3.

Maxim woke up with a heavy head. It was stuffy in the room; the window had been closed all night again. With the city so near him, it was senseless to open the window. A grayish-brown cap of noxious fumes was visible over the city. The wind carried them here, and neither distance, nor his fifth-floor room high above the street, nor the park below offered relief. "God, how I'd love to take an ion shower now and leap stark naked into our gar- den -- not into this foul, rotting garden with its stinking fumes, but into ours, near Gladbach, on the shore of the Nirs. I'd race ten miles around the lake at top speed, swim across it, then walk along its bottom for about twenty minutes to exercise my lungs. Then climb up the slippery boulders. " He jumped up, opened the window, stuck out his head into the drizzle, inhaled the damp air, and coughed -- the air was full of industrial wastes, and the rain- drops left a metallic taste on his tongue. Cars whizzed by along the nearby superhighway. Below, beneath the window, wet foliage gleamed yellow, and something glistened on the high stone wall. At the city's edge, as usual, thick columns of poisonous smoke curled lazily from two high stacks and drooped toward the ground.

A suffocating world. A miserable, sick world. So bleak and sad. Like that government office where people, suddenly, without rhyme or reason, howled and sang themselves hoarse. And Guy, such a fine, handsome young man, completely unexpectedly had beaten Redbeard Zef to a pulp. And the victim hadn't even resist- ed. An unhappy world. A radioactive river, a ridiculous iron drag- on, polluted air. And that clumsy two-tiered metal box moving along on wheels, spewing pollution. And its slovenly passengers. And that barbaric incident in the metal box on wheels, when rude people reduced an elderly woman to tears with their boisterous laughter and gestures and no one interceded. The box was jammed, but everyone turned away. Only Guy jumped up, white with anger (maybe it had been fear) and shouted at them, and they cleared out. But even Guy, who seemed to be a decent sort would suddenly be seized by unexplainable rages, would quarrel violently with the passengers in his compartment, stare at them and then Just as suddenly become totally prostrated.

Yet the others behaved no better. They would sit peacefully for hours, resting, chatting softly, even laughing; and suddenly someone would begin to growl at his neighbor. The neighbor would respond with a nervous snarl. And the other passengers did nothing to break it up. Instead of calming down the quarreling pair, they Joined in. And the row would grow until everyone was yelling, threatening, shoving. Even the children would howl at the top of their lungs until their ears were boxed. Then everything would gradually subside; people would get sulky and avoid conversation. And sometimes the row would turn into a really disgusting affair. Eyes would practically pop out of their sockets faces would flush with red blotches, voices would rise to blood-curdling shrieks, and someone would laugh hysterically. Some would pray, others sing. A madhouse.

Maxim left the window and paused briefly in the center of his cramped room, feeling weak, apathetic, and exhausted. Forcing himself to take positive action to overcome his deteriorating physical and mental state, he began to exercise, using a bulky wooden chair as barbells. "You can sure go to pot this way " he thought. "I suppose I can take it for another day or so. Then 1'й have to get out of here. Maybe roam the forest awhile. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to run off to the mountains. Nice there And wild. Pretty far -- you couldn't make it in one night. What did Guy call them? Zartak. I wonder if that's the name of those mountains or their word for mountains? Well, whatever they are I'd better forget about them for now. I've been here ten days and haven't made any progress yet."

He squeezed into the stall shower and for several minutes rubbed himself down in the dense artificial rain, as disgusting as their real ram. True, it was slightly colder, but hard and caustic. He dried himself with a sterile towel.

Annoyed with everything -- the bleary morning, this suffocating world, his idiotic situation, the lousy, greasy breakfast he would eat shortly -- he returned to his room to make his bed. Breakfast was waiting for him, fuming and stinking on the table. Fishfacewas closing the window.

"Неllо," said Maxim in the local language. "Window. Mustnot."

"Hello," she replied as she turned the window's many bolts. "Must. Rain. Bad."

"Fishface," said Maxim in Lingcos. Her real name was Nolu, but Maxim had instantly renamed her. Fishface she would always be, for her expression and her imperturbability.

She turned and looked at him with unblinking eyes. For the nth time, she touched her finger to the tip of her nose and said "woman," then pointed at Maxim and said "man," then pointed to the baggy jump suit hanging on the back of a chair. "Clothes. Must." Shorts weren't enough. For her, a man had to be covered from the neck down.

While he dressed, she made his bed, although Maxim always insisted he could do it himself. She pushed the chair to the middle of the room (Maxim had moved it against the wall) and resolutely opened the radiator valve that Maxim always turned off. His persistent use of "must not" shattered her no less than his persistent "must."

After buttoning his jump suit at the neck, Maxim went to the table and picked at his breakfast with a two-pronged fork. The usual exchange followed.

"Don't want. Must not."

"Must. Food. Breakfast."

"Don't want breakfast. Tastes bad."

"Must eat breakfast. Good."

"Fishface," Maxim exploded in Lingcos, "you are a very cruel woman. If you were to come to Earth, I would run myself ragged trying to find food you liked."

"I don't understand," she said blankly. "What is 'fishface'?"

While disgustedly chewing a greasy chunk of food, Maxim took a piece of paper and sketched a sunfish full face. She studied it carefully and put it in the pocket of her smock. She appropriated all of Maxim's drawings and took them somewhere. Maxim drew a great deal and enjoyed it. During free moments and at night when he could not sleep, there was absolutely nothing else to do. So he drew animals and people, charts and diagrams, and anatomical cross sections. He drew Professor Megu like a hippopotamus, and hippopotamuses like Professor Megu. He constructed an encyclopedic chart of the Lingcos language, schematics of machines, and diagrams of historical chronology. The reams of paper he consumed all disappeared into Fishface's pocket without any visible evidence that he had succeeded in communicating with his hosts. Hippo -- Professor Megu -- had his own approach to the problem and had no intention of changing it.

The encyclopedic chart of Lingcos, whose study would enable them to initiate communication with Maxim, held absolutely no interest for Hippo. Fishface was the only person teaching the stranger the local language, and then only the most basic terms for communication -- "Close the window," "Put on your jumpsuit," and the like. Not a single communications specialist was assigned to his case. Hippo, and only Hippo, was occupied with Maxim.

True, he had a rather powerful research tool at his command -- mentoscopic equipment -- and Maxim spent from fourteen to six-teen hours a day in the testing chair. Moreover, Hippo's mento-scope was very sensitive. It permitted rather deep memory penetration and possessed an extremely high resolution capability. With such equipment it was possible to manage without language.

But Hippo used the mentoscope in a rather peculiar manner. He categorically refused to show his own mentograms to anyone and was even somewhat angered by suggestions that he do so. And his attitude toward Maxim's mentograms was strange. Maxim had organized his recollections so that the natives would receive a rather comprehensive picture of Earth's social, economic, and cultural life. But these mentograms failed to arouse an enthusiastic response from Hippo. He would make a wry face, mumble, walk away, make phone calls, or harass his assistant, frequently repeating a succulent-sounding word, "massaraksh." When the screen showed Maxim blowing up an icy crag that was bearing down on his ship, or tearing an armored wolf to pieces, or rescuing a field laboratory from a gigantic, stupid pseudo-octopus, nothing could drag him away from the mentoscope. He would squeal softly, clap his head in delight, and yell at his exhausted assistant, who was making recordings of the images. The sight of a chromospheric protuberance would send the professor into raptures, as if he had never seen anything like it before. And he was very fond of love scenes, extracted by Maxim from movies for the specific purpose of giving the natives some idea of Earthlings' emotional life.

The professor's absurd reaction to this material depressed Maxim. He wondered if Hippo was really a professor and not simply a mentoscope engineer preparing material for the real commission set up for communication with visitors from outer space. Hippo seemed a rather primitive individual, like a kid interested only in the battle scenes in War and PeaceWar and Peace. It was humiliating, Maxim felt, to have such a serious matter as his presentations of Earth taken so lightly. He was entitled to expect a more serious partner in his attempt to communicate.

Of course, it was possible that this world was located at an intersection of interstellar routes, so that visitors from outer space were commonplace -- in fact, so commonplace that special commissions were not established for each new arrival. Officials simply limited themselves to eliciting the most essential information from them. In his case, for example, the people with shiny but-tons, obviously not experts, had examined his situation and, without further ado, sent him, a new arrival, to the designated place. But, he thought, perhaps some nonhumanoids had made such a bad impression that the natives reacted to all recent arrivals from other planets with a decided but justifiable suspicion. Therefore, all Professor Hippo's fussing with the mentoscope was merely a delaying action, only a semblance of communication, until some higher authority decided his fate.

"One way or another," concluded Maxim, gagging on the last piece of food, "I'm in a mess. If I'm going to get anywhere, I had better hurry up and learn their language."

"Good," said Fishface, removing his plate. "Let's go."

Maxim sighed and rose. They entered the corridor. It was long, dirty blue, and lined with doors, like the one to Maxim's room. Maxim never encountered anyone here, but occasionally he heard excited voices coming from behind closed doors. Possibly other strangers were being kept here to await decisions on their fate.

Fishface walked in front of him with a long masculine stride, straight as a stick, and Maxim felt very sorry for her. Apparently this country was still uninitiated in the cosmetic arts, and poor Fishface had been left to her own devices. The professor's assistant treated her with contempt, and Hippo took no notice of her at all. Reminding himself of his own inattentive attitude, his con-science began to bother him. He caught up with her, patted her bony shoulder, and said: "Nolu, fine girl. Good girl."

She lifted a cold face to him, pushed away his hand, frowned, and declared sternly: "Maxim bad. Man. Woman. Must not."

Embarrassed, Maxim dropped back again.

When they reached the end of the corridor, Fishface pushed open a door and they entered a large light room that Maxim thought of as a reception room. Its windows were decorated tastelessly with rectangular gratings of thick iron rods. A high door upholstered in leather led to Hippo's laboratory. For some reason two huge natives were always stationed by the door. Never responding to greetings, they sat almost motionless and appeared to be in a constant trance.

As always, Fishface went straight into the laboratory, leaving Maxim in the reception room. Maxim, as usual, greeted the natives posted by the door and, as usual, received no response. The door to the laboratory was slightly ajar and he could hear Hippo's loud, irritated voice and the clicking of the mentoscope. Maxim went to the window, gazed briefly at the wet landscape, the wooded plain, and the superhighway, at the tall metal tower scarcely visible in the fog, and quickly became bored. He decided to enter the laboratory without waiting to be called.

It was filled, as usual, with the pleasant smell of ozone. Double screens flickered. The bald, overworked assistant with an impossible name, whom Maxim had nicknamed Floorlamp, pretended he was tuning the equipment as he listened to the argument going on in the laboratory.

In Hippo's chair, behind Hippo's desk, sat a stranger with a square, peeling face and swollen, bloodshot eyes. Hippo stood in front of him, shrieking, legs thrust apart, hands against his sides, and leaning over slightly. His neck veins bulged, his bald spot had turned a fiery sunset-purple, and spray flew in all directions from his mouth.

Trying not to attract attention, Maxim passed to his work station quietly and greeted the assistant in a low voice. Floorlamp, his nerves worn to a frazzle, recoiled in terror and slipped on at hick cable. Maxim barely managed to grab him by the shoulders. Floorlamp went limp. What a strange man. He was deathly afraid of Maxim. Fishface appeared out of nowhere with a small uncorked bottle that she stuck under Floorlamp's nose. Floorlamp hiccupped and revived. Before he could slip into unconsciousness again, Maxim leaned him against a steel cabinet and with-drew quickly.

After he sat down in the testing chair he noticed that the stranger had stopped listening to Hippo and was observing him intently. Maxim smiled warmly. The stranger tipped his head slightly. At that instant. Hippo banged his fist on the table and grabbed the telephone. Taking advantage of the pause, the stranger uttered a few words, but Maxim could distinguish only "must" and "must not." Then the stranger picked up a sheet of thick bluish paper with a bright green border and waved it in front of Hippo's face. Annoyed, Hippo brushed it aside and immediately began to bark into the phone. The words "must," "must not," and the puzzling "massaraksh" came from his lips repeatedly, and Maxim even caught the word "window." It ended with Hippo slamming down the receiver angrily, bellowing at the stranger, and after raining curses on him, marching out and slamming the door.

Then the stranger rose from his seat, opened a long flat box ly-ing on the window ledge, and took out a dark garment.

"Come here," he said to Maxim. "Put this on."

Maxim looked at Fishface.

"Go on!" said Fishface. "Put it on. Must."

Maxim realized that someone, somewhere, had made the decision he had been awaiting and that he was in for a change. He flung off the ugly jump suit and, with the stranger's help, put on the new garment. Maxim thought it was neither handsome nor comfortable, but it was identical to the suit worn by the stranger. Perhaps the stranger had given him a spare suit of his own, for the jacket sleeves were too short and the trousers were baggy. But everyone else was pleased with Maxim's appearance. The stranger mumbled his approval. Fishface's features softened as she smoothed the shoulders and straightened the jacket. Even Floor-lamp smiled wanly from behind the control panel.

"Let's go," said the stranger as he moved toward the door.

"Good-bye," said Maxim to Fishface. "And thank you," he added in Lingcos.

"Good-bye," replied Fishface. "Maxim good. Strong. Must go."

She seemed upset. Or, perhaps, concerned that the suit didn't fit too well. Maxim waved to the pale Floorlamp and hurried after the stranger.

They passed through several rooms cluttered with bulky archaic apparatus. They descended to the first floor in a rattling elevator and entered the low-ceilinged vestibule where Guy had de-posited Maxim days ago. Now, as then, he had to wait until some documents were prepared, until a funny little man in absurd head-gear scratched something on pink cards, and the stranger scratched something on green ones, and a girl wearing optical amplifiers punched notches in them. Then everyone exchanged their cards and everything got all mixed up, and finally the little man in the absurd headgear appropriated two green cards and a pink one. And the stranger received two pink ones, a thick blue one, and a round metal tag with an inscription on it. And a minute later he handed all this to a burly man with shiny buttons who was standing by the exit. When they were already outside, the burly fellow suddenly began shouting hoarsely, and the stranger re-turned again; it seems he had forgotten to take the blue card with him.

Maxim was seated to the right of the stranger in a ridiculously long automobile. The stranger was furious about something. Puffing and panting, he kept repeating Hippo's favorite expletive: Massaraksh."

The car growled, moved away gently from the curb, maneuvered through a stationary herd of cars, rolled along the broad asphalt square in front of the building, passed a large bed of wilted flowers, then a yellow wall, rolled on to the highway's entrance ramp, and braked sharply.

"Massaraksh!" hissed the stranger as he turned off the engine.

An endless column of identical trucks stretched along the high-way. A row of stationary circular objects of wet shiny metal protruded above the side panels. The trucks moved slowly, maintaining appropriate intervals, their engines gurgling rhythmically. They spread a terrible stench of exhaust fumes everywhere.

Maxim studied the little door next to him, figured out how the window worked, and raised it. Without turning toward him, the stranger uttered a lengthy and completely incomprehensible sentence.

"I don't understand," said Maxim.

The stranger turned to him with a surprised expression and, judging from his intonation, asked a question. Maxim shook his j head.

The stranger seemed even more surprised. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a small flat box with little white sticks, stuck one in his mouth, and offered the rest to Maxim. Out of courtesy, Maxim accepted the little box and began to examine it. It was made of cardboard and smelled strongly of some kind of dried leaves. Maxim took out one of the little sticks, bit off a piece, and chewed it. He rolled down the window quickly, put his head out, and spat. It was not food.

"Must not," he said, returning the box. "Taste bad."

The stranger stared at him and his mouth dropped open. The white stick hung from his lip. Maxim, conforming with what appeared to be the local custom, touched a stick to the end of his nose and introduced himself: "Maxim."

The stranger mumbled something. A spark suddenly appeared in his hand; he touched the tip of the white stick to it and instantly the car was filled with nauseating smoke.

"Massaraksh!" shouted Maxim angrily and he flung open the door. "Must not!"

Now he realized what these sticks were: when he was traveling with Guy, almost all the men had poisoned the air with the very same kind of smoke, but instead of white sticks they inserted in their mouths short and long wooden objects which looked like the little wooden whistles children used in ancient times. Apparently they inhaled some kind of narcotic -- undoubtedly a very harmful custom. Maxim recalled how relieved he was to learn that Guy was also opposed to this custom.

The stranger quickly tossed the narcotic stick out the window and waved his palm in front of his face. To be on the safe side, Maxim waved his hand, too, and then introduced himself again. He learned that the stranger's name was Fank, and with that the conversation ended. They sat and waited for about five minutes, exchanged friendly glances, and pointing out to each other the endless column of trucks, kept repeating: "Massaraksh!" Finally the endless column ended and Fank turned onto the highway.

He seemed to be in a great hurry. At any rate, he accelerated the engine into a velvety roar; then he switched on some evil-sounding device and, ignoring all safety rules, started to pass the column of trucks, narrowly missing the cars speeding toward him.

They passed the column of trucks. Nearly flying onto the shoulder, they swerved around a red vehicle with a lone driver; leaped past a wooden cart with enormous wobbly wheels drawn by an ancient tailless beast; forced a group of pedestrians wearing canvas capes into a ditch; sailed beneath a canopy of wet trees planted in even rows along both sides of the road -- and Fank kept accelerating. Realizing that the car had not been designed for such speeds -- it was much too unstable -- Maxim felt uneasy.

Soon the road was lined with buildings. The car had burst into the city, and Fank had to reduce his speed sharply.

The streets were disproportionately narrow and jammed with vehicles. Hemmed in on all sides by vehicles of every conceivable description, Fank's car hardly moved. A van ahead of them, its rear covered with flashy signs and gaudy images of people and animals, almost blocked out the sky. On their left crawled two identical cars, crowded with gesticulating men and women. Beautiful women, colorful, unlike Fishface. Further to the left rolled some sort of gyromat packed with passengers. On the right was a stationary strip of asphalt closed to transport. People dressed in strange violet and black clothing bumped, passed, and dodge done another as they shouldered their way through the crowds.

There were many pale, drawn faces, very similar to Fishface's. Almost everyone was ugly, painfully thin, too pale, awkward, and angular. Yet they appeared to be content: they laughed often and seemed relaxed, their eyes sparkled, and animated voices filled the air. "Perhaps," thought Maxim, "this is a well-organized society after all." The houses seemed cheerful -- lights were shining in almost all the windows, which meant there was no shortage of electric power. Many-colored lights above rooftops blinked gaily. Streets were washed clean. Almost everyone was neatly dressed. But although this world appeared prosperous on the surface, something was wrong: there were too many haggard faces.

Suddenly there was an abrupt change of mood. Excited cries rang through the air. A man climbed onto a glass kiosk and began to shout, waving a free hand as he hung on with the other. Singing broke out on the sidewalk. Pedestrians halted in their tracks, tossed their hats in the air, and sang and shouted themselves hoarse, lifting their drawn faces to enormous colored signs flashing across the street.

"Massaraksh!" hissed Fank, and the car swerved sharply. Maxim looked at him. Fank's face was deathly white and contorted. He pulled his hands back from the wheel with difficulty and stared at his watch.

"Massaraksh!" he groaned. He uttered several other words, but Maxim caught only "I don't understand."

Fank glanced over his shoulder, and his face grew even more contorted. Mac looked back, too, but saw nothing unusual. Only a bright yellow box-shaped automobile.

By now the shouting and shrieking on the street had reached fever pitch, but Maxim had no time to think about it. Fank had lost consciousness and the car was still moving. The van in front of them slammed on its brakes, and a massive gaudy wall came at Maxim head-on. Then, a dull thud, a sickening crunch, and the hood of their car sprang up.

"Fank!" shouted Maxim. "Fank! Must not!"

Fank lay there moaning, his body slumped over the wheel, Brakes squealed, traffic stopped, and sirens howled. Maxim shook Fank by the shoulder and then opened the window, shouting, "Hurry! Hurt!"

The singing, yelling mob converged on the car. Maxim was to-tally bewildered. Either these people were outraged by the accident, or they were insanely overjoyed about something, or they were threatening someone. It would be pointless to shout for help; he couldn't even hear himself. So he returned to Fank. Now Fank's head was thrown back against the seat; and with all his strength he was kneading his temples and cheeks. Saliva oozed from the corners of his mouth. Realizing that Fank was in terrible pain, Maxim grasped him firmly by the elbows and braced himself quickly, preparing to transfer the pain to his own body. He wasn't sure it would work with a non-Earthling, and he searched in vain for a point where he could establish nerve contact. To make matters worse, Fank pulled his hands from his temples and with all his remaining strength tried to push Maxim away, mumbling desperately and tearfully. Maxim understood only "Go, go!" He was sure that Fank was out of his mind.

The door next to Fank opened wide. Two faces beneath black berets forced their way into the car. Rows of metal buttons glittered, Maxim's door was opened, and strong hands gripped his shoulders, side, and neck. They pulled him away from Fank and dragged him from the car. He did not resist. As he was pushed into the noisy mob, he saw two men in berets dragging the writhing Fank to the yellow car, while three others in berets cleared a path through the arm-waving crowd. Then, with a roar, the crowd closed in on the wrecked car; the car lurched clumsily, rose in the air, and turned onto its side. The crowd descended on it, still shouting and singing. Everyone had been seized by a frantic ecstasy.

Maxim was driven back to the wall of a building and pressed against a wet shop window. Craning his neck, he spotted the yellow car. It set off with a brassy wailing noise. Forcing its way through the mob, it disappeared from sight.