Tale of the Troika s-2

by Arkady Strugatsky

  Several voices responded, but Modest Matveevich turned down the candidates. “You’re too young to ride around in elevators,” he announced. “This is no spectroscope, you know.” Eddie and I silently made our way to the front of the crowd.

  “We want to go to seventy-six,” Eddie said quietly.

  There was a respectful silence. Modest Matveevich looked us over from head to toe with great doubt.

  “You look weak to me. Too green. Do you smoke?”

  “No,” said Eddie.

  “Occasionally,” said I.

  Tikhon the house spirit ran out of the crowd and whispered in Modest Matveevich’s ear. Modest Matveevich pursed his lips.

  “We’ll have to check that,” he said and took out his notebook. “What’s your business up there, Amperian?” he asked grumpily.

  “The Talking Bedbug.”

  “And you, Privalov?”

  “The Black Box.”

  “Hmm.” Modest Matveevich flipped through his book. “Correct, they are located there—The Colony of Unexplained Phenomena. Let’s see your requisitions.”

  We showed him.

  “Well, all right, go on up. You won’t be the first, and you won’t be the last.”

  He saluted us. Sad music began playing. The crowd hushed. We entered the elevator cab. I was sad and scared and I remembered that I had not said good-bye to Stella. “They’ll wipe them out up there,” Modest Matveevich was explaining to someone. “Too bad, they’re nice guys. Amperian doesn’t even smoke; cigarettes don’t touch his lips.” The metal gate clanged shut. Eddie pushed the button for seventy-six without looking at me. The door closed automatically, a sign flashed saying “No smoking! Fasten your seatbelts!”—and off we went.

  At first it moved slowly and lazily, at a half-hearted trot. You could tell that it did not like going anywhere. Familiar corridors, the sad faces of our friends, and the homemade posters saying “Heroes!” and “You won’t be forgotten!” floated down past us. On the thirteenth floor they waved to us for the last time, and the elevator headed for uncharted territories.

  Seemingly uninhabited rooms appeared and disappeared, the jolts became less frequent and weaker, and it felt as though the elevator was falling asleep en route. It came to a complete halt on the sixteenth floor. We had barely exchanged a few words with some armed guards, who turned out to work in the Department of Enchanted Treasure, when the elevator reared up on its hind legs and galloped off wildly toward the zenith with a metallic whinny.

  Lights lit up and relays clicked. The acceleration was pushing us into the floor. Eddie and I clung to each other to stay on our feet. The mirrors reflected our sweaty, tense faces, and we had prepared for the worst when the gallop changed to a canter and the force fell to one and a half g’s. We cheered up. Making our hearts skip, the elevator parked itself at the fifty-seventh floor. The door opened and a heavy-set middle-aged man came in, carrying an open accordion. He casually extended “Greetings to one and all!” and pushed sixty-three. When the elevator started moving, he leaned against the wall and, rolling his eyes, started playing “Little Bricks” softly.

  “From below?” he inquired indolently, without turning to us.

  “From below,” we replied.

  “Kamnoedov still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, say hello,” the stranger said and paid no more attention to us. The elevator rose slowly, trembling in time with the song.

  Eddie and I were so embarrassed that we set ourselves to learning the “Rules of Operation” etched on a brass plate. We learned that it was against the rules: for bats, vampires, and flying squirrels to settle in the car; to exit through the walls in case of an emergency stop between floors; to transport flammable and explosive materials as well as vessels containing genies or dragons without fireproof muzzles; and for house spirits to use the elevator without accompanying humans. Also everyone without exception was forbidden to create mischief, be involved in sleeping, or to hop.

  We did not have the chance to read all the rules. The car stopped, the stranger got out, and Eddie pressed seventy-six one more time. At that very second the elevator rushed up with a ferocity that made us blank out. When we came to, the elevator was motionless and the door was open. We were on the seventy-sixth floor. We looked at each other and went out bearing our requisitions over our heads like white flags. I do not know for sure what it was we expected, but it was bound to be bad.

  However, nothing terrible happened. We found ourselves in a round, empty, and very dusty room with a low gray ceiling. A white boulder, looking like an antitank stake placement, grew out of the parquet floor. Old yellowed bones were scattered around the boulder. There was the smell of mice, and it was murky. Suddenly the elevator gate clanged shut. We shuddered and turned around, but all we saw was the roof of the descending car. An evil roar filled the room and died down. We were trapped. I desperately wanted to get back downstairs immediately, but the lost look that crossed Eddie’s face gave me strength. I stuck out my jaw, folded my hands behind my back, and headed for the boulder, maintaining an independent and skeptical air. Just as I had expected, the boulder was a road marker, often encountered in fairy tales. The sign over it looked something like this:

  No.1. If you go to the right, you’ll lose your head.

  No.2. If you go to the left, you’ll get nowhere.

  No.3. If you go straight, you’ll

  “They’ve scraped off the last part,” Eddie explained. “Aha. There’s something else written in pencil: ‘We are here … we consulted the people … and the opinion is … that we should go … straight. Signed: L. Vuniukov.’ ”

  We looked straight ahead. Our eyes had adjusted to the diffused light, and we saw the doors. There were three of them. The doors leading to what might be considered the right and the left were boarded shut, and there was a path going around the boulder through the dust from the elevator to the middle door.

  “I don’t like any of this,” I said with courageous forthrightness. “These bones …”

  “I think they’re ivory,” Eddie said. “But that’s not important. We can’t go back, can we?”

  “Maybe we could write a note and throw it down the shaft? Otherwise we’ll disappear without a trace.”

  “Alex, don’t forget that we are in telepathic communication. It’s embarrassing. Get yourself together.”

  I got myself together. I stuck out my jaw again and resolutely strode toward the middle door. Eddie walked next to me.

  “The Rubicon is crossed!” I announced and kicked the door.

  The effect was wasted. There was a barely noticeable sign on the door that said “Pull,” and the Rubicon had to be crossed a second time, without the grand gestures and with the humiliating application of force to the powerful springs.

  There was a park bathed in sunlight on the other side of the door. We saw sandy paths, trimmed hedges, and warning signs: “Do not walk on the lawn and do not eat the grass.” There was a cast-iron park bench with a broken back, and a strange man wearing a pince-nez was sitting on it, reading a newspaper and wriggling his bare toes. Seeing us, he became embarrassed for some reason, and without lowering the paper, removed the pince-nez agilely with his toes, wiped the lenses on his trousers, and put it back. Then he set aside the paper and rose. He was tall, very hairy, and wore a clean white vest and blue linen pants with suspenders. The gold-rimmed pince-nez squeezed the broad bridge of his nose and gave him a foreign look. He resembled something out of a political cartoon in the central newspapers. His big pointy ears twitched, and he took several steps toward us and spoke in a hoarse but pleasant voice:

  “Welcome to Tmuskorpion, and allow me to present myself. I am Fedya the Abominable Snowman.”

  We bowed silently.

  “You’re from below, no? Thank God. I’ve been waiting for you for over a year—ever since I was rationalized. Let’s sit down. There’s still an hour until the evening session of the Troika. I would very much like, with your permi
ssion, for you to appear at the meeting with some preparation. Of course, I do not know that much, but permit me to tell you all that I do.”

  CASE 42: OLD MAN EDELWEISS

  We crossed the threshold of the meeting room exactly at five o’clock. We had been briefed, we were prepared for anything, and we knew what to expect. Or so I thought. I must admit that Fedya’s explanations had calmed me somewhat. But Eddie had become depressed. I was surprised by his depression, but I attributed it completely to the fact that Eddie had always been a man of pure science far removed from lost shipments, paper punching, and expense forms. And so his depression made me, a man of wider experience, feel superior. I felt more mature and I was ready to act accordingly.

  There was only one man in the room—judging by Fedya’s descriptions, it was Comrade Zubo, the Commandant of the Colony. He sat at a small table, holding an open folder, and was blinking with barely repressed excitement. He was emaciated, his lips were in constant motion, and his eyes were white, like an antique statue’s. He did not notice us at first, and we quietly found seats under the sign on the wall that said “Representatives.” The room was three windows wide, and a bare demonstration table stood by the door. Another table, a huge one covered with green baize, stood against the opposite wall. A hideous brown safe towered in the corner; the commandant’s table, littered with manila folders, huddled next to it. There was still another table in the room, under the “Scientific Consultant” sign, as well as a gigantic cloth banner, covering a wall and a half, that read: “The people do not need unhealthy sensationalism. The people need healthy sensationalism.” I looked over at Eddie. He was staring at the banner, utterly crushed.

  The commandant suddenly looked up, sniffed with his big nose, and unearthed our presence.

  “Outsiders!”

  We stood and bowed. The commandant, keeping his eyes fixed on us, got up from his little table, took a few stealthy steps, and stopped before Eddie and extended his hand. Polite Eddie, smiling weakly, shook hands and introduced himself, then stepped back and bowed once more. The commandant seemed shaken. For a few seconds he remained in position, then brought his hand up to his face and examined it suspiciously. Something was wrong. The commandant blinked rapidly and then anxiously examined the floor at his feet, as though looking for something he had dropped. Then I got it.

  “The documents! Show him the documents!”

  The commandant, smiling nervously, kept looking around him. Eddie quickly shoved his ID and requisition at him. The commandant came to life. His movements became rational. His eyes devoured the requisition, then the photograph on the papers, and then Eddie himself for dessert. The resemblance between the photograph and the original brought him obvious joy.

  “Very pleased!” he exclaimed. “The name is Zubo. Commandant. Glad to welcome you. Make yourself comfortable, Comrade Amperian, make yourself at home, you and I still have a lot of work ahead of us.” He stopped and looked at me. I already had my papers in my hand. The process of devouring was repeated.

  “Very pleased!” the commandant exclaimed with exactly the same intonation. “The name is Zubo. Commandant. Glad to welcome you. Make yourself comfortable, Comrade Privalov, make yourself at home.”

  “What about a hotel?” I asked in a businesslike manner. I felt that that would be the right tone to take with him. But I was wrong. The commandant let my question fall on deaf ears. He was examining the requisition.

  “Box, Black, Ideal,” he muttered. “We do have one, it hasn’t been examined yet. The Talking Bedbug has been rationalized, Comrade Amperian. I don’t know, I don’t know. It all depends on Lavr Fedotovich. I’d be worried if I were you.”

  He suddenly clammed up, listened, and dashed back to his seat. There were footsteps, voices, and coughing in the foyer. The door opened, pushed by a powerful hand, and the Troika, that mighty triumvirate, appeared in the room in full complement—all four of them.

  Lavr Fedotovich Vuniukov, in complete agreement with the description, white, sleek, and strong, moved to his seat without looking at anyone. He sat down, set his large briefcase in front of himself, opened it with a flourish, and started arranging on the green baize all the objects necessary for a successful chairmanship: a blotter trimmed in alligator leather, a selection of pens in a calfskin holder, a pack of Herzegovina-Flor cigarettes, a lighter in the shape of the Arc de Triomphe, and a pair of prismatic opera glasses.

  Rudolf Arkhipovich Khlebovvodov, shriveled and yellow, sat on Lavr Fedotovich’s left and immediately began whispering in his ear, letting his eyes roam aimlessly from corner to corner.

  Redheaded and baggy Farfurkis did not sit at the table. Democratically, he seated himself on a wooden chair across from the commandant, opened a fat notebook with a tattered cover, and immediately made a notation.

  The scientific consultant, Professor Vybegallo, whom we recognized without any description, looked us over indifferently, frowned, glanced up at the ceiling, as though trying to remember where he had seen us. He may have remembered, maybe not, but he sat at his table and prepared for his important duties. He began setting up The Small Soviet Encyclopedia, volume by volume, on his table.

  “Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said and looked around with a gaze that penetrated walls. Everyone was ready: Khlebovvodov was whispering, Farfurkis made a second notation, the commandant, like a student making last-minute preparations, was hysterically leafing through his papers, and Vybegallo set up Volume Six. As for the representatives, that is, us, we apparently were of no significance. I looked at Eddie and quickly turned away. Eddie was close to total demoralization—Vybegallo’s appearance was the last straw.

  “The evening session of the Troika is hereby declared opened,” Lavr Fedotovich said. “Next! Your report, please, Comrade Zubo.” The commandant jumped up, and holding the open folder, began speaking in a high-pitched voice:

  “Case 42. Surname: Mashkin. Name: Edelweiss. Patronymic: Zakharovich.”

  “When did he suddenly become Mashkin?” Khlebovvodov demanded disdainfully. “Babkin, not Mashkin! Babkin, Edelweiss Za-kharovich. I worked with him way back when in the Committee on Dairy Affairs. Eddie Babkin, a stout fellow, loved heavy cream. And, by the way, he’s no Edelweiss, either. He’s Eduard. Eduard Petrovich Babkin.”

  Lavr Fedotovich slowly turned a stony face to him.

  “Babkin?” he said. “I don’t remember. Continue, Comrade Zubo.”

  “Patronymic: Zakharovich,” the commandant continued, his cheek twitching. “Year and place of birth: 1942. City of Smolensk. Nationality …”

  “E-dul-weiss or E-dol-weiss?” asked Farfurkis.

  “E-del-weiss,” said the commandant. “Nationality: Belorussian. Education: Incomplete secondary general, incomplete secondary technical. Knowledge of foreign languages: Russian, fluent, Ukrainian and Belorussian, with a dictionary. Place of occupation …”

  Khlebovvodov suddenly smacked himself loudly on the forehead.

  “Of course not!” he shouted. “He died!”

  “Who died?” Lavr Fedotovich asked woodenly.

  “That Babkin! I remember as if it happened yesterday—he died of a heart attack in 1956. He had become financial director of the All-Russian Society of Nature Experimenters and he died. So there must be some mistake here.”

  Lavr Fedotovich took his opera glasses and studied the commandant, who had lost his faculty of speech.

  “Does your report reflect the fact of his death?” he inquired.

  “As God is my …” babbled the commandant. “What death? He’s alive, he’s in the waiting room.”

  “Just a minute,” Farfurkis interrupted. “Allow me, Lavr Fedotovich? Comrade Zubo, who is waiting in the room outside? But be precise. Surname, name, and patronymic.”

  “Babkin!” the commandant said in despair. “No, no, what am I saying? Not Babkin—Mashkin! Mashkin is waiting. Edelweiss Za-kharovich.”

  “I understand,” said Farfurkis. “And where is Babkin?”

  “Babki
n died,” said Khlebovvodov authoritatively. “I can tell you that for sure. In 1956. Of course, he did have a son. Pavel, I think. That means his name was Pavel Eduardovich. He runs a textile remnants store in Golitsyn, which is south of Moscow. He’s a good businessman, but I don’t think his name is Pavel after all.”

  Farfurkis poured a glass of water and gave it to the commandant. In the gathering stillness, we could hear the commandant’s resonant gulps. Lavr Fedotovich kneaded a cigarette.

  “No one is forgotten and nothing is overlooked. That is good. Comrade Farfurkis, I will ask you to enter into the minutes, in the verification section, that the Troika feels it would be valuable to take measures to find the son of Babkin, Eduard Petrovich, in order to determine his name. The people do not need nameless heroes. We do not have them.”

  Farfurkis nodded and began writing rapidly in his notebook.

  “Have you had enough water?” Lavr Fedotovich inquired, looking at the commandant through his opera glasses. “Then continue your report.”

  “Place of occupation and profession at present time: Retired inventor,” the commandant read unsteadily. “Travel abroad: None. Brief description of the unexplained: A heuristic machine, that is, an electronic and mechanical apparatus that solves engineering, scientific, sociological, and other problems. Nearest relatives: Orphan, no brothers or sisters. Address of permanent residence: Novosibirsk, 23 Shchukinskaia Street, apartment 88. That’s all.”

  “Any motions?” asked Lavr Fedotovich, lowering his heavy lids. “I move we let him in,” said Khlebovvodov. “Why do I suggest this? Because what if he is Pavel?”

  “Any other motions?” asked Lavr Fedotovich. He felt around the table for the button, could not find it, and addressed the commandant. “Let the case come in, Comrade Zubo.”

  The commandant hurled himself at the door, stuck out his head, and immediately returned, backing all the way to his seat. Behind him, bent by the weight of a huge black case, came a wizened little old man in a long belted blouse and military jodhpurs with orange braid. On the way to the table, he tried several times to stop his forward motion and give a dignified bow, but the case’s powerful inertia dragged him ever forward. There might have been casualties if Eddie and I had not grabbed the little old man just inches away from the trembling Farfurkis. I recognized the old man—he had come to the institute many times, and to many other institutes, and once I had seen him in the reception room of the Deputy Minister of Heavy Machine-building, where he was first in line, patient, clean, and brimming with enthusiasm. He was a nice little old man, and harmless, but unfortunately he could think of himself only as an instrument of scientific and technological progress.