PART FIVE: EARTHLING

18.

The state prosecutor slept lightly. The telephone awakened him instantly. Without opening his eyes, he removed the receiver and said hoarsely: "Hello."

His assistant's whiny voice announced apologetically: "Seven o'clock, your honor."

"Yes," said the prosecutor, his eyes still closed. "Yes. Thank you."

He turned on the light, threw off the covers, and sat on the edge of the bed. Staring at his pale, skinny legs, he sat there for some time, reflecting on his lot in sad surprise: he could not recall a single day in the past sixty years when his sleep hadn't been interrupted. Someone was always waking him up. When he was a lieutenant, that pig of an orderly would awaken him after a drinking spree. When he was chairman of the Black Tribunal, that idiot secretary would awaken him for his signature on death sentences. As a schoolboy, he would be awakened for school by his mother, and that was the most miserable of all awakenings. He was always told: You must! You must, your honor. You must, Mr. Chairman. You must, my dear little boy. Now he was telling himself that he must. He rose, threw off his robe, splashed eau de cologne over his face, inserted his bridgework, stared at himself in the mirror as he massaged his cheeks, then entered his study.

A glass of warm milk and a dish of salted crackers under a starched napkin waited for him on his desk. Before partaking of his special diet, he went to the safe, removed a green folder, and placed it on the desk beside his breakfast. While he munched crackers and sipped milk, he inspected the folder thoroughly, until he was convinced that no one had tampered with it since last night. How much had changed, he thought. Only three months had passed, but how everything had changed! He glanced mechanically at the yellow telephone and could not tear his eyes from it for several seconds. The phone was silent -- as bright and frivolous as a toy, but as frightening as an infernal time bomb that cannot be defused.

The prosecutor seized the green folder with both hands and frowned. He sensed fear getting the better of him and hastened to check it. No, this wouldn't do: he must remain absolutely calm, must reason with total objectivity. "Besides, I have no choice. If I'm taking a risk, well, I'll simply have to take it. But I must keep it to a minimum. And I will. Yes, massaraksh, to a minimum!... So, you aren't so sure about that, eh. Smart? Oh, so yon doubt it? You're always doubting. Well, let's try and dispel your doubts. Have you ever heard of a certain Maxim Kammerer? Have you really? Aha, you only think you have. You've never heard of the man before. Well, get set. Smart, you're going to hear about him right now for the first time. Hear this out and form the most objective and unbiased judgment of him. Smart, it's very important for me to know your objective opinion: my hide, you know, depends on it."

He chewed the last cracker and drained the milk.

"All right, Mr. Smart, let's get down to business!" he said aloud.

He opened the folder. "The man's past is hazy. A rather feeble introduction to our acquaintance. But we not only know how to deduce the present from the past; we can deduce the past from the present. And if we need to know the past of our friend Mac, we can eventually deduce it from the present. We call that extrapolation. So, what do we have here? Our Mac begins his present with his escape from the penal colony. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Precisely at the moment when Strannik and I were about to lay our hands on him. Here's the commanding general's panicky report, the classical howling of an idiot who has screwed something up and doesn't expect to escape punishment: he is completely innocent, he merely carried out orders; he did not know that the subject had volunteered for service with a sapper detachment of condemned men and that said subject was blown up in a mine field. He didn't know. Nor did Strannik and I. But we should have known! The subject is an unpredictable individual, and you should have anticipated something of the sort, Mr, Smart. Yes, at the time I was shocked by the news, but now we understand what happened: someone told Mac the truth about the towers; he decided that he could not accomplish anything in the Land of the All-Powerful Creators, so he escaped to the South, pretending he had perished." The prosecutor rubbed his forehead sluggishly. "Yes, that was the beginning of everything. It was the first miss in a series of misses: I believed that he had perished. And why shouldn't I have? What normal man would escape to the South? Anyone would have believed that he had perished. But Strannik didn't."

The prosecutor picked up the next report. "Oh, that Strannik! Clever! A genius! That's the way I should have operated, like him! I was sure Mac was dead. After all, the South is the South. Strannik saturated the other side of the river with his agents. Fat Fank -- too bad I never got to him, never took him in hand. That greasy pig wore himself out running around the country, sniffing, spying. He lost Kura to malaria on Route Six, and Rooster was captured by mountaineers; and then Fifty-five -- whoever he is -- was grabbed by pirates on the coast. But Fifty-five managed to get a message through: Mac, he said, had turned up and surrendered to the patrols.

"That's how people with brains operate: they don't believe a damn thing or feel sorry for anyone. That's how I should have acted. I should have pushed everything else aside and concentrated on finding Mac. Even then I realized very well what an awesome force Mac was. But instead of working on his case exclusively, I hooked up with Puppet and lost the game. Then I got involved in this idiotic war and lost again. And now I would have lost again if I hadn't had a stroke of luck: Mac turned up in the capital, in Strannik's lair, and I learned about it before Strannik did. Yes, Strannik, you boney-eared bastard, you're the loser now. You had to dash off somewhere on business. And I don't know where or why you went, but that doesn't disturb me in the least. Well and good! Naturally you relied on your Fank for everything, and your Fank delivered Mac to you. But what bad luck -- your Fank collapsed from his strenuous military exploits and is lying unconscious in the palace hospital. Ah, yes, he's a very important figure: only the big shots get hospitalized there! And this time I won't miss. This time he'll lie there as long as I consider it necessary. You aren't here, Fank isn't, but our boy Mac is, and that is a lucky break. ' '

The joy of triumph surged through him. He stifled it at once. "There go my emotions again, massaraksh. Calm down. Smart. You are getting to know a new man, by the name of Mac, and you must be very objective. Especially since this new Mac bears no resemblance to the old one. He's no longer a child; he knows now what finance and juvenile delinquency are all about. Our Mac has grown a good deal wiser and more serious. For example, he made his way into the underground's leadership (his sponsors, Memo Gramenu and Allu Zef) and hit them like a bolt out of the blue with a proposal to expose the real purpose of the towers to the entire underground. The staff screamed bloody murder, but Mac convinced them. He frightened and confused them. They accepted his proposal and assigned Mac the task of working it out. He learned the ropes very quickly and sized up the entire situation correctly. They understood this and realized who they were dealing with. Ah, here's the last report: a faction of educators among the leadership involved him in a discussion of a plan to reeducate the population, and he agreed to it with enthusiasm. Immediately he proposed a host of ideas. Lord only knows what they were, but that's not important. The whole idea of reeducation is idiotic. What's important is that he is no longer a terrorist, has no desire to blow up anything or kill anyone; that he is now busy with his career, building prestige among the underground leadership, delivering speeches, criticizing, and moving upward; that he has ideas and is anxious to implement them -- and that, my dear Mr. Smart, is precisely what you need."

The prosecutor leaned back in his chair.

"Ah, here's something else I need: a report on his life style. He works hard in the laboratory and at home; still remembers that girl, Rada Gaal; takes part in sports; doesn't smoke, rarely drinks, and eats in moderation. On the other hand, he clearly leans toward a luxurious life style and knows his worth. For example, cars. After expressing dissatisfaction with a staff car's low power and ugly appearance, he appropriated it as if it were due him. He is also dissatisfied with his apartment; he feels it is too small and lacks basic comforts. He has decorated his quarters with original paintings and antiquarian art, spending almost his entire advance on them. And so on. Good material, very good. I wonder how much money he has at his disposal? So-o, he's a project leader in a chemical synthesis laboratory. They set him up rather elegantly, and probably promised him still more. I wonder what reasons they gave Mac for Strannik's needing him? Fank, the fat pig, knows, but he'd die rather than breathe a word. If only I could drag it out of him. Then it would give me great pleasure to finish him off. How much unnecessary worry he's caused me. And he stole Rada from me. How useful she could be to me now. Rada -- an excellent weapon when you're dealing with pure, honest, courageous Mac! Well, maybe things haven't worked out so badly after all. Mac, I'm not the one who's holding your girl under lock and key. It's all Strannik's doing, that blackmailer."

The prosecutor started: the yellow phone jingled softly. He passed his trembling fingers across his forehead. No, it had to be a mistake. Of course it was. The call was not for him. The telephone is a complicated device; some wires had probably crossed. He wiped his hands on his robe. At that instant the ringing of the telephone tore through him like a bullet, like a dagger in the throat. He picked up the receiver.

"State prosecutor speaking."

"Smart? This is Chancellor."

There it was. Any moment he'd hear: "I'll expect you in an hour, Smart."

"I recognized your voice," he said weakly. "How are you?"

"Have you read the report?"

"No." He was waiting for him to say: "You haven't? Well, come over and I'll read it to you myself."

"You've really screwed up the war."

The prosecutor swallowed. He must say something. He must -- immediately. Some good-natured banter. But tactfully. Please God, tactfully!

"You've nothing to say? What did I tell you? Keep your nose out of it. Stick to civilian matters and leave military affairs alone."

"You know, Chancellor, we are all your children. And children don't always listen to their parents."

Chancellor tittered. "Children. But where is it said: 'If your child fails to obey you...' How does the rest of it go. Smart?"

"Oh, God!" thought the prosecutor, "I remember. Those were his very words then: 'Wipe it from the face of the earth.' And Strannik had picked up a heavy black pistol from the desk, raised it slowly, and fired twice, and Chancellor's child had clasped its balding head with both hands and sunk to the floor."

"Has your memory failed you? So, what are you going to do, Smart?"

"I made a mistake," he said hoarsely. "A mistake. It was all because of Puppet."

"So, you made a mistake. Well, all right, think about it. Smart. Think it over. I'll call you again."

And that was it. Chancellor had hung up, and he didn't know where to phone him -- to cry, to plead. "Oh, how stupid, how stupid of me. All right, hold on. Get a grip on yourself, you coward!" With all his might he struck his open hand against the edge of the desk, to draw blood, to inflict pain, to stop the trembling. It helped a little. Still bent over, he opened the lower desk drawer with his other hand, removed a flask and took a few swallows. The warmth coursed through him. "Now, that's the way. Take it easy. This thing isn't over yet. The race is to the swiftest. You're not finished with Smart yet. You won't get him so easily. If you could have, you would have done it already. The call doesn't mean a thing. He always does that. There's still time. Two, three, even four days. Yes, there's time!" he shouted to himself. "Don't get hysterical." He rose and began to circle the room rapidly.

"You see, I have a hold over you. I have Mac. I have a man who doesn't fear radiation. A man for whom no obstacle exists. Who wants to change the system. Who hates us. A man so pure he is open to all temptations. A man who believes in me. Who wants to meet me. He is anxious to meet me: my agents have told him many times that the state prosecutor is a good man, a just man, and a fine legal expert, a real guardian of the law; that the Creators detest him and tolerate him only because they distrust each other. My agents have already pointed me out to him in secret, and he was favorably impressed. And most important of all, a hint was dropped to him in the strictest confidence that I knew the Center's location. Although he has excellent control over his physical expressions, I was told that he gave himself away that time. Yes, that's the kind of man I have -- a man who is eager to seize the Center. The only man who can do it. Of course, I don't actually have this man in my hands yet, but the line has been cast, the bait swallowed, and today I'll set the hook. Otherwise, I'm finished. Yes, finished."

He turned sharply and stared at the yellow telephone.

His imagination went wild. He visualized the cramped room upholstered in purple velvet, stuffy, sour-smelling, windowless, with a bare dilapidated table and five gilded chairs. "And the rest of us stood there: myself, Strannik with murderous eyes, and that bald-headed butcher. He must have known where the Center was: God, how many people he'd killed to find out. What a drunkard and braggart! How could he blab about such monstrous deeds to his relatives? And to what relatives! And he's the chief of the Department of Public Health, the Creators' eyes and ears, the nation's sword and shield. I remember Chancellor's words: 'Wipe him from the face of the earth!,' and Strannik fired point-blank twice. And Baron was annoyed: 'You've spattered the upholstery again.' Then they argued about why the room reeked, and my legs felt like water, and I thought: 'Do they or don't they know?' Strannik stood there, grinning and looking at me knowingly. But he didn't know a thing. Now I understand why -- he always took great pains to prevent anyone from learning the secret of the Center. He always knew its location and was waiting for a chance to seize it himself. Too late, Strannik, too late. And you, too, Chancellor, are too late. You, too. Baron. And you. Puppet -- well, there's no point talking about you."

He pushed aside the drapes and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. He had almost stifled his terror. Attempting to stamp out the last vestige of fear, he tried to visualize Mac bursting into the Center's control room.

"Of course, Voldyr could have done it, too, with his personal bodyguard, that gang of relatives -- cousins, nephews, adopted brothers, and prot(g(s, those dregs who have always known only one law: shoot first. You had to be a Strannik to dare point a finger at Voldyr. That same evening they had attacked Strannik at the gates of his mansion, shot up his car, killed his chauffeur and secretary, and then, in some mysterious fashion, every last one of them was knocked out, all twenty-four of them and their two machine guns. Yes, Voldyr, too, could have made it to the control room, but he wouldn't have gotten any farther, because a barrier, a depression emitter, maybe two by now, would have stopped him. Actually, one is sufficient. No one could get through it: a degen would pass out from pain, and an ordinary, loyal citizen would fall to his knees and cry quietly, overcome by a severe depression. Mac alone could get through, thrust his skillful hands into the generator, and switch the Center and the entire tower network onto the depression field. I can see it now: with nothing to bar his way, he climbs to the radio studio and broadcasts a taped speech simultaneously on all frequencies. The entire country, from the Outlands to the Khonti border, is overcome by depression; millions of idiots drop to their knees and drown in tears, sunk in total apathy. And the loudspeakers roar full blast that the All-Powerful Creators are criminals, their names are so-and-so, they are now at such-and-such place, kill them, save the nation. This is Mac Sim addressing you, Mac Sim, a living god (or the legitimate heir to the Imperial Throne -- or the great dictator -- whichever Mac prefers). To arms, my Legion! To arms, my army! To arms, my subjects! While the tape is playing, he returns to the control room and switches the generators to the heightened attention field; then the entire country listens, open-mouthed, trying to catch every word, memorizing and repeating everything silently. The loudspeakers roar on, the towers blast away, and all this continues for another hour. Then he switches the emitters to 'ecstasy,' thirty minutes of ecstasy, and that ends the broadcast. When I come to, after ninety minutes of agonizing pains -- which I must bear -- Chancellor and the rest of them will be wiped out. There will be only Mac, the Great God Mac, and his loyal adviser, the former state prosecutor, now chief of the Great Mac's government. I'll be safe. Mac is not the kind who abandons useful friends, or even those who aren't. And I shall be a very useful friend. Oh, what a useful friend I'll be!"

He interrupted his reverie and returned to his desk. Casting a sidelong glance at the yellow telephone, he smiled ironically, picked up the receiver of the green telephone, and called the deputy chief of the Department of Special Investigation.

"Hed? Good morning. This is Smart. How are you feeling? How's your stomach? Well, that's fine. Strannik's still away? Baron's office called, asked us to take a look at your department. No, no, it's a mere formality. I don't have the slightest understanding of your work, anyway. So prepare a report. You know, conclusions regarding the inspection and that sort of thing. Be sure that everyone is in his place, not like the last time. Around eleven o'clock. Arrange things so I can be out of there with all the documents by noon. See you later. Emitters go on in a few minutes. Well, let's go suffer. You do, don't you? Or maybe you figured out some defense against it a long time ago and are keeping it from the authorities. Take it easy. I'm only kidding. So long."

He hung up and glanced at the clock. Nine forty-five. He began to groan loudly and dragged himself to the bathroom. That nightmare again. Thirty minutes of agony. No defense against it. No escape from it. God, all you want to do is die. How humiliating: Strannik must be spared. We'll need him.

The tub was already filled with hot water. The prosecutor flung off his robe, pulled off his nightshirt, and placed an analgesic under his tongue. And so it went, day after day. One twenty-fourth of his life was pure hell. More than four percent. Not counting the times he was summoned to the palace. That part would be over soon, but he must tolerate the four percent for the rest of his life. "Well, we'll see about that, too. When everything is settled, I'll take Strannik in hand myself." He climbed into the tub, made himself comfortable, relaxed, and began to devise ways of taking Strannik in hand. He didn't get very far; the familiar pain struck him in the temple, traveled down his spine, dug its claws into every nerve, every cell, and began beating, methodically, ruthlessly, to the rhythm of his madly pounding heart.

When everything was over, he lay a little while longer in languid exhaustion. Yes, those infernal pains had their compensation: the half-hour nightmare was succeeded by a few minutes of heavenly bliss.

He climbed out, dried himself in front of the mirror, opened the door slightly, and received a fresh towel from his valet, dressed, returned to the study, drank another glass of warm milk, ate a bowl of thin gruel with honey, sat idly for a while until he had completely recovered from his ordeal, then phoned his assistant and ordered his car.

A road reserved for government vehicles, deserted at this hour, led to the Department of Special Investigation. Ignoring traffic lights, the chauffeur turned on a loud, deep-throated siren from time to time. At three minutes to eleven they reached the department's high yellow gates. A legionnaire in dress uniform crossed over to the car and glanced in. Recognizing the prosecutor, he saluted. Instantly, the gates swung open, revealing a thickly planted garden, yellow and white apartment houses, and, behind them, the institute's gigantic rectangular building.

As they rolled slowly along the narrow road posted with speed-limit signs, they passed a playground, a squat building that housed a swimming pool, and the club restaurant's colorful building. All of this was bathed in clouds of dense foliage and the purest air. It had a fragrance that no field or forest could duplicate. "Ah, that's Strannik for you. It's all his doing. What a mint of money he's squandered on this project. But it certainly has produced results. His employees like him. This is the way to live; this is the way to do it. A mint of money was squandered, and Sultan was terribly annoyed, and still is. What about the risk? Of course there was one; Strannik took it, but the result is that the department is really his. His people would never betray him or scheme against him. He has five hundred employees working for him, mostly young people. They don't read newspapers or listen to the radio; they don't have time -- they're too involved in important research. So the emitters are missing their mark here; or rather, they're aiming elsewhere, where it benefits Strannik. Yes, Strannik, if I were in your place, I'd take my time with those protective helmets. Most likely you are. But, damn it, how can I get my hands on you? If only I could find another Strannik. No, there isn't another brain like his in the whole world, and he knows it. He keeps a sharp eye out for talent. Gets a solid hold on a person when he's young; is very kind to him; takes him away from his parents -- and the parents, the fools, are tickled pink! -- and another little soldier joins his ranks. What a lucky break for me that Strannik is away now!"

The car halted and his assistant opened the door wide. The prosecutor climbed out, walked up the steps to a glass-enclosed lobby. Hed and his assistants were waiting for him. Deliberately assuming a bored expression, he shook Hed's hand flaccidly, glanced at his assistants, and allowed them to escort him to the elevator. They filed in according to protocol: first the state prosecutor, next the deputy chief of the department, then the state prosecutor's assistant and the deputy chief's senior assistant. The rest remained in the lobby. The group proceeded to Hed's office and filed in according to protocol again: the state prosecutor, then Hed; the prosecutor's assistant and Hed's senior assistant remained in the reception room. As soon as they entered the inner office, the prosecutor sank into an armchair wearily and Hed busied himself at once. He pressed the buttons at the edge of the desk; when a whole horde of secretaries came running into his office, he ordered tea.

To amuse himself, the prosecutor spent the first few minutes studying Hed. He had an uncommonly guilt-ridden face. He avoided direct eye contact, smoothed his hair, nibbed his hands convulsively, and made numerous senseless, restless movements. He always behaved this way. It constituted, so to speak, his basic capital. Constantly arousing suspicions of a guilty conscience, he was continuously subjected to meticulous checks. The Department of Public Health investigated his life around the clock. And since it was impeccable, every new check merely confirmed his surprising innocence. Hed's rise up the ladder was spectacular.

The prosecutor knew all this very well: he had checked Hed personally on three occasions, and yet, while studying him now and amusing himself with his antics, he suddenly caught himself wondering if the old fox knew where Strannik was and was scared stiff that the information would be dragged out of him. The prosecutor couldn't resist the temptation.

"Regards from Strannik," he said casually, tapping his fingers on the arm rest.

Hed focused on the prosecutor for an instant and then looked away.

"Yes," he said, biting his lip. "Uh, we'll have tea in a minute."

"He asked that you phone him," said the prosecutor even more casually.

"What? Uh... all right. The tea will be exceptionally good today. My new secretary is an expert at brewing tea... that is... uh... where should I call him?"

"I don't understand," said the prosecutor.

"I mean that if I'm to phone him, I need his number. He neve lleaves his number." Flushing painfully, Hed began to fuss about the desk, slapping it here and there until he found a pencil. "Where did he say I should call him?"

The prosecutor abandoned his probe.

"I was only kidding."

Flickers of suspicion crossed Hed's face. "Ah! So you were kidding?" He roared with forced laughter. "You sure put one over on me. Some joke! And I really thought... ha-ha-ha! Ah, here's the tea."

The prosecutor accepted a glass of strong tea from the well-groomed secretary's well-groomed hands.

"All right, Hed, let's get down to business. I don't have much time. Where's the report?"

After making many superfluous movements, Hed drew the inspection report from his desk and handed it to the prosecutor. His hesitant manner suggested that the report was full of false information, was aimed at misleading the inspector, and had been composed with subversive intentions.

"Well now." The prosecutor sipped his tea. "Let's see what you have here. 'Inspection Report.' Well. Interference Phenomena Laboratory. Integral Radiation Laboratory. I don't understand anything. It beats me! How do you manage to understand this stuff?"

"I... you know, I don't understand it either. I'm really an administrator. Yes, an administrator. My job is to provide general guidance and leadership."

Hed avoided the prosecutor's eyes, bit his lips, and ruffled his hair with a sweeping gesture. It was now quite clear that this man was not an administrator but a Khonti spy with very highly specialized training.

The prosecutor returned to the report. He made a profound remark about the power amplification sector's overexpenditure of funds; he asked who Zon Barutu was, and if he wasn't related to Moru Barutu, the well-known writer and propagandist; he reproved Hed for acquiring a lensless refractometer that had cost an outlandish sum and still hadn't been put into operation. He summed up the work of the radiation research and development sector by saying that evidence of significant progress was lacking ("And thank God!" he added to himself) and that this opinion must be included in the final draft of the Inspection Report.

He was even more casual about the part of the report dealing with the work of the antiradiation sector. It was engaged in research on protective devices.

"You're on a treadmill, Hed. You've made no progress with either physical or physiological defense. The physiological approach is all wrong: if I were to let you cut me up, you'd turn me into an idiot. Your chemists, on the other hand, are doing a fine job. They've won another minute for us. One minute last year, and a minute and a half the year before. Now when I take a pill, I experience only twenty-two minutes of agony instead of thirty. Well, not bad. Almost a thirty percent reduction. Insert my opinion in your report: increase the tempo of work on physical defense, encourage the personnel in the chemical defense sector. That's all."

He tossed the report back to Hed. "Have a final draft typed up and include my opinion. And now, for the sake of formality, take me to... well, I visited your physicists last time. Take me to your chemists; I'd like to see what they're doing."

Hed jumped up and struck the buttons on his desk again. Wearing an expression of utter fatigue, the prosecutor rose from his chair.

Accompanied by Hed and his day assistant, he toured the chemical defense laboratories at a leisurely pace, smiling politely at personnel with one service stripe on the sleeves of their smocks, slapping the stripeless ones on the shoulder, pausing by the two-stripers to shake hands, nodding in a knowing way and inquiring if there were any complaints.

There weren't any. They all were working or pretending they were. Lights flickered on various devices, liquids bubbled in vessels, some stuff emitted a terrible odor, and somewhere in the laboratory animals were being tormented. The laboratory was clean, bright, and spacious; people seemed satisfied and serene. They didn't display enthusiasm and conducted themselves very correctly with the inspector, but without any warmth and, in any case, without servility.

Strannik's portrait adorned the walls of many offices and laboratories: it hung above work counters, next to charts and graphs, in wall space between windows, above doors, sometimes beneath plate glass on desk tops. There were photographs, pencil and charcoal sketches, even a portrait in oils. Here was Strannik playing ball; Strannik delivering a lecture; Strannik chewing an apple; Strannik meditating, fatigued, furious, and even roaring with laughter. Those sons of bitches had also drawn caricatures of him, which they hung in the most visible places. Shocking! Just imagine, thought the prosecutor, entering the office of junior attorney Filtik and finding a caricature of himself there. Massaraksh, that would be inconceivable, impossible!

He continued smiling, slapping shoulders, shaking hands, thinking all the while that this was his second visit to the laboratory since last year and nothing seemed to have changed. But until today he had never paid any serious attention to it. "Today I must," he thought to himself. "What did Strannik mean to me a year or two ago? Formally he was one of us; in reality, a cabinet officer without any influence on policy, without a role in policy-making, without political aspirations. Since then he has made a great deal of progress: the nationwide operation to clean up foreign spies was Strannik's doing." The prosecutor himself had conducted the trials and was shaken when he realized that they were dealing not with your ordinary spy-degens but with real, experienced intelligence agents planted everywhere by the Island Empire to gather scientific and economic information. Strannik had caught them all, down to the last one, and since then he had become the permanent chief of Special Counterintelligence.

It was Strannik who had exposed the conspiracy engineered by Voldyr. That character had been solidly entrenched in his position and had been dangerously undermining Strannik's control over counterintelligence. Not trusting anyone else to do the job, Strannik had knocked him off himself. He always operated openly and alone. No coalitions, no temporary alliances. He had overthrown three successive chiefs of the War Department in the same manner (before they could even open their mouths, they were summoned upstairs), until he finally secured Puppet's appointment. Puppet was scared stiff of war. It was Strannik who, a year ago, had killed Project Gold, presented upstairs by the Imperial Union of Industry and Finance. At that time it appeared that Strannik would be sacked at any moment because Chancellor himself was very enthusiastic about the project. Somehow Strannik convinced him that the project's benefits were very temporary, and in ten years there would be an epidemic of insanity and utter devastation. "He always manages to prove what he wants to prove to them; no one but Strannik is successful at that. Generally, one can understand why. He never fears anything. True, he hid himself in his office for a long time, but eventually he realized his power. He realized that we all needed him, regardless of who we were and how we fought among ourselves. Only Strannik is capable of developing a defense against radiation; only Strannik can save us from its torments. And to think that those snotnoses in white smocks draw caricatures of him."

His assistant opened the door. He caught sight of Mac. Mac, in a white smock with one stripe on his sleeve, was sitting on a window ledge and looking out. If any attorney were to take the liberty of sitting on a window ledge to count shingles during working hours, one could with an easy conscience have him deported as a downright loafer, even a saboteur. But in this case, massaraksh, one had to keep quiet. Try taking him by the scruff of the neck and he'd tell you off in a hurry: "Excuse me! I am performing a mental experiment! Kindly move aside and don't disturb me!"

The Great Mac was counting shingles. He glanced briefly at the visitors, started to return to his work, then glanced around again for a closer look. "He's recognized me," thought the prosecutor. "Ah, he's recognized me, my clever boy." He smiled politely at Mac and clapped a youthful laboratory assistant on the shoulder. Halting in the middle of the room, he glanced around.

"Well," he said, standing between Mac and Hed, "what do we have here?"

"Mr. Sim," said Hed, flushing. "Explain to the inspector what you are --"

"I believe I know you," said the Great Mac. "Pardon me if I'm mistaken, but aren't you the state prosecutor?"

Dealing with Mac was not an easy matter: his carefully thought out plan had just gone down the drain. Mac wouldn't think of concealing anything; he feared no one and was curious about everything. Drawn up to his full height, the giant looked down at the prosecutor as if he were gazing at some exotic animal. He would have to play it by ear.

"Yes, I am." The prosecutor stopped smiling and looked at Mac in cold surprise. "As far as I know, I am the state prosecutor, although I don't understand..." He frowned and looked into Mac's face. Mac smiled broadly. "Well, well, of course. Mac Sim. Maxim Kammerer. Pardon me, but you were supposed to have perished. Massaraksh, how did you ever get here?"

"It's a long story," replied Mac, waving his hand. "By the way. I'm surprised to see you here. I never realized that the Department of Justice was interested in our work."

"The most surprising people are interested in your work." He took Mac by the arm and led him to a far window. In a confidential whisper he inquired: "When will you have those pills for us? Real ones, that will last a full half hour?"

"Are you one, too?" asked Mac. "That's right, you'd have to be."

The prosecutor shook his head sadly. "It's our blessing and our curse. The good fortune of our state and the misfortune of its rulers. Massaraksh, I'm awfully glad you're alive and well, Mac. I must tell you that your trial was one of the few in my career that left me with a most unhappy feeling. No, no, don't try to dismiss it: according to the letter of the law you were guilty. From that point of view everything was proper. You attacked a tower and evidently killed a legionnaire. For such an action, as you well know, one doesn't deserve a pat on the head. But I must confess that my hand trembled when I signed your sentence. Please don't be offended, but I felt as if I were sentencing a child. When it comes down to brass tacks, it must be said that the escapade was of our rather than your making, and the entire responsibility --"

"I'm not offended. What you say isn't far from the truth: the tower escapade was childish. Thank God you didn't have us shot."

"It was all I could do for you. I remember how upset I was when I learned of your death." He laughed and gave Mac's shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Awfully glad that everything turned out all right. Delighted to meet you." He glanced at his watch. "By the way, Mac, why are you here? No, no. I'm not going to arrest you. That's not my job; let the military authorities worry about you. But what are you doing in this institute? Are you really a chemist? And this, too." He pointed to the service stripe on his sleeve.

"You might say I'm a little bit of everything. Part chemist, part physicist --"

"And part underground conspirator." The prosecutor laughed good-naturedly.

"A very small part of me," said Mac firmly.

"Part conjurer," said the prosecutor.

Mac looked at him attentively.

"Part dreamer," continued the prosecutor, "part adventurer."

"That's no longer a profession," replied Mac. "It is, if I may say so, simply a trait possessed by any decent scientist."

"And decent politician."

"A rare combination of words," quipped Mac.

For a moment the prosecutor looked at him quizzically, then laughed again.

"Yes," he said, "political activity has its unique character. Never lower yourself to politics, Mac. Stay with your chemistry." He looked at his watch unhappily: "Oh, damn it. I'm terribly pressed for time. I would have liked to stay and chat with yon. I looked at your dossier. You're a very interesting individual. Well, I suppose you're terribly busy, too."

"Yes," replied his clever Mac. "Although not as busy, naturally, as the state prosecutor."

"Come now, Mac, your chief assures me that you work day and night. Now, take me, for example... I can't say that about myself. The state prosecutor does have some free evenings. You'll be surprised to know that I have lots of questions for you. I must confess that I wanted to talk with you, even then, after the trial. But I had so many cases, an endless stream of cases."

"I'm at your service," said Mac. "Especially since I have a lot of questions for you."

"Now, now, Mac!" the prosecutor thought to himself. "Don't be so open about it. We're not alone." He said aloud, calmly: "Fine! I'll do my best. Now I must ask you to excuse me. I must run."

He shook Mac's enormous hand. Ah, yes, he had finally hooked his Mac. He was all his now. "He fell right into my hands. He's anxious to meet with me, and now I'll set the trap." The prosecutor paused in the doorway, snapped his fingers, and said as he turned around: "Oh, Mac, what are you doing this evening? I just realized that I'm free tonight."

"This evening? Well, tonight I have --"

"Then come together!" exclaimed the prosecutor. "That's even better. You'll meet my wife and we'll have a fine evening. Is eight o'clock all right? I'll send a car for you. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

The prosecutor was jubilant. He made the rounds of the chemistry sector's remaining laboratories, smiling, clapping shoulders, and shaking hands. "He agreed!" be thought as he signed the re-port in Hed's office. "He agreed, massaraksh, agreed!" he chortled to himself triumphantly on the way home.

He gave instructions to his chauffeur and ordered his assistant to inform the department that the prosecutor was occupied. "Don't admit anyone, disconnect the phone. Go to the devil, get out of my sight, but stay within easy reach." He summoned his wife, kissed her on the neck, remembering in passing that they hadn't seen each other in about ten days. He asked her to arrange a supper -- a light, tasty meal for four -- to be a good hostess, and to be prepared to meet a most interesting person. Be sure, he added, to have plenty of wine. An assortment of the very best.

He shut himself up in his study, laid out the case in the green folder, and reviewed it again, from the very beginning. Only once was he disturbed, when a messenger from the War Department delivered the latest bulletin from the front. The front had collapsed. Someone had drawn the Khontis' attention to the yellow vehicles, and last night they had destroyed ninety-five percent of the emitter-equipped tanks with nuclear weapons. No news had been received yet about the fate of the army. It was the end. The end of the war. The end of General Shekagu and General Odu. The end of Ochkarik, Chainik, Tucha, and other rather minor figures. Very possibly the end of the Count. And it certainly would mean the end of Smart, too, if Smart weren't so clever.

He dissolved the report in a glass of water and paced around his study. He felt a tremendous sense of relief: now, at least, he knew precisely when he would be summoned upstairs. "First they will finish off Baron, and it will take at least twenty-four hours to choose between Puppet and Zub. Then they will have to deal with Ochkarik and Tucha. That will take another twenty-four hours. While they're at it, they'll knock off Chainik. It will take them at least two days to knock off General Shekagu. And that will be it."

He didn't leave his study until his guest had arrived.

The guest made a most pleasant impression. He was splendid. So splendid that the prosecutor's wife, a cold high-society matron, shed twenty years and behaved in an incredibly feminine manner from the moment she laid eyes on Mac... as if she knew the role Mac would play in her future.

"Why are you alone?" She was surprised. "My husband ordered supper for four."

"Yes, I did," said the prosecutor. "I thought you would becoming with your girlfriend. I remember that girl. Because of you she almost got into a lot of trouble."

"She did," said Mac calmly. "But, with your permission, we'll discuss that later."

They dined for a long time; they laughed a lot, drank a little. The prosecutor repeated the latest gossip; his wife told some very risquй jokes; and Mac described his flight on the bomber. As he roared with laughter, the prosecutor thought to himself with horror what would have happened to him if even one rocket had hit its mark.

When supper was over, the prosecutor's wife excused herself. The prosecutor took Mac by the arm and led him into his study for a wine that no more than three dozen people in the country had had the chance to savor.

They settled down in comfortable chairs on either side of a coffee table in the study's coziest corner, sipped the precious wine, and looked at each other. Mac wore a very serious expression. He obviously knew what was coming, so the prosecutor abruptly rejected his original plan for their discussion, a clever plan built on innuendoes and the gradual recognition of each other's goals. Rada's fate, Strannik's intrigues, the Creators' machinations -- all these issues had lost their significance. He recognized with an amazing clarity that reduced him to despair that all his skill in conducting such conversations was superfluous with this man. Mac would either agree to his proposals or reject them outright. It was extremely simple, as simple as the question of the prosecutor's fate; he would either live or be crushed in a few days. His fingers trembled; he set the wineglass on the table quickly and went straight to the point.

"I know, Mac, that you are a member of the underground, a member of its staff, and an enemy of the existing order. And that you are an escaped convict who murdered the crew of a special operations tank. Now, about myself. I am the state prosecutor, a trusted government official with access to the highest state secrets, and also an enemy of the existing order. Here is my proposal: I am preparing a coup. You are to overthrow the Creators. When I say 'you,' I mean you and only you: this does not concern your organization. You must understand that any interference by the underground will lead to total disaster. The conspiracy I am proposing to you is based on my knowledge of the highest state secret. I shall tell you this secret. Only you and I must know it. If a third party should learn it, we will be exterminated very quickly. Keep in mind that the underground and its staff are teeming with provocateurs. So don't consider trusting anyone, not even your closest friends."

Without savoring its contents, he drained the glass of wine. Then, leaning toward Mac, he continued.

"I know where the Center is. You are the only man capable of seizing control of it. I am now proposing a plan I've worked out for the Center's capture and subsequent measures. You will exe-cute this plan and become Chief of State. I shall remain with you as your political and economic adviser, since you are completely unschooled in such matters. I am familiar with the general features of your objectives. I am not opposed to them. I support them simply because nothing can be worse than what we have now. That's it. I'm finished. Now it's your turn."

Mac said nothing. He twirled the wineglass in his fingers and remained silent. The prosecutor waited: he felt a peculiar sense of detachment from his body, as if he were not in it, but suspended somewhere in space; as if he were looking down upon this softly illuminated cozy corner, upon the silent Mac, and upon something stiff, unseeing, and lifeless propped in a chair beside Mac.

Finally Mac broke the silence.

"When I capture the Center, what are my chances of survival?"

"Fifty-fifty. Maybe better. I don't know."

Mac paused again for a long time.

"It's a deal," he said finally. "Where is the Center?"