“Yep, yep,” said Andrei. He scratched the back of his head and laughed. “It does seem kind of tactless.”
“No, no! Forget about the official tact, that doesn’t matter. Just imagine what Wang will feel in this situation—what will it be like for him?”’
“I understand, I understand . . .” said Andrei. “I understand . . . It’s all a load of hokum anyway! I’ll invite him tomorrow, we’ll sit down and spend some time together, just the two of us, Mei-lin and Selma will rustle up some kind of ch’ih-fan for us, and I’ll give the little boy a Bull Dog—I have one without a firing hammer . . .”
“You’ll have a drink together!” the Mentor continued. “Tell each other something about your lives—he has plenty that he could tell you, and you’re good at telling a story too, and he doesn’t know anything about Penjikent, or Kharbas . . . It will be wonderful! I even slightly envy you.”
“You come as well,” Andrei said, and laughed.
The Mentor laughed too. “I shall be with you in my thoughts,” he said.
Just then the front doorbell rang. Andrei looked at his watch—it was precisely 7:00. “That has to be the colonel,” he said, and jumped to his feet. “Shall I go?”
“Why, naturally!” said the Mentor. “And I ask you, please, in the future never forget that there are hundreds of thousands of Wangs in the City, but only twenty counselors . . .”
It really was the colonel. He always arrived precisely at the agreed-upon time, and consequently was always first. Andrei met him in the hallway, shook his hand, and invited him into the study. The colonel was in civilian dress. His light gray suit sat on him as dapperly as on a mannequin, his sparse gray hair was neatly combed, his shoes gleamed, and so did his smoothly shaved cheeks. He was short and lean, with good posture, but at the same time slightly relaxed, without the woodenness so typical of the German officers that the army was awash with.
Once inside the study, he stopped in front of the rug, clasped his dry, white hands behind his back, silently surveyed the crimson and black magnificence in general and the weapons hanging on that background in particular. Then he said “Oh!” and gave Andrei an approving look.
“Have a seat, Colonel,” said Andrei. “A cigar? Whiskey?”
“Thank you,” said the colonel, sitting down. “A little drop of good cheer wouldn’t come amiss.” He took a pipe out of his pocket. “Today has been a frantic day,” he declared. “What happened on the plaza outside your place? I was ordered to put the barracks on alert.”
“Some blockhead or other,” said Andrei, rummaging in the bar, “collected some dynamite from the depot and couldn’t find any better place to stumble than under my window.”
“So there wasn’t an assassination attempt, then?”
“Good Lord, Colonel!” Andrei said, pouring the whiskey. “This isn’t Palestine, after all.”
The colonel chuckled and accepted a glass from Andrei. “You’re right. In Palestine no one was surprised by incidents of that sort. Or in Yemen either . . .”
“So they put you on alert?” Andrei asked, sitting down with his glass opposite the colonel.
“Oh yes indeed.” The colonel took a sip from his glass, thought for a moment with his eyebrows raised, carefully set down the glass on the telephone table beside him, and started filling his pipe. He had old man’s hands, covered in silvery fluff, but they didn’t tremble.
“And what was the force’s combat readiness like?” Andrei inquired, also sipping from his glass.
The colonel laughed again, and Andrei felt a momentary envy—he would really love to know how to laugh in the same way. “It’s a military secret,” said the colonel. “But I’ll tell you. It was terrible. I never saw the like, even in the Yemen. Ah, never mind the Yemen! I never saw the like, even when I was training those black chappies in Uganda! Half the men weren’t even in the barracks. Half of the other half turned out for the alert without their weapons. And those who did turn out with their weapons didn’t have any ammunition, because the commanding officer of the munitions store had gone off with the keys to work his hour at the Great Construction Site.”
“You’re joking, I hope,” said Andrei.
The colonel puffed on his pipe, flapping away the smoke with his hand, and looked at Andrei with his colorless old man’s eyes. His eyes were surrounded by droves of wrinkles, and it looked as if he were laughing. “Perhaps I am exaggerating slightly,” he said, “but judge for yourself, Counselor. Our army was created without any definite purpose, simply because a certain individual known to both of us cannot imagine the organization of a state without an army. It is obvious that no army is capable of functioning normally in the absence of a real enemy. Even if only a potential one. From the chief of staff down to the last cook, our army is presently imbued with the conviction that this undertaking is merely a game of little tin soldiers.”
“And if we assume that a potential enemy does exist after all?”
The colonel shrouded himself in honeyed smoke once again. “Then tell us who he is, Messrs. Politicians!”
Andrei took another sip from his glass, thought for a moment, and asked, “Tell me, Colonel, does the general staff have any operational plans in case of an invasion from the outside?”
“Well now, I wouldn’t call them operational plans as such. Imagine, say, your Russian general staff on Earth. Does it have operational plans in case of an invasion, let’s say, from Mars?”
“Well now,” said Andrei. “I think it’s quite possible that something of the sort does exist . . .”
“We also have ‘something of the sort,’” said the colonel. “We’re not expecting an invasion from above or below. We don’t concede the possibility of a serious threat from the south . . . apart, naturally, from the possibility of a successful revolt by the criminals working in the settlements, but we’re ready for that . . . That leaves the north. We know that during the Turning Point and afterward, quite large numbers of supporters of the old regime fled to the north. We accept—in theory—that they could organize themselves and attempt some kind of sabotage or even a restoration of the old regime . . .” He took a pull on his pipe, wheezing hoarsely. “But what is an army needed for here? It’s obvious that in the event of all these menaces, Counselor Ruhmer’s special police are perfectly adequate, and in tactical terms, the most basic cordon and search tactics will serve.”
Andrei waited for moment and then asked, “Should I understand you, Colonel, to mean that the general staff is not prepared for a serious invasion from the north?”
“You mean a Martian invasion?” the colonel asked thoughtfully. “No, it is not. I understand what you mean. But we have no reconnaissance. No one has ever seriously considered the possibility of such an invasion. We simply have no data for that. We don’t even know what’s going on fifty kilometers away from the Glass House. We have no maps of the northern environs . . .” He laughed, exposing his long, yellow teeth. “The city archivist, Mr. Katzman, provided the general staff with something like a map of those areas . . . As I understand it, he drew it himself. This remarkable document resides in my safe. It gives the quite distinct impression that Mr. Katzman made the map while he was eating and repeatedly dropped his sandwiches and spilled his coffee on it . . .”
“Come now, Colonel,” Andrei said reproachfully, “my chancellery has provided you, I think, with some rather good maps.”
“Definitely, definitely, Counselor. But for the most part those are maps of the inhabited City and the southern environs. According to the basic setup, the army must be in a state of combat readiness in case of public disorders, and public disorders can only occur in the aforementioned areas. This makes the work you have done absolutely indispensable, and thanks to you we are prepared for disorders. But as for an invasion . . .” The colonel shook his head.
“As far as I’m aware,” Andrei said significantly, “my chancellery has never received any requests from the general staff to map the northern areas.”
 
; The colonel looked at Andrei for some time, and his pipe went out. “I should tell you,” he said slowly, “that we have addressed such requests to the president in person. The answers were, I must admit, entirely indefinite . . .” He paused again. “So you believe, Counselor, that for the good of the cause we should address such requests to you?”
Andrei nodded. “I had lunch with the president today,” he said. “We talked a lot about this subject. It has been decided in principle to proceed with mapping the northern regions. However, adequate participation by military specialists is required. An experienced operative . . . Well, no doubt you understand.”
“I understand,” said the colonel. “By the way, where did you dig up a Mauser like that, Counselor? The last time I saw such monsters, if I’m not mistaken, was in Batumi, in about 1918 . . .”
Andrei started telling the colonel where and how he had obtained the Mauser, but at that point the doorbell rang again in the hallway. Andrei apologized and went to meet his guest.
He was hoping it would be Katzman; however, against all his expectations, it turned out to be Otto Friese, whom Andrei hadn’t actually invited at all. Somehow Friese had completely slipped his mind. Otto Friese was constantly slipping Andrei’s mind, although as the head of the Glass House’s housekeeping unit, Friese was an extremely useful man, even indispensable. But then, Selma never, ever forgot this circumstance. And so now she accepted from Otto a neat little basket, thoughtfully covered with a supremely fine batiste napkin, and a little bouquet of flowers. Otto was graciously permitted to kiss her hand. He clicked his heels, blushed red to his ears, and was quite obviously happy.
“Ah, my old friend,” he said to Andrei. “There you are!”
Otto was still the same as ever. It suddenly occurred to Andrei that of all the old-timers, Otto had changed least. In fact, he simply hadn’t changed at all. Still with the same scrawny neck and huge, protruding ears, with the same expression of constant uncertainty on his freckled features. And the clicking heels. He was in the pale blue uniform of the special police, wearing his square Medal of Merit.
“Thanks a million for the rug,” said Andrei, putting his arm around Otto’s shoulders and leading the guest into his study. “Now I’ll show you how it looks in here . . . It’s the bee’s knees, you’ll just die of envy . . .”
However, on finding himself in the study, Otto Friese didn’t give any signs of dying of envy. He saw the colonel.
Otto Friese, a lance corporal in the Volkssturm, harbored feelings bordering on awe for Colonel St. James. In the colonel’s presence he was struck absolutely dumb, fettered his features into a smile with steel bolts, and was ready to click heel against heel at any moment, to click continuously and with constantly increasing force.
Turning his back to the illustrious rug, he stood to attention, thrust out his chest, squeezed his palms against his thighs, stuck out his elbows, and bobbed his head so abruptly in a bow that the crack made by his neck vertebrae rang round the study. Smiling lazily, the colonel got up to meet him and held out his hand. In the other hand he was holding his glass.
“Very pleased to see you . . .” he said. “Welcome, Mr. . . . mmm . . .”
“Lance Corporal Otto Friese, Colonel!” Otto squealed ecstatically, then he bent over double and tremulously touched the colonel’s fingers. “I have the honor to report!”
“Otto, Otto!” Andrei said reproachfully. “We don’t have any ranks here!”
Otto giggled piteously, took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead, then immediately took fright and started trying to stuff the handkerchief back in the pocket, but kept missing.
“At El Alamein, I recall,” the colonel said good-naturedly, “my lads brought me a German lance corporal . . .”
The bell rang in the hallway again; Andrei apologized once more and went out, leaving the unfortunate Otto to be devoured by the British lion.
Izya had shown up. While he was kissing Selma on both cheeks, and wiping his shoes at her insistence, and being subjected to processing by clothes brush, Chachua and Dolfuss, with Madam Dolfuss, all tumbled in together. Chachua was holding Madam Dolfuss by the arm, dragging her along and deluging her with jokes as they walked, while Dolfuss trailed along behind with a wan smile on his face. In contrast with the temperamental head of the Chancellery for Legal Affairs, he seemed especially gray, colorless, and insignificant. He had a warm raincoat over each arm, in case it turned cold at night.
“Everyone to the table, to the table!” Selma chimed like a delicate little bell, clapping her hands.
“My dear,” Madam Dolfuss protested in a deep bass voice. “But I must tidy myself up!”
“What for?” Chachua asked, rolling his bulging eyes in astonishment. “Such great beauty—and you want to tidy it up? In accordance with article 218 of the Criminal Procedural Code, the law is resolutely opposed . . .”
The usual hubbub started up. Andrei couldn’t smile fast enough at everyone. Izya was seething and bubbling in his left ear, recounting something about a total screwup at the barracks during today’s combat alert, and right off the bat Dolfuss was droning in his right ear about lavatories and the main sewer, which was close to being blocked . . . Then they all piled into the dining room. As he invited, seated, cracked gags, and passed compliments, out of the corner of his eye Andrei saw the door of the study open and the smiling colonel emerge from it, stuffing his pipe into his side pocket. Alone. Andrei’s heart sank, but then Lance Corporal Otto Friese appeared—evidently he was simply maintaining a distance of five meters behind a senior officer, as prescribed by the drill regulations. A staccato clicking of heels began.
“Now we’ll drink and have a good time!” Chachua bellowed in a gravelly voice.
Knives and forks started clattering. After inserting Otto between Selma and Madam Dolfuss with some difficulty, Andrei sat down in his own seat and looked around the table. Everything was fine.
“And just imagine it, my dear, there was a hole this size in the rug! That’s a swipe at you, Mr. Friese, you beastly little boy!”
“They say that you shot someone in front of the ranks, Colonel?”
“And mark my words, it’s the sewerage system, the sewerage system that will be the ruin of our City some day!”
“So much beauty and such a small glass?”
“Otto, darling, stop worrying that bone . . . Here’s a good piece for you!”
“No, Katzman, it’s a military secret. I had more than enough bother with the Jews in Palestine.”
“Vodka, Counselor?”
“Thank you, Counselor!”
And heels clicked under the table.
Andrei drank two shots of vodka in quick succession—to get up steam—savored the snack that he followed it with, and joined everyone else in listening to a never-ending and fantastically indecent toast proposed by Chachua. When it finally turned out that the counselor of legal affairs was raising this tiny little glass with great big feelings, not in order to commend all the above-mentioned sexual perversions to the present company but merely to honor “my fiercest and most merciless enemies, with whom I have done battle throughout my life, and from whom I have suffered defeats throughout my life, that is—here’s to beautiful women!” Andrei burst into relieved laughter along with everyone else and downed a third shot. Madam Dolfuss gurgled and sobbed in absolute prostration, covering her face with a napkin.
Somehow everyone got tanked very quickly. “Yes! Oh, yes!” a familiar voice intoned at the far end of the table. Chachua, with his twitching nose suspended over Madam Dolfuss’s dazzling décolleté, kept talking without breaking off for a single second. Madam Dolfuss gurgled in total collapse, playfully shrinking away from him and heavily leaning her immensely broad back against Otto, who had already dropped his fork twice. Right beside Andrei, Dolfuss had finally left the sewerage system in peace, and lapsed into a state of official departmental elation at precisely the wrong time and in precisely the wrong place: he started recklessly giving awa
y state secrets. “Autonomy!” he mumbled menacingly “The key to aun- . . . to aumon- . . . autonomy is chlorella! The Great Construction? Don’t make me laugh. What damned airships? It’s chlorella!”
“Counselor, Counselor,” said Andrei, trying to reason with him. “For goodness’ sake! There’s absolutely no need for everyone to know that. Why don’t you tell me how things are going with the laboratory block?” The maid took away the dirty plates and brought clean ones. The hors d’oeuvres had already been swept away, and the beef bourguignonne was served.
“I raise this tiny little glass!”
“Yes, oh yes!”
“Beastly little boy! It’s quite impossible not to love you.”
“Izya, stop pestering the colonel! Colonel, would you like me to sit beside you?”
“Fourteen cubic meters of chlorella is zero . . . Autonomy!”
“Whiskey, Counselor?”
“Why, thank you, Counselor!”
At the height of the merriment ruddy-faced Parker suddenly appeared in the dining room. “The president sends his apologies,” he reported. “An urgent meeting. He sends his very warmest greetings to Mr. and Mrs. Voronin and likewise to all their guests . . .” They forced Parker to drink a shot of vodka—for that the efforts of all-crushing Chachua were required. A toast was proposed to the president and the success of all his undertakings.
Things got a bit quieter and coffee was served with ice cream and liqueurs. Otto Friese tearfully lamented his failures in love. Madam Dolfuss told Chachua about darling Königsberg, at which Chachua nodded his nose and passionately intoned, “But of course! I remember . . . General Chernyakhovsky . . . They battered it with cannon for five days . . .”
Parker disappeared, and it was dark outside. Dolfuss greedily drank coffee and unfolded to Andrei’s gaze phantasmagorical projects for the reconstruction of the northern districts. The colonel was telling Izya a joke: “. . . He was given ten days for disorderly conduct and ten years’ hard labor for disclosing a state and military secret.” Izya sprayed, gurgled, and replied, “But that’s old stuff, St. James. In Russia they used to tell that one about Khrushchev!”