Monday Begins on Saturday

by Arkady Strugatsky

  “Yes, this man standing before us is a genius. He embodies and expresses the final state of humanity. But he is a killer, for he kills the spirit. Moreover, he is a terrible killer, for he kills the spirit of humanity. And that is why we can no longer remain unprejudiced filters, and we must remember that we are men, and as men we must protect ourselves from a killer. And we should not be discussing it, we should be judging him! But there are no laws for such a judgment, and therefore we must not judge, but mete out punishment, the way those who are in the grip of horror punish. And I, as the senior member, breaking the regulations and the rules, I say: Death!”

  The rank and file shuddered and all spoke at once.

  “Which one?” asked Khlebovvodov, who had apparently understood only the final word.

  “Impossible!” Vybegallo whispered, clasping his hands.

  “Allow me, Lavr Fedotovich!” Farfurkis babbled. “All this is correct, but do we have…”

  Then Eddie clapped his hands again.

  “Harrumph!” Lavr Fedotovich said and sat, turning his neck. “There is a motion to consider the fact that the dusk has gathered, and, accordingly, to turn on the lights.”

  The commandant jumped up and turned on the lamp. Lavr Fedotovich, like an eagle looking at the sun, regarded the light without squinting and turned to the Remington.

  “Expressing the general consensus,” he said; “it has been decided: Case 42 is considered rationalized. Moving to the question of utilization, I ask Comrade Zubo to read the resolution.”

  The commandant began leafing through the case file, while Professor Vybegallo got up from his table, and emotionally shook hands with the old man and then, before I could turn away, with me. He was glowing. I did not know what to do with myself. I did not dare look at Eddie. While I was considering whether I should heave the Remington at Lavr Fedotovich, the old man grabbed me. He attached himself to my neck like a tick and kissed me three times, scratching me with his stubble. I do not remember how I got back to my seat. I do remember Eddie whispering: “Alex, Alex! Well, all right, it can happen to anyone.”

  Meanwhile the commandant had gone through the file and announced that there had been no requisitions in this case. Farfurkis immediately protested and cited the paragraph in the regulations that made it clear that rationalization without utilization was nonsense and could be acknowledged only provisionally. Khlebovvodov began shouting that these tricks would not work, that he did not wish to take money for nothing, and that he would not allow the commandant to flush four hours of work time down the tubes. Lavr Fedotovich blew into his cigarette with a look of approval, and Khlebovvodov increased his attack.

  “And what if he is a relative of my Babkin?” he yelled. “What do you mean there are no requisitions? There has to be! You just look at what a little old man he is! A unique and interesting figure he is! How can we squander little old men like that?”

  “Public opinion will not allow us to squander little old men,” Lavr Fedotovich noted. “And public opinion will be right.”

  “That’s it,” barked Vybegallo. “It’s public opinion! And it won’t allow it! How can it be, Comrade Zubo, that there are no requisitions? Why aren’t there any?” He rushed up and threw himself in a fury on the mound of papers in front of the commandant. “How can there not be any? What’s this? A common pterodactyl. Good. And this? Pandora’s Box. Why don’t you think it’s a box? All right, make it Mashkin’s Box, and not Pandora’s. We can’t stand on formality, you know. And what’s this: Talking Bedbug. Talking, writing, typing. Ah! What do you mean, there’s no requisition? Comrade Zubo, what is this, hah? Black Box! A requisition for the Black Box. And you said there was none.”

  I was stunned.

  “Wait!” I said, but no one listened to me.

  “But that’s not the Black Box!” the commandant shouted, clutching his chest. “The Black Box has a completely different requisition number.”

  “What do you mean, it’s not black?” Vybegallo shouted back, grabbing the black case of the Remington. “What color do you think this is? Green, maybe? Or white? You’re busy misinforming the people? Squandering society’s little old men?”

  The commandant was trying to justify himself, saying that this, too, was a black box, and not green and not white, obviously black, but the wrong box, that black box was under Case 907, and the requisition was signed by Comrade Alexander Ivanovich Privalov, he had received it just today, and that black box here was no black box, but a heuristic machine and it was Case 42, and there was no requisition for it at all. Vybegallo was shouting that there should be no juggling of figures here and no squandering little old men either; black was black, it was not white or green, and there was no point in trying Machist tricks and all sorts of empiriocriticism, and just let the comrade members of the authoritative Troika look for themselves and say whether this was a black box, or a green one. Khlebovvodov was shouting something about Babkin, Farfurkis was demanding that there be no deviations from the letter of the regulations, Eddie was joyously shouting “Out with him,” and I, like a stuck record, kept repeating: “My Black Box—it’s not a box. My Black Box—it’s not a box.”

  Finally Lavr Fedotovich became aware of a certain disorder.

  “Harrumph!” he said, and everything quieted down. “Are there difficulties? Comrade Khlebovvodov, get rid of them.”

  Khlebovvodov strode firmly over to Vybegallo, took the case in his hands, and examined it carefully.

  “Comrade Zubo,” he said. “For what is that requisition you have?”

  “For the Black Box,” the commandant said glumly. “Case 907.”

  “I am not asking you the case number. I am asking: Do you have a requisition for a Black Box?”

  “I do,” the commandant confessed.

  “Whose requisition?”

  “Comrade Privalov from the Research Institute for Magic and Wizardry. There he is.”

  “Yes,” I said vehemently. “But my Black Box—it’s not a box, rather, it’s not only a box.”

  But Khlebovvodov paid no attention to me. He examined the case under the light, then leaned up into the commandant’s face and hissed:

  “Why are you spreading this bureaucracy around here? You can’t see what color it is? The rationalization was carried out before your very eyes, there’s the comrade representing science sitting in front of you, he’s waiting, waiting for the requisition to be carried out, it’s way past dinner time, it’s dark outside, and all you do is juggle numbers!”

  I felt a depression coming on and sensed that my future was about to become a dreary nightmare, irreparable and completely irrational. But I did not understand what was happening and only went on babbling that my box was not just a black box, or rather, not a box at all. I wanted to clear things up. The commandant was also muttering something very convincing, but Khlebovvodov threatened him with his fist and returned to his seat.

  “Lavr Fedotovich, the box is black,” he announced triumphantly. “There can be no mistake, I looked at it myself. And there is a requisition for it, and the representative is right here.”

  “It’s not the same box!” the commandant and I wailed in unison. But Lavr Fedotovich examined us thoroughly with his opera glasses and, obviously finding us lacking, decided to follow the will of the people and suggested that they get on with immediate utilization. There was no argument and all the responsible faces were nodding in agreement.

  “The requisition!” demanded Lavr Fedotovich.

  My requisition was laid before him on the green baize.

  “The resolution!”

  The resolution fell on the requisition.

  “The Seal!”

  The door of the safe creaked open, letting out a current of stale office smells, and the brass of the Great Round Seal gleamed before Lavr Fedotovich. And then I understood what was about to happen. Everything inside me went dead.

  “Don’t!” I begged. “Help!”

  Lavr Fedotovich took the Seal in both hands a
nd raised it above the requisition. I gathered my strength and jumped up.

  “That’s the wrong box!” I howled at the top of my voice. “What is this? Eddie!”

  “Just a minute,” Eddie said. “Please stop and hear me out.”

  Lavr Fedotovich halted his inexorable movement.

  “A stranger?” he inquired.

  “Not at all,” said the commandant, panting. “A representative. From below.”

  “Then he does not have to be removed.” Lavr Fedotovich tried to renew the process of applying the Great Round Seal, but there was a problem. Something was interfering with the Seal. At first Lavr Fedotovich merely pushed on it, and then he rose and fell on it with his whole weight, but the Seal would not touch the paper—there was a space between the Seal and the paper, and the size of the space obviously did not depend on Comrade Vuniukov’s efforts. It seemed as though the space was filled with an invisible but very firm matter that prevented application. Lavr Fedotovich had apparently grasped the futility of his efforts and sat down, holding his elbows with his hands and looking at the Seal sternly, but without any surprise. The Seal hung motionless an inch above my requisition.

  The execution had been stayed, and I began to perceive my surroundings again. Eddie was saying something, beautifully and feverishly, about reason, economic reform, goodness, the role of the intelligentsia, and the governmental wisdom of those present. He was fighting the Seal, my dear good friend, saving me, fool that I was, from the disaster that I had brought on my own head. Those present were listening to him politely but with displeasure, and Khlebovvodov was squirming in his seat and looking at his watch. Something had to be done. I had to do something immediately.

  “And seventh of all, and finally,” Eddie was saying reasonably, “any specialist, and especially such an authoritative organization, should see, comrades, that the so-called Black Box is nothing more than a term used in information theory, and has nothing to do with the specific color or specific shape of some real object. Certainly there is no way that the term ‘Black Box’ could be applied to this Remington typewriter coupled with the simplest of electronic gadgets, which can be purchased in any electronics store, and it seems strange to me that Professor Vybegallo is burdening an authoritative organization with an invention that is no invention, and a decision that could undermine the organization’s authority.”

  “I protest,” said Farfurkis. “First of all, comrade representative from below violated all the rules of order for the meeting, took the floor, which no one had given him, and went over the time limit, on top of it. That’s point one (I was horrified to see that the seal had dropped by a fraction of an inch.) Furthermore, we can not allow the comrade representative to malign our best people, to blacken our honored professor and official scientific consultant, Professor Vybegallo, and to whitewash the black box, already passed on by the Troika. That’s point two. (The seal dropped another fraction of an inch.) Finally, comrade representative, you should be made aware that the Troika is not interested in any inventions. The object of the Troika’s work is unexplained phenomena, which is what the already examined and rationalized black box is, that is, the heuristic machine.”

  “We could be sitting here until nightfall,” Khlebovvodov added in a hurt voice, “if every representative got the floor.”

  The seal settled even lower. The space was no more than a tenth of an inch.

  “It’s not the same black box,” I said and lost a hundredth of an inch. “I don’t need this box! (Another hundredth.) Why the hell do I need that beat-up old Remington? I’m going to file a complaint.”

  “That is your right,” Farfurkis said generously and won another hundredth of an inch.

  “Eddie,” I begged.

  Eddie started talking again. He called on the spirits of Lomonosov and Einstein, he cited editorials in the central newspapers, he sang the praises of science and our wise organizers, but it was to no avail. Lavr Fedotovich was finally bored by this impediment, and interrupting the oration, he spoke only one word:

  “Unconvincing.”

  There was a heavy thud. The Great Round Seal had pierced my requisition.

  MISCELLANEOUS CASES

  We were the last ones to leave the meeting room. I was crushed. Eddie was leading me by the arm. He was also depressed, but under control. Old Edelweiss whirled around us, pulled by the weight of his contraption. He was whispering words of undying love to me, promising to wash my feet and drink the water, and demanded traveling expenses and a per diem. Eddie gave him three rubles and bade him look in the day after tomorrow. Edelweiss managed to sucker him out of another fifty kopecks for hazardous work conditions and disappeared. Then I felt better.

  “Don’t despair,” Eddie said. “All is not lost. I have a plan.”

  “What?” I asked weakly.

  “Did you pay attention to Lavr Fedotovich’s speech?”

  “I did. Why do you ask?”

  “I was checking to see whether or not he had any brains,” Eddie explained.

  “So, what’s the opinion?”

  “You saw for yourself that he does. He has brains, and I got them started. They had not been activated at all. Pure bureaucratic reflexes. But I convinced him that he had a real heuristic machine before him and that he was not Vuniukov, but a real administrator with a broad mind. As you see, there was some result. Of course, his psychic rigidity is enormous. When I removed the field, there were no signs of residual deformation. He remained just as he had been. But that was just a trial test. But now I’ll do the proper calculations, adjust the apparatus, and then we’ll see. I cannot believe that he can’t be changed. We’ll turn him into a decent man, and things will be good for us, and for everybody, and for him.”

  “I doubt it,” I said.

  “You see,” Eddie said, “the theory of positive humanization states that any creature that has at least an iota of reason can be made into a decent creature. It’s another matter that every case needs special methods. So we’ll look for the right approach. Everything will be all right.”

  We went out into the street. Snowman Fedya was waiting for us. He got up from the bench and the three of us went down First of May Street arm in arm.

  “Was it difficult?” Fedya asked.

  “Terrible,” said Eddie. “I’m tired of talking, tired of listening, and on top of that, I think I’ve become decidedly stupider. Fedya, is it noticeable that I’m stupider?”

  “Not yet,” Fedya replied shyly. “It’s usually apparent an hour or so later.”

  I said: “I’m hungry. I want to forget. Let’s go somewhere and forget. Drink some wine. Have some ice cream.”

  Eddie was all for it, and Fedya had no objections, but he did apologize for not drinking wine and having no taste for ice cream.

  The streets were crowded, but there was nobody just hanging around the way they do on summer evenings in big cities. The descendants of Oleg’s armies and Peter’s grenadiers sat quietly and culturedly on their stoops shelling seeds in silence. They ate watermelon seeds, sunflower seeds, and pumpkin seeds. They sat on carved stoops with patterns, carved ones with figures, and carved ones with balustrades or on stoops made of simple smooth boards. But they were marvelous stoops, and some were of museum quality, hundreds of years old; those had been taken under government custody and therefore disfigured by metal supports. Somewhere in the background an accordion was playing.

  Eddie, looking around with interest, was asking Fedya about life in the mountains. Fedya had developed an abiding love for Eddie and answered readily.

  “The worst thing,” Fedya was saying, “are the mountain climbers with guitars. You can’t imagine how terrible it is, Eddie, when in your own quiet mountains, where the only sound comes from avalanches, and then only occasionally, you suddenly hear someone start strumming away and singing about some guy whose love is lost in the misty mountains. It’s a disaster, Eddie. Some of us get sick from this, and the weaker ones actually die.”

  “At home I
have a clavichord,” he continued dreamily. “Up on the peak I have a clavichord, on top of the glacier. I like to play it on moonlit nights, when it’s quiet and there’s no wind at all. Then the dogs in the valley can hear me and they howl along. Really, Eddie, tears come to my eyes when I think how beautiful it is and how sad. The moon, the music resounding in the distance, and the dogs howling, far far away.”

  “How do your friends feel about that?” Eddie asked.

  “They’re not there at that time of night. Only one boy usually stays, but he doesn’t disturb me. He’s lame. But this must be boring you.”

  “On the contrary, it’s fascinating.”

  “No. But you might like to know where I got the clavichord. Can you imagine, it was brought up by mountain climbers. They were setting some record or other, and they had to bring a clavichord up there. We’ve got a lot of strange things up on the peak. Some guy will decide to climb up there on a motorcycle—so we have a motorcycle, even if it’s damaged. We’ve got guitars, bicycles, various statues, antiaircraft guns. One record nut decided to climb to the top in a tractor, but he couldn’t find one. So he tried with a steamroller. You should have seen him struggling. So much effort! But he failed. He couldn’t get it up to the snow level. Five or ten more yards, and we would have had a steamroller, too. Ah, here’s Gabby, I’ll introduce you.”

  We had reached a café. On the brightly lit steps of the imposing stone entrance, right by the turnstile, Gabby the Bedbug was struggling. He was dying to get in, but the doorman would not let him. Gabby was having a fit, and consequently exuding an odor strongly reminiscent of Courvoisier cognac. Fedya quickly introduced us, put Gabby in a matchbox, and ordered him to sit still and be quiet. And the bedbug was quiet, but when we got into the café and sat down at an empty table, he lounged in his chair and beat his fist on the table, demanding a waiter. Naturally, he himself could not eat or drink anything in a café, but he demanded justice and a complete correspondence between the work of the waiters’ brigade and the lofty calling that the brigade was striving for. Besides, he was obviously showing off for Eddie. He already knew that Eddie had come to Tmuskorpion specifically to see him and offer him employment.