6.

The shock absorbers were in terrible shape, and the ride on the miserable cobblestone roads was particularly jolting. His submachine gun pressed between his legs. Candidate Sim held Guy by his belt solicitously, reasoning that it would be unbecoming for the corporal, so concerned about his image, to go flying head over heels. Either Guy did not object or he failed to notice his subordinate's precaution. After his conversation with the captain, Guy appeared to be very disturbed about something, so Maxim was happy that the orders required him to remain at Guy's side and render assistance if necessary.

The trucks passed the Central Theater, rolled along the stinking Imperial Canal, then turned down Boot Street, a long thoroughfare deserted at this hour, and began to zigzag through the winding streets of some suburb that Maxim had never seen before. Recently he had visited many sections and had come to know the city well. He had learned a great deal in those forty or so days and finally understood the difficult position he was in. It proved to be far less comforting and far more incredible than he had expected.

He had still been plodding through his ABC's when Guy had persisted in asking him where he came from. It was useless to show him drawings: Guy would accept them with a strange smile on his face and continue to repeat the same question: "Where are you from?" Irritated, Maxim finally pointed to the ceiling with his pencil and said: "From the sky." To Maxim's surprise, Guy thought this a completely natural explanation and began to rattle off words that Maxim at first assumed were the names of planets in their solar system. But Guy opened a map, and Maxim saw that they were not the names of planets but of antipodal countries. Maxim shrugged his shoulders, used up his entire stock of negative expressions, and began to study the map. The conversation had ended there for the time being.

One evening, several days later, Maxim and Rada had been watching television. A very strange program was being shown that resembled a movie without beginning or end. It had no plot, just an endless stream of actors, rather weird individuals who, from the point of view of any humanoid, behaved rather savagely. Rada watched with interest, shrieked, grabbed Maxim's sleeve, and twice burst into tears. Maxim became bored quickly and was about to doze off to some gloomy music when, suddenly, something familiar flashed across the screen. He rubbed his eyes. There, on the screen, was Pandora. A morose takhorg was dragging itself through the jungle, crushing trees. Suddenly Peter appeared with a decoy in his arms. Very engrossed and serious, he backed away, tripped on a snag, and flew backward into a swamp. Maxim was startled to recognize his own mentogram. Then came another, and still another, without narration, and with the identical musical background.

And Pandora disappeared, yielding the screen to an emaciated blind man who crawled along a ceiling covered by a dusty spider web. "What's that?" asked Maxim, pointing to the screen.

"A TV program," snapped Rada. "It's interesting. Watch it."

It made no sense to him. It suddenly occurred to him that these might be the mentograms of other visitors from outer space. But he quickly rejected this thought: the worlds portrayed on television were too terrible, too monotonous: stuffy little rooms; endless corridors cluttered with furniture that suddenly sprouted gigantic thorns; spiral staircases winding into the impenetrable gloom of narrow stairwells; basements, with barred windows, jammed with crawling bodies, and immobile faces locked in pain peering through the bars. These images were closer to a grotesque delirium than to real worlds. In comparison, Maxim's mentograms sparkled with realism.

Similar programs were repeated almost daily and were called Magic JourneyMagic Journey. But Maxim could never understand their point. In reply to his questions, Guy and Rada merely shrugged their shoulders in bewilderment. "It's a TV program. That's the way it's done to make it interesting. It's a magic journey. A fairy tale. Watch it! Sometimes it's funny, sometimes it's frightening." Maxim began to doubt very seriously that the purpose of Professor Hippo's research was to facilitate communication between his planet and visitors from outer space.

About ten days later this intuitive conclusion was confirmed indirectly. Guy had passed the entrance exams for the Independent Study Program of Officer's Candidate School and was cramming for his mathematics and mechanics courses. The diagrams and formulas used in their elementary ballistics studies puzzled Maxim. He nagged Guy. At first Guy did not understand what he was driving at. Then, grinning condescendingly, he explained to Maxim the cosmography of his world. It turned out that the inhabited island was neither a sphere nor a geoid; in fact, it wasn't a planet at all.

According to Guy, the inhabited island was the World, the only world in the universe. Beneath the natives' feet lay the firm surface of the World Sphere. Above them was a gigantic gaseous sphere of finite volume and unknown composition, whose physical characteristics were still not understood. There was a theory that the density of this gas increased rapidly toward the center of the gaseous bubble and certain mysterious processes produced periodic changes in the intensity of the World Light, thus giving day and night. Besides the short-term daily changes in the World Light, there were long-term changes that generated seasonal fluctuations in temperature and the seasons themselves. Gravity acted away from the center of the World Sphere, perpendicular to its surface. In short, the inhabited island was located on the inner surface of an enormous bubble in an infinite firmament filling the rest of the universe.

Completely stunned, Maxim began to argue, but it soon became quite apparent that they did not speak the same language, that it was more difficult for them to understand each other's thinking than for a staunch Copernican to understand a follower of Ptolemy. Maxim believed that the unusual characteristics of this planet's atmosphere were the key to the matter. In the first place, its unusually high index of refraction lifted up the horizon and from time immemorial had inspired the natives' peculiar conception of their land as being neither flat nor convex but concave. "Stand on the seashore," suggested schoolbooks, "and follow the path of a ship leaving a pier. At first it will appear to be moving on a plane, but the further it goes, the higher it will rise, until it vanishes in the atmospheric haze covering the rest of the World." In the second place, the atmosphere was very dense and phosphoresced day and night, so that no one ever saw the stars. Isolated instances of observation of the sun were recorded in chronicles and served as the basis for countless attempts to create a World Light theory.

Maxim realized that he was caught in a gigantic trap, that contact with Earth could not be established until he succeeded in turning inside out the natural concepts that had developed over thousands of years. Evidently, attempts had been made to do this, judging from the popular expletive "massaraksh," which meant, literally, "world inside out." Guy had told him about an abstract mathematical theory that analyzed the World differently. The theory was formulated in ancient times, but its adherents had been persecuted by the official religion, and it had its martyrs. Through the efforts of certain brilliant mathematicians of the last century, the theory was expressed in exact mathematical form. But it had remained a purely abstract theory, although, finally, like most abstract theories, it found practical application -- very recently, when super-long-distance military weapons were developed.

After weighing all the information he now had about their planet, Maxim realized two things: that all this time the natives must have considered him insane and therefore had deliberately selected his mentograms for the Magic JourneyMagic Journey; and that, for the time being, he had better keep his mouth shut about coming from another planet -- unless he wanted to be returned to Hippo. This meant that he could expect no help from the inhabited island, that he must depend only on himself, that the construction of a coil transmitter must be postponed indefinitely, and that he was stranded for a long time to come, perhaps, massaraksh, forever.

The hopelessness of his situation was demoralizing, but he got a grip on himself and forced himself to think rationally. His mother would face a painful period. It would be terribly difficult for her, and this thought alone smothered any desire to think rationally. "Damn this place, this dull, claustrophobic world! OK, now, Mac, you have a choice: dwell on the impossible and bite your nails, or pull yourself together and live. Live as you've always wanted to live. Love your friends, work toward a goal, fight, win, take it and dish it out. Anything, but stop moping around." He dropped the conversation with Guy about the structure of the universe and took an entirely new tack: he began to quiz Guy about the inhabited island's history and social system.

Their discussion of history was not particularly productive. Guy's knowledge was scanty, and he didn't own any serious books on the subject. Nor did the city library. But Maxim managed to extract a few facts. He learned that the country now sheltering him had been significantly larger at one time and had possessed numerous overseas colonies and that these colonies had been the cause of a highly destructive war with neighboring states whose names were already forgotten. The war had enveloped the entire World; millions upon millions had perished; thousands of cities had been destroyed; dozens of large and small nations had been wiped off the face of the planet; and chaos had reigned throughout the World. Famine and epidemics followed. Popular uprisings were suppressed with nuclear weapons. This country -- along with the rest of the world -- had been headed for total destruction until the All-Powerful Creators had come to the rescue. The facts suggested that an anonymous group of young staff officers with two divisions at their command, unhappy about being sent to the slaughter in an atomic mincing machine, organized a coup and seized power. Since then the situation had stabilized considerably, and the war seemed to have petered out, although a formal peace treaty had never been concluded.

Maxim realized that the country's political system was far from ideal. But it was clear that the All-Powerful Creators were extremely popular, and among all classes of society. Maxim could not understand the economic reasons for this popularity, but apparently it was related to their tactics: the military clique curbed the appetites of the industrialists, thereby gaining favor with the workers. And by subjugating the workers, they gained favor with the industrialists. But this was only guesswork on his part. Guy was surprised when Maxim presented the problem from this point of view, because the concept of class meant absolutely nothing to him, nor could he imagine contradictions between social groups.

The country's foreign relations were still extremely tense. Two large independent nations, Khonti and Pandeya, were located to the north. Although no one knew anything about their domestic affairs, it was common knowledge that these countries harbored the most aggressive designs. They sent in saboteurs and spies, provoked border incidents, and were preparing for war. The purpose of such a war was not clear to Guy. He had never really given it any thought. For him they were simply enemies to the north. That was all he needed to know.

To the south, beyond the borderland forests, lay a desert, land that had been totally defoliated by nuclear explosions. The desert covered the territories of a whole group of countries that had once been the most active militarily. No one seemed to know what was happening in those millions of square miles, nor were they interested in knowing. The southern borders were subject to constant attack by hordes of half-savage degens who infested the forest beyond the Blue Snake River. The problem of the southern border was an extremely critical one. It was so rough that the Fighting Legion's elite forces were concentrated there. Guy had served there for three years and told many incredible stories about his experiences.

It was possible that other countries still existed further south of the desert, at the other end of the planet's only continent, but they kept themselves well isolated. On the other hand, the Island Empire, on three mighty archipelagos in the arctic zone, constantly made its menacing presence known. A huge fleet of white submarines, equipped with the latest technology of destruction, plied the radioactive waters with their crews of specially trained cutthroats. Like phantoms, the submarines terrorized the coastal regions with their unprovoked shellings and raiding parties. The Legion had also to turn back the White threat.

Maxim was shaken by this picture of chaos and destruction. Here was a planet with a glimmer of intelligent life, but life was on the point of extinguishing itself once and for all.

Maxim heard Rada's calm and terrible account of how her mother had received the news of her father's death. Her father, an epidemiologist, had refused to leave a plague-ridden region, and since the government in those days had neither the time nor the means to cope with an epidemic, a bomb was simply dropped. After her mother's death, young Rada, to support little Guy and helpless Uncle Kaan, worked eighteen hours a day as a dishwasher at a deportation center, then as a chambermaid in a luxury hotel for speculators. Later she spent some time in prison. After that she was unemployed and had to beg for several months.

Maxim heard Uncle Kaan's story, too. Unc, once an eminent scientist, told how the Academy of Sciences had been abolished during the first year of the war and the Battalion of His Imperial Majesty's Academy had been formed; how, during the famine, the founder of evolutionary theory had gone insane and hanged himself; how they had made broth from grasshoppers and weeds; how a starving crowd had attacked the zoological museum and seized specimens preserved in alcohol, for food.

Maxim listened to Guy's ingenuous tales of the antiballistic missile towers; how cannibals stole up to the construction sites at night and kidnapped rehabs and Legion sentries; how ruthless vampires -- part human, part beast, part dog -- struck in the darkness like silent ghosts. He listened to his ecstatic praise of the ABM network, built at great sacrifice during the final years of the war. By defending the country from the air, the ABM network had halted enemy operations. Even today, the ABMs were their only guarantee against aggression from the north. And those scoundrels were now planning attacks on the ABM towers; those mercenary murderers of women and children were being bought with Khonti's and Pandeya's filthy money. Guy's face twitched with hatred. "That's where our real job is." He banged his fist on the table. "That's why I joined the Legion rather than go to work in a factory or office. Yes, I joined the Legion, which is now fighting to save everything we hold dear."

Maxim listened greedily, as if to a horror story. And it was all the more terrifying and fantastic because it had actually happened and was still happening; at any moment the most horrible atrocities could happen again. His own problems were trivial beside this.

The trucks turned sharply into a narrow street with tall brick buildings. Pandi announced: "We're here, men." Pedestrians turned away, shielding their eyes from the dazzling headlights. One truck stopped, and a long telescopic antenna shot up above the cab.

"All out!" barked the leaders of the Second and Third Platoons. The legionnaires hopped out.

"First Platoon, stay where you are!" ordered Guy.

Pandi and Maxim, about to jump out, sat down again.

"Fall into threes!" yelled the corporals on the sidewalk. "Second Platoon, forward! Third Platoon, follow. Forward, march!"

Hobnailed boots thundered along the pavement, and someone shrieked ecstatically: "Long live the Fighting Legion!"

"Hurrah!" shouted the pale-faced figures who had pressed against the wall to clear the way for the men. The pedestrians were used to legionnaires.

Candidate Zoiza, on Maxim's right, was still a kid. The lanky youngster, with yellowish fuzz on his cheeks, poked Maxim in the ribs with his sharp elbow and smiled happily. Maxim smiled back. The other platoons had already vanished through the entrances; only the corporals, standing staunchly at the doors with impassive faces, remained behind. The door of a truck cab slammed and Captain Chachu barked: "First Platoon, out of the trucks and fall in!"

Maxim leaped over the side. When the platoon was lined up, the captain, with a wave of his hand, stopped Guy, who was running over to report. Then he planted himself in front of the formation.

"Put on your helmets!"

The regular privates had expected this command, but the candidates were slow to respond. The captain waited impatiently for Zoiza to adjust his chin strap. Then he shouted: "Right turn" and "Forward, on the double." He ran in front of them, waving his crippled hand, leading the platoon through a dark archway and into a narrow courtyard. Then he turned under another archway, just as gloomy and foul, and halted before a chipped door.

"Attention!" he barked. "The first team and Candidate Sim will follow me. The rest of you stay here. Corporal Gaal, when I whistle, send another team up to me on the fourth floor. Don't let anyone out. Take them alive. Shoot only when absolutely necessary. First team and Candidate Sim, follow me!"

He pushed the door open and disappeared. Maxim passed Pandi and followed the captain. Behind the door was a dimly lit, steep stone staircase with steel handrails. Taking three steps at a time, the captain dashed upstairs. Maxim caught up with him and saw the pistol in his hand. On the run, Maxim slipped the gun from around his neck. For an instant he felt sick at the thought of having to shoot people. Then, remembering that these weren't people, just animals, he felt relieved. The repulsive slime beneath his feet, the bleary light, the spit-spattered walls, all served to confirm his conclusion.

Second floor. Kitchen odors. The terrified face of an old woman showed through the slit of a slightly opened door. A half-crazed cat leaped from under Maxim's feet with a loud meow. Third floor. Some blockhead had left a bucket of slop in the middle of the landing. The captain knocked it over and the slop flew into the stairwell. "Massaraksh!" roared Pandi from below. "Out of the way. Downstairs!" barked the captain at a couple embracing in a dark corner. Fourth floor. An ugly brown door. A scratched tin plaque: "Hobbi, Dentist. No appointment necessary." A drawn-out cry behind the door. The captain stopped and grunted: "Locked!" Sweat rolled down his dark face. Maxim didn't understand. Pandi ran up, pushed him aside, aimed his gun at the door, below the doorknob, and released a burst of machine-gun fire. Sparks and pieces of wood flew through the air. Instantly, shots rang out from behind the door, through a prolonged scream. More chips started flying. Something hot and solid whizzed over Maxim's head. The captain flung open the door.

The room was dark; yellow flashes illuminated puffs of smoke. "After me!" yelled the captain, and he dove headfirst toward the flashes. Maxim and Pandi tore after him. A hall -- stuffy heat, powder smoke. Danger on the left. Maxim threw out his hand, caught a hot muzzle, jerked the weapon away. Someone's dislocated joints crunched softly but distinctly, and a large soft body stiffened as it fell. Ahead, in the smoke, the captain barked: "Don't shoot. Take them alive!" Maxim threw down his gun and rushed into a lighted room. It was filled with books and pictures, and there was no one to shoot. Two men were writhing on the floor. One was screaming. A woman lay unconscious in an easy chair, head flung back. Pale, almost transparent. The captain stood over the screaming man, looked around, jammed his pistol into his holster. Pandi gave Maxim a powerful shove and burst into the room. Behind him were legionnaires, dragging the stocky body of the man who had been shooting.

Sweaty and excited. Candidate Zoiza handed Maxim his abandoned gun. The captain turned his frightening, dark face toward them. "Where's the other one?" he snarled, and instantly a blue curtain fell and a lanky man in a stained white smock jumped from the window ledge and headed straight for the captain. Slowly he raised two enormous pistols to eye level. His eyes were glassy with pain. Zoiza screamed.

Maxim was standing sideways and didn't have time to turn. He sprang as hard as he could, but the man managed to pull the trigger once. Face singed, choking from powder fumes, Maxim grabbed his wrists and the pistols clanked to the floor. The man fell to his knees, and his neck went limp. When Maxim released him, he collapsed to the floor.

"Well, well, well," said the captain. "Set this one over here," he ordered Pandi. "And you," he said to pale, perspiring Zoiza. "Run downstairs and tell the platoon leaders where I am. Have them report what they've done." Zoiza clicked his heels and rushed toward the door. "And tell Gaal to come up here... Stop yelling, you scum!" he shouted at the man groaning on the floor and kicked him lightly in the side with the toe of his boot. "Useless. No-good trash. Search them!" he ordered Pandi. "Line them up. Right here, on the floor. That woman, too."

Maxim went over to the woman, picked her up gently, and carried her to the bed. He was confused and disturbed. This wasn't the sort of thing he had expected.

"Candidate Sim!" barked the captain. "I said on the flooron the floor!" He looked at Maxim with his unnaturally transparent eyes; his lips twitched almost convulsively. Maxim decided that it was not for him to prescribe what was right or wrong. He was still a stranger in this country; he had yet to learn what they chose to love or hate. He lifted the woman and placed her on the floor next to the stocky man who had been firing in the hall. Pandi and another legionnaire turned the prisoners' pockets inside out. All five were unconscious.

The captain sat down in the easy chair, threw his cap on the table, lit a cigarette, and beckoned to Maxim. Maxim clicked his heels smartly and went over to him.

"Why did you throw down your gun?" the captain asked in a low voice.

"You ordered us not to shoot."

"Sir."

"Yes, sir. You ordered us not to shoot, sir."

The captain's eyes narrowed as he blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

"If I had ordered you to stop talking, I suppose you would have bitten off your tongue, eh?"

Maxim remained silent. This exchange irritated him, but he remembered Guy's instructions.

"What does your father do?"

"He is a scientist, sir."

"Is he alive?"

"Yes, sir."

The captain looked hard at Maxim.

"Where is he?"

Maxim realized what he had blurted out. Now he would have to extricate himself.

"I don't know, sir. Rather, I don't remember, sir."

"But you remembered that he was a scientist. What else do you remember?"

"I don't know, sir. I remember many things, but Corporal Gaal believes that my memory is deceptive."

Hurried footsteps echoed through the stairway. Guy entered the room and snapped to attention.

"Get to work on this half-dead scum," ordered the captain. "You have enough handcuffs?"

Guy glanced over his shoulder at the prisoners.

"With your permission, sir, we'll have to borrow a pair from Second Platoon."

"Get busy."

Guy ran out. More boots echoed through the stairway as platoon leaders appeared to report that everything was proceeding according to plan. Two suspicious characters had been arrested. The tenants, as always, had rendered active assistance. The captain ordered them to finish up quickly and, when they had completed their assignments, to radio the code word "Tamba" to headquarters. When the platoon leaders had gone, he lit another cigarette and remained silent for some time. He watched the legionnaires remove books from the shelves, leaf through them, and fling them onto the bed.

"Pandi," he called in a low voice, "get busy with the pictures. But be careful with this one. Don't spoil it. I'll take it for myself." He turned to Maxim again. "What do you think of it?"

Maxim looked at it. A seashore, a broad expanse of water without а horizon, dusk and a woman emerging from the sea. It was windy, chilly. The woman looked cold.

"A fine painting, sir," said Maxim.

"Do you recognize the place?"

"Not at all, sir. I've never seen that sea."

"Well, what sea have you seen?"

"A completely different one, sir. But it's my deceptive memory again, sir."

"Nonsense. It's the same sea. Except that you weren't looking at it from the shore, but from a ship's bridge. And below you was a white deck. At the stem was another bridge, somewhat lower. On the shore, instead of this dame, there was a tank. And you were aiming for the turret. Massaraksh."

"I don't understand," said Maxim coldly. "I've never aimed anything anywhere."

"How can you be so sure of that? After all. Candidate Sim, you don't remember anything!"

"But I do remember that I never aimed anything anywhere."

"Sir!"

"I do remember that I never aimed anything anywhere, sir. And I don't understand what you're talking about, sir."

Guy entered, accompanied by two candidates. They began to place heavy handcuffs on the prisoners.

"These people are human, too," the captain said suddenly. "They have wives, children. They loved someone, someone loved them."

The captain was obviously mocking him, but Maxim said precisely what he thought: "Yes, sir. They appear to be human, too."

"You didn't expect that?"

"No, sir. I expected something quite different."

Through the corner of his eye he could see Guy's frightened expression. But he was sick and tired of lying, and he added: "I thought they would really be degenerates, like naked... animals."

"Naked idiot," snapped the captain. "You're not in the forest, you know. Here they look like people. Good, kind people who get excruciating headaches when they're under stress -- just like you do," he added unexpectedly.

"I never get any aches or pains, sir. Do you?"

"What?"

"You sound so irritated that I thought..."

"Captain!" Guy shouted in a tremulous voice. "I beg to report, sir, that the prisoners have regained consciousness."

The captain looked at him and smiled ironically.

"Don't worry, corporal. Your buddy proved himself today to be a real legionnaire. If it weren't for him. Captain Chachu would be stretched out here with a bullet in his brain." He looked up at the ceiling and blew out a dense cloud of smoke. "You have a good nose, corporal. I'd promote this rascal to regular private on the spot; massaraksh, I'd even make him an officer! He has the makings of a brigadier: he loves to ask officers questions. But, corporal, now I understand. You had good reasons for your report. So we'll wait a while before promoting him." The captain rose, clumped around the table, and halted before Maxim. "We won't even make him a regular private yet. He's a fine fighter, but still wet behind the ears. We'll get him into shape... Attention!" he shouted suddenly. "Corporal Gaal, remove the prisoners! Private Pandi and Candidate Sim, take my painting and all papers in this apartment and bring them to me in the truck."

He turned and left the room. Guy looked at Maxim reproachfully but said nothing. The legionnaires kicked and jabbed the prisoners to their feet and led them to the door. They did not resist but swayed and buckled like blobs of jelly. The stocky man who had been firing in the hall groaned loudly and swore under Ms breath. The woman's lips moved soundlessly; her eyes were glazed.

"Hey, Mac," said Pandi. "Take the blanket from the bed and wrap the books in it. Drag it downstairs -- I'll take the picture. Yeah, and don't forget your gun, you blockhead! You're wondering why the captain raked you over the coals, eh? You threw away your gun. Imagine, throwing away your gun during a battle! You nut!"

"Cut it, Pandi," said Guy angrily. "Take the picture and go."

In the doorway Pandi turned around to Maxim, tapped himself on the forehead, and vanished. They could hear him singing "Cool It, Mama" at the top of his lungs as he walked down the stairs. Maxim laid his gun on the table and walked over to the pile of books that had been dumped on the bed and floor. Never before on this planet had he seen so many books in one place, except perhaps in the city library. Of course, the bookstores had many more books, but not more titles.

The pages were yellowed with age. Some books were singed, and some, to Maxim's surprise, were perceptibly radioactive. He didn't have time to examine them properly.

Maxim packed up two bundles and paused to look around the room. Empty twisted shelves, dark stains where pictures had been hanging -- the pictures had been torn from their frames and trampled. Not a trace of dental equipment. He picked up the bundles and started for the door, then remembered his gun and returned. On a desk, beneath plate glass, lay two photographs. One was of a pale woman dandling a boy of about four on her knees. She was young, content, proud. The other showed a beautiful spot in the mountains, dark clumps of trees, and an old tumbled own tower. Maxim slung the gun across his back and returned to the bundles.