THREE

It would be most interesting, thought Rumata, to capture this Waga and bring him to Terra. Technically not difficult at all. Easy to arrange. But what would he do on Earth? Rumata tried to imagine what Waga would do on Earth. Throw a giant shaggy spider into a bright room with shining walls and air conditioning pervaded with pine scent or ocean breezes - and the spider flattens itself against the shiny floor, jerks its wicked, feverishly contorted eyes to and fro and--what else can he do?--crawls sideways, always sideways into the farthest little comer, doubles up into a ball and threateningly bares its poisonous mandibles. First and foremost, Waga would seek out the company of the dissatisfied and the social outcasts. And just as certain would it turn out, that even the most stupid grumbler of Earth would still be too pure and unsuitable for Waga's purposes. The old man would simply deteriorate. Maybe even expire. But who really knew what he was like? That is the whole difficulty in such an affair. The psyche of these monsters resembles a dark forest. Holy Mickey! To find your way through it is far more complicated than in nonhumanoid civilizations. It's possible to explain all their actions but hellishly difficult to prognosticate them. Yes, there was definitely a possibility that Waga might die of grief. Perhaps, though, he might look around, get adjusted somehow, quickly understand what belongs where, and then sojourn in some wildlife reserve as a sylvan spirit. It's most unlikely that he wouldn't have some small, insignificant passion, some interest which is only in his way here, but that on Earth might become the center of his existence. I believe he is fond of cats. They say he has a whole barrage of them somewhere in Hiccup Forest, and a servant who does nothing but take care of them. And Waga even pays that man, despite his reputation of being an old miser, and despite the fact that he could simply string along the caretaker with promises and threats. But I can't imagine what he would do on Earth with his tremendous lust for power!

Rumata stopped before a tavern. He was about to enter when he noticed that one of his money pouches was missing. He stood at the entrance door, totally perplexed--he could not get used to such things for the life of him, although this was not the first time that it happened. He searched and rummaged through his pockets for the longest time. All told he had brought along three pouches with ten gold coins in each. One he had given Father Kin, the procurator, the second to Waga. The third pouch had disappeared. His pockets were empty. From his left trouser leg all gold clasps had been carefully cut away and his dagger had been removed from his belt.

Suddenly he saw two Sturmoviki a little way off who were staring at him, grinning and sneering. As far as the collaborator and member of the Institute of Experimental History was concerned, they could simply go to Hell--but the noble don flew into a rage. For a moment he lost control. He walked over to the two Gray Soldiers and raised his hand, which somehow clenched into a fist of its own accord. Evidently some terrible change had also come over his face, for the sneering soldiers were gripped by sheer terror, their mocking faces suddenly frozen, and they fled inside the tavern. Rumata was frightened. Only once before had he ever felt so horrible: the time when (as a standby cosmonaut) he had been seized by the first symptoms of malaria. Nobody could understand how the malady had appeared so suddenly, and two hours later he had been cured, and sent off with some good words and a few jokes. But he had never been able to forget the shock, the shock that he --who had never been sick before in his life--had felt at the notion that something was disintegrating inside his body, the realization that he was gradually diminishing and was somehow threatened with loss of control over his body.

I didn't want to do it, he thought now. It would never have crossed my mind. They didn't even do anything in particular, after all ... They were just standing there, grinning, baring their teeth ... It was a stupid grin, I admit, but I must have looked quite idiotic myself, rummaging through my pockets like that. And I almost tore them to pieces, he suddenly realized. If they hadn't run inside I would have killed them! He remembered the bet he had recently made, how he had taken a dummy clad in a double Soanian suit of armor and split it from head to toe with his sword--cold shivers ran down his back at the thought. They might now be lying here in a pool of their own blood, like stuck pigs, and he would be standing here, sword in hand, not knowing what to do ... A fine god you are! You've become a beast ... Suddenly all his muscles ached as if he had been doing heavy physical labor. Come on, come on, he told himself. It wasn't so horrible after all. It's all over now. Just an instant flash. Like a bolt of lightning and it's all gone. I am a human being, in spite of everything, so there must be animal in me as well. It's only nerves. Nerves and the tension of the past few days. The worst thing, though, is the sensation of an approaching shadow. You can't tell whose shadow it is or where it comes from but it keeps creeping closer and closer and can't be stopped . . .

This feeling of inevitability pervaded everything. It could be felt in the fact that the Sturmoviks, who until recently had huddled like cowards inside their barracks, now paraded brazenly in the middle of the roads, where hitherto only the noble dons had been permitted. And in the fact that the streetsingers had vanished from the city, the storytellers, the dancers, the acrobats. And in the fact that the citizens no longer sang songs with political themes, had become very serious, and could suddenly predict with utter certainty what would benefit the state. And in the fact that the harbor had suddenly been closed without any explanation. And in the fact that "indignant crowds" had been seen destroying all the old curiosity shops, the only places in the kingdom where it was still possible to buy or borrow books and manuscripts in all the languages of the country, even in the now dead languages of the natives beyond the bay. And in the fact that the landmark of the city, the shining tower of the observatory, loomed against the sky like a blackened, decayed tooth: it had been burned down by a "careless conflagration." And in the fact that the consumption of alcohol had increased fourfold during the past two years--in Arkanar of all places, that had been notorious for its heavy drinkers from days of old. And in the fact that the flogged and frightened peasants buried themselves in the cellars of their filthy little nests and could not bring themselves to emerge even to deal with the most urgent field chores. And finally in the fact that the old buzzard Waga Koleso had transferred his headquarters to the city (evidently he must have gotten wind of some worthwhile spoils).

Somewhere in the interior of the palace, in the luxurious apartments, where the gout-ridden king resided, the king who had not seen the light of the sun for the past twenty years for fear of anything that moved outside in the world; the son of his own grandfather; the imbecile king who would sign one terrible edict after the other, sending the most honorable and selfless people to a cruel death--somewhere inside there ripened a tremendous abscess that threatened to burst any moment now...

Rumata stumbled over the remains of a squashed melon and raised his head. He was on the Boulevard of Overwhelming Gratitude, the neighborhood where the better merchants had their stores, the moneylenders and the jewelers. The street was lined with solid old houses, the sidewalks were wide and the road was paved with granite. Usually one would find here the noble dons and the moneyed aristocracy of the town but now a dense crowd of simple folk poured toward him. They made a wide and cautious detour around Rumata. Some gaped at him with curiosity; many, though, bowed deeply before him, just to make sure. Fat shiny faces glowed from the upper-storey windows like little light towers, excited and paralyzed with curiosity. Somewhere, farther on ahead, imperious voices could be heard: "Hey, there, move on! Disperse! Hurry up, will you? Move it on!" Comments came from the crowd:

"They've got the devil on their backs, got to watch out for those, they're the worst kind. Look like ordinary, quiet, moral people. Like honest folk. Just like any other merchant. But just look a bit closer--there's poison inside them, .. bitter poison..."

"He had it coming, the devil ... I'm used to quite a lot, but my eyes are still smarting from that..."

"Put a fire under them! Yes, that does my heart good. We can count on our boys."

"Wasn't that a little too cruel? After all, he is a human being, a creature of flesh and blood . . . When someone sins, well, you should punish him, set his mind right, but why--"

"Cut out that nonsense! And please keep your voice down, my friend. You aren't alone here, remember that, will you? People are listening ..."

"My dear sir! It's marvelous material, a good piece of cloth. Take advantage of it now, before the price goes up again . . . Take advantage of it, before Pakin's agents snatch up everything again ..."

"Above all, my son, don't doubt! Simply believe, that's the most important thing. Once the authorities step in, you can be sure that they know what they are doing..."

They've done it again. Cruelly beaten some poor soul. Rumata wished he could turn around, make a wide detour around this spot, from the oncoming crowd and the shouts of "Get a move on! Disperse!" But he did not turn back. Instead, he smoothed back his hair to uncover the stone in the golden circlet around his forehead. In fact, it was not a stone, but the lens of a television camera, and the circlet was not an ornament but a transmitter. The historians back on Earth could see and hear everything that the two hundred fifty scouting emissaries saw and heard on the nine continents of this planet. And the emissaries were obligated to look and to listen.

He made his chin jut out, spread the two swords apart on each side of his body, in order to push as many people out of his way as he could, and marched directly toward the middle of the road. The idle onlookers quickly jumped aside to let him pass. Four thick-lipped porters, their mouths heavily painted, were carrying past a silvery sedan chair. From behind the curtains peered a beautiful, cold face with half-closed eyes. Rumata took off his hat with a flourish and made a bow. It was Dona Okana, the current favorite of the Enlightened Eagle, Don Reba. Upon catching sight of the most noble cavalier, she smiled at him, yearning and promise in her eyes. One could have ticked off the names of at least two dozen noble dons who would have given a great deal for that smile. Such a smile was a rare thing these days and could not be bought with gold. Rumata paused for a moment and let his glance follow the sedan chair. I must come to a decision, he thought. I must finally make up my mind . . . He shuddered at the thought of what this would involve. But it had to be! I must . . . My mind is made up now, besides I have no choice, there is no other way. Tonight. He passed by the armorer's workshop where he had tried out the daggers and listened to poetry earlier in the day. He stopped. So that's what it was. It was your turn this time, my dear Father Hauk ...

The crowd had already begun to thin out. The door of the shop had been torn off its hinges, the windows smashed. A bully of a Gray Sturmovik leaned in the entrance, his, feet crossed. Another Sturmovik squatted near the wall. The wind blew some torn papers with writing across the street. The Sturmovik bully stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked at it for a while, pulled it out again and examined it carefully. The finger was bleeding. The Sturmovik caught Rumata's glance and said in a complacent, raucous voice:

'That beast bit like a polecat."

The second Sturmovik chuckled, full of zeal. What a thin, pale youth, still insecure, with pimples around his mouth. He was obviously: a greenhorn, a beginner, a young monster, a wolf cub.

"What's going on here?" asked Rumata.

"They went after a secret bookworm," the wolf cub said nervously.

The bully stuck his finger back in his mouth, without changing his posture.

"At-ten-tion!" commanded Rumata.

The young wolf cub jumped to his feet and took his ax, holding it the proper way. The bully thought a while, but then he straightened out his feet and stood more or less at attention.

"A bookworm? What kind? Who?" inquired Rumata.

"Who knows?" said the young one. "On orders of Father Zupik..."

"Well--did they catch him?"

"Sure. They got him all right."

"Splendid," said Rumata.

It wasn't too bad, after all. There was still time left. Nothing is more important than time, he thought. One hour may cost a life, one day is invaluable.

"And where did you take him to? To the Tower?"

"Huh?" asked the wolf cub in a totally absentminded voice.

"I'm asking you, is he in the Tower now?"

An uncertain smile spread over the pimply face. The bully laughed deep in his belly. Rumata turned around quickly. Over there, on the other side of the street, the body of Father Hauk swung from a crossbeam of a house door. He hung limply like a bag filled with rags. A few neglected children stared at him, their mouths wide open.

"Not everyone gets to go to the Tower nowadays," came the raucous voice of the bully from behind his back. "We do quick work these days. Rope around the neck--and fare-thee-well..."

The wolf cub started giggling again. Rumata glared at him with blind eyes and then walked slowly across the street. The face of the sad poet was black and unrecognizable. Rumata lowered his eyes. Only the poet's hands looked familiar now, long, weak fingers, all covered with ink ...

No one walks out on life these days.

You're led out by the neck.

Did anyone ask for

Another choice?

Limp and awkward

his feeble hands will fall.

Who knows where the heart of the polyp is located

Or whether the polyp has a heart at all...

Rumata turned away and left. Good weak Father Hauk ... The polyp does have a heart. And we know where it is. And that is the most horrible thing, my silent, forsaken friend. We know its location, but we cannot destroy it without shedding the blood of thousands of frightened, corrupt, uncritical, blind people. And there are so many of them, so hopelessly many dismal, desperate people, grown hard by constant work without proper recompense. Debased human beings who are not yet capable of rising above the ideal of a few copper pennies. And they cannot yet be taught, united, guided, and saved from themselves. Too early, far too early, one century too early did the Gray vermin rise in Arkanar; there is no resistance to meet it. So only one thing remains to be done: save the few that can still be saved. Budach, Tarra, Nanin, and another dozen or two at most. . .

But merely the thought that thousands of others, perhaps less gifted but still honest and truly noble human beings, were condemned to perish, evoked in Rumata a sensation of chill horror and a feeling of his own baseness. Occasionally this feeling would overwhelm him to the point where his conscious awareness grew dim; and then Rumata could visualize in bright daylight rows upon rows of Gray soldiers, their backs turned to him, illuminated by flashes of gunfire; and Don Reba's insignificant face being eaten up alive by stinking flies; and the Tower of Joy slowly collapsing in a rubble heap . . . Wouldn't that be a splendid, a marvelous feat. Intervention in great style. But then later ... They were right back home in the Institute. Then the inevitable will follow. Bloody chaos throughout the country. Koleso's nocturnal troops will rise to the forefront, ten thousand foul assassins, the rejects of society, the excommunicated, the child molesters, the rapists, the dregs of the human race; hordes of copper-skinned barbarians pour down from their mountain strongholds and slaughter everyone, babes-in-arms and the old alike; immense crowds of peasants, artisans and burghers, blinded with fear, take to the woods, flee to the mountains, the desert; and your comrades-in-arms--those wonderful, brave men!--will slit each other's bellies in a cruel struggle for power and your machine gun, of course, after you have come to an inevitable, violent end, your death . . . And this stupid, ugly death will rise to find you from a goblet of wine some friend will offer you, or in an arrow shot from behind a curtain. And then the stony face of your successor, who will be sent from Earth as your replacement and who will find the land drenched with blood and ravaged by fire--a land where everything, yes, everything must be started all over again from the very beginning...

Rumata pushed open his house door, and entered the magnificent entrance hall, which already had fallen in a state of disrepair. His face was as dark as an approaching thunderstorm. Muga, the hunchback, his gray-haired servant who had worked as a lackey for the past forty years, was frightened at this sight He hunched his torso a bit more forward and drew his head still deeper between his shoulders, as the furious young master tore off his hat, cape, and gloves, hurled his swords on a bench, and quickly ascended to his room. The boy Uno awaited him in the drawing room.

"Give orders to have my lunch served!" yelled Rumata. "In my study!"

The boy did not move from the spot.

"Somebody's waiting for you in there," he announced in a sulking voice.

"Who?"

"Some young woman. Perhaps a dona. Very charming, dressed like a noble lady; she is beautiful."

Kyra, thought Rumata, relieved. His tension began to fade away. How wonderful, how good of her to come right at this moment, sweet child . . . He stood there, his eyes closed in order to regain his composure completely.

"Want me to chase her away?" asked the boy solicitously.

"Idiot," said Rumata. "I'll chase you away! Where is she?"

"In the study," answered the boy and smiled sheepishly.

"Lunch for two, Uno," Rumata said as he turned to go to the study. "And no visitors! Not even the king--or the devil --or Don Reba himself! I won't let anybody in."

He saw her as he entered the study. She was sitting in a big armchair, her legs tucked under sideways, her head cupped in her little left hand, while she absentmindedly leafed through the Treatise Concerning Rumors.

She saw Rumata come into the room and wanted to stand up. But he did not give her enough time to do so, rushed over to her, embraced her, buried his nose in her thick, fragrant hair and said softly: "You've come at the right time, Kyra! How wonderful!"

There was really nothing very special about Kyra. A girl like many others, eighteen years old, upturned nose. Her father an assistant clerk at the courthouse, her brother a sergeant in the Gray Militia. She had few admirers, since she had reddish-blond hair, and redheads were not much in demand in Arkanar. This was probably the reason she was so surprisingly quiet and shy: she had nothing in common with those loud, voluptuous women who were the idols of rich and poor alike. Neither did she share any of the characteristics of those languid ladies of the court, who were forced to learn--far too soon, and for the rest of their lives--what a woman's role was. Kyra was capable of true love, the way women on Earth would love--quiet and without any reservations.

"Why have you been crying?"

"What has upset you so much?"

"No, tell me, why have you been crying?"

"I'll tell you in a moment. Your eyes look so tired. What has happened?"

"Later. Who insulted you?"

"Nobody insulted me. Just take me away from here! Please!"

"I promise I will."

"When will we leave?"

"I don't know, sweetheart. But we will go away, most assuredly."

"Far away?"

"Very far."

"To the capital?"

"Yes... To the capital. To my home."

"Is it beautiful there?"

"Very beautiful. Nobody ever has to cry there."

"And what are the people like there?"

"Like me."

"All?"

"Not all. There are many far better than myself."

"That's impossible!"

"You'll see!"

"Why is it so easy to believe you? My father won't believe in anybody. My brother says all men are pigs, filthy animals. But I don't believe them, I have no confidence in what they are saying, but I always believe you."

"I love you..."

"Wait. . . Rumata .. . Take off your circlet--you said it was sinful--"

A happy smile came over Rumata's face. He removed the circlet from his head, placed it on the table and covered it with a book.

"That is the eye of the God," he said. "Let it rest for a while."

He took her in his arms.

"It's really very sinful. But when I am with you, I don't need any god, do I?"

"Yes, you are right," she said softly.

When they finally sat down at the table, the roast was cold and the wine from the cool cellar had become warm. Uno came into the room and walked noiselessly along the wall--the way he had been trained by old Muga--and began to light the candles in the candlesticks, although it was still day.

"Is that your slave?" asked Kyra.

"No, he is free. A splendid boy, only very stingy."

"Gold should stay in its place," said Uno without turning around.

"You probably still haven't bought any new sheets, have you?" asked Rumata.

"Why should I?" said the boy. "The old ones are still good enough. They'll do for quite a while."

"But I can't sleep on the same sheets for a whole month, Uno," remarked Rumata.

"Eh!" said the boy. "His Royal Highness sleeps on the same sheets for half a year, and he doesn't complain."

"And the candles?" said Rumata and winked at Kyra. "The candles in the candlesticks? Did you get those for free?"

Uno paused for a moment.

"But you have a visitor," he said finally with emphasis.

"You see what he is like!" said Rumata.

"He is a good person!" Kyra was serious. "He's fond of you. Let's take him along with us."

"We'll see about that," said Rumata.

The boy frowned with suspicion and said:

"Where are we supposed to go? I won't leave."

"We'll go to a place where all men are like Rumata."

The boy pondered for a while, then said, full of contempt:

"To paradise, eh, like nobility?"

Then he snorted like a horse and shuffled out of the study.

Kyra followed him with her eyes.

"A fine boy," she said. "Grouchy as a bear cub. But you have a real friend in him."

"All my friends are good people."

"Baron Pampa, too?"

"Where do you know him from?" wondered Rumata.

"You talk about no one else. All I hear from you is Baron Pampa this, Baron Pampa that."

"Baron Pampa is a valuable comrade."

"What do you mean: the Baron--a comrade?"

"I meant to say, he is a good fellow. Very kind and cheerful. And he dearly loves his wife, more than anything."

"I'd like to meet him ... or do you have second thoughts about me?"

"N-n-n-o. But even if he is a good fellow, he's still a baron."

"But--"she said.

Rumata pushed back his plate.

"Now, tell me, why you were crying. And why you came running to my house unaccompanied. You know it's not advisable these days to be out in the streets all alone."

"I couldn't stand it any longer at home. I won't go back there. I'll work for you as a servant. For free."

Rumata smiled but he felt a lump in his throat at the same time.

"Every day Father copies written confessions," she continued, with quiet desperation in her voice, "and the papers he copies from are stained with blood. He gets them in the Tower of Joy. Oh, why did you ever teach me to read? Every evening, every night, he copies these reports from the hearings--and he drinks. It's so horrible, so horrible! 'Look, Kyra,' he says. 'Our neighbor, the calligrapher, he used to teach people how to read and write. Can you imagine what he is in reality? He confessed it in the torture chamber: A magician and an Irukanian spy.--'And who,' he says, 'who should one believe now? I myself,' he says, 'learned to read and write from him.' And my brother comes home from patrol service reeking of beer, dried blood on his hands . . . 'We are exterminating all of them,' he says, 'down to the twelfth generation.' He won't leave Father alone, he keeps asking him why he can read and write . . Today, he says he and his friends dragged a man into our house . . . They beat him until they were splashed all over with blood. Then he finally stopped screaming.--I can't go on like this, I won't go back any more, I'd rather die..."

Rumata stood beside her, his hand softly caressing her hair. Her dry, shining eyes were fixed on a far-away point. What could he say to her? He swooped her up in his arms, carried her to the divan, sat down next to her and began to speak. He told her of crystal temples, of gay gardens stretching for many miles--without filth, or swarms of flies and gnats, or garbage. He spoke of the table that serves dinner all by itself, of the flying carpet, of the charming city of Leningrad, of his friends--proud, happy, good people, and of a wonderful country beyond the oceans, beyond the seven mountains, the so-called "Earth" . . . She listened quietly and attentively, and pressed closer to him as they heard now down below in the street--grrrrum, grrrum, grrrum--rang out the metallic sound of boots on pavement.

Kyra possessed a marvelous trait. She believed unconditionally in what was good. If he were to tell the same story to some peasant serf, the man would only make an unbelieving, stupid grimace, wipe the snot off his nose on his sleeve and wordlessly gape at him as if he were a legendary creature, all the while thinking: What a pity, such a good, clever, noble don! Too bad he lost his marbles telling such tales! Or even worse, let him tell such stories to Don Tameo or Don Sera--they wouldn't bother hearing him out. One would unfailingly fall asleep and the other just belch and remark: "Very creditable, very creditable indeed . . . and how about the women over there, any good?" Whereas Don Reba would listen attentively to the end, then give a sign to his bloodhounds, the Sturmoviki, to screw the noble don's elbows up to his shoulder blades and find out for sure where the noble don had learned such fairy tales and who else had heard them...

After Kyra had calmed down and fallen asleep, he kissed her gently on her peacefully slumbering face, covered her with his fur coat, and left the room on tiptoe, closing the squeaking door behind him softly. He descended through the darkened house, down the servants' quarters, looked over the heads bowed down in salute to him, and said:

"I have taken on a housekeeper. Her name is Kyra. She will live upstairs, share my quarters. The room next to the study is to be thoroughly cleaned tomorrow. You will obey the housekeeper's orders as if they were my own!" He threw a quick glance at his servants to see whether anyone was grinning. No one as much as batted an eyelid; they listened to his instructions with the respect due him. "And if anybody here dares whisper behind my back, I'll pluck out his tongue!"

After he had finished, he lingered a while to let his words take full effect on them, then he turned and walked back to his apartments. The walls of his parlor were draped all over with rusty old weapons, and the room was filled with strange-looking furniture, stained from the dead remains of innumerable insects. He went to the window, pressed his forehead against the dark, cold glass, and looked down into the street. The bells were just chiming for the first night watch. In the windows across the street the lights were lit and the shutters closed, to avoid attracting wicked men and ghosts. All was quiet for a little while. The silence was broken only once, when a drunk roared out horribly; either he was being robbed or else he had stumbled against a strange house door.

These evenings were the most terrible thing here: miserable, lonely, and hopeless. We believed it would be a long drawn-out battle, wild but victorious, reflected Rumata. We believed we would never deviate from our firm notions of good and bad, of friend and foe. And in general our ideas proved to be correct; but we did not foresee everything. Evenings like these, for instance--although we knew well enough that they were bound to come.

Downstairs he heard the sound of metal striking upon metal: they were bolting the doors to prepare for the night. The cook prayed to Holy Mickey to send her a man, any man, just as long as he had some pride in himself and understanding for her. Old Muga yawned and made little circles with his thumb in the air. The servants in the kitchen drank their evening beer and gossiped for all they were worth, while the boy Uno flashed angry glances at them and scolded them like an adult: "He'll wash your mouths out with soap, you fools."

Rumata stepped back from the window and began to pace the room. It's hopeless, he thought. No power in this world is strong enough to jerk them out of their habits, their worries, their ingrained traditions. You could give them everything. You could move them to the most modern spectro-acoustic housing, teach them the ionization--they'd still gather in their kitchens at night, play cards till all hours, and let loose on the neighbor who beats his wife. And there will be no better pastime for them. Don Kondor is right there: Reba is a louse, a nothing compared to the overwhelming weight of traditions, strict rules sanctified through the centuries, time-honored, irrefutable, and familiar for even the most stupid. They relieve you of the necessity to think and to be interested in something. And Don Reba will probably hardly be mentioned in high school textbooks: "A minor adventurer during the epoch of consolidation of absolutism."

Don Reba, Don Reba! Neither tall nor short, neither fat nor lean; his hair is not exactly full, but he's far from being bald. When he moves, it's neither energetic nor lethargic.

You'd forget his face in a minute; there are thousands who resemble him closely. He is polite and gallant toward the ladies; an attentive conversationalist, if he so chooses, but not a brilliant one...

Three years ago he emerged from some musty basement room in the chancellery, a small, inconspicuous official . . . At that time he was still servile, and his complexion was rather pale (sometimes even a little grayish-blue). Shortly afterwards, the prime minister was suddenly arrested and executed. In the torture chambers many high officials lost their lives; they went mad with fright and never even knew what had happened. And over their corpses grew a giant, colorless mushroom, this bull-headed, merciless genius of mediocrity.

He is a nobody. He comes from nowhere. He is not some brilliant mind in the regime of a weak ruler, the kind of man we know from history; nor is he the great man who strikes fear in many hearts as he devotes his entire life to uniting the country in the name of autocracy. He isn't even the greedy parasite with nothing on his mind except women and gold, who, drunk with power, will blindly lash out left and right, and who rules in order to kill. Some people even whisper that he isn't Don Reba at all, that Don Reba is actually quite a different person; while the other one. God knows, may be a werewolf, a Doppelganger, a changeling...

Whatever plan Don Reba hatched out, it was bound to fail. He incited two princely houses of the kingdom to battle and intrigue against each other, in order to weaken them, and tried to profit from this enmity by waging a frontal attack against the barons. But the two princely houses became reconciled, swore eternal blood-brotherhood over the clinking of champagne glasses, and robbed the king of a fine piece of land that since time immemorial had belonged to the royal family Totz of Arkanar. He declared war on Irukan, personally led the army to the border, let them drown in the swamps or lost them in the woods, left them to their fate, and fled back to Arkanar. Due to Don Hug's endeavors--of which he was totally ignorant, of course--he succeeded in wresting a peace treaty from the Duke of Irukan, albeit at the cost of two fortified border towns. Furthermore, the King was forced to scrape the bottom of the barrel of his depleted treasury in order to cope with the peasant rebellions that had seized the entire country. Anyone else committing such foolish blunders would have been strung up by his feet in the Tower of Joy. Don Reba, however, somehow managed again and again to remain in power. He issued a decree to dissolve the ministries of culture and morals, founded the Ministry of Internal Security for the Protection of the Crown, removed the local aristocracy and a few scholars from key positions, totally upset the entire economy of the state, wrote a treatise Concerning the Foolishness of Cattle Breeders and Agriculture, and just one year ago, organized his special troops, the Gray hordes. Hitler was backed by the capitalists, thought Rumata, but nobody stands behind Don Reba; it is as inevitable as night follows day that his Sturmoviki will kill him like a fly sooner or later.--But he kept on hedging and shuffling, committed one foolish act after the other, extricated himself again and again from the net that threatened to strangle him, cheated and deceived himself day after day, and was in the grip of one ardent, insane desire: to destroy all culture. Like Waga Koleso, he had no past. Barely two years ago, every aristocratic parasite of the court had still talked of him scornfully as a "contemptible swindler who cheats the King." At present, however, you could ask any number of noblemen, and each would firmly declare himself to be a relative of the minister of internal security, at least on his mother's side.

Right now he seems to need Budach for one of his plans. It's bound to turn into another of his many calamities. Another blunder. Budach is a bookworm. Into the hole with him! Make a lot of fuss and noise about it, so that all will know. But there is no fuss and outcry. Should that mean that he needs Budach alive? What for? Reba can't be naive enough to hope to be able to force Budach to work for him? But maybe he is that stupid after all. Could it be that Don Reba is merely a dumb (but successful) spinner of intrigues, who doesn't know what he wants himself, who acts the fool with a sly face in front of everyone's eyes? It's ridiculous; I've been watching him now for the past three years, and I still can't figure him out. And if he should watch me in turn, he would not fare any better. But anything is possible, that's the amusing part about it all. The basis theory may put forth a list of fundamental aspects of the psychological goals to be attained; but in reality there are as many of these objectives as there are human beings on Earth, and any one--it doesn't matter who--can ascend to power, even one who has devoted his life to playing pranks on his fellow human beings, sabotaging and ruining them. Eventually he is swept off the throne, of course, but in the meantime he's had sufficient time to show his contempt for all mankind, to cause harm wherever there, is a chance, and, worst of all, to enjoy his evil deeds. And he is not in the least concerned that history won't even wonder who he was, and just as little affected by the thought that his descendants will rack their brains many years from now to categorize his behavior to fit the advanced theory of the laws of history. Suddenly Rumata remembered Dona Okana. Come on, make up your mind, he thought. Start at once. Once a god decides to make a clean sweep of things, he needn't bother to make sure he has unsullied hands . . . He felt nauseated as he thought of what lay ahead of him. But this was preferable to killing. Better filth than blood.

He walked on tiptoe, careful not to awaken Kyra, to his E study and changed his clothes. Undecided, he kept toying with his transmitter circlet, but then put it resolutely in a drawer of his desk. Then he stuck a white feather behind his right ear as a symbol of passion, buckled on his two swords and threw his best cloak over his shoulders. As he was unlocking the gate downstairs, he thought: If Don Reba gets wind of this, that will be the end of Dona Okana. But it was already too late to turn back.