7.

Every morning after breakfast the brigade assembled on the drill field to hear the orders of the day before dispersing to their assignments. For Maxim this was the most disturbing part of the day, with the exception of evening roll call. The reading of orders always ended in a frenzied display of loyalty and zeal. Maxim forced himself to suppress his revulsion at this paroxysm of insanity that seized the entire brigade from the commander to the lowliest candidate. He reproached himself for harboring the skepticism of an outsider, an alien; he tried to inspire himself, to convince himself that he must understand their enthusiasm and steep himself in it. But he could not.

Schooled since childhood to show self-restraint, to question, and to dislike high-sounding phrases, he had to control his irritation with his comrades during formation. Following the reading of an order sentencing some candidate to three days in the stockade for arguing with a private, the men would suddenly lose their good nature and sense of humor. Their mouths would fly open and they would begin to roar "Hoorah" with wild enthusiasm. Then, with tears in their eyes, they would sing "The Fighting Legion March," repeating it as many as four times. Even the cooks ran out and joined in, waving pots and knives frenziedly. Reminding himself that in this world he must conform, he forced himself to join in the singing and to suppress his sense of the ridiculous. But the contrived enthusiasm disgusted him.

Today a burst of enthusiasm followed Order 127, promoting Private Dimbas to corporal; Order 128, citing Candidate Sim for his courageous act during an operation; and Order 129, placing Fourth Company's barracks under repair. Scarcely had the brigade adjutant returned the orders to his leather map case than the brigadier tore off his cap, took a deep breath, and shouted in a rasping falsetto: "Forward, Legionnaires! Men of Iron!" And on and on. Maxim felt especially uncomfortable today when he saw tears rolling down Captain Chachu's dark cheeks. The legionnaires bellowed like bulls, beating time with their gun butts on their massive belt buckles. To avoid the sight and sound of this spectacle, Maxim squinted and roared like an enraged takhorg, and his voice drowned out all the others -- at least it seemed that way to him. "Forward, fearless men!" he roared, now hearing only his own voice. My God, what idiotic words. Probably composed by some corporal. To go into combat with such words you'd have to be awfully in love with your work. He opened his eyes and saw a flock of black birds, startled, fly silently over the drill field. "A diamond coat of mail will not save you, oh, foe."

Everything ended as abruptly as it had begun. The brigadier's glassy eyes scanned the formation. Suddenly he remembered where he was and ordered: "Officers, take your companies to their assignments!" The men, still dazed, looked at each other dumbfounded. Captain Chachu had to shout "Right dress" twice before the ranks came to order. The company was marched off to the barracks, and the captain ordered: "First Platoon is assigned to escort duty. The other platoons will go to their regular duties, Fall out!"

They dispersed. Guy drew up his platoon and distributed assignments. Maxim and Private Pandi were assigned the interrogation room, and Guy hurriedly explained to Maxim his duties: stand to the prisoner's right; if he makes the slightest attempt to rise from his seat, use force; obey your brigade commander; Private Pandi will be in charge. In short, watch Pandi and do exactly what he does.

"If it were up to me, I wouldn't have assigned you to this post, It's never given to candidates, but the captain ordered it. Keep a sharp lockout, Mac. I can't figure out the captain. Either he's trying to push you up quickly -- he talked a lot about you at yesterday's operation review with platoon leaders and cited you in an order -- or he's checking you out. Why, I don't know. Maybe it's my fault -- the report I submitted. Or maybe it's your fault -- for blabbing so much." He inspected Maxim anxiously. "Clean your boots, tighten your belt, and put on dress gloves. Oh, you don't have any -- candidates don't get them. OK, run over to the supply room. Make it snappy. We leave in thirty minutes."

At the supply room Maxim met Pandi, who was changing a cracked beret insignia.

"Take a look at this guy, corporal!" said Pandi to the quartermaster, clapping Maxim on the shoulder. "Ever seen the likes of him? Nine days in the Legion and a citation already. They put him on duty with me in the interrogation room. Probably ran down here for white gloves. Corporal, give him a real good pair. He's earned it. This guy is a hero!"

The corporal grunted, dug through the shelves piled with supplies, tossed several pairs of white cotton gloves on the counter in front of Maxim, and said contemptuously: "Here! You call yourselves heroes, with those lunatics you catch? Sure, when their guts are splitting with pain, all you have to do is pick 'em up and shove 'em in a sack. Even my grandfather could be a hero there. With his hands tied behind his back."

"Your grandfather would have hotfooted it out of there like crazy if someone jumped him with two pistols," said Pandi. "I almost thought the captain was done for."

"Done for!" grumbled the quartermaster. "After six months on the southern border, you'll really be done for. You'll have had it, boy. Then we'll see who hotfoots it out like crazy."

When they were outside, Maxim asked in a most respectful tone: "Private Pandi, sir, why do the degens have such pains? And they all seem to get them at the same time. How come?"

"It's fear that does it. They're degens. Understand? Mac, you've got to read more. There's a pamphlet -- The Degens: Their Habits and OriginsThe Degens: Their Habits and Origins. Be sure and read it or you'll never get anywhere. Courage alone won't get you very far." He paused. "Look, we normal people get excited, angry, or scared, and nothing happens. Maybe we sweat or tremble. But their bodies are abnormal. Degenerate. If they get angry at someone or get the jitters or anything like that, they suddenly get terrific headaches and pains all over. Maddening pains. Get it? That's how we can identify them. And, of course, we arrest them. Say, those gloves are OK. Just my size, too. What do you think?"

"Too tight for me, sir," complained Maxim. "Let's trade."

The exchange pleased both of them. Suddenly Maxim remembered how Fank had writhed in pain in the car. And patrolling legionnaires had arrested him. "What could have frightened him? Or angered him? He didn't seem agitated, drove the car calmly, even whistled. But he turned around and saw a patrol car. Or was that afterward? True, he was in a terrific hurry and a van was blocking the way. Maybe he got angry? Good God, what am I saying? Anyone can have a fit of anger. And he was probably arrested because of the accident. I wonder where he was taking me and who he is? I've got to find Fank."

He polished his boots, groomed himself in front of a large mirror, slung the gun around his neck, and reexamined himself in the mirror. At that instant he heard Guy's order to fall out. After an eagle-eyed inspection of his men and a check of their knowledge of their assignments, Guy ran to the company office to report. Soon Captain Chachu emerged with Guy. He, too, inspected each man carefully. "Take your platoon, corporal." The platoon marched toward headquarters.

At headquarters the captain ordered Private Pandi and Candidate Sim to follow him, and Guy led away the rest of the platoon. Pandi and Maxim entered a small room with heavily curtained windows. It smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. At the far end stood a large empty table surrounded by three-legged chairs. An old painting depicting an ancient battle hung on the wall. Ten steps from the table and to the right of the door. Maxim saw a metal seat. Its single leg was bolted solidly to the floor.

"To your stations!" ordered the captain. He walked ahead and sat down.

Pandi carefully placed Maxim to the right and rear of the prisoner's seat, posted himself to the left, and whispered to him to stand at attention. Both men stiffened. The captain sat with legs crossed, smoking and watching the legionnaires nonchalantly. But Maxim was sure the captain was studying him.

The door opened in back of Pandi. Pandi took two steps forward, one step to the right, and did a left face. Maxim was about to follow suit, but realized that he wasn't blocking the way. He snapped to attention again. There was something contagious about this adolescent game, although it seemed primitive and obviously inappropriate for a country in such dire straits.

"Attention!" barked Pandi.

The captain rose, crushed his cigarette in an ashtray, clicked his heels lightly, and greeted the new arrivals to the table: the brigadier, a stranger in civilian clothes, and the brigade adjutant with a thick folder under his arm. The sour brigadier sat down toward the middle of the table and stuck a finger under his embroidered collar to loosen it. The civilian, a small ugly man with a roughly shaven, flabby face, moved silently to a seat beside him. The brigade adjutant, still standing, opened the folder and sorted through the papers, passing some of them to the brigadier.

After standing for a few minutes in apparent indecision, Pandi returned to his original position with the same crisp movements, The men at the table were talking in low voices.

"Are you going to the meeting today, Chachu?" asked the brigadier.

"Can't, I have some business to take care of," replied the captain.

"Too bad. We're having an important discussion there today."

"I remembered it too late. Anyway, I've already expressed my opinion."

"Not very effectively," the civilian remarked softly to the captain. "Besides, the situation is changing. Opinions are changing."

"Not for us in the Legion," said the captain coldly.

"Now, really, gentlemen," said the brigadier. "Come to today's meeting anyway."

"I hear they've brought in fresh lake mushrooms," said the adjutant, still digging through his papers. "In their own juice."

"Hear that, captain?" said the civilian.

"No, gentlemen," said the captain. "I have one opinion and I've already expressed it. As for the lake mushrooms ..."He added something else that Pandi and Maxim couldn't hear, and the entire group burst into laughter. Captain Chachu leaned back in his chair, looking pleased. The adjutant stopped digging through his papers and whispered something to the brigadier. The brigadier nodded several times. The adjutant sat down and, as if he were addressing the empty seat, called out: "Nole Renadu."

Pandi pushed the door open, thrust his head into the corridor, and repeated in a loud voice: "Nole Renadu."

Movement was heard in the corridor, and an elderly man, expensively dressed but somewhat battered and disheveled, entered the room. His legs were slightly unsteady, so Pandi took him by the elbow and planted him in the prisoner's seat. The door clicked shut. The man coughed loudly, rested his hands on his knees, and raised his head proudly.

"So-o..." drawled the brigadier, studying the papers. He rattled off something that sounded like a tongue twister: "Nole Renadu-fifty-five-years-old-homeowner-member-of-the-city council. So-o. Member of the Veteran's Association." The civilian beside the brigadier yawned, slipped a magazine from his pocket, set it on his knees, and leafed through it. "The prisoner... removed during a search... then and there. So-o. What were you doing at Number Eight Trumpeter Street?"

"I'm the owner of the building," said Renadu with dignity. "I was having a conference with my manager."

"Have you checked his documents?" The brigadier turned to the adjutant.

"Yes, sir. Everything is in order."

"So-o," said the brigadier. "Mr. Renadu, do you know any of the prisoners?"

"No, I do not," said Renadu, shaking his head vigorously. "Not personally. But the name of one of them -- Ketshef -- I think someone by that name lives in the building. But I don't remember. Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe not in this building. I have two more, and one of them --"

"Excuse me," interrupted the civilian without raising his eyes from the magazine. "What were the other prisoners in the cell talking about? Didn't you listen?"

"Uh... I... uh," hesitated Renadu. "I must confess... well, your cell has... insects. So most of the time we were busy with them. Someone was whispering in a comer, but I was too busy fighting off the insects." He laughed nervously.

"Of course," agreed the brigadier. "Well, now, I don't think an apology is necessary, Mr. Renadu. Here are your documents. You are free. Chief escort!" he called out.

Pandi opened the door wide and shouted: "Chief escort, report to the brigadier!"

"I wouldn't even consider discussing the question of apologies," said Renadu gravely. "I and I alone am to blame. More precisely, my damned heredity. May I?" he asked Maxim, pointing to the table where his documents lay.

"Stay where you are," said Pandi in a low voice.

Guy entered. The brigadier handed him the documents and ordered the return of confiscated property. Mr. Renadu was released.

"Rashe Musai," said the adjutant to the iron stool.

"Rashe Musai," repeated Pandi through the open door.

A thin, utterly exhausted man wearing a shabby robe and one slipper entered. He had scarcely sat down when the brigadier shouted: "So, you murderer, you've been hiding?" Rashe responded with a lengthy, muddled explanation. He had not been hiding, he had a sick wife and three children, his rent wasn't paid, he had been arrested twice and released, he was now employed in a factory as an upholsterer, and he had not done anything wrong. Maxim was certain he would be released, but the brigadier rose suddenly and declared that Rashe Musai, age forty-two, married, twice arrested, was sentenced to seven years in accordance with the law on preventive detention. For an instant Rashe Musai appeared not to understand the sentence. Then a terrible scene erupted. The upholsterer sobbed, pleaded incoherently to be forgiven, and continued to shout and cry while Pandi dragged him out into the corridor. Maxim caught Captain Chachu's eye on him again.

"Kivi Popshu," announced the adjutant.

A broad-shouldered fellow whose face was disfigured by some skin disease was pushed through the door. This housebreaker, a repeater, caught at the scene of the crime, behaved in an insolently ingratiating manner. First he begged the authorities not to sentence him to a cruel death, then he laughed hysterically, made wisecracks, and told stories about himself, all of them beginning in the same way: "I entered a house..." He would not give anyone else a chance to speak. After several unsuccessful attempts to question him, the brigadier leaned back in his chair and looked to his right and left indignantly. Captain Chachu said in a monotone: "Candidate Sim, shut him up!"

Not knowing how to silence the prisoner, Maxim simply grabbed Kivi Popshu by the shoulder and shook him hard. The prisoner's jaws snapped shut; he bit his tongue and fell silent. Then the civilian, who had been observing the prisoner, said:

"I'll take this one. He'll be useful."

"Fine," said the brigadier and ordered the escort to return Kivi Popshu to his cell.

When the prisoner had been led out, the adjutant said: "That finishes the small fry. Now for the group."

"Begin with their leader," suggested the civilian. "What's his name -- Ketshef?"

The adjutant glanced at his papers and again addressed the prisoner's seat: "Gel Ketshef."

A handcuffed man was led into the room. His eyes were red, his face swollen. He sat down and fixed his gaze on the picture above the brigadier's head. "Is your name Gel Ketshef?" asked the brigadier.

"Yes."

"You are a dentist?"

"I was."

"What is your relationship to the dentist Hobbi?"

"I bought his practice."

"Why aren't you in practice now?"

"I sold my equipment."

"Why?"

"Financial problems."

"What's your relationship to Ordi Tader?"

"She's my wife."

"Any children?"

"We had a son."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"What did you do during the war?"

"I fought."

"Why did you decide to engage in antigovemment activity?"

"Because in the history of the World there has never been a more loathsome government," said Ketshef. "Because I loved my wife and child. Because you've killed my friends and corrupted my people. Because I've always hated you. Isn't that enough?"

"Enough," said the brigadier calmly. "More than enough. Now tell us how much the Khontis are paying you? Or is it Pandeya?"

The man broke into laughter -- but it was an oppressive laughter, the laughter of a dead man.

"Come off it. Let's put an end to this farce. What good will it do you?"

"Are you the leader of this group?"

"I was."

"Who are the members of your organization?"

"I don't know."

"You're sure?" the civilian asked suddenly.

"Yes."

"You know, Ketshef," said the civilian gently, "your position is extremely serious. We know everything about your group. We even know something about your group's connections. But whether your name or another's is given out as our source depends completely on you."

Ketshef lowered his head and remained silent.

"You!" shouted Captain Chachu. "You, an ex-combat officer! Do you understand what they're offering you? Not your life, massaraksh! But your honor!"

Ketshef began to laugh again but did not answer. Maxim felt that this man feared nothing. Neither death nor dishonor. He had already endured everything there was to endure and considered himself as good as dead. The brigadier shrugged his shoulders and declared that Gel Ketshef, age fifty, married, a dentist, was sentenced to death in accordance with the law for the protection of public health. Sentence to be carried out within forty-eight hours. Should the condemned agree to give testimony, the sentence could be changed.

After Ketshef had been led out, the brigadier, displeased, said to the civilian: "I don't understand you. I think he spoke rather willingly. From your point of view -- a regular chatterbox. No, I don't understand."

The civilian laughed. "Listen, my friend, you stick to your job and I'll stick to mine."

The brigadier was offended. "The leader of a group... is inclined to philosophize. I don't understand you."

"Have you ever seen a philosophizing corpse?"

"Nonsense."

"Well, have you?"

"And have you?" asked the brigadier.

"Yes, just now," said the civilian with authority. "And, take note, this isn't the first time. I'm alive. He's dead. So what's there to discuss?"

The captain rose suddenly, went over to Maxim, and whispered into his face: "Watch your posture, candidate. Attention! Eyes straight ahead!" He studied Maxim for several seconds, then returned to his seat.

"So," said the adjutant. "We still have Ordi Tader, Memo Gramenu, and two others who refuse to give their names."

"We'll start with them," suggested the civilian.

Number 7313, a lean, sinewy man with painfully swollen lips, entered and sat down. He, too, was in handcuffs, although he had an artificial arm.

"Your name?" asked the brigadier.

"Which one?" asked the one-armed prisoner cheerfully.

Maxim winced -- he had been certain the man would remain silent.

"Do you have so many? Give your real name."

"My real name is Seven-Three-One-Three."

"So-o. What were you doing in Ketshef's apartment?"

"I was lying unconscious. For your information, I'm very good at it. If you like, I can give you a demonstration."

"Don't trouble yourself," said the civilian. He was very angry. "Save your skill for later. You'll be needing it."

The prisoner burst out laughing. He laughed heartily, as if he were still a young man, and Maxim realized with horror that this laughter was genuine. The men sitting around the table stiffened as they listened to him.

"Massaraksh!" The prisoner wiped his tears with his shoulder. "Some threat!" He turned to the civilian. "But you, you re still a young man. You must learn to do your job coolly, officially -- for the money. It makes an enormous impression on the victims of your inquisition. What an appalling state of affairs when you find yourself being tortured not by an enemy but by a bureaucrat. Take a look at my left arm. His Imperial Majesty's specialists sawed it off in three stages; and each order was accompanied by a lengthy official correspondence. Those butchers were just doing a disagreeable, boring, unrewarding job. While they were sawing off my arm, they cursed their wretchedly low pay. And I was terrified. I had to strain my willpower to keep from talking. And now... I can see how you hate me. You -- me, and I -- you. Fine! But you have been hating me less than twenty years, and I -- you, for more than thirty. You, young man, were still toddling under the table and tormenting the cat."

"Ah," said the civilian, "an old-timer. I thought we'd already killed all of you off."

"Don't count on it," replied the prisoner. "You still have a lot to learn."

"I think that's enough," said the brigadier, turning to the civilian.

The civilian wrote something rapidly on the magazine and, passed it to the brigadier. The brigadier was surprised and looked at the civilian dubiously. The civilian smiled. Then, shrugging his shoulders, the brigadier addressed the captain: "Captain Chachu. You were a witness. How did the accused conduct himself when arrested?"

"He was sprawled on the floor," replied the captain glumly.

"In other words, he did not resist. So-o." The brigadier paused briefly again, rose, and pronounced sentence: "Prisoner Seven-Three-One-Three is sentenced to death. Until the date is set, the prisoner will be sent into exile for reeducation." Captain Chachu looked scornful and bewildered. The one-armed prisoner laughed softly and shook his head as they led him out.

Number 7314 was brought in. This was the man who had lain screaming and writhing on the floor. Although he was very frightened, he behaved defiantly. As soon as he appeared in the doorway, he shouted that he would not answer questions or beg for leniency. And he did remain silent and refused to answer a single question, even the civilian's question about mistreatment while under arrest. The interrogation ended when the brigadier looked at the civilian and blinked inquiringly. The civilian nodded and said: "Yes, give him to me." He seemed very pleased.

The brigadier ran through the remaining papers and said:

"Let's go, gentlemen. Let's get something to eat."

The court adjourned. Maxim and Pandi were permitted to stand at ease. When the captain, too, had left the room, Pandi said indignantly: "Did you see those animals? Worse than I snakes. If they didn't get headaches, how could you tell they I were degens? It's frightening to think what would happen."

Maxim did not reply. He was in no mood for conversation. His picture of this world, which had seemed so clear-cut and logical only yesterday, was now eroded and blurred. Pandi continued talking, not needing any response from Maxim. Removing his white gloves to avoid soiling them, he took a bag of roasted nuts from his pocket and offered some to Maxim. He began to tell him how he detested this assignment. First of all, he was deathly afraid of catching something from the degens. Second, some of them, like this one-armed fellow, behaved so disrespectfully that he could scarcely control himself. Once he had taken it as long as he could and then given one of them a good punch in the jaw. He was almost broken to candidate. Thanks to the captain, all he got was twenty days in the stockade plus forty days without leave.

Maxim chewed the nuts in silence, scarcely listening to Pandi's chatter. "Hate," he thought. "These hate the others, and they hate back. But why? 'The most loathsome government.' Why is it loathsome? Where did he get the idea? Corrupted his people. How? What does all this mean? And that civilian... was he really hinting at torture? That sort of thing died out centuries ago, In the Middle Ages. But what about fascism? Hitler. Auschwitz. Race theory, genocide. World destruction. Guy -- a fascist? And Rada? Unlikely. The captain? I wish I understood the connection between those terrible headaches and their disobeying the authorities. Why is it that only degens are trying to destroy the ABM network? And why not all degens?"

"Corporal Pandi," he asked, "what about the Khontis -- are they all degens?"

Pandi became very thoughtful.

"H'm, how can I explain it? Well, our job is to handle the city degens and the wild ones in the forest. The army people are trained to deal with anything they come up against in Khonti or anywhere else. All you need to know is that the Khontis are our worst enemies. Before the war they obeyed us, but now they are getting their revenge. And that's it. Got it?"

"More or less," replied Maxim. Pandi reprimanded him instantly. "That's no way for a legionnaire to answer. A legionnaire says 'Yes, sir' or 'No, sir.' 'More or less' is for civilians, for the corporal's sister. You don't answer like that in the service."

With a subject so inspiring and dear to his heart and with such an attentive and respectful audience, Pandi would have babbled on indefinitely. But the officers were returning. Pandi broke off in midsentence, whispered "Attention," and froze into position-after completing the required maneuvers between the table and the prisoner's seat. Maxim followed suit.

The officers were in fine spirits. Captain Chachu, with a contemptuous expression on his face, was telling them in a loud voice how, in '96, they had stuck some dough on red-hot armor and it turned out delicious. The brigadier and civilian retorted that fighting spirit was damned important, but the Fighting Legion's mess should be second to none; the less canned food, the better. With half-closed eyes the adjutant rattled off some recipes from memory. The others fell silent and listened to him with strange tenderness in their eyes. Then the adjutant choked with emotion and coughed to clear his throat. The brigadier, sighing, said: "Yes. Splendid. But we'll have to get back to work now."

Still coughing, the adjutant opened the folder, dug through the papers, and announced: "Ordi Tader."

The woman entered, looking as pale and as transparent as she had yesterday. When Pandi extended his hand to take her by the elbow and seat her, she recoiled sharply, as if from a snake, and Maxim thought she was going to strike Pandi. She didn't; she was handcuffed. She just calmly and distinctly told him to keep his ; filthy hands off her and walked around him and sat down.

The brigadier asked her the usual questions. She did not reply. The civilian reminded her of her child and husband, but still she refused to answer. She sat straight and tall. Maxim could not see ' her face, only her tense thin neck beneath disheveled hair.

Suddenly she said in a low voice: "You are real swine. All of you. Murderers! But you will all die. You, brigadier -- I am seeing you for the first and last time. You will die a cruel death. Not by my hands, unfortunately, but it will be a cruel, cruel death. And you, you bloodthirsty animals. I personally finished off two like you. If these two idiots weren't standing behind me, I'd kill you this instant." She caught her breath. "And you, you fat-headed cannon fodder, we'll get you yet. But you'll die an easy death. Gel missed, but I know people who won't."

They did not interrupt her but listened attentively.

They seemed ready to listen to her for hours, when suddenly she rose and stepped toward the table. Pandi caught her by the shoulder and threw her back on the seat. Then she spat with all her strength but failed to reach the table. Suddenly she went limp and began to cry. They watched her cry for some time. Then the brigadier rose and sentenced her to death, the sentence to be carried out within forty-eight hours. Pandi took her by the arm and pushed her through the door. The civilian rubbed his hands, smiled, and said: "That was luck. Fine escorts." The brigadier replied: "Thank the captain."

Captain Chachu said only: "Ssh." Everyone fell silent.

The adjutant summoned Memo Gramenu and skipped the usual formalities because it was a clear-cut case. When he was placed under arrest he had shown armed resistance. They did not bother to interrogate him. While the brigadier read the death sentence, he looked at the ceiling indifferently, nursing his injured right hand with his left. The dislocated fingers were bound with a rag. Maxim could not understand the prisoner's unnatural calm and his cold indifference to the proceedings.

Gramenu was being led out when the adjutant, with a sigh of relief, gathered the papers into his folder, and the brigadier started a conversation with the civilian about the promotion system. Captain Chachu went over to Pandi and Maxim and ordered them to leave. Although Maxim clearly saw a threat in his transparent eyes, he was too preoccupied to care. He wondered about the man who would have to execute the woman. Impossible! But someone would have to do the job in the next forty-eight hours.