12.

The state prosecutor leaned back in his chair, tossed some dried fruit into his mouth, chewed it, and drained a jigger of mineral water. Frowning and pressing his fingers against his tired eyes, he listened carefully. All was well for hundreds of yards around. A night rain drummed monotonously against the window; the screaming sirens, screeching brakes, and clanking elevators had quieted down for the night. The Department of Justice was deserted except for his assistant, who sat quietly in the reception room, anxiously awaiting orders. The prosecutor unwound slowly. Through the colored spots floating before his eyes, he glanced at the custom-made visitor's chair. "I must take that chair with me when I leave. The table, too; I'm used to it. Yes, it will be hard to leave. I've made a nice little nest for myself here. But why should I leave? How strange human nature is: confronted with a ladder, man feels compelled to climb to the very top. It's cold and drafty up there -- bad for the health -- and a fall can be fatal. The rungs are slippery. It's a funny thing: you're aware of the dangers, and you're practically ready to drop from exhaustion, yet you keep fighting your way up. Regardless of the situation, you keep climbing; contrary to advice, you keep climbing; despite the resistance of your enemies, you keep climbing; against your better instincts, your common sense, your premonitions, you climb, climb, climb. If you don't keep climbing, you fall to the bottom. That's for sure. But if you do keep climbing, you fall anyway."

His thoughts were interrupted by the beeping of the intercom. Annoyed, he picked up the receiver.

"What's the matter? I'm busy."

"Your honor," said his assistant, "a party by the name of Strannik is on your personal line and insists on speaking with you."

"Strannik?" The prosecutor perked up. "Put him on."

A click. Then a familiar voice with a Pandeyan accent, carefully articulating each word.

"Smart? Hello, how are you? Are you very busy?"

"For you, no."

"I must talk with you."

"When?"

"Now, if possible."

"I'm at your service," said the prosecutor. "Come on over."

"I'll be there in ten or fifteen minutes. Wait for me."

The prosecutor hung up and sat immobile for some time, biting his lower lip. "So, my friend, you've turned up out of the blue again. Massaraksh, I've thrown away so much money on that man, more than on all the others put together, and I know no more about him than anyone else. A dangerous character. Unpredictable. Ruined my evening." The prosecutor looked angrily at the papers lying on his desk, then shoved them into a pile and stuffed them into a drawer. "How long has he been here? Yes, two months. As usual. Disappears God knows where, no news for two months, then pops up like a jack-in-the-box. No, I'll have to do something about that man. We can't go on this way. I wonder what he wants from me? I wonder what's happened in those two months? Crafty was dumped. But I doubt that he was involved. True, he hated Crafty. But he hates everyone. Nothing has happened here that would concern him, and he certainly wouldn't come to see me about such nonsense. He'd go directly to Chancellor or Baron. Maybe he's run into something interesting and wants to make a deal? God forbid! If I were in his place, I wouldn't make any deals with anyone. Maybe he's coming about the trial? No, the trial has nothing to do with it. Why speculate? I'll just play it by ear."

Sliding out his secret drawer, he activated all the tape recorders and hidden cameras. "We'll preserve this scene for posterity. Well, Strannik, where the hell are you?" His nerves started to act up in anticipation of his visitor. To calm himself, he tossed more fruit into his mouth, chewed slowly, closed his eyes, and began to count. As he reached seven hundred, the door opened.

There he was. That gangling, insolent cynic. Pushing the assistant aside, he strode into the room. Strannik, the Creators' fair-haired boy. Despised and adored, he had managed to stay on top. The prosecutor rose to meet his visitor, around-shouldered man with round green eyes and a head as bald as an egg. He was wearing the same ridiculous jacket he always wore. A sorcerer, ruler of destinies, devourer of billions. With him you went straight to the point. No mincing of words.

"Greetings, Strannik. Come to tell me of your triumphs?"

"What triumphs?" Strannik dropped into a chair that forced him to draw up his knees awkwardly. "Massaraksh, I always forget about this diabolical device of yours. When will you stop insulting your visitors?"

"A visitor should be uncomfortable and should feel ridiculous. Otherwise these sessions can be very dull. For example, the sight of you right now really cheers me up."

"Ah, yes, I know; you have such a sunny personality. Only your sense of humor is not very exacting. By the way, why not make yourself comfortable? Have a seat."

The prosecutor realized that he was still standing and that, as usual, Strannik had evened the score quickly. The prosecutor sat down, settled himself comfortably, and sipped some mineral water.

"Well?" he said.

Strannik came right to the point.

"You have a man I need. By the name of Mac Sim. You had him sent off for reeducation. Remember?"

"No, I don't." The prosecutor was sincere, but somewhat disappointed. "When did I send him? What for?"

"Recently. For blowing up the tower."

"Ah, yes, I remember the case. Well, what about it?"

"That's all there is to it. I need him."

"Just a minute." The prosecutor was annoyed. "Someone else tried the case. You can't expect me to remember every convict."

"I thought they were all your people."

"Only one of mine was there. The rest were genuine. What did you say his name was?"

"Mac Sim."

"Mac Sim," repeated the prosecutor. "Ah, that mountaineer spy. I remember. Yes, there was a strange story about him. He was shot, but it didn't finish him off."

"Apparently not."

"A man of unusual strength. Yes, there was a report on him, Why do you need him?"

"The man is a mutant," replied Strannik. "He has interesting mentograms and I need him for my work."

"Are you planning to dissect him?"

"Possibly. My people spotted him a long time ago, when he was being used at the Special Studio. But he escaped."

Extremely disappointed, the prosecutor stuffed his mouth with fruit.

"All right. By the way, how are things going?"

"Splendidly, as usual. I hear the same about you. You really did a job on Puppet. My congratulations. So, when do I get my Mac?"

"I'll send a dispatch tomorrow. He'll be delivered to you in five to seven days."

"Gratis?"

"Well, my friend, what do you have to interest me?"

"The very first protective helmet."

The prosecutor laughed.

"And the World Light in the bargain," he said. "By the way, keep this in mind: it's not your first helmet I need. I need the only one. Incidentally, is it true that your bunch was assigned to develop a directional radiation emitter?"

"Maybe,'" replied Strannik.

"Listen, what the hell do we need it for? We have enough problems without it. You could sit on it, couldn't you?"

Strannik grinned. "Are you afraid. Smart?"

"Yes, I am. Aren't you? Or maybe you think your great friend ship with the Count will last forever? He'll do you in with your own emitter."

Strannik grinned again. "You win. It's a deal." He rose. "I'm on my way to Chancellor. Any message for him?"

"Chancellor is angry with me," said the prosecutor. "It's damned unpleasant for me."

"All right. I'll tell him that."

"Joking aside, if you could put in a word for me..."

"You're a clever chap," said Strannik, parodying Chancellor. "I'll try."

"Is he at least satisfied with the trial?"

"How should I know? I just got here."

"Try to find out. And about your -- what's his name? Give it to me again, I'll make a note of it."

"Mac Sim."

"Fine. I'll take care of it tomorrow."

"Good luck," said Strannik, and he left.

The prosecutor frowned as he watched him disappear through the door. "Yes, one can only envy a man like that. He really has it made. Our defense against radiation rests in his hands. Too late (or regrets. But it might be a good idea to get close to him. But how? He doesn't need anything. He's so damn important that we're all totally dependent on him; we all address our prayers to him. I'd like to get a man like that by the throat! If only there was something important he wanted. All he needs is some lousy convict, Oh, yes, very valuable! Sure, interesting mentograms. But I wonder -- that convict is from the mountains, and lately Chancellor has been referring to the mountains frequently. Maybe I should look into this. But Chancellor is Chancellor. Massaraksh, I'm too damn tired, can't do another stitch of work today."

He spoke into the intercom: "Kokh, what do you have on the convict Sim?" He suddenly remembered: "I think you compiled a dossier."

"Yes, your honor. I had the honor of bringing the case to your attention."

"Bring it here. And more water, too."

No sooner had he switched off the intercom than his assistant glided unobtrusively through the doorway. A thick folder appeared before him; a glass tinkled softly; water gurgled; and a filled glass stood alongside the folder.

"'Abstract of the Mac Sim Case (Maxim Kammerer). Prepared by Assistant Kokh.' Pretty thick. Not a bad abstract." He opened the folder and removed the first sheaf of papers.

Captain Tolot's testimony. Defendant Gaal's testimony. A rough sketch of the border region beyond the Blue Snake River. "He was wearing no other clothing. His speech appeared to be coherent but was absolutely incomprehensible. An unsuccessful attempt was made to communicate with him in Khonti."He was wearing no other clothing. His speech appeared to be coherent but was absolutely incomprehensible. An unsuccessful attempt was made to communicate with him in Khonti. Oh, those stupid border captains! Imagine, a Khonti spy on the southern border! The prisoner's drawings were very artistic.The prisoner's drawings were very artistic. Well, there're plenty of amazing things beyond the Blue Snake. Unfortunately. The facts surrounding this fellow's appearance don't seem especially unusual, judging from what we know about that region. Although, of course... well, we'll see."

The prosecutor put aside the first sheaf, selected two dried berries, and looked at the next page. "The conclusions of a special commission from the Textile and Garment Institute. We, the undersigned... using all known methods of analysis, tested the object of clothing delivered to us by the Department of Justice. "The conclusions of a special commission from the Textile and Garment Institute. We, the undersigned... using all known methods of analysis, tested the object of clothing delivered to us by the Department of Justice. -- What nonsense! -- and arrived at the following conclusion: (1) The specified object is a pair of trousers, one quarter of standard length, that could be worn by either men or women; (2) The style does not conform to any known standard pattern and cannot, therefore, properly be called a style, as the trousers were not sewn or made by any known method; (3) The trousers are made of a resilient silvery cloth that cannot properly be called cloth, as microscopic analysis failed to reveal its structure. The material is fire-resistant, wrinkle-resistant, and unusually tear-resistant. Chemical analysis...and arrived at the following conclusion: (1) The specified object is a pair of trousers, one quarter of standard length, that could be worn by either men or women; (2) The style does not conform to any known standard pattern and cannot, therefore, properly be called a style, as the trousers were not sewn or made by any known method; (3) The trousers are made of a resilient silvery cloth that cannot properly be called cloth, as microscopic analysis failed to reveal its structure. The material is fire-resistant, wrinkle-resistant, and unusually tear-resistant. Chemical analysis... .H'm, strange trousers. We must find out what they are. I'll have to make a note of this." (He wrote in the margin: "Kokh. Why no accompanying explanation? Where do the trousers come from?") "So. The technology is unknown in ourThe technology is unknown in our country as well as in other civilized nations (according to prewar data)country as well as in other civilized nations (according to prewar data)."

The prosecutor put aside the conclusion. "That's enough about trousers. Trousers are trousers. Let's see what else we have here. Record of Medical Examination.Record of Medical Examination. Interesting. What a low blood pressure! And his lungs! Oh, what's this? Traces of four lethal wounds. Peculiar, sounds like mysticism. Aha! See testimony of witness Chachu and defendant Gaal.See testimony of witness Chachu and defendant Gaal. But, seven bullets! Some discrepancy here: Chachu testifies that he used the gun in self-defense, but Gaal states that Sim only wanted to take away Chachu's pistol. Well, that's none of my business. Two bullets in the liver -- too much for a normal man. Twists coins, can run with a man on his shoulders. Aha, I've gone over this already. I remember thinking when I read it that this fellow was abnormally strong and that such types are usually stupid. That's as far as I got. What's this? Ah, my old friend. Abstract from Report of Agent 711. Sees without difficulty on a rainy night (can even read) and in complete darkness (distinguishes objects, sees facial expressions up to ten yards away); possesses a very keen sense of smell and taste: identified individuals in a group by odor; to settle a dispute, identified drinks in tightly corked containers; can orient himself anywhere in the world without a compass; can determine exact time without a watch... The following incident occurred: a precooked fish was purchased which he forbade us to eat, claiming it to be radioactive. He himself ate the fish, stating that it was not dangerous for him. He did not become ill, although radiation exceeded three times the permissible level (almost seventy-seven units)."

Abstract from Report of Agent 711. Sees without difficulty on a rainy night (can even read) and in complete darkness (distinguishes objects, sees facial expressions up to ten yards away); possesses a very keen sense of smell and taste: identified individuals in a group by odor; to settle a dispute, identified drinks in tightly corked containers; can orient himself anywhere in the world without a compass; can determine exact time without a watch... The following incident occurred: a precooked fish was purchased which he forbade us to eat, claiming it to be radioactive. He himself ate the fish, stating that it was not dangerous for him. He did not become ill, although radiation exceeded three times the permissible level (almost seventy-seven units)."

The prosecutor leaned back in his chair. "Well, this is just too much to swallow. Maybe he's even immortal? Yes, Strannik must be interested in all this. Let's see what else we have here. Ah, here's an important one. Conclusion of a Special Commission of the Department of Public Health. Subject: Mac Sim. No reaction to white radiation. No contraindications to service in the special forces.Conclusion of a Special Commission of the Department of Public Health. Subject: Mac Sim. No reaction to white radiation. No contraindications to service in the special forces. That was when he was recruited into the Legion. White radiation, massaraksh. Butchers, damn them! Here's their special testimony for the inquiry: Although subject was tested with white radiation of varying intensities, up to the maximum, there was no reaction. Zero reaction in both senses to A-radiation. Zero reaction to B-radiation. Remarks: We consider it our duty to add that the subject (Mac Sim, approximately twenty years old) presents a danger-to society in view of potential genetic consequences. Complete sterilization or destruction is recommended.Although subject was tested with white radiation of varying intensities, up to the maximum, there was no reaction. Zero reaction in both senses to A-radiation. Zero reaction to B-radiation. Remarks: We consider it our duty to add that the subject (Mac Sim, approximately twenty years old) presents a danger-to society in view of potential genetic consequences. Complete sterilization or destruction is recommended. Oh, ho! These guys don't fool around. Who's in that department now? Ah, yes, Lover. I remember Stallion telling me a good one about him. Massaraksh, can't remember it. Ah, I'm glad I'm alone now. I'll have another berry and a sip of water. Ugh, what terrible stuff. But they say it helps. Let's see what's next.

"So he's been there,there, too! Well, well. Probably zero reaction again. When subjected to forced measures, said subject Sim did not give testimony. In keeping with Paragraph 12, relative to avoiding visible physical injury to subjects under investigation who are scheduled to appear at an open trial, only the following methods were used: (A) Deep-needle surgery, penetrating ganglions. Reaction: paradoxical: subject fell asleep. (B) Chemical treatment of ganglions with alkaloids and alkalis. Same reaction. (C) Light chamber. No reaction. Subject expressed surprise. (D) Steam chamber. Weight loss without unpleasant sensations. Forced measures were then terminated.When subjected to forced measures, said subject Sim did not give testimony. In keeping with Paragraph 12, relative to avoiding visible physical injury to subjects under investigation who are scheduled to appear at an open trial, only the following methods were used: (A) Deep-needle surgery, penetrating ganglions. Reaction: paradoxical: subject fell asleep. (B) Chemical treatment of ganglions with alkaloids and alkalis. Same reaction. (C) Light chamber. No reaction. Subject expressed surprise. (D) Steam chamber. Weight loss without unpleasant sensations. Forced measures were then terminated. Br-r-r, what a document! Yes, Strannik is right: the man must be a mutant. A normal man wouldn't react that way. Yes, I've heard that successful mutations do occur, although rarely. That explains everything -- except those pants. As far as I know, pants don't mutate."

He looked at the next page, which proved to be interesting: it was the testimony of the Special Studio's director. "An idiotic institution. They record the ravings of various psychos for the entertainment of our most esteemed public. I remember... the studio was the brainchild of Kalu Swindler, who was a little crazy himself. Swindler is long since gone, but his wild idea lives on. The director's testimony indicates that Sim was an ideal subject and it would be extremely desirable to have him back. Oh, what's this? Transferred to the custody of the Department of Special Research in keeping with order number such-and-such on such-and-such date. Ah, here it is -- the order, signed by Fank. H'm, I smell Strannik's hand in this. No, let's not jump to conclusions." He counted to thirty to calm himself, then picked up the next thick sheaf of papers: Abstract From the Records of the Special Ethnolinguistic Commission's Inquiry Into the Possible Mountaineer Origin of M. Sim.

Abstract From the Records of the Special Ethnolinguistic Commission's Inquiry Into the Possible Mountaineer Origin of M. Sim.

Still thinking about Fank and Strannik, he began to read mechanically. Suddenly he found himself absorbed in the material. It was an intriguing study. All reports, evidence, and testimony related in any way whatsoever to the question of Mac Sim's origin had been brought together and discussed: anthropological, ethnographic, and linguistic data, and analysis of that data; the results of radiation phonograms, mentograms, and the subject's own drawings. It read like a novel, although the conclusions were very meager and cautious. The commission did not relate M. Sim to any known ethnic group on the continent. (Attached was a separate opinion, written by the eminent paleoanthropologist Shapshu, who saw in the subject's cranium a remarkable resemblance to the fossilized cranium of so-called ancient man. The latter had inhabited the Archipelago more than fifty thousand years ago.) The commission confirmed the subject's complete psychological normality at the present moment but assumed that he had recently suffered a form of amnesia in conjunction with considerable displacement of real memory by a false one. The commission conducted a linguistic analysis of the phonograms preserved in the Special Studio's archives and came to the conclusion that the language spoken by the subject at that time could not belong to any known group of modern or dead languages. Therefore, the commission believed the language could have been a product of the subject's imagination (fish language), particularly in view of the fact that the subject, according to his own statement, no longer remembered this language.

The commission refrained from drawing conclusions but was inclined to believe that in Mac Sim it was dealing with a mutant of a previously unknown type. "Clever ideas come to clever minds at the same time," thought the prosecutor enviously. He rapidly scanned the special opinion of Professor Porru, a member of the commission. Himself a mountaineer by birth, the professor reminded the commission of the existence of a semilegendary land, Zartak, in the mountains' remote reaches. It was inhabited by a tribe, the Birdcatchers, who still had not received the attention of anthropologists. Mountain peoples in contact with civilization claimed that the tribe was skilled in the magical arts and could fly without mechanical aids. According to stories he had heard, the Birdcatchers were unusually tall, possessed extraordinary physical strength and endurance, and had brownish-gold skin. All these facts coincided with the subject's physical features. The prosecutor toyed with bis pencil above Professor Porru's statement. Then he put the pencil aside and said aloud: "I suppose those pants would fit in under this opinion. Fire-resistant pants."

He studied the next page: "Abstract of the Trial Stenogram.Abstract of the Trial Stenogram. H'm, what's all this for?"

PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: You wouldn't deny that you are an educated man?

DEFENDANT: I am educated, but I have a very poor understanding of history, sociology, and economics.

PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: Don't be modest. Are you familiar with this book?

DEFENDANT: Yes.

PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: Have you read it?

DEFENDANT: Of course.

PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: Why, while in prison, under surveillance, did you read the monograph Tensor Calculation and Modem Physics?

Tensor Calculation and Modem Physics?

DEFENDANT: I don't understand your question. For entertainment, I suppose. It has some very imaginative pages.

PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: I think it is obvious to the Court that only a very educated man would read such a highly specialized work for entertainment and pleasure.

"What kind of rubbish is this? Why palm off this junk on me? Now, what else have we here?"

COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENSE: Do you know what funds the All-Powerful Creators allocate to fight juvenile crime?

DEFENDANT: What is juvenile crime? Crimes committed against children?

COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENSE: No. Crimes committed by children.

DEFENDANT: I don't understand. Children cannot commit crimes.

"Amusing. Now, let's see what we have at the end."

COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENSE: I hope I have succeeded in demonstrating to the Court my client's naivetй, which amounts to downright imbecility. The ideas of juvenile delinquency, philanthropy, and welfare assistance j are completely unknown to him.

The prosecutor smiled and put aside the page. "Yes, I see, Really a strange combination: mathematics and physics for pleasure, but doesn't know the simplest things. Exactly like an eccentric professor from some trashy novel."

The prosecutor studied several more pages. "Mac, I can't understand why you are so attached to this -- what's her name? -- Rada Gaal. You aren't on intimate terms with her; you owe her nothing; you have nothing in common with her. That idiotic prosecuting attorney is trying without success to implicate her in the underground. But, Mac, my boy, one gets the impression that if she's kept within gunsight, you can be compelled to do anything we damn please. For us that's very useful, but most awkward for you. What all this testimony amounts to is that you are a slave to your word and an inflexible person. You'll never make a politician. And why should you? Photographs. You're quite handsome. Nice face -- very, very nice. Your eyes are rather odd. Where were these taken? On the defendants' bench. Well, look at that! Fresh and fit, cheerful, clear-eyed, relaxed. Where did you learn such poise? Such posture? That defendants' bench is no more comfortable than the visitor's chair in my office; impossible to relax on it. But all this is trivial. There's got to be something bigger here."

The prosecutor left his desk and paced the floor. Something tantalizing tickled his brain, something prodded and excited him. "Damn it, I've stumbled on something in that folder. Something important, something very, very important. Fank? Yes, that's important because Strannik uses Fank only for the most important matters. But Fank just confirms my intuition. Now, what is the essential thing here? The pants? Nonsense. Ah, I know what it is. But it's not in the folder." He switched on the intercom.

"Kokh, give me the details of the attack on the convoy."

"Fourteen days ago," began his assistant's rustling voice, as if he were reading from a prepared text, "at eighteen hours and thirty-three minutes, an armed attack was made on police cars transporting defendants in Case Six-nine-eight-one-eight-four from the courtroom to the city jail. The attack was repulsed, and one of the attackers was badly wounded in the crossfire and never regained consciousness. The body was not identified. The investigation has been closed."

"Whose work was this attack?"

"That has not been clarified, Your Honor. The official underground had nothing to do with it."

"Any ideas?"

"It could have been the work of terrorists attempting to free defendant Dek Pottu, alias the General, known for his close connections with the left wing."

The prosecutor slammed down the receiver. Maybe it was true, and maybe it wasn't. Well, we'll go through the folder again. Southern border, idiot captain. Trousers. Escapes, carrying man on shoulders. Radioactive fish -- seventy-seven units. Reaction to A-radiation. Chemical treatment of ganglions. Wait! Reaction to A-radiation: "Zero reaction to A-radiation in both senses." Zero, in both senses. The prosecutor pressed his hand to his chest. Idiot! Zero in both senses!

Zero in both senses!

He grabbed the receiver again.

"Kokh! Prepare a special messenger and security guard at once. A private train to the south. No! Use my electric truck. Massaraksh!" He thrust his hand into a drawer and switched off all the recording devices. "Make it snappy!"

Still pressing his left hand to his chest, he took out a personal order form from the desk and wrote rapidly but carefully: "State business. Top secret. To the Commanding General of the Special Southern District. You are personally responsible for the immediate execution of this order. Transfer to the custody of the bearer, convict Mac Sim, Case 6983. From the moment of transfer, consider rehab Mac Sim missing, and retain appropriate supportive documentation in your files. By order of the State Prosecutor."

He grabbed another form: "Order. I hereby order all personnel in the military, civil, and railroad administrations to render assistance to the bearer of this order, the State Prosecutor's special courier and security guard, according to category EXTRA. By order of the State Prosecutor."

He drained his glass and filled it again. Slowly, deliberating over each. w6rd, he wrote on a third form: "Dear Strannik: Sorry to give you some bad news. We have just been informed that the material you requested is missing, as frequently happens in the southern jungles."