SIX

Rumata's tour of night duty in the prince's bedchambers did not begin until midnight. Rumata decided, therefore, to go home in the meantime in order to check if everything was in order and to change clothes. He was puzzled by the way the town looked in the evening light. The streets were enveloped in deep silence, the inns and taverns had shut their doors. At the street crossings groups of the Gray Sturmoviks rattled metallically, their torches in their hands. They, too, did not utter a sound, and seemed to be waiting for something definite. On several occasions one of them would come quite close to Rumata, stare at his face, but as soon as he had recognized him, would always silently permit him to proceed on his way. When Rumata was within fifty feet of his own house, a group of suspicious-looking characters followed hard behind him, yet keeping at a steady distance. Rumata came to a brief halt and rattled his swords. The figures fell back a bit, but soon afterwards he heard behind him the click of a loaded crossbow. Rumata hurried on his way, all the time pressing close to the walls of the houses. He groped for his house door, turned the key in the lock and was all the time painfully aware of his unprotected back. He leapt inside the entrance hall with a sigh of relief.

All his servants had already assembled in the entrance hall, armed with all kinds of weapons. They had checked the gate already repeatedly to make certain it was well secured. Rumata liked none of this. Perhaps I shouldn't leave the house after all, he thought. To hell with the young prince.

"Where is Baron Pampa?" he asked.

Agitated greatly, his crossbow slung over his shoulder, Uno answered that the baron had not awakened until noon, had then drunk all the available water from the sour pickle jugs and had then departed again to have some more fun. Then Uno reported in a serious voice that Kyra had inquired several times after the master--she was most worried about him.

"All right," said Rumata and ordered his servants to take up their posts.

All in all, not counting the female cooks, he had six servants, dependable people generally, used to street brawls. Of course, they won't start up anything with the Gray Ones, thought Rumata, for they fear the wrath of the omnipotent Minister of the Security Forces; but they can make a stand against the wretched characters of the nocturnal army, all the more, since the robbers were expecting to find easy prey without any resistance. The servants were equipped with two crossbows, four battle-axes, several big butcher knives, iron helmets; the gate was secured, studded with nails and bound with iron in keeping with the good old local traditions. Or would it perhaps be best not to leave the house tonight?

Rumata walked upstairs and tiptoed into Kyra's room. Kyra was sleeping in her clothes, curled up on top of the bedspread. Rumata leaned over her, a candlestick held in his hand. Shall I go or not? I would dearly like for once not to have to leave.

He put a light blanket over her, kissed her on the cheek and returned to his room. I must go. Whatever happens, a scout must always be right in the thick of all that is going on. For the benefit of the historians back on Terra. A bitter smile flitted across his features, he took the circlet off his forehead, carefully cleaned the lens with a soft rag and then put the circlet back on again. Then he called Uno and ordered him to bring his suit of armor and the freshly polished copper helmet Shivering with cold, he pulled his metalloplast shirt over his undershirt, right underneath his vest. The metalloplast garment was fashioned like chain mail (the local chain mail provided good protection against injuries inflicted by daggers or swords, but an arrow from a crossbow could easily pierce it). While he girded himself with his uniform belt, fastening the metal clasps, he said to Uno:

"Listen, my boy. I trust you more than anyone else.

Whatever might happen here, Kyra must remain alive and well. I don't care if the whole house burns down, or if they steal all the money I have, but do protect Kyra for me. Lead her, if necessary, over roofs or through basements, whichever way is best, but look out for her, guard her. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Uno. "You shouldn't go out tonight"

"Listen to me. If I'm not back in three days, take Kyra and lead her to the clearing in Hiccup Forest. Do you know where that is? Well, there you will find the Drunkard's Lair, a peculiar-looking hut not far off the road. You need only ask, people will show you where it is. But be careful who you ask. A man by the name of Father Kabani lives there. Tell him everything. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. But it would be much better if you wouldn't leave tonight."

"I would prefer to stay. But it's impossible. Duty calls. Well then, be careful!"

He gently patted the boy's cheek and returned his awkward smile with a friendly glance. Downstairs, he said a few encouraging words to his servants, left the house, and disappeared once more into the darkness. Behind him, he heard the clanking of the heavy doors as they were barred against intruders. Traditionally, the prince's apartments had never been guarded very closely. Quite likely this was the reason no one had ever made an attack against the life of the Arkanarian princes. And in particular, nobody seemed to be interested in the present prince. There was no one who liked this sickly blue-eyed boy, who resembled everyone except his own father. Rumata was fond of the boy, though. His education had been grossly neglected and therefore his imagination had remained unspoiled; he was not cruel like the others, could not stand Don Reba--instinctively, it would seem--loved to sing songs to the verses of Zuren and to play with little boats. Rumata had ordered some illustrated books to be sent for him from the capital, told him about the starry sky and completely won the boy's sympathy by regaling him with fairy tales about flying ships. To Rumata, who rarely had any dealings with young children, the ten-year-old prince seemed to be quite different from the other inhabitants of this wild country. And yet these innocent, blue-eyed children, whichever strata of the population they came from, were the ones who would later develop bestiality, ignorance, and blind submission to the authorities.

Still, these children showed absolutely no traces of meanness. It wouldn't be a bad idea, he thought sometimes, if there were no adults on this planet.

The prince was already asleep. Rumata began his guard duty. Together with the officer he had come to relieve, he approached the bed where the prince was sleeping, and they executed complicated figures with their naked swords as prescribed by court etiquette. Then Rumata made the traditional rounds to check if all windows were closed and bolted, if the nursery-maids were stationed at their assigned places and if candlesticks were burning in all the rooms. Then he returned to the antechamber, played a game of knuckles with the officer of the guard, who was now off duty, and who inquired of the noble don what he thought of the recent events in town. The noble don, a man of tremendous intellectual prowess, became lost in deep thoughts, then announced that in his opinion the common folk were preparing for Holy Mickey Day.

After the officer had left, Rumata pushed a chair to the window, sat down at ease and looked out over the city. The house of the prince stood atop a hill and during the day one had a splendid view all over the city and as far as the ocean. Now, however, all was enveloped in darkness. Only occasional clusters of lights were visible where people gathered at the crossroads, waiting for the torch signals of the Sturmoviks. The city was asleep, or at least pretended to be. How interesting it would be to know whether the inhabitants could sense that something horrendous was about to happen. Or did they assume, like the noble don with the tremendous intellectual prowess, that these were just preparations for Holy Mickey Day? Twenty thousand men and women. Twenty thousand locksmiths, armorers, butchers, cloth merchants, jewelers, housewives, prostitutes, monks, money-changers, soldiers, vagabonds, and bookworms who had still been spared were tossing in their sticky beds that reeked of bedbugs. They were sleeping, making love, going over in their minds the profits of the day, crying, gritting their teeth with wickedness or depression...

Twenty thousand human beings! In the eyes of a terrestrial observer, they all had something in common. Probably it was the fact that all of them, with almost no exceptions, were not yet human beings in the current sense of the word, but rather preliminary stages, blocks of raw iron ore out of which the bloody centuries of history would eventually forge proud and free men. They were passive, greedy, and incredibly egoistic. Seen from a psychological point of view, almost all of them were slaves--slaves of faith, slaves of their own persons, slaves of their powerful passions and slaves of their avarice. And if by chance one of them was born a nobleman, or worked his way up through diligence over the years, he did not even know what to do with his freedom. He rushed to become a slave once more--enslaved by wealth, enslaved by unnatural luxury, enslaved by debauched companions and enslaved by his own slaves. The majority could not really be blamed for this at all. Their enslavement was rooted in passivity and ignorance. Passivity and ignorance, however, would lead in turn again and again to their enslavement. If indeed they all came from the same mold, all would merely twiddle their thumbs and not a glimmer of hope would exist for them. But they were nevertheless human beings and bore the spark of intelligence. And thus constantly, sometimes here, sometimes there, the fire of a very, very distant but inevitable future would flare up. It would begin to bum, despite everything. Despite their apparent incompetence. Despite the unending suppression and persecution. Although they were kicked and beaten. Although nobody in this world needed them, and all men were against them. Although at the very best they could count on uncomprehending, condescending pity ...

They did not realize that the future was ahead of them, that the future was impossible without them. They did not recognize themselves as the only real hope for the future in a world caught in the grip of horrible ghosts of the past, that they are a ferment, the vitamin in the organism of their society. Once you destroy these ferments, society will start to rot, social decay will result, the muscles grow limp, the eyesight fade and the teeth fall out. No state can develop without the help of the sciences.--It will be wiped out by its neighbors. Without art and culture a state will lose its capacity for self-evaluation, will give impetus to the wrong drifts, will constantly bring forth hypocrites and scoundrels, encourage the development of overconsumption of goods by its citizens, engender arrogance and eventually fall victim in turn to some bolder neighbor. Let the authorities persecute the bookworms as much as it pleases, hinder and stop the activities of the scientists, destroy the arts: sooner or later the government leaders will stumble, and as they gnash their teeth they will be forced to reopen all those avenues to mankind that are so hated by the power-hungry dunderheads and ignoramuses. And as thoroughly as these Gray men in power might despise culture and knowledge, in the long run they are nevertheless impotent in the face of objective historical necessity--they can only delay the course of progress, but they can not bring it to a complete standstill. And even if they fear and scorn educated minds, they are inescapably forced to further them eventually, simply in order to survive. Sooner or later they must stand by as universities are founded, scientific societies are organized, scientific research centers are set up, observatories and laboratories are built, to train cadres of experts who are already beyond the rulers' control--to educate men with a totally different psyche, with completely different demands.

These people, however, cannot exist--nor can they function properly--in an atmosphere of common greed, plebeian interests, dull self-sufficiency, and exclusively sensual desires. They need a new type of atmosphere--an atmosphere of general and all-encompassing cognition, imbued with artistic tension; they need writers, poets, painters, composers --and the mighty Gray Ones will see themselves forced to make concessions here, too. Those who resist will be swept away by cleverer rivals in the battle for power; those, on the other hand, who agree to make such concessions, will be digging their own graves against their own will--inescapably and paradoxically. For ignorant egoists and fanaticists are doomed, once the people's culture awakens in all areas, from scientific research to the ability to enjoy good music. This is followed by an epoch of vast social upheavals, accompanied by an upswing of the sciences such as has never been seen before. And in conjunction with the intellectualization of society through all strata will follow an era when the powers of Gray will gather their final effort in a battle whose cruelty will throw mankind back to the inhumanity of the Middle Ages. This life-and-death struggle will see the downfall of the powers of Gray, and they will ultimately go under in a society freed of all class distinctions and the oppression of man .. .

Rumata was still looking out over the city, a petrified glob veiled in gloom. Somewhere in its midst, in some stifling little room, was Father Tarra, twisting and squirming on a wretched cot, racked by fever, but Brother Nain was sitting next to him at a lopsided little table--drunk, happy, and mean--finishing his Treatise about Rumors, the book wherein he ridiculed with obvious relish, and with artfully chosen words, the life of Graydom. Somewhere else, down there, Gur, the poet, was pacing the floor of his empty, elegant rooms, blind with despair and terrified at the realization that in spite of everything new worlds were trying to surface from the depths of his ravaged soul. These new, bright worlds seemed to be buoyed up by an unknown force, seemed to be filled with wonderful human beings and staggering emotions. And somewhere down there Doctor Budach was spending the night, who knew how? Humbled, forced to his knees, and beaten, but still alive . . . My brothers all, thought Rumata. I am one of you. After all, we are of the same flesh! Suddenly he was overwhelmed by the insight that he was no god protecting the luminaries of the mind between the palms of his hands, but rather a brother helping another brother, or a son hurrying to his father's rescue. "I'll kill Don Reba."--'What for?"--"He has destroyed my brothers."--"He does not know what he is doing."--"But he is murdering the future."--"He is innocent; a child of his time."--"You mean he does not realize his guilt? But what does it matter whether or not he is aware of his guilt?"--"And what about Father Zupik? What wouldn't he give if someone were to slay Don Reba? Now you're silent. You'll have to do a lot of killing, won't you?" --"I don't know. Perhaps. One after the other. All those who try to prevent the future from happening."--"The same old story. Poison, homemade bombs--they never changed anything."--"Oh yes, they did. The strategy of the revolution was born."--"What do you care about the strategy of the revolution? All you want is to kill."--"Yes, I want to kill."--"Can you really go through with it?"--"Yesterday I caused the death of Dona Okana. I knew she would be killed the moment I went to her house with a feather stuck behind my ear. I only regret having killed her senselessly. They've almost managed to teach me such things here."-- "But this is bad. It's a serious matter, and a dangerous one. Do you remember Sergei Koschin, George Lenni or Sabine Krueger?"--Rumata ran his hand over his sweat-covered forehead. Here you are, pondering, contemplating and worrying--and all you have to show for it is a load of garbage.

He leapt to his feet and tore the window open. The widely dispersed concentrations of lights throughout the dark city were set in motion, broken, scattered, drifted apart, moved along in chains, vanished behind invisible houses and appeared again. An indefinable roar surged up over the city, a distant, many-voiced din. Two conflagrations flared up, illuminating the neighboring rooftops. Something exploded in the harbor area. It had begun. In a few hours it would be known what the significance was of the union between the Gray hordes and the nocturnal army, this unnatural alliance of little shopkeepers and robbers. And it would also be known then what Don Reba had accomplished with that and what new provocation he had managed to finagle, or--to put it in a plain language--who was to be slaughtered tonight. Most likely this was the beginning of a night of the long knives, a blood-letting among the leadership of the Gray hordes and at the same time the annihilation of those unfortunate barons who just happened to be in town, as well as of those aristocrats who represented the greatest nuisance. I wonder what Pampa is doing, he thought. If only he isn't asleep. Hell make out all right then.

There was no more time now to give free rein to his thoughts. The door began to shake from a violent hammering with fists; somebody was yelling in a hoarse voice: "Open up! Open up!" Rumata pushed back the bolt. A man, half undressed, blue with fright, rushed into the room, seized Rumata by his vest and shouted with a trembling voice:

"Where is the prince? Budach has poisoned the king! Irukanian spies have started a riot in the city! Save the prince!"

It was the marshal of the prince's household, a stupid man, an obsequious servant of his master. He pushed Rumata aside and ran into the prince's bedchambers. The women began to scream. Meanwhile, however, brandishing their notched battle-axes, the Sturmoviks in gray shirts rushed through the open doors, their distorted faces drenched in perspiration.

"Get back," he said as cool as a cucumber.

From behind his back, from the bedchamber, came a brief, muffled outcry. We are in trouble, thought Rumata. He dashed into a comer and barricaded himself behind a table. Panting Sturmoviks began to fill the room. Fifteen men in all, it seemed. A lieutenant in a gray uniform, in the front row, raised his dagger.

"Don Rumata?" he asked, gasping for air. "You are under arrest. Surrender your swords."

"Why don't you come and get them!" said Rumata and threw a quick glance toward the window.

"Seize him!" the lieutenant wheezed.

Fifteen men, drunk and equipped with mere axes are no match for one who is an expert in defensive techniques that will become known here only three hundred years hence. The crowd surged forward and then fell back again. On the floor remained several axes, two Sturmoviks writhing in pain, their smashed hands gingerly pressed against their stomachs as they stumbled off to the back rows of their comrades. Rumata was a master of the defensive fan technique. The attackers were greeted by a dense, glittering curtain created by his whirling swords, and it seemed impossible to penetrate this barrier of steel. The Sturmoviks withdrew and looked at each other with baffled faces. A sharp odor of beer and onions emanated from them.

Rumata moved the table, cautiously walked along the wall toward the window, all the while keeping an eye on the Gray soldiers. A knife was thrown at him from the back rows but it missed. Rumata laughed, set one foot on the window ledge and said; "You try once more and this time I'll cut off your hands. You know me."

They knew him. They knew him very well, and not one of the men budged from his spot despite the commands and curses from their officers who were careful not to risk anything themselves. Constantly threatening them with both swords, Rumata pulled himself all the way up onto the window ledge. At that moment a lance, coming from the street down below, hit him in the back. The impact was terrific. Though the weapon did not pierce his metalloplast shirt, it still swept him off the ledge and threw him back into the room, down to the floor. Rumata held onto his two swords but they were of no help in this situation. The whole mob pounced at once. All of them together must have weighed well over a ton but they were in each other's way and thus he succeeded in getting back to his feet again.

His fist smashed between somebody's wet lips, another fellow was wiggled under his shoulder like a wounded rabbit, and Rumata kept hitting out in all directions with his fists, elbows, shoulders (he had not felt that free in a long time) but he could not shake them off. Dragging a throng of bodies behind him, he managed to get as far as the door, where he finally freed himself from the men who had dug their fingers into his legs. Then he felt a painful, mighty blow on his shoulder and he fell on his back. Several Sturmoviks were struggling to get out from under him. Once again he managed to get back on his feet, dealing short blows that hurled the desperately hitting and kicking Gray soldiers against the walls. For a moment he saw the pockmarked face of the lieutenant loom up before him as he ducked behind his discharged crossbow, when suddenly the door gave way and a new flood of sweating, grimacing faces poured into the room. They threw a large net over him, drew it together around his feet, and flung him to the ground.

He stopped resisting at once in order to preserve his strength. For a while they kicked him with their boots-- silently, straining hard and panting with delight. Then they grabbed him by his feet and dragged him away. As they passed the open door of the bedchamber, he could see the master of the prince's household nailed to the wall by a spear, and a bundle of bloody sheets on the bed. "It's a revolution!" thought Rumata. 'That's what it is all about. Poor boy. .." They pulled him down the stairs, and then he lost consciousness.