The Inhabited Island

by Arkady Strugatsky

  “No,” Gai drearily replied.

  “Then why are you all huddled up like that?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just . . .” Gai tugged on his collar and feebly turned his neck. “I’ll lie down for a while, OK?”

  Without waiting for Maxim to answer, he climbed in through the hatch and lay down on the twigs, pulling up his legs. So that’s how it is, thought Maxim. It’s not as simple as I thought. He felt worried. Gai didn’t get his blast of radiation, we left the field almost two hours ago . . . He’s lived in that field all his life . . . So maybe it’s harmful for him to be without it? What if he falls ill? Of all the lousy things . . .

  Looking in through the hatch at Gai’s pale face, he felt more and more frightened. Eventually he couldn’t stand it any longer, and he jumped down into the control bay, switched off the engine, dragged Gai out, and laid him on the grass beside the highway.

  Gai slept, muttering something in his sleep and intensely shivering. Then he started shuddering as if he had a fever, hunching up and huddling tight, thrusting his hands in under his armpits as if he was trying to get warm. Maxim put Gai’s head on his knees, squeezed Gai’s temples with his fingers, and tried to concentrate. It had been a long time since he had given anyone a psychomassage, but he knew that the most important thing was to empty your mind of everything else and try to focus on including the sick person in your own healthy system. He sat there like that for ten or fifteen minutes, and when he surfaced, he saw that Gai was better: his face had turned pink, his breathing was regular, and he wasn’t feeling cold any longer. Maxim made him a pillow of grass and sat there for a while, wafting away the mosquitoes, then remembered that they still had to travel on and on, and the reactor was leaking, which was dangerous for Gai, so he had to think of something. He got up and went back to the tank.

  After some heavy fumbling and fiddling, he finally wrested several sheets of the side armor plating off their rusty rivets and packed these sheets against the ceramic partition separating the reactor and the motor from the control bay. He still had to attach the final sheet when he suddenly sensed that strangers had appeared nearby. When he cautiously stuck his head out of the hatch, all his insides turned cold and clenched up in a knot.

  Standing on the highway, about ten paces in front of the tank, were three men, but he didn’t immediately realize that they were men. Certainly, they were wearing clothes, and two of them were holding a pole on their shoulders, with a small hoofed animal that looked like a deer hanging from it and its bloodied head dangling down, and the third one had a bulky rifle of an unfamiliar type hanging across his pigeon chest from his neck. Mutants, thought Maxim. There they are—mutants . . .

  All the stories and legends that he had heard suddenly welled up in his memory, seeming very believable. They skin people alive . . . cannibals . . . savages . . . animals. He clenched his teeth, jumped up onto the armor plating, and stood at his full height. Then the one with the rifle comically shifted his short little bowed legs but didn’t move from the spot. He merely raised his terrifying hand with its two long, many-jointed fingers, gave a loud hiss, and then asked in a squeaky voice, “Hungry?”

  Maxim parted his glued lips and said “Yes.”

  “You won’t shoot?” the owner of the rifle inquired.

  “No,” said Maxim, smiling. “Absolutely not, no way.”

  15

  Gai sat at the crude homemade table, cleaning his automatic rifle. It was about fifteen minutes after ten in the morning, the world was gray, colorless and dry, there was no place in it for joy, there was no place for the movement of life, and everything was lackluster and sickly. He didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to see or hear anything, he didn’t even want to sleep—he wanted to simply lay his head down on the table, sink into despair, and die. Just die—that was all.

  The room was small, with a single window that had no glass in it, looking out onto an immense grayish-brown wasteland cluttered with ruins and overgrown with wild bushes. The wallpaper in the room was faded, withered, and curled up at the edges—either from the heat or from age. The parquet flooring was dry and cracked, and in one corner it had been scorched into charcoal. Nothing from the former inhabitants remained in the room, apart from a large photograph lying under broken glass, in which, if you looked closely, it was possible to make out an old gentleman with idiotic sideburns, wearing a ludicrous hat that looked like a tin plate.

  Gai wished his eyes had never seen any of this, he wished he could just die on the spot or howl like a desolate stray dog, but Maxim had told him, “Clean your gun!” “Every time,” Maxim had said, tapping on the table with a finger of stone, “every time it starts getting to you, sit down and clean your rifle.” So he had to clean it. It was Maxim, after all. If not for Maxim, he really would have lain down and died.

  He had begged Maxim, “Don’t leave right now, stay a while and treat me, help me with it.” But no. Maxim had said that Gai must do it himself now. He’d said that it wasn’t fatal, that it should pass, and it was bound to pass, but Gai had to brace himself, he had to cope . . . OK, Gai thought feebly, I’ll manage. It’s Maxim, after all. Not a man, not one of the Fathers, not a god, but Maxim . . .

  And Maxim had also said, “Be angry! As soon as it starts tormenting you, remember where you got this from, who got you hooked like this and what for, and be angry, store up your hate. You’ll need it soon—you’re not the only one like this, there are forty million of you, duped and poisoned . . .” It was hard to believe, massaraksh, they’d spent all their life in formation, they’d always known what was what, who was their friend, who was their enemy, everything was simple, the path ahead was clear, they were all together, and it was good to be one of the millions, the same as everyone else. But no, he came along, made Gai love him, ruined Gai’s career, and then literally tore him out of the ranks by the scruff of his neck and dragged him away into a different life with goals that were incomprehensible, and means for achieving them that were incomprehensible, and you had to think—massaraksh and massaraksh—about everything for yourself! Gai had never had any idea before of what that was like—thinking for yourself. There was an order, and everything was clear: think about the best way of carrying it out.

  Yes . . . he dragged me out by the scruff of the neck, turned my face back toward my old nest, toward everything that was dearest of all to me, and showed me it was a garbage heap, a pile of shit, an abomination, lies . . . And when I looked, there really wasn’t much that was beautiful about it; it made me feel sick to remember myself, to remember the guys, and as for Mr. Cornet Chachu! Gai angrily drove the breechblock into place and clicked the catch shut. And once again he was overwhelmed by weariness and apathy, and he didn’t have any willpower left to load the magazine. He felt bad, oh so bad . . .

  The warped, creaking door swung open, and an eager little face was thrust in—actually quite a pretty, likable face, if not for the bald cranium and the inflamed eyelids with no lashes. “Uncle Mak said you should go to the square. Everybody’s already gotten together, they’re only waiting for you!”

  Gai morosely squinted at her, at that spindly little body in a little dress of coarse sackcloth, at the abnormally thin little arms, like straws, covered with brown blotches, at the crooked little legs, swollen at the knees, and he felt nauseous, and he felt ashamed of his own revulsion—a child, and who was to blame? He looked away and said, “I’m not going. Tell him I don’t feel well. I’ve fallen ill.”

  The door creaked, and when he looked up again, the little girl was gone. He flung his rifle onto the bed in annoyance, walked over to the window, and stuck his head out. The little girl was racing at ferocious speed along the hollow that used to be a street, raising dust between the remains of walls. A plump little toddler tagged along behind her, stumbled in pursuit for a few small steps, got hooked on something, flopped down onto the ground, raised his head, and lay there for while, then started roaring in a terrible, deep bass voice. The mother darted out from
behind the ruins. Gai hastily staggered back, shook his head, and went back to the table. No, I can’t get used to it. I’m obviously a despicable kind of person . . . Well, if I had the guy who’s responsible for all of this in front of me, I wouldn’t miss. But all the same, why can’t I get used to it? Oh God, all the things I’ve seen in just this one month—enough for a hundred nightmares . . .

  The mutants lived in small communities. Some of them roamed from place to place, hunting and searching for somewhere a bit better, looking for roads to the north that skirted around the Guards’ machine guns and the terrible areas where they went insane and died on the spot from attacks of horrendous headaches. Some of them lived a settled life on farms and in villages that had survived after the battles and the detonation of three atomic bombs, one of which had exploded above this city, and two in the outskirts—there were miles-long bald patches of slag that gleamed like mirrors out there now. The settled farmers sowed small, degenerated strains of wheat, tended their strange vegetable patches in which the tomatoes were like berries and the berries were like tomatoes, and bred and raised hideous cattle that were frightening to look at, let alone to eat. They were a pitiful people: mutants, wild southern degenerates, about whom all sorts of crazy, fantastic stories were told and who talked all sorts of crazy, fantastic nonsense themselves—quiet, sickly, mutilated caricatures of people. The only normal ones here were the old folks, but very few of them were left; they were all sick and doomed to die soon. Their children and grandchildren also looked as if they weren’t long for this world. They had a lot of children, but almost all of them died either at birth or in infancy. Those who did survive were weak and constantly plagued by unknown illnesses, and they were terribly ugly, but they all seemed obedient, quiet, and intelligent.

  In fact, there was no doubt about it—these mutants had turned out to be decent people, kind and hospitable, peaceable . . . Only it was impossible to look at them. Even Maxim had been repulsed at first, until he got used to it, but he had gotten used to it quickly. It was easy for him—he was the master of his own nature . . .

  Gai loaded the magazine into the rifle, propped his cheek on his palm, and started pondering. Yes, Maxim . . .

  Of course, the venture Maxim was planning this time was clearly pointless. He had resolved to gather the mutants together, arm them, and drive the Guards back, at least beyond the Blue Serpent River just for a start. God, but it was funny. They could hardly walk, many of them died as they were simply walking along—one of them could die just from lifting a sack of grain—and Maxim wanted to go up against the Guards with them. Untrained, weak, timid—what good were they? Even if he gathered together those . . . those scouts of theirs, a single cornet would be enough to deal with their army if they didn’t have Maxim. And even if Maxim was there, a cornet with a company would be enough.

  I think Maxim himself understands that. But he spent an entire month rushing through the forest from village to village, from community to community, trying to persuade the old folks and respected people, the ones that the communities listen to. He ran around and dragged me around with him everywhere; it’s impossible to calm him down. The old folks don’t want to go, and they won’t let the scouts go . . . And now I’ve got to go to this council meeting. I’m not going.

  The world turned a bit brighter. It was no longer quite so sickening to look around, the blood started coursing through his veins a bit faster, and he felt a vague stirring of hope that today’s meeting would fall through, that Maxim would come back and say, That’s enough, there’s nothing more for us to do here, and they would move on farther south, into the desert, where mutants were also said to live, but not such horrific ones, more like human beings, and not so sickly. It was even said that they had something like a state there, and even an army. Maybe it would be possible to reach some kind of realistic agreement with them . . . Of course, everything there was radioactive—the word was that bombs had been piled on top of each other there, especially to pollute the region . . . They even said there were special bombs to do it.

  Remembering about the radioactivity, Gai reached into his duffel bag and took out a little box of yellow tablets. Popping two of them into his mouth, he winced and made a face at the intensely bitter taste. Damn it, what disgusting garbage, but I have to take them here—everything here’s polluted too. And in the desert I’ll probably have to suck them by the handful . . . But anyway, my thanks to the duke-prince; without these pills, I’d be a goner here. That duke-prince is a great guy, he doesn’t get distressed or give in to despair in this hell, he treats people, he helps them, he makes his rounds, and he’s organized an entire medication factory. And by the way, he said that the Land of the Fathers is only a small piece, merely the rump of our former great empire, and there used to be a different capital two hundred miles farther south—they say the ruins of it are still there, and they’re magnificent too, so they say . . .

  The door swung open and Maxim walked in, angry and naked, wearing nothing but his black shorts; he was lean and quick, and it was obvious that he was furious. When Gai saw him, he put on a sulky face and started looking out the window.

  “Right, stop making things up,” said Maxim. “Let’s go.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Gai, “Damn them all. It turns my stomach. It’s unbearable.”

  “Nonsense,” Maxim retorted. “They’re fine people, and they respect you a lot. Don’t be such a little kid.”

  “Oh, sure, they respect me,” said Gai.

  “Yes they do, and how! The other day the duke-prince was asking if you could stay here. ‘I’ll die soon,’ he said. ‘I need a real man to take my place.’”

  “Oh, sure, take his place . . .” Gai growled, but he could feel everything inside himself softening, even against his own will.

  “And Boshku keeps pestering me too—he’s afraid of approaching you directly. ‘Let Gai stay here,’ he says. ‘He can teach people and protect them; he’ll train up good kids . . .’ Do you know the way Boshku talks?”

  Gai blushed in pleasure, cleared his throat, and, still frowning and looking out the window, replied, “Oh, all right . . . Should I bring my rifle?

  “Yes,” said Maxim. “You can never tell.”

  Gai took his rifle under his arm and they walked out of the room—Gai leading, with Maxim close on his heels—then went down the crumbling staircase, stepped over a heap of little children messing around in the dust of the doorway, and set off along the street toward the square. Agh! Street, square . . . Nothing but words. The number of people who were killed here! They say there used to be a big, beautiful city here: theaters, a circus, museums, dog racing . . . and they say the churches here were especially beautiful—people used to come from all over the world to look at them—but now there’s nothing but trash and no way of telling what used to be where. Instead of the circus there’s a swamp with crocodiles in it, there used to be a subway system but now it’s got ghouls in it, and it’s dangerous to walk around in the city at night . . . They destroyed the country, the bastards. And they didn’t just kill people, they mutilated them too—and they bred all sorts of creatures of darkness here that were never here before. And not just here, either . . .

  The duke-prince had told him that before the war animals that looked like dogs used to live in the forests. He had forgotten what they were called, but they were intelligent beasts, and very good-natured—they understood everything and they could be trained; they were a real joy. Well, so of course they started training them for military purposes: lying down under tanks with mines, dragging out the wounded, carrying dishes infected with plague over to the enemy, and all sorts of nonsense like that. And then a smart guy turned up who deciphered their language—it turned out that they did have a language, and quite a complex one. And in general they were very fond of imitating, and the way their larynx was formed meant that some of them could even be taught to speak a human language—not the entire language, of course, but they could remember about fifty or
seventy words.

  “Anyway, they were remarkable animals,” the duke-prince had said. “We ought to have been friends with them, learned from each other, and helped each other—supposedly they were dying out. Ah, but no, they were used for fighting, trained to go to the enemy and collect military information. And then the war began and nobody had any more time for them, or for anything else either. And that’s how we got the ghouls. They’re mutants too, only not human but animal—very dangerous creatures.” In the Special Southern District there was even an official order to wage an armed campaign against them, and the duke-prince had said quite bluntly, “We’re all done for, and then there’ll be nobody but ghouls living here . . .”

  Gai recalled how one day in the forest Boshku and his hunters had brought down a deer that was being hunted by ghouls, and a fight had begun. But what kind of fighters are the mutants? They fired one shot each with their antiquated rifles, dropped their weapons, and sat down and put their hands over their eyes so they wouldn’t see each other being torn apart, didn’t they? And, I must say, Maxim was at a loss too . . . Well, not exactly at a loss, but somehow . . . he just didn’t want to fight. So I had to do the job for all of them. When my clip ran out, I used the rifle butt. It was a good thing there weren’t many ghouls, only six of them. Two were killed, one got away, and three were wounded and stunned—we tied them up and were going to take them back to the village in the morning to be executed. But during the night I spotted Maxim stealthily getting up, and he went over to them. He sat with them for a while, healing them the way he knows how, by laying on his hands. Then he untied them and, of course, not being stupid, they cut and ran, disappeared in a flash. I said to him, “Why did you do that, Mak, what for?” “I don’t really know,” he said. “I just feel we shouldn’t execute them. We shouldn’t execute people,” he said, “and we shouldn’t execute these either . . . They’re not dogs,” he said, “and they’re not any kind of ghouls . . .”