Monday Begins On Saturday

by Arkady

  “Continue your report, Comrade Zubo.”

  The commandant readily put away the list of relatives and reported:

  “Point twelve. Place of permanent residence: The Galaxy, star Antares, planet Konstantina, state of Konstantia, city of Konstantinov, call number 457 point 14—9. That’s all.”

  “I protest,” shouted Farfurkis.

  Lavr Fedotovich looked at him kindly. The silent treatment was over, and Farfurkis, tears of joy glistening in his eyes, spoke: “I protest! There was an obvious discrepancy in the age description. The form gives the date of birth as 213 B.C. If that were so, then Case 72 would be over two thousand years old, which exceeds the known maximum by two thousand years. I demand that the date be corrected and the guilty party punished.”

  Khlebovvodov said jealously:

  “Maybe he’s from one of those places in the Caucasus where people live a long time? How do you know?”

  “But allow me,” Farfurkis sputtered. “Even in the Caucasus…”

  “I will not allow it,” said Khlebovvodov. “I will not allow you to downplay the achievements of our glorious Caucasus dwellers! If you must know, their maximum possible age has no limit!” And he looked triumphantly at Lavr Fedotovich.

  “The people,” said Lavr Fedotovich, “the people are eternal. Space visitors come and go, but our people, our glorious people, will live on through the ages.”

  Farfurkis and Khlebovvodov stopped to think, trying to figure out in whose favor the chairman had spoken. Neither one wanted to risk it. One was at the top and did not wish to fall from the peak over some lousy visitor. The other, deep down below, was hanging over a precipice but he had just been thrown a lifeline. And then Lavr Fedotovich spoke.

  “Is that all, Comrade Zubo? Any questions? No questions? Then the motion is to call in the case known as Konstantin Konstantinovich. Any other motions? Let the case come in.”

  The commandant bit his lip, pulled out a mother-of-pearl marble from his pocket, and, closing his eyes, squeezed it. There was a sound like a cork popping, and Konstantin appeared next to the demonstration table. He must have been summoned while he was working: he was wearing coveralls smeared with fluorescent grease, his front hands were in metallic work gloves, and he was wiping his back hands on his pants. All four eyes still were engrossed in the repairs. There was a strong smell of chemicals in the room.

  “Hello,” said Konstantin, happily discovering where it was he was. “You have summoned me at last. Of course, my problem is slight, I’m almost embarrassed to bother you with it, but I’ve reached a dead end and the only way out is to ask for help. So that I do not burden your attention for too long, I will tell you what I need.” He commenced ticking off the points on his fingers. “A laser drill—but of the highest power. An acetylene torch, I know you already have those. Two incubators with a capacity of a thousand eggs each. That will hold me for the beginning, but it would be nice to also have a qualified engineer, and to have permission to work in the laboratories of FILIL.”

  “What kind of alien from outer space is this?” Khlebovvodov demanded with amazement and indignation. “What kind of alien can he be, I ask you, when I see him in the hotel dining room every day? Look here, citizen, who are you really and how did you get here?”

  “I am Konstantin from the Antares system.” Konstantin was perplexed. “I thought you knew all that. I filled in forms, I was interviewed.” He saw Vybegallo and smiled at him. “It was you, wasn’t it, who interviewed me?”

  Khlebovvodov also turned to Vybegallo.

  “So this, in your opinion, is a visitor from outer space?” he asked acidly.

  “He is,” said Vybegallo with dignity. “Contemporary science does not deny the possibility of visitors from outer space, Comrade Khlebovvodov, you should keep in touch. This is an official opinion, not just mine, but of much more responsible scientific workers. Giordano Bruno, for instance, has made completely official statements on this subject, so has Academician Levon Alfredovich Volosianis…and…c’est…writers, like Wells, for instance, or say, Chugunets.”

  “Strange things are going on here,” said Khlebovvodov suspiciously. “The space aliens seem awfully strange lately.”

  “I’m examining the picture that’s included in the file,” Farfurkis chipped in, “and I see that while there is a general resemblance, the comrade in the photo has two arms, and this unknown citizen has four. How can this be explained from the point of view of science?”

  Vybegallo released a very long citation in French, the point of which was that some guy named Arthur liked to go to the sea in the mornings after having a cup of hot chocolate. I interrupted him.

  “Konstantin, please face Comrade Farfurkis.”

  Konstantin obeyed.

  “Ah, I see,” said Farfurkis, “the matter has been cleared up. I must tell you, Lavr Fedotovich, that the resemblance between this comrade and the photograph is indisputable. I see four eyes here, and four eyes there. No nose. Yes. Crooked mouth. Everything’s in order.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Khlebovvodov. “It had been clearly stated in the press that if there were visitors from outer space, they would announce themselves. And since they do not, then they do not exist and are no more than a hoax perpetrated by scoundrels. Are you a visitor from space?” he croaked at Konstantin.

  “Yes,” Konstantin said, backing away from him.

  “Did you announce yourself?”

  “No,” said Konstantin. “I wasn’t planning on landing. And that’s not the point here.”

  “Oh, no, dear citizen, you just drop that. That is precisely the point. If you had announced yourself, then welcome aboard, share our bread, drink and make merry. But since you didn’t, then it’s not our fault. Your amphibrach is fine, but we have to make a living here, too. We have work to do, and can’t be sidetracked. That is my general opinion.”

  “Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Any one else have an opinion?”

  “I do, if I may,” said Farfurkis. “Comrade Khlebovvodov has given a correct picture of the situation in general. However, it seems to me that despite our work load, we should not dismiss our comrade. I feel that we should treat this one instance with a more individualized approach. I am for a more thorough examination of the problem. No one should be able to accuse us of hastiness, bureaucracy, and heartlessness, on the one hand, or of negligence, exuberance, or a lack of vigilance, on the other hand. With Lavr Fedotovich’s permission, I would like to recommend a supplementary interview with Citizen Konstantinov with the aim of determining his identity.”

  “Why should we try to replace the police?” said Khlebovvodov, feeling that his vanquished enemy was inexorably scaling the heights once again.

  “I beg your pardon!” Farfurkis said. “We will not replace the police, but we will be complying with the spirit and letter of the regulations, where in Paragraph 9, Chapter 1, Part 6, it says in this regard…” He raised his voice to a solemn peal. “‘In cases when the identification made by the scientific consultant with the representative of the administration, who knows well the local conditions, produces doubt among the Troika, a supplementary investigation into the case with the aim of determining the identification is called for either by a plenipotentiary of the Troika or at one of the sessions of the Troika.’ And that’s what I’m suggesting.”

  “The regulations, the regulations,” said Khlebovvodov nasally. “We’ll follow the law and he’ll waste our time, the four-eyed crook, he’ll steal our time. The people’s time!” he shouted, casting a martyred eye in Lavr Fedotovich’s direction.

  “Why am I a crook?” Konstantin demanded. “You are insulting me, Citizen Khlebovvodov. And I can see that you don’t give a fig whether I’m a visitor or not, all you want to do is to undermine Citizen Farfurkis and make yourself look good in the eyes of Citizen Vuniukov.”

  “Slander!” yelled Khlebovvodov, turning deep red. “He’s libeling me! What’s this, comrades? For twenty-five years I’ve gone wher
e they sent me. Not one reprimand. Always with a promotion.”

  “You’re lying again,” Konstantin said calmly. “You were kicked out twice without any promotion.”

  “This is calumny! Lavr Fedotovich! Comrades! You’re taking on a big responsibility, Citizen Konstantin! We’ll see just what your hundred parents did, what kind of parents they were. He’s collected himself a whole institute of relatives.”

  “Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich muttered. “There is a motion to end the debate and to conclude the session. Are there any other motions?”

  There was silence. Farfurkis barely hid his glee. Khlebovvodov was mopping himself with his handkerchief. Konstantin was staring deep into Lavr Fedotovich, vainly trying to read his thoughts or at least get a glimpse of his soul, but it was obvious that all his efforts were wasted. His four-eyed, noseless face displayed the growing disillusionment of a professional archaeologist who rolls back an ancient stone, sticks his arm into the age-old treasure trove, and feels nothing there but insubstantial dust, sticky cobwebs, and some blobs of indeterminate origin.

  “Since there are no other motions before the floor,” Lavr Fedotovich announced, “we shall proceed to the investigation of the case. The floor goes to…” He paused for a long time, during which Khlebovvodov grew faint. “Comrade Farfurkis.”

  Khlebovvodov found himself at the bottom of the pit and followed with wild eyes the narrowing circles of the buzzard flying in the official skies now beyond his reach. Farfurkis was in no rush to begin. He circled a few more times, splattering Khlebovvodov with his droppings, and then perched on the peak, preened and, casting a coquettish glance at Lavr Fedotovich, began speaking.

  “You maintain, Citizen Konstantinov, that you are a visitor from another planet. What documents do you have to substantiate this claim?”

  “I could show you my ship’s log,” said Konstantin. “But first of all, it can’t be moved, and second, I would not like to be bothered or to bother you with proofs. I came here to ask for help. Any planet that subscribes to the cosmic convention is obligated to help accident victims. I have already told you what I need, and now I await your answer. If perhaps you are incapable of giving me that help, then it would be better to tell me straight out. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Just a minute,” Farfurkis interrupted. “We’ll set aside the question of the competence of the present committee to aid representatives from other planets. Our problem now is to verify your identity as that visitor. Just a minute, I haven’t finished. You mentioned your log and said that unfortunately it could not be transported. Then perhaps the Troika could have the opportunity to examine the log on board your ship?”

  “No, that is impossible as well,” Konstantin sighed. He was studying Farfurkis carefully.

  “Well, that’s your right,” Farfurkis said. “But in that case, perhaps you could offer some other document to certify your identity and background?”

  “I see that you actually do want proof that I am an alien,” said Konstantin with some surprise. “True, your motives aren’t clear to me. But let’s not talk about that. As for proof, surely my physical appearance must lead you to think that I am from space?”

  Farfurkis sorrowfully shook his head.

  “Alas,” he said, “nothing is that simple. Science does not give us a clear enough concept of what man is. That is natural. If, for instance, science defined man as a creature with two arms and two eyes, then certain elements of the population who have only one arm or no arms at all would find themselves in a tenuous position. On the other hand, contemporary medicine is performing miracles. I myself recently saw a dog with two heads and six legs on TV and I have no right…”

  “Then, perhaps, seeing my ship. It is not typical of your earth technology.”

  Farfurkis shook his head again.

  “You must understand,” he said softly, “that in our atomic age it would be difficult to impress the members of an authoritative organ, who have top-priority clearance, with any technological contraption.”

  “I can read minds,” Konstantin offered. He was clearly interested.

  “Telepathy is unscientific,” Farfurkis said softly. “We don’t believe in it.”

  “Is that so?” Konstantin was surprised. “That’s strange. But listen to this. You are about to tell me of the special case of the Nautilus, and Citizen Khlebovvodov…”

  “Calumny!” shouted Khlebovvodov, and Konstantin stopped.

  “Understand us correctly,” said Farfurkis, pressing his hands to his plump chest. “We do not maintain that telepathy doesn’t exist. We only maintain that telepathy is unscientific and that we don’t believe in it. You mentioned the case of the submarine Nautilus, but it is well known that this was just a bourgeois decoy to divert the attention of the peoples of the world from the pressing problems of the day. Thus your telepathic abilities, whether actual or imagined by you, are merely a fact of your personal biography, which at this moment in time is the object of our research. Do you see the logical fallacy?”

  “I do,” agreed Konstantin. “What if I were to fly around for you a bit?”

  “That would be very interesting, of course. But unfortunately we are at work now and can not expend time on performances, no matter how absorbing they might be.”

  Konstantin looked at us quizzically. I felt that his position was hopeless and I had no time for jokes. Konstantin did not know it, but the Great Round Seal was suspended over him like the sword of Damocles. Eddie was still fooling around with his toy, and I didn’t know what to do. I had to stall for time.

  “Go ahead, Konstantin,” I said.

  Konstantin did. First he was rather tentative, afraid to break things, but then he got carried away and demonstrated a series of magnificently impressive exercises with the space-time continuum, with various transformations of a living colloid and with the critical state of the reflective organs. When he had stopped, I was dizzy, my pulse was crazy, my ears were humming, and I could barely hear the space creature’s tired voice.

  “Time is flying. I have no more time. Tell me what you have decided.”

  No one answered him. Lavr Fedotovich was meditatively twirling the dictaphone mike with his long fingers. His intelligent face was calm and pensive. Khlebovvodov was not paying attention to anything, or making believe that he was not. He scribbled off a note and tossed it to Zubo, who read it carefully and let his fingers run silently over the keyboard of the computer. Vybegallo was suffering. He bit his lip, frowned, and even sighed quietly. A white card plopped out of the computer, and Zubo passed it to Khlebovvodov.

  I looked at Eddie. He had the humanizer on his knee and was keeping an eye on the mirrored window while he fiddled with a tiny knob. I held my breath and watched.

  “A thousand-year leap,” Vybegallo said softly.

  “A leap backward,” Farfurkis muttered through his teeth. He was still leafing through a reference book.

  “I don’t know how we’ll be able to work now,” Vybegallo said. “We have glimpsed the future, where all the answers are.”

  “But you didn’t see the answers, did you?” Farfurkis mocked. “Do you want to see them?”

  “What’s the difference once we see that they do exist? It’s dull and boring to go on searching for answers that we know someone else has already found.”

  The visitor was waiting impatiently. He was uncomfortable in the low armchair and he had to sit up unnaturally straight. His large unblinking eyes glowed an unpleasant red. Khlebovvodov threw away the card, wrote another note, and Zubo bent over the keyboard again.

  “I know that we must refuse,” said Vybegallo, “and I know that we will curse ourselves twenty times over for having done so.”

  “That’s not the worst thing that could happen to us,” said Farfurkis. “It would be worse if we were cursed twenty times over by others.”

  “Our grandchildren and maybe even our children would simply take it for granted.”

  “We should not be indifferent
to what our children will take for granted.”

  “The moral criteria of humanism,” said Vybegallo giving a short laugh.

  “We have no other criteria,” Farfurkis countered.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Fortunately, my colleague, fortunately. Every time that mankind has turned to others, it suffered cruelly.”

  “I know that. I would rather not know even that.” Vybegallo looked over at Lavr Fedotovich. “The problem before us has not been stated correctly. It is based on confused conceptions, vague formulations, and intuition. As a scientist I do not take it upon myself to solve it. That would not be serious or responsible. There is only one thing left: to be a man. With all the resulting consequences. I am against contact. But not for long!” he shouted excitedly. “You must understand us correctly. I am sure that this will not be for long. Give us time, we have been out of chaos for such a short time. We are still waist-deep in chaos.” He stopped and dropped his head to his hands.

  Lavr Fedotovich looked at Farfurkis.

  “I can only repeat what I said before.” Farfurkis said in a low voice. “No one has changed my mind about that. I am against any contact for a long period. I am absolutely sure,” he added, “that the other treaty-negotiating party would take any other decision on our part as proof of presumptuousness and social immaturity.” He bowed curtly in the direction of the visitor.

  “You?” asked Lavr Fedotovich.

  “I am categorically against any contact,” replied Khlebovvodov, still scribbling away. “Categorically and unequivocally.” He threw Zubo another note. “I will not state my reasons just yet, but ask to be able to say a few more words on the subject in ten minutes.”

  Lavr Fedotovich carefully set down the dictaphone mike and rose slowly. The visitor also stood up. They stood opposite each other, separated by the huge table piled high with reference works, cases of microbooks, and reels of videotape.