The Snail on the Slope

by Arkady Strugatsky

  Peretz twice tried turning down alleys, and both times Bootlicherson blocked his way. Bootlicherson was no longer able to talk; he could only growl and mumble unintelligibly, imploringly rolling his eyes. Then Peretz ran to the Administration building. I need Kim, he thought feverishly, Kim won’t let them . . . Or is Kim in on it, too? . . . I’ll lock myself in the bathroom . . . Let them only try anything, I’ll use my feet . . . I don’t care anymore . . .

  He burst into the entrance hall, and a huge combined orchestra instantly broke out into a welcoming march, brass clanging. Bug-eyed people with strained faces and puffed-out chests flashed past. Bootlicherson was at his heels, and he chased Peretz up the ceremonial staircase, up the raspberry-colored carpets that were always strictly off limits, past the guards in full military regalia, along the hardwood floor, slippery with wax, up to the fourth floor, continuing along the portrait gallery, and up again, to the fifth floor, past the painted girls who had gone as still as mannequins, all the way to the end of the passage, which was sumptuously decorated and illuminated with daylight lamps, toward a gigantic leather door containing a plaque with the word DIRECTOR. There was nowhere farther to run.

  Bootlicherson caught up to him, ducked under his elbow and, wheezing horribly, as if having a seizure, held the leather door open. Peretz went in, his feet sinking deep into an enormous tiger skin, his whole being becoming immersed in a solemn atmosphere permeated with authority—the gloom behind the slightly lowered drapes, the aroma of expensive tobacco, the cotton-wool silence, the calmness and tranquility of someone else’s existence.

  “Good morning,” he said into space. But there was no one sitting behind the enormous desk. And there was no one sitting in the enormous chairs. And nobody met his eye except for Selivan the martyr, peering out of a colossal painting that took up an entire side wall.

  Behind his back, Bootlicherson dropped the suitcase with a loud crash. Peretz started and turned around. Bootlicherson was swaying back and forth, and he was trying to hand Peretz the folder, holding it like an empty tray. His eyes had a dead, glassy look. That man is about to die, thought Peretz. But Bootlicherson didn’t die. “It’s extremely urgent,” he croaked, out of breath. “Without the Director’s consent, I cannot . . . your personal . . . I would never dare . . .”

  “What Director?” whispered Peretz. A terrible conjecture started dimly coalescing in his brain.

  “I mean you . . .” Bootlicherson croaked. “Without your consent . . . I would never presume . . .”

  Peretz steadied himself against the desk and, holding on to its polished surface, dragged himself around its perimeter to the closest-seeming chair. He collapsed into its cool leather embrace, and discovered that there was an array of colorful telephones on his left, that there were leather-bound, gold-embossed books on his right, that in front of him was a carved inkwell depicting Tannhäuser and Venus, and that above the inkwell were Bootlicherson’s proffered folder and shining, pleading eyes. He squeezed the armrests and thought, Is that how it is? You bastards, you scum, you pieces of shit . . . That’s how it’s gonna be, huh? Just let me at those lowlives, those brownnosers, those cardboard-faced morons . . . All right, so be it . . . “Stop jiggling that folder over the desk,” he said sternly. “Hand it over.”

  The office became full of motion and rushing shadows, there was a gentle whirlwind, and Bootlicherson materialized right behind his right shoulder, and the folder landed on his desk and seemed to open by itself, and it revealed sheets of excellent paper, and he read the word DRAFT typed in a large font.

  “Thank you,” he said sternly. “You may go.”

  There was another whirlwind, a faint smell of sweat reached his nostrils then dissipated into the air, and Bootlicherson was already by the door, walking backward, his whole upper body bent forward and his arms glued to his sides—terrible, pitiful, willing to do anything.

  “One minute,” said Peretz. Bootlicherson stopped in his tracks. “Could you kill a man?” asked Peretz.

  Bootlicherson didn’t hesitate. He whipped out the small notebook and uttered, “Yes?”

  “What about committing suicide?” Peretz asked.

  “What?” asked Bootlicherson.

  “You may go,” said Peretz. “I’ll send for you later.”

  Bootlicherson vanished. Peretz cleared his throat and rubbed his cheeks. “All right,” he said out loud. “What now?”

  He saw a calendar on the desk, turned the page, and read the entry for the day. The former Director’s handwriting disappointed him. The Director wrote in a large, careful script, like a writing master: “Team Leaders 9:30. Foot inspection 10:30. Powder for Alla. Tasted buttermilk marshmallow. Mechanization. Who stole the coil? Four bulldozers!!!”

  Damn the bulldozers, thought Peretz, that’s all done with—no more bulldozers, no more excavators, no more sawing engines of eradication . . . I wish we could also castrate Randy—too bad we can’t . . . And what about that machine repository? I’ll blow it up, he decided. He visualized the Administration from above, and he realized that there was a lot that needed blowing up. Too much . . . Even an idiot can blow things up, he thought.

  He opened the middle drawer of the desk and saw piles of paper, blunt pencils, two perforation gauges (for stamps), and on top of everything else, a general’s gold braid epaulet. A single epaulet. He felt for its mate under the papers, poked himself with a thumbtack, and found the set of keys to the safe. The safe itself was in a far corner—it was a very strange safe, camouflaged as a sideboard. Peretz rose and walked across the office toward it, looking around and noticing a great many strange things he hadn’t previously observed.

  A hockey stick was standing beneath the window, and next to it were a crutch and a prosthetic leg wearing a rusty skate. There turned out to be another door in the depths of the office with a rope stretched across it, and on this rope hung a pair of black swimming trunks and a few pairs of socks, some of them with holes. The door contained a tarnished metal plate engraved with the word LIVESTOCK. There was a small fishbowl on the windowsill, partially obscured by the lowered drapes, filled with clean clear water and containing a fat, black Mexican salamander rhythmically moving its branched gills amid the colorful seaweed. And there was a splendid conductor’s baton, decorated with horsetails, peeking out from behind the painting . . .

  Peretz fiddled with the safe for a long time, trying to find the right key. He finally managed to open the heavy armored door. The inside of the door turned out to be covered with lewd pictures from men’s magazines, while the safe itself contained almost nothing. Peretz found pince-nez with a cracked left lens, a battered cap with a strange insignia, and a photograph of an unknown family (the father baring his teeth in a grin, the mother puckering her lips, and two boys in cadet’s uniforms). It also contained an automatic pistol, well cleaned and well maintained, with a single round in its chamber, the other gold braid epaulet, and an Iron Cross with Oak Leaves. There was also a stack of folders in the safe, but they were all empty except for the one at the very bottom, which turned out to contain the rough draft of an order to punish truck driver Randy for his systematic failure to visit the History Museum. “Serves him right, the bastard,” muttered Peretz. “Just think, he doesn’t visit the museum . . . We have to set this in motion.”

  Wherever you turn, there’s Randy again. Aren’t there any other fish in the sea? Then again, in a way there aren’t . . . He’s a buttermilk addict, a disgusting womanizer, a procrastinator . . . Although all truck drivers procrastinate . . . No, we have to put an end to all that: the buttermilk, the chess games during work hours. By the way, what is Kim calculating on the broken arithmometer? Or is that as it should be—stochastic processes or something . . . Listen, Peretz, you don’t seem to know much. After all, everyone is working. Almost no one is slacking off. They even work evenings. Everyone is busy, no one has free time. Orders are being carried out, that much I know, I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Everything seems in order: the guards are gu
arding, the drivers are driving, the scientists are writing papers, the pay clerks are handing out money . . .

  Listen, Peretz, he thought, maybe the point of this whole merry-go-round is that everyone has work to do? Seriously, a good mechanic fixes a vehicle in two hours. Then what? What about the other twenty-two hours? Especially if the vehicles are being used by skilled workers who don’t damage them? It does suggest itself: you should transfer a good mechanic to the kitchen and the cook to the garage. Never mind twenty-two hours—you could easily fill twenty-two years like this. No, there’s some sense to it. Everyone’s working, carrying out proper human duties, not living like animals . . . and they acquire additional skills . . . No, there’s no sense to any of it, it’s an utter senseless mess . . . My God, I’m standing here while people are fouling up the forest, people are eradicating the forest, people are turning the forest into a park. I have to do something quick, because I’m now responsible for every hectare, for every pup, for every mermaid; I’m now responsible for everything . . .

  He started to bustle around, hastily closed the safe, rushed over to the table, pushed the folder out of the way, and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. But there are thousands of people here, he thought. There are established traditions, established relationships—they’ll laugh at me . . . He recalled the sweaty and pitiful Bootlicherson, and himself in the Director’s waiting room. No, they won’t laugh. They’ll cry, they’ll moan to . . . whatshisname . . . Monsieur Ahti . . . They’ll be at each other’s throats. But they won’t laugh. That’s the most terrible thing of all, he thought. They don’t know how to laugh; they don’t know what it is or what it’s for. Homo sapiens, he thought. Homo sapiens, Homo barely sapiens, Homo not at all sapiens. We need democracy, freedom of expression, freedom of criticism. I’ll get everyone together and tell them: Go forth and criticize! Criticize and laugh . . . Yes, they’ll criticize. They’ll spend a long time criticizing, with fervor and gusto, since they have been so ordered: they’ll criticize the insufficient supply of buttermilk, the bad cafeteria food; they’ll be particularly enthusiastic about criticizing the street cleaner—look, those sidewalks haven’t been swept in years—they’ll criticize truck driver Randy for his systematic failure to visit the bathhouse, and during their breaks, they’ll visit the latrine over the precipice . . . No, I’ll get mixed up like this, he thought. I need to organize my thoughts. What do we have right now?

  He started jotting things on the sheet of paper in hurried, illegible handwriting: “The Forest Eradication Team, the Forest Research Team, the Armed Guard of the Forest Team, the Assistance to the Forest Locals Team . . .” What else is there? Oh, yes! “The Penetration of the Forest Through Engineering Team.” And also “The Scientific Guard of the Forest Team.” That’s it, I think. All right. And what do they all do? It’s funny, it has never occurred to me to find out what they do. What’s more, for some reason it has never occurred to me to figure out what the Administration itself is trying to do. How can they combine eradicating the forest with guarding the forest, and at the same time provide assistance to the locals . . . I’ll tell you what, he thought. First of all, no more eradication. Eradicate the eradication. Same for the penetration through engineering, probably. Or rather, let them work up here; there’s nothing for them to do down there, at least. Let them disassemble their machines, let them lay some proper roads, let them drain that foul swamp . . . Then what’s left? The Armed Guard are left. With their wolfhounds. Although . . . Although the forest does need guarding . . . But . . . He called to mind the faces of some guards he knew, and pressed his lips together in doubt. Hmmm . . . All right, let’s go with that for now. But what’s the Administration actually for? What am I for? Should I dissolve the Administration, is that it? He got strange, merry chills down his spine. My goodness, he thought. I really could do it! I could dissolve it, and that’d be that, he thought. Who would judge me? I’m the Director—I’m the one in charge. I’d give the order and that would be that.

  Then he heard heavy footsteps. They sounded very close. The crystals on the chandelier clinked, and the socks drying on the rope swayed gently. Peretz got up and tiptoed to the little door. Someone was lumbering behind the door, sounding like he was constantly tripping on things, but Peretz couldn’t hear anything else, and there was no keyhole in the door to peek through. He gave the handle a cautious tug, but the door didn’t budge. “Who’s there?” he asked loudly, putting his lips near the crack. No one responded, but the footsteps didn’t cease—it almost sounded as if there were a drunk staggering and lurching around in there. Peretz gave the handle another tug, then he shrugged and came back to his desk.

  Power does have its advantages, he thought. I won’t dissolve the Administration, of course, that’d be silly—why dissolve a ready-made, well-put-together organization? It just needs to change course, to be steered towards doing real work. We’ll stop invading the forest, we’ll ratchet up our efforts to cautiously study it, we’ll try to build relationships, we’ll try to learn from it . . . They don’t even understand what the forest is. It’s a forest, big deal! Nothing but a bunch of firewood . . . We’ll teach people to love the forest, to respect it, to value it, to become part of its life . . . No, there’s a lot of work to do here. Real work, important work. And we’ll find the people to carry it out—Kim, Stoyan . . . Rita . . . What’s wrong with the garage foreman, at that? Alevtina . . . For that matter, even Monsieur Ahti is probably a good guy, a serious man, it’s just that he’s been forced to waste time on nonsense . . . We’ll show them, he thought merrily. Goddamnit, we’ll show them yet! All right. And what is the status of our current projects?

  He pulled the folder toward him. The first page contained the following:

  DRAFT DIRECTIVE

  ON ESTABLISHING ORDER

  1. Over the course of the preceding year, the Forest Administration has seen significant improvements in its functioning and has achieved an overall high level of performance in all of its areas of activity. Many hundreds of hectares of forest territory have been mastered, researched, eradicated, and placed under the protection of both scientific and armed guards. Both experts and the rank and file are constantly increasing their levels of expertise. Organizational structures are being updated, unproductive expenditures are being reduced, and bureaucratic as well as other nonmanufacturing obstacles are being eliminated.

  2. However, despite these achievements, the second law of thermodynamics and the law of large numbers continue to have a deleterious effect, depressing the overall high level of performance. The immediate challenge before us is the abolition of randomness, which produces chaos, interferes with the rhythm of our united functioning, and creates a reduction in rates of output.

  3. In connection with the above, it is proposed that going forward, manifestations of randomness of any kind shall be considered illegitimate and contradictory to the ideals of orderliness, while complicity with randomness (probabilitism) shall be considered a criminal offense, except when the complicity with randomness (probabilitism) does not entail serious consequences, in which case it shall be treated as a gross violation of manufacturing and administrative discipline.

  4. The guilt or innocence of an individual accused of complicity with randomness (probabilitism) shall be determined and evaluated using Articles 62, 64, 65 (excluding paragraphs S and O), 113, and 192 of the Criminal Code, or Articles 12, 15, and 97 of the Administrative Code.

  NOTE: If complicity with randomness (probabilitism) results in death, this alone shall not be treated as either a vindicating or a mitigating circumstance. In such a situation, the sentence or penalty shall be posthumous.

  5. This Directive is dated _____ month _____ day _____ year. It does not apply retroactively.

  Signed: Director of the Administration (__________)

  Peretz licked his lips, which had gone dry, and turned the page. The next sheet of paper contained an order to place H. Toity, an employee of the Scientific Guard Team, on trial, in accordance with t
he Directive on Establishing Order, “for willfully pandering to the law of large numbers, as manifested by slipping on the ice with attendant damage to the ankle, which criminal complicity with randomness (probabilitism) took place on March 11 of this year.” There was a proposal to refer to employee H. Toity as “the probabilitist H. Toity” in all future documents.

  Peretz snapped his teeth and looked at the next piece of paper. This was also an order, this time about an administrative penalty, a fine of four months’ salary, which was to be (posthumously) levied on one G. de Montmorency, a dog handler in the Armed Guard, “who had carelessly allowed himself to be struck by atmospheric discharge (lightning).” This was followed by applications for leave, requests for a one-time assistance following a loss of breadwinner, and an explanatory memorandum by a J. Lumbago concerning some sort of coil.

  “What the hell!” Peretz said out loud, and read the draft directive again. He broke out in a sweat. The draft was printed on high-gloss paper with gold trim. I need to talk to someone, Peretz thought bleakly, otherwise I’m in trouble . . .

  At this point, the door swung open and Alevtina entered the office, pushing a food trolley. She was very fashionably and elegantly dressed, and she had a serious, stern expression on her skillfully powdered and made-up face. “Your breakfast,” she said respectfully.

  “Close the door and come here,” said Peretz.

  She closed the door, pushed the trolley forward with her foot, and approached Peretz, arranging her hair. “Well, pookie?” she said, smiling. “Are you happy?”

  “Listen,” said Peretz. “This makes no sense. Take a look.”

  She sat down on the armrest, hugging Peretz around the neck with one bare arm and taking the directive with the other. “Yeah, I know,” she said. “Looks right to me. What’s the problem? Should I maybe bring you the Criminal Code? The previous Director couldn’t remember a single article, either.”