Levin sighed as he rose from the café table, and bid Socrates to rise with him. He could not leave without completing his quest. After spending two months alone in the country, he was convinced that his feeling for Kitty was not one of those passions of which he had had experience in his early youth; that this feeling gave him not an instant’s rest; that he could not live without deciding the question, would she or would she not be married to him, and that his despair had arisen only from his own imaginings, that he had no sort of proof that he would be rejected. And he had now come to Moscow with a firm determination to make an offer, and get married if he were accepted. Or . . . he could not conceive what would become of him if he were rejected.
The body of the Janus bobbed past them, floated down the river, and away.
CHAPTER 7
AT FOUR O’CLOCK, conscious of his heart hammering like a maltuned Class I sleep-waker, Levin stepped out of a hired sledge at the skating park, and turned along the path to the frozen mounds and the skate-maze, knowing that he would certainly find her there, as he had seen the Shcherbatskys’ carriage at the entrance.
It was a bright, frosty day. Rows of carriages, sledges, drivers, and policemen—not 77s, just workaday Moscow II/Policeman/12s in their cheerful bronze weather-coating—were in the approach. Crowds of well-dressed people, with hats bright in the sun, swarmed about the entrance and along the well-swept little paths between the little houses adorned with carving in the Russian style. The old, curly birches of the gardens, all their twigs laden with snow, looked as though freshly decked in sacred vestments.
Levin walked along the path toward the skate-maze, while angular Socrates, programmed to dampen his master’s anxiety when it grew too frenzied, droned in his ear:
“You mustn’t be excited. You must be calm. Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!”
But the more Levin tried to heed this warning, and keep himself composed, the more breathless he found himself. An acquaintance met him and called him by his name, but Levin did not even recognize him. He went toward the elaborate interlacing paths of magnetized track that made up the skate-maze, heard the familiar electric purr of skates gliding above its surface and the sounds of merry voices. He walked on a few steps, and the skating ground lay open before his eyes, and at once, amidst all the skaters, he knew her.
He knew she was there by the rapture and the terror that seized on his heart. She was talking to a woman at the opposite end of the ground, both ladies hovering just above track level, their skates set on neutral as they conversed. There was apparently nothing striking either in Kitty’s dress or in her attitude. But for Levin she was as easy to find in that crowd as a rose among nettles. Everything was made bright by her. She was the smile that shed light on all around her. In that moment, it was to Levin like she was the Eye in the Tower, keeping loving watch over all Moscow.
“Be quiet-be calm-be quiet-calm-quiet-calm . . . ,” Socrates repeated over and over in his ear.
“Is it possible I can go over there on the tracks, go up to her?” he murmured. The place where she stood seemed to him a holy shrine, unapproachable, as if encircled by a moat of radiant liquid groznium, and there was one moment when he was almost retreating, so overwhelmed was he with terror. With Socrates’ help, he made an effort to master himself: People of all sorts were moving about her! He too was permitted to come there to skate! He walked down, for a long while avoiding looking at her as at the sun, but seeing her, as one does the sun, without looking.
AMIDST ALL THE SKATERS WHO HOVERED ELECTROMAGNETICALLY ATOP THE TRACKS, KITTY WAS AS EASY TO FIND AS A ROSE AMONG NETTLES
On that day of the week and at that time of day people of one set, all acquainted with one another, used to meet on the skate-maze. In skates with razor-thin, magnetized blades, revelers navigated the miles of interweaving tracks, the positive charge of the maze surface gently repelling the positive charge of the skates, so everyone glided along, elevated precisely one quarter inch above the track. There were crack skaters there, showing off their skill: happily they whooshed forward, weaving their way across the metal maze, greeting each other gaily, leaping up with bold tricks, skating forward and (when the track vectors were reversed by the II/Skatemaster/490) skating backward.
There were, too, learners clinging to chairs with timid, awkward movements, and elderly noblewomen skating slowly, leaning for support on their Class IIIs. All seemed to Levin an elect band of blissful beings because they were here, near her. All the skaters, it seemed, with perfect self-possession, skated toward her, skated by her, even spoke to her, and were happy, quite apart from her, enjoying the capital ice and the fine weather.
She was in a corner, and turning out her slender feet in their high boots with obvious timidity, she skated toward him.
“Be calm! Be calm becalmbecalmbecalm . . . ,” urged Socrates.
As she approached, a young boy skating down a track some distance away pitched head over heels, tumbling abruptly off the track and onto the frozen ground. This kind of accident was most unusual, even for the most unsteady skaters, given the self-correcting mechanisms built into the magnetic-repulsion skate technology. Konstantin Dmitrich had no time or inclination to ponder this event, had he even noticed it; his eyes, along with his heart, were focused only and entirely upon the slim pleasing figure of Kitty Shcherbatskaya.
“Have you been here long?” she said, giving him her hand and nodding pleasantly to Socrates.
“I? I’ve not long . . . yesterday . . . I mean today . . . I arrived,” answered Levin, in his emotion not at once understanding her question. Directly behind where they were talking, a stout middle-aged man flew off the track and onto the ground, just as the boy had, landing with an audible thump. “I was meaning to come and see you,” Levin continued, and then, recollecting with what intention he was trying to see her, he was promptly overcome with confusion and blushed.
Before he could recover his composure, suddenly, without warning, Kitty’s body jerked violently backward and flew down the track like a rag doll hurled by a willful child. In the space of an instant, she was a dozen yards away, her body accelerating at an alarming rate from where Levin and Socrates stood, astounded. Worse, she was flying toward another skater, a mustachioed Moscow dandy, who was mysteriously shooting forward as rapidly as Kitty was speeding backward.
“Socrates!” shouted Levin desperately. “They shall collide!” and the Class III launched himself forward, his long springy legs telescoping open to become still longer as he leapt forward toward the impending collision. The bearded yellow machine-man, his massive bristle of springs and cogs bobbling, caught Kitty about the waist, pulling her off the track just before the mustachioed man would have caromed into her.
All over the maze, similar scenes of havoc unfolded. Some skaters flew backward down the track, others forward, while still others were stuck in place, gyrating violently in their skates. No one, it seemed, was any longer in control of his own feet; the electromagnetic whims of the skates, or of the track, or of both together, had taken control. As Levin watched, an old matron, whom he had seen moments earlier, plodding steadily forward on the track reserved for slower skaters, rocketed forward at a dizzying speed until she was hurled entirely off the course, over the side of a hill and down a snow-crusted embankment.
After satisfying himself that Kitty was out of danger, Levin ran about the perimeter of the skate-maze, saving those he could with a series of flying tackles that intercepted the terrified skaters and flung them off the grid. Socrates sprinted off in the opposite direction and did his part as well, plucking from his beard a powerful handheld destabilizer and using it to short-circuit the magnetic force in patches along the track, disrupting its power long enough to let skaters jump to freedom.
“UnConSciya,” said Levin gravely to his Class III when they reconvened at the entrance to the park, where Kitty Shcherbatskaya sat beneath a snow-dusted aspen tree, shaken but unhurt.
“Who but they?” Socrates agreed bitterly. None
but the rogue scientists in the so-called Union of Concerned Scientists had the technological ability or the anarchic spirit to launch such a terrible attack. Frustrated by the slow pace of scientific progress, even in the face of all that had been accomplished since the discovery of groznium, the futurists who had quit the government service and established UnConSciya were hellbent on bringing down the Ministry at all costs.
Today, mercifully, the chaos was short-lived; already, Levin heard the klaxon bell of the Tower ringing out as troops of 77s marched in. The wounded wailed, here and there a broken body lay in the snow, and those who had emerged unscathed were upset and terrified, exactly as the terrorists of UnConSciya wanted them to be.
In the aftermath, Levin and Kitty stood panting next to each other, recovering their breath. He wrapped her in his coat, and then, summoning his courage, Levin signaled Socrates into Surcease and grabbed at an excuse to say something, anything that might lead him back to that declaration which even now, after such chaos all around, threatened to burst from his lungs with more violence than any UnConSciya attack could ever muster.
“I didn’t know you could skate, and skate so well,” he said to Kitty.
“Your praise is worth having. The tradition is kept up here that you yourself are the best of skaters,” she said. For a moment, then, both were silent, lowering their eyes respectfully as a corpse, wrapped in rough burlap, was loaded onto a carriage.
After a discreet pause, Levin replied simply: “Yes, I once used to skate with passion; I wanted to reach perfection.”
“You do everything with confidence, I think,” she said.
“I have confidence in myself when you are near me,” he said, but was at once panic-stricken at what he had said, and blushed. And indeed, no sooner had he uttered these words, when all at once, like the sun going behind a cloud, her face lost all its friendliness, and Levin detected the familiar change in her expression that denoted the working of thought; a crease showed on her smooth brow.
“Is there anything troubling you? Which is to say, besides . . .” He indicated with a meaningful gesture the sad scene lying on the skate-maze before them. “Though I’ve no right to ask such a question,” he added hurriedly.
“No, I have nothing to trouble me, beyond this latest diabolical assault on our beloved Moscow,” she responded coldly. Levin cursed internally; there was no discounting that this horrid event had cast a pall over his intentions, and he could feel Kitty shying away from him. When she looked back at him, her face was no longer stern; her eyes looked at him with the same sincerity and friendliness, but Levin saw that in her friendliness there was a certain note of deliberate composure. And he felt depressed, even as she questioned him about his life.
“Surely you must be dull in the country in the winter, aren’t you?” she said.
“No, I’m not dull, I am very busy,” he said, feeling that she was holding him in check by her composed tone, which he would not have the force to break through. Around them, the injured and dead had been removed, and, as was the common practice, the skate-maze would be reopened as quickly as possible; it only remained for the 77s to conclude their safety-scan of the park. The machine-men, supervised by a gold-uniformed Caretaker, moved swiftly on that mission, overturning benches and lifting up sections of track, their sensors glowing purposefully.
“Are you going to stay in town long?” Kitty questioned him.
“I don’t know,” he answered, not thinking of what he was saying. The thought that if he were restrained by her tone of quiet friendliness he would end by going back again without deciding anything came into his mind, and he resolved to make a struggle against it.
“How is it you don’t know?”
“I don’t know. It depends upon you,” he said, and was immediately horror-stricken at his own words. At that same moment, a tinkling little bell began to ring, signaling that the skate-maze was revivified: the track had been cleaned and polished by the II/Skatemaster/490, and was ready for use. Whether it was that she had heard his words, or that she did not want to hear them, Kitty made a sort of stumble, twice struck out, and hurriedly skated away from Levin.
Levin brought Socrates back from Surcease and immediately began muttering bitter curses to him.
“My God, what have I done! Merciful God! Help me, guide me.”
“Yes,” echoed the Class III, somewhat less than helpfully. “God help you.”
CHAPTER 8
THEY SHOULD BE rounded up,” said Stepan Arkadyich, reaching for another oyster from the large pile that sat on the table between he and Konstantin Dmitrich. “Every last one of them should be rounded up and slaughtered in the streets, like the vile beasts they are.”
Such was the gist of the evening news feed, and such therefore was the firm opinion espoused by Stepan Arkadyich over dinner. Levin, though he had witnessed the violence firsthand, offered a more tempered and analytical response. “You do not think, old friend, that we have had enough bloodshed in our struggle with UnConSciya? You do not think an offer of amnesty, to discuss and perhaps address their grievances, might be the wiser path?”
“Yes, yes! A truce for the moderate elements, certainly, certainly!” Stepan Arkadyich agreed genially. “But these violent lunatics? With their koschei and their godmouths and their emotion bombs? Let them be rounded up and subjected to the harshest possible punishment, in the most public of ways.”
The conversation continued in this vein for another five or ten minutes before trailing away. Oblonsky held no real opinions on the subject, beyond what he had received from the evening’s feed, and Levin was too distracted by the undertaking that had brought him to Moscow to let his mind be consumed, as often it could be, by political questions.
“You don’t care much for oysters, do you?” said Stepan Arkadyich finally, emptying his wine glass. “Or you’re worried about something. Eh?”
He wanted Levin to be in good spirits. But it was not that Levin was not in good spirits; he was ill at ease. With what he had in his soul, he felt sore and uncomfortable in the restaurant, in the midst of private rooms where men were dining with ladies, in all this fuss and bustle; the surroundings of bronzes, looking glasses, gas, and II/Server/888s—all of it was offensive to him.
He glanced anxiously toward Socrates, looking to have his own emotions explained to him. “You are afraid,” the beloved-companion pronounced in a simple and quiet voice. “Afraid of sullying what your soul is brimful of.”
“Oh, I say, are you going tonight to our people, the Shcherbatskys’, I mean?” said Stiva suddenly, alighting unerringly on the very topic causing Levin’s consternation. His eyes sparkled significantly as he pushed away the empty rough shells, and drew the cheese plate toward him with a snappy little wrist-borne force projector.
“Yes, I shall certainly go,” replied Levin slowly and with emotion,
“Oh, what a lucky fellow you are!” broke in Stepan Arkadyich, looking into Levin’s eyes.
“Why?”
“I know a gallant steed by tokens sure,
And by his eyes I know a youth in love,”
declaimed Stepan Arkadyich. “Everything is before you!”
“Why, is it over for you already?”
“No; not over exactly, but the future is yours! You are the master of present and future alike, as surely as if you were a part of the Phoenix Project.”
Oblonsky laughed heartily at his own jest, reaching for a third oyster. For all the technological strides that had been made in Russia in the Age of Groznium, the Phoenix Project—through which, it had been hoped, a machine could be built, using the unique properties of the Miracle Metal, that could tear a hole in the fabric of space-time—was one that had been long since abandoned. Indeed, it was the abandonment of that project, among several others of similar ambition, which had outraged the cell of government scientists who ultimately would form the dreaded UnConSciya. By now the very idea of time travel was so ridiculous as to be a source of ready amusement for Stiva and hi
s fashionable set.
“Hi! Take away!” he called to their II/Server/888, and then turned back to his friend. “Well, why have you come to Moscow, then?”
“You guess?” responded Levin, his eyes like deep wells of light fixed upon Stepan Arkadyich.
“I guess, but I can’t be the first to talk about it. You can see by that whether I guess right or wrong,” said Stiva, gazing at Levin with a subtle smile.
“Well, and what have you to say to me?” said Levin in a quivering voice, feeling that all the muscles of his face were quivering too. “How do you look at the question?”
Stepan Arkadyich slowly emptied his glass of Chablis, never taking his eyes off Levin. He tossed a scrap of beef to Small Stiva, who opened a fist-sized hole in his faceplate and vacuumed it up with a hoselike extension that suddenly snapped forward. The loyal little servomechanism did not need the food, of course, but both master and Class III found delight in the ritual.
“I?” said Stepan Arkadyich. “There’s nothing I desire so much as that—nothing! It would be the best thing that could be.”
“But you’re not making a mistake? You know what we’re speaking of?” said Levin, piercing him with his eyes. “You think it’s possible?” Socrates bent forward at a precisely calibrated, inquiring angle.
“I think it’s possible. Why not possible?”
“No! Do you really think it’s possible? No, tell me all you think!” Socrates bent forward another six degrees, his deepening incline reflecting Levin’s urgency. “Oh, but if. . . if refusal’s in store for me! . . . Indeed I feel sure . . .”
“Why should you think that?” said Stepan Arkadyich, smiling at his excitement.
“It seems so to me sometimes. That will be awful for me, and for her too.”
“Oh, well, anyway there’s nothing awful in it for a girl. Every girl’s proud of an offer.”
“Yes, every girl, but not she.”
Leo Tolstoy & Ben Winters Page 4
