Doomed City

by Arkady Strugatsky

  Andrei was already pushing his way through the armed crowd when someone called his name. He stopped and turned his head.

  “Here I am, over this way!” barked a familiar voice, and Andrei finally spotted Uncle Yura.

  Uncle Yura was waddling toward him, already holding out his hand to be shaken—still in the same old tunic, with his fore-and-aft cap cocked to one side, and the machine gun that Andrei knew so well hanging on a broad strap over his shoulder.

  “Howdy-do, Andriukha, you old townie!” he exclaimed, slapping his rough hand loudly into Andrei’s palm. “Here I’ve been looking for you everywhere; there’s a ruckus on, I think, no way our Andriukha’s going to miss that! He’s a spunky fellow, I think, he’s got to be hanging around here somewhere.”

  Uncle Yura was pretty plastered. He tugged the machine gun off his shoulder, leaned his armpit on the barrel like a crutch, and carried on talking with the same vehement passion. “I go this way, I go that way—and still no Andriukha. Son of a bitch, I think, what the hell’s going on? That blond-haired Fritz of yours—he’s here. Rubbing shoulders with the country folk, making speeches . . . But I can’t find you anywhere.”

  “Hang on, Uncle Yura,” said Andrei. “What did you come here for?”

  “To demand my rights!” Uncle Yura chuckled, his beard splaying out like a twig broom. “That’s what I came here for, and only for that—but it doesn’t look like we’re going to get anywhere here.” He spat and scraped the gobbet into the ground with his immense boot. “The people are lousy vermin. They don’t know themselves what they came here for. Whether they came to ask or they came to demand, or maybe neither one thing nor the other, just because they missed the big-city life—we’ll camp here for a while, shit all over your City, and then go back home. The people are shit. Look . . .” He swung around and waved to someone. “For instance, take Stas Kowalski, my little friend here . . . Stas! Stas, fuck it . . . Come over here!”

  Stas came over—a skinny, round-shouldered man with mournfully dangling ends to his mustache and a sparse head of hair. He gave off a devastating reek of home brew and only stayed on his feet by instinctive reflex response, but every now and then he defiantly flung up his head, grabbed at the strange-looking short-barreled machine gun hanging around his neck, raised his eyelids with an immense effort, and glanced around menacingly.

  “This here is Stas,” Uncle Yura went on. “Stas fought in the war, he did—tell him! No, tell him: Did you fight or didn’t you?” Uncle Yura demanded, fervently grasping Stas around the shoulders and swaying in time with him.

  “Heh! Ho!” Stas responded, straining every fiber to demonstrate that he did fight, that he fought real hard, that no words could express how hard he fought.

  “He’s drunk right now,” Uncle Yura explained. “He can’t stand it when there’s no sun . . . Where was I? Right! You ask this fool what he’s doing hanging around here . . . There are guns. There are boys with fire in their belly. What more do you need, I ask you?”

  “Hang on,” said Andrei. “What is it you want?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you!” Uncle Yura said intensely, letting go of Stas, who immediately drifted off to one side, following a long, gentle curve. “What I’m trying to get through to you! Hammer the bastards just once, that’s all! They haven’t got any machine guns! We’ll trample them with our boots, smother them under our caps.” He abruptly stopped talking and slung his machine gun back over his shoulder: “Let’s go.”

  “Where to?”

  “We’ll go have a drink. We’ve got to drink this damned nonsense to hell and get out of here, go back home. What’s the point in wasting time? I’ve got potatoes rotting back there . . . Let’s go.”

  “No, Uncle Yura,” Andrei said in an apologetic voice. “I can’t right now. I’ve got to go into City Hall.”

  “Into City Hall? Let’s go! Stas! Stas, fuck you . . .”

  “Hang on there, Uncle Yura! You’re . . . you know . . . they won’t let you in.”

  “Mmme?” Uncle Yura roared with his eyes glittering. “Right, let’s go! We’ll see who’s not going to let me in. Stas!”

  He put his arm around Andrei’s shoulder and dragged him across the empty, brightly lit space, straight toward the line of policemen.

  “Understand this,” he muttered ardently straight into Andrei’s ear as Andrei tried to resist. “I’m afraid, OK? I haven’t told anyone, but I’ll tell you. Terrified! What if the fire never flares up again, eh? They’ve dragged us here and dumped us . . . No, let them explain, let them tell us the truth, the bastards—we can’t live like this. I’ve stopped sleeping, got it? That never happened to me even at the front . . . You think I’m drunk? No damned way am I drunk—I’ve got fear running through my veins.”

  Andrei felt a shiver run down his spine at this delirious muttering. He stopped about five steps from the police line, feeling as if everyone in the square had gone silent and all of them, policemen and farmers, were watching him. Trying hard to sound convincing, he declared, “I’ll tell you what, Uncle Yura. I’ll just go in for a minute and settle one question to do with my paper, and you wait for me here. Then we’ll go to my place and have a proper talk about everything.”

  Uncle Yura shook his beard furiously. “No, I’m with you. There’s a certain question I have to settle too.”

  “But they won’t let you in. And because of you they won’t let me in!”

  “Come on, let’s go . . . Let’s go . . .” Uncle Yura repeated. “What does that mean—they won’t let us in? Why not? We’ll be quiet . . . and dignified.”

  They were already right beside the line, and a stout police captain in a natty uniform, with an unbuttoned holster on the left side of his belt, stepped toward them and inquired drily, “Where are you going, gentlemen?”

  “I am the senior editor of the City Gazette,” said Andrei, furtively shoving away Uncle Yura so that he wouldn’t embrace him. “I have to see the deputy political consultant.”

  “May I see your credentials?” A palm clad in kidskin was extended toward Andrei.

  Andrei took out his editor’s pass, handed it to the captain, and squinted at Uncle Yura. To his surprise, Uncle Yura was now standing there calmly, sniffing and occasionally adjusting the strap of his machine gun, although there was absolutely no need for that. His eyes, which didn’t look drunk at all, ran along the police line in casual curiosity.

  “You can go through,” the captain said politely, handing back the pass. “Although I should tell you . . .” But without finishing what he was saying, he turned to Uncle Yura. “And you?”

  “He’s with me,” Andrei said hastily. “A representative, so to speak . . . er . . . from the farmers.”

  “Credentials!”

  “What kind of credentials can a peasant have?” Uncle Yura asked bitterly.

  “I can’t let you in without credentials.”

  “Why can’t I go in without credentials?” asked Uncle Yura, totally distressed now. “Without some lousy piece of paper, I’m not even a human being, is that it?”

  Someone breathed hotly on the back of Andrei’s neck. It was Stas Kowalski, still twitching belligerently and swaying about as he brought up the rear. Several more men were feebly straggling across the brightly lit space, as if reluctant to cross it.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, don’t group together!” the captain said nervously. “You go through, sir!” he shouted angrily at Andrei. “Gentlemen, go back. Congregating is forbidden!”

  “So, if I haven’t got a piece of paper with scribble on it,” Uncle Yura lamented despondently, “that means I won’t be let through anywhere at all.”

  “Smash him in the face!” Stas suggested from behind in a surprisingly clear voice.

  The captain grabbed Andrei by the sleeve of his raincoat and jerked, so that Andrei immediately found himself behind the backs of the police line. The line quickly closed up, blocking out the farmers who had crowded together in front of the captain, and with
out waiting to see how events developed, Andrei strode quickly toward the gloomy, feebly lit portal. He heard a buzz of voices behind him.

  “Give them grain, give them meat, but if we want to get in anywhere . . .”

  “If you please, do not congregate! I have orders to arrest . . .”

  “Why won’t you let our representative through, eh?”

  “The sun! The sun, you bastards, when are you going to light it again?”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Now what has that got to do with me?”

  More police came spilling down the snow-white marble steps toward Andrei, with their metal boot tips clattering. They were armed with rifles with bayonets fixed. A tense voice ordered, “Grenades at the ready!” Andrei reached the top of the steps and looked back. Men were scattered across the brightly lit space now. Farmers, some moving slowly and some at a run, were advancing from their camp toward the large black throng that was gathering.

  With an effort, Andrei pulled open the door—tall and heavy, bound in copper—and walked into the vestibule. It was dark in here too, and the air had the distinctive harsh smell of a barracks. Policemen were sleeping jammed up against each other, covered with their greatcoats, in the luxurious armchairs, on the sofas, and right there on the floor. Indistinct figures of some kind hovered on the feebly lit gallery that ran around three sides of the vestibule below the ceiling. Andrei couldn’t make out if they had guns or not.

  He ran up the soft carpet runner to the second floor, where the press office was, and set off along the broad corridor. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by doubt. There was something too quiet about this huge building today. Usually there were scads of people hanging around here, typewriters clacking, telephones jangling, the air was filled with the buzz of conversation and imperious shouting, but now there was none of that. Some of the offices were wide open, with darkness inside, and even in the corridor only every fourth lamp was lit.

  His premonition hadn’t deceived him: the political consultant’s office was locked, and two strangers were sitting in the deputy’s office, wearing identical gray coats, buttoned right up to the chin, and identical bowler hats, tipped forward over their eyes.

  “Excuse me,” Andrei said angrily. “Where can I find the deputy political consultant?

  The heads in the bowler hats lazily turned in his direction. “What do you want him for?” asked the shorter of the two men.

  Suddenly this man’s face didn’t seem so very unfamiliar, and neither did his voice. And suddenly it seemed strange and worrying that this man was here. He had no business being here . . . Andrei stooped down and, trying to speak curtly and resolutely, explained who he was and what he wanted.

  “Well, come in, will you?” said the half-familiar man. “Why are you standing in the door like that?”

  Andrei stepped inside and looked around, but he didn’t see anything; that smoothly shaved eunuch’s face was hovering in front of his eyes. Where have I seen him before? An unsavory kind of character . . . and dangerous . . . I shouldn’t have come in here, I’m just wasting time.

  The little man in the bowler hat was studying him intently too. It was quiet. The tall windows were covered with heavy drapes, and the noise from outside barely even reached them in here. The small man in the bowler hat suddenly jumped to his feet and moved right up close to Andrei. His little gray eyes, with almost no lashes, blinked repeatedly, and a massive, gristly Adam’s apple skipped up from the top button of his coat all the way to his chin and slid back down again.

  “Senior editor?” said the little man, and at that moment Andrei finally recognized him, and he felt his legs turn numb under him as he realized with paralyzing anguish that he had been recognized too.

  The eunuch’s face grinned, revealing sparse, bad teeth, the little man crouched down, and Andrei felt a vicious pain in his belly, as if all his insides had burst, and through the nauseous haze in his eyes he suddenly saw the waxed floor . . . Run, run . . . A display of fireworks flared up in his brain, and the dark, distant ceiling, cobwebbed with cracks, started swaying and slowly revolving high above him . . . White-hot spikes thrust out of the suffocating darkness that had descended on him and jabbed into his ribs . . . He’ll kill me . . . he’s going to kill me! Andrei’s head suddenly swelled up and jammed itself into a narrow, stinking crack, skinning his ears, and a thunderous voice kept repeating languidly, “Cool it, Tailbone, cool it, not all at once . . .” Andrei shouted out with all his might, a thick, warm slush filled his mouth, and he choked on it and puked.

  There was no one in the room. The immense drapes had been pulled back, the window was open, there was a draft of damp, cold air, and he could hear a distant roaring. Andrei struggled up onto all fours and crept along the wall. Toward the door. He had to get out of here . . .

  In the corridor Andrei puked again. He lay on the floor for a while in blank, mindless exhaustion, then tried to get up onto his feet. I’m in a bad way, he thought. A really bad way. He sat down and felt at his face, and it was damp and sticky, then he discovered that he could only see with one eye. His ribs hurt and it was hard to breathe. His jaws hurt, and his lower belly was cramped in appalling, unbearable agony. That bastard, Tailbone. He’s maimed me . . . Andrei burst into tears. He sat on the floor in the empty corridor, leaning back against the gilded flourishes, and cried. He simply couldn’t help himself. Weeping, he tugged up the hem of his raincoat with a struggle and reached in under his trouser belt. The pain was appalling, but not down there, higher up. His entire belly hurt. His shorts were wet.

  Someone came running out of the depths of the corridor with his boots thudding heavily and stopped, standing over him. Some policeman—sweaty and red faced, with no cap and bewildered eyes. He stood there for a few seconds as if uncertain what to do, then suddenly went dashing on, and a second policeman came running out of the depths of the corridor, tearing off his tunic as he ran.

  And then Andrei realized there was a roaring, multitudinous hubbub coming from the same direction they’d come from. He got up with a struggle and dragged himself toward that hubbub, clinging to the wall, still sobbing, feeling in horror at his face and repeatedly stopping to stand for a while, hunching over and clutching his belly.

  He reached the stairway and grabbed at the slippery marble banister. Down below a thick human mush was heaving about in the immense vestibule. It was impossible to understand what was happening. Searchlights installed along the gallery illuminated the mush with a cold, blinding light, and Andrei glimpsed beards of various shapes and sizes, uniform caps, the gold laces of police shoulder knots, fixed bayonets, hands with splayed fingers and pale bald patches, and from all this a warm, moist stench rose up toward the ceiling.

  Andrei closed his eyes in order not to see any of it and started moving down, feeling his way, hand over hand, along the banister, advancing any way he could—backward, sideways—not really understanding why he was doing this. He stopped several times to catch his breath and groan, opened his eyes and looked down, and the sight made his agony unbearable again; he squeezed his eyes shut and started moving again, hand over hand along the banister. At the bottom of the stairs his arms finally gave out and he fell and tumbled down the last few steps onto a marble landing decorated with immense bronze spittoons. Through the haze and hubbub he suddenly heard a hoarse, strident roar: “Lookee here, it’s Andriukha! Boys, they’re killing our people up there!” Opening his eyes, Andrei saw Uncle Yura only a short distance away, mussed and disheveled, still in his dilapidated tunic, with his eyes goggling wildly and his beard splayed out, and Andrei saw Uncle Yura raise his machine gun in his outstretched hands, still roaring like a bull, and fire a long burst along the gallery, at the searchlights, at both tiers of windows in the broad hall of the vestibule . . .

  After that there were fragmentary impressions, because consciousness ebbed and flowed together with the ebb and flow of the pain and the nausea. First he found himself at the center of the vestibule and discovered that he was stubbornly cr
awling on all fours toward the wide-open door in the distance, clambering over motionless bodies, with his hands skidding in something wet and cold. Someone was moaning monotonously right beside him, intoning, “Oh God, oh God, God . . .” The carpet was thickly strewn with splinters of glass, spent cartridges, and lumps of plaster. Some terrible men with blazing torches in their hands burst in through the open door and ran straight toward him . . .

  Then he came to outside, in the portal. He was sitting there with his legs spread wide, propping himself up with his palms pressed against the cold stone, and there was a rifle with no bolt lying on his knees. He could smell fresh smoke, somewhere on the edge of consciousness a machine gun was roaring, and horses were squealing frantically, and he kept monotonously repeating out loud, hammering the words into his own head: “They’ll trample me to death here, they’re bound to trample me to death . . .”

  But they didn’t trample him. He came to again in the road, at one side of the steps. He was pressing his cheek against the rough granite, a mercury lamp was glowing brightly above his head, the rifle was gone, and it felt as if he didn’t have a body, as if he were suspended in the air with his cheek pressed against the granite, and some kind of grotesque tragedy was being played out on the square in front of him, as if it were a stage.

  He saw an armored car hurtling along, clanking and roaring, following the line of streetlamps bordering the square and the ring of interlocked carts and wagons, swinging its machine gun turret from side to side, belching out fire and sending glittering trails spurting right across the square, and there was a horse galloping along in front of the armored car with its head thrown back, dragging its snapped traces. Then suddenly a covered wagon trundled out from among the thick mass of carts, right across the armored car’s path; the horse jerked aside wildly, crashing into a streetlamp, the armored car braked sharply and skidded, and at that moment a tall man in black ran out into the open space, swung his arm, and fell full length on the asphalt. There was a flash of flame under the armored car, a low, rumbling blast, and the entire metal bulk subsided heavily to the rear. The man in black was running again. He rounded the armored car, thrust something into the driver’s observation port, and jumped aside, and then Andrei saw that it was Fritz Heiger, and the observation port was lit up from the inside; there was a loud blast inside the armored car and a long, smoky tongue of flame flew out of the observation port. Moving on half-bent legs, with his long arms stretched right down to the ground, Fritz sidled around the vehicle like a crab, and then the armored door opened and a shaggy bale of something enveloped in flames tumbled out onto the asphalt and started rolling about, howling piercingly and scattering sparks . . .