The Inhabited Island

by Arkady Strugatsky

  With help from the guardsmen, the corporals managed to form up the brigade into a column four men wide, after which the command “Attention” rang out again. Maxim found himself not far away from the brigade commander. The ex-colonel was blind drunk. He stood there, swaying, with his backside perched on his cane, occasionally shaking his head and wiping his furious blue-gray face with the palm of his hand. The battalion commanders, also blind drunk, stayed behind his back—one was senselessly giggling, another was attempting with obtuse stubbornness to light a cigarette, and yet another kept clutching at the peak of his cap and probing the ranks of men with his bloodshot eyes. Men in the ranks enviously sniffed and a muttered murmur of flattering approval could be heard.

  “Come on, come on . . .” Zef muttered. “We’ll wage you lots of war today . . .”

  Maxim irritably jostled Zef with his elbow. “Shut up,” he said through his teeth. “I’m sick of hearing it.”

  At that moment two men walked up to the colonel: a cornet with a pipe clenched in his teeth and heavyset individual, a civilian, wearing a long raincoat with the collar raised and a hat. The civilian seemed strangely familiar to Maxim, and he started looking at the man more intently.

  The civilian said something to the colonel in a low voice. “Hah?” the colonel exclaimed, turning his murky gaze toward the civilian. The civilian started talking again, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb at the column of military convicts. The cornet indifferently puffed on his pipe. “What for?” the colonel barked.

  The civilian took out a piece of paper, and the colonel waved it aside with his hand. “I won’t let you have him,” he said. “Every last one of them has to croak . . .” The civilian insisted. “And I don’t give a damn!” the colonel replied. “And I don’t give a damn for your department. They’re all going to croak . . . Aren’t I right?” he asked the cornet.

  The cornet didn’t contradict him, but the civilian grabbed the sleeve of the colonel’s coverall and jerked him toward himself, and the colonel almost fell off his cane. The giggling battalion commander broke into peals of idiotic laughter. The colonel’s face darkened in indignation; he reached for his holster and pulled out a huge army pistol. “I’ll count to ten,” he announced to the civilian. “One . . . two . . .”

  The civilian spat and walked away along the column, looking into the faces of the military convicts, but the colonel kept counting, and when he got to ten, he opened fire. At that point the cornet finally became alarmed and persuaded him to put his weapon away. “Everybody has to croak,” the colonel declared. “Along with me . . . Brigaaade! On my command! On the double . . . Forwaaard march!”

  And the brigade set off. Tramping along a sloppy trail rutted by caterpillar tracks, slipping and grabbing at each other, the military convicts descended into a marshy hollow, then turned and marched away from the railroad. Here the column was overtaken by the platoon commanders. Gai started walking along beside Maxim; he was pale-faced, working his jaw muscles, and he didn’t say anything for a long time at first, although Zef immediately asked him what was new.

  The hollow gradually broadened out, bushes appeared, and up ahead a patch of forest came into view. An immense, unwieldy tank of some ancient type was standing at the edge of the road, where one of its caterpillar tracks had foundered in a wet pothole; it was entirely unlike the patrol tanks of the coastal guard—it had a small, square turret and a little gun. Morose men in oil-stained jackets were tinkering with something beside the tank. The military convicts rambled along haphazardly with their hands stuck in their pockets and their rough collars raised. Many of them cautiously glanced around to see if they could cut and run. The bushes were very tempting, but dark figures with automatic rifles loomed up on the slopes of the hollow every two or three hundred paces.

  Three tanker trucks came toward them, floundering through the potholes. The drivers were sullen faced and didn’t look at the military convicts. The rain was growing stronger and the men’s morale was sinking. They walked in silence, like cattle, looking around less and less.

  “Listen, platoon commander,” Zef growled, “are they really not going to give us any grub?”

  Gai took a hunk of bread out of his pocket and handed it to him. “That’s all,” he said. “Until you die.”

  Zef submerged the bread in his beard and started precisely working away with his jaws. This is plain crazy, thought Maxim. They all know they’re going to certain death. But they keep walking. Does that mean they’re hoping for something? Does it mean they have some kind of plan? Yes, right, they don’t know anything about the radiation, do they . . . Every one of them is thinking, Somewhere farther along the road, I’ll turn off, jump out of the tank, and lie low, and let the other fools go into the attack . . .

  That’s what we’ll start the struggle against the rightists with. We have to write leaflets about the radiation, shout about it in public places, organize radio stations . . . although the radios only work on two wavelengths . . . but even so, we can break in during the pauses. No more wasting people on the towers—use them for counterpropaganda instead . . . But then, all that only comes later, later. I mustn’t get distracted right now. Right now I have to take note of everything. Search for the slightest little cracks . . .

  There were no tanks at the station, and no big guns either, only Guards sharpshooters everywhere. I have to bear that in mind. This is a good hollow, deep, and they’ll probably remove the guards once we get through . . . But no, no, the guards are irrelevant—the entire crowd will go running forward just as soon as they switch on the radiation emitters . . . With incredible clarity he pictured to himself how it would all be. The radiation emitters are turned on. The military convicts’ tanks go hurtling forward with a roar. The army men go surging after them in a great torrent. The entire area of the front line is emptied . . . It was hard to imagine how deep this area was, and he didn’t know the effective range of the radiation emitters, but it had to be at least one or two miles. In a strip of territory one or two miles across, not a single man will be left with a clear head. Apart from me.

  Ah, no, not just one or two miles. More than that. All the permanent installations, all the towers—they’ll all be switched on, and probably at full power. The entire border zone will go insane . . . Massaraksh, what can I do about Zef? He won’t be able to stand it . . . Maxim squinted at the rhythmically moving ginger beard, at the morose, dirty face of the world-famous scientist. Never mind, he’ll cope. In a real emergency I’ll just have to help him, although I’m afraid I’ll be too busy for that. And then there’s Gai—I mustn’t take my eyes off him for a moment . . . Yes, I’ll have my work cut out for me. OK. But in the final analysis, in this murky whirlpool, I’ll still be completely in control, and nobody will be able to stop me, or even want to . . .

  They passed the patch of forest, and immediately heard the combined rumbling of loudspeakers, crackling of exhaust pipes, and angry shouts. Up ahead of them, on a shallow, grassy slope rising toward the north, the tanks were standing in three rows. Men were wandering between them, and layers of grayish-blue smoke were hovering in the air. “Look, there are our coffins!” someone at the front exclaimed in a loud, jolly voice.

  “Just look what they’re giving us,” said Gai. “Prewar tanks, imperial junk, old tin cans . . . Listen, Mak, are we really going to croak here, then? This is absolutely certain death . . .”

  “How far is it to the border?” Maxim asked. “And in general, what’s over there—behind the crest of hills?”

  “A plain,” Gai replied. “As smooth as a tabletop. The border’s about two miles away, then the hills begin, and they reach all the way—”

  “Is there no river?”

  “No.”

  “Any ravines?”

  “N-No . . . I don’t remember. Why?”

  Maxim caught hold of his hand and tightly squeezed it. “Don’t lose heart, boy,” he said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Gai looked up at him with d
esperate hope in his sunken eyes; the skin was stretched taut over his cheekbones. “Really?” he said. “Because I can’t see any way out at all. They’ve taken away our guns, the tanks have blanks instead of live shells, and there aren’t any machine guns. There’s death ahead of us, and death behind us.”

  “Aha!” Zef said with malicious spite, picking his teeth. “Wet your pants, have you? This isn’t as simple as smacking convicts in the teeth.”

  The column filed into a gap between the rows of tanks and halted. It became hard to talk. Huge loudspeakers had been set up right there on the grass, and a velvety tape-recorded bass voice was pontificating: “There, beyond the ridge of this hollow, is the perfidious enemy. Forward. Only forward. Pull the levers right back—and forward. Against the enemy. Forward . . . There, beyond the ridge of this hollow, is the perfidious enemy. Pull the levers right back—and forward . . .” Then the voice broke off midword and the colonel started yelling. He was standing on the radiator of his off-road vehicle with the battalion commanders holding him by the legs.

  “Soldiers!” the colonel yelled. “Enough idle chatter! You see before you your tanks. Everyone to their vehicles! And the drivers above all, because I couldn’t give a damn about the rest of you. But anyone who stays behind . . .” He took out his pistol and showed it to all of them. “Is that clear, you rotten, lousy pigs? Company commanders, lead the crews to their tanks.”

  The men started shoving and jostling. The colonel, swaying like a pole on his radiator, carried on shouting something, but he could no longer be heard, because the loudspeakers had once again started hammering home the message that the enemy lay ahead, and therefore—pull the levers right back. All the military convicts went rushing to the third row of tanks. A fight broke out and steel-tipped boots started flying. The huge, gray crowd slowly seethed around the tanks in the back row. Some tanks started moving and men came scattering down off them. The colonel turned completely blue from the strain of yelling and finally started shooting over the men’s heads. A black line of guardsmen came running out of the patch of forest.

  “Let’s go,” said Maxim, taking a firm grip of Gai’s and Zef’s shoulders and leading them to the vehicle on the end of the front row—a sullen, blotchy tank with a flaccidly drooping gun barrel.

  “Wait,” Gai jabbered in confusion, looking around. “We’re the fourth company, we’re over that way, in the second row . . .”

  “Go on, go on, then,” Maxim angrily said. “Maybe you want to command a platoon for a while too?”

  “A soldier through and through,” said Zef. “Cool it, mama . . .”

  Someone grabbed hold of Maxim’s belt from behind. Without turning back, Maxim tried to free himself, but he couldn’t, and he glanced around. Dragging along behind him, tenaciously clinging on with one hand and wiping his bloodied nose with the other, was the fourth member of the crew, a criminal convict nicknamed Hook.

  “Ah,” said Maxim, “I forgot about you. Come on, come on, don’t fall behind . . .” He noted to himself with displeasure that in the hurly-burly he had forgotten about this man, who had actually been given quite an important role in his plan.

  At that moment the Guards’ machine guns started roaring out, bullets started jumping off armor plating with a mewling whine, and they had to double over and run at top speed. Maxim ran in behind the end tank and stopped. “Listen to my orders,” he said. “Hook, start her up. Zef, into the turret; Gai, check the lower hatches—and check them thoroughly, or I’ll have your head!”

  He set off around the tank, examining the tracks. There was shooting and yelling and the monotonous droning of the loudspeakers on all sides, but he had promised himself that he wouldn’t be distracted, and he wasn’t distracted, he simply noted to himself: The loudspeakers. Gai. Mustn’t forget him. The tracks were in tolerable condition, but the leading wheels gave cause for concern. Never mind, that’s OK, I don’t have to ride in it for long . . .

  Gai agilely crawled out from under the tank, already dirty, with his hands all scratched. “The hatches are rusted,” he shouted. “I didn’t close them—they have to stay open, right?”

  “There, beyond the ridge of this hollow, is the perfidious enemy!” the tape-recorded voice pontificated. “Forward. Only forward. Pull the levers right back . . .”

  Maxim grabbed Gai by the collar and pulled him close. “Do you love me?” he asked, staring into those dilated pupils. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes!” gasped Gai.

  “Listen to nobody but me. Don’t listen to anybody else. Everything else is lies. I’m your friend, only me, nobody else. I’m your commander. Remember that. I give the orders—remember that.”

  Dumbfounded Gai kept nodding rapidly, soundlessly repeating: “Yes, yes. Yes. Only you. Nobody else . . .”

  “Mak!” someone yelled right in his ear.

  Maxim looked around. Standing there in front of him was that strangely familiar civilian, wearing a long raincoat, but no hat any longer. Massaraksh. A square face with peeling skin, and red, puffy eyes . . . It was Fank! With a bloody scratch on one cheek and a split in his lip . . .

  “Massaraksh!” Fank yelled, trying to shout above the noise. “Have you gone deaf or what? Do you recognize me?”

  “Fank,” said Maxim. “What are you doing here?”

  Fank wiped the blood off his lip. “Let’s go!” he shouted. “Quick!”

  “Where?”

  “To get the hell out of here. Let’s go!” He grabbed hold of Maxim’s coverall and pulled.

  Maxim flung off his hand. “They’ll kill us!” he shouted. “The Guards!”

  Fank shook his head. “Let’s go! I’ve got a pass for you!” And then, seeing that Maxim wasn’t moving, “I’ve searched the entire country for you! Thought I’d never find you! Let’s go immediately!”

  “I’m not alone,” Maxim shouted.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not alone,” Maxim bawled. “There are three of us! I won’t go alone!”

  “Rubbish! Don’t talk nonsense. What kind of fatuous nobility is this? Are you tired of living?” Fank choked on his own shout and started violently coughing.

  Maxim looked around. Pale-faced Gai was looking at him with his lips trembling, holding on to his sleeve—of course, he had heard everything. Two guardsmen were hammering a bloodied military convict into the next tank with their rifle butts.

  “One pass!” Fank yelled in a strained voice. “One!” he held up one finger.

  Maxim started shaking his head. “There are three of us!” He held up three fingers. “I’m not going anywhere without them!”

  Zef’s massive ginger beard was thrust out of the side hatch like a twig broom. Fank licked his lips—he clearly didn’t know what to do.

  “Who are you?” Maxim shouted. “What do you want me for?”

  Fank briefly glanced at him and started looking at Gai. “Is this one with you?” he shouted.

  “Yes! This one too!”

  Fank’s eyes turned wild. He stuck his hand in under his raincoat, pulled out a pistol, and aimed the barrel at Gai. Maxim struck Fank’s hand with all his strength from below, and the pistol went flying high into the air. Still not understanding what had happened, Maxim pensively watched it go. Fank doubled over and stuck his injured hand under his armpit.

  Gai dealt him a brief and precise blow to the neck, just like in the drills, and he collapsed facedown. Guardsmen suddenly appeared close by, sweaty and grinning with bared teeth after their work, looking haggard in their fury.

  “Into the tank!” Maxim barked at Gai, bending down and grabbing Fank under the arms. Fank was bulky and he just barely fit through the hatch. Maxim dived in after him, receiving a blow from a rifle butt to his backside in farewell.

  Inside the tank it was as dark and cold as in a crypt, with an intense stench of diesel oil. Zef dragged Fank away from the hatch and laid him out on the floor. “Who’s this?” he barked.

  Maxim had no time to answer.
Hook, who had been tormenting the starter for a long time with no success, finally got the tank started. Everything began shaking and rattling. Maxim gestured with his hand, clambered into the turret, and stuck his head out. There was nobody left between the tanks apart from guardsmen. All the tanks’ engines were working, there was a hellish roaring, and the slope was enveloped in a stifling cloud of exhaust fumes. Some tanks were moving, here and there heads were jutting out of turrets, and the military convict who was protruding from the turret of the next tank was making signs to Maxim and contorting his bruised, swollen features. Suddenly he disappeared, the engines started roaring with redoubled volume, and all the tanks simultaneously rushed forward, clanging and clattering up the slope.