The Doomed City

  And they didn’t surrender the city after all, he thought. Those who stayed gradually died off. They stacked them in the woodsheds and tried to get the living out—the authorities were still in control and life carried on—a strange, delirious life. Some people just died quietly, some committed acts of heroism, and then they died too . . . Some slaved in a factory to the bitter end, and when the time came, they died too . . . Some grew fat on all this, buying valuables, gold, pearls, and earrings for scraps of bread, and then they died too—they took them down to the Neva and shot them, then walked back up, not looking at anyone, slinging their rifles on their flat backs . . . Some hunted with axes in the side streets and ate human flesh and even tried to trade in it, but they died too anyway . . . In that city nothing was more ordinary than death. But the authorities still functioned, and while the authorities functioned, the city stood.

  I wonder, did they feel sorry for us at all? Or did they simply not think about us? Did they just carry out orders, and the orders were about the city, with nothing about us? That is, there was something about us, of course, but only under point “P for Population” . . . At the Finland Station, trains of suburban-line railroad cars stood under a clear sky that was white from the cold. In our car there were lots of kids just like me, about twelve years old—some sort of orphanage. I remember almost nothing. I remember the sun in the windows, and the steam of people’s breath, and a child’s voice that kept repeating the same phrase over and over, with the same helpless, squealing intonation: “You fuck off out of here!” And then again: “You fuck off out of here!” And again . . .

  Wait, that’s not what I was thinking about. Orders and compassion—that was it. Take me, for instance: I feel sorry for the soldiers. I understand them very well and even sympathize with them. We selected volunteers, and above all else, of course, the volunteers were adventurers, hotheads itching for action, who were bored to tears in our well-run City and fancied the idea of seeing somewhere completely new, getting to play with an automatic rifle when they got the chance, looting ruins, and then when they came home, stuffing their pockets with bonus money, tacking new stripes on their uniforms, and strutting their stuff with the girls . . . And instead of that . . . they get diarrhea, bloody blisters, and spooky crap . . . Anyone would mutiny!

  But what about me? Is it any easier for me? Did I come here for the diarrhea? I don’t want to go on either, I don’t see anything good up ahead either, and I had hopes of my own, too, dammit! My very own Crystal Palace just over the horizon! Maybe I’d only be too glad right now to give the order: That’s it, guys, pack up and turn back! I’m sick and tired of all this filth too, aren’t I? I’m afraid too, dammit—of that shimmering, or those people with iron heads. Maybe the sight of those people with no tongues froze my insides solid: there it is, a warning—don’t go that way, you fool, go back . . . And the wolves? When I was alone in the rear guard—because you were all so afraid you crapped your pants—do you think I enjoyed walking back there? They can just come darting out of the dust, rip off half your ass, and disappear . . . So there you have it, my dear friends, my dear bastards: you’re not the only ones having it tough; I’m all dried out and cracked inside from thirst too.

  So OK, he told himself. Then what the hell are you going on for? Just give the order tomorrow, we’ll flap our wings and fly, and in a month we’ll be home, and we’ll dump the high authority delegated to us at Heiger’s feet: right, fuck you, brother, go and do it yourself, if you’re so eager to press on with this expansion, if you’ve got an itch up the you-know-where . . . Ah, no, why necessarily make a big scandal out of it? After all, we’ve covered nine hundred kilometers, made a map, collected ten crates of archives—isn’t that enough? There isn’t anything up ahead! How much longer can we go on grinding down our feet? This isn’t Earth, it’s not a sphere . . . There isn’t any oil here, there isn’t any water, there aren’t any large settlements . . . And there isn’t any Anticity—of course not, that’s absolutely clear now; no one here has ever even heard of it . . . Anyway, the excuses can be found. Excuses . . . That’s just it. They’re excuses!

  Exactly how do things stand here? The agreement was to go all the way, and you were ordered to go all the way. Right? Right. And now: Can you go on? I can. We have chow. We have fuel, the guns are in good order . . . Of course, the men are bushed, but they’re all unscathed, none of them are hurt . . . And when all’s said and done, they’re not so badly exhausted, if they can monkey around with Skank all evening. No, brother, your argument doesn’t hold water. You’re a crappy boss, that’s what Heiger will tell you. I was mistaken about you, he’ll say. And he’s got Quejada whispering in one ear and Permyak in the other, and Ellisauer standing by in reserve . . .

  Andrei tried to drive this last thought out of his head as quickly as possible, but it was already too late. He realized with a shudder that his status as “Mr. Counselor” was in fact very important to him, and he found it very painful to think that this status might suddenly change.

  Well, let it change, he thought defensively. Am I going to starve to death without that position? By all means, let Mr. Quejada take my place, and I’ll take his. What harm will that do to the cause? My God, he suddenly thought. What cause is that, anyway? What are you driveling about, friend? You’re not a little kid any longer, taking responsibility for the fate of the world. You know, the fate of the world will get by without you, and without Heiger . . . Everyone must do his own duty at his own post? By all means, I don’t object to that. I’m willing to do my own duty at my own post. At my own. At this one. Wielding power. And there you have it, Mr. Counselor! What the hell! What gives a former noncommissioned office of a defeated army the right to rule a city of a million people, and here I am, within spitting distance of a doctorate, a man with a university education, a Komsomol member, and I don’t have the right to run a science department? What’s wrong here? Do I get worse results than he does? What’s the problem?

  This is all garbage—I have the right; I don’t have the right . . . The right to power belongs to whoever holds the power. Or more precisely, if you like, the right to power is held by whoever exercises power. If you know how to bend people to your will, you have the right to power. And if you don’t—sorry!

  And you will go on when I tell you to, you motherfuckers! he thought, addressing the sleeping expedition. And you’ll go on when I tell you to not because I’m desperate to push on into uncharted territory like that bearded baboon; you’ll go on when I tell you to because I order you to go on. And I’ll order you to go on, you sons of bitches, you slobs, you shit-assed soldiers of fortune, not out of any sense of duty to Heiger—perish the thought—but because I have power, and I have to constantly affirm that power—affirm it to you, you dumb assholes, and affirm it to myself. And to Heiger . . . To you—because otherwise you’ll devour me. To Heiger—because otherwise he’ll sack me, and he’ll be right. And to myself . . . You know, the kings and all the monarch types used to have this hocus-pocus formula: their power was given to them by God in person; they couldn’t even imagine themselves without power, and neither could their subjects. And even so, they still had to keep their wits about them. But we little people don’t believe in God. No one has anointed us to the throne. We have to take care of ourselves. Fortune favors the brave—that’s the way it is with us. We don’t need any imposters; I’m the one who’s going to command. Not you, not him, not those guys, and not those dames. Me. The army will support me . . .

  What a heap of baloney, he thought, even feeling a bit embarrassed. He turned over onto his other side, pushing his hand in under the pillow, where it was a bit cooler, to make himself more comfortable. His fingers ran into the pistol . . .

  So how do you intend to implement your program of action, Mr. Counselor? You’ll have to shoot! Not just imagine yourself shooting (“Private Hnoipek, step out of the ranks!”), not just engage in mental masturbation, but do it—go ahead and shoot a live human being, a man who might be unarm
ed, not even suspecting anything, maybe not even guilty when all’s said and done . . . but to hell with all that! A live human being—shoot him in the stomach, the soft belly, the guts . . . No, I don’t know how do that, I’ve never done that, and God help me, I can’t even imagine it . . . Of course, in the skirmish at 340 kilometers, I fired like everyone else, simply out of fright, I didn’t understand anything . . . But I couldn’t see anyone there, and they were firing at me too, dammit!

  OK, he thought. All right, then—so I’m some kind of humanist, and then again, I’m not accustomed to it . . . But then, what if they won’t go on? I order them to and they answer, you can fuck off, brother, go yourself, if you’ve got an itch up the you-know-where . . .

  Now there’s an idea! he thought. Issue the slobs a small amount of water, allocate them some of the food for the journey back, and let them fix the broken tractor . . . Off you go, we’ll get by without you. Now, wouldn’t that be great, to just dump all that shit in a single stroke! But then he immediately imagined the colonel’s face if he heard a proposal like that. Mmm, yes, the colonel won’t understand. He’s the wrong breed. He’s precisely one of those . . . those monarchs. The idea of possible insubordination doesn’t even enter his head. And in any case, he won’t agonize over all these problems . . . Aristocratic, military blood. It’s fine for him—his father was a colonel, and his grandfather was a colonel, and his great-grandfather was a colonel; just look what an empire they built up, and no doubt they killed plenty of people in the process . . . So let him shoot them, if need be. After all, they’re his men, and I’ve got no intention of interfering in his business . . . Dammit, I’m sick of all this. Gutless intelligentsia whining, it’s turned my brains to mush! They must go—and that’s the end of it! I’m carrying out my orders, so you carry out yours, all right? I won’t get any thanks for disobeying, and it won’t be good for your health either, damn and blast you! That’s all. To hell with it. I’d be better off thinking about women than this hogwash. Some philosophy of power this is . . .

  He turned over again, twisting up the sheet under him, and strained to picture Selma in that lilac negligee of hers, bending over in front of the bed and putting down the tray of coffee on the little table . . . He imagined all the details of how it would be with Selma, then suddenly—without any strain this time—he was in his office, where he found Amalia in the big armchair, with her little skirt rolled right up to her armpits . . . Then he realized things had gone too far.

  He flung off the sheet and deliberately sat in an uncomfortable position, with the edge of the camp bed cutting into his backside, staring at the rectangle of the window, filled with a diffuse light. Then he looked at his watch. It was already after midnight. If I get up now, he thought, and I go down to the ground-floor level . . . Where is she sacked out down there—in the kitchen? This idea always used to provoke a response of healthy disgust, but this time that didn’t happen. He imagined Skank’s naked, dirty legs, but he didn’t dwell on them, he moved higher . . . He suddenly felt curious about what she was like naked. After all, a woman’s a woman.

  “My God!” he said in a loud voice.

  The door immediately creaked and the Mute appeared. A black shadow in the darkness, with only the whites of his eyes gleaming.

  “Well, what are you doing here?” Andrei asked dejectedly. “Go and sleep.”

  The Mute disappeared. Andrei yawned uneasily and slumped sideways onto the camp bed.

  He woke in horror, soaking wet.

  “Halt, who goes there?” the sentry howled again under his window. His voice was high-pitched and desperate, as if he were calling for help.

  And immediately Andrei heard heavy, crunching blows, as if someone huge were regularly and repeatedly hammering on crumbling stone with a huge sledgehammer.

  “I’ll fire!” the sentry squealed in a voice that didn’t even sound human, and started shooting.

  Andrei couldn’t remember how he got to the window. In the darkness to his right he saw the fitful orange flashes of shots. The fiery flickering outlined the form of something black, massive, and unmoving farther up the street, with showers of green sparks flying out of it. Andrei didn’t have time to understand anything. The sentry’s ammunition clip ran out, and for a brief moment there was silence, then he squealed again out there in the darkness—exactly like a horse—and his boots started thudding, and suddenly he was there, in the circle of light under the window, waving his empty automatic and still squealing. He dashed to a tractor and cowered in the black shadow behind the caterpillar track, repeatedly tugging on his spare ammunition clip, trying to jerk it out from behind his belt, but he couldn’t . . . And then those crunching blows of a sledgehammer on stone started up again: boooom, boooom . . .

  When Andrei darted out into the street without his trousers, with his shoelaces dangling free and his pistol in his hand, a lot of men were already there. Sergeant Vogel was roaring like a bull: “Tevosyan, Hnoipek! To the right! Prepare to fire! Anastasis! Onto the tractor, behind the cabin! Observe, prepare to fire! Move it! You lily-livered pigs . . . Vasilenko! To the left! Lie down, and—To the left, you Slavic bonehead! Get down and observe! Palotti! Where are you going, you greasy wop!”

  He grabbed the aimlessly running Italian by the collar, gave him a ferocious kick on the backside, and flung him in the direction of the tractor.

  “Behind the cabin, you animal! Anastasis, shine the light along the street!”

  Men were jostling Andrei in the back and from the sides. He gritted his teeth and tried to stay on his feet, not understanding anything, fighting an overpowering urge to yell out something nonsensical. He pressed himself up against the wall, holding his pistol out in front of him and looking around like an animal at bay. Why are they all running that way? What if there’s an attack from the rear? Or from the roof? Or from the houses across the street?

  “Drivers!” Vogel roared. “Drivers, onto the tractors. Who’s that firing there, you bastards? Cease fire!”

  Gradually Andrei’s head cleared. Things turned out not to be so bad after all. The men had taken cover where they were ordered to, the scurrying about was over, and at last someone on the tractor turned the searchlight to light up the street.

  “There he is!” a strangled voice shouted.

  Automatic rifles barked briefly and then fell silent. Andrei only had time to spot something huge, almost higher than the houses, something ugly, with stumps and spikes jutting out in different directions. It cast an endless shadow along the street and immediately turned the corner two blocks away. It disappeared from sight, and the heavy blows of a sledgehammer on crunching stone became quieter, then even quieter, and soon completely faded away.

  “What happened there, Sergeant?” the colonel’s calm voice asked above Andrei’s head.

  The colonel, with all his buttons fastened, was standing at his window, leaning his hands on the windowsill. “The sentry raised the alarm, Colonel,” Sergeant Vogel replied. “Private Terman.”

  “Private Terman, report to me!” said the colonel.

  The soldiers started turning their heads, looking around.

  “Private Terman!” the sergeant barked. “Report to the colonel!”

  In the diffused light of the headlamp, they saw Private Terman frantically scrambling out from behind the caterpillar track. Some piece of the poor devil’s gear got snagged again. He yanked on it with all his might, got to his feet, and shouted in a squeaky voice: “Private Terman reporting on the colonel’s orders!”

  “What a scarecrow!” the colonel said fastidiously. “Fasten yourself up, man.”

  And at that moment the sun came on. It was so sudden that a chorus of muffled, incoherent exclamations ran through the camp. Many of the men put their hands over their eyes. Andrei squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Why did you raise the alarm, Private Terman?”

  “An intruder, Colonel,” Terman blurted out with a note of despair in his voice. “He failed to respond when challenged. H
e was coming directly at me. The ground was shaking! In accordance with regulations, I challenged him twice, then opened fire.”

  “Well now,” said the colonel. “I commend you.”

  In the bright light everything seemed completely different from five minutes ago. The camp looked like a camp now—weary, worn-out sleds, dirty metal barrels of fuel, tractors covered in dust. Against this ordinary, drearily familiar background, the half-dressed armed men, lying and squatting down with their machine guns and automatic rifles, with mussed hair, creased faces, and disheveled beards, looked absurd and ludicrous. Andrei remembered that he wasn’t wearing any trousers and his shoelaces were dangling loose, and he suddenly felt embarrassed. He cautiously backed away toward the door, but a crowd of drivers, cartographers, and geologists was standing there.

  “I beg to report,” Terman was saying in the meantime, having perked up a bit, “that it was not human, Colonel.”

  “Then what was it?”

  Private Terman was lost for words.

  “It was more like an elephant, Colonel,” Vogel said authoritatively. “Or some kind of antediluvian monster.”

  “It was like a stegosaurus more than anything,” Tevosyan put in.

  The colonel immediately turned his gaze on Tevosyan and examined him curiously for a few seconds. “Sergeant,” he said at last. “Why do your men open their mouths without permission?”