Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Probationers (engl) --------------------------------------------------------------- © Copyright Arkady and Boris Strugatsky "" © Copyright english translation by Boris Pogoriller borisp()unite.com.au WWW: http://rusf.ru/abs/ http://rusf.ru/abs/ Date: 19 Jun 2004 --------------------------------------------------------------- "" stavery.txt PROLOGUE A massive red and white coach arrived. Departure was announced. - Alright, off you go, - said Daugeh. Bykov grumbled: - We'll make it. By the time they all board... He watched sullenly how the other passengers entered the bus at leisure, one by one. About a hundred people were boarding. - This will take fifteen minutes, at least, - Grisha remarked knowingly. Bykov gave him a strict look. - Button up your shirt, - he said. - Dad, I'm hot, - Grisha said. - Do up your shirt, - Bykov repeated. - Don't walk around like a slouch. - Don't look at me, - said Yurkovski. - I am allowed, whilst you aren't yet. Daugeh looked at him and shifted his eyes. Didn't feel like looking at Yurkovski - seeing his self-assured flabby face with a surly drooping lower lip, his heavy monogrammed satchel, his stylish suit made from rare stereosynthetics. Rather felt like looking up above into the transparent sky, clear, blue, with not one cloud, not even birds - above the airfield they were dispersed with ultrasound sirens. Bykov-junior watched closely by Bykov-senior was buttoning up his collar. Yurkovski languidly declared: - In the stratoplane I will order a bottle of mineral water and indulge... Bykov-senior suspiciously inquired: - The liver? - Why necessarily 'the liver'? - said Yurkovski. - I am simply hot. And it's about time you knew that mineral fizz doesn't help liver bouts. - Have you at least packed your pills? - asked Bykov. - Why are you bothering him? - said Daugeh. Everyone looked at him. Daugeh lowered his eyes and said through clenched teeth: - So don't forget, Vladimir. The packet must be handed to Arnautov directly, immediately after you arrive on Syrt. - If Arnautov is on Mars, - said Yurkovski - Yes, naturally. I just don't want you to forget. - I will remind him, - promised Bykov. They fell silent. The queue at the coach shrunk. - You know what, please go now, - said Daugeh. - Yes, its time, - Bykov sighed. He approached Daugeh and hugged him. - Don't feel sad, Johannovich, - he said softly. - Good-bye. Don't be sad. He firmly gripped Daugeh with his long bony hands. Daugeh gave him a weak push. - Calm plasma to you, - he said. He shook Yurkovski's hand. Yurkovski's eyes fluttered repeatedly, he wanted to say something, but only licked his lips. He reached over, lifted his magnificent satchel off the grass, shuffled it in his hands and lowered it back on the grass. Daugeh wasn't looking his way. Yurkovski lifted the satchel again. - Ah, don't look so sour, Gregory, - he said with a pained voice. - I'll try, - Daugeh replied dryly. On the side, Bykov was quietly admonishing his son. - Whilst I am on a voyage, stay close to mother. None of those subaquatic stunts. - Ok, Dad. - No record setting. - Yes Dad. Don't worry. - Pay less attention to girls, think more about mother. - Ok, alright Dad. Daugeh quietly said: - I am off. He turned and plodded towards the terminal. Yurkovski followed him with his eyes. Daugeh looked shrunk, humped, greatly aged. - Good-bye, Uncle Volodya, - said Grisha. - Good-bye, old chap, - said Yurkovski. He was still looking in Daugeh's direction. - Will you visit him or something... Just like that, come in, for a cup of tea - and that's all. He is fond of you, I know... Grisha nodded. Yurkovski offered him his cheek, patted him on the shoulder and walked after Bykov to the bus. With some effort, he ascended the stairs, sat next to Bykov and said: - It would be good if the flight was cancelled. Bykov stared at him with amazement. - What flight? Ours? - Yes, ours. Would be easier for Daugeh. Or if we were discharged by the medics. Bykov breathed heavily but remained quiet. When the coach started moving, Yurkovski said: - He did not even want to hug me. And rightly so. No reason for us to fly without him. Its wrong. Unfair. - Cut it out, - said Bykov. Daugeh went up the granite stairs and looked back. The red dot of the coach was dragging slowly somewhere on the horizon. There, in a crimson haze, the conical silhouettes of vertical launch liners could be seen. Grisha asked: - Where should I drop you off, Uncle Grisha? At the institute? - One can go to the institute, - replied Daugeh. I don't feel like going anywhere, he thought. Absolutely nowhere that I'd like to go. How difficult... I never imagine it'd be so difficult. Indeed nothing new or unexpected happened. Everything is acknowledged and determined. And settled quietly, ahead of time, since no one likes to appear infirm. All in all, everything is fair and just. Fifty years of age. Four radiation attacks. A worn-out heart. Nerves that aren't worth anything. Even the blood - not his own. Therefore rejection, he isn't accepted anywhere. Whilst Volodya Yurkovski gets accepted. As for you, Gregory Johannovich, it's enough to eat whatever you are given and sleep wherever we put you. It's time, Gregory Johannovich, to teach the youngsters. What's the use of teaching them? Daugeh glanced sideways at Grisha. Look at him, he's robust and sharp-toothed. Teach him courage? Or fitness? Indeed, besides these, nothing else is needed. That's how one becomes isolated. Plus a hundred articles, now archaic. Plus a few books that are quickly becoming obsolete. Plus fame, that's quickest to turn obsolete. He turned and entered an echoing cool foyer. Grisha Bykov walked along. His shirt was unbuttoned. The foyer was filled with quiet conversations and the rustling of newspapers. Some film was being projected onto a large concave screen mounted on the wall; a few people sunken in their chairs were watching it, holding the shiny phonodemonstrator boxes at the ear. A chubby eastern-looking foreigner was fumbling at the automated buffet. At the bar entrance Daugeh suddenly stopped. - Come on, my namesake buddy, let's go in and have a drink, - he said. Grisha looked at him with surprise and sympathy. - What for, Uncle Grisha? - he asked pleadingly. - What for? No need. - You think, there is no need? - Daugeh asked musingly. - Of course, there's no need. It's pointless, honestly. Daugeh, tilting his head and squinting, looked at him. - Have you, by any chance, imagined, - he said venomously, - that I turned sour, because I was put in reserve? What, that I cannot survive without all those mysterious abysses in space? I beg your pardon, old pal! I couldn't care less about those abysses! But the fact that I am now left alone... Understand? Alone! For the first time in life I am alone! Grisha looked around in confusion. The chubby foreigner was looking at them. Daugeh was soft-spoken, but Grisha felt as though everyone in the hall heard him. - Why am I now alone? What have I done? Why me, individually... why should I, specifically, be alone? Indeed I am not the oldest one, dear namesake. Michael is older, and your father also... - Uncle Misha is also taking his last voyage, - Grisha reminded him timidly. - True, - conceded Daugeh. - Our Misha has aged too... Alright, let's go get a drink. They entered the bar. The bar was empty, except for a table by the window where some attractive woman sat. She was sitting over an empty glass, resting the chin on her interlocked fingers, looking at the bitumen field outside the window. Daugeh stopped and leaned heavily on the closest table. He had not seen her in twenty years, but recognised instantly. His throat became dry and bitter. - What is it, Uncle Grisha? - alarmed, asked Bykov-junior. Daugeh stood straight. - This is my wife, - he said calmly. - Come. "What wife?" - thought Grisha with some fear. - Perhaps I should wait for you in the car? - he asked. - Nonsense, rubbish, - said Daugeh. - Come. They approached the table. - Good day, Masha, - spoke Daugeh. The woman raised her head. Her eyes widened. She reclined slowly in the chair. - You... didn't leave? - she said. - No. - Are you leaving later? - No. I am staying. She kept looking at him with widely opened eyes. Her eyelashes were heavily made up. A lattice of wrinkles under the eyes. And plenty of wrinkles on the neck. - What does it mean - 'I am staying'? - she asked with distrust. He grabbed the back of the chair. - Can we join you? - he asked. - This is Grisha Bykov. Bykov's son. Then she smiled at Grisha with that habitually-promising gleaming smile, which Daugeh hated so much. - Pleased to meet you, - she said. - Sit down, boys. Grisha and Daugeh sat. - I am Maria Sergeyevna, - said she, examining Grisha. - I am the sister of Vladimir Sergeyevich Yurkovski. Grisha lowered his eyes and bowed slightly. - I know your father, - she continued. She stopped smiling. - I owe him much, Gregory... Alexeyevich. Grisha stayed quiet. He felt awkward. He understood nothing. Daugeh said in a strained voice: - What will you drink, Masha? - Jaymou, - she replied, with a dazzling smile. - Is that strong? - asked Daugeh. - However, its all the same. Grisha, can you please bring two Jaymou's. He was looking at her, the smooth tanned hands, smooth open shoulders, a light thin dress with cut a little too low. She kept amazingly well for her years, even her braids stayed exactly the same, bulky and thick, the sort that nobody wears any more, bronze, without one grey strand, layered around her head. He chuckled, slowly unzipped his thick warm coat and pulled off a thick layered helmet with earflaps. Her face twitched when she saw his bare scalp with sparse silver coloured bristles around the ears. He chuckled again. - At last we have met, - said he. - And why are you here? Waiting for someone? - No, - she said. - I am not waiting for anyone. She looked out the window, and he suddenly realised. - You were seeing someone off, - he said quietly. She nodded. - Whom? Us, really? - Yes. His heart froze. - Was it me? - he asked. Grisha came and placed two chilled misty glasses on the table. - No, - she answered. - Volodya then? - he said bitterly. Grisha left discreetly. - Such a nice boy, - she said. - How old is he? - Eighteen. - Really eighteen? How funny! You know, he looks nothing like Bykov. Not even red-haired. - Yes, time flies, - said Daugeh. - And I stopped flying already. - How come? - she inquired nonchalantly. - It's health. She glanced at him quickly. - Yes, you don't look too well. Tell me... - she paused. - Bykov will soon quit flying, too? - What? - he asked with surprise. - I don't like when Volodya goes on a voyage without Bykov, - she said, looking out the window. She fell silent again. - I fear for him. You know what he is like, don't you. - And what does this have to do with Bykov? - Daugeh asked with hostility. - It's safe with Bykov, - she said simply. - And how are things with you, Gregory? Somehow it's unusual, you - and no longer flying. - I will be working at the institute, - said Daugeh. - Working... - she shook her head. - Working... Look at what you are. Daugeh smiled crookedly. - You, on the other side, did not change at all. Married? - What for? - she remarked. - I stayed a bachelor as well. - Not surprisingly. - How so? - You don't fit for a husband. Daugeh gave an awkward laugh. - No need to attack me, - he said. - I just wanted to talk. - Before you were fascinating to talk to. - What, are you bored already? We have only been speaking for five minutes. - No, what gave you that thought? - she said politely. - I am always glad to hear you out. The stayed silent. Daugeh was stirring his drink with a straw. - And I always see Volodya off, - she said. - I have friends at the command centre, and I always know when you depart. And where from. And I always come to see him off. - She removed the straw from her glass, crumpled it and threw it into the ashtray. - He alone is the closest person to me. - She lifted her glass and took a few sips. - A crazy world. Idiotic times, - she said wearily. - People have forgotten how to have a life. Work, work, work... All meaning of life is within work. Always looking for something. Always building something. What for? I can understand, this was necessary previously, when we lacked everything. When there was this economic struggle. When we still had to prove, that we can do not just as well, but better than they can. We proved it. But the struggle remained. Some hidden, unclear struggle. I can't understand it. Perhaps you can, Gregory? - I understand, - said Daugeh. - You always understood. You always understood the world in which you live. Both you, and Volodya, and this dull Bykov. Sometimes I think that all of you are simply narrow-minded. You simply cannot pose a question - "what for?" - She took another sip. - You know, recently I met this school teacher. He teaches kids these awful things. He tells them, that to work is a lot more interesting then to find entertainment. And they all believe him. Do you understand? But this is scary! I talked to his students. They seemed to shun me. Why? Because I want to live my individual life how I wish? Daugeh clearly imagined the conversation of Maria Yurkovskaya with fifteen-year old lads and girls from the local school. Indeed, how would you understand, he thought. How would you understand, when for weeks, for months you desperately smash against a dead end wall, scribble away mountains of paper, cover tens of kilometres walking around your cabinet or a desert, and it seems, that there never was a solution and that you are a brainless blind worm, and you no longer believe, that it has been like this before, and then this wonderful moment arrives, when you open, at last, a gate in the wall, and another dead end is behind you, and you are god again, and the universe is in your palm. However, this ought not be understood. It must be felt. He said: - They also wish to live their lives the way they wish. But you want different things. She retorted abruptly: - But what if I happen to be right? - No, - said Daugeh. - They are the right ones. The never ask this question "what for?" - And what if they simply cannot think objectively? Daugeh chuckled. What do you know about objective thinking, he thought. - You drink cold water on a hot day, - he said patiently. - And you never ask - "what for?". You simply drink it, and feel good... She interrupted him: - Yes, I feel good. So let's have me drinking my cold water, and they can drink theirs! - Let's, - Daugeh agreed calmly. He felt, with surprise and gladness, how the loathsome pressing anxiety is disappearing somewhere. - That's not what we are talking about. You want to know who is right. Well then. Human beings - they are already not animals. Nature gave them intelligence. This intelligence must inevitably develop. And you are extinguishing the intelligence within you. Extinguishing it artificially. You have devoted your entire life to this. And there are many more people on this planet, extinguishing their intelligence. They are called philistines, petty bourgeois. - Thanks. - I didn't wish to offend you, - said Daugeh. - But it seemed to me, that you wanted to offend us. Objectivity of thought... What objectivity of thought could you hold? She finished her drink. - You speak very nicely today, dear, - she remarked, laughing unsympathetically, - explaining everything so well. Then, please be so kind, explain to me one more thing. You worked your entire life. Throughout your whole life you developed your intellect, stepping over simple worldly pleasures. - I never denounced worldly pleasures, - said Daugeh. - I was quite naughty, even. - Let's not argue, - she said. - As I see it, you have been. And I have been extinguishing intelligence my whole life. All my life I was busy nurturing my lowly instincts. And which one of us is more fortunate r i g h t n o w? - Me, naturally, - said Daugeh. She gave him a candid look and laughed. - No, - she said. - I am! At worst both of us are equally unfortunate. A talentless cuckoo bird - I believe that's what Volodya calls me? - or a hard-working ant - the end is the same: old age, isolation, emptiness. I gained nothing but you lost everything. What, then, is the difference? - Ask Grisha Bykov, - Daugeh said calmly. - Ah, t h e s e o n e's! - She scornfully waived her hand. - I know what they shall say. No, I am interested what you will say! And not now, when its sunny and people all around, but at night, when there's insomnia, and the volumes that you are sick of looking at, and useless minerals from useless planets, and a silent phone, and nothing, nothing ahead of you. - True, that happens, - said Daugeh. - It happens to everyone. He suddenly imagined all this - both the silent phone and nothing waiting ahead - but not the written volumes and minerals, but flasks of perfume, dead glow of golden jewellery and a merciless mirror. I am swine, he thought with repentance. A self-assured indifferent swine. Indeed she asking for help! - Will you let me see you tonight? - he said. - No. - She got up. Tonight I am having guests over. Daugeh set aside his untouched glass and also stood up. She took him by the elbow and they walked out into the foyer. Daugeh was trying his hardest not to limp. - Where are you off to now? - he asked. She stopped in front of a mirror and straightened her hair, which did not require straightening. - Where to? - she asked. - Somewhere. Still, I am not fifty and my world belongs to me for now. They came down the white staircase onto a sun-lit square. - I could give you a lift, - said Daugeh. - Thank you, I have my own car. Unhurriedly, he pulled on his helmet, checked whether his ears are covered and buttoned up his coat. - Farewell, oldster, - she said. - Farewell, - he replied, smiling tenderly. - Forgive me if I spoke harshly... You really helped me today. She gave him a baffled look, shrugged her shoulders, smiled and walked to her car. Daugeh watched as she walked, swaying her hips, remarkably slender, proud and pitiful. She had a splendid step and she was still attractive, amazingly attractive. People followed her with their eyes. Daugeh thought with dreary spite: "Here. Here is all her life. Drape the flesh with something expensive and pretty and draw attention. And so many of them, and how tenacious are they." When he came to the car, Grisha Bykov was sitting, knees against the stirring wheel, reading a thick book. The car stereo was on at full blast: Grisha loved loud music. Daugeh got in, turned off the stereo and sat quietly for some time. Grisha put the book aside and started the engine. Daugeh said, looking ahead of him: - Life gives a person three joys, namesake. Friends, love and work. But how seldom do they come together! - One can, naturally, do without love, - said Grisha thoughtfully. Daugeh gave him a quick look. - True, one can, - he agreed. - But that means one joy less, and there are just three. Grisha said nothing. He believed it would be unfair to start an argument hopeless for his opponent. - To the institute, - said Daugeh, - and try to make it by one. We won't be late? - Nope, I will be quick. The car came onto the highway. - Uncle Grisha, are you cold? - asked Grisha Bykov. Daugeh moved his nose and said: - Yes, buddy. Let's close the windows. MIRZA-CHARLIE. RUSSIAN BOY. The duty officer at passenger communications was very sympathetic towards Yura Borodin. She could not help him at all. Regular passenger commuting with the Saturn system did not exist. There wasn't yet any regular cargo commuting. Automated cargo vessels were sent there two-three times a year, and piloted ships even less frequently. The officer twice sent a request to the electronic dispatch, shuffled through some weighty directory, rang somebody a few times, but all in vain. Probably because Yura looked really miserable she said afterwards, with sympathy: - Cheer up a little, dear. It's such a distant planet. Besides, why do you need to travel so far? - I fell behind after others left, - Yura said with distress. - Thank you greatly. I will go now. Perhaps somewhere else... He turned and walked to the exit, head down, looking at the worn out plastic floor under his feet. - Wait, dear, - the officer called out to him. Yura immediately turned around and walked back. - You see, dear, - said the duty officer hesitantly, - sometimes special flights turn up. - Really? - said Yura with hope. - Yes. But our centre does not receive information about these. - And will they take me along on a special flight? - asked Yura. - I don't know, dear. I don't even know, where you can find out about them. Possibly, with the director of the cosmodrome? - She looked at Yura questioningly. - It's probably impossible to get through to the director, - said Yura sombrely. - Why don't you try anyhow. - Thanks, - said Yura. - All the best. I will try to. He left the space commuter centre and looked around. On the right, over the green arches of the trees the hotel building was raised into a hot whitish sky. On the left a colossal glass dome glittered intolerably under the sun. Yura saw that dome already at the aerodrome. From the aerodrome, only that dome and the golden spike of the hotel could be seen. Yura, naturally, asked what it was and was laconically told: "EMCS". What "EMCS" meant, Yura did not know. Right in front of the command centre lay a wide road, covered with large-size red sand granules. On either side of the road passed irrigation channels, alongside the channels acacia trees grew closely. About twenty paces from the entrance to the centre, in the shade of the acacias stood a small white squarish atomocar. Above the windshield motionlessly extended two big blue helmets with white writing "International Police. Mirza-Charlie." For two minutes or so Yura stood in complete indecisiveness. At first there wasn't anyone on the road. Then, from some place on the right, appeared, walking broadly, a tall, red-tanned man wearing a white suit. Upon approaching Yura he stopped, took off a giant white beret and fanned his face. Yura looked at him with curiosity. - Ho-at! - said the man in a white suit. - And how are you? - He spoke with a strong accent. - Very hot, - said Yura. The man in a white suit plonked the beret on his burned out hair and produced a flat glass flask from his pocket. - A dre-enk? - he said, stretching his mouth to the ears. Yura shook his head. - I don't drink, - he said. - I alsho don't dreenk, - announced the man in a white suit and plunged the flask back into his pocket. - But I always keep whiskey, in case someone does drink. Yura laughed. He liked the man. - Ho-at, - once more said the man in a white suit. - That's our disaster. Inta-nashional cosmodrome in Greenland - and I freeze there. Inta-nashional cosmodrome in Mirza-Charlie - me soaked, sweaty. Ay? - Awfully hot, - said Yura. - And where are we flying to? - inquired the man in a white suit. - I need to be on Saturn. - O-o! - said the man in a white suit. - Ve-eary young and already to Saturn. Zh-hat meansh we will meet and meet! He patted Yura on the shoulder and suddenly noticed the police car. - Inter-nashional police, - he said solemnly. - Zhey musht have all honours. He nodded off with dignity and walked on. When he came level with the police atomocar, he braced himself and placed an index finger to the temple. The blue helmets behind the windshield tilted slowly in unison and became motionless again. Yura sighed and leisurely walked to the hotel. He had to find the cosmodrome director somewhere. The road was empty, and he could not ask anyone. Sure, he could ask the police officers, but Yura did not wish to approach them. She did not like the way they sat, motionless. Yura briefly regretted that he did not ask the man in the white suit about the director, but then suddenly realised that the friendly duty officer would definitely know everything about Mirza-Charlie. He even stoped for a second, but then walked further. Ultimately, it's not polite to take so much of these people's time. Never mind, I will find out somewhere, he thought and walked faster. He was walking along the very edge of the irrigation ditch, trying not to walk in the sun, past the brightly coloured vending machines with soda and juices, past the empty benches and recliners, past the small white houses, hidden in the shade of the acacias, past the roomy bitumen yards filled with empty atomocars. One of the yards did not have a tent above it, and ripples of hot air rose from the shiny polished roofs of the vehicles. It was a pitiful sight, seeing all these cars, possibly left standing for hours under the merciless sun. Past the giant billboards, promising, in three languages, herculean health to all those who drink vitamised goats milk "Golden Horns", past some really strange dishevelled people, sleeping right on the grass, having placed packages, backpacks and suitcases under their heads, past the automated street cleaners frozen at the kerb, past tanned kids, splashing around in the irrigation ditch. A few times he was overtaken by empty buses. He walked beneath a poster, stretched above the road: "Mirza-Charlie welcomes disciplined drivers." The sign was done in English. He passed the blue booth of the traffic controller and came out on to the Friendship walk - the main street in Mirza-Charlie. The main walk was also empty. Shops, cinemas, bars, cafes were shut. Siesta, thought Yura. It was unbearably hot on the street. Yura stopped by a vendomat and drank a glass of hot orange juice. Raising his eyebrows he walked to the next vendomat and drank a glass of hot soda water. Yep, he thought. Siesta. Wouldn't it be nice to crawl inside a refrigerator. The sun scorched the street - white, as if enveloped by a haze. There was no shade. At the end of the main walk, in a hot mist the bulk of the hotel was radiating crimson and blue. Yura started on his way, feeling the blistering pavement through the shoes. At first he walked fast, but he couldn't walk fast - he was running out of breath and sweat was pouring down his face, leaving itchy trails. A long narrow vehicle with outstretched top panels rolled up to the kerb. The Driver wearing big dark glasses opened the door. - Listen, pal, where is the hotel around here? - Straight ahead, at the end of the main walk, - said Yura. The driver looked, nodded and asked: - Aren't you going there? - I am, - Yura answered with a sigh. - Jump in, - said the driver. Yura climbed in with gratitude. - One can tell straight away, that you are a newcomer, like me, - said the driver. He drove the vehicle very slowly. - All locals stay in the shade. I was warned, that I must come by night time, but that's me - did not feel like waiting. And I was wrong to hurry. It's a dreamy kingdom. The cabin was full of cool clean air. - I think, - said Yura, - it's a very curious town. I have never been in international cities before. Everything is so amusingly mixed up here. Kara-kumas desert and the international police. Did you see them - all wearing blue helmets? - Saw them, - said the driver gloomily. - Over there on the highway. - He tilted his head, - about thirty men. The trucks collided. - How do you mean - collided? - said Yura. - What trucks? Automatics? - Not at all, not automatics, - grumbled the driver. - These... 'Varangian' visitors. Got their hands on it... Drunk scoundrels. He stopped the vehicle in front of the hotel and said: - Here we are. I am turning into the first street on the right. Yura climbed out. - Thank you so much, - he said. - It's nothing, really, - said the driver. - See you later. Yura walked up into the hall and went up to the hotel administrator. The administrator was speaking on the phone and Yura, sitting down in a chair, began staring at the paintings on the walls. Here, everything has also been mixed up quite amusingly. Next to the traditional Shishkin's "Three bears" a large canvas was hanging, covered with fluorescent dye and not exhibiting anything in particular. For a while, Yura compared the paintings with quiet joy. It was very amusing. - How can assist you, mister, - said the administrator, folding her hands on the desk. Yura laughed. - You see, I am not a 'mister', - said he. - I am a simple soviet citizen. The administrator laughed as well. - Frankly speaking, I thought so too. But I did not want to risk it. Here we get foreigners, who become upset when they are called 'comrades'. - Such odd fellows, - said Yura. - Oh yes, - said the administrator. - Now, how can I help you, comrade? - You know, - said Yura, - I really need to see the cosmodrome director. Could you suggest anything? - What's there to suggest? - the administrator was surprised. She lifted the receiver and dialled a number. - Valya? - she asked. - Oh, Zoya? Listen, Zoya dear, this is Kruglova speaking. When is your boss taking appointments today? Ah, ok... I understand... No, just this young man... Yep... Ok, well, thank you, sorry to bother you. The videophone screen stayed blank throughout the conversation and Yura counted that as a bad omen. "Bad luck" - he thought. - Well then, this is the deal, - said the administrator. - The director is very busy and you could only see him after six o'clock. I will write down the address and the phone number... - she hastily scribbled on a hotel form. - Here. Call around six or just go straight there. It's nearby. Yura stood up, took the paper and thanked her. - And where are you staying? - asked the administrator. - You see, - said Yura, - I haven't checked in anywhere yet. And I don't wish to. I must leave today. - Ah, - said the administrator, - well, bon voyage. Calm plazma, as our interplanetary pilots say. Yura thanked her again and went out on the street. In a shady side street, close to the hotel, he saw a cafe where the siesta has either ended or has not yet begun. Under a broad flowery marquee, right on the grass stood the tables and the roast pork smell was present. Over the marquee a sign was hanging: "Your old Mickey Mouse" with the image of the famous Disney character. Yura hesitantly walked into the marquee. Naturally, such cafes only exist in foreign cities. Behind a long metallic stand with colourful bottles in the background stood a bold red-cheeked barman in a white jacket with rolled up sleeves. His large hairy arms were lazily resting amongst silver lids, covering the dishes with free snacks. On barman's left stood an bizarre silver device, from which aromatic steam puffs rose. On the right, under a glass cover, various sandwiches stood in splendour on cardboard plates. Above the barman's head two posters were affixed. One, written in English, informed patrons, that "The first drink is free, second one - twenty four cents, all others - eighteen cents each". The other poster, in Russian, announced: "Your old Mickey Mouse is competing for the superior service award". The cafe only had two patrons. One of them was sleeping at the table in the corner, his uncombed head resting on his arms. Next to him on the grass lay a shrivelled greasy backpack. The other visitor, a bulky man in a chequered shirt was eating a stew with gusto, unhurriedly, and talking to the barman across two rows of tables. When Yura walked in, the barman was saying: - I am not mentioning photon powered rockets and atomic reactors. I want to talk about cafes and bars. That's where I know a thing or two. Take, for instance, your soviet cafes and our western cafes here, in Mirza-Charlie. I know the turnover of each place in town. Who goes to your soviet cafes? And, above all, why? Women come to your soviet cafes to eat ice-cream and to dance with non-drinking pilots at night... Then the barman noticed Yura and paused. - Her is a lad, - said he. - This is a Russian lad. He came to "Mickey Mouse" during the day. Consequently, he is a newcomer. He wants to eat. The man in a chequered shirt looked at Yura with curiosity. - Good afternoon, - said Yura to the barman. - I am, in fact, hungry. How is it done here with you? Barman gave an echoing laugh. - Here, with us, it is done precisely how it is done with you, - said he. - Expediently, tastily and politely. What would you like to have, my lad? - Joyce, bring him the okroshka and a pork schnitzel. And you, comrade, take a sit next to me. First of all, there is a nice unexplained fresh draft, and secondly it would be easier for us to continue an ideological campaign against old Joyce. The barman laughed again and disappeared under the bar. Yura, smiling with embarrassment, sat next to the chequered shirt. - I am perpetuating this ideological struggle with "Mickey Mouse", - explained the man in a chequered shirt. - It has been five years of trying to prove to him, that things exist in the solar system, other than drinking bars. The barman appeared from behind the stand, carrying a tray with a deep cardboard plate full of okroshka and a serving of bread. - I am not even offering you a drink, - said he and skilfully placed the tray on the table. - I understood immediately, that you - are a Russian lad. All of you have this peculiar facial expression. I can't say, Ivan, that I like it, but the sight of it extinguishes thirst. And I feel like competing for some kind of award, even against own profit. - Conscience speaking inside a free entrepreneur, - said Ivan. - Only a year ago I was able to convince him, that selling liquor to innocent people is immoral. - Especially if it is done without charge, - said the barman and laughed. Evidently, he was hinting at the first free drink offer. Yura was listening, enjoying the chilled, amazingly delicious okroshka. On the edge of the plate a line was printed, and Yura translated it as: "Eat to the bottom, find a surprise". - The point, Joyce, is not even that due to your clientele there is a need to keep international police in Mirza- Charlie, - Ivan said lazily. - And, for the time being, I am ignoring the issue that, exactly because of the advantages of the western cafes over the soviet ones people get an amazingly easy opportunity to lose their regular human features. It's unfortunate to witness you, Joyce. Not as a barman, but as a human being. A man full of life, hairy hands of gold, by far not a mediocre person. And what does he do? He hangs around the bar, like an old commercial vendomat, and every night, spitting on his fingers, he counts dirty notes. - You won't understand this, Ivan, - majestically said the barman. - Such concept as prestige and turnover of a venue are foreign to you. Who doesn't know "Mickey Mouse" and Joyce? In every corner of the universe my bar is known. Where do pilots go after returning from some Jupiter? To "Mickey Mouse"! Where do our enlisted tramps spend their last day on Earth? At "Mickey Mouse"! Right here! At this very bar stand! Where does come go to drown their sorrows or spruce up their success? To me! And where do you dine, Ivan? - He laughed. - You come to old Joyce! Naturally, you would never visit me at night. Perhaps as a civil watch patrol member. And I know, that deep in your heart, you prefer your soviet cafes. But somehow, you still come here! To "Mickey Mouse" and old Joyce, - you must like something, right? That's why I am proud of my establishment. The barman caught his breath and raised his fat thumb. - And another thing, - he said. - This very dirty notes, that you were speaking about. In your crazy country everyone knows, that money - is dirt. But in my country everyone knows that dirt - is, regrettably, not the same as money. Money must be procured! For this our pilots fly, for this our workers enlist. I am an old man, and, perhaps, because of that I cannot understand at all, how success and prosperity is measured on your side. Indeed on your side everything is upside down. And with us, everything is clear and understandable. Where is the conqueror of Hannimex, captain Upton now? The director of a company "Minerals Ltd". Who is the famous navigator Cyrus Campbell? The owner of two largest restaurants in New York city. Naturally, once the entire world knew them, and now they are in the shade, but before they were servants and went wherever they got sent, and now they have servants of their own and send these wherever they like. I also do not wish to be a servant. I also want to be a master. Ivan said pensively: - You have achieved something already, Joyce. You do not wish to be a servant. Now the least bit is left - to cease wanting to be a master. Yura finished his okroshka and saw the surprise. On the bottom of the plate was a line: "This dish was cooked by an electronic kitchen machine "Orpehus" made by "Cybernetics Ltd". Yura pushed the plate aside and announced: - I believe it is really boring to spend your whole life standing behind the bar. The barman adjusted an English sign on the wall saying: "Possession of firearms in Mirza-Charlie is punishable by death" and said: - What do you mean - boring? What is boring work and what is fun work? Work is work. - Work must be interesting, - said Yura. The barman shrugged his shoulders: - What for? - What do you mean "what for"? - wondered Yura. - If work is interesting, one must... must... But who needs it, boring work? What purpose do you achieve, if you work without taking an interest in it? - You tell this old fella, - said Ivan. The barman stood up with an effort and announced: - This is unfair. You are recruiting allies, Ivan. And I am alone. - There are two of you, - said Ivan. He pointed at the sleeping man with his finger. The barman looked, shook his head, and after collecting dirty plates, went behind the bar. - What a tough nut, - said Ivan in a low voice. - How did he speak about the prestige of the establishment, hey? Now you should try arguing with him. You would never understand each other. I am still trying to find a common language with him. All in all, he is really a swell bloke. Yura shook his head obstinately. - No, - he said. - He is not at all swell. He is self-satisfied and dull. A