Monday Begins on Saturday

by Arkady Strugatsky

  But at that moment silent thunder shook our universe. We came to our senses. The door opened, and Fedor Simeonovich and Christobal Joséevich stood before us.

  Their rage was indescribable. They were terrible to behold. Their gaze made walls smoke and windows melt. The poster about the people and sensationalism went up in flames. The house shook and shuddered, the parquet floor buckled, and the chairs squatted on their terror-weakened legs. It was impossible for even the Troika to endure it.

  Khlebovvodov and Farfurkis, pointing at each other with trembling fingers, howled in unison: “It wasn’t me! It’s all his fault!” and turned into yellow smoke and disappeared without a trace.

  Professor Vybegallo yelped “Mon Dieu!” and dove under his table. Pulling out his large briefcase, he handed it over to the thundergods—“C’est, all the materials, that is, I have the goods on these scoundrels, all here!”

  The commandant tore at his collar and fell on his knees.

  As for Lavr Fedotovich, he sensed some discomfiture around him. Turning his head anxiously, he rose, leaning on the green baize.

  Fedor Simeonovich approached us, put his arms around us, and hugged us to his ample stomach. “There, there,” he said as we fell against him, bumping our heads, “It’s all r-r-right, b-b-boys. You held out for th-th-three d-d-days. M-m-marvelous…” Through my tears, I saw Christobal Joséevich, brandishing his cane, approach Lavr Fedotovich and address him through clenched teeth:

  “Get out.”

  Lavr Fedotovich slowly registered surprise.

  “The people…” he said.

  “OUT!!!”

  They eyeballed each other for a second. Something human flickered across Lavr Fedotovich’s face—maybe shame, maybe fear, maybe anger. He slowly put his accoutrements of chairmanship into his briefcase.

  “There is a motion: in view of special circumstances the session of the Troika will be postponed for an indefinite period.”

  “Forever,” said Christobal Joséevich Junta, laying his cane on the table.

  “Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich doubtfully.

  He majestically circled the table, without looking at anyone, and went to the door. Before leaving, he announced:

  “There is an opinion that we shall meet again in another place and at another time.”

  “I doubt it,” said Junta with disdain, biting off the end of his cigar.

  We really did run into Lavr Fedotovich in another place and at another time.

  But, of course, that’s another story.