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stand there
paralyzed with fear and wait obediently until someone comes by and
chooses a
victim and cuts his throat in cold blood. The souls of these
people are
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
littered with filth, and each hour of obedient waiting will
sully them
further and further. Quite unintentionally, these homes, cringing
with fear,
will give birth to the vilest villains, informers, and murderers.
Thousands
of people who throughout all their lives will be wracked by fear and
fright,
will teach fear and fright to their own children, and these children
in turn
will teach their children.--I can't go on, Rumata kept repeating to
himself.
I am close to losing my mind and then I'll become like these
people; it
won't take much more before I finally stop understanding the reason
for my
being in this place ... I must gain perspective again, turn my back
on all
of this for a while, get some peace and quiet...
". . . At the end of the year of the Great Water--in the year X
of the
new era--the centrifugal processes rapidly gained ground in the old
empire.
By taking advantage of this future, the Holy Order which
represented the
interests of the most reactionary groups of the feudal society
who tried
with every means to bring to a halt the general decay . . ." But
are you
familiar with the stench of smoldering corpses at the stake? Do
you know
what it is like? Have you ever seen a naked woman, her belly
slit open,
wallow in the dusty road? Have you ever seen cities where human
beings are
silent and only crows can be heard? Yet, the still unborn boys and
girls,
who will be sitting before the dictascopes of the schools in the
Communist
Republic of Arkanar?
His chest bumped into something pointed and hard. He looked up
and saw
a black rider before him. A long spear with a broad, precisely
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
toothed
blade, pressed against his chest. The rider regarded him silently
through
the slits of his black hood. All the hood revealed were a thin-
lipped mouth
and a small chin. I must do something, thought Rumata. But what?
Dismount
him? No. The rider slowly drew back his right arm, readying his
spear. This
gesture reminded Rumata of what he had to do. Casually, he raised
his left
hand and pulled back his sleeve. An iron bracelet came to light; it
had been
handed to him before he had left the palace. The rider
inspected the
bracelet, lowered his weapon, moved aside to let Rumata pass. "In
the name
of the Lord," he said with a strange accent. "Blessed be His name,"
murmured
Rumata. A short stretch farther on he passed another rider who was
busily
knocking down with his spear some elaborately carved figurines
representing
little devils from a roof ridge. On the second floor a fat face,
distorted
with fright, peeked out from behind half-lowered shutters--probably
one of
those shopkeepers who barely three days ago had enthusiastically
hollered,
"Hooray for Don Reba!" while waving his beer stein and listening
with gusto
and relish to the crunch, crunch, crunch of the Gray horde's
hobnailed boots
marching on the pavement. Oh, Graydom, Graydom... Rumata turned away.
But what is happening at home? he suddenly remembered, and he
began to
quicken his steps, almost running during the last stretch of the
way. The
house was unharmed. Two monks were sitting on the small stoop.
They had
pulled back their hoods, exposing their badly shaved heads to the
sunlight.
The moment they saw him, they stood up. "In the name of the Lord,"
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
both said
in unison. "Blessed be His name," replied Rumata and demanded:
"What business have you to be here?" Both monks bowed and
folded their
arms over their stomachs. "Now that you have come we can leave,"
answered
one of the monks. They descended the few steps and walked
leisurely off,
their crossed arms halfway hidden in their long sleeves. Rumata
followed
them with his eyes, remembering how many thousands of times he
had seen
these humble figures in then-long black habits, walking down the
street. But
then they did not use to drag the scabbards of long swords behind
them in
the dust. We goofed on this one. Oh, and now we goofed here, he
thought.
What a delightful pastime it had been for the noble dons to
attach
themselves to some lone monk, ambling down the road, and to tell
each other
naughty stories close to the monk's ears. And fool that I am, I
pretended to
be drunk, and would walk behind them, laughing out loud for joy
because the
country, at least, was not ravaged by religious fanaticism. But
what else
could we have done? Indeed, what else could we have done? "Who is
it?" rang
out a voice. "Open up, Mugu, it's me," said Rumata softly. The bolts
clicked
as they were pushed back; the door was Opened slightly, and Rumata
squeezed
himself through the narrow chink. Here in the entrance hall, all
was as
usual, and Rumata breathed a sigh of relief. Old Mugu with the
silvery hair
and perpetually wagging head relieved his master of his helmet and
swords.
"How is Kyra?"
"Kyra is upstairs," said Mugu. "She is fine." "Splendid," said
Rumata
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
while he unbuckled his belt. "And where is Uno? Why is he not
here to
welcome me?" Mugu took the belt.
"Uno is dead," he said in a calm, firm tone. "He is lying
in the
servants' room." Rumata closed his eyes. "Uno dead..." he
repeated. "Who
killed him?" Without waiting for an answer, he went into the
servants' room.
Uno's body lay on the table. He was covered with a sheet up to his
waist.
His hands were folded over his chest, his eyes wide open and
his mouth
distorted in a grimace. The servants surrounded the table,
their heads
bowed, listening to the murmurings of the monk who prayed in a
comer. The
cook was sobbing. Without taking his eyes off the boy, Rumata
unbuttoned his
collar.
"The dirty dogs," he said. "Oh, those filthy beasts!" He
stumbled over
something, went very close to the table, looked into the dead eyes,
raised
the sheet slightly, but dropped it again at once.
"Yes, too late," he said. "Too late. Hopeless. Oh, you
bastards! Who
killed him? The monks?"
He turned to the monk, seized him by the scruff of his neck,
pressed
him down to the ground and bent over his face.
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