“Come on, move over!” Kensi demanded.
The raincoat was set down beside the fireplace, and everyone started throwing letters into the flames. The hearth immediately started buzzing. Izya sank his good hand into the depths of this multicolored heap of paper covered with writing, extracted someone’s letter, and grinned in anticipation as he started reading it.
“Who was it that said manuscripts don’t burn?” Denny asked, panting for breath. He sat down at the desk and lit up a cigarette. “They burn wonderfully well, in my opinion . . . Phew, it’s hot. Maybe I should open the windows?”
The secretary suddenly squealed, jumped to her feet, and ran out, repeating over and over, “I forgot, I completely forgot.”
“What’s her name?” Andrei hastily asked Kensi.
“Amalia!” Kensi growled. “I’ve told you a hundred times . . . Listen, I just phoned Dupain . . .”
“Well?”
The secretary came back with an armful of notebooks. “That’s all of them—your instructions, boss,” she squeaked. “I forgot all about them. We probably ought to burn them too?”
“Of course, Amalia,” said Andrei. “Thank you for remembering. Burn them, Amalia, burn them . . . So what did Dupain say?
“I wanted to warn him,” said Kensi, “let him know everything’s all right, all the tracks have been covered. And he was terribly surprised—what tracks? Did he ever really write anything of that kind? He’s just finished a detailed dispatch on the heroic storming of City Hall, and now he’s working on an article called ‘Friedrich Heiger and the People.’”
“What a bastard,” Andrei said in a feeble voice. “But then, we’re all bastards.”
“You speak for yourself, when you say things like that!” Kensi snarled.
“OK, I’m sorry,” Andrei said weakly. “OK, we’re not all bastards. Just the majority.”
Izya suddenly started giggling. “There, now—an intelligent man!” he proclaimed, shaking the piece of paper in his hand. “‘It is absolutely clear,’” he recited, “‘that people like Friedrich Heiger simply wait for some great disaster or other to come along, some disturbance of the equilibrium, even if it is only temporary, in order to whip up passions so that the muddy waters of turmoil will raise them up . . .’ Who writes that?” He looked at the reverse side of the sheet of paper. “Ah, well, who else! Into the flames with it! Into the flames!” He crumpled up the letter and flung it into the hearth.
“Listen, Andrei,” said Kensi. “Isn’t it time we thought about the future?”
“What is there to think about it?” Andrei growled, working away with the poker. “We’ll survive somehow, we’ll get by . . .”
“I don’t mean our future!” said Kensi. “I’m talking about the future of the paper, about the future of the Experiment!”
Andrei looked at him in amazement. Kensi was the same as he had always been. As if nothing had happened. As if absolutely nothing at all had happened in the last few sickening months. He actually seemed even more ready for a fight than usual. Only now the fight was in the name of legality and ideals. Like a cocked firing hammer. But maybe nothing really had happened to him? “Have you been talking to your Mentor?” Andrei asked.
“Yes, I have,” Kensi replied defiantly.
“Well, and?” asked Andrei, overcoming that familiar awkwardness, the way he always had to in a conversation about the Mentors.
“That’s nobody else’s business and it has no significance. What have the Mentors got to do with this? Heiger has a Mentor too. Every bandit in the City has a Mentor. That doesn’t stop any of them from thinking for themselves.”
Andrei pulled a cigarette out of a pack, kneaded it, and lit it from the red-hot poker, narrowing his eyes against the heat. “I’m fed up with the whole thing,” he said quietly.
“What are you fed up with?”
“Every damn thing . . . I think we need to escape, get out of here, Kensi. To hell with all of them.”
“What does that mean—escape? What are you talking about?”
“We have to clear out, before it’s too late, make tracks for the swamps, for Uncle Yura’s place, as far away as possible from this whole mess. The Experiment has run out of control, you and I can’t bring it back under control, so there’s no point even trying. In the swamps at least we’ll have weapons, we’ll have strength—”
“I’m not going to any swamps!” Selma suddenly declared.
“No one’s asking you to,” Andrei said without looking around.
“Andrei,” said Kensi, “that’s desertion.”
“In your book it’s desertion, in mine it’s a rational maneuver. Anyway, you suit yourself. You asked me what I think about the future and I’m telling you. There’s nothing for me to do here. They’ll shut down the paper anyway, and send us to clear away the dead baboons. Under armed guard. And that’s the best scenario.”
“Now here’s another intelligent individual!” Izya proclaimed admiringly. “Listen: ‘I’m an old subscriber to your newspaper and on the whole I approve of its line. But why do you always come out in defense of F. Heiger? Perhaps you are inadequately informed? I know for certain that Heiger has a dossier on anyone who is even slightly noteworthy in the City. His people permeate the entire municipal establishment. They are probably in your newspaper too. I assure you, the PRR is by no means as small as you think. I know that they have weapons too . . .’” Izya looked at the reverse of the letter. “Ah, that’s who it is . . . ‘I ask you please not to publish my name . . .’ Into the fire with it, into the fire.”
“Anyone would think you know all the intelligent people in the City,” said Andrei.
“Well, as it happens, there aren’t all that many of them,” Izya retorted, lowering his hand into the heap of paper again. “Not to mention the fact that intelligent people don’t often write to the newspapers.”
Silence fell. Denny, who had smoked his fill, also came over to the fireplace and started tossing large armfuls of paper into the flames. “Stir it, boss, stir it!” he said. “Put more life into it! Let me have that poker . . .”
“I think it’s simply cowardice, running away from the City now,” Selma said defiantly.
“Every honest man counts now,” Kensi agreed. “If we go, who’ll be left? Will you tell them to give the newspaper to the Dupains?”
“You’ll be left,” Andrei said wearily. “You can hire Selma for the paper, or Izya—”
“You know Heiger well,” Kensi interrupted. “You could use your influence . . .”
“I haven’t got any influence,” said Andrei. “Or if I do, I don’t want to use it. I don’t know how to do things like that and I can’t stand it.”
Again everyone fell silent, with just the flames humming in the chimney.
“I wish they’d get here soon,” Denny growled, flinging the final pile of letters into the fire. “I’m dying for a drink, and there isn’t anything here.”
“They won’t come straight round, just like that,” Izya immediately retorted. “They’ll call first!” He threw the letter he was reading into the hearth and started walking around the office. “You don’t know that, you don’t understand. It’s a ritual! A procedure developed in three countries, honed to a fine edge, tried and tested . . . Girls, isn’t there anything to eat here?” he suddenly asked.
Skinny Amalia immediately jumped up, squeaking, “Just a moment, just a moment!” and disappeared into the front office.
“By the way,” Andrei asked out of the blue. “Where’s the censor?”
“He really wanted to stay,” said Denny. “But Mr. Ubukata threw him out. He was screaming bloody murder, that censor. ‘Where will I go?’ he shouted. ‘You’re killing me!’ We even had to bolt the door so he couldn’t get back in. He kept throwing himself against it at first, then he gave up hope and left. Listen, I’m going to open the window after all. It’s too hot, I can’t bear it.”
The secretary came back in, smiled shyly with her pale, unpain
ted lips, and handed Izya a greasy paper bag of pies.
“Mmm!” Izya exclaimed, and immediately started champing on them.
“Are your ribs hurting?” Selma asked in a quiet little voice, leaning down to Andrei’s ear.
“No,” Andrei said curtly. He got up, moved her away, and walked over to the desk. And at that moment the telephone rang. Everyone turned their heads to stare at the white phone. It carried on ringing.
“Well, Andrei!” Kensi said impatiently.
Andrei picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“The City Gazette offices?” a brisk voice inquired.
“Yes,” said Andrei.
“I’d like Mr. Voronin, please.”
“Speaking.”
There was the sound of someone breathing into the phone, followed by a loud dial tone as they hung up. Andrei carefully put down the receiver, with his heart pounding. “It’s them,” he said.
Izya champed out something unintelligible, frenziedly nodding his head. Andrei sat down. Everyone looked at him—Denny with a forced smile on his face, Kensi stooped over and tousle-headed, Amalia pitiful and frightened, Selma pale but collected. Izya looked at him too, chewing and grinning at the same time, wiping his greasy fingers on the flaps of his coat.
“Well, what are you all staring at?” Andrei asked irritably. “Come on now, all of you, clear out of here.”
No one stirred.
“What are you so worried about?” said Izya, examining the last pie. “It will be a breeze, a walk in the park, all calm and quiet, as Uncle Yura says. Calm and quiet, honest and respectable . . . Only don’t make any sudden movements. Just like with cobras.”
From outside they heard an engine rumbling and brakes squealing, and a strident voice commanded, “Kaiser, Velichenko, follow me! Mirovich, stay here!” A fist was immediately hammered against the door downstairs.
“I’ll go and open up,” said Denny, and Kensi sprang over to the fireplace and started stirring the heap of smoking ash with all his might. Ash flew everywhere in the room.
“Don’t make any sudden movements!” Izya shouted after Denny.
The door downstairs shuddered and its panes of glass jangled plaintively. Andrei stood up, clasped his hands behind his back, squeezing them together as hard as he could, and stood in the middle of the room. The recent sensation of dark lethargy and weakness in his legs swept over him again. The hammering and rattling downstairs ended; he heard grumbling voices and then the sound of large numbers of feet stamping in the empty offices. As if there’s an entire battalion of them, Andrei thought fleetingly. He backed away, bracing his rump against the wall. His knees were trembling repulsively. I won’t allow them to beat me, he thought in despair. Let them kill me. I didn’t bring the pistol . . . I should have brought it . . . Or maybe I was right not to bring it?
A short, stout man strode resolutely in through the door opposite Andrei. He was dressed in a good-quality coat with white armbands over it and a huge beret with a badge of some kind. His feet were encased in magnificently polished boots and his coat was pulled in slightly at the waist, in a very ugly way, by a broad belt, with a shiny, brand-new holster tugging it down heavily on the left. Some other men piled in behind him, but Andrei didn’t see them. He stared, spellbound, into the pale, puffy face with the blurred features and sour-looking little eyes. Has he got conjunctivitis, then? Andrei thought somewhere on the very edge of his consciousness. And he’s shaved so close he actually gleams, like he’s been varnished . . .
The man in the beret quickly glanced around the room before staring straight at Andrei. “Citizen Voronin?” he declaimed in a high, piercing voice, but with an interrogative intonation.
“Yes,” said Andrei, forcing out the word and clutching at the edge of the desk with both hands.
“Senior editor of the City Gazette?”
“Yes.”
The man in the beret saluted deftly but casually with two fingers. “I have the honor, Citizen Voronin, to present you with a personal communication from President Friedrich Heiger!”
He had obviously intended to pluck the personal communication out from under his coat in a single, smart gesture, but something in there got hooked on something else, and he had to scrabble around in the depths of his coat for a long time, skewed over slightly to the right and looking as if he were being assaulted by insects. Andrei watched him fatalistically, not understanding a thing. This was all wrong somehow. This wasn’t what he had been expecting. Maybe it will all blow over, he thought fleetingly, but dismissed the idea in superstitious haste.
Eventually the communication was extracted, and the man in the beret handed it to Andrei with a dissatisfied and rather offended air. Andrei took the crisp, sealed envelope. It was an ordinary postal envelope, a pale blue oblong bearing a stylized representation of a heart embellished with little bird’s wings. The address written on the envelope in familiar handwriting with large letters was “To Andrei Voronin, Senior Editor of the City Gazette, in person, confidential. F. Heiger, President.” Andrei tore open the envelope and pulled out an ordinary sheet of letter paper edged in blue.
My dear Andrei,
First of all allow me to thank you with all my heart for the help and support that I have constantly felt from your newspaper in the course of the recent decisive months. Now, as you can see, the situation has fundamentally changed. I am sure that you will not be confused by the new terminology and certain unavoidable excesses: the words and the means have changed, but the goals remain the same. Take control of the newspaper yourself—you have been appointed its permanent senior editor and publisher with full authority. Employ staff according to your own preferences, increase the number of employees, demand new printing capacity—I give you complete carte blanche. The deliverer of this letter is Junior Adjutor Raymond Cvirik, who has been appointed to your newspaper as the political representative of my Department of Information. As you will soon realize for yourself, he is not a man of great intellect, but he knows his job well and will be helpful to you, especially during the early stages, in getting the hang of the general policy line. Naturally, if any conflicts should arise, come directly to me. I wish you success. We’ll show these drooling liberals how to work.
In friendship,
Your Fritz
Andrei read this personal and confidential missive twice, then lowered the hand holding the letter and looked around. They were all looking at him again—pale-faced, resolute, and tense. Only Izya was beaming like a newly polished samovar, and secretly releasing finger flicks into space where the others couldn’t see. The junior adjutor (dammit, what the hell could that mean, it was a familiar word . . . adjutor, coadjutor . . . something out of history . . . or out of The Three Musketeers) . . . Junior Adjutor Raymond Cvirik was looking at him too—looking sternly but protectively. And over by the door some odd-looking characters with carbines and white armbands on their sleeves were shifting from foot to foot and watching him too.
“I see,” said Andrei, folding the letter and putting it back in the envelope. He didn’t know where to begin.
Then the junior adjutor began. “Are these your colleagues, Citizen Voronin?” he inquired briskly, with a brief side-to-side gesture.
“Yes,” said Andrei.
“Hmm,” Citizen Raymond Cvirik declared dubiously, looking point-blank at Izya.
But at that moment Kensi abruptly asked him, “And who exactly might you be?”
Citizen Raymond Cvirik glanced at him, and then turned in amazement to Andrei. Andrei cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he announced. “Allow me to introduce to you Junior Coadjutor Citizen Cvirik—”
“Adjutor!” Cvirik corrected him indignantly.
“What? Ah yes, adjutor. Not coadjutor, but simply adjutor . . .” (For no reason at all Selma gave a sudden splutter of laughter and put her hand over her mouth.) “Junior adjutor and political representative at our newspaper. From now on.”
“Representative of what?” Kensi asked intransige
ntly.
Andrei was about to look in the envelope again, but Cvirik declared in an even more indignant tone of voice, “Political representative of the Department of Information!”
“Your credentials!” Kensi said brusquely.
“What?” Citizen Cvirik’s sour little eyes started blinking indignantly.
“Your credentials, your authorization—do you have anything, apart from that idiotic holster of yours?”
“Who is this?” Citizen Cvirik exclaimed in a piercing shriek, turning back toward Andrei. “Who is this man?”
“This is Citizen Kensi Ubukata,” Andrei said hastily. “The deputy editor . . . Kensi, no credentials are required. He delivered a letter to me from Fritz.”
“What Fritz?” Kensi said disdainfully. “What has some Fritz or other got to do with anything?”
“Sudden movements!” Izya appealed. “I implore you, don’t make any sudden movements!”
Cvirik swung his head to and fro from Izya to Kensi and back. His face wasn’t gleaming any longer; it was slowly flooding with crimson. “Citizen Voronin,” he eventually enunciated, “I see that your colleagues do not have a very clear idea of exactly what has happened today! Or perhaps on the contrary!” He kept raising his voice. “They have some strange, distorted idea of it! I see burnt paper here, I see gloomy faces, and I do not see any readiness to set to work. At an hour when the entire City, our entire people—”
“And who are they?” Kensi interrupted, pointing to the characters with carbines. “Are they the new staff?”
“Believe it or not, they are! Citizen Former Deputy Editor! They are the new staff. I cannot promise you that they—”
“We’ll see about that,” Kensi declared in an unfamiliar, squeaky voice, taking a step toward Cvirik. “By what authority—”
“Kensi!” Andrei said helplessly.
“By what authority are you haranguing us here?” Kensi went on, taking no notice of Andrei. “Who are you? How dare you behave like this! Why don’t you present your credentials? You’re nothing but a bunch of armed bandits who have broken in to pillage the place!”