PART THREE: TERRORIST

9.

His escort murmured: "Wait here," and vanished into the brush. Maxim sat down on a stump in the middle of a clearing, thrust his hands deep inside the pockets of his canvas pants, and waited. The forest was old, and the undergrowth was strangling it. The ancient tree trunks smelled of rotting mold. Maxim shivered from the dampness. He felt faint and wanted to sit in the sun, where he could warm his shoulder.

Someone was in the bushes nearby, but Maxim ignored it. Although he had been followed from the moment he left the village, he wasn't concerned. It would have been strange if they had believed his story at once.

A little girl wearing an oversized blouse and carrying a bucket entered the clearing from one side. As she passed, her eyes were riveted on Mac, and she kept stumbling in the tall grass. A squirrel-like animal streaked through the bushes, darted up a tree, looked down, took fright, and disappeared. It was quiet except for the distant, irregular clacking of a machine cutting bulrushes on the lake.

The man in the bushes did not go away. The feeling that he was being watched was unpleasant, but he had to get used to it. He must expect this from now on. The inhabited island had turned against him: one group had shot him, another distrusted him. Maxim dozed off. Lately he had been dozing at the most inappropriate times. He'd fall asleep, wake up, and fall asleep again. Realizing that his body knew best what it needed, he did not attempt to fight it. This would pass.

He heard the rustle of footsteps and his escort's voice: "Follow me."

Maxim rose and followed. They went deep into the forest, weaving in and out, describing circles and complicated loops as they gradually approached a dwelling that was actually very close to the clearing. Finally deciding that he had sufficiently confused Maxim, the escort took a shortcut over some fallen trees. He made a great deal of noise, like a city dweller unaccustomed to walking through woodland, so Maxim could no longer hear the footsteps of the man who was creeping along behind them.

After they had passed the fallen trees. Maxim saw a meadow and a ramshackle log cabin with boarded-up windows. The meadow was covered with high grass, but Maxim noticed both fresh and old tracks running through it. Whoever came here approached cautiously, trying to reach the cabin by a different route each time. They entered a dark, musty room. The man following them remained outside. The escort pulled up a trapdoor and said: "Come over here. Be careful." In the darkness Maxim descended a wooden staircase.

The cellar was warm and dry. Several people sat around a wooden table and their eyes strained, trying to make out Maxim in the darkness. The odor of a snuffed-out candle suggested to Maxim that they didn't want him to see their faces. He recognized only two: Ordi, Illi Tader's daughter, and Memo Gramenu, who sat by the staircase with a machine gun on his knees. Upstairs the trapdoor slammed shut.

"Who are you," someone asked. "Tell us about yourself."

"May I sit down?" asked Maxim.

"Yes, of course. Come over here, toward me. There's a bench."

Maxim sat down at the table and glanced around him. Four people sat around the table. They appeared gray and flat, like images in a very old photograph. On his right sat Ordi. The broad-shouldered man sitting opposite her, who bore an unpleasant resemblance to Captain Chachu, spoke out. "Tell us about yourself," he repeated.

Maxim sighed. He detested the thought of introducing himself with a pack of lies, but he had no choice.

"I don't know anything about my past," he explained. "They say I'm from the mountains. Maybe I am. I don't remember. My name is Maxim. My surname -- Kammerer. In the Legion my name was Mac Sim. I can remember only as far back as the moment I was arrested in the forest near the Blue Snake River."

The lies were over with and the rest went more easily. He told them his story, trying to be brief but not to skip what was important.

"I led them as far as possible into the quarry, ordered them to run, and took my time returning. Then the captain shot me. I regained consciousness that night, made my way out of the quarry, and wandered into a pasture. In the daytime I hid in the bushes and slept; at night I crawled over to the cows and drank some milk. In a few days I felt better. I borrowed rags from the shepherds, reached Duck Village, and found Illi Tader there. You know the rest."

There was a long pause. Then a man with an impassive face and shoulder-length hair spoke. "I don't understand why he doesn't remember his past. I don't think that's likely. I'd like to hear the doctor's opinion."

"It happens," explained the doctor, a thin man who looked overworked. Evidently anxious to smoke, he twirled a pipe in his hands.

"Why didn't you escape with the prisoners?" asked Broadshoulders.

"Guy was still back there. I hoped he would come with me." Maxim paused, recalling Guy's pale bewildered face, the captain's hate-filled eyes, the burning, stabbing pains in his chest and abdomen, and his wounded feelings and sense of helplessness. "Of course it was stupid of me to think he would," he added. "But I didn't understand then."

"Did you take part in Legion operations?"

"I've already told you about that."

"Tell us again!"

"I took part in only one operation, when Ketshef, Ordi, you, and two others who wouldn't identify themselves were seized. One had an artificial arm."

"Your captain certainly was in a hurry. How do you account for it? Before a candidate is tested by blood, he must participate in at least three operations."

"I don't know. I only know he didn't trust me. I myself can't understand why he sent me to shoot -- "

"Why did he shoot you?"

"I think he was frightened. I wanted to take away his gun."

"I don't understand," said the long-haired man. "Let's see if I've got it straight: he didn't trust you, so, to check you out, he sent you to execute -- "

"Hold on, Forester," said Memo, "this is a lot of hot air. Words don't mean a damn thing. If I were you, doctor, I'd examine him. There's something fishy about his story."

"I can't examine him in the dark," said the doctor.

"Light the candle," suggested Maxim. "I see you anyway."

For a moment there was dead silence. Then Broadshoulders asked: "What do you mean -- you see us?"

Maxim shrugged his shoulders. "I can see in the dark."

"Bullshit!" said Memo. "If you can see, describe what I'm doing now."

Maxim turned around.

"You've aimed your carbine at me. Rather, you think it's at me, but actually it's aimed at the doctor. You are Memo Gramenu -- nicknamed Hoof of Death, or just Hoofer. I recognize you. You have a scratch on your right cheek that wasn't there before."

"Noctalopia," muttered the doctor. "Let's have some light. This is stupid. He sees us and we don't see him." He groped for the matches.

"Yes," said Memo, "of course it's stupid. Either he leaves here as one of us or he doesn't leave at all."

"May I?" Maxim reached out, took the matches from the doctor, and lit the candle.

Unaccustomed to the light, everyone squinted. The doctor lit his pipe quickly.

"Undress," he ordered.

Maxim pulled his canvas shirt over his head. Everyone stared at his chest. The doctor rose and crossed over to Maxim. Hi turned him in various directions and felt him with strong, cold fingers. It was quiet. Then Longhair said sympathetically: "A handsome boy. My son was... too."

No one answered. He rose heavily, fumbled around in a corner of the room, and hoisted a large wickered jug onto the table. He set out three mugs.

"We can take turns. If anyone's hungry, there's cheese. And bread."

"Wait, Forester," said Broadshoulders. "Push your jug away. I can't see a thing. Well, what do you think, doctor?"

The doctor again ran his cold fingers over Maxim, enveloped himself in clouds of smoke, and sat down.

"Forester, pour!" he said. "Something like this calls for a drink. Get dressed," he said to Maxim. "And stop smiling like a scarecrow. I have a few questions for you."

Maxim got dressed. The doctor took a sip from the mug and asked: "When did you say you were shot?"

"Forty-seven days ago."

"What did you say you were shot with?"

"A pistol. An army pistol."

The doctor took another sip and addressed Broadshoulders:

"I'll bet this tough guy was shot with an army pistol, and from a very short distance. But not forty-seven days ago. At least one hundred and forty-seven. Where are the bullets?" He turned to Maxim suddenly.

"My body eliminated them, and I threw them away."

"Listen, what's your name ... Mac! You're lying! Tell us the truth!"

Maxim bit his lip.

"I am telling the truth. You have no idea how rapidly wounds heal for us. I am not lying." He paused. "I can prove it easily. Cut my hand. If it's not a deep cut, it will heal in ten or fifteen minutes."

"That's true," said Ordi, speaking up for the first time. "I saw it myself. He was peeling potatoes and cut his finger. A half-hour later there was only a white scar, and the next day, not a trace of anything. I believe him when he says he's from the mountains. Gel used to talk about mountain folk medicine. They know how to heal wounds."

"Bah, mountain medicine." The doctor sent up a cloud of smoke again. "All right, let's say his mountain folk medicine exists. But a cut finger is one thing, and seven bullets fired point-blank is another. There are seven holes in this young man; at least four of them should have been lethal."

"The hell you say!" Broadshoulders made a gesture of disbelief.

"You'd better believe it," said the doctor. "One bullet through the heart, one through the spine, two through the liver. Add to this the loss of a great deal of blood and inevitable blood poisoning. Plus the total lack of evidence of treatment. Massaraksh, one bullet in the heart should have been enough to kill him."

"Explain it." Broadshoulders turned to Maxim.

"He's wrong. About the shots, his diagnosis is correct, but he's wrong: for us those wounds are not lethal. Now, if the captain had shot me in the head... but he didn't. Doctor, you have no idea how viable the heart and liver are."

"True," said the doctor.

"One thing I do know," said Broadshoulders. "They would hardly have sent us such a crude piece of work. They know very well that we have doctors."

There was a long pause. Maxim waited patiently. "Would I believe such a story in their place? I suppose I would. I'm too gullible for this world. Although, I must say, less than I used to be. Take this Memo fellow, for example. I don't like that guy. He's practically afraid of his shadow. Sits there among his own comrades with a machine gun on his knees. Probably is afraid of me, too. Scared I'll grab his gun and dislocate his fingers again. Well, maybe he's right. Hell, I'm not going to let anyone ever take a shot at me again." He remembered that freezing night in the quarry, the luminous, lifeless sky and the cold, sticky puddle he lay in. "No, I've had enough of that. From now on, I'll do the shooting."

"I believe him," said Ordi suddenly. "What he says doesn't make sense, but that's because he's an unusual man. It's impossible to make up a story like that: it would be too ridiculous. If I didn't believe him, I'd shoot him right after hearing such a story, Maybe he's crazy. That's possible. But he's not a provocateur. I'm for him," she added.

"That's enough, Ordi," said Broadshoulders. "Shut up for a while." He turned to Maxim. "Were you examined by the commission at the Public Health Department?"

"Yes, I was."

"And you were certified?"

"Of course."

"Any restrictions?"

"The card just said 'Certified.'"

"What is your opinion of the Fighting Legion?"

"I think that it is a mindless weapon controlled by others, most likely the All-Powerful Creators. But there's still too much that I don't understand about it."

"What is your opinion of the All-Powerful Creators?"

"I think they are the ruling clique of a military dictatorship. They are unscrupulous, but I'm not familiar with their aims."

"And what is your opinion of the degens?"

"I think the term is unfortunate. I think you are conspirators. I don't quite understand your aims. But I like the people I've seen. All of them seem honest and -- how should I put it -- well aware of their actions."

"All right," said Broadshoulders, "what about the pains... do you get them?"

"Those splitting headaches? No, never."

"Why ask him about that?" said Forester. "If he did, he wouldn't be sitting here now."

"That's exactly what I want to know. Why is he here?" Broadshoulders turned to Maxim. "Why did you come to us? Do you want to fight with us?"

Maxim shook his head.

"I couldn't say that. It wouldn't be true. I want to find out what it's all about. Right now I'd rather be with you than them. But I know so little about you, too."

His questioners exchanged glances.

"We don't operate that way, my friend," said Forester. "Here's the way we work: either you're one of us and you go out and fight, or you're not. In that case, then we... you know what I mean. Where did you say you'd have to get it, in the head, eh?"

The doctor sighed and knocked out his pipe against the bench.

"An unusual and difficult case. I have a suggestion. Let him question us. You do have questions, don't you, Mac?"

"That's why I'm here."

"He has a lot of questions." Ordi grinned. "He didn't give my mother a moment's peace. And bothered me, too."

"Shoot," said Broadshoulders. "You, doctor, will answer them. We'll listen."

"Who are the Creators and what do they want?" began Maxim.

"The Creators," said the doctor, "are an anonymous group of the most skillful schemers in finance, politics, and the military. They have two motives. Their principal motive is to stay in power, and their secondary motive is to derive maximum gratification from this power. They're all thieves, sensualists, sadists. And they're all power hungry. Enough?"

"What about their economic program?" asked Maxim. "Their ideology? Their power base? Who do they count on for support?"

Everyone exchanged glances again. Forester stared open-mouthed at Maxim.

"Economic programs?" said the doctor. "You expect too much of us. We are not theoreticians. We are realists. The overriding issue for us is their desire to destroy us. We are literally fighting for our lives." He stuffed his pipe.

"I didn't intend to offend anyone. I am only trying to understand what it's all about." He would have explained the theory of historical necessity, but their language lacked the necessary words. "What is it that you want? Besides your struggle for survival, what are your goals? And who are you?"

"Let me answer him," said Forester suddenly. "Let me tell him. My friend, I don't know how it is with you mountaineers, but I can tell you how people in our country feel. We want to live, we love life. And you ask what else we want? For me that's enough. Do you think that's so little? Oh, you're a brave one, all right! But try hiding out in a cellar, away from your home, your wife and family, when everyone has turned from you. Cut out the fine words."

"Take it easy, Forester," said Broadshoulders.

"No, why should I? A fine one he is with his twaddle about society and economic programs."

"Easy, Forester," said the doctor. "Don't get all worked up. You see, this fellow doesn't understand anything." He turned to Maxim. "Our movement is very heterogeneous. We don't have a unified political program -- it's not possible. We kill them because they're killing us. You must understand. We are all condemned men and women with little hope of survival. For us biology obscures politics. Survival is our main goal. We've no time to worry about theoretical foundations. So if you were to come out with some sort of social program, nothing would come of it."

"But what's behind all this? Why are they trying to destroy you?" asked Maxim.

"We are considered degenerates. No one remembers how it all started. But the Creators have something to gain by exterminating us: it distracts the people from domestic problems, from the financiers' corruption, from the enormous profits made on the sales of munitions and the construction of the ABM towers."

"Now it's beginning to make sense," said Maxim. "So money is the reason. Which means that the Creators are serving the moneyed interests. And who else are they shielding?"

"No, they aren't serving or shielding anyone. The Creators themselves are the moneyed interests. They are everything. Yet, in a way, they're nothing because they are anonymous and continually devour each other... He should talk with Vepr," he suggested to Broadshoulders. "They'd find a common language."

"Good. I'll talk with Vepr about the Creators. But now..."

"Too late for that," said Memo angrily. "Vepr's been shot."

"The one-armed fellow," explained Ordi. "Yes, you should know about that."

"I do," said Maxim. "But he wasn't shot. He was sentenced to exile in the penal colony, for reeducation."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Broadshoulders. "Vepr?"

"Yes," replied Maxim. "Gel Ketshef was sentenced to death. Vepr, to the penal colony. Another fellow who refused to give his name -- the civilian took him. Probably for counterintelligence."

Again there was a long pause. The doctor sipped his drink. Broadshoulders sat quietly. Forester groaned and looked at Ordi sympathetically. She stared at the table, her lips pressed together tightly. This was a dangerous subject and Maxim was sorry he had raised it. Everyone was shaken -- except Memo, who appeared more afraid than upset. "People like him should not be given machine guns, " thought Maxim. "He'll gun us all down."

"Well, now," said Broadshoulders, "do you have any more questions?"

"I certainly do. Many. But I'm afraid they may strike you as tactless."

"Let's have them anyway."

"All right, just one more. What do the ABM towers have to do with you? How do they interfere with your lives?"

Everyone laughed scornfully.

"There's a fool for you," said Forester. "OK, he wants to know the reason, he wants a theoretical foundation. So give it to him."

"They're not ABM towers," explained the doctor. "They're our curse. They invented a radiation-transmission device which they use to create 'degenerates.' Most people, like you, for example, are totally unaffected by this radiation, but because of certain peculiarities in their physiology an unfortunate minority experience excruciating pain during radiation strikes. Some can tolerate the pain, others cannot, and they scream; one-third lose consciousness; one-fourth go insane or die. The towers deliver nationwide strikes twice daily. While we lie in the streets, helpless with pain, we are caught and arrested. There are also short-range radiation devices in patrol cars. In addition there are self-activated devices and random radiation strikes at night. There's no place we can hide from them. There are no shields, We go mad, shoot ourselves, do all sorts of senseless things out of desperation. We're dying out."

The doctor fell silent, grabbed the mug, and drained it. His face twitched as he inhaled furiously on his pipe.

"It's pointless to tell him," said Memo suddenly. "He doesn't have the slightest idea of what it means to live like this -- to wait each day for the next radiation strike."

"Well," said Broadshoulders, "in that case, there's nothing further to discuss. Ordi has expressed herself in favor of him. Who else is in favor, and who is opposed?"

"I want to explain why I'm in favor of him," Ordi said. "First of all, I believe him. I've already said that, and maybe it's not so important because it concerns only me. But this man possesses talents that can be useful to all of us. He can heal not only his own wounds, but others' too. No offense intended, doctor, but far better than you can."

The doctor sniffed. "Forensic medicine is my field."

"But that's not all," continued Ordi. "He knows how to remove pain."

"How's that?" asked Forester.

"I don't know how he does it. He massages the temples, whispers something, and the pain passes. I had two radiation seizures at my mother's house, and he helped me both times. Not very much the first time, but still I didn't lose consciousness the way I usually do. And the second time I didn't feel any pain at all."

The mood in the room changed abruptly. A few minutes ago they were his judges, deciding whether he should live or die. Now the judges had vanished, and in their places sat tormented, doomed people who had suddenly caught a glimmer of hope. They looked at him expectantly, as if here and now he would sweep away the nightmare that had been tormenting them every minute of every day and night for years on end. "Well," thought Maxim, "here, at least, I will be needed to cure and not to kill." But something was missing. To cure was not enough. "The towers -- what a sick idea. Only a sadist could have thought them up."

"Can you really do it?" asked the doctor.

"Do what?"

"Remove pain."

"Remove pain? Yes.''

"How?"

'I can't explain it to you. Your language doesn't have the words, and you don't know enough. But there's something I don't understand: don't you have any sort of painkilling drugs?"

"There are none. The only relief is from a lethal dose."

"Listen," said Maxim, "I'm willing to try to help you, to remove your pain. But that isn't a real solution! A mass drug must be developed. Do you have chemists?"

"We have everything," said Broadshoulders, "but the problem is not solvable. If it were, the prosecutor would not be suffering these agonizing pains, too. Believe me, he would get his hands on that drug damn fast. But before each radiation strike, he gets drunk and soaks in a hot tub."

"The state prosecutor is a degen?" Maxim was bewildered.

"So go the rumors," replied Broadshoulders coldly. "But we're getting off the subject. Have you finished your piece, Ordi? Who else wants to speak?"

"Just a minute, general," said Forester to Broadshoulders. "What does it all add up to? Is he going to be our savior?" He turned to Maxim. "Can you take away my pain? Comrades, this man is so valuable I won't let him out of this cellar! My pains art unbearable, I can't take it any longer. Maybe he will really come up with some powder, eh? No, comrades, such a man must be guarded like a treasure."

"Then you're in favor of him," said the General.

"More than that. If anyone so much as lays a finger on him..."

"We get the point. What about you. Doctor?"

"I was in favor of him anyway. Cure or no cure." The doctor puffed on his pipe. "I have the same impression as Ordi. Although he's not yet one of us, he will be. It can't be otherwise. In any case he's no good to them. He's too clever."

"All right," said the General. "What about you. Hoofer?"

"I'm in favor," said Memo. "He'll be useful."

"Well, then," said the General, "I'm in favor of him, too. I'm very happy for you, Mac. I'd hate to have to get rid of you." He looked at his watch. "Let's go," he said. "The radiation strike is about due, and Mac will have a chance to show us his skill. Forester, pour him some beer, and let's have some of your cheese, Hoofer, get going and take over for Green. He hasn't eaten since morning."