty of anything.
Maxim was already expecting them to let him go, but the brigadier abruptly stood up and announced that Rashe Musai, forty-two years of age, married, a worker, with a record of two arrests, having violated the terms of the decree concerning exile, was sentenced, in accordance with the law concerning preventative measures, to seven years of educational labor with a subsequent prohibition on residence in the central regions of the country.
It took Rashe Musai about a minute to grasp the meaning of this sentence, and then a terrible scene was played out. The wretched cabinetmaker wept, incoherently begging forgiveness, and attempted to go down on his knees while carrying on shouting and crying, until Pandi eventually dragged him out into the corridor. And Maxim sensed Chachu’s probing glance on him once again.
“Kivi Popshu,” the adjutant announced.
A broad-shouldered young guy, whose face was disfigured by some kind of skin disease, was shoved in through the door. He turned out to be a habitual house burglar, a repeat offender who had been caught red-handed at the scene of the crime, and he acted in a manner that was simultaneously insolent and ingratiating. Sometimes he started imploring the gentlemen bosses not to condemn him to a ferocious death, and then he suddenly started hysterically giggling, cracking jokes and telling stories from his own life, which all began in an identical manner: “I’m breaking into this building . . .” He didn’t give anyone a chance to speak.
After making several unsuccessful attempts to ask a question, the brigadier leaned back in his chair and looked to the left and the right with an indignant air. Cornet Chachu said in a flat voice, “Candidate Sim, stop his mouth.”
Maxim didn’t know how mouths were stopped, so he simply took Kivi Popshu by the shoulder and shook him a couple of times. Kivi Popshu’s jaws clattered, he bit his tongue, and he stopped talking.
Then the plainclothes man, who had been observing the prisoner with keen interest for a long time, declared, “I’ll take that one. He’ll come in useful.”
“Excellent!” said the brigadier, and ordered Kivi Popshu to be sent back to his cell.
When the young guy had been led out, the adjutant said, “That’s all the trash. Now we’ll start on the group.”
“Begin straightaway with the leader,” the plainclothes man advised. “What’s his name—Ketshef?”
The adjutant glanced into his papers and spoke to the iron stool. “Gel Ketshef.”
They brought in someone Maxim recognized—the man in the white doctor’s coat. He was wearing handcuffs, and therefore held his hands unnaturally extended in front of him. His eyes were red and his face was puffy. He sat down and started looking at the picture above the brigadier’s head.
“Is your name Gel Ketshef?” the brigadier asked.
“Yes.”
“A dentist?”
“I was.”
“And what is your relationship with the dentist Gobbi?”
“I bought his practice.”
“Why are you not practicing?”
“I sold the equipment.”
“Why?”
“Straitened circumstances,” said Ketshef.
“What is your relationship with Ordi Tader?”
“She is my wife.”
“Do you have children?”
“We did. A son.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he do during the war?”
“He fought.”
“Where? In what capacity?”
“In the southwest. First as the head of a field hospital, than as the commander of an infantry company.”
“Injuries? Decorations?”
“He had all of that.”
“Why did you decide to engage in anti-state activity?”
“Because in the entire history of the world there has never been a more abhorrent state,” said Ketshef. “Because I love my wife and my child. Because you killed my friends and depraved my people. Because I have always hated you. Is that enough?”
“Yes,” the brigadier calmly said. “More than enough. Why don’t you tell us instead how much the Hontians pay you? Or are you paid by Pandeia?”
The man in the white coat laughed. It was spine-chilling laughter, the way a corpse might laugh. “Drop this comedy, Brigadier,” he said. “What do you need it for?
“Are you the leader of the group?”
“Yes. I was.”
“Which members of the organization can you name?”
“Nobody.”
“Are you certain?” the plainclothes man suddenly asked.
“Yes.”
“Listen, Ketshef,” the plainclothes man said in a gentle voice. “You are in an extremely difficult situation. We know everything about your group. We even know something about your group’s contacts. You must realize that we received this information from a certain individual, and now it depends entirely on you what name this individual will have—Ketshef or something different . . .”
Ketshef said nothing, keeping his head lowered.
“You!” Cornet Chachu croaked. “You, a former combat officer! Do you understand what you are being offered? Not life, massaraksh! But honor!”
Ketshef laughed again and started coughing, but he didn’t speak. Maxim could sense that this man wasn’t afraid of anything. Neither death nor dishonor. He had already been through all of that. He already regarded himself as both dead and dishonored . . .
The brigadier looked at the plainclothes man, who nodded. The brigadier shrugged, got to his feet, and announced that Gel Ketshef, fifty years of age, married, a dental practitioner, was sentenced to execution in accordance with the law concerning the protection of public health, the sentence to be carried out within forty-eight hours. The sentence could be commuted if the condemned individual consented to provide testimony.
After Ketshef was led out, the brigadier remarked to the plainclothes man with a discontented air, “I don’t understand you. In my opinion, he was speaking quite willingly. A typical blabber—according to your own classification. I don’t understand.”
The plainclothes man laughed and said: “Well that, old man, is why you command a brigade, and I . . . and I am where I am.”
“All the same,” the brigadier said in a resentful tone of voice. “The leader of the group . . . inclined to philosophize a bit . . . I don’t understand.”
“Old man,” the civilian said, “have you never seen a philosophizing corpse?”
“Ah, nonsense.”
“But really?”
“Perhaps you’ve seen one?” the brigadier asked.
“Yes, right now,” the civilian said. “And this is not the first time, note . . . I am alive, he is dead—what is there to talk about? That’s how Verbliben puts it, I think?”
Cornet Chachu suddenly got up, walked right up to Maxim, and hissed up into his face: “What way is that to stand, Candidate? Which way are you looking? Attention! Eyes to the front! Stop shifting those eyes around!” He scrutinized Maxim for several seconds, breathing heavily, with his pupils narrowing and expanding at a furious rate—then he went back to his place and lit a cigarette.
“Right,” said the adjutant. “That leaves: Ordi Tader, Memo Gramenu, and another two, who refused to give their names.”
“Then let’s start with them,” the civilian suggested. “Call them out.”
“Number Seventy-Three Thirteen,” said the adjutant.
Number Seventy-Three Thirteen walked in and sat down on the stool. He was also wearing handcuffs, although one of his hands was artificial—a lean, sinewy man with unnaturally thick lips, swollen from repeated biting.
“Your name?” the brigadier asked.
“Which one?” the one-handed man merrily asked. Maxim actually shuddered—he had been certain that the one-handed man would remain silent.
“Do you have a lot of them? Then give us the real one.”
“My real name is Number Seventy-Three Thirteen.”
“Riiight . . . What were you doing in Ketshef’s apartment?”
“Lying in a faint. For your information, I’m very good at doing that. Would you like me to show you?”
“Don’t bother,” said the plainclothes man. He was very angry. “You’ll be needing that skill later.”
The one-handed man suddenly broke into laughter. He laughed with a loud, resounding laugh, like a young man, and Maxim was horrified to realize that he was laughing sincerely. The men at the table sat and listened to that laughter as if they had turned to stone.
“Massaraksh!” The one-handed man eventually said, wiping away his tears on his shoulder. “Oh, what a threat! . . . But then, you’re still a young man . . . They burned all the archives after the coup, and you don’t even know just how petty you’ve all become . . . That was a great mistake, eliminating the old cadres—they would have taught you to take a calm approach to your duties. You’re too emotional. You hate too much.
“But your job has to be done as drily as possible, formally—for the money. That makes a tremendous impression on a prisoner. It’s terrible when you’re being tortured not by your enemy but by a bureaucrat. Look at my left hand here. They sawed it off for me in good old prewar state security, in three sessions, and every action they took was accompanied by extensive correspondence. The butchers were doing a laborious, thankless job—they were bored, and while they sawed off my hand, they swore and grumbled about their miserly rates of pay. And I was terrified. It took me a great effort of will to stop myself from blabbing.
“But now . . . I can see how much you hate me. You hate me, I hate you. Wonderful! But you’ve been hating me for less than twenty years, and I’ve been hating you for more than thirty. Back then you were still walking in under the table and torturing the cats, young man.”
“I get it,” said the plainclothes man. “An old bird. The workers’ friend. I thought they’d killed you all off.”
“No chance!” the one-handed man retorted. “You need to get a bit more clued-in about the world you live in . . . but you still imagine that they canceled the old history and started a new one . . . What terrible ignorance, there’s nothing to talk to you about—”
“That’s enough, I think,” said the brigadier, addressing the plainclothes man, who made a rapid note of something on the magazine and let the brigadier read it. The plainclothes man was smiling.
Then the brigadier shrugged, thought for a moment, and turned to the cornet. “Witness Chachu, how did the accused conduct himself during the arrest?”
“He lay sprawled out, with his toes turned up,” the cornet somberly replied.
“That is, he didn’t offer any resistance . . . Riiight . . .” The brigadier thought for another moment, got up, and announced the sentence. “The accused, number Seventy-Three Thirteen, is hereby condemned to death, but no term is set for the sentence to be carried out, and until such time as the sentence is carried out, the prisoner shall be employed in educational labor.”
An expression of contemptuous bewilderment appeared on Cornet Chachu’s face, and the accused quietly laughed and shook his head as he was led out, as if to say, Well, would you believe it!
After that Number Seventy-Three Fourteen was led in. He was the man who had been shouting while writhing around on the floor. He was full of fear, but he acted defiantly. He shouted out from the threshold that he wouldn’t answer questions and wasn’t looking for leniency. And he really did remain silent, without answering a single question, even when the plainclothes man asked if he had any complaints about bad treatment. It all ended with the brigadier looking at the plainclothes man and clearing his throat in a tone of inquiry. The plainclothes man nodded and said, “Yes, send him to me!” He seemed very pleased.
Then the brigadier looked through the remaining sheets of paper and said, “Let us go and get something to eat, gentlemen. This is impossible.” The court retired and Maxim and Pandi were permitted to stand at ease.
When the cornet had also left, Pandi said, “How do you like those creeps? Worse than snakes, so help me! And what’s the worst thing about it all: if their heads didn’t hurt, how could you tell they were degenerates? It’s terrifying to think what would happen then.”
Maxim didn’t answer. He didn’t feel like talking. The picture of this world that had seemed so logical and clear only a day ago had become blurred and murky now. And in any case, Pandi didn’t need an answer from him. After removing his gloves to avoid staining them, the active private took a paper bag of sugar candy out of his pocket, treated Maxim to a piece, and started telling him how much he hated this posting. In the first place, he was afraid of catching something from the degenerates. And in the second place, some of them, like that one-hander, came on so cocky, it was almost more than he could do not to thump them. There was one time he stuck it out for as long as he could, and then did thump one—he was almost demoted to candidate. The cornet had stood up for him though: he only gave him twenty days, and another forty without leave . . .
Maxim sucked on his sugar candy, listening with half an ear and not saying anything. Hate, he thought. This side hates that side, and that side hates this side. For what? The most abhorrent state of all time. Why? Where did he get that from? They’ve depraved the people. How? What could that mean? And that man in plainclothes—he couldn’t have been hinting at torture, surely! That was a long, long time ago, in the Middle Ages . . . But then again, fascism. Yes, I recall now, it wasn’t only the Middle Ages. Maybe this is a fascist state? Massaraksh, just what is fascism? Aggression, racial theory . . . Hitler. No, Himmler. Yes, yes—a theory of racial superiority, mass exterminations, genocide, world conquest . . . lies, elevated to a basic principle of politics, the state’s lies. I remember that very clearly, that was what staggered me most of all. But I don’t think there’s any of that here. Is Gai a fascist? And Rada? No, it’s something else here—the aftermath of war, explicitly cruel manners and behavior as a consequence of the difficult situation. The majority intent on suppressing the opposition of the minority. Capital punishment, penal servitude. This is all repulsive to me, but what else could you expect?
And what exactly does the opposition consist of? Yes, they hate the existing order. But what do they actually do, in concrete terms? Not a single word was said about that. It’s strange . . . As if the judges had conspired in advance with the accused, and the accused had no problems with that. Well, it certainly looked very much that way. The accused are endeavoring to destroy the antiballistic defense system, and the judges know that perfectly well, and the accused know that the judges know that perfectly well—everybody sticks to his own convictions, there’s nothing to talk about, and all that remains is to officially confirm the existing state of their relations. They eliminate the first one, dispatch the second one to be “educated,” and the third one . . . for some reason the plainclothes man takes the third one for himself. It would be a good thing now to understand what connection exists between a pain in the head and a partiality for opposition. Why is it only degenerates who endeavor to destroy the system of ADTs? And not even all degenerates, at that?
“Mr. Pandi,” he said, “the Hontians, are they all degenerates, have you heard?”
Pandi started thinking hard. “How can I put it? . . . You see,” he eventually said, “we mostly deal with internal business concerning the degenerates, the urban ones and the ones they have down in the South. But what’s up there in Hontia or wherever else, they probably teach the army men about that. The most important thing you have to know is that the Hontians are the most vicious external enemies our state has. Before the war they had to knuckle under to us, and now they’re getting their own back, out of spite . . . And the degenerates are our internal enemies. That’s all there is to it. You got that?”
“More or less,” said Maxim, and Pandi immediately handed him a reprimand: in the Guards you didn’t answer like that; in the Guards you answered “affirmative” or “negative,” while “more or less” was a civilian expression. The corporal’s sister could answer you like that, but you were on duty here, so you couldn’t do that.
Probably he would have carried on pontificating for a long time—it was a gratifying subject, close to his heart, and he had an attentive, respectful listener—but at this point the gentlemen officers came back in. Pandi broke off midword, whispered “Attention,” and after performing the requisite maneuvers between the table and the iron stool, froze in his position. Maxim also froze.
The gentlemen officers were in an excellent mood. Cornet Chachu was telling the others in a loud voice, with a disdainful air, about how in the Eighty-Fourth they stuck raw dough straight onto red-hot armor plating, and it was really tasty. The brigadier and the plainclothes man objected that the spirit of the Guards was all very fine, but the Guards’ cuisine should be well up to the mark, and the fewer canned goods, the better. Narrowing his eyes, the adjutant suddenly started quoting some cookbook or other verbatim, and all the others fell silent and listened to him for rather a long time, with a strange, tender expression on their faces. Then the adjutant swallowed his own saliva the wrong way and started coughing, and the brigadier sighed and said, “Yes, gentlemen . . . But nonetheless, we have to finish up here.”
The adjutant, still coughing, opened his folder, rummaged in the papers, and announced in a strangled voice, “Ordi Tader.”
And the woman came in, just as white and almost transparent as the day before, as if she were still in a swoon, but when Pandi reached out in his customary manner to take her by the elbow and sit her down, she pulled sharply away, as if reacting to some kind of vermin, and Maxim fancied that she was going to hit Pandi. She didn’t hit him—her hands were shackled—she merely enunciated very clearly, “Don’t touch me, you lackey,” then walked around Pandi and sat down on the stool.
The brigadier asked her the usual questions. She didn’t answer. The plainclothes man reminded her about her child and about her husband, and she didn’t answer him either. She sat there, holding herself erect, and Maxim couldn’t see her face; all he could see was a tense, thin neck under tousled blonde hair.
Then she suddenly spoke in a calm, low voice. “You are all brain-dead blockheads and dopes. Murderers. You will all die. You, brigadier, I do not know you, this is the first and last time I shall see you. You will die a ghastly death. Not at my hands, unfortunately, but a very, very ghastly death. And you, you bastard from secret state security. I have already liquidated two like you myself. I’d kill you right now if not for this lackey standing behind me . . .” She caught her breath. “And you, you black-faced lump of cannon fodder, you butcher, you will fall into our hands. But you will die simply. Gel missed, but I know people who won’t miss. You’ll all die a long time before we knock down your cursed towers, and that’s good. I pray to God that you won’t survive your towers, because then you might wise up, and those who come later will feel pity for you and be loath to kill you.”
They didn’t interrupt; they attentively listened to her. Anyone might have thought they were willing to listen to her for hours, but she suddenly got up and took a step toward the table. However, Pandi caught her by the shoulder and flung her back down onto the stool. Then she spat with all her strength, but the gobbet fell short of the table, and she suddenly went limp and started crying.
For a while they watched her crying. Then the brigadier got to his feet and sentenced her to execution within forty-eight hours, and Pandi took her by the elbow and flung her out through the door, and the plainclothes man energetically rubbed his hands and told the brigadier, “Good job. An excellent outcome.”
But the brigadier told him, “Thank the cornet.”
And Cornet Chachu said only “Informers,” and they all fell silent.
Then the adjutant summoned Memo Gramenu, and they didn’t stand on ceremony with this prisoner at all. He was the man who was shooting in the corridor. His case was absolutely clear—he had offered armed resistance to arrest—and they didn’t ask him any questions. He sat there on the stool, corpulent and hunched over, and while the brigadier read out his death sentence, he indifferently looked up at the ceiling, using his left hand to cradle his right, with its dislocated fingers swaddled in a rag. Maxim fancied he detected a strange, unnatural calm in this man, a kind of no-nonsense confidence, a cold indifference to what was happening, but he couldn’t figure out his own feelings . . .
Before they had even led Gramenu out, the adjutant was already packing his papers away in his folder with an air of relief, the brigadier had struck up a conversation with the plainclothes man about the procedure for promotion, and Cornet Chachu had come across to Pandi and Maxim and ordered them to leave. In the cornet’s transparent eyes Maxim detected a clear hint of derision and menace, but he didn’t want to think about that. He thought with a strangely abstracted sense of commiseration about the man who would have to kill the woman. It was iniquitous, it was inconceivable, but somebody would have to do it in the next forty-eight hours.