“Don’t be such a hooligan,” Andrei said good-humoredly.
“But that’s the way I am,” said Selma. “Or had you forgotten?”
Andrei looked her over from head to toe. “No, I hadn’t forgotten,” he said. “Want me to tumble you over into the grass right now?”
“Yes,” said Selma.
Andrei looked around. Two characters in peaked caps were sitting and smoking on the roof of the nearest ruin, with their legs dangling. Right beside them, standing at a skewed angle on a mound of garbage, was a crudely made tripod with a wrecking ball dangling on a crooked chain. “They’re staring,” he said. “A pity. I’d have showed you, Mrs. Counselor.”
“Go on, tumble her over, stop wasting time!” someone shouted in a loud voice from the roof. “You young dork!”
Andrei pretended he hadn’t heard. “Are you going straight home now?” he asked.
Selma looked at her watch. “I’ve got to call in to the hair salon,” she said.
Andrei suddenly got an unfamiliar, exciting feeling. Suddenly he was very clearly aware that here he was, a counselor, an important member of the president’s personal chancellery and a highly respected man, who had a wife—a beautiful wife—and a gracious home, and here was his wife, about to go to the hair salon, because in the evening they would be receiving guests, and the guests would be not just anybody but all respectable and important people, the right kind of people, the best in the City. A sensation of sudden awareness of his own maturity, his own importance and responsibility—could that be it? He was a complete adult, a fully developed, independent individual, married. He was a mature man, standing firmly on his own two feet. The only thing missing was children—he had everything else that real adults had . . .
“Good day to you, Mr. Counselor!” a respectful voice declared.
They had already emerged from the derelict district. The granite parapet was there, running along on their left, there were patterned concrete slabs under their feet on their right, and ahead of them stood the colossal white bulk of the Glass House, and immediately in their path, standing to attention and holding two fingers to the visor of his uniform cap, was a young, dapper, black-skinned policeman in the light blue uniform of external security.
Andrei nodded to him absentmindedly and said to Selma, “I’m sorry, you were saying something, I got lost in thought . . .”
“I was saying, don’t forget to call Ruhmer. I’ll need the man for more than the rug now. We have to get in wine, and vodka . . . The colonel likes whiskey, and Dolfuss likes beer . . . I think I’ll get a whole crate.”
“Yes! Get him to change the ceiling lamp in the lavatory!” said Andrei. “And you make beef bourguignonne. Shall I send Amalia round?”
They parted at the path leading off from their road to the Glass House. Selma walked on, and Andrei savored watching her walk before he turned to the side and walked toward the west entrance.
The broad plaza, paved with concrete slabs, that surrounded the building was empty, with only the blue uniforms of security men dotted around here and there. As always, new arrivals were loitering idly under the trees bordering the plaza, avidly gawping at the seat of power, and pensioners with walking canes were giving them explanations.
Dolfuss’s old jalopy was already standing at the entrance with the hood raised as always and the bottom half of the driver, encased in glittering chrome leather, protruding from the engine. Standing right beside it was a filthy, stinking farm truck, straight out of the swamps, with grubby, scraped, red and blue legs of beef jutting up untidily above its sides. Flies circled around above the meat. The owner of the truck, a farmer, was arguing abusively with the security guard in the doorway. They had apparently been arguing for quite a long time: the duty head of security was already there, as well as three policemen, and another two were approaching at a leisurely pace, walking up the broad steps from the plaza.
Andrei thought the farmer looked familiar—a skinny beanpole of a man with dangling ends to his mustache. He reeked of sweat, gasoline, and stale alcohol fumes. Andrei showed his pass and walked through into the vestibule, and on the way he heard the farmer demanding to see President Heiger in person and the security guard trying to impress on him that this was the staff entrance and the farmer should go around the building and try his luck at the reception office. As they argued, the men’s voices gradually grew louder and louder.
Andrei rode up in the elevator to the fifth floor and stepped inside a door embellished with an inscription in gold and black: PERSONAL CHANCELLERY OF THE PRESIDENT FOR SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY. The couriers sitting at the entrance got to their feet when he entered, and all hid their smoking cigarette butts behind their backs with identical gestures. In the broad, white corridor there was no one else to be seen, but from behind the doors, exactly the way it used to be in the newspaper offices, he could hear telephones ringing, voices briskly dictating, and typewriters clattering. The chancellery was working at full tilt. Andrei opened a door with a plaque that said COUNSELOR A. VORONIN and stepped into his own reception office.
Here too people rose to their feet to greet him: the fat, constantly sweating head of the Geodesy Sector, Quejada; the apathetic, mournful-looking chief of the personnel department, Vareikis; a fidgety, aging woman from the finance office; and some unfamiliar, athletic-looking young boy—he had to be a new arrival, waiting to be presented. And his personal secretary, Amalia, smiling at him as she quickly got to her feet at her little desk with a typewriter by the window.
“Good day, good day, ladies and gentlemen,” Andrei said in a loud voice, putting on his most benign smile. “I beg your pardon! The damned buses are packed solid—I had to foot it all the way from the Construction Site . . .”
He started shaking hands: Quejada’s massive, sweaty paw, Vareikis’s flaccid fin, the finance lady’s bunch of dry bones (Why the hell has she come to see me? What could she possibly want here?), and the cast-iron blade of the sullen-looking new arrival.
“I think we’ll let the lady to the front of the line,” he said. “Madam, if you please . . .”—that was to the finance woman. “Is there anything urgent?”—that was to Amalia, in a low voice. “Thank you . . .” He took the phonogram that she held out to him and opened the door into his own office. “After you, madam, after you . . .”
He unfolded the telephonogram as he walked over to the desk. Glancing at the piece of paper, he pointed out a chair for the woman to sit on, then sat down and placed the phonogram in front of him.
“What can I do for you?”
The woman started jabbering. Andrei listened to her attentively, smiling with just the corners of his lips and tapping a little pencil on the telephonogram. Everything was clear to him from the first few words she uttered.
“Pardon me,” he said, interrupting her after a minute and a half. “I understand you. It is not actually our practice to hire people as a personal favor. However, in your case, we are undoubtedly dealing with an exception. If your daughter really is so interested in cosmography that she has studied it independently while still in school . . . Please call my head of personnel. I’ll have a word with him.” He stood up. “Such ambition in our young people should definitely be welcomed and encouraged in every possible way . . .” He showed her to the door. “This is entirely in the spirit of the new times . . . Don’t thank me, madam, I am simply performing my duty. All the very best to you . . .”
He went back to the desk and reread the phonogram: “The president invites Mr. Counselor Voronin to his office at 1400.” That was all. On what business? What for? What should I take with me? Strange . . . Probably Fritz is simply feeling bored and wants to chew the fat for a while. Fourteen hundred hours—that’s the lunch break. So we’re having lunch with the president . . .
He picked up the internal phone. “Amalia, let me have Quejada.”
The door opened and Quejada walked in, leading the athletic-looking youth after him by the sleeve. “Allow me to introduce you, Mr. Coun
selor,” he began straight from the doorway, “to this young man . . . Douglas Ketcher . . . He is a new arrival, who arrived here only a month ago, and he gets bored with being stuck in the same place all the time.”
“Well,” Andrei laughed, “we all get bored with being stuck the same place all the time. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ketcher. Where are you from? And from what time?”
“Dallas, Texas,” the youth replied in a surprisingly deep voice, smiling shyly. “Sixty-three.”
“Have you graduated from anywhere?”
“A regular college. Then I went on a lot of expeditions with geologists. Oil prospecting.”
“Excellent,” said Andrei. “That’s just what we need.” He toyed with the little pencil. “Perhaps you don’t know this, Ketcher, but here it’s customary to ask: Why? Did you run away from something? Or were you seeking adventure? Or were you intrigued by the Experiment?”
Douglas Ketcher frowned, grasped the thumb of his left hand in his right hand, and looked out the window. “You could say I ran away,” he mumbled.
“Their president was shot,” Quejada explained, mopping his face with a handkerchief. “Right there in his home city.”
“Ah, so that’s it,” Andrei said in an understanding tone of voice. “Did you fall under suspicion for some reason?”
The youth shook his head, and Quejada said, “No, that’s not it. It’s a long story. He had very high hopes of this president, the president was his idol—in short, it’s psychological.”
“Goddamn country,” the youth declared. “Nothing will ever save them.”
“I see, I see,” said Andrei, nodding sympathetically. “But you do know that we no longer recognize the Experiment?”
The youth shrugged his powerful shoulders. “That’s all the same to me. I like it here. Only I don’t like being stuck in one place all the time. I get bored in town. And Mr. Quejada has suggested I could go on an expedition . . .”
“For a start I want to send him to Son’s group,” said Quejada. “He’s a strong youngster, he has some sort of experience, and you know how hard it is to find men to work in the jungle.”
“Well then,” said Andrei. “Very glad to have met you, Ketcher. I like the look of you, and I hope things will continue that way.”
Ketcher nodded awkwardly and got up. Quejada got up too, panting.
“One more thing,” said Andrei, raising his finger. “I’d like to warn you, Ketcher, that the City and the Glass House are interested in you continuing your studies. We don’t need people who simply do things—we have enough of them here. We need qualified people. I’m sure you’d make an excellent oil engineer . . . What’s his Intelligence Index like, Quejada?”
“Eighty-seven,” said Quejada, chuckling.
“There, you see . . . I have grounds for my confidence in you.”
“I’ll try my best,” Douglas Ketcher mumbled, and looked at Quejada.
“That’s all we have to say,” said Quejada.
“And that’s all I have to say,” said Andrei. “The best of luck to you . . . And let Vareikis in to see me.”
As usual, Vareikis didn’t walk in but advanced into the office one part at a time, repeatedly looking back through the crack of the half-open door. Then he closed the door firmly, hobbled soundlessly over to the desk, and sat down. The expression on his face became more emphatically doleful and the corners of his lips turned all the way down.
“Just so I don’t forget,” said Andrei. “That woman from the finance office was here.”
“I know,” Vareikis said quietly. “Her daughter.”
“Yes. Well then, I have no objections.”
“For Quejada,” Vareikis half-asked, half-stated.
“No, I think for the data processors.”
“All right,” said Vareikis, and pulled a notepad out of his inside pocket. “Regulation 017,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Yes?”
“The latest assessment has been completed,” Vareikis said in an even quieter voice. “Eight employees have been identified with an index below the required level of 75.”
“Why 75? According to the regulation the minimum intelligence index is 67.”
“According to a clarification from the President’s Personal Chancellery for Personnel”—Vareikis’s lips barely even moved—“the minimum intelligence index for employees of the President’s Personal Chancellery for Science and Technology is 75.”
“Ah, so that’s it . . .” said Andrei, scratching the top of his head. “Hmm . . . Well now, that’s logical.”
“In addition,” Vareikis continued, “five of the eight are even ranked below 67. Here is the list.”
Andrei took the list and looked through it. Half-familiar names, two men and six women . . . “Oh, come on now,” he said, frowning. “Amalia Torn . . . That’s my Amalia! What sort of hocus-pocus is this?”
“Fifty-eight,” said Vareikis.
“And the last time?”
“I wasn’t here the last time.”
“She’s a secretary!” said Andrei. “My secretary! My personal secretary!”
Vareikis remained dismally silent.
Andrei glanced though the list again. Rashidov . . . he’s a geodesist, I think . . . Someone praised him to me. Or did they lambaste him? Tatyana Postnik. A technician. Ah, she’s the one with the curls and that cute little face, Quejada had something going on with her . . . ah, no, that’s a different one . . . “All right,” he said, “I’ll deal with this and we’ll talk about it again. It would be good if you could request clarification through your own channels concerning posts such as secretary, technician . . . concerning auxiliary personnel. We can’t make the same demands of them as we do of the scientific workers. After all, we have couriers listed on our staff . . .”
“Very well,” said Vareikis.
“Anything else?” Andrei asked.
“Yes. Regulation 003.”
Andrei frowned. “I don’t recall that one.”
“Advocating the idea of the Experiment.”
“Ah,” said Andrei. “Well?”
“There are regular alarm signals concerning the following individuals.” Vareikis put another sheet of paper in front of Andrei. There were only three names on the list. All were men. All three of them were heads of sectors. Fundamental sectors. Cosmography, Social Psychology, and Geodesy. Sullivan, Butz, and Quejada. Andrei drummed his fingers on the list. What a damned disaster, he thought. Back to the same old dreck. But keep calm. We need to watch our step here. There’s no way to get through to this blockhead, and I still have to work with him for a long, long time . . . “Disturbing,” he declared. “Very disturbing. I assume the information has been checked? There are no errors?”
“Crosschecked and repeatedly confirmed information,” Vareikis said in a colorless voice. “Sullivan claims that the Experiment on the City is still going on. According to him, the Glass House is continuing the line of the Experiment, regardless of its own intentions. He claims that the Turning Point is only one stage of the Experiment.”
Hallowed words, thought Andrei. Izya says the same thing, and Fritz doesn’t like it at all. Only Izya is allowed to say it, and the unfortunate Sullivan isn’t.
“Quejada,” Vareikis continued. “Expresses admiration for the scientific and technical prowess of the hypothetical experimenters in the presence of his subordinates. Belittles the value of the president’s work and the work of the presidential council. Has twice compared these activities to the scrabbling of mice in a cardboard shoebox . . .”
Andrei listened with his eyes lowered, keeping a stony face.
“And finally, Butz. Makes hostile remarks about the president. In an inebriated state has referred to the current political leadership as the dictatorship of mediocrity over cretins.”
Andrei couldn’t restrain himself—he groaned. What the hell makes them say it, he thought irritably, pushing the sheet of paper away. The elite, they’re called, and they saw off the branch they�
�re sitting on . . . “But even so, you know,” he said to Vareikis. “But even so, you are aware . . .”
He shouldn’t have said that. It was stupid. Vareikis stared mournfully into his face, without blinking.
“Excellent work, Vareikis,” said Andrei. “I’ve got nothing to worry about with you there looking out for me . . . I assume this information”—he tapped his fingernail on the sheet of paper—“has already been forwarded through the usual channels?”
“It will be forwarded today,” said Vareikis. “I was obliged to inform you first.”
“Excellent,” Andrei said cheerfully. “Forward it.” He fastened both pieces of paper together with a pin and placed them in the blue folder with the title REPORT TO THE PRESIDENT. “We’ll see what our Ruhmer decides concerning this matter.”
“Since this is not the first time that we have received information of this kind,” Vareikis said, “I assume that Mr. Ruhmer will recommend removing these men from their senior positions.”
Andrei looked at Vareikis, trying to focus his eyes somewhere behind Vareikis’s back. “Yesterday I went to a screening of a new movie,” he said. “The Naked and the Bosses. We approved it, so it will soon be released for the big screen. I really, really do recommend you watch it. You know, it’s such . . .”
He launched into a leisurely, detailed exposition of this gruesome example of hideous banality, which Fritz had genuinely liked—and he wasn’t the only one. Vareikis listened in silence, nodding every now and then in the most unexpected places—as if suddenly recalling where he was. His face still expressed nothing but gloom and despondency. It was obvious that he had lost the thread long ago and didn’t understand a single thing. At the most crucial point in the plot, when Vareikis had clearly realized that he would have to listen right through to the very end, Andrei broke off with a blatant yawn and said complacently, “Well, and so on, in the same vein. You must watch it . . . By the way, what kind of impression did young Ketcher make on you?”
“Ketcher? So far I have the impression that he is all right.”
Doomed City Page 29
