road is open. He could go down right now, but it was better, of course, to wait a while. The meatgrinders can be tricky. Anyway, he had some thinking to do. An unaccustomed exercise, thinking, that was the trouble. What was “thinking” anyway? Thinking meant finding a loophole, pulling a bluff, pulling the wool over someone’s eyes—but all that was out of place here.
All right. Monkey, his father… Make them pay for that, steal the bastards’ souls, let the sons of bitches eat what I’ve been eating… No, that’s not it, Red… I mean, that is it, but what does it mean? What do I need? That’s cursing, not thinking. A terrible presentiment chilled him, and quickly skipping over the many arguments that were still ahead of him, he told himself angrily: this is how it is, Red, you won’t leave here until you figure it out, you’ll drop dead here next to the ball, burn to death and rot, but you won’t leave.
God, where are the words, where are my thoughts? He slapped his head. I have never had a thought in my entire life! Wait, wait, Kirill used to say something like that. Kirill! He feverishly dug through his memories, and words floated to the surface, familiar ones and unfamiliar, but it was all wrong, because Kirill had not left words behind. He had left pictures, vague, and very kind, but thoroughly improbable.
Meanness and treachery. They let me down in this too, they left me speechless, the bastards. A bum—I was always a bum, and now I’m an old bum. It’s not right, do you hear me? In the future, for once and for all, it should be outlawed! Man is born in order to think (there he is, old Kirill at last!). Only I don’t believe it. I didn’t believe it before and I don’t believe it now. And I don’t know what man is born for. I was born. So here I am. People eat whatever they can. Let all of us be healthy and let all of them drop dead. Who is us and who are they? I don’t understand a thing. If I’m happy, Burbridge isn’t, if Burbridge’s happy, Four-eyes isn’t, if Throaty is happy, no one else is, and if things are bad for Throaty, he’s the only one fool enough to think he’ll manage somehow. God, it’s just one long brawl! I fight all my life with Captain Quarterblad, and he fights all his life with Throaty, and all he wants from me is that I give up stalking. But how can I give up stalking when I have a family to feed? Get a job? I don’t want to work for you, your work makes me puke, do you understand? This is the way I figure it: if a man works with you, he is always working for one of you, he is a slave and nothing else. And I always wanted to be myself, on my own, so that I could spit at you all, at your boredom and despair.
He finished the dregs of the brandy and threw the empty flask to the ground with all his might. The flask bounced, flashing in the sun, and rolled away. He forgot about it immediately. He sat there, covering his eyes with his hands, and he was trying—not to understand, not to think, but merely to see something of how things should be, but all he saw were the faces, faces, faces, and more faces… and greenbacks, bottles, bundles of rags that were once people, and columns of figures. He knew that it all had to be destroyed, and he wanted to destroy it, but he guessed that if it all disappeared there would be nothing left but the flat, bare earth. His frustration and despair made him want to lean back against the ball. He got up, automatically brushed off his pants, and started down into the quarry.
The sun was broiling hot, red spots floated before his eyes, the air was quivering on the floor of the quarry, and in the shimmer it seemed that the ball was dancing in place like a buoy on the waves. He went past the bucket, superstitiously picking up his feet higher and making sure not to step on the splotches. And then, sinking into the rubble, he dragged himself across the quarry to the dancing, winking ball. He was covered with sweat and panting from the heat, and at the same time, a chill was running through him, he was shuddering, as if he had a bad hangover, and the sweet chalk dust gritted between his teeth. He had stopped trying to think. He just repeated his litany over and over: “I am an animal, you see that. I don’t have the words, they didn’t teach me the words. I don’t know how to think, the bastards didn’t let me learn how to think. But if you really are… all-powerful… all-knowing… then you figure it out! Look into my heart. I know that everything you need is in there. It has to be. I never sold my soul to anyone! It’s mine, it’s human! You take from me what it is I want… it just can’t be that I would want something bad! Damn it all, I can’t think of anything, except those words of his… ‘HAPPINESS FOR EVERYBODY, FREE, AND NO ONE WILL GO AWAY UNSATISFIED!’”
About the Authors
Arkady (August 28, 1925 — October 12, 1991) and Boris (born April 14, 1933) Strugatsky are Soviet Jewish-Russian science fiction authors who collaborated on their fiction.
Arkady Natanovich Strugatsky was born August 25, 1925 in Batumi; his father Natan Zalmanovich was an art critic, his mother a teacher. The family later moved to Leningrad. In January 1942 Arkady and his father left the besieged city, but Arkady was the only survivor in his train car; his father died on reaching Vologda. Arkady was later drafted into the Soviet army, training first at the artillery school in Aktyubinsk and later at the Military Institute of Foreign Languages in Moscow, from which he graduated in 1949 as an interpreter of English and Japanese. He worked as a teacher and interpreter for the military until 1955. From 1955 he began to work as a editor and writer. In 1958, he began to collaborate with his brother Boris, a collaboration that lasted until Arkady’s death October 12, 1991.
Born April 14, 1933, Boris Natanovich Strugatsky remained in Leningrad with his mother during the siege of the city during World War II. He graduated from high school in 1950 and applied to the physics department at Leningrad State University, but studied astronomy instead. After graduating in 1955, he worked as an astronomer and computer engineer until 1966 when he became a full-time writer.
Several of the books written by the Strugatsky brothers take part in the same universe, known as The World of Noon; another unofficial and perhaps less-known title is the Wanderers Universe. The name is derived from the title of one of their texts, Noon: 22nd Century. The main characteristics of the Noon Universe are: a very high level of social, scientific, and technological development; the creativity of the general population; and the very significant level of societal maturity compared to the modern world. For instance, this world knows no monetary stimulation (indeed, money does not exist), and every person is engaged in a profession that interests him or her. The Earth of the Noon Universe is governed by a global meritocratic council composed of the world’s leading scientists and philosophers. That Noon World has been clearly named as “World of Communism” in their novels, which was handy for publishing their novels in the USSR where the Communist Party decided whether a book would be printed, and approved for mass circulation.
The Universe was described by the authors as the world in which they would like to live and work. It became highly influential for at least a generation of Soviet people, e.g. a person could quote the Strugatsky books and be sure of being understood. At first the authors thought that the Noon Universe would become reality “by itself”, but then they realized that the only way to achieve it is by inventing the High Theory of Upbringing, making the upbringing of each person a unique deed.
One of the important story arcs of those books is how the advanced human civilization covertly steers the development of those considered less advanced. Agents of humans are known as Progressors. At the same time, some humans suspect that a very advanced spacefaring race called Wanderers exists and is ‘progressing’ humanity itself.
