EIGHT

Rumata decided not to take the direct route to the offices of the bishop of Arkanar. He crept stealthily through rows of backyards, hid behind rags hung on washlines, crawled through holes in fences--catching his rich, colorful ribbons and strips of the finest Soanian lace on rusty nails--and wriggled on all fours between mounds of potatoes. But for all his efforts he failed to evade the watchful eye of the black soldiery. As he turned into the narrow, winding lane which led to the big dump heap, he encountered two somber, drunken monks.

Rumata wanted to get out of their way but the monks drew their swords and blocked his path. As Rumata, too, grasped both his swords, the monks whistled for reinforcements. Rumata was just about to withdraw to the hole in the fence through which he had emerged a moment ago when an agile little man with a nondescript face ran toward him. He brushed against Rumata's shoulder, hurried over to the monks, and whispered something to them, whereupon the monks pulled up their long habits, baring their legs wrapped around with lilac-colored ribbons and made off in a trot, soon to disappear behind some houses. The little man scurried after them without looking back once.

So that's the story, thought Rumata. A spy, a bodyguard. And he doesn't even bother to do his job in an inconspicuous manner; our new bishop of Arkanar really thinks of everything. It would be interesting to know whether he's frightened for me or of me. Following the spy with his eyes, Rumata walked toward the dump heap. The dump heap led to the rear buildings of the former Ministry of Internal Security. He hoped that no guards had been posted there.

The lane was empty; not a living thing could be seen. But soon he could hear the soft creaking of shutters, doors being opened and shut, a baby crying, and above all that hung anxious whispering. From behind a half-rotten fence cautiously peered out an emaciated face all blackened by deeply imbedded layers of soot. Two frightened, hollow eyes stared at Rumata.

"I beg your pardon, noble don; please forgive me. Could the noble don perhaps tell me what is going on in the city? I am Kickus, the smith, also called the lame one; I want to go to my forge, but I am afraid ..."

"Don't go there," advised Rumata. "One can't fool around with these monks. The King is dead. Don Reba has seized power. He is now the bishop of the Holy Order. Just stay home, will you."

The smith accompanied each of Rumata's words with an eager nod of his head, his eyes filling with melancholy and despair.

'The Holy Order, you don't say," he mumbled heavily. "I'll be damned ... I beg your pardon, noble don. So, the Order, well then . . . They are the Gray Ones, aren't they?"

"No, no," said Rumata and regarded him with a certain curiosity. "The Gray Ones have been beaten, you see. These are the monks."

"Oh, dear me!" said the smith. "So the Gray Ones are ... well, and the Holy Order! The Gray Ones are defeated? Not bad, I say. But what is going to happen with us now, noble don, what do you think? We'll have to conform, eh? Conform to the Holy Order, yes?"

"Why not," said Rumata. "The Order will have to eat and drink, too. Adjust to them, I say!"

All of a sudden the smith became quite animated.

"That's what I think, noble don. We must adjust and conform. I believe the main thing is not to bother others and you will be left in peace. Is that the idea?"

Rumata shook his head.

"Oh, no," he said. "Those who remain quiet and peaceful will be the first ones to be slaughtered."

"That sounds right to me, after all," moaned the smith. "But what are we supposed to do? One man alone is as weak as a little finger, and all the snot-nosed blackbirds are on his back. Oh, Glorious Mother, if only they would cut my master's throat! He was an officer with the Gray Ones. What do you think, noble don, it's possible that they did him in, isn't it? You know, I owe him five golden guilders."

"I wouldn't know," said Rumata. "They might have finished him off, quite possible. But I'd like you to think about something: It's true that you alone are as weak as a little finger, but fingers like that exist by the tens of thousands in this city."

"So?" said the smith.

"Just think about it, what that means!" said Rumata annoyed, and walked on.

A fat lot of good that advice will do him, thought Rumata. It's still too early for him to try and think. And how simple things could be here really; Ten thousand such hammerlike fists--if properly infuriated--would make mincemeat out of any foe. But they have not yet reached that point. They have not yet experienced the right kind of fury. Only fear. Every man for himself, and one god for the lot of them.

The elderberry bushes lining the road suddenly began to move and sway and out jumped--Don Tameo. The moment he saw Rumata walking in the harrow lane, Don Tameo roared with joy, and despite his enormous bulk he leapt nimbly to his feet, then staggered toward Rumata, stretching his dirt-encrusted hands out to him.

"My noble friend!" he roared. "What joy! I see you too are on your way to the chancellery offices?"

"Yes, indeed, my noble don," answered Rumata and quickly twisted his body to free himself from Don Tameo's embrace.

"Will you permit me to join you, noble don?"

"It will be an honor for me, noble don."

They bowed to each other. Apparently Don Tameo had not yet quenched his thirst from earlier in the day. He extracted a little bottle of the finest quality from the folds of his wide yellow trousers.

. "Would you care to join me in a drink?" came his offer, accompanied by an elegant flourish of the bottle.

"No, thank you," said Rumata.

"Rum!" explained Don Tameo. "Genuine rum from the capital! I've paid its weight in gold!"

They descended to the dump heap. They held their noses as they made their way through the garbage piles, past dead dogs, through stinking puddles swarming with white worms. The morning air was filled with the constant hum of millions of emerald green flies.

"Most peculiar," said Don Tameo, and stoppered up the bottle. "I've never been in this place before."

Rumata was silent.

"I've always been delighted by Don Reba," said Don Tameo. "I knew all along that he would sweep this good-for-nothing monarch from the throne and pave new ways for us and open up new vistas for the country." With these words he slid with one leg into a yellow-green puddle, splashing mud over himself from head to toe, but managed to grasp Rumata's arm to avoid falling flat on his face. "Oh, yes," he resumed his remarks after they had regained firm ground once again, "we, the young aristocracy, will always stand by Don Reba's side! Now they'll finally show the proper respect due to us. Judge for yourself, my noble friend, I've been walking now for one hour through streets and gardens and I have not met a single Gray bastard. We have wiped the Gray scum off the face of the earth. Ah, how wonderful and how sweet it is now to be able to breathe freely in our newborn Arkanar! In place of the boorish shopkeepers, in place of the impertinent swindlers, and peasant louts, the streets have now been taken over by the Servants of the Lord. I have seen it with my own eyes: noblemen are parading quite openly in front of their houses. No longer must they fear that some fool in a coachman's apron will splash mud all over them with his dirty cart. And you no longer have to elbow your way through the throng of butchers and shopkeepers. Inspired by the blessing of the great Holy Order, for which--I must admit--I have always felt great admiration and great sympathy, we are now striving forward to an era of unheard-of glory. No peasant will dare any longer to raise his eyes up to a nobleman without procuring first a special permit which will have to be signed by the district inspector of the Holy Order. I am just on my way to hand in a written petition for this purpose."

"A nauseating stench," said Rumata with feeling.

"Yes, disgusting," agreed Don Tameo and replaced the cork on his bottle. "On the other hand, though--how freely we can breathe in our newborn Arkanar I And the price of wine has gone down to half what it was just yesterday..."

By the time they reached the end of the lane Don Tameo had emptied the contents of his bottle, which he flung to the side of the street. He became unduly agitated, fell twice flat on his face, refusing both times to brush the dirt off his soiled clothes, declaring that it was his natural state to be defiled and that he wished to come into the presence of his new master in this condition. He began again and again to recite his petition at the top of his lungs. "How marvelously said!" he shouted. "Just take this passage, for instance, noble dons: 'In order that the stinking peasants . . .' Eh? Isn't that a splendid thought?"

As they entered the courtyard behind the chancellery, Don Tameo collided with a monk, burst into tears and begged for forgiveness of his sins. The almost choking monk tried to ward off his iron clasp and whistle for help but Don Tameo clung to the monk's habit and thus both fell into a garbage heap. Rumata left them lying there and walked on. From quite a distance he could still hear the fitful, pitiful whistling and the shouts of "In order that the stinking peasants! . .. your blessi-i-ing! . . . with all my heart! ... I felt sympathy, sympathy, understand, you peasant lout?"

On the square in front of the entrance to the chancellery stood a detachment of infantry monks, armed with blunt cudgels. They had removed the dead from the street. The morning wind drove yellow columns of dust across the square. The rectangular shadow of the Tower of Joy fell across the monk soldiers. Below the broad, conical roof of the tower the crows were cawing and quarreling as usual. A rafter jutted out above; this was where they would hang the men head downwards. The tower had been built two hundred years before by the king's ancestors for the exclusive purpose of warding off the enemies in case of war. It had been erected on a firm foundation, a three-storey structure, which served as storage rooms for victuals in case of a protracted siege. Later on the tower was used as a prison. As a result of an earthquake, all the floors and ceilings inside the tower collapsed and the prison had to be moved to the basement. Some time previously, an Arkanarian queen complained that the cries of the tortured prisoners disturbed her, whereupon her royal consort decreed that a military band was to play in the tower from early in the morning until late at night. It was from this time that it received its present name. It was no longer anything more than an empty stone shell; the torture chambers had long been shifted to the newly opened, deeper cellar holes; and the orchestra had long since stopped playing its daily concerts; but the citizens still called it by its old name, the Tower of Joy.

Usually the area around the Tower of Joy. was deserted. But today there was a great commotion. The soldier monks led, pushed, dragged along the ground hordes of Sturmoviks in torn gray uniforms, miserable vagabonds clad in rags, half-undressed citizens, frozen with fear, and hysterically screaming young girls. The down-at-the-heel soldiers of the nocturnal army, casting sullen looks about them, were driven there like whole herds of cattle. And from secret exits they pulled out the corpses with barbed hooks, threw them on carts, and transported them out of the city. In the long queue of waiting courtiers and privileged citizens that still stood outside the doors of the chancellery, the last in line observed this dreadful traffic with fear and horror.

All were admitted to the chancellery; some, however, were guided inside in a convoy. Rumata elbowed his way inside, where he found the air as sticky and close as in the dump heap. Behind an enormous table, piled high with papers, sat an official with a yellow-gray complexion. A giant goose quill was stuck behind his right ear. The petitioner, whose turn it was now, the noble Don Keu, haughtily twitched his mustache as he announced his name.

'Take off your hat," said the official in a monotonous voice, without raising his eyes from his papers.

"The clan of the Keus has the privilege to keep on their hats, even in the presence of the King," stated Don Keu proudly.

"Nobody has any privileges before the Holy Order," said the official in the same monotonous tone of voice. Don Keu began to hiss and tamed beet red, but removed his hat nevertheless. The official moved his long yellow finger across the paper.

"Don Keu . . . Don Keu," he murmured. "Don Keu . . . King Street, number twelve?"

"Yes," said Don Keu in his fat, irritated voice.

"Number 485, brother Tibak."

Brother Tibak, his face purple from obesity and shortness of breath, sat at the next table. He rummaged in some documents, wiped the sweat from his brow, got to his feet and read out in a toneless voice:

"Number 485, Don Keu, King Street, number twelve, guilty of blasphemy against the name of His Magnificence, the bishop of Arkanar, Don Reba, two years ago at a royal dance, is ordered to receive three dozen lashes on his bare buttocks, as well as to kiss the shoe of His Magnificence."

Brother Tibak resumed his place again. "Go to the corridor here," said the official with the colorless voice. "The lashings to the right, the shoe to the left. Next, please."

To Rumata's great surprise, Don Keu did not even attempt to protest. Evidently he must have seen a great deal while he was waiting in line. He croaked once briefly, stroked his mustache with great dignity and walked out into the corridor.

The next in line was the gigantic Don Pifa, who wobbled with fat. He had already taken off his hat as he stepped up to the table. "Don Pifa . . . Don Pifa," cackled the official and moved his finger along the paper before him. "Milkjug Street, number two?" Don Pifa emitted a gurgling sound. "Number 504, brother Tibak." Brother Tibak stroked his bald head and stood up. "Number 504, Don Pifa, Milkjug Street, number two, remained unnoticed for any offenses by His Magnificence and consequently pure!"

"Don Pifa," said the official, "receive the sign of blameless conduct." He bent down over a box next to his chair and took out an iron bracelet which he handed to Don Pifa. 'To be worn on the left wrist, to be presented immediately when requested by the warriors of the Holy Order. Next one, please."

Once more Don Pifa emitted a gurgling sound; his eyes were riveted to his bracelet as he left the room. The official with the colorless voice was already calling out the next name. Rumata viewed the people who had lined up to wait. There were many familiar faces among the crowd. Some were dressed in fine clothes as usual, others were obviously impoverished, but whether they were rich or poor, they were all thoroughly splashed with mud. Somewhere in the middle of the line, Don Sera said in a loud voice and for the third time in five minutes, "I fail to see why a noble don shouldn't get a few sound whacks, too, in the name of His Magnificence!"

Rumata waited until they sent the next man into the corridor (he was a well-known fishmonger, sentenced to five strokes with a cane--without having to kiss the shoe-- because of illicit trains of thought). Then Rumata jostled his way to the table and without much ado placed his hand on the official's stack of papers.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I need an official order for Doctor Budach's release. I am Don Rumata."

The official did not look up.

"Don Rumata . . . Don Rumata," he mumbled, pushed Rumata's hand aside and ran a finger down a list of names.

"What are you doing, you old inkpot?" said Rumata. "I need an order of release!"

"Don Rumata . . . Don Rumata . . ." It was impossible to stop this ossified automaton of a bureaucrat, "Spengler Street, number eight. Number sixteen. Brother Tibak." Rumata sensed how all behind him were holding their breath. But to be quite frank, he, too, felt somewhat ill at ease. The scarlet-faced, heavily perspiring Brother Tibak stood up!

"Number sixteen, Spengler Street, number eight, for special services in the cause of the Holy Order to receive an expression of special recognition by His Magnificence. His Magnificence will therefore graciously issue for him an edict for Doctor Budach's release, over whose person he will be permitted to dispose at his own discretion, see form 6/17/11."

The official proceeded to pull this form immediately from the pile of documents to his right and handed it to Don Rumata.

"Through the yellow door, to the second floor, room six, straight through the corridor, make a right turn at first, then one to the left," he said without moving a muscle. "Next, please."

Rumata quickly skimmed the contents of the document. It was not an order for Doctor Budach's release. It was merely a document to obtain an entry permit to the fifth special department of the chancellery, where he was supposed to pick up a recommendation for the secretary of the secret police. "What did you give me here, you nitwit?" asked Rumata. "Where is the official release order?!"

"Through the yellow door, to the second floor, room six, straight through the corridor, make a right turn first, then one to the left," repeated the official.

"I am asking you, where is the release order!" yelled Rumata.

"Haven't the faintest idea ... no idea . . . Next one, please!"

A softly rattling breath sounded above Rumata's ears and something warm and soft leaned against his back. He shook it off with a brief resolute movement. It was Don Pifa, who had pushed his way back once more to the front.

"It doesn't fit," he complained in a whining voice.

The official looked up and regarded him with his tired, dull eyes.

"Name? Rank?" he inquired.

"It doesn't fit," repeated Don Pifa, and pulled and pushed the bracelet that would hardly fit over three of his fat fingers.

"It doesn't fit ... it doesn't fit . . ." murmured one of the two officials and suddenly seized a fat book that had been lying on the table over in a comer. The book looked ominous in its greasy, black cover. For a few seconds Don Pifa stared in confusion at the book, then swiftly recoiled one step and without another word quickly stomped toward the exit. Voices from the queue began to complain: "Don't keep us waiting!... hurry up, will you!"

Rumata, too, left the table. You filthy beast. I'll show you a thing or two! thought Rumata. The official started loudly to read from the greasy black book in a droning voice: "In case said bracelet should not fit the left wrist, or if the purified person should not have a left hand . . ." Rumata walked around to the other side of the table, stuck both hands into the box with the bracelets, took out as many as he could hold in his hands and went his way.

"Hey, hey," shouted the official in the same monotonous tone, "the motivation ..."

"In the name of the Lord," said Rumata over his shoulder with significant emphasis. The official and Brother Tibak rose swiftly from their seats and answered confused: "In His name!" The people waiting in line stared after Rumata with envy and admiration.

Rumata left the chancellery and made his way toward the Tower of Joy, merrily jingling the iron rings on his left hand. It turned out that he had snatched nine iron rings but he could find enough place for only five on his left arm. So he slipped the other four over his right wrist. That's the way the bishop of Arkanar intended to get rid of me, he thought. Well, he's barking up the wrong tree! His metal bracelets were clanking with every step he made and in his hand he held an important-looking piece of paper--form 6/17/11-- decorated with many colorful stamps. The monks in the street, walking or riding toward him, quickly gave him a wide berth. Occasionally he caught a glimpse in the crowd of his faithful spy and bodyguard, who always kept at a respectful distance. Rumata arrived at the gate of the Tower of Joy. He rattled his swords in a menacing manner at the guard who stuck out his head in curiosity, but who just as quickly withdrew it when he heard Rumata's growl. Rumata passed through the courtyard and descended the slippery, worn-out state down into the semidarkness, only relieved by some primitive, sputtering oil lamps. Here was the entrance to the Holy of Holies of the former Ministry of Internal Security, the royal prison, and the torture chambers.

Every ten paces along the vaulted corridor he could see a stinking torch fastened in a rusty holder on the wall. Below each torch was a cavelike recess that ended in a small black door with a tiny window provided with iron bars. This was the entrance to the prison cells; heavy bolts on the outside secured the doors. The corridors were teeming with people. They bumped into each other, ran back and forth, shouted and screamed, trying to give orders to each other. Bolts rattled and clanked, doors were opened and slammed, somebody was being beaten and cried out in pain, another tried desperately to hold onto the railing as he was dragged away, another was shoved into a cell that was already overflowing with too many prisoners, and another prisoner, whom some men were unsuccessfully trying to drag out of a crowded cell, clutched his neighbor with an iron grip, screaming all the while: "Not me, not me!" The faces of the passing monks were eager and puckered up. Everyone was in a hurry, everyone performed duties of great importance to the State. Rumata intended first of all to find out what was going on in this place. He wandered leisurely through a number of passages and corridors, gradually venturing farther down the stairs. The lower floors were somewhat quieter. Judging by the conversations he overheard, this was the place where the graduates of the School for Patriots were examined. Clad only in leather breechcloths, the adolescents stood at the doors of the torture chambers, leafed through old greasy manuals, and occasionally walked over to a big wooden tub to drink water from a tin cup that was fastened by a chain to the wall above. Horrible cries came from the chambers, the sound of thrashings, and it smelled unmistakably of burnt flesh. And their talk! Oh, that talk!

"You know, the rack has a screw on top, and it got worn out and went right through. Is that my fault, I ask you? He had them whip me for that. 'You rotten, stupid pig,' he said. 'You ape, go get five on your naked butt. Then let me see you again.'"

"If we only could find out who does the whipping. Maybe it's one of us, a student. We could grease his palm--a few copper pennies would do the trick ..."

"If you get a fat man, the spikes won't leave a mark in his flesh. The best thing to do is take a couple of red-hot needles and push the lard aside a bit..."

"Yes, but the Lord's bonds are intended for torturing only the legs, and the martyr's gloves, those with the screws, are specially for the hands, remember?"

"I almost exploded, brothers, I laughed so hard! I go inside to have me a look--and who's lying there, all chained up? Fika with the red hair, the butcher from down our street, he always used to box my ears, when he was drunk. Now it's my turn, I said to myself, just wait..."

"And Pekor with the thick lips was dragged away this morning by the monks. He hasn't come back yet. Didn't show up even for the exam."

"I was supposed to work the meat grinder but I accidentally placed the man sideways. Well, he broke a few ribs, so what? But you should have seen Father Kin! He grabs me by the hair and kicks me in my behind with his heavy boots. Boy, can he aim well! I saw stars! 'What's the idea,' he screamed at me; 'you're damaging the goods!"

Just look here, friends. Come take a good look, thought Rumata while he slowly turned his head from side to side to get a sweeping view of the scene. We're not dealing with mere theory here. No one on Earth has ever seen anything like it before. Just watch, listen, and film it all! And learn to appreciate and love our own era on Earth--oh, damn it-- and bow to honor the memory of those who have lived through times like these! Just take a long, close look at these disgusting faces--young, dull, indifferent, inured to the worst kinds of bestialities; but don't turn up your noses. Our own ancestors weren't any better in their time.

By now the young students had noticed him. A dozen pairs of eyes of all shades stared at him.

"Hey, look, the noble don deigns to visit us down here. A bit pale around the gills, eh, milord?"

"I say! I thought we were all done with noblemen?" "They say in such cases they put water in front of them, but make the chain too short for them to reach it..." "What's he nosing around down here for?" "I'd love to lay my hands on that character. He'd answer every question, confess anything I'd ask him to, I bet.,.."

"Keep it quiet! Not so loud, friends! He's quite capable of drawing his sword all of a sudden, just watch out . . . Look at all the iron bracelets he is wearing--and that slip of paper!"

"I don't like it the way he is looking at us. Let's beat it, boys; we don't want to mix with such unsavory characters!"

Finally they withdrew and left the scene, hiding in some dark comers where occasional flashes from suspicious spider eyes revealed their presence. Good riddance, thought Rumata, they won't bother me any more. He was just about to tug at the cloak of one of the monks who hurried by down the corridor, when he noticed three other monks in a comer who were less in a hurry and quietly concentrated on their business at hand. They were systematically beating a henchman--probably guilty of some insubordination--with their heavy sticks. Rumata approached them.

"In the name of the Lord," he said and clanked his iron bracelets.

The monks lowered their cudgels and examined Rumata. "In His name," said the tallest of the three. 'Take me to the section supervisor!" said Rumata. The monks quickly exchanged some glances. Meanwhile, the henchman crawled behind a water tub to hide. "What do you need him for?" asked the tall monk. Without a word, Rumata shoved the paper under the monk's nose.

"Aha," said the monk. "Well, for the time being I am the supervisor for this section."

"Splendid," said Rumata and rolled up the piece of paper.

"I am Don Rumata. His Magnificence has made a present to me of Doctor Budach. Have him brought here!"

"Budach?" he said frowning. "Who is that supposed to be?" The monk put his hand under his hood and noisily scratched his head. "Budach, the troublemaker?"

"No, no," said another monk. "The troublemaker is called Rudach. He was released last night already. Father Kin in person removed his chains and led him out of the building. But I--"

"Nonsense, nonsense!" said Rumata impatiently and slapped the rolled-up paper against his thigh. "Budach is the one who poisoned the King!"

"Ah-aah," said the supervisor. "Now I know who you mean. He's probably already in the dungeon. Brother Pacca, go and have a look in number twelve." Then he turned again to Rumata. "So, and you want to take him out of here?"

"Of course," said Rumata. "He belongs to me now."

"All right. Your Honor. May I have that paper? I must record everything properly." Rumata handed him the form. The supervisor examined both sides of the paper, devoting special attention to the seal, and then remarked delightedly:

"That's what I call a fine document! Pardon me, don, will you just step aside for a moment and wait until we have finished this little business here . . . Now where did that henchman get to?"

The monks searched for the hangman, who had apparently treated the tortured prisoners too tenderly for the new master's taste. Rumata walked away. The monks found the hangman, pulled him from behind the water tub expertly, laid him out flat on the floor and then started to work him over again with their sticks without displaying any particular passion or cruelty. Five minutes later, the first monk, who had been sent off to fetch Doctor Budach, reappeared. The monk came around a bend in the corridor pulling behind him a rope that had been fastened around the neck of an emaciated gray-haired old man in dark clothes.

'There you have your man! You old Budach!" shouted the monk joyfully while still at a distance. "He hadn't been thrown into the dungeon yet; he's alive and well! Just a bit weak, probably hasn't eaten in quite a while."

Rumata walked toward them, yanked the rope out of ^[:] the monk's hand, and removed the noose from the old man's neck.

"Are you Budach from Irukan?" asked Rumata.

"Yes," said the old man.

"I am Rumata. Follow me and try to keep up with me!" Rumata turned to the monks. "In the name of the Lord," he said.

The supervisor straightened up, let his stick sink to his side and answered, breathing heavily: "In His name!"

Rumata turned his attention back to Doctor Budach. He saw that the old man was leaning against the wall, hardly able to keep on his feet

"I am nauseated and very weak," he said, and a sickly smile came over his face. "Please forgive me, noble don!"

Rumata took him by the arm and led him along the corridor. As soon as the monks no longer could see them, he stopped and took from a small vial a Sporamin pill. He handed it to Budach who questioned him with his eyes.

"Just swallow it," said Rumata, "you'll feel better directly."

Budach was still leaning against the wall. He took the tablet from Rumata's hand, examined it carefully, sniffed at it, raised his shaggy eyebrows, then cautiously placed the pill on his tongue and tasted it.

"Swallow it, just swallow it," said Rumata with a friendly smile.

Budach swallowed the pill.

"Mmm," he said. "And I thought I knew everything there was to know about medicines." He fell silent again and observed the changes that soon came over his body. "Mmm," he said again. "Interesting! Dried spleen of the wild sow Y? Np, can't be, I can't taste any putrefaction."

"Let's go," said Rumata.

They walked along the corridors, then up some stairs, turned into another passage, a few more steps again. Suddenly Rumata stopped in his tracks as if struck by lightning. A wild and familiar roar filled the prison vaults. From somewhere inside one of the cells curses boomed out damning God and the world; it was the thundering voice of his dear friend the baron Pampa, Don Bau de Suruga de Gatta de Arkanar. With his stentorian voice be cursed God and all the saints he could think of, Don Reba, the Holy Order, and many more. So the baron fell into their clutches after all, thought Rumata very contritely. I had completely forgotten about him. He wouldn't have forgotten me ... Rumata quickly slipped two bracelets off his own wrist, placed them on Doctor Budach's thin arms and said:

"Walk upstairs now, but stay inside the building. Wait for me somewhere in some hidden comer. If anybody should bother you, just show him these iron circlets and you'll be left alone."

Baron Pampa roared and howled like an atomic icebreaker plowing through the Polar fog. A thundering echo reverberated in the vaulted building. The people in the corridors stiffened and listened attentively, their mouths wide open. Many quickly passed (heir thumbs across their faces in order to chase away the evil spirits. Rumata raced down two stairs and hurled aside the monks that tried to block his way. With his two swords he forced his way through the throng of the graduating students of the School for Patriots, and kicked in the door of the cell. The whole room shook with Baron Pampa's bellowing voice. The flickering light of the torches revealed a strange sight: His friend Baron Pampa, this mountain of a man, had been strung up by the legs and was hanging face down and stark naked. His face had turned a bluish-black color from the congestion of blood in his head. At a small table with crooked legs sat a hunchbacked official holding his hands over his ears; a perspiring torturer --who somehow resembled a dentist--busied himself with his clinking instruments in an iron vat.

Rumata dosed the door, stepped up to the torturer from behind and struck him on the head with the hilt of his sword. The torturer wheeled around, his hands flew up to his head, he lost his balance and fell backwards into the tub. Rumata drew his other sword from its sheath and hacked the table in two where the official had been silting shuffling his papers. The torturer sat in the tub hiccupping violently, while the official swiftly crawled on all fours into a comer of the cell. Rumata stepped over to the baron and tried to loosen the chains by which his feet had been fastened to the wall. At the second try he succeeded in yanking the chains down. Carefully, he helped the baron to get back on his feet. The baron abruptly ceased to roar, stiffened in a peculiar pose, then hastily pulled and tugged at his bonds and freed his hands.

"I can't believe my eyes," he bellowed, rolling his blood shot eyes from side to side. "It's you, my noble friend! I've found you at last!"

"Yes, my friend, here I am," said Rumata. "But let's get out of here. This is no place for you!"

"Beer!" said the baron. "I've seen beer somewhere in this place." He walked around the cell, dragging the rest of his chains behind him on the floor and did not stop roaring and bustling about. "Half the night I was chasing through town! And damn it, they told me you had been arrested, so I beat up a number of people, one after the other. And I was convinced I would find you here in this prison! Well, and here you are indeed, as it turns out."

He went over to the torturer and with one move of his mighty arm swept him and the tub aside as if he were busy dusting off something. Beyond the space where the tub had stood appeared now a small barrel. With his bare fist the baron smashed in its bottom, threw back his head, opened his mouth wide and let the contents pour down his throat. A torrent of beer ran gurgling into his gullet. What a guy, thought Rumata as he watched the baron with great pleasure. Looks like an ox, like some brainless bull, but still, he went looking for me, wanted to rescue me, and most likely landed here in this prison because of me . . . and he did all this out of his own accord. Thank God there are some human beings on this world after all, as rotten as it is. How lucky it's turned out all right in the end!

The baron had drained the barrel dry and hurled it into the comer where the official's teeth could be heard loudly chattering. Now a squeal came from that comer.

"That's better," said the baron and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. "Now I'm ready to follow you. Does it matter that I have nothing on?"

Rumata looked around the room, walked over to the torturer and shook him out of his leather breechcloth.

"Take that for the time being," he said.

"You are right," said the baron and tied the breechcloth around his loins. "It would be most improper to appear naked before the baroness."

They left the torture chamber. Nobody had the courage to block their way and the corridor was suddenly quite deserted for twenty paces.

"I'll kill all of them!" shouted the baron. "They're occupying my castle--they've ordered somebody by the name of Father Arima to take up residence there. I don't know whose father he is, but I swear to you that his children will soon be orphans! Devil take it, dear. friend, don't you agree that these ceilings here are mighty low? I've already skinned the top of my skull to the bone..."

Finally they got out of the tower. For a moment the spy and bodyguard became visible but he disappeared directly again in the crowd. Rumata gave a sign to Budach to follow him. The crowd in front of the gate parted before them as if they had tried to scatter them with a sword. They could hear shrieks that an important state criminal had fled, fingers pointed to them, and voices growled: "Just look at that naked devil, the famous Estorian hangman!"

The baron walked to the center of the square, stopped and halfway had to close his eyes because of the bright sunlight. Speed was of the essence now. Rumata quickly sized up the situation. "My horse was somewhere around here," said the baron. "Hey you there! My horse!"

Over in the paddock where the horses of the cavalry of the order were prancing, a wild commotion arose.

"Not that one!" crowed the Baron. "That one over there, the gray piebald stallion."

"In the name of the Lord!" yelled Rumata belatedly and pulled his circlet down over his forehead.

A frightened little monk in a dirty cloak brought the Baron his horse.

"Give him something, Don Rumata," said the baron and raised himself with difficulty up onto his saddle.

"Stop, stop!" came loud shouts from the tower.

Several monks came running across the square, brandishing their cudgels. Rumata gave the baron one of his swords.

"Hurry up, baron. Quick!" he said.

"Yes," said Baron Pampa. "I must speed on. That Arima is probably cleaning out my whole wine cellar in the meantime. Ill expect you at my castle, tomorrow or the day after, my friend. Any messages for the baroness?"

"Kiss her hand for me," said Rumata. The monks were almost upon them by now. "Faster, faster, baron!"

"Are you out of danger yourself, my friend?" the baron pressed. His voice betrayed that he was still concerned about Rumata's safety.

"Yes, damn it, yes! Move on!"

The baron dashed off and rode at full speed directly into the crowd of monks. One of them fell to the ground, another one tumbled, there was a loud whine, a great cloud of dust arose, the horses' hooves rapped sharply on the cobblestones -- and the baron was out of sight. Rumata was just looking down a lane which led off the square and where those who had been knocked over in the tumult had taken refuge. Suddenly an insistent and stealthy voice sounded in his ear:

"But, my noble don, don't you think you are taking unwarranted liberties here?"

Rumata spun around and found himself peering into the affectedly smiling face of Don Reba.

"Unwarranted?" said Rumata. "That word doesn't exist for me."

Suddenly he remembered Don Sera. "And anyway, I can't see why noble dons should not help each other in case of distress."

A group of heavily breathing monks rode quickly past them, their halberds held ready for action, in hot pursuit of Baron Pampa. A change came over Don Reba's face.

"All right then," he said. "Forget it. Oh, isn't this the most learned Doctor Budach here? You look splendid, Doctor. I think I ought to inspect my prison. Criminals of State, including released prisoners, must never go on foot when they leave. They should be carried out."

Doctor Budach stormed toward Don Reba with the movements of a blind man. Rumata quickly stepped between the two men.

"By the way, Don Reba," he said, "what do you think of Father Arima?"

"Father Arima?" Don Reba raised his eyebrows. "An outstanding warrior. Occupies a high position in my episcopate. What is that question supposed to mean?"

"As a faithful servant of Your Magnificence," said Rumata with obvious malicious relish of the situation, "I hasten to inform you that you may consider this high position as vacant."

"How come?"

Rumata glanced down the lane where the yellow dust had not yet settled. Don Reba, too, looked that way. A worried expression came over his face.

It was already late in the afternoon when Kyra asked her noble Lord and his most learned guest to come to the table.

Now that Doctor Budach had bathed, carefully shaved, and changed into fresh clothes, he made a pleasant and imposing impression. His movements were deliberate and dignified, his intelligent gray eyes peered out from under his shaggy eyebrows in a benevolent and somewhat condescending manner. First of all he apologized to Rumata for his impetuous behavior toward Don Reba during their encounter on the square.

"Please understand me," he said. "He's a hideous person, a monster who came into this world only because of some divine oversight. I am a physician, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I would kill him if I only had an opportunity to do so. It has come to my ears that the King has been poisoned. And now I do understand how he perished." Rumata sat up and took notice. "That Reba came into my cell and demanded I should mix a poison for him which would become effective a few hours later. Of course, I refused to do so. He threatened to have me tortured -- I laughed in his face. In reply, he summoned his torturers and ordered them to bring a dozen boys and girls, not more than ten years old. He lined them up in front of me, opened my medicine bag and declared he would try out all my medications one after the other on these pitiful human guinea pigs until he found the right one. And this is the way the King was poisoned, Don Rumata."

Budach's lips began to tremble, but he soon regained his composure. Rumata nodded knowingly and turned aside, so as not to embarrass his scholarly guest. Now I finally understand, he thought. I understand it all now. The king would never have accepted anything from the hands of his ministers, not even a dill pickle. So the wicked rogue foisted some fifth-rate charlatan off on the king by promising that no-good nobody to make him the king's personal physician as a reward for curing his ailing legs. And now it's clear why Don Reba felt so triumphant when I compromised him in the royal bedchamber: one would have been hard-put to imagine a better way to slip the king a false Budach. The entire responsibility now fell on the shoulders of Rumata from Estoria, the Irukanian conspirator and spy. We are real greenhorns, he thought. Just like silly little innocent puppies. They ought to teach a special course for feudal intrigues back home at the Institute. And they should introduce another course on how to acquire the right qualifications for properly sizing up the Rebas of the universe, large and small. Doctor Budach was quite obviously starving. Nevertheless, he politely yet very definitely refused all meat dishes and devoted his attention exclusively to the salads, pastas and desserts. He also drank a glass of fine Estorian wine and his eyes began to sparkle again; a healthy blush spread over his cheeks. Rumata could not swallow even a bite. He could still see in his mind's eyes the crackling, smoking, scarlet torches; he could still smell the odor of burnt flesh. He felt a big lump in his throat. And thus he waited, until Doctor Budach had eaten his fill, while he, Rumata, leaned against the window sill, conversing politely, slowly and calmly, to avoid disturbing the guest who was enjoying his meal.

Slowly, life returned to the city. People appeared in the streets again, voices could be heard, growing louder and louder, accompanied by the pounding of hammers and the cracking of wood: they were knocking down the wooden idols from the walls and the gabled roofs. A bald, fat shopkeeper pushed a cart laden with a barrel of beer in front of him so he could sell it later on the square for two pennies a jug. People walked arm in arm, slapping each other on the back in a friendly fashion. Under the arched gate across the street he could see his spy and bodyguard talking with a thin woman. Carts passed under his window piled high with something. At first Rumata failed to understand what kind of carts these were but then he noticed blue-black hands and feet sticking out from under the hemp matting. He quickly walked away from the window.

"Man's nature," said Budach while chewing leisurely, "is characterized by his ability to adjust to everything. There is nothing in this world that man cannot adjust to. Neither horses nor dogs possess this ability. Presumably when God created man he considered the tortures to which he would subject man on this earth, and therefore equipped him with a tremendous capacity for endurance. Of course, it's difficult to say whether this is good or bad. If man had not been endowed with such potential for patience and suffering, then all good people would have perished long ago and only the wicked and soulless would remain. On the other hand, tolerance and adaptability make men dumb beasts, distinguishable from animals only on corporal structure, even surpassing the lowly beasts in their lack of ability to defend themselves. And each new day brings forth new horrors of wickedness and brutality ..."

Rumata glanced over in Kyra's direction. She sat opposite Budach and attentively listened to his words, one cheek resting on her hand. Her eyes were filled with grief: it was obvious how sorry she felt for mankind.

"You are probably right, dear Doctor Budach," said Rumata. "But take me, for instance. I am nothing but a simple don of high birth." Budach's high forehead became wrinkled like a washboard and his eyes grew wide with amazement and amusement. "I love learned people more than anything; I admire their nobility of spirit. But on the other hand I completely fail to understand why you, who are men of science and the sole representatives of intellectual life and wisdom, remain so hopelessly passive? Why do you surrender without any resistance to contempt, why do you permit yourselves to be thrown into prisons, why do you accept your fate and let yourselves be burnt at the stake? Why do you separate your raison d'etre -- the search for new knowledge -- from the practical demands of life, the fight against all evil?"

Budach pushed back his empty dish.

"You ask strange questions, Don Rumata," he said. "Oddly enough, I was confronted with these self-same questions by the honorable Don Hug, the duke's chamberlain. Are you acquainted with him by any chance? Yes, I thought so . . . Indeed, the fight against evil! But what actually do we understand by 'evil'? After all, everyone is at liberty to interpret this concept of evil in his own way. For us, the scholars, evil lies in ignorance; the Church, however, teaches ignorance to be bliss and that all evil comes from knowledge. For the peasant, evil consists of high taxes and drought; for the grain merchant, however, drought is very propitious. Slaves see the evil embodied in the person of a drunken, hardhearted master, while the artisans regard an avaricious moneylender as evil personified. Tell me, then, what is the evil we are supposed to fight, Don Rumata?" He cast a saddened glance at his interlocutor. "Evil cannot be eradicated. No man is capable of curtailing its growth in this world. The individual might improve his own lot, perhaps, but always only at the expense of sealing the fate of others. And there will always be kings, who can be distinguished from one another by the degree of their cruelty, and there will always be, too, crude and debauched barons, the same as there will always be stupid folk, the ignorant masses, who show delight toward their oppressors and who, paradoxically, meet their liberators with hatred. This can all be explained by the strange phenomenon that servants and slaves understand their masters (even the most cruel) so much better than their liberators; for each subjugated slave can easily picture himself in the place of his master, but it's a rare one who can visualize himself in the role of his liberator. This is the way of human beings, Don Rumata; this is what our world is like."

"The world undergoes constant changes. Doctor Budach," said Rumata. "We know of a time when there were no kings at all..."

"The world cannot keep on changing forever," countered Budach, "for nothing is forever, not even change itself . . . We do not know the laws of completed perfection but completion will be reached some day, sooner or later. Examine, for example, the structure of our society. How pleasant for the eye of the beholder to regard this geometrically perfect system! Down at the very bottom come the peasants and the artisans, above them the noblemen, then the clergy, and finally the king. How meticulously everything has been calculated! What steadfastness, what constancy, what harmonic order! What change could ever occur in this cut crystal from the hand of our divine jeweler? There is no structure in this world that is superior to a pyramid--as any well-trained architect will confirm." He raised a finger, punctuating each remark with a slight stab in the air. "When grain pours from a sack, it does not spread out flat in a plane area, but will form a so-called conical pyramid. Each little grain adheres to the next, trying to avoid the fall to the ground. And this is the way it goes with mankind. In their attempt to form some kind of an entity, men must cling together, and inevitably they form a pyramid."

"Do you seriously consider this world the best of all possible worlds?" asked Rumata astonished. "After your encounter with Don Reba, your experiences in jail?"

"Of course not, my young friend! There are many things I do not like in this world, I'd like to see many things changed. But what should we do? In the eyes of the Supreme Power, perfection presents quite a different picture than in mine. What sense would it make for a tree to complain that it is rooted to the spot, although it would be most happy to be able to move away in order to escape from the woodcutter's ax?"

"But if it were possible to change the decisions of the Supreme Power?"

"Only the Supreme Power itself is capable of doing so,"

"But just imagine you had divine authority to act . . ."

Budach laughed.

"If I could imagine being God, I would become God!"

"All right, suppose you had the opportunity to give God some advice?"

"You have a fertile imagination," said Budach amused. "That would be splendid. You know the Holy Scriptures? Wonderful! I'd be happy, to carry on a conversation with you."

"You flatter me. But still, what advice would you give the Almighty? What, in your opinion, would the Almighty have to do so that you'd be able to say: the world is now truly good and beautiful?"

Budach smiled approvingly, leaned comfortably back in his armchair and folded his hands across his stomach. Full of interest and anticipation, Kyra peered into the physician's face.

"All right then," he said, "if you so desire. I would tell the Almighty: 'Great Creator, I do not know your plan; maybe it's simply not your intention to make mankind good and happy. Nevertheless, I beg you: let it happen--it would be so easy for you to accomplish--that all men have sufficient bread, meat, and wine! Provide them with shelter and clothing, let hunger and want disappear from the face of the earth, and all that separates men from each other."

'That would be all?" asked Rumata.

"Does it seem too little to you?"

Rumata shook his head slowly from side to side.

"God would answer you: This would be no blessing for mankind. For the strong of your world take away from the weak whatever I gave them and the weak would be as poor as before."

"I would beg God to protect the poor. "Enlighten the cruel rulers,' I would say."

"Cruelty is a mighty force. Once the rulers rid themselves of their cruel ways they would lose their power. And other cruel men would take their place."

Budach's friendly face grew suddenly somber.

"Then punish the cruel men," he said with determination, "and lead them away from the path of evil, so that the strong may not be cruel to their weaker brothers."

"It is man's nature to be weak from the moment he is born. He will only grow strong when there is no one stronger than he is. And if the cruel ones among the strong are punished and removed from their ranks, they will simply be replaced by the relatively stronger ones from among the throng of the weak. And the newly strong ones will become cruel in their turn. That would mean that eventually all men would have to be punished, and this I do not want to do."

"You have greater insight, Almighty Lord. Therefore arrange that mankind will obtain all they need and thus avoid that they will rob each other of whatever you gave them."

'This solution wouldn't be a blessing for mankind either," sighed Rumata. "They would not reap profit from this. For if they obtain everything from my hand without any effort on their part, they will forget what it is to work and labor; they will lose their taste for living. As time goes on they'll become domestic animals whom I will have to feed and clothe--and that for all eternity."

"Don't give them everything at once!" said Budach excitedly. "Give it to them slowly, gradually!"

"Gradually mankind will take everything they need anyhow."

Budach's smile became embarrassed.

"Now I can see that things are not quite so simple," he said. "I've never really thought about the problems ... I believe we have discussed all possibilities now. However," he leaned forward, "there exists still another possibility: Ordain that mankind will love work and knowledge above all, that work and wisdom will be regarded by them as their sole reason for being!"

Yes, thought Rumata, we've already considered such experiments. Mass hypno-induction, positive remoralization, exposure to hypnotic radiation from three equatorial satellites ...

This is an alternative I might choose perhaps," he said. "But could it be justified if I were to rob mankind of its history? Does it make sense to replace one type of man with another? Would this not mean in the end that one would wipe this mankind off the face of the earth and create another in its place?"

Budach frowned and remained silent, busy with his own thoughts. From below the windows came again the melancholy groaning of heavily laden carts. Suddenly Budach spoke softly:

"Then, oh, Lord, remove us from the face of the earth and create us anew, make us better men this time, more perfect beings. Or, better still--leave us the way we are, but ordain that we can follow our own path!"

"My heart is heavy with sorrow," Rumata said slowly, "but this is not within my power."

And he suddenly became aware of Kyra's eyes which she had fastened on him with great intensity. There was fear and hope in her glance now.