15.

Guy sat at the crude homemade table and cleaned his gun. It was almost 10:45 A.M., and the world for him was gray and colorless, cold and joyless, dreary and painful. He had no desire to think, to see, to hear. Or even to sleep. All he wanted was to lay his head on the table and die.

The room was small, with a single paneless window. It looked out on a vast rust-colored wasteland cluttered with ruins and overgrown with wild bushes. The wallpaper in the room was dried up and curling, from either heat or age; the parquet flooring had shrunk and was burned to a crisp in one corner. Nothing remained from its former owner except a large framed photograph beneath broken glass. Close up one could make out an elderly man with ridiculous sideburns wearing a silly hat that looked like a tin plate.

His eyes would have preferred not to see their surroundings; he would have liked to howl like a homeless dog, but Maxim had issued strict orders: "Clean that gun!" And banging his fist against the table, he had shouted to Guy, "Every time you feel that rotten sensation coming on, sit down and clean that gun." So he had to clean it.

Still the same Mac. If not for Mac, he would have lain down a long time ago and died. He had pleaded with Mac: "For God's sake, don't leave me alone. Stay with me, cure me." Mac refused. Now he must cure himself. Mac had assured him that his illness wasn't fatal, that it would pass, but he must fight it and cope with it himself.

"All right," thought Guy sluggishly. "I will. I'll cope with it. Yes, still the same Mac. Neither man, nor Creator, nor god." And Mac had also advised him: "Let yourself get good and mad! When that rotten feeling comes on, remember where it came from, who addicted you, and why. Get damn mad and hold onto your hatred. You'll need it soon. You're not alone. There are forty million like you who've been turned into fools, poisoned." Massaraksh, it was hard to believe after spending his whole life in the service, where you always knew where you stood. Everything was simple, everyone was together, and it was great to be like everyone else. Then Mac came along, ruined his career, literally dragged him away from the service, and took him off to another life that didn't make sense to him; where, massaraksh, he had to think for himself, make his own decisions, do everything himself. Yes, Mac had dragged him away and forced him to take a good look at his country, his home, at everything dear to him, and had shown him a cesspool of abominations and lies. You looked back... and, true, there was little beauty. It was nauseating to recall how he and his Legion buddies had behaved. And that Captain Chachu!

In a fit of anger Guy drove the bolt into place. But, again, he was overwhelmed by inertia and apathy, and he no longer had the will to insert the magazine. He felt utterly lost.

The squeaky warped door opened, and a small serious face poked through. If it weren't for the bald skull and inflamed eyelids, it would be almost likable. It was Tanga, the kid next door.

"Uncle Mac wants you on the square at once! Everyone there is waiting for you."

He cast a sidelong glance at her, morosely; at the puny body in the little dress of rough cloth, at the abnormally thin matchstick hands covered with brown spots, at the bowed legs swollen at the knees; and he felt ashamed at his revulsion. She was only a child, and who was to blame for her condition? He turned away and said: "I'm not going. Tell him I don't feel well. I'm sick."

The door squeaked, and when he raised his eyes again the girl was gone. Irritated, he threw the gun down on the bed, went over to the window, and leaned out. With amazing speed, the little girl skimmed along between the ruins of walls, along what had once been a street. A toddler tagged along behind her for a few steps, caught hold of her dress, fell down, raised her head for a few seconds, and bawled in an awful bass voice. Her mother sprang from the ruins. Guy recoiled sharply, shook his head, and returned to the table. "I'm sorry, but I can't get used to it. I know how rotten I am. If I ever run into the individual responsible for this, I won't miss. Why can't I get used to it? I've seen enough in this one month for a hundred nightmares."

Most mutants lived in small communes. Others roamed, hunted, and looked for better places to live; they searched for a route leading to the North, a route skirting the legionnaires' machine guns, skirting the terrible regions where they died on the spot of excruciating headaches. Others had settled on farms in hamlets, after surviving the war and three atom bombs. One had been dropped on this city, and two in the suburbs, leaving miles of defoliated earth covered with glistening slag. The settlers sowed scrawny, degenerate wheat; cultivated their weird vegetable gardens where tomatoes were as small as berries and berries as large as tomatoes; and they raised ghastly cattle whose appearance took away your appetite. These were a pitiful people -- mutants, the wild southern degens about whom all sorts of stupid tales and legends had been told. He, too, had woven such stories. They were quiet, sickly, deformed caricatures. Only the old folk here were normal, but very few were left; all of them were ill and doomed to die soon. Their children and grandchildren were not long for this world either. They bore many children, but almost all of them died at birth or in infancy. Those who survived were weak and suffered constantly from unknown ailments. The deformed ones were horrors to behold. But all of them appeared to be intelligent. There was no denying that the mutants were good, kind, hospitable, peaceful people. But, thought Guy, it was impossible to looklook at them. Initially Maxim, too, agonized at the sight of this strange spectacle, but he quickly grew accustomed to it. After all, he was the master of his emotions.

Guy inserted the magazine in his gun, rested his head in his hands, and pondered his predicament.

No question about it. This time Maxim had undertaken an obviously senseless mission. He was rounding up the mutants, arming them, and planning to drive back the Legion, for the beginning at least, to the Blue Snake River. Ridiculous! They could scarcely walk; many would die if they had to walk a mile. Merely lifting a sack of grain was enough to kill some of them -- and he wanted to attack the Legion with them! Untrained, weak -- totally unfit. Even if he rounded up those... their intelligence agents... their entire army could be wiped out by one captain single-handed. That is, their army without Maxim. And with Maxim, one captain and his company could finish them off. Guy thought, "Maxim has been running around the forest for a solid month, from village to village, from commune to commune, trying to persuade the old men and influential citizens to support him. I've been running around, too, and he's dragged me with him everywhere. He's given me no peace. The old men don't want to join him, nor will they permit their intelligence agents to join him. So now they are having a meeting about it -- but I'm not going!"

The world seemed brighter to him now. Looking around him, he didn't feel quite as miserable; his pulse had quickened and vague hopes stirred within him, hopes that today's meeting would end in failure, that Maxim would return and say: "OK, enough. There's nothing more we can do here." They would move on, further south, to the desert. They said it was also inhabited by mutants, but not as ghastly and sick as these. More like people. Supposedly they had some sort of government, even an army. Maybe they could make some headway with them. True, everything was radioactive there; one bomb after another had been dropped on them in order to contaminate the region. He had heard about such special contamination bombs.

Reminded about radioactivity, Guy dug into his bag for the container of yellow tablets. He swallowed two of them and writhed from the penetrating burning sensation. The miserable stuff had to be taken; this place was contaminated too. In the desert, he'd probably have to consume them by the handful. Without these pills he'd be done for. He was grateful to the duke for them. The duke was an unusual man. Nothing bothered him, nothing discouraged him, even in this hell. He helped people, treated them, made rounds, and even set up a plant to produce drugs and medicines.

The door burst open. Wearing only a pair of shorts, Maxim strode into the room angrily.

"No excuses. Let's go!"

"I don't want to," replied Guy. "The hell with all of them! It makes me sick to look at them. I can't."

"Nonsense. They're fine people and have a great deal of respect for you. Stop acting like a child."

"Oh, sure, they respect me."

"They certainly do! Recently the duke asked that you remain here. He said he would die soon and needed a real man to replace him."

"Oh, sure, replace him," muttered Guy, succumbing to Mac's pleading.

"Boshku is nagging me, too. He's too shy to speak to you directly. 'Let Guy stay,' he says. 'He'll teach us, protect us, train some fine fighters.' Do you know how Boshku talks about you?"

Guy gave in. "Well, all right. Should I take my gun?"

"Take it. You never can tell."

Guy put the gun under his arm and they left the room. They descended the rotten staircase, stepped across some children playing in the dirt by the door, and walked down the street toward the square. "How many people perished here when that bomb was dropped! They say this once was a beautiful city. Those bastards ruined the country. They not only killed and crippled people, but bred evil, the like of which has never been seen. And not only here."

The duke had told them that animals resembling dogs had lived in the forest before the war. He forgot what they were called. They were intelligent and well-behaved, and it was a pleasure to train them. Naturally, they were trained for military purposes. Then a linguist turned up who had deciphered their language. They actually had one, and a rather complex one at that. They loved to imitate, and the physiology of their throats made it possible to teach some of them some fifty to seventy words. On the whole they were amazing animals. We should have befriended them, said the duke, taught each other, and helped each other. "You'll hear they died out, but that isn't true. They were trained to fight, to penetrate enemy territory for military intelligence. Then war broke out and there was no time for them, or for anything else. And they, too, mutated -- so now we are faced with the vampires. Very dangerous creatures." An order to fight them was even issued in the Special Southern Zone, and the duke admitted quite frankly: "This is the end for us. Vampires will eventually take over the entire region."

Guy recalled how Boshku and his hunters had once shot a deer in the forest. "It was being pursued by vampires, who decided to fight for it. And what kind of fighters were Mac's friends? They fired a single shot from their ancient rifles, flung them down, dropped to the ground, and covered their eyes with their hands so they wouldn't see themselves mauled to pieces. And Maxim, too, lost his head. Well, not exactly, but he didn't want to fight the vampires. I had to do their dirty work for them. Clips were all gone, so I used my gun butt. Luckily, there weren't many of them. Six, in all. Two were killed, one escaped, and three were knocked unconscious. We bound them and planned to take them to the village in the morning and execute them. Well, that night I took a look and what did I see? Maxim had gotten up quietly and gone to them. He sat with them, nursed them, applied hand massage, then untied them. They weren't fools. Naturally, they took to their heels. I said to him: 'Mac, why the hell did you do that?' 'I don't know myself,' he said, 'but I feel that it's wrong to execute them. Wrong to kill people, or even these things. They are neither dogs nor vampires.'

"If they aren't vampires, what are they? Flying mice? The hell they are: they're flying horrors. What else could be roaming through the village at night, stealing children? And they don't even enter the house, but the children, still asleep, go out to them. Suppose it is a pack of lies -- but I've seen a thing or two myself. I still remember the day the duke took us to see the closest entrance to the Fortress. We saw this beautiful, peaceful green meadow. And a knoll. In the knoll was a cave. We looked and saw the entire meadow in front of the cave's entrance strewn with dead vampires. About two dozen of them, at least, and they weren't crippled or wounded. Not a drop of blood on the grass. But most surprising was Maxim's diagnosis after he had examined them. Not dead, he said, but in a trance, as if they had been hypnotized. The question is how did it happen. It's certainly an uncanny place. You can go there only in the daytime, and even then you have to be careful. If it weren't for Maxim, I'd have taken off like a streak of lightning. But where could I have gone? It's all forest, and the forest is full of evil spirits. No tank -- our tank sank in a swamp. Could I have run back to my own country? That would have seemed the natural thing to do -- to run back to my own people. But are they mine now? They, too, are freaks, puppets. Maxim is right. What kind of people are they, that they can be controlled by machines? No, I've no use for them."

Maxim and Guy entered the square, a wasteland; in its center stood the fused metal remains of a monument. They turned toward the one surviving cottage where the city's representatives gathered to exchange rumors and advice on sowing or hunting, or simply to sit, doze, or listen to the duke's stories of bygone days.

The people had already assembled in a large, clean room. How repulsive it was to look at them. Even at the duke. Although apparently not a mutant, he too was disfigured. Bums and scars covered his face. They entered, exchanged greetings, and sat down in a circle on the floor. Boshku, who was sitting beside the stove, removed a teapot from the coals, and served each of them a cup of good strong tea. Without sugar. Guy accepted his cup -- a cup of unusual beauty, priceless, made of royal porcelain. He set it down in front of him, leaned the butt of his gun on the floor between his knees, pressed his forehead against its ribbed barrel, and closed his eyes to avoid seeing them.

The duke opened the meeting. He had been the Fortress' chief surgeon. When the atom bombs began falling on the Fortress, the garrison revolted and hung out a white flag. For hanging out the white flag of surrender, their own forces dropped a thermonuclear bomb on them immediately. The real duke commanding the Fortress was torn to pieces by the soldiers. In their fury they killed all their officers. They suddenly realized that they were leaderless and that without a leader they were lost: the war was still raging, both the enemy and their own side were attacking them, and none of the soldiers knew the layout of the entire Fortress. They were caught in a gigantic mousetrap. Then came bacteriological warfare -- germ bombs. An entire arsenal was dropped on them, and plagues broke out. Half the garrison escaped, scattering in different directions; three-fourths of the remaining soldiers died, and the chief surgeon assumed command of the survivors. They acquired the habit of calling him duke initially as a joke, but the title stuck.

"Friends!" said the duke. "We are here to discuss the proposals made by our friend Mac. They are very important proposals. How important they are, you can judge by the fact that the Wizard has honored us with his presence and may even speak to us."

Guy raised his head. It was true: in the comer, leaning against the wall, sat the Wizard himself.

Although he was awesome to look at, Guy felt compelled to do so. Even Maxim was awed and had said to Guy: "The Wizard is really an unusual person."

The Wizard was small, stocky, and neat; his hands and feet were short but strong, and he was not too disfigured. In any case, the word "disfigured" did not properly describe him. He had an enormous skull covered with thick coarse hair, like silvery fur; a small mouth with strangely shaped lips that made him look as if he were about to whistle through his teeth; and a lean face with bags under his eyes. And the eyes themselves were long and narrow, with vertical pupils, like a snake's. He rarely spoke or appeared in public -- he lived alone in a basement at the far end of the city -- but he enjoyed tremendous prestige. First of all, he was very intelligent and wise, although he was no more than twenty years old and had never set foot outside the city. Whenever problems arose, his advice was sought. As a rule he did not reply to a question; his silence meant that the issue was trivial and would resolve itself satisfactorily. But if it were a vital question -- about weather, what and when to sow -- he always answered and never made a mistake. Only the city's elders visited him, and they never discussed their visits, but people were convinced that the Wizard never opened his mouth, even when offering advice. All he did was look at them and they knew what had to be done. Second, he possessed unusual power over animals. He never demanded food or clothing from the public: animals of all kinds, including insects and frogs, supplied his needs. His chief servants were enormous bats with whom he could communicate. It was said, too, that he knew the unknown.unknown. It was beyond all comprehension and Guy thought that it was no more than a set of words: a black, empty World preceding the appearance of the World Light; a dead, icy World when the World Light was extinguished; an endless Wasteland with many World Lights. No one could explain what this meant, and Mac would only shake his head and mutter with admiration: "There's a mind for you!"

The Wizard sat in his corner, staring off into space. On his shoulder was perched a nightbird. From time to time, the Wizard drew bits of something from his pocket and put them into its beak; then it would stand stock-still for a second, crane its neck, and swallow the morsel with apparent difficulty.

"These are very important proposals," continued the duke. "So I beg you to pay attention. And you, Boshku, my good man, brew the tea a bit stronger, because I see someone dozing off. Don't fall asleep. Please! Pull yourself together, friends; perhaps your fate will be decided here today."

The gathering mumbled approvingly. A white-maned man, about to doze off against a wall, was dragged away and planted in front of the speaker.

"I wasn't asleep," he muttered. "Just a couple of winks, that's all. But keep your speech short, or by the time you get to the end, I'll forget the beginning."

"All right," agreed the duke, "I will. The soldiers are pressing us southward, into the desert. They will give us no quarter and will not negotiate. Of those families that tried to make their way to the North, none has returned. We assume they have perished. In ten or fifteen years, they will have driven us into the desert altogether, and there we shall perish from the lack of food or water. They say that the desert regions are inhabited by humans. I don't believe that, but many respected leaders do. They say that the desert dwellers are as cruel and bloodthirsty as the soldiers. We, a peace-loving people, do not know how to fight. Many of us are dying and will not live to see the end of our people. But we are governing our people; therefore, it is our duty to think not only of ourselves, but of our children... Boshku," he said, "please give our dear Mr. Baker a cup of tea. I think he's dozed off."

Baker was awakened, and a cup of hot tea was placed in his mottled hand. The duke continued.

"Our friend Mac has proposed a way out. He has come to us from the soldiers. He hates the soldiers and says we can expect no mercy from them. They have been duped by their tyrants and are bent on destroying us. At first Mac wanted to arm us and lead us into battle, but now he is convinced that we are too weak and cannot fight. Then he decided it would be wise to contact the desert dwellers. He, too, believes in their existence and wants to negotiate with them and lead them against the soldiers. What is required of us? He wants us to approve this undertaking, to permit the desert people passage through our land, and to supply them with food while they are engaged in warfare. Our friend Mac has also proposed that we give him permission to assemble all our intelligence agents who are willing to join him. He will train them to fight and will lead them across the Blue Snake River to stir up an insurrection there. That, in brief, is the situation. We must come to a decision today, and I beg you to express your opinions."

Guy cast a sidelong glance at Maxim, huge and immobile as a rock. No, not a rock, but a gigantic storage battery, ready to discharge its tremendous reserve of energy. Mac was looking at the Wizard in the far corner of the room but sensed Guy's glance and turned to him. Guy realized how his friend had changed. Mac had not flashed his famous dazzling smile or sung his mountain songs for a long time; his eyes lacked their former warmth and had grown hard and glazed like Captain Chachu's. No longer did Mac dash about like a lively puppy prying into every corner. He showed restraint now. A certain severity and purposefulness had come over him, as if he were aiming at a target visible to him alone. Yes, since the day that heavy army pistol had discharged its bullets into him, Mac had changed drastically. Well, maybe it had to be.

But what he was planning now was frightening: there was bound to be a slaughter, a terrible slaughter.

"There's something I don't understand," declared a balding freak who, judging from his attire, was a stranger. "What the devil does this man want? Those barbarians to come here, to us? They'll kill us all off. Don't you think I know what those barbarians are like? They'll kill us all off."

"They will come here in peace or not at all," replied Mac.

"It would be better if they didn't come at all," said the balding stranger. "It's better not to have any dealings with those barbarians. I'd rather face the soldiers with their machine guns."

"What he says is true, of course," said Boshku thoughtfully. "But, on the other hand, the barbarians could drive away the soldiers and not bother us. Then everything would turn out all right."

"What makes you think they won't bother us?" said the white-maned man. "Everybody else has been bothering us from time immemorial. Why are they going to be an exception?"

"But he'll make a deal with them," explained Boshku. " 'Hands off our forest folk,' he'll say, 'otherwise, don't come.' "

"Who? Who'll negotiate?" asked Baker, turning his head.

"Mac, of course. Mac will negotiate."

"Oh, Mac. Well, if Mac negotiates, maybe they won't touch us."

The white-maned man rose suddenly.

"I'm leaving," he announced. "No good will come of this. They'll kill Mac and us, too. Why should they spare us? We'll all be finished in about ten years anyway. No children have been born in my commune for two years. Let me live out my years in peace. Decide for yourselves as you wish. I don't care."

He exited clumsily, stumbling out the doorway.

"Mac," said Leech, "you must excuse us, but we can't trust anyone. How can we trust the barbarians? They live in the desert, eat and drink sand. They are terrifying people, made of iron wire. They don't know how to laugh or cry. What are we to them? Nothing more than moss beneath their feet. So they'll come, kill the soldiers, squat here, and burn our forest. What do they need our forest for? They love the desert. Again, it will mean the end for us. No, I don't trust them. Mac, I don't trust them. Your scheme is hopeless."

"No, Mac," said Baker, "we don't need this. Let us die in peace; don't bother us. You hate the soldiers, you want to destroy them, but that's none of our business. We don't hate anyone. Have pity on us, Mac. No one else ever has. Although you are a decent man, you feel no pity for us. You don't, do yon, Mac?"

Guy glanced at Mac again and turned away his eyes, embarrassed.

Maxim turned red. "That's not true," he said. "I do feel pity for you. But not only for you. I..."

"No-o, Mac," insisted Baker. "Pity us, and us alone. We are the most unhappy people in the world, and you know that. Forget about your hatred. Pity us, and that's all."

"Why should he pity us?" came the voice of Ore, who was swathed in bandages right up to his eyes. "He's a soldier himself. When did soldiers ever pity us? The soldier has yet to be born who will pity us."

"I'll tell you how it will turn out," said the bald-headed stranger soberly. "Let's say the barbarians are stronger than the soldiers. They'll kill the soldiers, destroy their towers, and seize the entire North. All right. We would feel no pity for the soldiers. Let them all be slaughtered. But what do we gain? It will still be the end for us: we'll have barbarians in the South, barbarians in the North, barbarians on top of us. They won't need us, and so they'll destroy us. That's one possibility. Now, let's say the soldiers repulse the barbarians. They repulse the barbarians, and the war rolls through our land and into the South. What then? Again, we'll be done for: soldiers in the North, soldiers in the South, and soldiers on top of us. And we know those soldiers."

The people buzzed approvingly. The stranger had expressed their sentiments well. But he hadn't finished yet.

"Let me finish!" He was angry. "Settle down. You haven't heard everything yet. It's also possible that the soldiers will kill off the barbarians, and the barbarians, the soldiers. Then, it seems, we'd be able to live. But no, it still won't work. Because there are still the vampires. While the soldiers are alive, the vampires hide; they fear bullets. The soldiers have orders to shoot the vampires on sight. But once the soldiers are gone, we'll really be done for. The vampires will devour us and not even leave our bones."

"He's right, he's right!" voices rang out. "Yes, brothers, we forgot about the vampires. They're not asleep; they're biding their time. We don't need anything, Mac. Let things be as they are. We've managed to live these past twenty years for better or for worse, and we'll last another twenty. Then we'll see."

"We must not give him our intelligence agents!" The stranger's voice rose. "It doesn't matter what they themselves want. What do they care -- they don't live at home anyway. Those six-fingered guys spend all their days and nights on the other side. They steal and live it up. They get along fine there; they aren't afraid of the towers. No headaches for them, no pains. And what about us here? The wild game is moving northward. Only our agents can drive it back to us. No, don't give him our agents! We must regain control over them. They've gotten out of hand. They murder, kidnap soldiers and torture them. They don't behave like human beings. No, don't let them go, or they'll be completely corrupted!"

"Don't let them go! No! No!" the people shouted in support.

The stranger finally quieted down, took his seat, and gulped down his tea, which had grown cold. The meeting settled down. The old men sat immobile, trying not to look at Maxim.

Boshku nodded sadly. "You must understand, Mac, how miserable our lives are. There is no salvation. What have we done to anyone to deserve this?"

"We never should have been born," said Ore. "And we, too, are having children. Only to perish. Yes, to perish."

"Balance." A loud, hoarse voice suddenly interrupted the debate. "I've told you that already, Mac. You didn't want to understand me."

The source of the voice was puzzling. The room grew still; the people bowed their heads solemnly. Only the bird on the Wizard's shoulder shifted about, opening and closing its yellow beak. The Wizard himself sat motionless, his eyes closed, his thin lips tightly compressed.

"But I hope you understand now," continued the voice. It seemed as if the bird itself were speaking. "You want to destroy this balance. Well, that certainly is possible; it is within your power. But the question is, why should you? Who is asking yon to? No one. What, then, is driving you?"

The bird bristled and tucked its head beneath a wing, but the voice continued. Guy understood now that it was the Wizard himself speaking, without moving a muscle on his face or parting his lips.

It was very frightening, not only to Guy but even to the duke. Maxim alone looked at the Wizard, sullenly, almost defiantly.

"Yes," continued the Wizard, "I know what is driving you. The impatience of a troubled conscience! Your conscience has been spoiled by constant attention; it groans at the slightest discomfort, and your reason bows before it respectfully instead of scolding it and putting it in its proper place. Your conscience is disturbed by the existing order of things, and your reason obediently and hastily seeks a way to change that order. But order has its own laws, laws that develop from the aspirations of human beings and that can change only with a change in these aspirations. On the one hand, we have the aspirations of human beings; on the other your conscience, embodying your aspirations. Your conscience drives you to change the order of things, that is, to destroy the laws of this order, laws determined by the aspirations of the masses; drives you to change the aspirations of those millions of human beings to conform to your own. It's absurd -- it lacks an understanding of history. Your reason, clouded and stunned by your conscience, has lost the ability to distinguish what is truly good for the people from what you imagine to be good, the imagined good dictated by your conscience. You must keep your reason pure. If you don't want to or can't, then it will be the worse for you. And not only for you. You will tell us that in the world you come from people cannot live with a bad conscience. So stop living. That's not a bad alternative, either -- for you as well as others."

The Wizard fell silent and all eyes focused on Maxim. Guy could not fully comprehend what was going on. Evidently it was the echo of an old argument. It was also clear that the Wizard considered Maxim an intelligent but capricious individual who acted more out of whim than necessity. That offended Guy. Of course Maxim was somewhat eccentric, but he never spared himself and wanted only good for everyone. And this stemmed from deep conviction, not from shallow whim. Naturally, forty million people duped by radiation were utterly opposed to change. But, after all, they had been duped. The Wizard's judgment was unfair.

"I can't agree with you," said Maxim coldly. "Conscience, driven by its own pain, sets the task; reason carries it out. Conscience sets ideals; reason searches for the path to fulfillment. That, precisely, is reason's function: to find that path. Without conscience, reason works only for itself; that is, it runs idle. In respect to the contradiction between my aspirations and those of the masses, let me say this -- there exists a clear ideal: man must be free spiritually and physically. The people in this world still are unaware of this ideal, and the path to it is a difficult one. But a beginning must be made sometime. And I intend to begin right now."

"True," agreed the Wizard. "Conscience does set ideals. But ideals are called ideals because of their striking disparity with reality. All I want to say is this, and I repeat: don't baby your conscience, but expose it a little more frequently to reality's dusty winds, and don't worry if a few spots or rough scabs appear on it. But you yourself understand that. You simply have not yet learned to call things by their right names. But you will. For example, your conscience proclaimed the task of overthrowing the tyranny of the Creators. Your reason weighed the situation and offered advice: 'Since it is impossible to destroy this tyranny from within, we'll strike from without; we'll throw the barbarians at it. What if the forest folk are crushed and the Blue Snake River is clogged with corpses; what if it triggers a major war -- it's all for the sake of a noble ideal.' 'Well then,' said your conscience, I must become a little less civilized for the sake of a great cause.' "

"Massaraksh!" sputtered Maxim, angrier than Guy had ever seen him. "Yes, massaraksh! Everything is as you say! But what is to be done? The people beyond the Blue Snake have been turned into puppets."

"True, true," said the Wizard. "Another thing, your plan is a poor one: the desert barbarians will smash themselves against the towers and be rolled back. Our intelligence agents are not really fit for any serious task. Within the framework of your plan you could ally yourself, for example, with the Island Empire. But that's not the point. I'm afraid you're too late, Mac. But don't think I'm trying to dissuade you. It's quite obvious to me that you are a real force. And your appearance among us signifies in itself the inevitable disturbance of the balance on the surface of our little world. Don't stop. But don't let your conscience prevent you from thinking clearly, and don't let your reason be shy about pushing aside your conscience when necessary. I advise you to remember this: I don't know how it is in your world, but in ours no force remains long without a master. There is always someone who tries to tame it -- either covertly or on some noble-sounding pretext. That's all I want to say."

With surprising agility, the Wizard rose, slid along the wall on his short legs, and vanished behind the door. Immediately, the entire meeting followed him out. Although they had only a vague understanding of the exchange between the Wizard and Maxim, they were obviously satisfied that their situation remained unchanged, that the Wizard had not permitted this dangerous undertaking to be implemented. The Wizard, they felt, pitied them and had seen to it that no harm would come to them. Perhaps now they could live as before; ahead of them stretched a whole eternity -- some ten years, maybe even more. Boshku, with his empty teapot, was the last to leave, and only Guy, Mac, the duke, and Baker were left in the room. Baker was fast asleep in a corner, exhausted from the mental strain. Guy felt troubled and depressed. "How unlucky I've been all my life. During the first half I was a puppet, a fool. And now I must live out the second half as a vagabond, a man without a country. Without friends. Without a past."

"I suppose you're disappointed, eh, Mac?" The duke wore a guilty expression.

"No, not very," replied Maxim. "On the contrary, I feel relieved. The Wizard is right; my conscience isn't ready to undertake such tasks. I must travel about more, see more, train my conscience. Duke, what would you suggest?"

The aged duke rose, rubbing his numbed side. He paced the room.

"First of all, I would advise you against going into the desert," he said. "Whether it is or isn't inhabited by barbarians, you will find nothing worth your while. As the Wizard suggested, there might be a point to establishing contact with the Island Empire, although I really wouldn't know how to go about it. I suppose you'll have to go to the sea and start from there -- that is, if the Island Empire is not a myth and if they want to talk to you. I think the wisest move would be to return to the North and work on your own. Remember what the Wizard said: you, Mac, are a force. And, as you say, the tower network must have a Center. And power over the North rests in the hands of whoever controls that Center. You should gain control of it."

"I'm afraid that's not for me," said Maxim slowly. "I can't give you the reason why now, but I feel that it's not for me. I don't want to control the Center. You are right about one thing: there is nothing for me to do either here or in the desert. The desert is too far. And here, there's no one to rely on. But there's a lot more I must find out: there's still Pandeya, Khonti, the mountains, and the Island Empire -- somewhere... Have you heard about the white submarines? You haven't? But I have, and Guy, too. And we know a man who has seen them and fought them. So there you are: the Island Empire can fight. Well, fine." Maxim jumped up. "There's no reason to linger. Let's go, Guy."

They went out to the square and stopped beside the monument's fused remains. Guy looked around sadly. Yellow ruins bobbed and swayed in the hot haze. Although it was stifling and stinking, he no longer cared to leave this terrible but now familiar place; to drag himself through the forest and abandon himself to arcane hazards lying in wait for a man at every step. At this very moment he would like to return to his little room and play with poor little Tangle. He would make the whistle he had promised her, from a cartridge case.

"Where do you plan to go?" asked the duke, shielding his face from the dust with his crushed, faded hat.

"West," replied Maxim. "To the sea. Is it very far from here?"

"Two hundred miles, and you have to pass through some very contaminated areas. Wait, I have an idea." He paused for a long time, and Guy began to shift uneasily from one foot to the other. Maxim waited patiently. "Oh, what good is it to me!" said the duke finally. "To tell the truth, I've been saving it for myself all this time. I thought that if the situation deteriorated too rapidly here and my nerves gave out. I'd fly home, even though I could be shot down once I reached there. But now -- well, it's too late."

"A plane?" asked Maxim, looking at the duke hopefully.

"Yes, Mountain Eagle.Mountain Eagle. Does its name mean anything to you? No, of course not. And you, young man? It means nothing to you either. At one time it was a very famous bomber. The personal bomber of His Imperial Majesty Prince Kirnu. So I kept it. At first I wanted to evacuate the wounded on it, but there were too many of them. When all the wounded died -- I won't go into that. Take it, my friend. Fly away. It has enough fuel to go halfway around the world."

"Thank you, duke," said Maxim. "I'm very grateful to you. I'll never forget you."

"Don't worry about me," said the old man. "It's not for my sake that I'm giving it to you. If you should succeed in what you are trying to do, don't forget about these poor people."

"I'm sure I'll succeed. I must, massaraksh! Conscience or no conscience! And I shall never forget any of you."