The Inhabited Island Read online

  Mak took the order and ran his eyes over it. Gai’s heart leaped again, only this time not in joy but with a strange, oppressive sense of foreboding. Mak’s face remained as motionless as ever, and everything seemed to be in order, but he hesitated slightly before taking the pen and signing his name. The cornet examined the signature and put the sheet of paper in his map-case.

  “Corporal Gaal,” he said, taking a sealed envelope off the desk. “Go to the guardhouse and bring the condemned prisoners. Take a rifle . . . no, this one, at the edge.”

  Gai took the envelope, hung the rifle over his shoulder, made an about-face, and walked toward the door. He had time to hear the cornet say to Mak, “It’s all right, Candidate, don’t get cold feet. It’s only frightening the first time around . . .” Gai set off at a run across the parade ground toward the building of the brigade jail, handed the envelope to the officer of the guard, signed where he had to, and was given the necessary receipts, and the condemned prisoners were led out to him. They were two of the conspirators he had seen recently: the fat man whose fingers Maxim had dislocated, and the woman. Massaraksh, this was the last thing they needed! The woman would be too much of a shock . . . This wasn’t for Mak.

  Gai led the prisoners out onto the parade ground and herded them toward the barracks building. The man plodded along, step after step, all the while cradling his arm, and the woman walked ramrod straight, with her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her little jacket, not seeming to see or hear anything. Massaraksh, just why exactly wasn’t she for Mak? What the hell? This woman was exactly the same kind of low snake as the man. What right did she have to any special privileges? And why, massaraksh, did any special privileges have to be granted to Candidate Sim? Let him get used to it, massaraksh and massaraksh.

  The cornet and Mak were already in the truck. The cornet was at the wheel, and Mak was in the backseat, with his rifle between his legs. Gai opened the door and the condemned prisoners got in. “On the floor!” Gai commanded. They obediently sat down on the iron floor, and Gai sat on the seat facing Mak. He tried to catch Mak’s eye, but Mak was looking at the condemned prisoners. No, he was looking at that woman, huddled on the floor with her arms around her knees. Without looking around, the cornet asked, “Ready?” and the truck set off.

  They didn’t talk along the way. The cornet drove the truck insanely fast—he obviously wanted to get it all over with before twilight set in, and what point was there in dragging it out anyway? Mak kept looking at the woman as if he was trying to catch her eye, and Gai kept trying to catch Mak’s eye. The condemned pair clutched at each other and squirmed about on the floor; the fat man tried to talk to the woman, but Gai shouted at him. The truck hurtled out of the city, passed through the southern gate, and immediately turned onto an abandoned cart track, a very familiar cart track for Gai, leading to the Pink Caves. The truck bounced on all four wheels, there was nothing to hold on to, and Mak didn’t want to raise his eyes—and there were the semi-corpses, grabbing at Gai’s knees all the time, trying to escape from the merciless jolting. Eventually Gai’s patience ran out and he jabbed the fat man under the ribs with his boot, but that didn’t do any good; the fat man kept grabbing at his knees anyway. The cornet turned the wheel again, braked sharply, and the truck slowly and cautiously drove down into a quarry. The cornet turned off the engine and commanded, “Get out!”

  It was already about eighteen hundred hours, a light evening mist was gathering in the quarry, and the weathered stone walls shimmered pink. Marble had once been quarried here, but who needed it now, that marble?

  The business was approaching its conclusion. Mak was still conducting himself like an ideal soldier: not a single superfluous movement, an indifferently wooden expression, eyes trained on his superior in anticipation of a command. The fat man was conducting himself well, with dignity. They clearly wouldn’t have any trouble with him. But as the end approached, the woman had fallen apart. She kept convulsively clenching her fists, pressing them against her chest, and lowering them again, and Gai decided there would be hysterics, but he didn’t think they would have to lug her to the execution site in their arms.

  The cornet lit up a cigarette, looked at the sky, and said to Mak, “Take them along this path. When you reach the caves, you’ll see for yourself where to stand them. When you’re done, be sure to check and if necessary give them a finishing shot. Do you know what a finishing shot is?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Don’t lie, you don’t know. It’s a shot to the head. Go ahead, Candidate. When you come back, you’ll be a genuine private.”

  The woman suddenly spoke: “If there is at least one human being among you . . . let my mother know. . . Utki Village, house number two . . . it’s close by here . . . Her name is—”

  “Don’t debase yourself,” the corpulent man said in a deep voice.

  “Her name is Illy Tader—”

  “Don’t debase yourself,” the corpulent man repeated, raising his voice, and the cornet jabbed a fist into his face, without even bothering to take a swing. The corpulent man fell silent, clutching at his cheek, and cast a look filled with hate at the cornet.

  “Go ahead, Candidate,” the cornet repeated.

  Mak turned to the condemned prisoners and gestured with his automatic rifle. The condemned pair set off along the path. The woman looked back and shouted once again. “Utki Village, house two, Illy Tader!”

  Holding his rifle out in front of him, Mak slowly walked along behind them. The cornet swung the door of the truck open, sat sideways on the driver’s seat, stretched out his legs, and said, “Right, now we’ll wait for a quarter of an hour.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Cornet, sir,” Gai replied mechanically. He watched Mak walking away and carried on watching until the entire group was hidden from sight behind a pink outcrop of rock. We’ll have to buy some vodka on the way back, he thought. Let him get drunk. It helps some men.

  “You may smoke, Corporal,” said the cornet.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cornet, but I don’t smoke.”

  The cornet spat a long way through his teeth. “Are you not afraid of being disappointed in your friend?”

  “No indeed, sir,” Gai said indecisively. “Although, with your permission, I’m very sorry that he got the woman. He’s a Highlander, and for them—”

  “He’s no more a Highlander that you are or I am,” said the cornet. “And this isn’t a question of women . . . However, let’s wait and see. What were you doing when you were summoned?”

  “Singing together, Mr. Cornet.”

  “And what were you singing?”

  “Highlanders’ songs, Mr. Cornet. He knows an awful lot of songs.”

  The cornet got out of the truck and started walking backward and forward on the path. He didn’t talk anymore, but after about ten minutes he started whistling the Guards’ march. Gai kept waiting for the sound of shots, but no shots came, and he started feeling anxious. He didn’t know himself why he felt anxious. It was unconceivable for anyone to get away from Mak. And disarming him was even more inconceivable. But then why didn’t he fire? Perhaps he had taken them farther than the usual place? The smell there was very strong—the grave diggers didn’t bury the bodies very deep—and Mak’s sense of smell was far too keen. He might walk several extra miles out of sheer squeamishness.

  “Weeell now . . .” said the cornet, halting. “That’s it then, Corporal Gaal. I’m afraid we won’t be seeing your little friend back here. And I’m afraid today’s the last day we’ll be calling you Corporal.”

  Gai looked at him in amazement, and the cornet chuckled.

  “Well, what are you looking at? Why are you gawking like a pig at ham? Your friend has run off, deserted—he’s a coward and a traitor. Is that clear, Private Gaal?”

  Gai was dumbfounded. And not so much by what the cornet had said as by his tone of voice. The cornet was elated; he looked like a man who had just won a large bet. Gai automatically glanced into the depths of the quarry an
d suddenly saw Mak: he was coming back alone, carrying his automatic rifle by its strap.

  “Massaraksh!” the cornet wheezed. He had seen Mak too, and he looked totally stupefied.

  They didn’t speak anymore, they just watched as Mak drew closer, walking unhurriedly and stepping lightly over the crushed stone. They watched his calm, good-natured face with the strange eyes, and Gai’s head was filled with total confusion: There weren’t any shots, were there? But surely he couldn’t have strangled them, or beaten them to death with his rifle butt. Mak kill a woman like that? No, that’s rubbish . . . But there weren’t any shots!

  Five steps away from them Mak stopped, looked into the cornet’s face, and flung the automatic down at his feet. “Good-bye, Mr. Cornet,” he said. “I let those poor, unfortunate people go, and now I want to go myself. Here’s your weapon, here’s your clothing . . .” Mak turned toward Gai as he unfastened his belt and told him, “Gai, this is a dirty business. They tricked us, Gai.”

  He took off his boots and coverall and rolled everything up into a bundle, leaving himself standing there as Gai saw him for the first time on the southern border—almost naked and now without even any footwear, in nothing but his silvery undershorts. He walked over to the truck and put the bundle on the radiator. Gai was horrified. He looked at the cornet and felt even more horrified.

  “Mr. Cornet!” he shouted out. “Don’t! He’s gone mad! It’s another—”

  “Candidate Sim,” the cornet croaked, holding his hand on his holster. “Get into the truck immediately! You’re under arrest.”

  “No,” said Mak. “You just think I’m under arrest. I’m free. And I’ve come for Gai. Come on, Gai, let’s go! He duped you. These are sordid people. I had some doubts before, but now I’m certain. Let’s go.”

  Gai shook his head. He wanted to say something, to explain something, but he didn’t have any time, and he didn’t have any words.

  The cornet took out his revolver. “Candidate Sim! Into the car!” he croaked.

  “Are you coming?” Mak asked.

  Gai shook his head again. He looked at the pistol in the cornet’s hand, and there was only one thought in his head, and he knew only one thing: Mak was going to be killed now. And he didn’t understand what he ought to do.

  “All right,” said Mak. “I’ll find you. I’ll find out everything and I’ll find you. This isn’t the place for you . . . Kiss Rada for me, I’ll be seeing you.”

  He turned and walked over the crushed stone in his bare feet, with the same light stride as when he was in his boots, and Gai, shuddering as if he had a fever, mutely watched Mak’s triangular back and waited for a shot and a little black hole under Mak’s left shoulder blade.

  “Candidate Sim,” the cornet said, without raising his voice, “I order you to come back. I’ll shoot.”

  Mak stopped and turned back toward him again. “Shoot?” he said. “At me? For what? But then, that’s not important . . . Give the pistol to me.”

  The cornet held the pistol beside his hip with the barrel aimed at Mak. “I’m counting to three,” he said. “Get into the car, Candidate. One!”

  “Come on now, give me the pistol,” said Mak, reaching out his hand and moving toward the cornet.

  “Two!” said the cornet.

  “Don’t!” shouted Gai.

  The cornet fired. Mak was already close and Gai saw the bullet hit his shoulder, making Mak stagger, as if he had run into an obstacle.

  “You stupid fool,” said Mak. “Give me that gun, you malicious, stupid fool . . .”

  He didn’t stop, he just kept on walking toward the cornet, holding out his hand for the gun, and blood suddenly spurted out of the little hole in his shoulder. The cornet made a strange screeching sound and backed away, firing three very rapid rounds into that broad, brown chest. Mak was flung backward; he fell on his back but immediately jumped up, then fell down again, and then sat up, and the cornet, crouching down in his state of stress, fired another three bullets into him. Mak tumbled over onto his stomach and lay still.

  Everything started blurring and swaying in front of Gai’s eyes, and he lowered himself onto the running board of the truck. His legs refused to hold him up. His ears were still filled with the repulsive crunching of flesh as the bullets entered the body of this strange man whom he loved. Then he recovered his senses, but he kept sitting there for a while, afraid to risk getting to his feet.

  Mak’s brown body lay there among the white and pink rocks, itself as motionless as a rock. The cornet was standing in the same spot, holding his pistol at the ready as he greedily drew in the smoke of a cigarette. He didn’t look at Gai. Then he finished smoking his cigarette right down to the end, burning his lips, threw away the stub, and took two steps toward the dead man. But the second step was a very short one, and Mr. Cornet Chachu couldn’t bring himself to move in really close. He fired the finishing shot from a distance of ten paces, and he missed. Gai saw the stone dust spurt up right beside Mak’s head.

  “Massaraksh,” the cornet hissed, and started stuffing his pistol into its holster. It took him a long time to stuff it in, and then he simply couldn’t button the holster. After that he walked over to Gai, grabbed hold of the chest of Gai’s uniform with his mutilated hand, and jerked Gai up onto his feet. Breathing loudly into his face, and drawling his words like a drunk, the cornet said, “All right, you will remain a corporal. But there’s no place for you in the Guards. You will write a request to be transferred to the army. Get in the truck.”

  “There’s a Bad Kind of Smell Here . . .”

  “There’s a bad kind of smell here,” said Dad.

  “Really?” asked Father-in-Law. “I can’t smell anything.”

  “It stinks, it stinks,” Stepfather peevishly grouched. “Some kind of rotten meat. Like at a garbage dump . . .”

  “The walls must have rotted,” Dad decided.

  “Yesterday I saw a new tank,” said Brother-in-Law. “The Vampire. Impeccable hermetic sealing, thermal barrier good for up to a thousand degrees . . .”

  “They probably went rotten in the late emperor’s time,” said Dad, “And there hasn’t been any refurbishment work since the coup . . .”

  “Did you approve it?” Stepbrother asked Brother-in-Law.

  “Yes,” said Brother-in-Law.

  “So when does it go into mass production?” asked Stepbrother.

  “It already has,” said Father-in-Law. “Ten units a day.”

  “With these tanks of yours we’ll all be left with no pants soon,” Stepfather grumped.

  “Better no pants than no medals,” Brother-in-Law objected.

  “You used to be a colonel,” Stepfather cantankerously told him, “and you haven’t changed. Always wanting to play with tanks . . .”

  “My tooth’s nagging at me,” Dad pensively complained. “Wanderer, is it really so difficult to invent a painless way of fixing teeth?”

  “I could think about it,” said Wanderer.

  “You’d better think about heavy weapons systems,” Stepbrother angrily told him.

  “I can think about heavy weapons systems too,” said Wanderer.

  “Let’s not talk about heavy weapons systems today,” Dad suggested. “Let’s just say this isn’t the time.”

  “Well, in my opinion, it’s a very good time,” objected Stepbrother. “The Pandeians have thrown another division at the Hontian border.”

  “What does that have to do with you?” Stepfather morosely inquired.

  “Plenty,” replied Stepbrother. “I made calculations for the following scenario: the Pandeians intervene in the Hontians’ mess, quickly put their own man in there, and we face a united front—fifty million against our forty.”

  “I’d give big money to have them intervene in the Hontians’ mess,” said Stepfather. “You’re the one who always imagines any mess is a mess of pottage, so it can simply be eaten . . . But what I say is, anyone who touches Hontia has already lost.”

  “That dep
ends on how they touch it,” Father-in-Law said in a quiet voice. “If it’s done delicately, with small forces and without getting bogged down—just a light touch and then spring back as soon as they stop their quarreling . . . and at the same time, before the Pandeians can manage—”

  “In the final analysis, what do we want?” asked Brother-in-Law. “It’s either the Hontians united, without that civil mess of theirs, or Hontians who are ours, or Hontians who are dead . . . In any case we can’t dispense with an invasion. Let’s agree on an invasion, and after that it’s a matter of the details. There’s a plan ready for every alternative.”

  “You absolutely have to throw us in there without any pants,” said Stepfather. “You don’t care if there are no pants, just as long as there are medals . . . What do you want a united Hontia for, if we can have a disunited Pandeia?”

  “A fit of detective novel raving,” Stepbrother remarked to nobody in particular.

  “It’s not funny,” said Stepfather. “I’m not suggesting any unreal alternatives. If I say something, I have good grounds for it.”

  “You can hardly have any good grounds,” Father-in-Law gently said. “It’s just that you’re seduced by the cheapness of a solution, and I understand you there—it’s just that the northern problem can’t be solved with small resources. You can’t get the job done with putsches or coups there. The Stepfather who came before you divided the Hontians, and now we have to unite them again . . . Putsches are all well and good, but that way you can end up with a revolution. After all, things don’t work the same way there as they do here.”

  “And why don’t you say anything, Egghead?” asked Dad. “You are our egghead, after all.”

  “When fathers talk, prudent children should hold their tongues,” Egghead replied with a smile.

  “Come on, speak, speak, damn you.”

  “I’m not a politician,” said Egghead. They all laughed. Brother-in-Law actually choked. “Honestly, gentlemen, there’s nothing funny about this . . . I really am only a narrow specialist. And as such, I can only inform you that, according to my data, the mood of the army officers is in favor of war.”