n into Hell. I have found at least fifty varieties of what happens to us there. Sometimes, our dead bodies are dissected and fried on huge pans. Sometimes we are baked whole in iron chambers with glass doors, by a burning blue fire or by white-hot metal rods that radiate searing heat. Sometimes we are boiled in monstrous pots painted in many colors. At other times, we are frozen in blocks of ice. In other words, nothing too comforting." "But who is doing that to us?" "What do you mean, who? The gods." "Why do they need it?" "Well, you see, we are their food." Sixfinger shuddered and carefully regarded his trembling knees. "They like legs the best," remarked Hermit. "Well, and hands, too. I was actually going to talk to you about our hands. Lift them up." Sixfinger stretched out his hands -- thin and powerless, they looked rather pitiful. "A long time ago we used our hands for flying," Hermit said, "but then everything changed." "And what is `flying'"? "Nobody knows exactly. The only known fact is that one must have strong arms. Much stronger than yours or even mine. That's why I want to teach you an exercise. Take two of these nuts." With great effort Sixfinger dragged two enormous weights to Hermit's feet. "Good. Now put your hands through the holes." Sixfinger complied. "Move your hands up and down... Like this." In a minute Sixfinger was so tired that he couldn't raise his hands no matter how he tried. "That's it," he said, lowering his hands, and the nuts fell on the floor. "Now look at me doing it," Hermit said and loaded each hand with five nuts. After holding out both hands for a couple of minutes, he did not seem tired in the least. "What do you think?" "Outstanding," mouthed Sixfinger. "But why do you hold them still?" "Otherwise, a difficulty appears at some point in this exercise. You will later understand what I mean," Hermit answered. "But are you sure that one can learn to fly that way?" "No. I am not sure. On the contrary, I suspect that it is a useless activity." "Then why do you need it? If you know that it is useless?" "How should I say... Because I know many other things, and one of them is: if you are in the dark and notice even a weakest ray of light, you must follow it instead of pondering whether or not it might make sense. Perhaps, it doesn't in fact make sense. But sitting in the dark and doing nothing doesn't make sense anyway. Do you understand the difference?" Sixfinger was silent. "We are alive while we have hope," Hermit said. "And if you lose hope, you should never let yourself realize that. Then something might change. But one shouldn't seriously hope for that." Sixfinger felt somewhat annoyed. "All this is great," he said, "but what does it really mean for us?" "For you it really means that you shall do exercises with the nuts every day, until you can do the same as I. For me it means that I shall watch your progress as if it is indeed important for me." "Isn't there anything else for us to do?" Sixfinger asked. "There is," Hermit answered. "We could be preparing ourselves for the Decisive Stage. But in that case you'd be on your own." -------- 6 "Listen, Hermit, you know everything. So tell me, what is love?" "I wonder where you picked up that word," Hermit asked. "When they drove me away from the Socium, someone asked if I loved the right things. I said I didn't know. And then One-Eye said that she loved you very much, and you said that you loved her." "I see. It's actually hard to explain. Let's take an example -- imagine you fell into a water barrel and are drowning." "OK." "Then imagine that for a second your head came above the water, you saw the light, gulped in some air and something touched your hands. And you grabbed it and held on to it. Now if your whole life is like drowning -- and it is -- then love is what helps you to keep your head above the water." "You mean the love of the right things?" "What you love is not really important. Of course, one can love the right things even under water. Whatever it is you love and hold on to, it must hold you. The worst is when you love someone else -- you see, he can always withdraw his hand. To make a long story short, love is what puts everyone where he is. Except maybe the dead. Well, actually..." "I think I never loved anything," interrupted Sixfinger. "Oh yes, you've been there too. Remember how you cried all day thinking about the guy who waved you back when they threw us over the wall? That was love. You don't know why he did it, do you? Maybe he thought he was mocking you in a much subtler fashion than others. And I personally think he was. So your crying for him was pretty foolish, but absolutely right. Love gives meaning to what we do, although it isn't really there. " "So is love cheating us? Is it something like a dream?" "No, love is something like love, while a dream is a dream. All the things you do, you do them because of love. Otherwise you'd just sit on the ground and howl in horror. Or in disgust." "But many people do what they do not at all because of love." "Come on. They do nothing." "And do you love something, Hermit?" "I do." "What is it?" "I don't know. It comes to me sometimes. Sometimes it's a thought, or a nut, or the wind. The important thing is, I know it when it comes to me, in whatever disguise, and I meet it with the best I have in me." "How?" "I grow calm." "Do you mean you worry the rest of the time?" "No. I am always calm. It's just the best I can be, so when what I love shows itself to me, I meet it with my calmness." "What you you think is best in me?" "In you? I think it's when you sit silently somewhere out of sight." "Really?" "I don't know. Seriously, you can find out yourself what is best in you, because this is how you meet what you are in love with. What did you feel thinking about that guy who waved? " "Sadness." "Well then, sadness it is. That's the best you have, and you will always meet the things you love with sadness. Hermit looked around and stood for a moment, listening. "Want to have a look at the gods?" he asked unexpectedly. "Please, not now," Sixfinger was visibly frightened. "Don't be afraid, they are stupid. Look, there they are." Two huge creatures walked quickly beside the conveyor belt. They were so huge that their heads were hardly visible in the dusk under the ceiling. They were followed by another similar creature, somewhat lower and fatter, carrying a conical vessel with the narrow end down. The first two stopped not far from the place where Hermit and Sixfinger sat, and started emitting low rumbling sounds ("They speak", guessed Sixfinger), while the third creature reached the wall, put its vessel on the ground, dipped in it a long pole with bristles on its end, and drew a fresh line of dirty gray on the dirty gray wall. The smell was funny. "Listen," whispered Sixfinger as quietly as he could, "you said you understood their language. What are they saying?" "Those two? Wait. The first is saying `I wanna slug', and the other, 'Don't you ever come close to Dun'ka!'" "What's Dun'ka?" "A region of the world." "Uh, and what does the first one want to slug?" "Dun'ka, of course," Hermit said after giving it some thought. "How can he slug in a whole region of the world?" "Well, they are gods, aren't they?" "And this fat one, what does she say?" "She is not speaking but singing. About how after death she wants to become a willow. My favorite divine song, by the way. Some day I'll sing it to you. Unfortunately, I don't know what a willow is." "Do gods die?" "Of course. That is their main business." The two gods moved on, their heavy footfall and low rumbling voices receded, and it was quiet. "What greatness!" thought a shaken Sixfinger. Small particles of dust were stirred up by a draught and swirled over the tiled floor. Sixfinger suddenly felt as if he was looking down from an incredibly high mountain peak at a strange stony wasteland below, the wasteland where nothing changes in a million years: the same wind blows and carries remnants of people's lives, which from afar look like pieces of straw, shreds of paper and chips of wood. "Some day," thought Sixfinger, "someone else would look from this place down and think about me, not knowing that he is thinking about me. Just as I am now thinking of someone who felt what I am feeling, God knows when. Every day there is a moment connecting it to both the past and the future. Why is this world filled with so much sadness?..." "And yet there is something in it that justifies even the saddest kind of life," Hermit said suddenly. "When I die, I want to become a wee-ee-llow," quietly sang the fat goddess near the bucket of paint. Sixfinger, his head rested on his elbow, was submerged in sadness, while Hermit was perfectly calm and looked into the void, as if above thousands and thousands of invisible heads. -------- 7 While Sixfinger was busy exercising with the nuts, as many as ten worlds passed into the Shop Number One. Something creaked and pounded behind the green gates, something was being done there. A mere thought of that made Sixfinger shiver in cold sweat, but it also gave him strength. His arms were noticeably longer and stronger now, like Hermit's. Yet nothing came out of their exercises. The only thing Hermit knew was that flying was done with one's arms, but it was unclear what exactly it was. Hermit thought that it was a way of instantaneous transport in space: one needs to imagine the place one wants to be, and then give one's hands a thought order to transport one's whole body there. Hermit spent days on end in meditation trying to transport himself even a few steps away, to no avail. "Perhaps," he would tell Sixfinger, "our arms are not yet strong enough. We must continue." Once, as Hermit and Sixfinger were sitting on a pile of rags between the crates trying to discern the essence of things, an extremely unpleasant event happened. The light darkened a bit, and when Sixfinger opened his eyes he saw a huge unshaven face of a god looming before him. "Look at them here," said the face. Enormous dirty hands grabbed Hermit and Sixfinger from between the crates, transported them with incredible speed over a vast expanse and dropped them into one of the worlds not too far from the Shop Number One. At first, Hermit and Sixfinger took it calmly and even with a bit of irony. They settled near the World-wall and began to build Refuges of the Soul for themselves. But suddenly the god returned, took Sixfinger out and, after examining him, whistled in surprise. Then the god wound a strip of blue adhesive tape around his leg and threw him back. In a few minutes, several gods came by, took Sixfinger out and examined him one by one, making excited exclamations. "I don't like this at all," Hermit said when the gods finally put Sixfinger down and left. "We are in trouble." "I think so, too," answered a frightened Sixfinger. "Maybe I should take off this piece of junk?" He pointed to the blue tape around his leg. "No, don't take it off yet," Hermit said. They sat in gloomy silence for a while. Then Sixfinger said: "It's all because of my six toes. Even if we escape from this place, they will be looking for us again. They already know about the crates. Is there any other place to hide?" Hermit became even more dejected and, instead of answering, suggested visiting the local Socium to improve spirits. But it appeared that a delegation from the far-away Feeder was already approaching them. About twenty steps away from Hermit and Sixfinger, the delegates prostrated themselves on the ground and continued on all fours; judging by that, they clearly had serious intentions. Hermit told Sixfinger to move back, while he stepped forward to straighten up matters. When he returned, he said: "I haven't seen anything like this before. They seem to have a religious sect here. At any rate, they have seen you communicate with the gods, and now they think you are a prophet and I am your disciple or something of that sort." "So what is happening now? What do they want?" "They are asking us to join them. They said that a `pathway was straightened', that something was `braided out' and so on. I didn't understand a thing but it seems we should go." "Let's go," Sixfinger shrugged indifferently. Gloomy premonitions filled his mind. On their way, the people insistently tried to carry Hermit on their shoulders, and this was avoided with much effort. As for Sixfinger, nobody dared to look at him, much less come near him, so he walked at the center of an empty circle. After they arrived, Sixfinger was put on a high knoll of hay, while Hermit remained below and engaged in a conversation with about twenty of the local high priests -- one could easily recognize them by their paunchy, obese faces. Then he blessed them and climbed the knoll to join Sixfinger, who was so ill-spirited that he ignored Hermit's ritual bow; although it must have looked quite natural for the congregation. It turned out that everybody was long expecting the advent of a Messiah. The impending Decisive Stage, which they called the Great Judgment, was on everyone's mind, but the high priests became so fat and lazy that they merely nodded toward the sky in answer to all questions. The appearance of Sixfinger with his disciple was well timed. "They are waiting for a sermon," Hermit said. "So make up something for them," grunted Sixfinger. "Don't you know that I am just a stupid fool." His voice trembled at the word "fool", and he seemed close to crying. "They will eat me, these gods," he sobbed. "I feel it." "There, there. Calm down," Hermit said. He turned to the crowd beneath the knoll and assumed a prayerful posture by raising his head and hands high. "Hey you!" he shouted. "Soon, all of you will be thrown into Hell. You will be roasted, and the most sinful of you will be marinated in vinegar first." A terrified sigh swept over the Socium. "But, by the will of the gods and their messenger, my master, I wish to teach you how to be saved. For that, you must overcome sin. But do you even know what sin is?" Silence was the answer. "Sin is excess weight. Your flesh is sinful, for it is for your flesh that the gods afflict you. Think, all of you: what draws the Deci... Great Judgment nearer? Nothing but the fact that you grow fat on your bodies. For the skinny ones shall be saved, but the fat ones shall perish. Truly so: none of the blue-skinned and scrawny will be thrown into the fire, but the fat and the pink-skinned will all be there. Anyone who fasts from now on until the Great Judgment will receive new life. Aye, oh Lord God! Now arise, go forth and sin no more." But nobody stood up: they all lay silently on the ground and gazed into the abyss of the sky or stared at Hermit who was waving his hands. Many were crying. It appeared that only the high priests did not like Hermit's speech. "Why did you tell them all that," Sixfinger whispered when Hermit returned and sat on the straw. "They believed you, after all." "Well, I hadn't lied to them, had I?" Hermit answered. "If they lose a lot of weight, they will be given a second feeding cycle. Then, perhaps, even a third. Forget about them, we'd better take care of our business." -------- 8 Hermit often talked to the people, teaching them how to acquire the least appetizing looks, while Sixfinger spent most of his time on his knoll of straw pondering the nature of flight. He rarely took part in Hermit's sermons other than absent-mindedly blessing laymen who crawled up to him on their knees. the former high priests clearly didn't plan on losing weight and hated him, but their hands were tied: more and more gods paid visits to the world, took Sixfinger out and showed him to one another. Once there came a senile and flabby gray-haired sage accompanied by a large and extremely respectful retinue. While being held, Sixfinger spitefully moved his bowels into the sage's cold, shaking palm, and was immediately and rather roughly returned to his usual place. Everyone in the Socium fasted and by now looked almost transparent. Hermit took the Feeder apart. Every night, while all others slept, he and Sixfinger desperately continued to train their arms. The less they believed that their exercises would lead to anything, the harder they tried. Their arms grew so much that even practicing with the metal pieces of the Feeder became impossible. One sweeping movement of the arms made their feet lose the ground, so they had to stop the exercise. That was the difficulty Hermit had warned Sixfinger about, but they circumvented it -- Hermit taught Sixfinger how to develop the muscles with static exercises. The green gates were already looming beyond the World-wall, and, according to Hermit's calculations, the Great Judgment was only a dozen eclipses away. Gods did not scare Sixfinger much -- he got used to their attention and accepted it with a squeamish submissiveness. He reconciled himself with his position and, mainly to entertain himself, delivered dark and obscure sermons. His speeches literally stunned the flock. Once he remembered One-Eye's tale of the underground universe and described the cooking of a soup for one hundred and sixty green-clothed demons with such inspiration and blood-curdling detail that by the end he not only got himself scared to death, but also freaked out Hermit, who at the beginning of the speech would only chuckle. Many in the congregation learned this sermon by heart, and it became known as the "Revelation of the Blue Band" (such was Sixfinger's sacral name). After that even the priests stopped eating and ran around the disassembled Feeder for hours on end to burn their fat. Since both Hermit and Sixfinger always ate with great appetite, Hermit had to introduce a special dogma of infallibility, which quickly stopped various whisperings. But while Sixfinger has fully recovered from their ordeals, with Hermit something was amiss. It seemed that Sixfinger's depression passed on to him; he grew more reclusive with every hour. Finally he told Sixfinger: "You know, if we don't succeed, I will go to the Shop Number One with the rest." Sixfinger opened his mouth to object, but Hermit continued: "And since it seems clear that we won't succeed, you may consider it decided." Sixfinger realized that what he was going to say was irrelevant. He could not change the other's decision, only express his fondness for Hermit. Whatever he could say would have mattered little beyond that. Some time ago Sixfinger would have said many unnecessary words, but now he too has changed. He just nodded and went away to meditate. After a little while he returned and said: "I will go with you." "No," Hermit said, "you should not do that. You know almost everything I have known. And you should go on and find a disciple. Maybe, he will master the art of flying." "You want me to remain alone?" Sixfinger was annoyed. "With those blockheads?" He gestured towards the congregation lying on their faces since the beginning of their prophet's conversation. Trembling, emaciated bodies, all alike, covered almost all visible space. "They are not blockheads," Hermit said. "They are more like children." "Retarded children," Sixfinger pointed out. "With many inborn vices." Hermit glanced at Sixfinger's feet with a grin. "I wonder if you remember what you were like before we met?" Sixfinger thought about it, embarrassed. "No," he said finally, "I don't. Honestly, I don't remember." "All right," said Hermit. "Do what you will." They did not return to this conversation. The days left before the Judgment went fast, and one morning, when the flock was still half asleep, Sixfinger and Hermit noticed that the green gates that had seemed so far away yesterday, were already right above the World-wall. They looked at each other, and Hermit said: "Today we'll make our last attempt. It will be the last one because tomorrow no one will be left to try. Our arms are so big that we cannot even wave them in the air, they sweep us from our feet. We will now go to the Wall to get away from all this racket, and from there will try to transport ourselves to the roof of the Feeder. If we fail, we will say our farewells to the world." "How does one do that?" asked Sixfinger out of habit. Hermit looked at him, surprised. "How do I know?" he replied. The flock was told that they are going to talk to the gods. Soon Hermit and Sixfinger stood at the World-wall, their backs against it. "Remember," said Hermit, "you must imagine that you are already there, and then..." Sixfinger closed his eyes, concentrated on his hands and thought of the rubber tube connected to the top of the Feeder. Presently he was in trance, and felt that the tube was very close, within his reach. Before, when he had achieved that feeling of being where he wanted to fly, Sixfinger used to hurry and open his eyes, only to find himself back where he started. This time he decided to try something new. "If I bring my arms together slowly so that the tube is between them, what will happen then?", he thought. Carefully, trying not to spill the achieved awareness that the tube is near, he moved his hands. And when they came together and felt the tube where only emptiness has been, he couldn't bear it any longer and yelled with all his might: "I'm there!", and opened his eyes. "Quiet, you fool!" said Hermit whose leg he was clutching. "Look!" Sixfinger scrambled to his feet and looked up. The gates of the Shop Number One were open and their world was slowly sailing through. "We are there," Hermit said. "Let's go back." On their way back both were silent. The conveyor belt was moving with about the same speed in the opposite direction, and the Gates remained right over them all the time while they walked. As they reached their honorary places near the Feeder, the entrance swallowed them and moved on. Hermit motioned a member of the flock to him. "Listen," he said, "keep calm. Go and tell the rest that the Great Judgment has come. Do you see how the sky is darkened?" "What are we to do now?" the latter asked with hope. "Tell all to sit on the ground and do this," Hermit covered his eyes. "And don't look, or we cannot vouch for anything. And keep quiet." At first, there was commotion and noise, but it quickly ceased. Everyone sat on the ground and did what Hermit had told them. "Well," Sixfinger said, "should we now say goodbye to the world?" "Yes," said Hermit. "You go first." Sixfinger stood up, looked around, sighed and sat down again. "Are you done?" Hermit asked, and Sixfinger nodded. "My turn," Hermit said. He rose, threw his head up and yelled as loudly as he could: "Farewell, world!" -------- 9 "Look at that one cackling away," a thunderous voice said. "Which one was that again? The one cackling?" "Nope," another voice answered. "The one next." Two enormous faces loomed over the World-wall. They were gods. "What crap," the first face remarked ruefully. "No idea what to do with them. They are half-dead, all of them." A huge hand in a white, blood-stained and fluff-covered sleeve rushed over the world and touched the Feeder. "Semyon, you bastard, where were you looking? Their feeder is broken!" "It was all right," a bass answered. "I checked it the beginning of this month. So, are we going to do them?" "No. Get the transporter going, take another crate, and fix this feeder by tomorrow. They could all have starved..." "Fine." "And that one, with six toes: shall I cut both feet for you?" "Both." "I wanted one for myself." Hermit turned to Sixfinger who was listening carefully but understood almost nothing. "Listen," he whispered, "it looks like they are going to..." But at that moment a huge white hand dashed across the sky again and grabbed Sixfinger. Sixfinger could not make out Hermit's words. The palm grasped him and took him up, then he saw a huge chest with a pocket pen, a collar, and finally two large bulging eyes which stared squarely at him. "Look at its wings. Like an eagle's!" said an incredibly large mouth with yellow uneven teeth. Sixfinger was long used to being held by gods. But this time the palms holding him vibrated strangely and frighteningly. He barely understood that the gods were talking about his arms or his feet when he heard Hermit shout madly from below: "Sixfinger! Flee! Peck him right in the mug!" For the first time of their acquaintance, a real desperation was heard in Hermit's voice. This frightened Sixfinger to such an extent that his actions acquired a somnambulistic precision. He struck the bulging, staring eye with all his might and started hitting both sides of the god's sweaty face with his hands. The roar was so strong that Sixfinger felt it not as a sound but as pressure on his whole body. The god loosened his grasp, and in the next moment Sixfinger found himself hanging in the air just below the ceiling, unsupported. At first he could not understand it, but then he realized that he was still waving his hands -- that supported him in the void. He could now oversee the Shop Number One: it was a separated area of the transporter with a long wooden table covered by red and brown stains, fluff and feathers, and piles of clear bags. The world he had left was simply a big octagonal container filled by a multitude of tiny unmoving bodies. Sixfinger could not see Hermit but he was sure that Hermit saw him. "Hey!" he shouted, making circles around the ceiling. "Hermit! Get up here! Wave your hands as fast as you can!" Something flashed in the crate below and grew in size as it was approaching, and then Hermit appeared. He followed Sixfinger and shouted, "Get down over there!" When Sixfinger flew close to a square spot of muddy whitish light, he saw Hermit already sitting on the windowsill. "A wall," he said when Sixfinger sat down next to him. "A luminous wall." He appeared calm but Sixfinger knew him well and could see that Hermit was dazzled by all the events, as was Sixfinger himself. And suddenly he saw it. "Listen," he shouted, "this really is flight! We were flying!" Hermit regarded him for a while and nodded. "Yes, perhaps," he said. "Even though it is too primitive..." In the meanwhile, the commotion below settled down somewhat; two figures in white gowns held the third who was clutching his face with his hand. "A bitch! He killed my eye! A bitch!" the third one was bellowing. "What is a bitch?" Sixfinger asked. "It is a supplication to one of the elements," Hermit answered. "This word does not have a separate meaning. But it seems we are in deep trouble." "And which element is he trying to address?" Sixfinger asked. "We shall see." As Hermit was saying these words, the god freed himself from the hands that were holding him, ran to the wall, snatched a red fire extinguisher tank and hurled it toward the windowsill. He did it so quickly that nobody could stop him, and Hermit and Sixfinger barely managed to fly away. The fire extinguisher broke through the window with a loud crash and disappeared, letting in a stream of fresh air. Only then the heady stench that filled the room became apparent. It was unbelievably bright. "Come on, fly!" Hermit shouted, suddenly shedding all his composure. "Get going! Off!" And then he flew away from the window to take a running start, folded his wings and disappeared in the ray of hot yellow light that gushed from the hole in the painted glass. A wind blew from it, and new, unknown sounds could be heard. Sixfinger sped up his circling. He caught the last glimpse of the octagonal container below, the blood-stained table and the gods waving their hands, as he rushed through the hole with folded wings. For a moment, he was blinded by the brightness of light. When his eyes got used to it, he saw above and ahead of him a disk of such a furious yellow glare that he could not look at it even with a side glance. Higher above he saw a black dot -- it was Hermit who was turning around to let Sixfinger catch up. Soon they were flying side by side. Sixfinger looked back, at the large and ugly gray building far below. It had only a few oil-painted windows, one of them broken. The clean and bright colors of everything around them were driving Sixfinger crazy, and he decided to look up. Flying was amazingly easy, not any more strenuous than walking. They soared higher and higher, until everything below became colorful squares and spots. Sixfinger turned to Hermit. "Where to?" he shouted. "Southward," was the short reply. "What is that?" Sixfinger asked. "I don't know," answered Hermit, "but it is that way." And he waved toward the huge blazing disk, which only in color resembled what they used to call suns. -------- Translators' notes 1 A reference to a widely known stanza from V. Mayakovsky's poem "Vladimir Ilyich Lenin": Lenin and the Party are twin brothers. Who is more valuable for Mother History? We say "Lenin", and we mean the Party, We say "The Party", and we mean Lenin. V. I. Lenin (1870 -- 1924) -- the founder of the USSR and of its Communist Party. 2 In the USSR, many government-operated organizations such as factories or schools were named after prominent political leaders. 3 An allusion to an often-quoted formula: "The <Communist> party is the mind, the dignity and the conscience of our epoch" (V. I. Lenin).