ONE

As Rumata passed by the tomb of the Holy Mickey--the seventh and the last on this stretch of the road--darkness had already fallen. The highly praised Chamalharian stallion which he had won from Don Tameo in a game of cards, was in fact a miserable nag. The animal was dripping with sweat; it kept stumbling over its own legs, and its irregular trot reminded one of the swaying motions of a tossing ship. Rumata pressed his knees hard into the animal's flanks and slapped his gloves between the horse's ears. The nag responded merely with a tired nod; its pace remained the same. Under the late evening dusk, the bushes that lined the road appeared like solidified smoke clouds. Swarms of flies buzzed annoyingly around the rider's head. Up in the darkened night sky a few yellowish stars dimly nickered. An alternately cold and warm wind came in gentle, irregular squalls, typical for this coastal strip during fall with its sultry, dust-filled days and cold, frosty nights.

Rumata drew his cloak closer around his shoulders and let go of the reins. There was no use trying to hurry. Midnight was still one hour away, and already he could recognize the black jagged outline of Hiccup Forest on the horizon. To the left and the right of the road carelessly ploughed fields stretched into the distance. Swamps stinking of rotten vegetation and decaying animals glimmered in the faint light of the stars: here and there silhouettes of hills and the half-rotted wooden palisades from the time of the Great Invasion loomed up horribly. Far off in the distance the sullen, lambent flames of a fire flickered: most likely a village was burning somewhere over there--one of the innumerable wretched little look-alike places that until recently had been known by names such as "Death Hamlet," "Gallows Hill View," or "Robbers Nest"; imperial edicts had renamed them "Blossom Grove," "Peace Harbor View" and "Angel Rest."

This land stretched over hundreds of miles, from the shores of the Big Bay to the eerie Hiccup Forest. The terrain teemed with hosts of gnats, gouged by gorges, half smothered by swamps; its inhabitants were raked by fever and forever threatened by pestilence and vile colds.

Near a bend in the road, a dark figure stepped from the bushes. The stallion gave a sudden start and threw back its head. Rumata quickly seized the reins, then with a swift movement adjusted his right sleeve--an old habit of his--and reached for his sword. Then he had a closer look. The man at the side of the road took off his hat.

"Good evening, noble don," he said softly. "I beg your pardon."

"What's the matter?" inquired Rumata. He cocked an ear toward the bushes.

There is actually no such thing as a silent ambush. Robbers are betrayed by the singing of their bow strings; the men of the Gray Militia constantly belch up their sour beer; the hordes of the barons grunt with greed and rattle their sabers; and the monks who hunt for slaves scratch themselves noisily. No, it was all quiet in the thicket. This man was no bushwhacker, thought Rumata. He did not look at all like a sniper: he was a short, stocky townsman wrapped in a rather inexpensive cloak.

"Will you permit me to run alongside your horse?" he asked the rider and bowed deeply to him.

"Come along," said Rumata, toying with the reins. "You can hold onto the stirrup."

The man walked alongside, holding his hat in his hand. His head was completely bald. A stewart from some baronial estate, thought Rumata. Visits barons and cattle dealers, buys up hemp and flax. A stalwart man . . . Then again, maybe he's no stewart after all. Maybe he's a "bookworm," or a fugitive. Maybe he's a ne'er-do-well--there are many of that kind roaming the roads at night--certainly more than there are baronial stewarts. But be could be a spy as well...

"Who are you and where are you coming from?" asked Rumata.

"They call me Kiun," answered the man sorrowfully. "And I come from Arkanar."

"You mean you are fleeing from Arkanar," said Rumata and bent forward slightly toward him. "Yes." The man spoke with sadness. Some freak, an odd character, thought Rumata. Or is he a spy after all? I'll keep an eye on him . . . But why should I bother to keep an eye on him? Who will be helped by that? Who am I to scrutinize and test him? I don't even want to observe him! Why shouldn't I simply believe him? There is a man, quite obviously an intellectual, on the run, his life at stake ... He feels lonely, he's afraid and weak, just looking for a helping hand--and then he runs into an aristocrat The aristocrats are too stupid and arrogant to know much about politics. Instead, they have very long sabers, and they don't like the Gray Militia, Why shouldn't citizen Kiun simply seek protection from some stupid, arrogant aristocrat? That's it. Of course, I won't keep my eye on him especially. I have no special reason to. Let's rather chat for a while, kill some time, and then we will part friends...

"Kiun . . ." he said aloud. "I once knew a Kiun. A quack doctor and alchemist on Klempner Street. Are you related to him?"

"Oh dear, yes, I am," said Kiun. "I'm only a very distant relative of his, but they don't care. They exterminate our kind up to the twelfth generation."

"And where are you fleeing to, Kiun?"

"Any place. As far away from here as possible. Many have fled to Irukan. Ill try my luck with Irukan, too."

"Well, well," said Rumata. "And you think the noble don will lead you safely through the sentry posts?"

Kiun remained silent.

"Or, maybe you think the noble don doesn't know what kind of a man the alchemist on Klempner Street really is?"

Kiun still did not answer. I think I'm talking a lot of nonsense, thought Rumata. But then he rose high up in his stirrups and, imitating the town crier on the Royal Square, puffed up his throat and shouted:

"Accused and condemned of the most horrible and unforgivable crimes against God, the Crown and the public safety!"

Kiun still remained silent.

"And what if the noble don adored and revered Don Reba, the father of all abominations? What if he were devoted with all his heart to the cause of the Gray Militia? Or do you think that is totally out of the question?"

Kiun kept silent. To the right of the road, the black silhouette of a gallows tree loomed in the dark. A ghostly white naked body, strung up by the feet, swung from a crossbeam. Oh well, thought Rumata, what's the good of it all? He pulled tight his reins, seized Kiun by the shoulder and turned the man's face around for him to see.

"And how would you like it if the noble don would hang you now right next to that gallows bird?" he said and stared into the white face and dark orbs of Kiun. "I'd do it myself. Swift and skillful. With a strong Arkanarian rope? For the sake of ideals? Why do you keep silent, bookworm Kiun?"

Kiun did not speak. His teeth were rattling with fright and he twisted weakly under Rumata's strong grip like a captured lizard. Suddenly, a splash could be heard as something fell into the canal alongside the road. At the same time, as if to drown out the splashing noise of the impact, the man shouted desperately:

"Go ahead and hang me! String me up, you traitor!"

Rumata caught his breath and let go of Kiun.

"I was only joking," he said. "Don't be afraid."

"Lies, lies," Kiun sobbed. "Nothing but lies everywhere!"

"All right, then," said Rumata. "Forgive me! You'd better fish it out of the water, whatever you just threw in there. It will get soaked through otherwise."

Kiun did not budge from the spot. His upper body swayed back and forth in indecision. He continued to sob softly, and beat his palms senselessly against his cloak. Then, slowly, he crawled into the canal. Rumata was waiting. He was very tired and he sank down into his saddle. That's the way it's got to be, he thought; it can't be done any other way. Kiun came staggering out of the canal, a bundle hidden under his cloak.

"Books, of course," said Rumata.

Kiun gently shook his head.

"No," he said hoarsely. "Only one book. My book."

"What do you write?"

"I'm afraid it wouldn't interest you, noble don."

Rumata wrinkled his brow and sighed.

"Hold onto the stirrup," he said, "and come on."

Neither spoke for a long time.

"Listen, Kiun," said Rumata. "I was only joking. Don't be afraid of me."

"What a world," grumbled Kiun. "What a funny world. Everybody is making fun. And they all do it the same way. Even the noble Don Rumata.

Rumata was startled.

"You know my name?"

"Yes, I do," said Kiun. "I recognized you by the circlet on your forehead. And at first I was so happy to have met you of all people here on this road--"

Why, of course, Rumata thought. That's what was on his mind when he called me a traitor. He said:

"You see, I thought you were a spy. And those I kill usually at once."

"A spy?" Kiun replied. "Yes, indeed. Nowadays it's so easy and profitable to be a spy. Our shining eagle, our most noble Don Reba, is very anxious to know what the king's subjects are saying and thinking. I wish I were a spy. A proper scout in the Gray Joy Tavern. How fine and honorable! At six o'clock, off I go to the inn. The innkeeper will rush to my usual table to bring me my first tankard, and I can drink as much as I can hold. Don Reba is paying for the beer-- or to be exact, nobody really pays for it. I just sit there with my beer in front of me and my ears open. Sometimes I pretend to make some notes about the conversations, and you should see the poor frightened things crawl up to offer their friendship and their purses. In their eyes I can see what I always wanted to: the devotion of whipped dogs, awe and fear and impotent hatred. I can have any girl I want, any time I like; women melt in my arms right in front of their husbands' eyes--all healthy, strapping men, who stand there with obsequious giggles. Splendid prospects, noble don, don't you agree? I heard all this first-hand from a fifteen-year-old kid, a pupil of the Patriotic School--"

"And what did you tell him then?" Rumata's curiosity had been roused by the fugitive's tale.

"What should I have told him? He wouldn't have understood anyhow. So I told him about the men of Waga Koleso, the robber chief; whenever they catch a spy, they simply slit his belly open and stuff his guts with pepper. Then again, there are the drunken soldiers who jam a spy into a sack and drown him in the village pond. And, what's more, I was telling the truth, the pure truth--but he wouldn't believe me. He said, "That's not what they teach us at school." Then I took a piece of paper and started to write down our conversation. I needed it at the time for my book, but the poor boy thought it was a denunciation. He suddenly broke out in a sweat all over..."

They could see lights twinkle through the foliage of the trees lining the road. It was coming from the inn called Bako's Skeleton. Kiun's steps began to falter and he fell silent.

"What's the matter?" asked Rumata.

"A patrol of the Gray Militia. Over there," answered Kiun under his breath.

"Well, so what?" said Rumata. "Listen--we love and revere these simple rough men, our militant Gray boys. We need them. From now on the people will have to keep their tongues in check, if they don't want to dangle from the nearest branch of a tree!"

He laughed because he had expressed it so splendidly--exactly in the language of the Gray Barracks.

Kiun seemed to shrink; he pulled his head between his shoulders.

"Simple folk have to know their place. God didn't give them a tongue for talking, but for licking the boots of their master, the noble lord, who has been placed above them from the very beginning of time..."

In the paddock, behind the inn, the saddled horses of the Gray Patrol pranced about. Through an open window came the raucous cursing of the players and the knock and rattle from their game of knucklebones. In the doorway stood "Skeleton Bako" in person, blocking the way with his tremendous belly. He wore an old leather jacket whose seams had burst in innumerable places. The edges of his sleeves dripped with moisture. His mossy paw gripped a club--evidently he had just slain a dog for his broth, had broken out in a heavy sweat with the effort, and had stepped outside to get his wind back. A Gray Sturmovik lolled on the stairs, his battle-ax held between his knees. The massive handle of his ax pushed his face to one side. It was plain to see that he was nursing a giant hangover. When he noticed the rider, be cleared his throat, spat between his feet, and called hoarsely. "Sto-o-o-p! Who goes there? St-o-o-op! No-o-o-ble d-o-n-n-n!"

Rumata's chin barely jutted out as he rode past the man without so much as a glance.

". . . But if their tongue is licking the wrong boots," he said aloud, "then it must be yanked out, for it is written: Your tongue--my enemy..."

Hidden by the nag's croup, Kiun hopped alongside with long leaps. Out of the corner of his eye, Rumata noticed Kiun's bald head gleaming with perspiration.

"Stop, I said!" roared the Sturmovik.

One could hear his ax scraping against the steps as he dragged himself down the stairs, cursing God, the devil, and all people of high birth.

About five men, pondered Rumata, and tugged at his lace cuffs. Drunken butchers. So what!

They had passed the inn by now and kept moving toward the woods.

"I can walk faster, if you so desire," said Kiun with an exaggerated firm voice.

"Certainly not!" said Rumata and slowed his horse down.

"It would be boring to ride so many miles without a single brawl. Don't you ever want to get into a good fight, Kiun? Just talk, that's all you do, don't you?"

"No," said Kiun. "I have never any desire to get into a fight."

"That's exactly your trouble," Rumata grumbled, annoyed. He directed the stallion to the side of the road, and tugged impatiently at his gloves.

From a bend in the road, two riders came galloping at full speed. They halted as soon as they caught sight of him.

"Hey, there, noble don!" shouted the first one. "Show your pass!"

"You boor!" Rumata's voice was icy. "You can't even read, what good will a pass do you!"

He jerked his knees deeply into his horse's flanks, and the steed took off in a fast trot straight toward the two Gray Sturmoviks. Cowards, he thought. Let's just slap their faces a few times! No, what's the use. Here I am, burning to vent the rage that has been building up all day--but nothing will come of it anyhow. So let's stay calm and humane, let's forgive everyone, remain imperturbable like the gods. The gods are never in a hurry; after all, they have all eternity ahead of them...

He rode close to the Sturmoviks. The two men, no longer sure of themselves, seized their axes and fell back.

"W-e-e-ell?" Rumata asked slowly.

"Oh--what's the matter with me?" stammered the braver of the two Sturmoviks, quite perplexed. "I mean--it's you, the noble Don Rumata?"

His companion had already turned his horse around and made off in a fast gallop. The first Sturmovik kept falling back and lowered his raised ax.

"I beg your most humble pardon, noble don," he gushed. "We did not recognize you right away ... it was our fault. Official business, you know--so easy to make a mistake there. The fellows have been drinking a little, and they are burning with eagerness--" He maneuvered his horse around, ready to take off. "You will understand, noble don, such restless times . . . We're hunting down those fleeing bookworms ... I hope you won't make complaints about us, noble don--"

Rumata turned his back on him. "A pleasant journey, most noble don!" shouted the Sturmovik after him, much relieved.

As soon as the two riders were out of sight, Rumata called out softly: "Kiun!"

There was no answer.

"Hey, Kiun!"

Still no answer. He listened more closely; now he could hear a distant rustling in the bushes that was set off distinctly against the background of the constantly singing gnats and mosquitoes. Kiun must be marching hastily across the land, toward the West, in the direction of the Irukanian border. That's that, thought Rumata. What was the good of the whole conversation? It's always the same thing, over and over again. Cautious exploring at first, then guarded exchange of ambiguous remarks . . . Week after week you waste your energy on stupid chatter with any number of morons; but if you are lucky enough to meet some real person, there's no time for a heart-to-heart talk. You'd like to provide some cover for him, to protect him, to help him reach some refuge--and he walks away without ever knowing whether he encountered a friend or a vain fop. And you don't find out anything about him either--his desires, his abilities, his reason for living, his goals...

His thoughts turned to Arkanar in the evening. Solid stone houses along the main streets, friendly lanterns over the inn gates, kindhearted, satisfied shopkeepers drinking their beer at clean tables, chatting about the world, how it isn't such a bad place after all; discussing the falling bread prices or the rising harness prices; here and there a conspiracy is unveiled, warlocks and suspect bookworms are incarcerated, the king is as magnificent and grand as ever; Don Reba, however, is infinitely clever and always on his guard. "You don't say!"---"That's the way it's supposed to be!"-- "The world is round!"--"For all I care it might be square, only don't you touch our learned men!"--"Believe me, brothers, all our misfortunes come from those know-it-alls!"-- "Happiness is not caused by money; the peasant is a human being, too, so they say, fine, but go on--and all the time more and more of this inciting poetry: and they begin to raise hell, there are riots and mutiny . . ." "Throw them all in jail, brothers! Myself, for example, what would I do? I would ask them directly: can you read and write? Lock him up! You write poems? Lock him up! You are an expert on diagrams? Lock him up! You know too much!--" "Bina, my angel, another three tankards of beer and a roast hare!"

And outside the window--stomp, stomp, stomp--come marching along the nailed boots of the sturdy, red-nosed fellows in their gray shirts. And over their right shoulder, the heavy hatchets. "Brothers! There they are, our protectors! They keep this learned rabble at a proper distance, yes, indeed! . . . And that one over there, that's my boy, my son--Over there on the right flank! It was only yesterday that I tanned his hide! Yes, brothers, we're living in a wonderful time! Our monarchy, so solidly entrenched, prosperity, unshakable law and order--and justice. Hooray for our Gray Troops! Hooray, Don Reba! Long live our King! That's the life, brothers!"

Over the dark plains of the kingdom of Arkanar, however, lit up by raging fires and glowing woods, hundreds of miserable men are fleeing, skirting the sentry posts, running, stumbling, and running on. Bitten by gnats, with bleeding, sore feet, covered with dust and sweat, tormented, frightened and tortured by despair, but as hard as steel and firm in their convictions--they are unlawfully accused and persecuted. Why? Because they heal and teach their people, who are riddled by disease and swamped by ignorance; because, like gods, they create a second nature out of clay and stone, wishing to beautify our existence, for a people that does not know beauty; because they penetrate into the secrets of nature hoping to place these secrets at the service of and for the benefit of the dull, apathetic people, who have been kept in fear by ancient black arts. They are helpless, good and awkward, way ahead of their own times...

Rumata pulled off one glove and soundly slapped his stallion between the ears. "Let's go, you lame old mare!" He spoke Russian. It was already past midnight when he rode into the forest.

Nowadays nobody could tell exactly any more where that strange name came from--"Hiccup Forest." A rumor had been circulated via official sources that some 300 years earlier the Iron Squads of Imperial Marshal Totz (who later became the first king of Arkanar) had penetrated this forest as they were pursuing the retreating hordes of the copper-skinned barbarians. There the brave warriors had gathered the bark of the White Trees and brewed a kind of domestic beer which turned out so miserably that whoever drank it would suffer for hours from hiccups and belching. The following morning, so the legend goes, when said Marshal Totz came to inspect the camp, he tamed up his blue-blooded nose and spoke, the following words; "Indeed, this is unbearable! The whole forest has the hiccups and reeks of bad beer!" That is the origin, it is said, of this peculiar name.

One might quarrel about the veracity of this legend, but in any case this was no ordinary forest. Giant trees with firm white trunks were growing in it, of the kind that could no longer be found anywhere else in the country. Not even in the dukedom of Irukan, and definitely not in the Mercantile Republic of Sloan, where all the timber had long since been cut down for use in the construction of ships. There were rumors making the round that many such woods still existed beyond the Red Mountains, in the country of the barbarians--but there are all kinds of stories told about those barbarians, you know ...

A path had been cut through the forest some 200 years back. This road led to the silver mines and by virtue of feudal law the noble family of the Barons of Pampa, the descendants of a comrade-in-arms of Marshal Totz, had been invested with these holdings. According to this feudal law, the Barons of Pampa were supposed to pay the Arkanarian kings twelve poods of pure silver each year. Thus each new king would gather an army shortly after he ascended to the throne, and march toward Castle Bau, where the barons dwelt The walls of the castle were solid, the barons were brave, and each year, as before, the kingdom of Arkanar had yet to collect the twelve poods of pure silver. After their defeated armies had returned home, the Arkanarian kings would once again confirm the barons' legal claims, in addition to other privileges, including the right to pick one's nose at the royal table, the right to go hunting in the western regions of Arkanar and, finally, the right to call the princes by their first names, without adding their rank and title.

Hiccup Forest was full of dark secrets. Throughout the day, heavy carloads of silver ore would roll toward the South. But at night, the road was deserted, for few men dared walk there under the lights of the stars. It was said that at night the Siu bird called from the High Tree. No one had ever beheld this bird, for it cannot be seen by human eyes, being no ordinary bird. It was said that great shaggy spiders would jump from the tree branches onto a horse's neck to suck his blood in almost no time. It was said that the monstrous primeval dragon Pech roamed this forest; the monster was said to be covered with giant scales; to bear a live young dragonlet once every twelve years; and to drag after it 12 tails pouring with sweat. And somebody is said to have seen with his own eyes, in broad daylight, how the naked wild sow Y, cursed by the Holy Mickey, was dragging itself along the highway, moaning and grunting--a rapacious beast of prey, invulnerable to iron but easily pierced by a bone.

Here in this mysterious forest, you might encounter the fugitive slave, the one with the black tattoos between his shoulder blades. He was stupid and pitiless, just like the shaggy, blood-sucking spiders. Or you might meet the magician, the one who had been mangled by three deaths; he was always gathering mysterious mushrooms for his magic potions, which could make a man invisible, or change him into different animals, or even give him a second shadow.

Everyone knew, of course, that the robber captain Waga Koleso and his band roamed along the road all through the night, and fugitive forced laborers from the silver mines, with their black hands and whitish, transparent faces. The poisoners would gather here for their nocturnal meetings, and the brazen hunters of the Barons of Pampa camped out in the glades where they could roast their stolen buffaloes on a spit over an open fire.

In the midst of the thicket, where the underbrush was growing denser than anywhere, stood a giant tree, gouged with clefts and chinks by old age. Beneath it leaned a warped wooden hut, surrounded by a blackened, wooden palisade. The hut had been here since time immemorial. The door was always closed. Idols hewn of entire logs leaned against the moldering wooden steps. This hut was, as everyone could testify, the most, most dangerous spot in all Hiccup Forest. Every twelve years the old wild sow Pech comes here to bring forth its young. Then the sow crawls under this hut to die, poisoning the whole foundation of the hut with its black venom. If ever this poison seeps to the outside, the end of the world will be near. People also say that on unclean nights, the idols will dig themselves out from the soil, walk to the path, and make mysterious signs there. And they also say that at times a demonic light will shine in the dead windows of the hut, while dull sounds can be heard from within, and smoke can be seen rising from the chimney up to the sky.

Not long ago, the village idiot Kukisch from the hamlet "Sweet Stench" (also popularly known as "Dung Heap") happened to chance upon this hut and, fool that he is, stared into a window. He came home completely mad, and after he had regained the pitiful traces of wit he had, he told of having seen a light inside the hut, a man sitting at a rough wooden table, his feet propped up on the rough bench, holding a little casket in his hand and drinking from it. His jowls drooped almost down to his belt and his skin was all pockmarked. And that, naturally, was the Holy Mickey in person, before he had seen the light, in fact: a moll hunter, drunkard, and blasphemer. To gaze upon him was only possible for those who were entirely without fear. A sweet, heavy odor had come through the window and shadows flitted through the trees. People came from all over to listen to the idiot's tale. The whole story finally ended when the Sturmoviks appeared, screwed his elbows up to his shoulders and sent him packing. Still, of course, the rumors about the old hut could not be quenched, and from then on it was generally known as the "Drunkard's Lair."

Rumata made his way through the prolific growths of gigantic ferns until he came to the entrance of the Drunkard's Lair. He tied his horse to one of the idols. There was a light inside the hut and the door was open, hanging by a single hinge. Father Kabani sat at the table, completely disheveled. A penetrating odor of schnapps filled the hut; on the table, amidst gnawed bones and boiled beets, sat a giant earthenware jug.

"Good evening, Father Kabani," said Rumata as he crossed the threshold.

"I bid you welcome," replied Father Kabani with a voice that sounded like a hunter's horn.

Rumata approached the table with clicking spurs, dropped his gloves on the table and looked again at Father Kabani, who sat motionless, his heavy drooping jowls supported in his palms. His shaggy, half-gray eyebrows hung down onto his cheeks like dried grass tufts over a ravine. From the nostrils of his porous large-pored nose the air came whistling whenever he breathed out. It stank of half-digested alcohol.

"I invented it myself!" he said suddenly, unexpectedly. With great effort he pulled up his right eyebrow and directed a somber glance at Rumata. "I myself! And what for?" He withdrew his right hand from under his jowl and his hairy finger gestured aimlessly in the air. "And despite all, I am good for nothing! I have invented it--and yet I'm no good, eh? That's right, that's right, a failure. None of us invents anything anyhow, nobody has any new ideas, but-- oh, the devil with it all...!"

Rumata unbuckled his belt, took off his fez and removed his swords.

"Come, come," he said gently.

"The box!" Father Kabani wheezed. Then he fell silent and moved his cheeks in a strange fashion.

Without taking his eyes off the old man, Rumata swung his feet, shod in dusty boots, over the bench and sat down. He placed both his swords next to each other on the table.

"The box . . ." repeated Father Kabani. "We always say we invented it. But in reality it was all thought up a long time before us. Some person invented it ages ago, put it in a box, made a hole in the box, and then made off--maybe went to sleep somewhere--And what comes next? Then Father Kabani arrives, closes his eyes and puts his hand into the hole." Father Kabani looked at his hand. "Ha! Invented! I, he said, have thought up this thing ... ! And if you don't believe it, then you are an ass. And I stick my hand inside --One! What do I find? Barbed wire! What is that for? For the wolves, naturally. Splendid! And I stick my hand inside again--Two! What do I find? What a cleverly conceived thing, a so-called meat grinder. What is that for? For finely ground meat. Splendid! I stick my hand inside for the third time--Three! What is it? Firewater. What is that for? To make damp wood burn, eh?"

Father Kabani fell silent once, more and arched forward as if someone had grabbed him by the collar. Rumata took the jug, peered inside, then poured a few drops on the back of his hand. The liquid was violet and smelled strongly of cheap alcohol. Rumata carefully dried his hand with his lace handkerchief. Greasy spots remained on the cloth. Father Kabani's disheveled head touched the table. He suddenly straightened up again.

"Whoever put all this stuff into the box knew what it was good for. Barbed wire against the wolves? I made that up myself, fool that I am. They use the barbed wire for fencing the mines and the pits! So that the political prisoners don't run away from there. But I won't play along with them! I'm an enemy of the state, too. But did they ask me? Sure they did! Barbed wire, eh? Sure, barbed wire, what else. Against the wolves, eh? Against the wolves . . . Excellent . . . Splendid chap! Let's fence the mines and the pits with it! Don Reba in person, the first minister of state, helped to fence the mines. And he even requisitioned my meat grinder. He's got brains, all right! Splendid! And now he grinds the meat in the Tower of Joy--from human beings--And that works miracles during interrogations, people say..."

I know all that, thought Rumata. I know it all. I know how you screamed in your private audience with Don Reba, how you crawled at his feet, imploring and begging: Stop, please. I'll confess! But it was too late already. Your meat grinder had already started...

Father Kabani seized the jug and lifted it to his hairy mouth, tippling the poisonous swill as he roared like the wild sow Y. Then he set the jug back on the table with a bang and popped a boiled beet into his mouth. Tears flowed over his broad cheeks.

"Yes, firewater!" he said when he found his voice again. "To be used as tinder for the hearth and for a jolly game or two. But what kind of firewater is that, my dear, if you can drink it? Mix it with beer, and how the price of beer would soar! But no, I won't give it to you! I'll drink it all myself. And how I drink it! Night and day. I'm all bloated. And it's getting worse all the time. The other day I looked in a mirror and--Don Rumata, you won't believe it--I was scared of myself! I looked closer--may the Good Lord protect me! What was left of Father Kabani? A sea-monster, a polyp, dotted all over with colored spots. Some red, some blue . . . They say firewater was invented for merry games with fire--"

Father Kabani spat on the floor, scraping his shoe over the spot to rub out his spittle. Suddenly he asked: "What day is it today?"

"The eve of Kata the Just," said Rumata.

"And why isn't the sun shining?"

"Because it's night."

"Night again," said Father Kabani painfully and fell forward, his face splashing into the beets.

Rumata regarded him for a while, whistling softly between his teeth. Then he rose from the bench and walked over to the back porch. Amid small piles of beets and sawdust glittered the glass pipes of Father Kabani's voluminous distillation equipment for home-brewed liquor. It was the amazing creation of a born engineer and a masterful glass-blower. Twice, Rumata walked around the devilish machine, then, in the dark, groped for a piece of iron and began to hit about at random, without aiming at anything in particular. There was the sound of breaking glass, rattling metal, and gurgling liquids. The cheap smell of soured spirits pervaded the small room. As he walked over to the other comer to switch on the electric light, the broken glass crunched under his boots. In the comer stood a heavy strongbox, containing a "Midas" field synthesizer. With his right hand Rumata swept some rubble off the top of the safe, dialed a combination of various numbers on the lock and opened it. Even in the bright electrical light, the synthesizer looked rather odd in the midst of all the rubbish and garbage. Rumata grasped a handful of sawdust from a pile and threw it into the feeder funnel. The synthesizer started humming at once, then automatically switched on the indicator. With the tip of his boot, Rumata shoved a rusty pail under the output slot. And in no time--clink, clink, clink--golden ducats, coins with the aristocratic profile of Pitz the Sixth, King of Arkanar, fell into the battered pail.

Rumata carried the old man over to an old creaking wooden cot, pulled off his boots, tamed him over on his right side, and covered him with the almost hairless fur of a long-dead animal. In the process, Father Kabani woke up briefly. He could neither move nor think clearly. So he contented himself with reciting a few verses of a forbidden romance: "I am like a crimson flower in your dear little hand . . . ," whereupon he lapsed into a hearty snore.

Rumata cleared the table, swept the floor, and cleaned the single window, which was black with accumulated dirt and soot from the chemical experiments that Father Kabani conducted at the window sill. Behind the dilapidated stove he found a bottle with alcohol which he poured into a rathole. Then he watered his Chamalharian stallion, fed him oats from his saddlebag, washed his face and hands, and sat down to wait. He stared into the little smoking flame of the oil lamp.

He had been leading this strange dual existence for the past six years and had apparently adjusted to it by now. Only from time to time--like the present, for instance--it suddenly seemed to him that there was no reality behind the organized bestiality, the depressing cult of the Grays. He felt as if a strange theater performance were unrolling in front of his eyes, with himself, Rumata, playing the principal part And any moment now, after some particularly successful rejoinder, the applause would begin to thunder and the connoisseurs and art lovers from the Institute of Experimental History would shout enthusiastically from their loges:

"Bravo, Anton, fantastic, great! Well done, Tony!"

He looked around but there was no crowded theater, only damp, mossy walls of rough-hewn logs, blackened by the smoking oil lamp.

Outside, the Chamalharian stallion neighed softly and pawed the ground. Gradually, a deep whistle came nearer. It sounded so familiar, so well known from days of old, that tears almost welled up in Rumata's eyes--the sound was so unexpected in this godforsaken place. Rumata listened intently, his mouth half open. Now the throbbing stopped suddenly; the tiny flame in the oil lamp began to sputter, then suddenly flared up again. Rumata was about to get up from the bench when Don Kondor emerged from the darkness of the night and came striding into the room. Don Kondor was the Supreme Judge and Keeper of the Great Seal of the Mercantile Republic of Soan, Vice-President of the Conference of the Twelve Negotiators, and Cavalier of the Imperial Order of Righteous Pity.

Rumata jumped up and knocked the bench over. He would have loved to embrace, his friend, kiss his cheeks, but his legs automatically bent at the knee (as prescribed by etiquette), his spurs clicked solemnly, his right hand swept in a semicircle from his heart over to his right side, and his head lowered itself so swiftly that his chin almost disappeared in his scarf. Don Kondor took off his velvet cap, adorned by a simple feather, and quickly waved it in the direction of Don Rumata, as if he were shooing flies. Then he threw the cap on the table and undid the clasp at the collar of his cloak. The cloak sank downwards along his back as he sat on the bench and stretched out his legs. His left hand was held akimbo, and with his outstretched right hand he held the hilt of his gilded sword, whose tip stuck in the moldy wood of the floor. He was rather small and lean, and big, somewhat protruding eyes marked his pale face. His black hair was gathered, like Rumata's, by a heavy golden circlet with a green stone on his forehead.

"Are you alone, Don Rumata?" he asked hastily.

"Yes, noble don," Rumata answered, depressed.

Father Kabani's voice thundered suddenly: "Noble Don Reba! You are a hyena, that's what you are!"

Don Kondor did not pay any attention to him. He did not even turn around.

"I've come with the helicopter," he said.

"Let's hope nobody saw you."

One legend more or less. "What's the difference?" answered Don Kondor in a somewhat irritated voice. "I've simply not the time to ride around on a horse. What's happened with Budach? I'm worried about him. Do sit down, Don Rumata, will you please? I'm getting a crick in my neck this way."

Rumata obediently took a seat on the bench.

"Budach has disappeared," he said. "I waited for him at the Square of the Heavy Swords. The only person that came was a one-eyed vagabond, who gave the password and handed me a bag full of books. I waited for another two hours; then I got in touch with Don Hug, who told me he took Budach as far as the border. Budach was in the company of some noble don, a man who could be trusted since he had lost everything at a game of cards with Don Hug and therefore sold himself over, body and soul. Consequently, Budach must be somewhere here in Arkanar. That's all I know."

"Not much, I dare say," remarked Don Kondor.

"But the affair with Budach is not that important," replied Rumata. "If he is still alive, I'll find him and extricate him from any tight spot he might be in. That's no problem really. But this wasn't what I wanted to discuss with you. I must once more draw your attention to the fact that the situation in Arkanar is exceeding the bounds of the basis theory--"

Don Kondor made a sour face.

"No, no, hear me out," said Rumata firmly. "I have the feeling I can never make myself properly understood over the radio. And in Arkanar everything is helter-skelter! A new, systematically effective factor has made its appearance. It looks as if Don Reba is intentionally hurtling the whole depressing Grayness of the kingdom on the scientists. Anyone who rises even slightly above the average Gray level puts his life in jeopardy. Listen to me, Don Kondor! These are no vague, emotional impressions, these are real facts! It's enough to be intelligent and educated, to dare to have doubts, to say something out of the ordinary. Perhaps if some day you refuse a glass of wine, your life will be in danger. Any little grocery clerk can beat you to death. Hundreds, thousands of people are being denounced. They are caught by the Sturmoviks, strung up by their feet in the streets. Naked, with their head dangling down. Only yesterday they trampled an old man to death in my street with their boots: somebody told them he could read and write. They kept kicking him for two hours, these stupid pigs with their beastly drooling snouts--"

Rumata paused for a moment to collect himself and ended in a calm voice: "To sum it all up, it won't be long now until not a single intelligent person will remain alive in Arkanar. Just like in the domain of the Holy Order after the slaughter of Barkan."

Don Kondor fixed his dark eyes on Rumata and pressed his lips together.

"I don't like what's happening with you, Anton," he said in Russian.

"There are lots of things I don't like either, Alexander Vassilevitch," said Rumata. "For instance, I don't like the fact that we have tied our own hands, the way we have set up our problem here. I don't like the fact that we call it the 'problem of bloodless procedure.' For as far as I am concerned, this is equivalent to scientific justification of inactivity. I know all your arguments! And I am well acquainted with our theories. But theories do not work in such a situation, where every minute human beings are attacked by wild beasts in a typical fascist manner! Everything is going to pieces, going to rack and rum. What good is our knowledge and our gold? It always comes too late."

"Anton," said Don Kondor, "calm down. I believe you when you say that the situation in Arkanar has reached a critical point. But I am also convinced that you cannot propose a single constructive solution."

"That's true," agreed Rumata. "I have no concrete solutions to propose. But it gets to be more and more difficult for me to control myself in view of these increasing signs of physical and moral corruption."

"Anton," said Don Kondor. "There are 250 of us altogether on this entire planet. All of us exercise effective self-control, and it is equally difficult for all of us. The most experienced among us have lived here for twenty-two years. They came only as observers, nothing else. They are forbidden to intervene here in any way. Just imagine: an out-and-out ban on any intervention. We don't have the right to rescue Budach, even if they trampled him to death in front of our eyes."

"You don't need to talk to me as if I were a child," said Rumata.

"But you are as impatient as a child," replied Don Kondor. "And you must display a lot of patience here."

Rumata laughed bitterly.

"And while we are practicing patience and waiting forever," he said, "holding endless discussions about the proper ways to behave, these beasts are attacking their fellow human beings every day, every single minute."

"Anton," said Don Kondor, "there are thousands of other planets in the universe which we have not yet visited and where history runs its course."

"But we did come to this planet!"

"Yes. Not to vent our righteous anger, but rather to help these creatures here. If you're too weak for the job, then get out! Go back home! After all, you're not a child. You knew what to expect here."

Rumata did not speak. Don Kondor's features relaxed; he seemed to have aged many years during his last words. Slowly he strode the length of the table, seized his sword and dragged it behind him like a stick. Then he lapsed into an almost imperceptible, sad shaking of his head; only his nose seemed to move.

"I can understand all that," he said. "I've gone through all of this myself. There were times when this sensation of personal impotence, my own wretchedness, appeared to me as the most horrible thing. Some weaker characters even went crazy over it and were sent back home for treatment. It took me fifteen years to understand what the most horrible thing is. It's become dehumanized, Anton; to harden your soul by dragging it through the dirt. We are the gods here, Anton, but we have to be wiser than the local gods that men here have created after their own image. Our path, however, leads us along the edge of an abyss. One wrong step and you are caught in a morass, and for the rest of your days you cannot free and cleanse yourself of it. In the Story of the Descent, Goran the Irukanian wrote: After God had descended from Heaven and emerged from the Pitanian swamps in order to show himself to the people, lo and behold, his feet were covered with dirt."

"Goran was ultimately burned to death for that," added Rumata in a somber voice.

"True, they put him to death by burning him alive. But these things do not really concern us. I have been here now for fifteen years. Even in my dreams I don't see Earth any longer. Some time ago while I was rummaging in some old papers, I found the photo of a woman, and for the longest time I could not remember who she was. Sometimes I am overcome by a sensation of horror because in reality I am no longer a staff member of the Institute but rather an exponent of that local institution, the highest judge of the Mercantile Republic. That, to my mind, is the most frightening thing: to become adjusted to your role. Inside each of us, the noble wild sow struggles with the communard. And while everyone around cheers for the sow, the communard is all alone.--Earth is a thousand years and a thousand parsecs away from here." Don Kondor fell silent; he patted his knees. "That's the way it is, Anton," he said after a while, and his voice grew firmer. "So let's remain communards!"

He doesn't understand, thought Anton-Rumata. How should he after all? He's lucky; he does not know the Gray Terror or Don Reba. All that he has seen on this planet in the course of these past fifteen years fits somehow within the framework of the basis theory. And if I talk to him about fascism, the Gray Sturmoviks, the rising militancy of the petty bourgeoisie, he accuses me of emotional word games: "Don't fool around with terminology, Anton! Terminological confusion will bring about dangerous results!" He is absolutely incapable of comprehending that the average level of medieval bestiality corresponds to the happy day yesterday on Arkanar. In his eyes Don Reba is another Richelieu, a wise and farsighted politician, who is defending the absolute regime from feudalistic excesses. I am the only one on this planet to see the terrible shadow spreading over the whole land. But I just can't understand where this shadow is coming from, and why. And how can I convince him, when I can clearly see in his eyes that he would like best to send me back to Earth on the spot for a cure?

"How is the noble Synda?" asked Rumata.

Don Kondor stopped inspecting him with his eyes and murmured: "Very well, thank you." Then he added: "We must finally come to grips with the fact that neither you, nor I, nor anybody of our group here, will ever see the tangible results of our work. We are not physicists but historians. Our unit of time is not the second but the century. And what we are doing here is not meant to be the sowing of the seed but merely the preparation of the soil. And those emissaries from Earth, those--enthusiasts we get from time to time--I wish they'd go to hell, those eager beavers ..."

Rumata put on a forced smile and tugged needlessly at his riding boots. Eager beavers. Yes indeed.

Ten years ago, Stefan Orlovski, alias Don Kapada, commander of the crossbow troops of His Imperial Highness, had ordered his soldiers to open fire on the emperor's men as they were publicly torturing eighteen Estorian witches. With his own hand he had slain the imperial high judge and two of his assistants but in the end he had been pierced by the spears of the emperor's bodyguard. As he lay dying, he called out to the people watching the public spectacle:

"Remember, you are human beings! Defend yourselves, kill them, don't be afraid of them!" But his voice could scarcely be heard over the din of the roaring crowd as they were shouting, "Burn the witches! Burn them alive!"

And it was at about the same time that Karl Rosenblum, one of the most highly regarded historical experts on the Peasants' War in Germany and France, alias Pani-Pas, the wool merchant, incited a riot amongst the Murian peasants, He took two cities by assault and was killed by an arrow in his back as he tried to put a stop to the looting. He was still alive when he was rescued by a helicopter but he could no longer speak. His big blue eyes expressed guilt and amazement as big tears trickled down his bloodless cheeks ...

And shortly before Rumata's arrival on this planet, the most powerful fellow conspirator, confidant of the Tyrant of Kaisan (alias Jeremy Toughnut, specialist in reforms on Terra), had staged a palace revolution out of a clear sky, had seized power and tried to introduce the Golden Age within two months; had stubbornly refused to reply to the strongest protests and interpellations of neighbors and the Earth had earned the dubious reputation of a crazy fool; had successfully evaded eight rescue attempts; and was finally captured by the Institute's special commando troop who had taken him by submarine to an island base near the South pole...

"Just think of that!" Rumata said under his breath. "And people on Earth still firmly believe to this very day that our physicists are working on the most complicated problems ..."

Don Kondor suddenly sat up and took notice.

"Ah, finally," he whispered.

From outside came the sound of angry or desperate neighing, hoofs pawing the ground, and energetic cursing in a voice with a strong Irukanian accent. A man entered the room, It was Don Hug, the first groom of the chamber of His Lordship the Duke of Irukan. He was stout, red-cheeked with a smartly upturned mustache, grinned from ear to ear, and from under the wavy curls of his auburn wig peered two merry little eyes. And once again Rumata wanted to obey the impulse to embrace the new arrival--it was his boyhood friend Pashka; but Don Hug suddenly assumed a formal posture, his fat face took on the sickeningly sweet smile demanded by etiquette; he bowed nimbly from the waist down, pressed his hat against his chest and pursed his lips. Rumata stole a furtive glance over to Alexander Vassilevitch. Alexander Vassilevitch had vanished, and in his place was Don Kondor, the Supreme Judge and Keeper of the Seal; his legs stretched out, his left hand akimbo, while his right hand clasped the hilt of his gilded sword.

"You are very late, Don Hug," he said in an unpleasant tone of voice.

"I beg your most humble pardon!" called out Don Hug, swiftly approaching the table. "I swear by my Duke's rickets, nothing but totally unforeseen unfortunate circumstances! I was stopped four times by the patrol of His Highness, the King of Arkanar, and twice I had to fight off some rascals." He raised his left hand with an elegant movement to show off his blood-soaked, bandaged limb. "By the way, noble don, whose helicopter is that behind the hut?"

"It's mine," Don Kondor answered snippishly. "I have no time to waste on brawls along the way."

Don Hug gave him a friendly smile and sat down, straddling the bench. "In other words, noble dons, we are forced to state that our most learned Dr. Budach has mysteriously vanished somewhere between the Irukanian border and the Square of the Heavy Swords-"

Father Kabani stirred on his cot. He turned over in his sleep and without waking he mumbled: "Don Reba ..."

"Leave Budach to me," said Rumata, in a desperate tone, "and despite everything, will you please try to understand me..."