PART FOUR: PRISONER

13.

The first shot shattered the caterpillar track, and for the first time in over twenty years the monster abandoned its well-traveled course. Overturning chunks of concrete, it tore into a grove and turned slowly in place. Its broad forehead bored into the underbrush and, with a crunch, shoved aside the trembling trees.

When the immense, muddy rear end tipped up, its iron plating dangling on rusty rivets, Zef landed an explosive charge in the engine with a clean shot aimed to avoid the reactor. It tore into the tank's muscles, sinews, and nervous system; the machine gasped metallically, puffed white-hot smoke from its joints, and stopped forever. But something still lived within its evil armored heart; some surviving nerves continued to send out random signals; its emergency systems still switched themselves on and off, murmuring and spewing foam; and it shuddered sluggishly, clawing the earth with its surviving tread. Menacingly and senselessly, like the belly of a crushed wasp, the latticed tube of the rocket launcher rose and fell above the expiring dragon. Zef watched its death throes for several seconds, then turned and went into the woods, dragging a grenade thrower by its strap. Maxim and Vepr followed. When they reached a quiet clearing that Zef had undoubtedly noted on their way, they dropped down on the grass.

"Cigarette break," said Zef.

He rolled a cigarette for one-armed Vepr, gave him a light, and lit Ms own. Resting his chin on his hands, Maxim lay on the ground and watched the dying iron dragon through the sparse woods. Its drive wheels jangled mournfully. With a whistle, it shot streams of radioactive steam from its shattered guts.

"Now, that's the way to do it, and the only way to do it," declared Zef didactically. "If you don't, I'll yank your ears off."

"Why?" asked Maxim. "I wanted to stop it."

"Because," replied Zef, "a grenade can ricochet into the rocket launcher. Then we'd all be kaput."

"I aimed at the tread."

"You have to aim at the rear end." Zef inhaled. "And, in general, while you're still new at this stuff, don't ever make the first move. Unless I ask you to. Is that clear?"

"It is."

Neither Zef's fine points of instruction nor Zef himself interested Maxim. Vepr did. But Vepr, resting his artificial arm on the dilapidated casing of the mine detector, maintained his usual indifferent silence. Nothing had changed, and Mac was restless.

A week ago, when the new prisoners formed in front of the barracks, Zef had gone up to Maxim and selected him for Ms 104th Sappers Unit. Maxim was delighted. Not only did he recognize the flaming red beard and square stocky figure at once, but Zef recognized him, too, in that suffocating crowd of convicts in checkered prison uniforms, where no one gave a damn about anyone else.

Besides, Maxim had every reason to believe that Allu Zef, the once eminent psychiatrist and an educated, intelligent man, unlike the half-criminal rabble jammed into the train's prison car, was connected somehow with the underground. And when Zef led him to the barracks and showed him his bunk next to one-armed Vepr, Maxim thought that his future had finally taken shape. But he soon learned he was wrong: Vepr didn't want to talk. He listened that night with a vacant expression to Maxim's rapidly whispered story of the group's fate, the tower's destruction, and the trial. "Sometimes it turns out differently," he muttered through a yawn and then turned over and went to sleep. Maxim felt let down.

Then Zef climbed onto his bunk. "Stuffed myself to the gills," he announced to Maxim, and without beating around the bush began to badger him crudely and brazenly for names and information. Perhaps he had once been an eminent scientist, an educated man; perhaps he had even been a member of the underground; but that night he impressed Mac as being a well-fed provocateur who, having nothing better to do before going to sleep, had decided to harass a dumb newcomer. With some difficulty. Maxim managed to get rid of him, and long after he heard Zef snoring healthily, he lay awake recalling the many times he had been deceived by people and events on this planet.

His nerves were spent. He recalled the trial, obviously prepared well before the group had even received the order to attack the tower; he recalled the written reports of some filthy informer who knew everything about the group, and, perhaps, had been a member of it; and he recalled the film taken from the tower during the attack, and his shame when he recognized himself on the screen: there he was, firing away with his submachine gun at the searchlights -- more precisely, at the stagelights illuminating the actors of that horrifying play. In the tightly sealed barracks -- suffocating, stinking, and crawling with vermin -- rehabs raved in their sleep, while in a far comer, in the light of a single candle, other prisoners played cards and shouted hoarsely at each other.

The following day he felt let down again: this time by the forest. It was impossible to take a step without running into steel: dead steel, rusted through; lurking steel, ready to Mil at any moment; invisible steel, aiming at you; mobile steel, blindly plowing up the remains of roads. The soil and grass reeked of rust, and radioactive puddles had accumulated at the bottoms of hollows; birds didn't sing but wailed hoarsely, as if in their death throes. There were no animals, nor was there woodland stillness. To the left and right explosions pounded and thundered. Gray cinders eddied among the branches, and the roar of worn engines drifted through the forests on gusts of wind.

And so it had gone: day -- night, day -- night. In the daytime they worked in the forest, which was not really a forest but an old fortified region. It was crawling with military devices, armored cars, ballistic missiles, rockets on caterpillar treads, flamethrowers, and poison-gas ejectors, all automatic and self-propelled. And all this was still very much alive twenty years after the war; everything continued to live its useless mechanical life -- to aim, to sight, to belch lead, fire, and death. All this had to be crushed, blown up, and demolished to clear a road for the construction of new radiation towers. At night Vepr maintained his usual silence, and Zef harassed Maxim with questions, alternating between a directness bordering on the absurd and a surprising cunning and agility. And there was the almost inedible food, the prisoners' strange melodies, and the beatings by the legionnaires. And twice daily everyone in the barracks and the forest writhed in pain under the radiation emitter's blows. Bodies of escapees swung in the wind. Day -- night, day -- night. Auschwitz. Death camp. Fascism.

"Why did you want to stop the tank?" asked Vepr suddenly, Maxim sat up quickly. This was the first question Vepr had ever asked him.

"I wanted to examine its construction."

"Planning to escape?"

Maxim cast a sidelong glance at Zef. "Of course not. I'm just curious."

"Why are you so interested in a military weapon?" He spoke as if the red-bearded provocateur weren't present.

"Oh, I don't know. I'm not sure myself. Are there many like that one?"

"There are plenty of machines -- and always plenty of fools, too," intruded Zef. "You can't imagine how many times the damn fools have tried. They climb in, fiddle around a while, and finally give up. One damn fool, something like you, blew himself up."

"Don't worry, I won't blow myself up," said Maxim coldly. "Those machines aren't that complicated."

"But why are you so interested in them anyway?" asked Vepr. Lying on his back, he smoked, holding the cigarette between his artificial fingers. "Suppose you fix up one. Then what?"

"He'll break through across the bridge." Zef guffawed.

"And why not?" asked Maxim. He was completely baffled by this man: how should he behave toward him? Maybe Zef wasn't a provocateur after all. Massaraksh, why were they suddenly giving him a hard time?

"You'll never make it to the bridge," said Vepr. "They'll riddle you like a piece of cheese. And if you do make it, you'll find the bridge drawn up."

"And along the bottom of the river?"

"The river is radioactive." Zef spat. "If it were clean, yon wouldn't need tanks to get across. Right now you could swim across anywhere: the banks aren't guarded." He spat again. "If it were clean, it would be guarded. Young man, forget your wild ideas. You're here to stay. Settle down, and get the hang of things. When you do, you'll find enough to keep you busy. If you don't listen to your elders, you won't even last until tomorrow."

"It wouldn't be difficult to escape," said Maxim. "I could do it right now."

"You're really something, aren't you?"

"Are you going to keep kidding around, or be serious about it?" Maxim directed his remark to Vepr. Zef interrupted him again.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do." Zef rose. "I'm going to meet today's quota. Or else we get no chow. Let's go!"

He walked ahead, waddling between the trees. Maxim asked Vepr: "Is he really a member of the underground?"

Vepr shot him a rapid glance. "What are you saying? How could he be?"

They walked behind Zef, trying to follow in his tracks. Maxim brought up the rear.

"What's he here for?"

"For jaywalking."

Again, Maxim lost all desire for conversation.

They had taken less than a hundred steps when Zef ordered them to halt, and work began. "Down!" shouted Zef, and they hit the dirt. Ahead of them a stout tree turned with a drawn-out creaking sound, disgorged a long thin gun barrel, and rocked it from side to side, as if trying to aim it. There was a buzz, a click, and a small cloud of yellow smoke rose lazily from the black barrel. "It's dead... finished," announced Zef in a very businesslike tone. He rose first and brushed the dust from his pants. They had blown up the tree and its cannon. Next, a mine field to clear. After that, a hillock with an active machine gun that kept them pinned down for a long time. Then they stumbled into a jungle of barbed wire, and barely struggled through it. When they finally did, firing opened up somewhere overhead, and everything around them began to explode and burn.

Maxim was confused, but Vepr remained silent and lay on the ground calmly, face down, while Zef fired his grenade thrower. "Follow me, on the double!" shouted Zef, and they ran. The spot they had just left burst into flames. Zef swore, using unfamiliar words, and Vepr chuckled. When they reached a dense grove, something suddenly whistled overhead, and a greenish cloud of poison gas swooshed through the branches. Again they had to run and force their way through underbrush. Zef repeated the unfamiliar words. Vepr looked quite ill.

Exhausted, Zef finally called a halt. They built a fire. As the youngest member of the team, Maxim prepared dinner, heating canned soup in their pot. Zef and Vepr, grimy and ragged, lay on the ground. Vepr looked utterly exhausted. He was not a young man, and this life was harder on him than on the others.

"It doesn't make sense. How could we have managed to lose the war with this incredible concentration of weapons?" asked Maxim.

"What do you mean 'managed to lose'?" replied Vepr. "Nobody won the war. Everyone lost except the Creators."

"Unfortunately, few people understand that." Maxim stirred the soup.

"I'm not used to that kind of talk anymore," said Zef. "All you get here is 'Shut up, rehab!' and 'I'm counting to three.' Hey, boy, what's your name?"

"Maxim."

"Yes, right. You, Mac, keep stirring. See that it doesn't stick."

Maxim stirred until Zef said it was time to serve the soup; he couldn't hold out any longer. They ate in complete silence. Maxim sensed a change in mood and was sure that today he'd betaken into their confidence. But after dinner Vepr lay down again and stared at the sky, while Zef, mumbling to himself, took the pot and wiped up the bottom with a crust of bread.

"We ought to shoot something," he muttered. "My belly is so empty. I feel like I haven't eaten a tiling but just woke up my appetite."

Maxim tried to draw them into a conversation about hunting in this area, but no one picked it up. Vepr now lay there with his eyes closed, apparently asleep. After Zef had finished listening to Maxim's views, he growled: "Hunting? Here? Everything's filthy, radioactive." He, too, stretched out.

Maxim sighed, took the pot, and walked to a nearby stream. The water was clear and appeared to be clean and tasty. Tempted to drink, he scooped some up in his hand. But he could neither drink nor wash the pot here: the stream was noticeably radioactive. Maxim squatted, set down the pot, and became lost in thought.

His thoughts, for some reason, turned first to Rada. She always washed the dishes after meals and would not let him help her, giving the absurd excuse that it was woman's work. Remembering that she loved him, he felt proud: she was the first woman to love him. As much as he longed to see her, he realized that this was no place for his Rada. Nor for the most evil of men. Thousands upon thousands of robots, not men, should be sent here to clear the region. Either that, or the entire forest and everything in it should be razed. Let a new one arise, any kind, bright or gloomy, but a pure one. And if it must be gloomy, let it be a natural gloom, not one imposed by man.

When he reminded himself that he had been exiled here for life, he was struck by the naivet( of his judges. Without exacting an oath from him, they fully expected him to remain here, voluntarily, forever, and on top of everything else, to help them build a network of radiation towers through the forest. En route, in the prisoners' boxcar, he had heard that the forest extended hundreds of miles to the south and that military equipment littered the desert, too. "Massaraksh, one day I knock out a tower, the next I'm expected to clear a path for them. Oh, no. I'm not staying here. I've had enough of this."

He settled down and forced himself to clarify his plans.

"Vepr doesn't trust me. He trusts Zef, but not me. And I don't trust Zef, though I guess I'm being unfair. I probably seem as troublesome and suspicious to Vepr as Zef seems to me. Well, all right, Vepr doesn't trust me. So that means I'm alone again. Of course it's possible I might run into the General or Memo, but that's highly unlikely. I suppose I could try and put together a group of strangers, but massaraksh, I had better be honest with myself: I'm no good at that sort of thing. I'm too damn trusting. Hold on, now. Think! What do I want?"

He considered the problem for several minutes.

"If only Guy were here. But Guy was sent to a special unit with a strange name -- something like Blitztr(ger, 'Lightning Bearers.' Most likely I'll have to operate alone.

"In any case I must get out of here. Of course I'll try to form some sort of group, but if I can't, I'll leave alone. A tank is a must. There are enough guns here to equip a hundred armies. After twenty years they're in pretty bad shape, but I'll do what I can with them. So, Vepr really won't trust me?" he thought, almost in despair. He grabbed the pot and ran back to the fire.

Zef and Vepr were awake now; they lay head to head and were arguing softly, but vehemently, about something. Noticing Mac, Zef said quickly: "Enough!" and rose. Scratching his red beard and opening his eyes wide, he shouted: "Where did you disappear to, massaraksh? Who gave you permission to leave? You've got to work if you want some grub!"

Mac became furious. For the first time in his life he found himself shouting at someone at the top of his lungs.

"Damn you, Zef! Can't you think of anything else but your stomach? All I ever hear from you is grub, grub, grub! You can have my rations if it will make you feel any better!"

He flung down the pot, grabbed his knapsack, and put his hands through the straps. Stunned by the unexpected acoustic blow, Zef stared at him. Then Zef's roaring laughter rolled through the forest. Vepr joined in, and Maxim, unable to restrain himself, laughed, too, somewhat crestfallen.

"Massaraksh. Boy, some voice you've got there!" Zef turned to Vepr. "You mark my words. OK now, enough. On your feet!" he yelled. "Let's go, if you want some... some grub this evening."

They shouted and laughed for a while but then quieted down and pushed on through the forest. With demonic energy Maxim cleared land mines, destroyed coaxial machine guns, and unscrewed warheads from antiaircraft rockets. More firing, hissing streams of tear gas, the repulsive stench of rotting carcasses of animals killed by submachine guns. They became dirtier, angrier, and more ragged, and Zef urged Maxim onward: "Keep going, keep going if you want to eat!" Poor Vepr, utterly exhausted, barely dragged himself behind them, leaning for support on his mine detector.

During these wearisome hours Maxim grew increasingly disgusted with Zef. So when Zef suddenly let out a roar and dropped through the ground, Maxim was delighted. Wiping his sweaty forehead with his grimy hand, he walked up to the spot leisurely and halted at the edge of a dark narrow crevice covered with grass. It was deep and pitch-black, and cold, damp air drifted from it. Nothing was visible; only a crunching and indistinct swearing rose from the hidden trap.

Vepr hobbled over to it, looked down, and asked Maxim: "Is he down there? What happened to him?"

"Zef!" called Maxim, bending over. "Zef, where are you?"

Zef's voice rumbled from the trench. "Come on down! Jump, it's soft here."

Maxim looked at Vepr. Vepr shook his head.

"That's not for me," he said. "You jump, and I'll drop a rope down to you."

"Who's there?" they heard Zef roaring from below. "I'll shoot, massaraksh!"

Maxim dropped his legs over the side of the crevice, gave himself a push, and jumped. Almost instantly he found himself ankle-deep in soft dirt. He sat down. Zef was somewhere nearby. To adjust to the darkness, Maxim sat with eyes closed for several seconds.

"Mac, come over here. There's someone here," called Zef. "Vepr!" he shouted. "Jump!"

Vepr replied that he was dog-tired and would be just as happy to rest a while.

"Suit yourself," said Zef. "But I think this is thethe Fortress. You'll be sorry later."

Vepr replied indistinctly: he felt ill again, too miserable to worry about fortresses.

Maxim opened his eyes and looked around. He was sitting on a mound of earth in the middle of a long corridor lined with rough concrete walls. A gap in the ceiling was either an opening for ventilation or a breach made by some missile. Standing some twenty steps away from him, Zef surveyed Ms surroundings with a flashlight.

"What's this?" asked Maxim.

"How should I know? It could be some sort of shelter. Or maybe it really is thethe Fortress. Do you know about the Fortress?"

"No," said Maxim, crawling off the mound.

"You don't... ," said Zef absentmindedly. He kept looking around, sweeping the light along the walls. "Then what the hell do you know! Massaraksh! Someone or something has just been here."

"Human?" asked Maxim.

"I don't know. It crept alongside the wall and disappeared. And the Fortress, Mac, is something very, very special. In one day we could finish up all our work out there. Aha, tracks."

He squatted. Maxim squatted beside him and made out imprints in the dirt along the wall.

"Strange tracks."

"I've never seen anything like them."

"Looks as if someone was walking on his fists." Maxim clenched his fist and made an impression next to the tracks.

"Very similar," admitted Zef. He aimed the beam deep inside the corridor. Something shimmered faintly, reflecting either a turn or dead-end. "Should we take a look?"

"Shh," said Maxim. "Shut up and don't move!"

Although it was silent, he sensed the presence of life in the corridor. Someone or something was standing up ahead; something small, with a strange weak odor, was hugging the wall. Maxim could not tell precisely what or where it was. It was observing them and seemed annoyed by their presence. It defied identification and its intentions were elusive.

"Do we have to investigate?" asked Maxim.

"I'd like to."

"Why?"

"We must take a look. Maybe this really is the Fortress. If it is, things are going to be a lot different from now on. I'm not sure it is, but since there are so many rumors, who can tell, maybe there's some truth to them."

"Someone is there," said Maxim. "I can't figure out who."

"You think so? If this is the Fortress, then according to legend, either the survivors of a garrison live here, or... The garrison just stays on here, you know, unaware that the war ended. During the war they declared themselves neutral, locked themselves in, and swore to blow up the continent if anyone came near them."

"And could they?"

"If this is the Fortress, they could do anything. Yes, indeed. Because of explosions and firing above ground, they probably believe the war is still going on. Some prince or duke was their commander here. I'd like to meet and talk with them."

Maxim listened for sounds again. "No, it's no prince or duke. It's some kind of animal, perhaps. Or..."

"Or what?"

"Remember, you said 'either the survivors of a garrison, or...?'"

"So I did. Well, it's nonsense, old wives' tales. Let's go take a look."

Zef loaded the grenade thrower, heaved it on to his shoulder, and moved forward, lighting the way with his flashlight. Maxim walked beside him. They wandered along the corridor for a few minutes, came up against a wall, and turned to the right.

"You're making an awful racket," said Maxim. "Something's going on in there, but you're breathing so hard..."

"What am I supposed to do -- stop breathing?" Zef bristled.

"And your flashlight is bothering me."

"What do you mean -- bothering you? It's dark here."

"I can see in the dark," explained Maxim, "but with your flashlight on, I can't make out a thing. Let me go on ahead, and you stay here. Otherwise we won't find out anything."

"We-ell, suit yourself," said Zef hesitantly.

Maxim narrowed his eyes again, resting them from the flickering light. Then, crouching, he moved alongside the wall as silently as possible. The mysterious creature was somewhere nearby, and Maxim drew closer to it with each step. The corridor seemed endless. Locked steel doors lined the right side. A draft blew toward him. The air was dampish and smelled heavily of mold and something else, something elusive, but warm and alive. Behind him Zef rustled cautiously; uneasy and afraid to remain alone, he had decided to follow Maxim. Maxim laughed to himself. He was distracted for only a split second, but at that instant the mysterious creature vanished. The creature had been in front of him, almost beside him; then, in a flash, it seemed to vanish into thin air, only to reappear close behind him.

"Zef!" called Maxim.

"Yes!" boomed Zef.

Maxim imagined that the strange creature was standing between them. He turned his head toward Zefs voice. "It's between us. Don't shoot!"

"OK," said Zef. "I can't see a damn thing. What does it look like?"

"I don't know. It's soft."

"An animal?"

"Doesn't seem to be."

"You said you could see in the dark."

"Not with my eyes," said Maxim. "Shut up!"

"Not with your eyes," muttered Zef.

The creature stood still for a short time, then crossed the corridor, disappeared, and soon reappeared up ahead. "Its curiosity has also been aroused," thought Maxim. He strained hard, trying to empathize with the mysterious creature, but something interfered -- probably, he thought, the discordant combination of a humanoid intellect and a semianimal body. He edged forward again. The creature retreated, maintaining a constant distance between them.

"Anything yet?" asked Zef.

"Nothing new. It might be leading us somewhere or luring us into a trap."

"Can we handle it?"

"It's not going to attack us," replied Maxim. "It's as curious as we are."

Nothing more was said because the creature had vanished again, and Maxim sensed that the corridor had ended. He was in the midst of a spacious chamber. It was too dark for Maxim to distinguish anything, although he sensed the presence of metal, rust, and high voltage. For several seconds Maxim stood motionless before figuring out the location of the switch. He reached out for it, but at that instant the creature reappeared. This time with another creature, similar but not identical. They stood beside the wall where Maxim now stood. He could hear their rapid breathing. Hoping they would come closer, he remained motionless, But they wouldn't. Then, with a tremendous effort, he contracted his pupils and pressed the switch.

Apparently, something was wrong with the circuit: lights flashed on for a fraction of a second; fuses crackled somewhere, and the lights went out again. But Maxim had managed to get a glimpse of the mysterious creatures. They were small, about the size of a large dog, stood on all fours, were covered with dark wool, and had large heavy heads. Maxim hadn't had time to look at their eyes.

The creatures vanished so quickly that it seemed as if they hadn't been there at all.

"What's going on?" demanded Zef, alarmed. "What was that flash?"

"I switched on a light," replied Maxim. "Come over here."

"Where is it? Did you see it?"

"Almost didn't. They do look like animals, like dogs with large heads."

The reflection from his flashlight skipped along the wall. Zef spoke as he walked. "Ah, dogs. I know that there are animals like that living in the forest. I've never seen live ones, but I've seen their bodies."

"No." Maxim hesitated. "They're not animals."

"They're animals, all right." Zefs voice echoed beneath the high vaulting. "We were scared for nothing. At first I thought they might be vampires. Massaraksh! Yes, this is the Fortress!"

He halted in the center of the chamber, sweeping the beam along the walls, along a row of dials and a switchboard, where glass, nickel, and faded plastic glittered.

"Congratulations, Mac. We found it all right. How stupid of me not to believe in it. Stupid. Hey, what's that? An electronic brain. Oh, damn, if only Blacksmith were here! Listen, do you understand anything about this stuff?"

"What exactly?" Maxim crossed over to him.

"The mechanics of the whole works. This is a control panel. If we can figure it out, the entire region will be ours! All the aboveground weapons can be operated from here. Massaraksh, if we can only figure it out!"

Maxim took Zef's flashlight and set it down so that light diffused throughout the chamber. The dust of many years lay everywhere, and on a table in the corner a fork and a soiled, blackened plate rested on a sheet of decayed paper. Maxim walked alongside the control panels, tried to turn on an electronic device, and grabbed hold of a knife-switch. The handle came off in his hand.

"I doubt that anything can be operated from here. First of all, the entire setup is too elementary. Most likely, it's an observation post of one of their control substations. Everything here seems to be auxiliary equipment. The computer is too weak. It couldn't guide even a dozen tanks. And everything is falling apart. There is current, but the voltage is below normal: the reactor is probably jammed. No, Zef, it isn't as simple as you think."

Suddenly he noticed long tubes projecting from the wall, capped by a rubber eye shield. Pulling over an aluminum chair, he sat down and put his face to the eye shield. To his surprise, the optics were in excellent condition; but he was even more surprised at what he saw. A totally unfamiliar landscape: a pale yellow desert, sand dunes, the shell of a metal structure. A strong wind blew, streams of sand rail along the dunes, and a misty horizon curled up like a saucer.

"Take a look, Zef. Where is this?"

Zef leaned the grenade thrower against the control panel and took Maxim's place.

"That's odd." Zef paused briefly. "It's the desert all right. But it's about four hundred miles from here." He leaned back and looked up at Maxim. "Imagine how much time and effort went into all this. The bastards! And what for? Now the wind blows over the sands -- but what a beautiful place it used to be. When I was a kid, before the war, we used to go to a resort there, you know." He stood up. "Let's get the hell out of here," he said bitterly, picking up his flashlight. "You and I won't be able to figure out this-place. We'll have to wait until Blacksmith is caught and sent down here. Except they won't send him; he'll be shot for sure. Well, let's clear out."

"Yes, let's go." Maxim examined the strange tracks on the floor. "This is far more interesting."

"Oh, it's useless. Probably all sorts of animals running around here."

He heaved the grenade thrower across his shoulder and walked toward the chamber's exit. Glancing back at the tracks, Maxim followed him.

"I'm starved," said Zef.

They walked along the corridor. Maxim suggested breaking down one of the doors, but Zef thought it was pointless.

"This place is too big a job to be taken lightly. We're wasting time here now. We still have a quota to fill, and we must come here with someone who knows a lot about this kind of equipment."

"If I were you," retorted Maxim, "I wouldn't be so quick to count on this Fortress of yours. In the first place, everything here is rotten; and in the second place, it's already occupied."

"By whom? You and your dog theories again? You're like the rest of them, with their vampires."

Zef paused. A guttural cry tore through corridor; bouncing off the walls, it echoed repeatedly, then died down. Instantly it was followed by another, from somewhere in the distance. They were very familiar sounds, but Maxim could not recall where he had heard them before.

"So that's what's been screaming at night!" exclaimed Zef. "And we always thought it was birds."

"It's a strange cry."

"Strange -- I don't know, but it's damned frightening. When those screams start tearing through the forest at night, you get the shakes. How many stories we've heard about those cries. In fact, one prisoner even bragged that he understood their language. Translated it."

"What did they say?"

"Oh, rubbish! You call that a language?"

"Where's the prisoner now?"

"Disappeared," replied Zef. "He was in a construction unit and his team got lost in the forest."

They turned left. Ahead, in the distance, they thought they saw a faint spot of light. Zef turned off the flashlight and put it in his pocket. Now he took the lead, and when he halted abruptly, without warning, Maxim almost bumped into him.

"Massaraksh!" muttered Zef. A human skeleton lay crosswise on the floor of the corridor. Zef removed the grenade thrower from his shoulder and looked around. "This wasn't here before."

"You're right," said Maxim. "They just put it there."

Suddenly from far behind them, from the depths of the underground complex, a chorus of guttural wails rang out. The wails, amplified by their echoes, sounded like a thousand throats crying out. They wailed in unison, as if chanting some strange four-syllable word. Maxim sensed that they were sneering at the intruders, mocking and challenging them. Suddenly the chorus ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

Zef sucked in his breath noisily and lowered the grenade thrower. Maxim looked at the skeleton again.

"I guess they're trying to drop a gentle hint."

"Sure looks like it. Let's get the hell out of here."

They reached the gap in the ceiling quickly, climbed onto the mound of earth, and saw Vepr's anxious face peering down at them. He was lying with his chest over the edge of the hole, dangling a rope with a loop at the end.

"What happened?" he asked. "Was that you screaming?"

"Tell you in a minute," replied Zef. "Is the rope fastened?"

When they reached the surface, Zef rolled cigarettes for Vepr and himself. He lit them and then sat in silence for some time, apparently trying to make sense of his recent adventure.

"All right," he said finally. "Here's what it's all about. This is the Fortress. Below are control panels, an electronic brain, and the like. Everything's in bad shape, but energy is available, and if we're to use it to our advantage, we must find knowledgeable people to help us. Next: from all appearances, I'd say that the place is inhabited by dogs. And what dogs! With enormous heads. How they howled! But when you start thinking about it, you wonder if it was them, because, you see... how can I put it? Well, while Mac and I were wandering through the place, someone placed a human skeleton in the corridor. And that's the whole story."

Vepr glanced from Zef to Mac.

"Mutants?"

"Possibly," replied Zef. "I didn't see a damn thing, but Mac claims he saw dogs -- but not with his eyes. Massaraksh, how did you see them?"

"Oh, I saw them with my eyes, too. And there was nothing else there except the dogs. I'd have known if there was. And those dogs of yours, Zef, are not what you think they are. They're not animals."

Vepr said nothing. He rose, wound up the rope, and sat down again beside Zef.

"God knows," muttered Zef. "Maybe they aren't animals-anything is possible here. After all, this is the South."

"Maybe those dogs really are mutants?" suggested Maxim.

"No," said Zef. "Mutants are just very deformed people. They can be the offspring of the most normal parents. Mutants -- do you know what they are?"

"I do," replied Maxim. "But the point is, how far can a mutation go?"

After a rather lengthy pause Zef said: "Well, if you're so well-educated, there's no need to waste time talking. Up on your feet! We've little time left and a lot to do. And I have a craving for grub." He winked at Maxim. "A downright pathological craving. Do you know what pathologicalpathological means?"

Although they had not yet worked the last quarter of the south-west quadrant, they found nothing to clear. Something very powerful had probably exploded there some time ago. Only half-decayed fallen tree trunks and burnt stumps remained of the old forest, and in its place a new, young, sparse forest was rising. The soil was charred and full of rust. Realizing that no mechanical device could have survived such an explosion, Maxim concluded that Zef had other reasons for leading them there.

A grimy man in baggy prison clothes emerged from the bushes and walked toward them. Maxim recognized him: it was the first native he had met on this planet, Zefs old melancholy buddy.

"Wait," said Vepr. "I'll talk to him."

Zef ordered Mac to sit, sat down himself, and changed his boots, whistling a prisoner's tune, "I'm a Dashing Lad, Known O'er the Frontier." Vepr went over to the man and retreated with him into the bushes, where they conversed in whispers. Although Maxim heard every word distinctly, he understood nothing, because they were using unfamiliar slang. Several times he recognized the word "post office." Soon, he stopped listening. He felt grimy and exhausted; there had been too much senseless work and needless nervous tension today; he had breathed too much filthy air and received too much radiation. Again, another totally unproductive day had passed, and he detested the thought of returning to the barracks.

The man disappeared, and Vepr returned and sat down on a stump in front of Maxim.

"Well, let's talk."

"Is everything in order?" asked Zef.

"Yes," replied Vepr.

"I told you I had an instinct for people," said Zef.

"Well, Mac," said Vepr, "we've checked you out as thoroughly as possible under the circumstances. The General vouches for you. From now on you'll be taking orders from me."

"Glad to hear that." Mac smiled wryly. He wanted to say: "But the General didn't vouch for you to me." Instead, he added: "I'm at your command."

"The General says that you aren't affected by radioactivity or the radiation emitters. Is that true?"

"It is."

"So you could swim across the Blue Snake River at any time and you wouldn't be harmed?"

"I've already told you that I could escape right now if I wanted to."

"We don't want you to escape. So, as I understand it, the patrol cars don't bother you either?"

"You mean the mobile emitters? No, they don't bother me."

"Very good," said Vepr. "Then your assignment for the present is completely settled. You'll be our messenger. When I give the order, you'll swim across the river and send telegrams from the nearest telegraph office. Is that clear?"

"Yes, that much is clear, but something else isn't."

Vepr 1ооkеd at Mac without blinking. This aloof, sinewy, crippled old man was a cold and merciless soldier, a fighter since birth, a terrifying and intriguing product of a world where human life was worthless; he knew nothing but struggle, had experienced only struggle, pushed aside everything but struggle. In his attentive narrowed eyes Maxim read his own fate.

"Yes?" said Vepr.

"Let's settle this right now," said Maxim firmly. "I don't want to act blindly. I don't intend to get involved in operations that I feel are foolish and unnecessary."

"For example?"

"I know the meaning of discipline. And I know that without it our work is useless. But I feel that discipline should be rational, that a subordinate should feel that an order makes sense. You are ordering me to be a messenger, and I'm prepared to be one. I can perform more demanding tasks, but, if necessary, I'll be a messenger. But I must know that the telegrams I send out will not result in senseless deaths."

Zef started to interrupt, but Vepr and Maxim gestured to him to wait.

"I was ordered to blow up the tower," continued Maxim. "I was not told why it was necessary. I saw that it was a foolish and deadly plan, but I carried out the order. I lost three comrades, and then it turned out that the whole operation was a trap set by government provocateurs. Well, I'm telling you right now that I've had enough of that kind of stuff. I refuse to blow up any more towers! And I'll do everything in my power to block similar plans."

"Well, you are a damned fool!" said Zef. "A pantywaist."

"Why do you call me that?"

"Hold on, Zef," said Vepr, his eyes still riveted on Maxim. "In other words, Mac, you want to know all the staff's plans?"

"Right. I don't want to work blindly."

"You're downright insolent," declared Zef. "Just too damned insolent! Listen, Vepr, I still like him. And I know -- I've got a good eye for the right material."

"You're demanding far too much trust from us," said Vepr coldly. "That kind of trust must be earned."

"And for that, I suppose I'll be expected to knock over those idiot towers? True, I've been in the underground only a few months, but I've heard only one thing all this time: towers, towers, towers. I don't want to topple towers. It's senseless. I want to fight tyranny, hunger, corruption, lies. Of course I realize that the towers are torturing you, torturing you physically. But you don't even know how to fight the towers. Your approach is idiotic. It's very obvious that the towers are relays. You must strike at the Center, not try to pick them off one by one."

Vepr and Zef began to speak at the same time.

"How do you know about the Center?" asked Vepr.

"And where would you find the Center?" asked Zef.

"Any fool of an engineer knows there must be a Center," said Maxim scornfully. "But how to find it -- that's the real problem. Forget about machine guns and killing people uselessly. Find the Center!"

"In the first place we know all this without you." Zef was seething. "In the second place, massaraksh, no one has died uselessly! Any fool of an engineer, you snotty bastard, would certainly realize that we could destroy the relay system and liberate an entire region by toppling several towers. But for that, we have to know how to topple them. And we're learning how. Do you or don't you understand? And if you say another word about our people dying in vain, I'll -- "

"Now, wait," said Maxim. "You were saying 'liberate a region.' Fine. Then what?"

"Then all sorts of pantywaists come and tell us that we're dying for nothing," said Zef.

"Come on, Zef, then what?" Maxim persisted. "The legionnaires will bring up mobile emitters and finish you off. Right?"

"Like hell!" said Zef. "Before they get a chance to bring them up, the population of that region will have come over to our side, and it won't be so easy for those legionnaires to butt in. It's one thing to deal with a dozen degens but something else to deal with ten thousand or a hundred thousand enraged citizens."

"Zef, Zef!" Vepr cautioned him.

Zef waved him away impatiently.

"Hundreds of thousands of city dwellers, farmers, and, maybe, soldiers, who understand and can never forget how shamefully they have been duped."

Vepr waved his hand and turned away in frustration.

"Now, wait a minute," said Maxim. "What are you saying? Why on earth should they suddenly understand? They'll tear you to pieces. After all, they believe those towers are part of an antiballistic missile network."

"And what do you think they are?" asked Zef, smiling strangely.

"Oh, well, I know, of course. I've been told."

"By whom?"

"The doctor. And the General. It's no secret, is it?"

"Maybe that's enough on this subject," said Vepr softly.

"Why enough?" Zef replied softly, and his speech now had a cultured ring. "Is it, strictly speaking, enough, Vepr? You know what I think about this. You know why I'm staying here, playing my part, I'll remain here for the rest of my life. So why is it enough? Both you and I believe that it must be shouted from the rooftops; but when it comes time to act, we suddenly remember about discipline and play docilely into the hands of our great leaders, those outstanding liberals, those pillars of enlightenment. And now we have this boy before us. You can see what sort of person he is. Should such people not know?"

"Maybe it's precisely this kind that shouldn't," replied Vepr in the same quiet voice.

Puzzled, Maxim kept shifting his glance from one to the other. Suddenly both men seemed to wilt as the same expression appeared on their faces. No longer did Maxim see the steely Vepr, the Vepr who had defied the prosecutor and the drumhead court. And Zefs reckless vulgarity had vanished. Something else had broken through: a sadness, a hidden despair, a sense of deep hurt, a submissiveness. It was as if they had suddenly remembered something, something that should have been forgotten, that they had tried hard to forget.

"I'm going to tell him," declared Zef, without asking for permission or consulting Vepr. Vepr remained silent and Zef began his story.

What he described was incredible. Incredible in itself, incredible because it left no room for doubt. While Zef spoke, softly, calmly, in impeccably precise language, pausing politely when Vepr interjected brief remarks, Maxim strained hard to find a loophole in this new image of their world. But in vain. The emerging picture was coherent, primitive, and hopelessly logical: it covered all the facts known to Maxim, leaving nothing unexplained. It was the most frightening discovery Maxim had made on his inhabited island.

It was not for the degens that the towers had been designed. The radiation strikes affected the nervous system of every human being on the planet. The physiological mechanism was unknown, but, in essence, the brain of an individual exposed to radiation lost its capacity to analyze reality critically. Thinking man was transformed into believing man, into one who believed rabidly, fanatically, despite the evidence of his own eyes. The most elementary propaganda techniques could convince anyone inside the radiation field of anything: he would lovingly accept whatever was presented as the shining truth, the only truth, a truth for which he would gladly live, suffer, and die.

The field was everywhere. Invisible, omnipresent, all-pervasive. A gigantic network of towers enmeshing the entire country emitted radiation around the clock. It purged tens of millions of souls of any doubts they might have about the All-Powerful Creators' words and deeds. The Creators controlled the minds and energy of millions. They inculcated in people an acceptance of the repugnant ideas of violence and aggression; they could drive millions against cannons and machine guns; they could compel these millions to kill one another in the name of anything they pleased; they could, should the whim strike them, stir up a mass epidemic of suicides. Nothing was beyond their control.

Twice daily, at ten in the morning and at ten in the evening, the network was turned on full blast; and for thirty minutes people lost all their humanity. All the hidden tensions which had accumulated in their subconscious as a result of the gap between what they had been led to believe and reality were liberated in a paroxysm of delirious enthusiasm, in an impassioned, servile ecstasy. The radiation strikes suppressed natural reflexes and instincts completely and replaced them with a fantastic complex of behavior patterns. These patterns involved the worship of the Creators. The radiated individual lost his capacity to reason; he behaved like a robot.

The only threat to the Creators came from people who, because of certain physiological quirks, were immune to this mass-hypnosis. They were called degens. The constant field had no effect on their thought processes, but the strikes did cause them agonizing pains. There were comparatively few degens -- something like one percent of the population -- but they alone were awake in this kingdom of somnambulists; they alone possessed the ability to evaluate a situation soberly, to perceive the world as it really was, to influence their environment, to change it, to govern. The most abominable aspect was that the degens themselves provided society with its ruling elite, the All-Powerful Creators. All the Creators were degens, but comparatively few degens were Creators. Those who could not or would not become involved in this governing elite were declared enemies of the state and were treated accordingly.

Maxim was overwhelmed by despair: his inhabited island was populated by puppets. Hitler's enormous propaganda apparatus was erode beside this system of radiation towers. One could have turned off the radio; one could have chosen not to listen to Goebbels' speeches; one could have chosen not to read the newspapers. But here it was impossible to evade the radiation field. It had no equal in the history of humankind. There was nothing in Earth's experience to look to for guidance. There was nothing to rely on. Zefs plan to seize some important region was no more than a gamble. They were confronted by an enormous machine, too simple to change by evolutionary methods and too enormous to destroy with small forces. There wasn't a force in the country that could liberate such a huge nation, a nation that had no idea that it was not a free people, and that, as Vepr expressed it, had swerved from the course of history. This machine was invulnerable internally. Minor revolts did not disturb its basic stability. Partially destroyed, it recovered rapidly; irritated, it reacted immediately and in kind to the irritant, ignoring the fate of its individual elements.

There remained but one hope: the machine had a Center, a control panel, a brain. Theoretically, this Center could be destroyed; then the machine would die in unstable equilibrium. And the moment would come when an attempt must be made to shift this world onto other tracks, to return it to the course of history. But the Center's location was a well-kept secret. Besides, who would destroy it? It was far more complicated than attacking a tower. Such an operation would require a great deal of money and, above all, an army of people immune to radiation. Yes, either people immune to radiation, or simple, easily accessible protective devices to protect those who were not immune. Neither had ever been available, nor was their availability foreseen. Several hundred thousand degens were dispersed, isolated, and persecuted. Many belonged to the category of so-called legal degens. But even if they could be united and armed, the Creators could destroy their small army by sending out mobile emitters to meet them.

Silence reigned long after Zef had finished his story. Maxim continued to sit there, his head hanging down as he scratched the dry black soil with a twig.. Then Zef coughed and said awkwardly: "Yes, that's the way it is."

"What are you counting on?" asked Maxim.

Zef and Vepr remained silent. Maxim raised his head, saw their faces and muttered: "I'm sorry. I... it's all so... I'm sorry."

"We must fight," said Vepr in an even voice. "We are fighting and shall continue to fight. Zef outlined one of the staff's strategies to you. There are other plans just as vulnerable to criticism and never tested. You must understand that we are a very young movement."

"Tell me," said Maxim slowly, "this radiation, does it have the same effect on all nations in your world?"

Vepr and Zef exchanged glances.

"I don't understand," said Vepr.

"Here's what I have in mind. Is there any country that might have even several thousand like me?"

"I doubt it," replied Zef. "Unless, among those... those mutants. Massaraksh, don't be offended, Mac, but obviously you are a mutant. A lucky mutation. One chance in a million."

"I'm not offended. So, there are mutants. Deeper in the forest?"

"Yes," said Vepr. He looked intently at Maxim.

"What, exactly, is there farther on?"

"Forest, then desert."

"And mutants?"

"Yes. Semianimal. Crazy savages. Listen, Mac, forget it."

"Have you ever seen them?"

"Only dead ones," said Vepr. "Sometimes they're captured in the forest. Then they're hung in front of the barracks as morale boosters."

"But why?"

"Fool!" barked Zef. "They're animals! They're incurable and more dangerous than any animal. I've seen them with my own eyes. In your worst dreams you've never seen anything like them."

"Then why are the towers being extended in that direction? Do you want to tame them?"

"Drop it, Mac," said Vepr again. "It's hopeless. They hate us. But do what you think best. We don't hold anyone back."

They sat in silence. Suddenly a familiar roar tore through the forest. Zef rose slightly.

"Rocket tank," he said. "Should we knock it out? It's not so far. The eighteenth quadrant. No, we'll wait until tomorrow."

Maxim suddenly made a decision. "I'll take care of it. Go back, I'll catch up to you."

Zef looked at him dubiously. "Can you handle it? You can still get blown up."

"Mac," said Vepr. "Think!"

Zef looked at Maxim and grinned.

"Oh ho, so that's why you need a tank! The kid is not dumb! No, you can't fool me. OK, go on, I'll save your supper for you, in case you change your mind. And remember, many self-propelled tanks are mined. So be careful. Let's go, Vepr. He'll catch up to us, if he wants."

Vepr was about to add something, but Maxim had already risen and started for the path through the underbrush. He didn't care to engage in further conversation. He walked rapidly, without turning around, and held the grenade thrower under his arm. Having made a decision, he felt relieved. The mission before him depended on him alone.