FOUR

The guests were assembled, but Dona Okana had not yet arrived. Gathered around a small golden snack table, as if on a wall gobelin, were the chiefs of the royal guard, who were famous for their duels and amorous adventures. They leaned forward gracefully as they drank, while their fat behinds stuck out in the rear. Beside the fireplace giggled thin-blooded ladies who were distinguished in nothing whatsoever, and who for this reason had been assigned to Dona Okana as her confidantes and companions. They sat in a simple row on small, low divans, and before them three elderly gentlemen danced around constantly on their thin legs: famed lounge lizards from the era of the previous king, the last connoisseurs of long forgotten anecdotes of the royal court. Every one knew that a salon was no proper salon without these old gentlemen. In the middle of the hall, legs spread wide apart, stood Don Ripat, lieutenant of the Gray Court Guard--a clever and dependable agent for Rumata. He had a splendid mustache and was completely amoral. He had hooked the thumbs of his big red hands into his leather belt and listened to Don Tameo who, totally disorganized and with great rushes of detail, tried to present a project to revitalize business at the expense of the peasants; at the same time, Don Ripat pointed his mustache in the direction of Don Sera, who groped his way along the walls, obviously searching for some hidden door. Two famous portrait painters sat in a comer, scanning the room with alert eyes as they devoured a roast the size of a half-grown crocodile, and nearby in a bay window sat an elderly lad clad in black -- the chaperone assigned to Dona Okana by Don Reba. She stared straight ahead with a rigid face, looking very severe; only once in a while would she suddenly jerk her whole body forward. Off to one side, a personage of royal blood and the secretary of the Soanian embassy passed the time with a game of cards. The royal personage was cheating and the secretary smiled indulgently. He was the only person in the entire salon who was occupied with something serious: he was gathering material for the diplomatic spy forces.

The guard officers at the little golden tables greeted Rumata with friendly shouts. Rumata gave them a comradely nod and went from one guest to the other. He exchanged bows with the old lounge lizards, paid a few compliments to the confidantes of Dona Okana, who immediately eyed the white feather behind his ear; gave a friendly slap to the blubbery back of the personage of royal blood; and then turned his attention to Don Ripat and Don Tameo. As he passed the bay window, the chaperone's upper torso happened to fall forward once again; a strong odor of brew emanated from her.

Upon seeing Rumata, Don Ripat pulled his thumbs from his belt and clicked his heels. Don Tameo, however, called out loudly: "It's you, my friend? Wonderful that you have come, I had already given up all hope of seeing you. Like a swan with a broken wing, sighing and staring up to a star . . . I was filled with such a longing--And if it had not been for the most charming Don Ripat, I would have long since perished from grief!"

It was obvious that Don Tameo had had the best intentions to remain sober until lunch, but unfortunately had not quite made it.

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Rumata. "Since when do we quote the words of the rebel Zuren?"

Don Ripat straightened up and flashed his catlike eyes at Don Tameo.

"Eh, eh--" stammered Don Tameo in confusion. "Zuren? Yes, indeed, and why am I quoting him? Yes, yes, if I may say so ... with sarcastic intent--I assure you, noble dons! Yes, for who is this Zuren? Nothing but a common, ungrateful demagogue. I wanted simply to emphasize--"

"That Dona Okana hasn't arrived yet," interrupted Rumata. "And you were forced to drink without her company."

"That's exactly what I wanted to emphasize."

"By the way, where is she?"

"We expect her any moment now," answered Don Ripat, who then bowed and walked away.

The confidantes of the lady of the house, however, sat there with their mouths wide open, still staring at the white feather. The old lounge lizards snickered archly. Don Tameo finally noticed the feather, too, and began to tremble.

"My friend!" he whispered. "What is that supposed to mean? If Don Reba should see that . . . Even if we don't expect him tonight, but you can never know for sure . . ."

"Oh, cut it out," said Rumata, letting his eyes sweep impatiently across the room. He wanted to get it all over with as quickly as possible.

The officers of the guard approached, wine cups in their hands.

"How pale you are!" whispered Don Tameo. "I understand, passion is like that . . . But, Holy Mickey! The state should come first. And after all, it's so dangerous, so very dangerous... An insult to Don Reba's emotions ..."

Something in his face changed and he began to mince his steps restlessly; he stepped back a bit and then walked backwards out of the room, bowing and scraping all the while. The officers of the guard gathered around Rumata. Somebody handed him a full wine goblet

"Let's drink to honor and to our Majesty, the King!" shouted one of the officers.

"And to love!" added another officer.

"Just show her what the guard is capable of, noble don," said a third officer.

Rumata took the goblet; then suddenly he saw Dona Okana. She stood in the doorway, fanning herself with her elegant fan and swaying her shoulders, a languid expression animating her features. She was very pretty. From this distance she could even be called beautiful. Unfortunately she was not at all Rumata's type, but she was undoubtedly pretty, this stupid, sensuous cow. Big, blue eyes without a glimmer of intellect or warmth, a soft, knowing mouth, a voluptuous body whose contours were revealed intentionally with skill and with great care ... A guard officer behind Rumata apparently could not control himself any longer and he noisily smacked his lips. Without turning around, Rumata handed him his goblet and with long strides walked over to Dona Okana. All those present in the salon turned their eyes aside and began to talk busily about inconsequential things.

"Your beauty is blinding my eyes," murmured Rumata as he bowed deeply and rattled his swords. "Permit me to lie at your feet--like a whippet at the feet of an indifferent and beautiful woman."

Dona Okana hid her face behind her fan and peeked out coquettishly.

"You are very daring, noble don," she said. "Poor ladies from the provinces that we are, we are simply unable to withstand such storms . . ." She had a deep, rasping voice, that occasionally failed. "Alas, there is nothing left for me to do but to open the gates of my fortress and admit the victor..."

Gritting his teeth with shame and anger, Don Rumata bowed deeper still. Dona Okana lowered her fan and called out loudly:

"My noble dons! Go on and amuse yourselves! I'll be right back with Don Rumata! I have promised to show him my new Irukanian carpets ... I"

"Don't rob us too long of your presence, you bewitching beauty!" bleated one of the old gentlemen.

"What a magnificent woman!" called out another old man. And he added in a sickeningly sweet tone of voice: "A fairy princess!"

The officers of the guard rattled their sabers. "You must admit, he has pretty good taste," said the personage of royal blood. Dona Okana held Rumata by his sleeve and dragged him along behind her. Out in the corridor, Rumata could hear Don Sera declare in an offended tone of voice: "I can't see why a noble don shouldn't have a look at some Irukanian carpets..."

At the end of the corridor. Dona Okana suddenly came to a halt, clasped her arms around his neck and with a deep moan to indicate a sudden outburst of wild passion, she kissed him hard on his mouth, clinging and sucking on to his lips as tightly as a leech. Rumata held his breath. The woman's body radiated a sharp odor of strong Irukanian perfume mingled with the smell of unwashed limbs. Her lips felt fiery hot, moist and sticky from sweetmeats. He tried valiantly to fight off nausea and to return the kiss, and was apparently successful, for Dona Okana moaned again loudly and with tightly shut eyes surrendered herself to his embrace. That seemed to last an eternity. Well, you're going to get it now, you beast, thought Rumata and pressed his arms tightly around her torso. Something began to crack, the corset--or perhaps her ribs--; the beauty whined pitifully, opened her startled eyes and wiggled weakly trying to free herself from his firm clasp. Rumata quickly let go of her.

"You daredevil, you, what a lover!" she said breathing hard and rapt with desire. "You almost squashed me!"

"I'm burning with desire," he murmured guiltily.

"So am I. Oh, how I have been waiting for you! Let's go! Let's hurry!"

She led him by the hand through some icy cold rooms. Rumata took his handkerchief and furtively wiped his Ups. The whole affair seemed so senseless now. But it's got to be, he thought The things we have to bear here! Can't be all done with words alone. Holy Mickey, why don't they ever wash here at court? And on top of that stench this peculiar passionate temperament ... if only Don Reba would surprise them now . . . She dragged him behind her, without a word, with purposeful strength, the way an ant drags along dead larvae. Rumata felt like an idiot and kept murmuring nonsense about "swift little feet" and "rosy pink lips." Dona Okana kept giggling the whole way. She whisked him into an overheated boudoir, whose walls actually were decorated by huge rugs; threw herself on her enormous bed, gaped at him with her moist, glittering eyes. Rumata's body stiffened. There was an unmistakable odor of bedbugs in this boudoir. "You are so beautiful!" she whispered loudly. "Do come closer, come to me. I have been waiting for you such a long time!"

Rumata turned away his eyes; he felt nauseated. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. I can't do it, flashed through his mind. To hell with all the information I can drag out of her . . . what a beast she is, what a caricature . . . It's unnatural, it goes against my grain, it's dirty. Dirt is preferable to blood, of course, but this here is far worse than dirt.

"What are you waiting for, noble don?" panted Dona Okana. "Oh, my sweet, do come to me, I'm waiting!"

"Oh, go to hell!" Don Rumata hissed between his teeth impulsively.

She jumped off the bed and hurried toward him.

"What is the matter with you? Are you drunk?"

"I don't know." He forced the words over his lips. "It's so hot here."

"I'll have a cup brought for you."

"What cup?"

"Oh, forget it ... it'll pass . ," Her fingers were trembling with impatience as she started to unbutton his vest. "How gorgeous you are . - ." she whispered breathlessly. "But you are so shy, like a virgin. I'd never have suspected that from you , . . But it's so exciting, I swear by the Holy Bara!-"

Whether he wanted to or not, he could no longer delay it; he had to take her by the hands now. He looked down on her and saw her lacquered, untidy hair, her round, bare shoulders, dotted with tiny clumps of powder, and her tiny rose pink ears. Disgusting, he thought. Nothing doing here. . Too bad, though, she is bound to know a few things . . . Don Reba talks in his sleep ... He takes her along to the hearings, and she loves cross-examinations . . . No, I can't do it...

"Well?" she asked, irritated.

"Your carpets are beautiful indeed, Dona," he said. "Thanks for showing them to me but I have to go now."

At first she failed to understand; but then her features were grotesquely contorted with fury.

"How dare you!" she demanded, but he had already groped for the door knob, slipped out into the corridor and taken to his heels. From now on I won't wash myself any longer, he thought. One has to be a filthy swine here, not a god!

"You old nag!" she yelled. "You miserable old woman! You should be thrown into the dungeon!"

Rumata yanked a window open and jumped down into the yard. For a while he stood underneath a tree, greedily breathing in big gulps of fresh, cold air.

Then he remembered the stupid white feather. Furiously he pulled it from behind his ear and stomped on it with his boots. My friend Pashka wouldn't have made it either, he thought. None of our crowd. (Are you so sure?--Yes!-- Then none of you are any good.--But it makes me nauseated!--The experiment doesn't care what your feelings are. If you can't do it, then keep out of it!--But I'm no animal!

--If it's required by the experiment, then you must turn into an animal, if need be.--The experiment can't make such demands.--It can very well, as you see!--But then ... !

--What, then?--He did not know what would follow after that--Then . . . Then . . . Well, then, well say that I am a bad historian.--He shrugged his shoulders--so let's try to improve. Let's learn how to turn into a pig ...)

It was midnight when he arrived home. He undid the clasps of his fez and, without getting undressed, threw himself down on a couch in the salon, where he fell into a deep sleep.

He was awakened by the exasperated shouting of Uno and a good-natured deep bass voice yelling:

"Get away, you little beast. I'll skin you alive!"

"My master is asleep, I'm telling you!"

"Beat it! Don't crawl around my legs!"

"You can't go in, I'm telling you!"

The door flew open with a loud bang and into the room came storming Don Bau, Baron Pampa, gigantic like the wild monster Pech, red-cheeked, with white teeth, drooping mustache, a jaunty red velvet beret on his head and an expensive raspberry-colored cape slung around his broad shoulders, and a copper mail shirt clearly visible underneath. He dragged Uno after him. Uno frantically clung to the baron's right trouser leg.

"Baron!" called out Rumata and let his legs slide off the couch. "How do you happen to be in town, my friend? Uno, let go of the baron!"

"What a devoted boy, he really sticks by you," said the baron and walked toward Rumata with open arms. "He seems all right, I must say. How much will you take for him? But let's discuss this later . . . Now let me embrace you!"

They embraced. The baron exuded a pleasant smell of dusty country roads, horses, and a mixed bouquet of various wines.

"I see you are totally sober," he said, sorrow in his voice. "But then, you are always sober, you fortunate man!"

"Please sit down, my friend!" said Rumata. "Uno! Bring some Estorian wine, and plenty of it!"

"Not a drop!"

"What? Not a drop of Estorian wine? Uno, forget the Estorian and bring us some Irukanian instead!"

"No wine at all!" said the baron miserably. "I'm not drinking."

Rumata sat down again.

"What has happened?" he asked, worried. "Are you sick?"

"I am as healthy as a horse. But these damned family quarrels ... To make a long story short; I have had a terrible fight with the baroness. And now I am here."

"A fight with the baroness? You? Now please stop it, baron; what kind of joke is that supposed to be?"

"I can't understand it myself, I'm like in a fog. Yes, I came here on horseback, riding 120 miles, my brain all in a fog!"

"My friend," said Rumata, "let's start right away and ride back to castle Bau."

"But my horse is still winded and sweaty," replied the baron. "And what's more: I want to punish her!" "Who?"

'The baroness, damn it! Am I a man or a mouse? You see, she is dissatisfied with Pampa, the--drunk; let her find out for herself how sober he can be! I'd rather rot away here with plain water than return to the castle!" Uno pouted:

"Tell him to stop wiggling his ears."

"Now be off, you little rascal!" grumbled the good-humored deep voice of the baron. "And bring me some beer! I've sweated it all out; now I must fill up again."

Baron Pampa spent the next half hour filling up again and chattering away merrily all the while. In between big gulps from a tankard of beer he reported his troubles. He repeatedly cursed "those drunkards, my neighbors, who come and invade my castle. They pretend they want to go hunting with me, arrive early in the morning--and before you know it, they are all dead drunk and smash up the furniture. They come charging over the entire castle, befoul everything, annoy the servants, spoil the dogs and set a terrible example for the young baron. Then they all depart, ride home again and leave me behind, drunk as a pig, and I have to stay there with the baroness, all alone, have to face her, eye to eye..."

Toward the end of his story, the baron lost control over himself and was just about to ask for some Estorian wine, when he pulled himself together again and said:

"Rumata, my friend. Let's leave here. Your wines are much too expensive! Let's go!" "But where to?"

'That doesn't matter, where to! How about the Gray Joy?"

"Hmm," said Rumata. "And what are we going to do there at the Gray Joy?"

The baron remained silent for a few moments and tugged mischievously at his beard.

"Come, come, now!" he said finally. "You ask the strangest questions. What are we going to do there? We'll just sit and talk a bit."

"At the Gray Joy?" asked Rumata doubtfully.

"Yes," said the baron. "I understand what you mean . . . That's awful . . . but still, let's go. Here I'm constantly tempted to ask for Estorian wine!"

"My horse!" said Rumata and went into his study in order to pick up his sender.

A few minutes later the two were riding side by side down a narrow lane, enveloped by impenetrable darkness. The baron had regained his good humor and told with a loud voice about the huge boar they had killed the previous day, then about the remarkable talents of the young baron, and about the miracle at the monastery of the Holy Tukky, where the abbot had given birth from his hip to a six-fingered boy. In between stories he did not forget his own kind of pranks. From time to time he would howl like a wolf, sing lullabies, and knock with the heavy handle of his riding whip against the shuttered windows.

They arrived at the Gray Joy and the baron stopped his horse and fell into deep thoughts. Rumata waited. The dirty windows of the inn shone gaudily, the horses were pawing the ground, the heavily made-up girls who were sitting on a bench underneath the window were quarreling noisily, and two servants were straining to roll a giant barrel through the entrance door.

The baron said sorrowfully:

"Alone! How horrible to think that I have the whole night before me, and all alone! And she, too, is all alone!"

"Don't be so sad, my friend," said Rumata. "The young baron is there with her, and I am here with you."

'That is not the same thing," said the baron. "You haven't the faintest idea, my friend. You are young and light-hearted. I believe you even enjoy looking at these sluts here."

"And why not?" replied Rumata and regarded the baron with interest. "These girls are quite acceptable, I think."

The baron shook his head and laughed sarcastically.

"Just look at that one over there," he shouted, "her behind is practically flopping to the ground. And the one over there, the one scratching herself, she hasn't any behind at all. They are cows, my friend, cows at best. Just think of the baroness! What hands, what grace! What a body, my friend!"

"Yes," agreed Rumata. "The baroness is beautiful. Let's get out of here."

"Where to?" asked the baron depressed. "And why?" An expression of resoluteness came suddenly over his face. "No, my friend. I won't leave here. I won't go anywhere but you can do what pleases you." He got off his horse. "Although I would feel insulted if you would leave me here alone."

"I'll stay with you here, of course," said Rumata. "But--"

"No buts," said the baron.

They threw the reins to one of the servants who rushed up, and strutted haughtily past the girls into the inn. The air was oppressively heavy. The weak light of the tiny oil lamps hardly penetrated through the dense haze of fumes and exhalations; the place resembled a big and very filthy sauna bath back on Earth. Soldiers with unbuttoned tunics, dripping with sweat, sailors with colorful kaftans over their naked bodies, women with barely covered breasts. Gray Sturmoviks holding their battle axes between their knees, and some down-at-the-heel workers were all sitting at some long tables, eating and drinking, cursing, laughing, crying, and singing filthy songs with roaring voices. To the left, one could vaguely see a bar, where the innkeeper sat on a platform surrounded by huge barrels and directed a swarm of skilled and fraudulent servants. On the right, a large bright rectangle shone through the mist, the entrance to the "private room," the room for noble dons, reputable merchants, and Gray officers.

"Why shouldn't we wet our whistle, come to think of it?" asked the baron in a tone of irritation. He seized Rumata by the sleeve and made his way toward the bar, passing through a narrow aisle between the tables, scratching the backs of guests who were seated at the tables with his slightly protruding belt-armor. At the counter he picked up a large jug, had the innkeeper fill it up to the rim and without a word drained the jug in one large draught to the last drop;

then he stated that all was lost anyhow and only one thing remained--to have a good time. Then he turned to the innkeeper and inquired loudly if this establishment had some accommodation where noblemen could pass the time in a befitting manner without having to be bothered by all kinds of rabble, riff-raff and vermin. The innkeeper reassured him that there was indeed such a suitable place on the premises.

"Excellent!" said the baron with a grand flourish as he threw a few gold coins to the innkeeper. "Will you bring us the best you have in your house? But don't have the food served by some dolled-up little whore--we want to be waited on by some respectable older woman!"

The innkeeper himself accompanied the noble dons to the "private room." It was occupied by just a few guests. In one comer sat a group of Gray officers, two lieutenants in tight uniforms and two captains in short soldiers' coats with the epaulets of the Ministry of Internal Security. Two aristocrats were dozing near the window over a slender jug of wine: their faces looked pinched and sour, exuding an air of general depression. At the nearby table sat a little band of impoverished dons in rumpled jackets and mended cloaks. They sipped their beer and let their greedy eyes sweep around the room ever so often.

The baron lumbered over to a free table, cast a mean glance in the direction of the Gray officers and grumbled:

"You just can't get away from that rabble. Not even here." But now a fat old auntie waddled into the room bearing the first course. The baron croaked greedily, pulled his dagger from his belt, and fell over the feast. Silently he devoured big chunks of roast venison, mountains of marinated mollusks, huge piles of crabs, enormous quantities of salads and mayonnaise dressings, washed everything down with cascades of wine, beer and home brew, and finally wine mixed with beer and home brew. The impoverished dons attempted repeatedly to join Baron Pampa at his table, but the baron sent them packing with a majestic sweep of his hand and a nasty growl.

Suddenly he stopped eating, stared at Rumata with protruding eyes, and roared like a beast of prey: "It's quite a while since I've been last in Arkanar, my noble friend. And I swear upon my honor there is something I don't like about this place!"

"And what would that be?" inquired Rumata, interested, while he gnawed at a chicken wing.

Awe and attention marked the faces of the impoverished dons.

"Tell me, my dear friend," thundered the baron and wiped his greasy hands at his cloak, "since when has it become the custom in our beautiful capital city, the seat of our Highness the King, that the descendants of the oldest families of the realm can't take a step without running into these miserable shopkeepers and butchers?!"

The noble dons exchanged quick glances and withdrew into their comer. Rumata blinked over to the other corner where the Gray officers were sitting. They put down their glasses and looked over to the baron's table.

"I'll tell you, noble dons, where the fly in the ointment is," continued Baron Pampa. "The whole trouble is that you are a bunch of damped cowards. You tolerate them because you are afraid OF them. You over there, you are scared stiff!" He yelled at the top of his voice and locked eyes with the impoverished don nearest to him. But the poor nobleman, smiling weakly, left his table like a dog with his tail between his legs. "Cowards!" trumpeted the baron. He was so excited that his mustache reared up skywards.

But there wasn't much one could expect from the impoverished dons. They were obviously disinclined to get into a brawl; they only wanted to eat and drink.

Now the baron hurled one foot over the bench, twirled the right half of his mustache around his fist, riveted his eyes on the comer where the Gray officers were sitting and declared:

"But I, gentlemen, I am not afraid, not even of the devil! I squash the Gray pests under my foot wherever I encounter them!"

"What's that beer barrel whining over there?" loudly inquired a Gray captain with a horse's face.

A satisfied smile played around the baron's lips. He rose Boisterously from the table and jumped onto the bench. Rumata raised his eyebrows and started to gnaw at his second chicken wing.

"Hey, there, you Gray bastards from hell!" yelled the baron as loud as if the officers were miles away. "Let it be known that I, Baron Pampa Don Bau, gave a fine object lesson to the likes of you just three days ago. You know, my friend," Baron Pampa turned and spoke from the ceiling down to Don Rumata, sitting at the table, "I had a few drinks the other night with Father Kabani at my castle. Suddenly my horse groom came running up to announce that a Horde of Gray Sturmoviks is just about to tear down the Golden Horseshoe Inn. My inn! On my own grounds! I issued the command; Let's ride! And we were there in no time. I swear to you by my spurs, we found there a whole horde, some twenty men altogether! They'd caught three of my men, got as drunk as pigs--these bastards can't drink, of course--and they were just beginning to smash everything to smithereens. I grabbed one by the legs, and that started the merry chase. I chased them as far as the Heavy Swords. Blood was flowing--you won't believe it, my friend--we were wading in it up to our knees, and I don't know how many battle axes were left behind!"

Here the baron's account was interrupted. The captain with the horse's face swung his hand and hurled his heavy dagger against the baron's chain mail.

"Finally!" said the baron and drew his giant two-fisted sword.

He jumped off the bench with unexpected agility; his sword arched expertly through the air and cut through a crossbeam supporting the low ceiling. The baron cursed. The ceiling sagged a little and plaster and dust fell from above on the men's heads.

Everyone in the room had risen. The impoverished dons kept close to the walls. The young aristocrats climbed onto the tables to have a better view. The Gray officers formed a half-circle and drew their swords while slowly advancing toward the baron. Only Rumata remained seated, trying to figure out on which side it would be safer to stand up without coming to grief. For now the baron's broad sword was hissing ominously through the air, describing flashing circles above the baron's head. It was an awe-inspiring sight. The baron reminded Rumata of a freight helicopter with idly spinning rotary blades.

Now the baron was hemmed in on three sides by the Gray officers, who were forced to a halt as soon as they came within range of the whirling sword. One of the officers was unfortunate enough to have his back to Rumata, who leaned across the table, seized the hapless man by the collar, yanked him down so that his back slammed into the dirty dishes on the table, and gave him a sharp chop behind his ear. The Gray officer shut his eyes and his body stiffened. The baron yelled:

"Cut his throat, noble Rumata, I'll finish off the others!"

He'll massacre the whole lot, thought Rumata uneasily.

"Attention!" he said to the Gray officers. "Why should we ruin each other's evening? You don't have a ghost of a chance against us. Throw down your arms and beat it!"

"Certainly not! That would be the limit!" put in the baron, visibly upset. "I want to fight! I want them to fight! Stand up and fight, you wretches!"

With these words he advanced towards the Gray officers, all the while whirling his sword faster and faster above his head. The Gray officers fell back, all pale in the face. Evidently this was the first time they had ever seen a freight helicopter. Rumata jumped over the table. "Stop, my friend!" he called out. "There is really no reason for us to quarrel with these people. You don't care for their presence here? Fine, tell them to leave!"

"We won't leave without our weapons," grumbled one of the lieutenants. "We'd be punished. We are on patrol duty now."

"Go to hell and take your weapons with you!" decided Rumata. "Sheath your swords, hands on top of your head; leave one at a time! And no tricks! Or I'll beat you to a pulp!"

"How can we get out of the room?" inquired the captain with the horse face. His long upper lip twitched with irritation. "This don blocks our way as you can see!"

"And will continue to do so!" insisted the stubborn baron.

The young dons snickered.

"All right then," said Rumata. "I'll hold him down and you file out, one after the other, but hurry up. I won't be able to control him much longer! Hey, there, clear the doorway! Baron," he said and grasped Pampa around his broad waist, "it seems to me you have forgotten an important fact. This famous sword was used by your ancestors only to do battle, for it is written: Do not draw your sword in taverns!"

The shadow of a doubt darkened the baron's features while he continued to swing his sword.

"But I don't have another sword here with me," he said puzzled.

"All the more relevant . . . ," answered Rumata emphatically.

"Do you think that?" The baron was still hesitating.

"You know the rules better than I do!"

"That's true," said the baron. "You are right." He looked up to his whirling hands. "You wouldn't believe it, Don Rumata, I could go on like this easily for another three or four hours without stopping. And I wouldn't even feel tired. Too bad that she can't see me like this now!"

"Ill tell her all about it, rest assured," promised Rumata.

The baron sighed and lowered his sword. The Gray officers crept out of the room, cowering in fear. The baron followed them with his eyes.

"I don't know, I don't know," he said undecided. "Do you really think I made the right decision, not smashing them to a pulp?"

"You acted correctly, absolutely correctly," Rumata reassured him.

"Well then," said the baron as he sheathed his sword. "If we were not fortunate enough to have a good fight, let's have something decent to eat and lots to drink."

He grabbed the still unconscious Gray lieutenant by his legs and pulled him off the table, while he croaked out loudly: "Hey, there, innkeeper! Bring us some wine and a bite to eat!"

The young aristocrats came to their table to congratulate them most humbly on their victory.

"That's nothing, it was easy!" said the baron complacently. "Six skinny milksops--and big cowards, like all shopkeepers are. I've finished off two dozen like that, at the Golden Horseshoe--chased them out . . . How fortunate," and he turned to Rumata, "that I did not have my battle sword with me at the time! I might have drawn it, absentminded as I am. Although the Golden Horseshoe is actually not a tavern, it's just a little comer bistro ..."

"Some also say," remarked Rumata, "that it is written: Do not draw your sword in the corner bistro!"

The innkeeper's wife brought new dishes with meat and some more wine. The baron rolled up his sleeves and set to work.

"By the way," said Rumata, "who were the three prisoners you set free that time at the Golden Horseshoe?"

The baron stopped chewing and stared at Rumata. "But my dear friend, maybe I didn't make myself clear. I did not set anybody free. True, they were all prisoners, had been arrested, but these are affairs of the government. Why should I have liberated them? It was just some old don, a big coward, an old bookworm and his servant . . ." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes, of course," said Rumata.

Suddenly the baron turned purple in the face; he rolled his eyes in a most frightening manner.

"What?! Again?!" he roared.

Rumata turned around. Don Ripat stood in the doorway. The baron jumped up from his seat, overturning benches and dishes. Don Ripat threw a significant glance at Rumata and left the room again.

"I beg your pardon, baron," said Rumata, rising to his feet. "The King's service is calling."

"Oh, dear," mumbled the baron in a disappointed voice. "I feel sorry for you. I wouldn't serve for anything in this world!"

Don Ripat was waiting for him outside the door.

"What's new?" asked Rumata.

"Two hours ago," reported Don Ripat officiously, "I placed Dona Okana under arrest under the orders of our Minister of Internal Security. I had her taken to the Tower of Joy."

"Hmm," was all that Rumata said.

"Dona Okana died one hour ago. She did not survive the tortures."

"Hmm."

"Officially she was accused of being a spy. But--" Don Ripat seemed embarrassed and gazed down at the floor. "I think--I believe--"

"I understand what you mean," said Rumata.

Don Ripat looked at him with a guiltridden face.

"I was powerless--" he started to say.

"That's none of your concern," said Rumata hoarsely.

Don Ripat's eyes became leaden. Rumata slightly nodded his head to him and went back to his table. The baron was just finishing off a platter with fried clams.

"Estorian wine! Let's have a lot of it!" Rumata could hardly choke out the words. He tried to swallow a big lump in his throat. "Let's enjoy ourselves now! To hell with everything, let's have a good time!"

When Rumata came to again, he found himself lying in the middle of a big empty lot. A gray day was dawning, in the distance roosters crowed a raucous reveille. Dense flocks of blackbirds were crowing overhead, circling above something unpleasant nearby. It smelled of rot and decay. The fog in Rumata's head lifted quickly, the usual penetrating lucidity and reliability of all his senses returned. A pleasant taste of mint seemed to linger on his tongue. The fingers of his right hand hurt badly. Rumata lifted his right fist, all cramped up, to his eyes. The skin around his wrist was chafed. He opened his fist and found that he had still been grasping an empty vial of Casparamid, the potent medication against alcohol poisoning that was standard equipment --just as a precautionary measure--for all Terranian emissaries sent by the various institutes to extraterrestrial planets. Apparently he had followed some blind instinct and poured the whole contents of the vial into his mouth before he had sunk completely into brute unconsciousness here on this large empty lot.

The neighborhood seemed familiar. The charred skeleton of the observatory tower jutted skywards and to the left of the burnt-out ruin, the watchtowers of the royal palace, thin as minarets, pierced the pale light of the dawn. Rumata breathed in deeply the cold, humid air, then set out for home.

Baron Pampa had had a wonderful night, exactly the kind he liked. Accompanied by a little band of moneyless dons who were easily inclined to lose their dignity, he set out on a gigantic roving expedition through the cheap saloons of Arkanar, where he downed unbelievable quantities of alcohol, accomplished amazing feats of gluttony, and became involved in no less than eight brawls. At least this was the number of times that Rumata could clearly recall having intervened to separate the belligerents in order to prevent the worst from happening. The rest had vanished in a haze. Only occasionally the fog would lift and animallike, grimacing faces, knives held in their teeth, would emerge, then again the bewildered, bitter face of the last of the moneyless dons, whom Don Pampa tried to sell as a slave down in the harbor area, then again an Irukanian with a bulbous nose and mean eyes, who, boiling with rage, demanded from the noble dons the return of his horse.

In the beginning Don Rumata still remained a spy. He did not drink any less than the baron: Irukanian, Estorian, Soanian, and Arkanarian wine; but every time he changed the brand of wine he secretly popped a vial of Casparamid into his mouth. He retained his discerning power of judgment and noticed that the Gray Patrols were stationing themselves in far larger numbers than usual at intersections and bridges; then there was a sentry post of barbarians on horseback somewhere on the Soanian cross-country road, who would probably have shot the baron if Don Rumata had not understood and mastered their dialect. He remembered clearly the thought that flashed through his mind at the motionless rows of strange soldiers in long, black cloaks with hoods, who had taken up position in front of the Patriotic School:

But isn't that the guard of the monks? What business does the church have in this place? he had wondered. Since when does the church mix in secular affairs here in Arkanar? Only very gradually did he get inebriated, but then, all at once, he was overcome by deep intoxication. In a fleeting moment of lucidity he noticed a totally wrecked table in some unfamiliar room, saw his own hand brandishing a sword and the pitiful, imploring figures of the impoverished dons around him. He almost thought it was time to go home; but by then it was already too late. He was seized by a wave of mad rage and by a disgusting, irresistible joy to be able for once to throw off all traces of humaneness. Nevertheless, he had still remained a Terranian and an emissary of the institute back on Earth, a descendant of man, the masters over fire and iron, who will neither spare themselves nor stop before anything if it is in the cause of a great goal to be achieved. He could not remain Rumata of Estoria, flesh from the flesh of twenty generations of his warrior ancestors, who were famed for their robbing and drunkenness. But neither was he a communard, a comrade any longer. He no longer felt any obligation to the great Experiment. He was only concerned now with obligations toward his own person. And he was no more beset by doubts. Everything seemed clear now, absolutely clear. He now knew exactly who was to blame for everything and he knew exactly what he wanted to do: to lash out blindly, to hurl down into the fire, down from the steps of the palace, down onto the spears and pitchforks of the raging mob . . .

Rumata gave a sudden start; he unsheathed his swords. There were nicks on the blades that were otherwise blank. He remembered vaguely having fought with someone. But with whom? And how had it ended?

They had boozed away their horses. The impoverished dons had vanished somehow. Rumata had dragged the baron home--this he could recall, too. Pampa Don Bau was enterprising, apparently completely sober and good and ready to continue with this most entertaining evening--only he could not stand on his legs any longer. Besides, he believed for some obscure reason that he had just taken leave of his beloved baroness and that he was now on a campaign against his arch enemy, Baron Kaska, who had already had the audacity to commit the most outrageous feats ("Will you judge for yourself, my dear friend, this scoundrel brought forth from his hip a six-fingered boy and named him Pampa...").

"The sun is about to set," he declared as he regarded a gobelin representing a sunrise. "We could drink all night through, noble dons, but we need some sleep before the battle. And not a drop of wine during the battle! Besides, the baroness would not care for it."

"What? A bed? Beds on a battlefield? Our bed is our saddled steed." With these words he tore the gobelin off the wall, wrapped it around his entire body and stumbled noisily over to the comer under the big chandelier. Rumata ordered the boy Uno to place a tub with pickled cucumbers and a tub with sauerkraut beside the baron. The boy's face was sleepy and very angry. "There, look! He has wrapped himself in our good gobelin," he muttered. "Eyes that look in different directions . . ." "Shut up, you fool," said Rumata in answer, and--then something happened. Something very vulgar, that had chased him halfway across town to this empty lot. Something very, very vile, wretched, mean, unforgivable, embarrassing...

The memory of this distressing action reawakened as he approached his house. He stopped in his tracks.

. . . He had pushed Uno aside, climbed up the stairs, pushed the door open and stormed over to her. He was her master. And by the light of the street lantern he saw her white face and huge eyes filled with fear and disgust--and in these eyes he could see himself as he was: staggering, with a drooping, drooling lower lip, with fists whose skin hung down in shreds, in soiled clothes. He saw a beastly, vile, blue-blooded skunk. And her glance hurled him backwards, down the stairs, into the entry hall, out of the door and out into the street, the dark nocturnal street and on and on, farther and farther, as far away as possible ...

He gnashed his teeth, felt his insides contort and turn to ice, then he gently opened the house door and entered the hall. Over in a comer, snoring peacefully like a walrus, was the sleeping baron. "Who is that?" called Uno, who had been slumbering on a bench, a spread lying across his knees. "Quiet!" commanded Rumata in a whisper. "Go to the kitchen, bring a bucket of water, vinegar and new clothes. Hurry up!"

Leisurely he poured water over his body for quite a while, and with great gusto scrubbed himself with vinegar, thus cleansing himself from the filth of his nightly pleasures and fights. Contrary to his usual self, Uno remained silent throughout while he assisted his master. Not until he helped him button up the ridiculous lilac-colored trousers with the pretty buckles did he report sullenly:

"During the night, after you ran out, Kyra came downstairs and asked if the master had come home or not, but then said that she must have been dreaming. I told her that you had not yet returned from your guard duty at the palace, where you went last night..."

Rumata sighed deeply and turned away. But this did not help in the least. It made things even worse.

"And I've been sitting here the whole night through near the baron with my spear all ready across my knees. I was afraid he might crawl upstairs while he was so drunk."

"Thanks, my little one, thanks," Rumata uttered painfully. He put on his shoes, went into the dressing room and stood in front of his dark metal mirror. The Casparamid was doing its work. Very effectively. The mirror reflected an image of an elegant, noble don with a slightly fatigued face after the long, strenuous night guard duty. But definitely very decent looking. His moist hair, framed by the golden circlet, fell softly and neatly down on either side of his face. With an automatic gesture, Rumata adjusted the lens on his forehead. Lovely scenes they're watching today on Earth, he thought somberly.

Meanwhile, the day broke. The sun began to peer into dusty windows. The shutters rattled. Sleepy voices could be heard in the street. "Did you sleep well, brother Kiris?"-- "Very well, brother Tika, praise the Lord. The night is over, thank God."--"Somebody was beating against the windows of our house. They say Don Rumata went out during the night"--"He is said to have a house guest."--"So, and he went out? I think he went to the young prince, and did not even notice how they burnt down half the town."-- "What can I tell you, brother Tika? Thank God that we have such a noble don in our neighborhood. Once a year he does guard duty, and that's a lot already."

Rumata walked up the stairs, knocked and entered the study. Kyra was sitting in the armchair as the day before. She raised her eyes and looked, restless and fearful, into his face.

"Good morning, my darling," he said, walked over to her, kissed her hands and sat down in an armchair across from her.

She looked at him a while with questioning eyes and asked finally:

"Are you tired?"

"Yes, a bit. And I must go away once more today."

"Would you like me to prepare something for you?"

"No, thanks. Uno will take care of it. Well. . . you might iron my collar..."

Rumata could feel a wall of lies rise between them. Very thin at first, then thicker and thicker and more and more solid. For the rest of our lives! Rumata thought bitterly. He sat in his seat, covered his eyes with his hands, while she was rubbing carefully various lotions and perfumes onto his strong neck, his cheeks, his forehead and his hair. Then she said:

"You don't even ask how I slept."

"How did you sleep, my darling?"

"I dreamt. A terrible, horrible dream. Do you know what I mean?"

The wall grew as thick as a rampart.

"It's usually that way in a new place," said Rumata hypocritically. "The baron must have caused quite a commotion."

"Shall I order breakfast for you?" she asked.

"Go ahead!"

"What kind of wine do you like in the morning?"

Rumata opened his eyes.

"I'd like some water," he said. "I don't drink in the morning."

She went out and he heard how she spoke to Uno. Her voice sounded clear and full. Then she returned, sat on the arm of his chair and began to tell him her dream. Rumata listened, nervously plucking at his eyebrows, and felt the wall grow thicker and more unassailable by the minute, separating him forever from the only human being whom he loved and cherished here on this horrible world. And, all of a sudden, he threw himself forcefully against this wall.

Kyra, he said. It was no dream!" And nothing extraordinary happened.

"My poor darling," said Kyra. "Wait, I'll bring you some pickles..."

FIVE

Once, not too long ago the court of the Irukanian kings had been one that especially concerned itself with refinement and culture. A number of scholars were retained at court-- mostly charlatans, of course, but also men like Bagir Kissenski, the discoverer of the curvature of the planet, or the king's personal physician Tata, who made the brilliant assertion that epidemics were caused by tiny worms, invisible to the naked eye and spread by water and wind, or Synda the alchemist, who--true to his kind--was searching for a way of making gold from dirt, and who quite incidentally discovered the law of the preservation of energy. There were also poets to be found at the Arkanarian court. Though the majority consisted mainly of sycophants and parasites, there was also Pepin, the Great, the author of the historical tragedy The Northern Campaign; then there was also Zuren, the Just, who wrote over five hundred ballads and sonnets that became folksongs; and finally the poet Gur, who wrote the first secular novel in the history of the realm, a sad romance about a prince who fell in love with a beautiful barbarian maiden. There were also splendid artists, dancers and singers at the court. Remarkable painters covered the walls with immortal frescoes, famous sculptors adorned the parks of the royal abode with their creations. Nevertheless it cannot be said that the Arkanarian kings were true patrons of the arts and sciences or genuine connoisseurs. All that served merely as decoration, the same as the ceremony accompanying the awakening and rising of the king or the spectacular officers of the guard at the castle entrance.

The indulgence of the monarchs would sometimes go as far as to permit some scientists and poets to become note-worthy little cogs in the machinery of the state. Thus, for instance, barely fifty years had passed since the highly learned alchemist Botsa had held the post of Minister of the Department of Mining--a position that had since been eliminated because it was no longer needed. In this capacity he opened up several new mines and made Arkanar famous for its high-grade, alloys; unfortunately, Botsa's secret formulas had been lost after his death. Pepin, the poet, presided until recently over the state's educational program, but then his Ministry for History and Language Sciences was declared to be detrimental to mental health, as it was known to have caused the disintegration of human minds.

Although it had occasionally happened that the king's favorite mistress, a dull, mawkish person, did not care for a particular scientist or artist, who then might be either sold abroad or poisoned by arsenic, it was Don Reba who finally espoused the cause thoroughly and with gusto. During his reign as omnipotent Minister of Security for the Protection of the Crown, he would organize such violent pogroms amongst the members of the intelligentsia that he would even manage to evoke the dissatisfaction of certain noble grandees, who pronounced that court life was becoming increasingly more boring and who complained that they heard nothing but silly gossip at the court balls.

Bagir Kissenski was accused of insanity present to a degree bordering on treason, and was then imprisoned in a dungeon. It was only through the efforts of Rumata that he was released and returned to the capital. Bagir's observatory was burned to the ground and those of his students who had remained unmolested fled as far away as possible. Tata, the king's personal physician, together with five other quacks, suddenly turned out to be a common poisoner who was inciting the Irukanian Duke against the person of the King. He confessed everything in the torture chamber and was hanged in public on the Royal Square. While attempting to rescue Tata, Rumata spent thirty poods of gold, lost four of his agents (noble dons who did not realize what they were doing) and came himself within an ace of being killed when he was attacked during an attempt to abduct the condemned physician.

That had been his first big defeat. And that was when he finally understood that Don Reba was no mere accident. One week later he learned that Synda the alchemist was to be brought to trial for allegedly concealing the philosopher's stone from the state treasury. Rumata was still boiling mad over his latest defeat and therefore decided to take matters into his own hands. He laid an ambush around the house of the alchemist, disguised himself with a black mask, and personally disarmed the Sturmoviks who were about to march the alchemist off to prison; locked the Sturmoviks in the cellar of Synda's house and that very night led Synda, who had not the vaguest notion what was happening to him, across the border to Soan. There, after an initial shrug of his shoulders, the alchemist continued his search for the philosopher's stone under Don Kondor's supervision. Pepin, the poet, suddenly donned a monk's garb and retired to some distant monastery. Zuren, the Just, had been unmasked only recently. He was found guilty of making criminally ambiguous utterances, and was further convicted of playing up to the taste of the lower classes. He was declared to have forfeited his honor and fortune, tried to fight for his rights, recited quite openly subversive ballads in disreputable inns and was twice almost beaten to death by some patriotically minded persons. Not until then did he permit his friend and patron Don Rumata to persuade him to flee to the capital of the realm. Rumata would never be able to forget the sight of the departing poet: pale and blue at the same time, totally drunk, his thin arms clung to the planks of the ship as it left the dock, while he roared out his farewell sonnet in a resonant, surprisingly youthful voice: "It weighs upon my soul like fallen leaves .,."

As far as the poet Gur was concerned, he was informed by Don Reba on the occasion of a private audience that the Prince of Arkanar could not befriend his ilk, in view of the hostility expressed in his poems. Whereupon Gur personally threw his own works into a bonfire on the Royal Square. Ever since that time, whenever the king was graciously pleased to go for a ride, Gur would stand in the crowd of courtiers, his head bowed, his face blank; upon an imperceptible sign from Don Reba, he would step forward from the courtiers' ranks and recite ultrapatriotic poems-- which, however, were greeted with nothing but secretly stifled yawns.

And on the stage the same play was presented over and over again: The Downfall of the Barbarians; or Marshal Totz, King Pits of Arkanar. Musical performances were generally limited now to concerts with songs accompanied by orchestra. Those artists who had survived painted signboards. Two or three of the cleverest ones even managed to remain at court, where they painted portrait after portrait of the king and Don Reba (who was always solicitously and respectfully supporting the king). This characterization was none too encouraging: the king was always represented as a radiant twenty year old clad in a suit of armor, while Don Reba was pictured as a mature man with a very meaningful expression.

It became very boring indeed at the Arkanarian court. Nevertheless, the grandees, the noble dons without occupation, the officers of the guard, and the noble dons' frivolous beauties would fill the antechambers and salons of the palace as of yore--some out of vanity, others out of fear. To be truthful, many were quite unaware of any changes. They were those who, in the olden days, when they had had to attend concerts and poetry readings, had been most appreciative of the intermission. In fact, they could hardly wait for the pause so that they could discuss the merits of various breeds of hunting dogs or tell each other jokes. They were still capable of participating in a short dispute about the characteristics of souls in life after death, but problems such as the form of planets or the cause of epidemics were already considered indecent. A certain nostalgia was felt by the officers of the guard when the painters vanished; their representations of nature in the raw had been so masterful...

Rumata appeared at the palace, a little too late. The ceremony of the king's toilette had already begun. The rooms were packed, and the king's irritated voice could be heard over the melodious commands of the master of ceremony, who oversaw the formal dressing of His Majesty. The courtiers were discussing the events of the previous night. A criminal with Irukanian features had stolen into the palace during the night, slain the guard, and crept into the king's sleeping chamber. There, it was said, he had been disarmed and captured by Don Reba in person; on the way to the Tower of Joy he had been torn to pieces by a pack of patriots whose servility and loyalty to the king had driven them wild with rage. This was the sixth attempt on the king's life in one month, and this latest incident hardly roused any particular interest. It was only the special details that were being discussed. Rumata learned that His Majesty had set up in bed at the sight of the murderer and had covered the most beautiful Dona Midara with his own body, while uttering the historic words: "Get away with you, scoundrel!" Most courtiers willingly believed that these historic words had been spoken but assumed that the king had uttered them mistaking the murderer for a servant. And all agreed to a man that as usual Don Reba had been on his guard and was invincible in a fight at close quarters. Rumata expressed his agreement with this opinion with some flowery expressions, and in reply told a story he thought up on the spur of the moment how Don Reba had been attacked by twelve bandits: he finished off three of them right then and there, and routed the rest. The story was received with keen interest and lively approval, whereupon Rumata made the incidental remark that he had heard this story from Don Sera. All interest rapidly faded from the faces of the listeners, for it was common knowledge what a notorious liar and cheat Don Sera was. Not a word was said about Dona Okana. Either they had not yet heard about it or they pretended not to know anything.

With pleasant remarks, gallantly kissing the ladies' hands, Rumata pushed his way step by step through the crowd of bedizened, perfumed and profusely sweating people until he reached the front rows. The nobles of the land spoke in soft voices: "Yes indeed, what a filly. She tried to barricade herself but, confound it! if he didn't gamble her away that same night and lost her to Don Ke . . ."--"And her hips, my noble don, were of the most exquisite shape. How did Zuren phrase it so beautifully . . . hm, hm, hm . . . mountains of cool foam . . . hm, hm, hm . . . no, hills of cool foam . . .. be it as it may, they were fine hips."--"So I open the window very softly, take my dagger between my teeth, and just imagine, my dear friend, I feel how the window grating above me is giving way . . ."--"I raked the hilt of my sword across his teeth so that the old gray dog spun twice around his axis. By the way, you can admire him right over there; there he stands looking like he owned the world . . ." --". . . and Don Tameo was spitting on the floor, slipped and fell head forward into the fireplace . . ."--". . . then the monk says to her: 'Do tell me your dream.' Ha ha ha!"

Nauseating, thought Rumata. If somebody should chance to do away with me at this moment, this group of morons would be the last thing I had seen in my life. Only ready wit, that's the only thing that will save me. Me and Budach. Seize the right moment and then suddenly let him have it. Take him by surprise so he won't even have a chance to open his mouth! But don't give them a chance to finish me off; there-is no reason for me to die here!

At a measured pace he advanced toward the door of the king's bedchamber, touched his swords with both hands, bent his legs slightly at the knees according to the court's etiquette and approached the royal bed. They were just about to put on the king's stockings. The master of ceremonies followed with bated breath each movement of the skillful hands of the two royal grooms. To the right of an open alcove stood Don Reba, talking in a hardly audible voice with a tall, rawboned man in a gray velvet uniform. It was Father Zupik, one of the leaders of the Sturmoviki, a colonel in the king's bodyguard. Don Reba was a well-experienced courtier. To judge by the expression on his face, his only concern here was the nose of a certain filly, or the virtuous behavior of the royal niece. Father Zupik, however, a warrior and an ex-grocer, did not know how to control himself. His face grew dark, he bit his lips, and his fingers gripped his sword hilt, then released it suddenly. Finally, with a violent twitching of his cheeks, he turned around abruptly and--violating all rules of proper etiquette -- walked straight out of the king's bedchamber toward the crowd of assembled courtiers, who stood there petrified by such rudeness. Don Reba looked after him with an innocent smile, while Rumata followed the awkward gray figure with his eyes and thought: another dead man. Here we go again! He knew of the friction between Don Reba and the leadership of the Gray hordes. History was about to repeat itself; another one to share the fate of Captain Ernst Rohm of Nazi fame!

Now the stockings had been properly pulled up on the king's legs. Obeying the melodious orders of the master of ceremony, the royal grooms elegantly reached for the royal shoes with their fingertips, when suddenly, out of the clear blue sky, the king kicked at them and turned so violently in the direction of Don Reba, that his belly flopped on his knees like a fully packed sack.

"I am sick and tired of your attempts on my life!" he howled hysterically. "Assassins, assassins, assassins! I want to sleep at night, and not to have to battle with assassins! Why can't it be arranged that they attack me sometime during the day? You're a lousy minister, Reba. Another night like this and I will have you executed." Dona Reba bowed and put his hand on his heart. "I always get a headache after these attempts on my life!"

All of a sudden he fell silent and quietly regarded his belly. The moment seemed favorable. The royal grooms were hesitating. Above all, he had to draw the king's attention to himself. Rumata yanked the right shoe out of the royal groom's hand, knelt down before the king and reverently pulled the shoe onto the heavy, silk-clad foot. For this was the age-old privilege of the house of the Rumatas: to shoe with their own hand the right foot of the crowned heads of the kingdom. The king bestowed a dull glance upon Don Rumata; then suddenly, a glimmer of interest came into his eyes.

"Ah, Rumata!" he said. "You are still alive? But Reba promised me to do away with you!"

He started to chuckle. "What a miserable minister he is, that Reba. He's always making promises but he only pretends. He promised to put an end to all these conspiracies but the conspiracies grow more and more frequent. And these Gray monsters he's shipped into my palace . . . I'm a sick man, and he hangs all my personal physicians."

Rumata had now completely slipped the shoe on, bowed and stepped back two paces. He intercepted an attentive glance from Don Reba and tried to give his face a snooty, dull expression.

"I'm a very sick man," the king continued. "Everything hurts me. I'd like to pass on to my eternal rest. I would have long since done so, but you'll all go to rot and ruin without me, you pigs..."

Now they put on his other shoe. He rose to his feet but soon began to moan, doubled over with pain, and clasped his knees.

"Where are my physicians, my quacksalvers?" he roared with pain. "Where is my good Tata? You hanged him, you imbecile! And I would feel better at the mere sound of his voice! Be silent! I know myself that he was a poisoner! But I could not have cared less? So what if he concocted poisons? He was a physician, he was a good medical doctor! Do you understand that, you murderer? He may have poisoned some people, but he cured others. But you strangle everybody you can lay your hands on. How I wish you'd hanged yourself instead of him!" Don Reba bowed, placed a hand over his heart and remained in this position. "You had all of them hanged! Nobody stayed alive except for the charlatans! And the priests who administer holy water to me instead of medicine . . . Who will prepare some medicine for me now that Tata is gone? Who will rub healing ointment on my foot?"

"My King!" Rumata spoke up loud and clear, and it seemed to him that the whole palace froze in horror. "You have but to give the command and the best doctor in your entire kingdom will be here within one hour!"

The king stared at him perplexed. The risk was tremendous. Don Reba needed merely to blink an eyelid . . . Rumata could sense with all his body how numerous eyes stared at him intensely, ready to attack at any moment-- he also knew the purpose of the rows of round, black openings which were visible just below the ceiling of the bed chamber. Don Reba regarded him with an expression of both politeness and benevolent curiosity.

"What is that supposed to mean?" asked the king in a sulking voice. "Well, then, I am giving you an order: where is your quacksalver?"

Rumata's entire body began to tense up. He could almost feel the arrow tips in his back already.

"Your Majesty," he said quickly. "Please, order Don Reba to produce the famous doctor Budach before your presence!"

How amazing! He had said the most important thing and he was still alive. Should Don Reba harbor any doubts about his position in this case? The king directed his weary glance toward his Minister of Internal Security.

"Your Majesty," continued Rumata, now without haste and with a deliberate and restrained tone. "Inasmuch as I have known of your truly unbearable suffering, and heedful of my family's duty toward the royal house, I arranged for the famous, most learned physician Budach to come here from Irukan. Most regrettably I must report that the doctor's journey to you was cut short. The soldiers of our honorable Don Reba seized him one week ago and his fate from that day on is known to Don Reba alone. I presume that the physician is currently somewhere in this vicinity, probably in the Tower of Joy. I can only hope that Don Reba's peculiar dislike of physicians has not yet had a fateful effect on Doctor Budach's well-being."

Rumata fell silent and held his breath. Apparently everything was going smoothly. Hold your horses, Don Reba! He glanced swiftly in the direction of the minister--and froze. The Minister of Internal Security had firm control over himself. He nodded briefly toward Rumata--a tender, fatherly reproach. This was the last thing Rumata expected from him. He seems triumphant, thought Rumata nonplussed. But the king, on the other hand, behaved true to form.

"You scoundre!" he shouted. "I'll wring your neck! Where is the doctor? Where is the doctor, I am asking you!"

Reba advanced a step, smiling pleasantly.

"Your Majesty," he said, "you are truly a fortunate ruler, for you have so many devoted subjects that they sometimes interfere with each other in their desire to serve you." The king stared at him with dull, uncomprehending eyes. "I do not wish to conceal that our zealous Don Rumata's noble intentions were well known to me, like everything else in your realm. I do not wish to conceal that I sent out our Gray soldiers to meet Doctor Budach halfway for the sole purpose of protecting the honorable old man from the discomforts of his long journey. Furthermore, I do not wish to conceal that I was in no particular hurry to present the Irukanian Budach to Your Majesty"

"How dare you do that!" the king reproached him.

"Your Majesty, Don Rumata is young and as inexperienced in politics as he is experienced in the noble art of dueling. Thus he was, of course, totally unaware of the dastardly feats the Duke of Irukan is capable of in his raging wickedness against the person of Your Majesty. But you and I, we two are naturally aware of that, aren't we, Your Majesty?" The king nodded assent. "And that is why I deemed it advisable to conduct some kind of an investigation, merely as a precautionary measure. I would not have rushed matters, but if you, my King (a deep bow toward the king), and you, Don Rumata (a slight nod toward Rumata), so urgently insist on it, I'll bring Doctor Budach into your presence this very day, after your midday meal, so that he can begin your treatment."

"You are not so stupid after all, Don Reba," said the king, after pondering a little while over his minister's words. "An investigation . . . that's fine . . . can never do any harm.

The cursed Irukanian . . ." He howled suddenly with pain and touched his knee again. "Oh, damn that leg! Good, right after the midday meal then? I'll have to wait till then . . . have to wait."

And leaning on the shoulder of the master of ceremony, the king slowly walked into the presence chamber, past Rumata, who was completely dumbfounded. And just as Don Reba was about to make his way through the crowd of the courtiers, who politely stepped aside to let him pass through, he bestowed a friendly smile on Don Rumata and asked:

"Is it correct, Don Rumata, that it is you who will do guard duty tonight in the Prince's bedroom? I have been properly informed, haven't I?"

Rumata bowed in silence.

Rumata ambled aimlessly through the endless corridors and cross passages of the palace. It was dark and humid there, and smelled of ammonia and putrefaction. He passed by magnificent rooms, decorated with rich carpets and wall hangings, and also by storage closets filled with junk and old furniture with peeling gilding. One rarely encountered anybody there. Occasionally some courtier would lose his way and wander around in this labyrinth, located in the back wings of the palace where the royal apartments gradually merged into the offices of the Ministry of Internal Security. It was easy to get lost here. Everyone remembered the time when a patrol of the guard, doing their rounds, were frightened by the howling of some man, who stretched his scratched hands out to them through the barred window of an embrasure. "Save me!" yelled the man. "I am a gentleman of the bedchamber! I don't know how to get out of here! I haven't eaten in two days! Will you get me out of here!" (There was an animated correspondence for ten days between the Treasurer of the Household and the Lord Stewart, which finally resulted in a decision to yank out the window bars. During these ten days they fed the poor gentleman of the bedchamber with bread and meat that was passed to him speared upon the tip of a lance.) Besides, there lurked various other dangers in these passages. Drunken soldiers of the Household troops, who were supposed to guard the person of the king, and drunken Sturmoviks, in charge of watching over the ministry, would clash in these narrow corridors and fight bitter battles. But after they had done with beating each other up, they would separate and carry off their wounded. And finally, this was where the ghosts of the slain would wander about--a quite considerable crowd of poor murdered souls had accumulated here in the palace during the course of the last two centuries.

From a deep nook in the wall he saw a Sturmovik emerging who was on guard duty. The Gray soldier raised his ax and said somberly:

"No admittance."

"A fat lot you know, stupid!" said Rumata and shoved him aside.

As he was walking on, he could hear the Sturmovik scrape the floor with his boots and stomp his feet, unable to decide how he should react to Don Rumata's insult. Don Rumata caught himself thinking that this offensive manner of speaking and these indolent gestures had almost become second nature to him: no longer did he merely pretend to act like a lout of noble birth, but he had assumed such behavior as sort of an automatic reflex. He visualized the effect of such behavior back on Earth and was overcome at once by a feeling of shame and nausea.--Why should I behave that way? What change has come over me? Whatever became of the respect and the confidence in my peers that constituted an ingrained pattern of conduct ever since I was a child? What kind of relationship have I developed to other human beings, to the wonderful creature called "man"? But I must be beyond all help anyhow by now . . . The horrifying thought raced through his mind: I actually hate and despise them. I feel no pity for them--no, I truly hate and despise them. Even if I consider the dullness and bestiality of that lump of flesh, the social circumstances and his horrible education ... I can try as hard as I might, but I now see quite clearly that this is my enemy, hostile to everything I hold dear, the enemy of my friends, the enemy of all I personally hold sacred. And I do not hate him in an abstract manner, nor as a "typical representative," but as an individual. I hate his disgusting mouth, all smeared with saliva, the stench of his unwashed body, his blind faith, his antipathy toward anything beyond sexual needs and guzzling beer. There he stands, shuffling his feet, this adolescent whose potbellied father used to thrash his hide not more than half a year ago in order to train him with such methods to become a merchant in maggoty flour and mouldy jam: there he stands, moaning and groaning, this addlebrain, torturing himself as he tries in vain to remember the pertinent paragraphs of the rules that were crammed into his stupid head--and he cannot make up his mind whether to use his hatchet on the noble don, to shout for help, or to simply wave him on his way. Whichever way he decides, no one will ever find out about it. He shrugs off everything in the world that bothers him, returns to his niche in the wall, puts a piece of chewing rind into his fat mouth, smacks his lips, chews the cud like a contented cow, and drips saliva like a teething babe. And nothing in the world will interest him. He will not exercise his brain for anything. God forbid! But how much better than he is our Enlightened Eagle, Don Reba? True, his psyche is more complicated, and his reflexes are more intricate, but his thoughts definitely resemble those of this fellow, who is reeking of ammonia and these labyrinthine corridors, studded with crimes. And he is indescribably vile, a horrid criminal, an unscrupulous spider. I have come to this planet to love these people, to assist them in their task of self-development, to enable them to see the light. No, I am a poor emissary, he thought sadly. I am a failure as a historian. And when did it happen that I fell into this abyss of which Don Kondor was speaking? Is a god entitled to any other feelings besides pity?

From behind his back came a hurried clomping of boots down the corridor. Rumata spun around and seized both swords with his hands placed crosswise at the hilt. Don Ripat rushed toward him, brandishing his unsheathed sword.

"Don Rumata, Don Rumata!" he called out in a loud whisper while still far away.

Rumata released his grip on his swords. Now Don Ripat had come quite close; he looked carefully in all directions, then whispered, almost inaudibly, into Rumata's ear:

"I've been looking for you for nearly an hour. Waga Koleso is here in the palace! He is talking with Don Reba in the lilac room."

Rumata narrowed his eyes momentarily. Then he cautiously stepped to one side and said with polite surprise:

"You wouldn't be talking about the famous robber chief? I believe he has been executed a long time ago, or probably exists only as a figment of popular imagination."

The lieutenant licked his chapped lips.

"He does exist . . . He is in the palace ... I thought this would interest you."

"My dear Don Ripat," said Rumata with emphasis. "I am always interested in all kinds of rumors. Gossip. Anecdotes. Life is so dull... You must have misunderstood me."

The lieutenant regarded him with perplexed eyes. Rumata continued: "Just use your own judgment, will you? Why should I be involved in Don Reba's underhand dealings and fishy relationships? But don't forget how much I do appreciate Don Reba as a person; I would be unable to condemn and criticize his actions.--Please, will you forgive me, I am in a hurry. A lady is expecting me."

Don Ripat licked his lips again, bowed awkwardly and walked off to one side. Suddenly, Don Rumata had an inspiration.

"By the way, my friend," he called after Don Ripat with kindness in his voice, "how did you like the little trick we played on Don Reba this forenoon?"

Don Ripat willingly came to a halt.

"We are most satisfied," he said.

"Wasn't it charming?"

"It was marvelous! The leadership of the Gray soldiers is very pleased that you finally have openly taken our side. Such a clever man like you, Don Rumata, wasting your time with barons, these titled monsters ..."

"My dear Ripat!" said Rumata condescendingly, while turning to leave. "You seem to forget that seen from the pinnacle of my lineage hardly any difference can be noticed between the king and your ilk. Goodbye!"

He strode off confidently through the corridors, turned into side passages without a trace of indecision and pushed the guards aside without as much as a word being said. He had only some dim notion how to proceed now but he was sure that this was an amazing and very rare coincidence. He must hear the conversation between the two spiders. It was not for nothing that Don Reba had promised fourteen times the reward for Waga brought in alive rather than dead.

From behind the heavy lilac-colored curtains stepped two Gray lieutenants, their swords unsheathed.

"Greetings to you, my friends," said Don Rumata and stopped right between the two men. "Is the minister in his apartment?"

"The minister is busy, Don Rumata," said one of the two lieutenants.

"I'll wait for him, then," said Rumata and passed between the drapes. It was pitch dark here, impossible to see anything at all. He cautiously groped his way through chairs, tables, and heavy cast iron lantern stands. Then he perceived a thin ray of light, heard the familiar tenor voice of Waga Koleso, and came to a halt. Several times he distinctly heard someone breathe just behind his head and he was enveloped in a cloud of garlic and beer odors. Then he felt a spear point pressed cautiously but unmistakably between his shoulder blades. "Keep calm, you moron!" he said irritably but softly. "It's me, Don Rumata!"

The spear was withdrawn. Rumata pushed a chair toward the chink of light, sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and yawned so loud that anyone could hear it. Then he started to observe.

The spiders had met. Don Reba sat there, very tense, elbows on the table and fingers interlaced. At his right was a stack of papers with a heavy wooden-handled dagger placed on top.

The minister's face displayed a pleasant if somewhat rigid smile. The honorable Waga was sitting on a divan, his back turned to Rumata. He resembled a quaint old magnate who had been spending the last thirty years of his life on his country place in total seclusion.

"The murgles are crockled," he said, "and the crack-stampers have been stubbing around our warrels with their greems quappered up. And there are twenty long zackerlings by now. Crupply and cressly, I would shrab them right on the snoller, crump over crass. But the zackerlings have a zunker way of sharmauning things. That's why we've been brimsing our trunks. That's our expomple ..."

Don Reba cupped his well-shaven chin in his hand.

"Murbelously brickered out," he said pensively.

Waga shrugged his shoulders.

"That is krapul our expomple. I wouldn't flarry that you'd cruckle with us. Well, groosby then?"

"Groosby," said the Minister of Internal Security firmly.

"And smucks off," said Waga and got to his feet.

Rumata, who had listened totally perplexed to this nonsense, discovered a bushy mustache in Waga's face and a little, gray pointed beard. A genuine courtier from the reign of the former king.

"This was a very pleasant chat, Don Reba," said Waga.

Don Reba rose, too.

"I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation, a great pleasure indeed," he said. "I have never met such a courageous man as you, my dear Koleso..."

"The same here," replied Waga with a slightly bored expression. "I am as amazed as I am proud of the boldness of the First Minister of our kingdom."

Then he turned on his heels and walked toward the exit, leaning heavily on his cane. Don Reba did not take his eyes off the old man. He seemed lost in thought and absentmind-ediy placed his hand on the handle of his dagger. Immediately afterwards somebody standing behind Rumata puffed with all his might and the long blue tube of a blow-gun pushed past his ear to the chink in the drapes. For a moment, Don Reba remained motionless, intent on listening, then he sat down again, pulled out a drawer, took out a bundle of papers and began to study them. Somebody spat out in back of Rumata and the blowpipe disappeared. It was all very clear. The spiders had found their solution. Rumata stood up, stepped on someone's feet and finally left the horrid room with the lilac-colored drapes.

The king was dining in a gigantic hall whose ceiling took up two storeys. The ninety-foot table had been set for 100 persons. The king was joined at table by Don Reba, personages of royal blood (two dozen blue bloods, gluttons, and experienced drunkards), various masters of ceremony, several members of the local aristocracy who traditionally were the king's dinner guests and among whom Rumata was counted, a few transient barons with their wooden-headed spouses, and at the farthest end of the table, the landed gentry, the lesser nobility that had been invited with or even without any special privileges. The last group of guests received, together with their dinner invitations, a seating number for the table, and a list of instructions: "Sit quietly; the King does not like people to wiggle in their seats. Keep your hands on top of the table; the King does not like people to hide their hands underneath it. Do not turn around; the King does not like people to turn then back on him." At every meal they would devour enormous quantities of the choicest foods, guzzle down rivers of old wines, and veritable mountains of the famous Estorian porcelain dishes were broken. In one of his reports to the king, the Treasurer once boasted that one such dinner at the royal table cost as much as was spent for the upkeep of the Soanian Academy of Sciences during six months.

While Rumata was waiting for the master of ceremonies to call three times, "Come to table!" and the accompanying sound of fanfares, he joined a group of courtiers and listened for the tenth time to Don Tameo's famous story about how he had had the honor to partake of another royal meal some six months ago. "... So I arrive at my designated seat, we're all standing, the King enters, sits down, so we, too, sit down, and the meal takes its normal course. But suddenly, just imagine, my noble dons, all of a sudden I feel all wet on my seat. Wet! I don't dare to budge from the spot, neither turn around, nor put my hand down there. But, then, I wait for some propitious moment and cautiously feel down there with the fingers of my left hand. And would you believe it, my dear gentlemen, would you believe it! It's wet down there! I quickly sniff at my fingers--no, they don't stink. What the devil is going on? Meanwhile the dinner is over, everyone rises from their chairs, but--as you can fully imagine, my dear dons--I don't quite feel like getting up from my seat . . . Then, lo and behold, the King comes toward me, His Majesty! But I remain seated like some yokel baron from the hinterland who knows nothing about court etiquette. His Majesty comes quite close, smiles graciously and puts his hand on my shoulder. 'My dear Don Tameo,' he says. 'We have all gotten up from table and are going to watch the ballet but you are still sitting on your chair. What is the matter? Have you not had enough to eat, perhaps?'--'Your Majesty,' I say, 'have my head cut off, but my seat is wet." His Majesty was graciously pleased to break out in laughter, and ordered me to stand up. I rise from my chair--and guess what? Loud laughter all around us. Noble dons, all throughout dinner I had been sitting on a rum torte! His Majesty was graciously roaring with laughter. Finally he said: 'Reba, Reba! Is that one of your pranks again? Just wipe the noble don's behind, he has his pants full!' Don Reba doubles over with laughter, pulls out his dagger and scrapes the torte off the seat of my pants. Can you picture what I felt like, noble dons? I won't hide it from you, I was trembling and shaking all over, frightened to death at the thought of having humiliated Don Reba in front of everyone, afraid that he now would revenge himself. Fortunately, however, all turned out all right at the end. I assure you, my noble dons, this was the happiest event in my life! I made the King enjoy himself. Oh, how he laughed! How he had fun!"

The fanfares sounded, the master of ceremonies called in his melodious voice for all to come to the table. The king entered the hall, slightly dragging one leg behind. All took their seats at the royal table. The guards on duty were stationed in all four comers of the hall, immobile, leaning on their double-fisted swords. Rumata's table companions on either side were silent. To his right, the chair was filled with the quaking, immense belly of the somber glutton Don Pifa, married to a fabled beauty. On his left sat the poet Our, staring into his empty plate with a blank expression. The guests were all intently watching the king. The king fastened a napkin, more gray than white, around his neck, quickly glanced at the round of dishes in front of him, and reached for a chicken leg. Hardly had he fastened his teeth on the meat than one hundred knives swept with a noisy clatter down on the plates and one hundred hands greedily dug into the dishes. The dining hall was filled with slurping and smacking of lips, the wine flowed like a torrent. The mustaches of the guardsmen, who were leaning unmoving on their swords, began to twitch in a dance of greed. Once Rumata had been nauseated by these affairs, but now he had gotten used to them.

While he was carving the thigh of a ram with his dagger, he slyly glanced to his right, but quickly looked away again:

Don Pifa's torso was bent over an entire roast boar and working its way into it like a bulldozer. Not even the bones remained behind his steadily advancing body. Rumata held his breath and emptied a full glass of Irukanian wine. Then he turned slightly to his left. The poet Gur was poking his spoon joylessly in a bowl of meat salad.

"Writing something?" inquired Rumata in a subdued voice. Gur gave a sudden start.

"Writing something? I? I don't know ... sure, sure, lots of things.."

"Poems?"

"Yes, yes ... poems ..."

"They're terrible poems, Father Gur." Gur looked at him with a strange expression "You're no poet!"

"No poet. . . Sometimes I reflect on what I really am, and what I am afraid of. I don't know..."

"Look into your plate and continue eating. I'll tell you what you are. A creative genius, the discoverer of new ways in literature, and one of the most productive writers to boot." Gur's cheeks became flushed with red. "In a hundred years, and maybe sooner, dozens of poets will follow in your tracks."

"God forbid!" The words escaped from the poet's lips. "Now I shall tell you what you're really afraid of." "I am afraid of the dark." The evening darkness?"

"This too. For dusk offers us up to the power of the ghosts. But most of all I fear the darkness at night, for everything turns gray in the same manner at night."

"Well said. Father Gur. But now, something else: is your work still obtainable?"

"I don't know--and I do not want to know." "Let me assure you, one copy is in the capital, in the emperor's library. Another copy is preserved in the Museum of Rarities in Scan. And a third copy is in my possession." Gur took a spoonful of jelly, his hand trembling heavily. "I... I do not know..."

His large, deep-set eyes were depressed as he looked at Rumata. "I would like to read it... read it once more . .." "I shall send it to you with pleasure." "And then?" "And then you'll return it to me." "Oh, yes, give it back again!" said Gur sharply. "Don Reba has intimidated you very much Father Gur." "Intimidated , . . Have you ever had to burn your own children? What do you know of terror, of fear, noble don?"

"I bow my head respectfully before all you have had to go through, Father Gur. But I condemn you with all my soul for giving up!"

Suddenly Gur, the poet, began to whisper so softly that Rumata could hardly hear him over the general babble of voices and noisy eaters at the table.

"And what is that all supposed to mean? What is the truth? Prince Chaar really did love that beautiful copper-skinned woman. They had children together. I know their grandchildren. They poisoned them, they really did. But they told me this was all a lie. They told me truth is whatever is beneficial for the King. All else is nothing but lies and crimes. Only now am I finally writing the truth . . ." He suddenly rose from his seat and recited in a lofty, declamatory singsong:

Great and glorious, like eternity,

Rules the King named Noblemind.

Plotting princes grope uncertainly

When their visions he strikes blind.

The king interrupted his chewing for a moment, parted his lips to show a mouth full of food. He regarded Gur out of dull eyes. The guests pulled their heads back between their shoulders. Only Don Reba smiled and clapped his hands a few times, almost inaudibly. The king spat out several bones onto the carpet and said:

"Glorious? Right. Eternity? Good! You can go on eating."

The lip smacking and babbling started anew. Gur sat down.

"How sweet and pleasant to tell the King the truth right to his face," he said raucously.

Rumata was silent. Then he said:

"I'll have a copy of the book sent over, Father Gur. One condition though. You will immediately begin a new work."

"No," said Gur. "Too late. Let Kiun write. I'm already poisoned. And anyway, I'm no longer interested in these things. The only thing I'd like to do now--I want to learn to drink. Only I can't... My stomach hurts ..."

One more defeat to chalk up, thought Rumata. Too late.

"Listen, Reba," said the king suddenly. "Where is the quack? You promised to bring me a physician after dinner!"

"He is here, Your Highness," said Don Reba. "Are you ordering me to call him?"

"Am I ordering you? That's more than flesh and blood can bear! If you had pains in your knee like mine, you'd be squealing like a stuck pig! Have him come in at once!"

Rumata leaned back in his chair in order to see better. Don Reba raised his hand above his head and snapped his fingers. The door opened and in walked an old, bent man, constantly bowing, clad in a floor-length mantilla embroidered with silvery spiders, golden stars and glittering snakes. He was carrying a long, flat satchel under his arm. Rumata was worried and disappointed at the same time. He had imagined Budach to look quite different. Could such a wise man and humanist, author of the encyclopedic Treatise Concerning Poisons, have such restlessly wandering, inflamed eyes, lips aquiver with fear, and such a pitiful, subservient smile? But then Rumata remembered the poet Gur. Wouldn't the persecution of an Irukanian spy be a worthwhile literary discussion in Don Reba's cabinet? Wouldn't it be fun to tweak Don Reba's ear, he thought, and mentally smacked his lips. He should be dragged off to the dungeon. And the torturers should be instructed: There he is, that Irukanian spy who pretends to be our Arkanarian Minister of Internal Security. The king demands that you drag out of him where the real minister is being kept. Go to work! And woe betide you, if he dies before the week is over . . . Rumata had to hide his face in his hand. A wave of hatred swept over him. What a terrible thing, this hatred...

"There you are. Come over here, you quack," said the king. "Come here, my dear man, you mental giant. Well, sit down over here--sit down, I said!--and begin!"

The unfortunate Budach set to work, his face contorted with fright.

"Go on, go on!" winced the king. "Keep on going, I tell you! Get down on your knees, your knees can't possibly hurt you. Cured himself, that devil! Now, let me see your teeth! That's the way. I'll say a fine set of teeth you have here. If I only had teeth like that! And your hands are in fine shape, too, good and strong. What a healthy chap he is ... and a mental giant in spite of it ... Well, then . . . Come on, my dove, go on, heal me, what are you waiting for?"

"If You-you-r Ma-majesty . . . would graciously show me the sick leg ... the leg . . .," stuttered the physician. Rumata looked up.

The physician knelt before the king and cautiously examined his leg.

"Eh!" snorted the king. "What's that supposed to be? Don't you touch me! Now that you have started, cure me!"

"I ... I ... have seen everything I need, Your Majesty," mumbled the physician nervously and started to rummage hurriedly in his satchel

The guests stopped chewing. The aristocrats of lower rank, who were sitting at the farthest end of the table, even stood up and, burning with curiosity, stretched their necks so as to be able to see better.

Budach took a few small stone bottles from his satchel, uncorked them, sniffed at each, one after the other, then placed them in one row on the table before him. Then he took the king's goblet and filled it half with wine. While he was executing mysterious hand motions above the goblet, he whispered magic formulas then swiftly emptied all the little bottles into the cup. A distinct smell of ammonia spread throughout the hall. The king's lips became pencil-thin. He peered into the cup, puckered, up his mouth, and glanced over in Don Reba's direction. The minister smiled sympathetically. The courtiers held their breath.

What on earth is he doing? wondered Rumata. The old king has gout! What concoction has he been brewing together in that cup? Yet he stated quite clearly in his treatise:

"Rub the swollen limbs with the three-days-old poison of the Qu snake." Perhaps he is going to use it to rub the potion into his skin?

"What is this?" asked the king, full of distrust, pointing with his right forefinger to the goblet. "It's a liniment, is it, to rub into my aching knee?"

"Not at all, Your Majesty," said Budach. He seemed to have regained his composure somewhat by now. "This is to be taken by mouth."

"B-y-y mou-outh?" The king puffed out his cheeks and leaned back in his armchair. "I don't want to take anything by mouth! Rub it in!"

"Your wish is my command," said Budach obediently. "But I take the liberty of warning Your Majesty that an external application will not help you, not at all."

"And why did all the others used to rub my knee with ointments?" inquired the king in a surly tone. "And you insist on making me drink this abomination."

"Your Majesty," said Budach and straightened up proudly. "This medicine is known only to me. I have cured the uncle of the Duke of Irukan with it. And what concerns those who advocate rubbing your knee with salves . . . permit me to say ... these quacksalvers have not cured Your Majesty ..."

The king glanced once more over to Don Reba. Don Reba smiled with compassion, it seemed.

"You swindler!" said the king to the physician in a nasty tone of voice. "You yokel! You flea-bitten know-it-all!" He seized the cup. "Here, that's what I'll do with this brew! I'll throw it in your teeth!" He peered into the goblet. "What if it makes me throw up?"

"Then the procedure will have to be repeated. Your Majesty," answered Budach with a sad face.

"Well, I'll do it then," said the king and was just about to raise the cup to his lips when he suddenly pushed it back again, so violently that some of the liquid spilled on the rug. "Ha, dear man, you drink some of it first! I know your ilk, you tricky Irukanians have even sold our Holy Mickey to the barbarians. Drink, I order you!"

Budach accepted the cup, looking rather offended, and sipped a few drops from it.

"Well, what does it taste like?"

"Bitter, Your Majesty," said Budach subdued. "But you, Your Majesty, must drink this medicine now!"

"Must, must!" wailed the king. "I know all by myself what I must do. Give it to me! Half has been spilt already anyhow. Well then, hand it to me!"

He drained the cup at one draught. Compassionate sighs could be heard here and there coming from the dinner guests. And suddenly all was quiet. The king grew rigid, his mouth wide open. Tears welled up in his eyes, then ran down his cheeks, one by one. His face became flushed, little by little, then it turned blue. He stretched one hand out over the table, spasmodically snapping his fingers. Don Reba quickly handed him a sour pickle. The king hurled the pickle at Don Reba and then stretched his hand out again.

"Wine!" he croaked hoarsely.

Somebody bent down and handed him a clay jug. The long drank hastily with huge gulps, madly rolling his eyes all the while. Red stripes were flowing down on his white vest. After he had drained the jug, he threw it at Budach, but he missed.

"You dog's son!" he said with an unexpected deep basso. "Why do you want to kill me off? Haven't they hanged enough of your kind? Go to the devil!"

He fell silent and touched his knee.

"It hurts!" he said in the same whining tone as before. "It's still hurting!"

"Your Majesty!" said Budach. "To obtain a complete cure your Majesty ought to drink this mixture daily, for at least one week."

Something seemed to burst in the king's throat.

"Get away!" howled the king. "Go and be hanged! All of you!" The courders jumped up, rushed en masse to the doors, overturning some chairs.

"Out of my sight! Ou-ou-ou-t!" screamed the king, beside himself with fury, and swept the dishes from the table.

After Rumata had quickly fled the scene along with the rest of the diners, he dived behind the nearest curtain at hand and started to laugh. Behind the curtain next to him, he heard the others laughing too--fitfully, gasping for breath and howling with delight.