12

The state prosecutor leaned back in his chair, popped a few dried berries into his mouth, chewed for a while, and took a sip of medicinal water. Squeezing his eyes firmly shut and pressing his fingertips against his weary eyes, he listened. For many hundreds of yards all around, everything was good. The building of the Palace of Justice was empty, the night rain was monotonously drumming on the windows, he couldn’t even hear any sirens or squealing brakes, and the elevators weren’t clanging and humming. There was nobody here except for his night secretary in the reception area, where he was languishing as quiet as a mouse behind the tall door, awaiting instructions. The prosecutor slowly unsealed his eyes and glanced through the drifting blotches of color at the chair for visitors, made to a special design. I should take that chair with me. And I should take the desk too—I’ve grown accustomed to it . . .

But I’ll probably feel sorry to leave here anyway, won’t I? I’ve warmed this seat so thoroughly over the last ten years . . . And why should I leave? A man is a strange piece of work: if he’s facing a flight of steps, he simply has to scramble right up to the very top. Up at the very top it’s cold, the drafts blowing up there are very detrimental to one’s health, a fall from that height is fatal, the steps are slippery and dangerous, and you know all that perfectly well, but you still clamber up anyway. You clamber up in defiance of any and all advice, clamber up in defiance of your enemies’ opposition, clamber up in defiance of your own instincts, common sense, and apprehensions—you clamber higher, higher, higher . . . Anyone who doesn’t clamber higher goes tumbling down, it’s true. But anyone who clambers right up to the top tumbles down anyway . . .

The chirping of the internal phone interrupted his thoughts. He picked up the receiver and, wincing in annoyance, said, “What is it? I’m busy.”

“Your Excellency,” said the secretary, his voice sighing like a gentle breeze, “a person giving his name as Wanderer, calling on the gray line, insists on speaking with you.”

“Wanderer?” The prosecutor livened up. “Put him through.”

There was a click in the earpiece of the receiver and the secretary sighed, “His Excellency is on the line.”

Following another click, a familiar, self-assured voice spoke in Pandeian. “Egghead? Hello. Are you very busy?”

“Not to you.”

“I have to talk to you.”

“When?”

“Right now, if possible.”

“I am at your disposal,” said the prosecutor. “Come.”

“I’ll be there in ten or fifteen minutes. Expect me then.”

The prosecutor put down the receiver and sat completely still for a while, plucking at his lower lip. So he’s shown up, the old darling. And once again completely out of the blue. Massaraksh, the amount of money I’ve blown on that man, probably more than on all the rest, taken together, but I still only know the same as all the rest, taken individually. A dangerous character. Unpredictable. He has spoiled my mood . . .

The prosecutor cast an angry glance at the documents laid out across the desk, casually raked them into a heap, and stuffed them into the drawer. Just how long has he been gone? Yes, two months. The same as usual. He disappears, destination unknown, no information for two months, and then—he just pops up, like a jack-in-the-box . . . No, something will have to be done about this jack. It’s not possible to work like this . . .

Well, all right, what does he want from me? What has actually happened during these two months? Dodger got eaten . . . He’s not likely to be interested in that. He despised Dodger. But then, he despises everybody . . . There hasn’t been anything concerning his outfit, and he wouldn’t come to see me about trivial nonsense like that—he would go straight to Dad or Father-in-Law . . . Perhaps he has sniffed out something curious and wants to form an alliance? God grant, I hope that’s it—only if I were him, I wouldn’t enter into an alliance with anyone . . . Perhaps it’s the trial? But no, what does the trial have to do with anything . . .

Ah, what point is there in guessing? We’d better just take the requisite measures. He pulled out a secret drawer and switched on all the phonographs and hidden cameras. We’ll preserve this scene for posterity.

Well, where are you, Wanderer? In his agitation he broke into a sweat and started violently trembling. To calm himself down, he tossed a few more berries into his mouth, chewed for a moment, closed his eyes, and started counting. When he had counted to seven hundred, the door opened and, waving aside the secretary, he walked into the office—that lanky spindle-legs, that bleak humorist, that hope of the Fathers, hated and adored, dangling by a thread from second to second and never falling; scraggy and stoop-shouldered, with round, green eyes and large, protruding ears, wearing his perpetual, ludicrous anorak reaching down to his knees; as bald as a baby’s bottom, a sorcerer, power broker, and devourer of billions . . .

The prosecutor stood up to greet him. With this man there was no need to pretend and speak in constrained words. “Greetings, Wanderer,” he said. “Have you come to boast?”

“About what?” Wanderer asked, collapsing into the familiar chair and raising his knees incongruously high. “Massaraksh, I forget about this damned contraption every time. When are you going to stop deriding your visitors?”

“A visitor should feel awkward,” the prosecutor declared in an edifying tone of voice. “A visitor should be ludicrous, otherwise what enjoyment will I get from him? Here I am looking at you now, and I feel quite jolly.”

“Yes, I know you’re a jolly fellow,” said Wanderer. “Only your sense of humor is very unsubtle . . . And, by the way, you may sit.”

The prosecutor realized that he was still standing. As usual, Wanderer had been quick to even the score. The prosecutor sat as comfortably as he could manage and took a sip of his curative swill. “So?” he asked.

“You have in your clutches,” his visitor said, “a man whom I very much want. A certain Mak Sim. You put him away him for reeducation, remember?”

“No,” the prosecutor sincerely replied, feeling a certain degree of disappointment. “When did I put him away? In connection with what case?”

“Only just recently. In connection with the blown-up tower case.”

“Ah, I remember . . . Well, what of it?”

“That’s all,” said Wanderer. “I need him.”

“Hang on,” the prosecutor said in annoyance. “I didn’t conduct the trial. I can’t possibly remember every convicted offender.”

“I thought the people in the department were all yours.”

“There was only one of mine—all the rest were genuine . . . What did you say he was called?”

“Mak Sim.”

“Mak Sim,” the prosecutor repeated. “Ah, that Highlander spy . . . I remember. There was some strange kind of business with him—he was shot, but unsuccessfully.”

“Yes, it appears so.”

“Some kind of exceptional strongman. Yes, something was reported to me. But what do you need him for?”

“He’s a mutant,” said Wanderer. “He has very curious mentograms, and I need him for my work.”

“Are you going to have him dissected?”

“Possibly. My people spotted him a long time ago, when he was still being exploited in the Special Studio, but then he gave us the slip.”

Feeling monumentally disappointed, the prosecutor stuffed his mouth with berries. “OK,” he said, feebly chewing. “So how are things going with you?”

“As always, wonderful,” Wanderer replied. “And with you too, I’ve heard. You finally undermined Twitcher after all. Congratulations . . . So when will I receive my Mak?”

“Well, I’ll send the dispatch tomorrow. He’ll be delivered in five or seven days.”

“Surely not for free?” Wanderer said.

“As a favor,” said the prosecutor. “But what can you offer me?”

“The very first protective tin hat.”

The prosecutor chuckled. “And the World Light into the bargain,” he said. “But anyway, bear in mind that I don’t want the first tin hat. I want the only one . . . And incidentally, is it true that your gang has been commissioned to develop a directional radiation unit?”

“It might be.”

“But listen, what the hell do we need it for? Don’t we have enough troubles already? Couldn’t you just clamp down on this work?”

Wanderer bared his teeth. “Are you afraid, Egghead?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” said the prosecutor. “And aren’t you afraid? Or did you, perhaps, imagine that the love between you and Brother-in-Law is forever? He’ll zap you with your own radiation unit . . . As sure as I’m sitting here.”

Wanderer bared his teeth again. “You’ve convinced me,” he said. “That’s agreed, then. “I’m going to see Dad now. Is there anything you’d like me to pass on?”

“Dad’s angry with me,” said the prosecutor. “And I find that damned unpleasant.”

“All right,” said Wanderer. “That’s what I’ll tell him.”

“Joking aside,” said the prosecutor, “if you could just put in a little word . . .”

“Well, you are our Egghead,” Wanderer said in Dad’s voice. “I’ll give it a try.”

“Is he, at least, happy with the trial?”

“How should I know? I’ve only just arrived.”

“Well then, find out . . . And concerning your . . . what did you say his name was? Let me make a note of it . . .”

“Mak Sim.”

“Right . . . I’ll write concerning him tomorrow.”

“Keep well,” Wanderer said, and walked out.

The prosecutor sullenly watched him go. Yes, I can only envy him. What a position he holds. The only one that our defense depends on. It’s too late now for regrets, but perhaps I ought to have cozied up to him. But how could I cozy up to him? There’s nothing he needs; he’s the most important one anyway, we’re all dependent on him, we all swear by him . . . Ah, if I could simply grab a man like that by the throat—wouldn’t that be just wonderful! If only there was at least something he needed! But it’s always just Here you are, then with him . . . He wants an educatee, some kind of rare jewel . . . He has interesting mentograms, don’t you know . . . But actually this educatee is a Highlander, and just recently Dad has been talking a lot about the mountains . . . Perhaps it’s worthwhile paying some attention to this . . . No matter how the war turns out, Dad is still Dad . . . Massaraksh, it’s impossible to do any more work today anyway . . .

He spoke into the microphone. “Koch, what do you have on the convict Sim?” He suddenly remembered something. “I think you put together some kind of dossier about him . . .”

“Yes indeed, Your Excellency,” the secretary sighed like a breeze. “I had the honor to draw Your Excellency’s attention to—”

“Let me have it. And bring me some water.”

He put down the receiver and the night secretary instantly appeared in the doorway, as intangible as a shadow. A thick document folder appeared on the desk; there was a quiet tinkling, a glugging of water, and a full glass appeared beside the folder. The prosecutor took a sip as he scrutinized its cover.

“An abstract of the case of Mak Sim (Maxim Kammerer). Prepared by Administrative Aide Koch.” Holy cow, this is one thick abstract . . . He opened the folder and took out the first sheaf of paper.

“The testimony of Cornet To’ot” . . . “The testimony of the accused Gaal” . . . sketch maps of some border region in the South . . . “He was not wearing any other clothing. His speech seemed articulate to me but was absolutely incomprehensible. An attempt to speak to him in Hontian produced no response . . .” Oh, these border cornets! A Hontian spy on the southern border . . . “The drawings made by the prisoner appeared quite surprisingly skillful to me . . .” Well, there are plenty of surprising things in the South. Unfortunately. And the circumstances of this Sim’s appearance don’t stand out too distinctly against the general background of various other southern circumstances. Although, of course . . . But let’s take a look.

The prosecutor set that sheet of paper aside, selected two of the larger berries, popped them into his mouth, and picked up the next sheet. “The conclusions of an expert commission, consisting of staff members of the Institute of Fabrics and Clothing . . . We, the undersigned . . .” hmm . . . right . . . right . . . “have investigated with all the laboratory methods available to us the item of clothing sent to us from the Department of Justice . . .” more gibberish of some kind . . .

and have come to the following conclusion:

• 1. The aforementioned item of clothing is a pair of short pants of size number 4B, suitable to be worn by both men and women.

• 2. The cut of the pants cannot be correlated with any known standard and cannot actually be referred to as a cut, since the pants are not sewn together but manufactured by some process unknown to us.

• 3. The pants are manufactured out of a soft, porous fabric of a silvery color, which cannot actually be called a fabric, since even microscopic investigation failed to identify any structure in it. This material is noncombustible, nonwettable, and possesses very great tensile strength. Chemical analysis . . .

A strange pair of pants. So am I supposed to understand that these are his pants . . . The prosecutor took a finely sharpened pencil and wrote in the margin: “Secretary. Why do you not provide explanatory notes? Whose pants are they? Where did the pants come from?” Right . . .

And the conclusions? Formulas . . . Yet more formulas . . . Massaraksh, more formulas . . . Aha! “ . . . a technology that is not known in our country or in any other civilized states (according to prewar data).”

The prosecutor set the conclusion aside. Well, pants . . . So OK. Pants are pants . . . What comes next? “Certificate of medical examination.” Interesting. What, that’s his blood pressure? Oho, those are some lungs! And what on earth is this? Signs of four fatal wounds . . . Now this is sheer mysticism. Aha . . . “See the testimony of the witness Chachu and the accused Gaal.” Seven bullets—well, well. Hmm . . . And there are certain divergences: Chachu testifies that he fired his gun for purposes of self-defense when in danger of being killed, but this Gaal claims that Chachu fired because Sim wanted to take his pistol from him. Well, that’s no concern of mine . . . Two bullets into the liver—that’s too many for any normal man . . . Riiight, he can bend a coin into a tube . . . He can run with a man on his shoulders . . . Aha, I read that before. I remember now—at that point I thought that this was an extremely large and healthy young man, and they are usually stupid. And I didn’t read any more . . .

But what’s this? Aah, an old friend:

Extract from a report by Agent No. 711 . . . He can see quite clearly on a rainy night (he can even read) and in total darkness (he can distinguish objects and see facial expressions at a distance of up to ten yards) . . . Possesses an extremely keen sense of smell and taste—he distinguished members of the group by smell at a distance of up to fifty yards. For a wager, he identified various drinks in tightly sealed vessels . . . He can find his bearings in relation to the cardinal directions without a compass . . . He can determine the time with great accuracy without a watch . . . The following incident occurred: a fish had been bought and boiled, but he forbade us to eat it, asserting that it was radioactive. On being checked with a radiometer, the fish did indeed prove to be radioactive. I draw your attention to the fact that he himself ate the fish, saying that it was not dangerous for him, and indeed he suffered no harm, although the level of radiation was more than three times higher than the safety limit (almost 77 units) . . .

The prosecutor leaned back in his chair. No, this really is too much. Perhaps he is actually immortal for good measure. Yes, Wanderer ought to find all of this interesting. Let us see what comes next.

Here’s a serious document. “Conclusion of a Special Commission of the Department of Public Health. Subject: Mak Sim. No reaction to white radiation. No counterindications to his serving in the special forces.” Aha . . . That was when he was enlisting in the Guards. White radiation, massaraksh . . . the bloody butchers, the sons of bitches . . . And this is their evaluation for purposes of the investigation . . .

On being tested with white radiation at various different intensities, up to and including the maximum level, he failed to display any reaction. His reaction to A-radiation was zero level in both senses. His reaction to B-radiation was zero level. NOTE: We consider it our duty to state that the subject (Mak Sim, approximately 20 years of age) represents a danger in view of possible genetic consequences. Complete sterilization or elimination is recommended . . .

Oho! These guys don’t mess around. Who is it they have there now? Ah, it’s Amateur. Yes, no joker, no joker, that’s for sure. I recall that Colt the Joker used to tell an excellent joke about that . . . massaraksh, I can’t remember it . . . But anyway, there’s nobody here. Now we’ll eat a little berry, wash it down with a bit of water . . . filthy swill, but they say it helps . . . OK, what comes next?

Oho, so he’s already been there too! Let’s see now . . . Zero-level reaction again, probably . . .

When subjected to augmented methods of interrogation, the suspect Sim did not provide any testimony. In accordance with paragraph 12 concerning the noninfliction of visible physical harm on suspects who are due to appear at a public court hearing, only the following methods were applied:

A. Acu-surgery, including at the deepest level, with penetration of nerve ganglia (a paradoxical reaction, with the stimulated subject falling asleep).

B. Chemical processing of the nerve ganglia with alkaloids and alkalis (a similar reaction).

C. Light chamber (no reaction; the stimulated subject was surprised).

D. Steam thermal chamber (weight loss without any unpleasant sensations). After this last investigation the use of augmented methods had to be discontinued.

Brrrrr . . . What a horrific document.

Yes, Wanderer is right—this man is some kind of mutant. Normal people can’t do things like that . . . Yes, I have heard that mutations can have positive outcomes, if only rarely . . . That explains everything . . . apart from the pants, that is. As far as I know, pants don’t mutate . . .

He picked up the next sheet of paper. It wasn’t interesting: the testimony of the director of the Special Studio at the Directorate of Television and Radio Broadcasting. An idiotic institution. They record the ravings of various psychos for the amusement of their distinguished audience. As I recall, this studio was thought up by Kalu the Swindler, who was a bit of a wackadoodle himself . . . Well, well, so the studio has survived! Swindler’s long gone, but his batty studio is flourishing . . . From the director’s testimony, it appears that Sim was an exemplary subject, and it would be most desirable to have him back again . . .

Stop, stop, stop! Transferred to the authority of the Department of Special Research in accordance with warrant number such and such on such and such a date . . . And there it is, the warrant, and it’s signed by Fank . . . The prosecutor sensed a faint dawning of enlightenment. Fank . . . You’ve been up to something here, Wanderer.

No, let us not be hasty with our conclusions. He counted to thirty to calm himself down and picked up the next sheet of paper—or, in fact, a rather thick sheaf of sheets: “Abstract from a report of the Special Ethnolinguistic Commission concerning verification of the presumed Highland origins of M. Sim.”

He began absentmindedly reading, still thinking about Fank and Wanderer, but then, to his own surprise, he became interested. This was a curious investigation that linked together and discussed all the denunciations, evidence, and witness testimony that had any bearing on the matter of Mak Sim’s origins: anthropological, ethnographic, and linguistic data and their analysis, the conclusions from studying the suspect’s phonograms and mentograms and his own drawings. The whole thing read like a novel, although the conclusions were extremely meager and cautious. The commission did not assign M. Sim to any of the known ethnic groups living on the continent. (The report cited the special opinion of the well-known paleoanthropologist Shapshu, stating that he discerned a great degree of similarity between the skull of the suspect and the fossil skull of so-called Ancient Man, who had lived on the Archipelago more than a hundred thousand years ago, but the two were not identical.) The commission confirmed the complete psychological normality of the suspect at the present moment, but conceded that in the recent past he could have suffered from one form or another of amnesia, conjointly with the comprehensive displacement of his true memory by a false one.

The commission had conducted an analysis of the phonograms preserved in the archive of the Special Studio and had reached the conclusion that the language in which the suspect spoke at that time could not be assigned to any of the groups of known languages living or dead. For this reason the commission conceded the possibility that this language could be a product of the suspect’s imagination (a so-called fish language), especially since at the present time he himself claimed that he no longer remembered that language. “The commission abstains from any definite conclusions, but is inclined to assume that in the person of M. Sim we are dealing with a mutant of some previously unknown type . . .”

Good ideas occur to great minds at the same moment, the prosecutor enviously thought, and quickly leafed through the “Special Opinion of Commission Member Professor Porrumovarrui.” The professor, himself a Highlander, recalled the existence deep in the mountains of the semilegendary land of Zartak, inhabited by the Birdcatcher tribe, which to this day had still not been subjected to ethnographical study, and to which the civilized Highlanders attributed magical knowledge and the ability to fly through the air without any mechanical devices. “According to existing accounts, Birdcatchers are extremely large and tall, possess immense physical strength and stamina, and also have golden-brown skin. All of this coincides quite remarkably with the physical characteristics of the suspect . . .”

The prosecutor toyed with his pencil above Professor Porru- . . . etc., then put the pencil down and said in a loud voice, “This opinion would probably account for the pants too. Those incombustible pants . . .”

He ate a berry and glanced over the next sheet of paper. “An abstract from the stenographic record of the trial.” Hmm . . . So what’s this?

STATE COUNSEL: You will not deny that you are an educated individual?

ACCUSED: I do have an education, but I have a poor grasp of history, sociology, and economics.

STATE COUNSEL: Do not be overmodest. Are you familiar with this book?

ACCUSED: Yes.

STATE COUNSEL: Have you read it?

ACCUSED: Naturally.

STATE COUNSEL: For what purpose did you, while under arrest, take up the reading of a monograph entitled Tensor Calculus and Contemporary Physics?

ACCUSED: I don’t understand . . . For my own enjoyment . . . In order to amuse myself, if you like . . . It contains some very amusing pages.

STATE COUNSEL: I think it must be clear to the court that only a highly educated individual would read such a specialized research work for amusement and his own pleasure . . .

What kind of nonsense is this? Why am I being fobbed off with this? What comes next? Massaraksh, the trial again.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Are you aware of the extent to which the Unknown Fathers finance efforts to solve the problem of juvenile criminality?

ACCUSED: I don’t entirely understand you. What is juvenile criminality? Crimes against children?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: No. Crimes committed by children

ACCUSED: I don’t understand. Children cannot commit crimes . . .

Hmmm, amusing . . . But what’s this at the end?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: I hope I have succeeded in demonstrating to the court the naïveté of my client, which amounts to worldly imbecility. My client acted against the state without having the slightest idea of what it is. He is not familiar with the concepts of juvenile criminality, philanthropy, and social welfare assistance . . .

The prosecutor smiled and put the piece of paper down. I get it. Indeed, a strange combination: math and physics for his pleasure, but he doesn’t know elementary things. Just like an eccentric professor in some trashy novel.

The prosecutor glanced through a few more pages. I don’t understand, Mak, why you cling to this little female . . . What was her name? . . . Rada Gaal. You don’t have an intimate relationship with her, you don’t owe her anything, the idiotic state counsel doesn’t have the slightest grounds for tying her in with the underground . . . But the impression is given that, by keeping her in their sights, they can make you do absolutely anything. A very useful quality—for us, but a very inconvenient one for you . . .

Riiight—basically all this evidence comes down to the fact that you, my brother, are a slave to your word and an inflexible individual in general. You didn’t make the grade as a political activist. And you’re not really interested anyway . . .

Hmmm, photographs . . . So that’s what you’re like. A likable face—very, very likable . . . Rather strange eyes . . . Where was it they photographed you? At the trial? . . . Just look at you: cheerful, clear-eyed, in such a relaxed pose. Where did they teach you to sit so elegantly and in general to carry yourself like that? The bench for the accused is something like my visitors’ chair—impossible to sit on in a relaxed pose. A curious individual, most curious . . . But then, that’s all trivia. That’s not the point.

The prosecutor crept out from behind his desk and started striding around his office. Something was sweetly tickling his brain, something was inciting him, egging him on . . . I found something in this folder . . . something important, something extremely important . . . Fank? Yes, that’s important, because Wanderer only uses his Fank for the very important cases, the most important ones. But Fank is only the confirmation. What’s the most important thing? The pants . . . humbug . . . Ah! Yes, yes, yes. It isn’t in the folder.

He picked up the phone. “Koch, what was that about an attack on a convoy?”

“Fourteen days ago,” the secretary immediately sighed gently, as if he were reading a text prepared in advance, “at eighteen hundred hours and thirty-three minutes, an armed assault was carried out on police vehicles transferring the suspects in cases 6981–84 from the courthouse to the municipal jail. The assault was beaten off, and during the exchange of fire one of the attackers was seriously wounded and died without regaining consciousness. The body was not identified. The investigation into the attack was discontinued.”

“Who did it?”

“That was not determined.”

“Meaning . . .”

“The official underground had nothing to do with it.”

“Your observations?”

“It is possible that the attack was carried out by members of the left wing of the underground, attempting to free the accused Dek Pottu, a.k.a. General. Dek Pottu is a high-level, experienced HQ staff officer, known to have close ties with the left wing—”

The prosecutor dropped the receiver. Well then, it could all really be so. And it could all not be so. Right, let’s skim through it again. Southern border, idiotic cornet . . . Pants . . . Runs with a man on his shoulders . . . Radioactive fish, 77 units . . . Reaction to A-radiation . . . Chemo-processing of nerve ganglia . . . Stop! Reaction to A-radiation. “His reaction to A-radiation was zero level in both senses.” The prosecutor pressed his open palm against his pounding heart. Zero in both senses!

He grabbed the receiver again. “Koch! Immediately prepare a special courier with an armed escort. And a private railcar to the south . . . No! My electromotive . . . Massaraksh!” He hastily thrust his hand into the desk drawer and turned off all the recording devices. “Get on with it!”

Still pressing his left hand to his heart, he took a personal dispatch form out of a writing case and started rapidly but legibly inscribing:

National importance. Top secret. To the Commandant-General of the Special Southern District. For urgent and rigorous implementation, on your strictly personal responsibility. Immediately transfer into the custody of the bearer of this dispatch the educatee Mak Sim, case no. 6983. From the moment of such transfer the educatee Mak Sim is to be regarded as having disappeared without a trace, concerning which the pertinent documents shall be kept in the archives.

—State Prosecutor

He grabbed another form:

Instruction. I herewith order all officials of the military, civil, and railroad administrations to provide assistance under the category EXTRA to the bearer of this instruction, a special courier of the state prosecutor’s office, and also to his accompanying escort.

—State Prosecutor

Then he finished his glass of water, poured himself some more, and started writing on a third form, but this time slowly, pondering every word: “Dear Wanderer! Things have turned out rather stupidly. It has only just come to light that the subject in which you are interested has disappeared without a trace, as quite often happens in the southern jungles . . .”