Some twenty years ago the berserk elevator dropped off the Inspection Commission of the Solovetsk Committee on Municipal Economy on the seventy-sixth floor. They had come simply to discuss the stopped-up plumbing in the labs of Professor Vybegallo on the fourth floor. What precisely went on remains unknown. Vybegallo, who was waiting for the commission on the fourth floor, recounts that the elevator rushed up past him with a terrifying roar, the glass door showing a glimpse of distorted faces, and then the horrifying vision passed. Exactly an hour later the elevator car was discovered on the thirteenth floor in a lather, snorting, and still trembling from excitement. The commission was not in the car. A note was glued to the wall, written on the back of a form for reporting unsatisfactory conditions. It said: “Am going out to examine. I see a strange rock. Comrade Farfurkis has been reprimanded for going into the bushes. Chairman of the Commission, L. Vuniukov.”
For a long time, no one knew on what floor L. Vuniukov and his subordinates had disembarked from the elevator. The police came, and there were many awkward questions. A month later, two sealed packages addressed to the head of the Municipal Economic Committee were found on the roof of the car. One package contained a packet of decrees on cigarette paper that recorded reprimands of Comrade Farfurkis or Comrade Khlebovvodov, for the most part for displaying individualism and some inexplicable “Zuboism.” The second package contained the materials for a report on the plumbing in Tmuskorpion (the conditions were acknowledged to be unsatisfactory) and an application to Accounting for extra pay for high-altitude duty.
After this, correspondence from above became rather regular. First came the minutes of the meetings of the Inspection Commission of the Municipal Economic Committee, then of the Special Commission on Examining the Situation, then suddenly the Temporary Troika on Examining the Activity of Commandant Zubo of the Colony of Unexplained Phenomena, and finally, after three reports in a row on “criminal negligence,” L. Vuniukov signed in as Chairman of the Troika on the Rationalization and Utilization of Unexplained Phenomena. The newly formed triumvirate stopped sending down minutes and began sending instructions and decrees. These documents were terrifying in form and content. They gave incontrovertible evidence that the former commission of the Committee on Municipal Economy had usurped power in Tmuskorpion and that it was incapable of wielding such power rationally.
“The greatest danger,” Christobal Joséevich continued in his even voice, sucking on the extinguished cigar, “is the fact that these rascals have the well-known Great Round Seal in their hands. I hope that you realize what this means.”
“I understand,” Eddie said quietly. “You can’t hack it out even with an ax.” His clear face clouded over. “What if we use the humanizer?”
Christobal Joséevich looked at Fedor Simeonovich.
“You can try, of course,” he said, shrugging. “However, I’m afraid that things have gone too far.”
“N-n-no, why do you say that?” Fedor Simeonovich countered. “T-try it, t-try it, Eddie. They’re not automatons up there. B-by the way, V-V-Vybegallo is up there, too.”
“How come?”
It seemed that three months ago a demand had been sent down for a scientific consultant at a fantastic salary. Nobody believed the salary offer, least of all Professor Vybegallo, who at that time was just finishing up a major project on developing, through reeducation, a worm that would bait itself on a hook. Vybegallo announced to all ears at the academic council his distrust of the offer and ran away that same evening, leaving everything behind. Many saw him, briefcase in his teeth, clambering up the inner wall of the elevator shaft, getting out on floors divisible by five to replenish his strength at the snack bars. A week later a decree was lowered, stating that Professor A. A. Vybegallo had been appointed scientific consultant to the Troika at the promised salary, with bonuses for his knowledge of foreign languages.
“Thanks,” said polite Eddie. “That’s valuable information. Shall we go?”
“Go, go, my dear friends,” Fedor Simeonovich said, touched to the quick. He peered into the magic crystal. “Yes, it’s time. Kamnoedov is g-getting to the end of his s-s-speech. B-be careful up there. It’s a c-creepy, terrifying place.”
“And no emotions!” Christobal Joséevich insisted. “If they don’t give you your bedbugs and boxes—it doesn’t matter. You are scouts. We will maintain one-way telepathic communications with you. We will follow your every move. Gathering information is your primary goal.”
“We understand,” said Eddie.
Christobal looked us over one more time.
“They should take Modest with them,” he muttered. “Fight fire with fire.” He gave a hopeless wave of the hand. “All right, go. Good luck.”
We left, and Eddie said that now we had to drop into his lab and pick up the humanizer. He had been quite active in practical humanization lately. Six cabinets in his lab housed an experimental apparatus whose functional principle boiled down to the fact that it repressed primitive urges in the person subjected to its rays and brought to the surface and directed outward all that was rational, good, and eternal. With the aid of this experimental humanizer, Eddie managed to cure a philatelist, return two out-of-control hockey fans to the bosoms of their families, and bring a chronic slanderer under control. Now he was trying to cure our close friend Vitya Korneev of insolence, unsuccessfully thus far.
“How are we going to lug all this?” I asked, looking at the cabinets in horror.
But Eddie calmed me down. It seemed that his portable version was almost ready. It was less powerful, but adequate, Eddie hoped, for our needs. “I’ll finish soldering it there,” he said, putting the flat metal box in his pocket.
When we got back to the landing, Modest Matveevich was winding up his speech.
“We’ll put an end to this, too,” he maintained in a slightly hoarse voice. “Because, first of all, the elevator safeguards our lives. That’s point one. And it saves work time. The elevator costs money, and we categorically forbid smoking in it. Which of you are the volunteers?” he asked, turning to the crowd unexpectedly.
Several voices responded, but Modest Matveevich turned down the candidates. “You’re too young to ride around in elevators,” he announced. “This is no spectroscope, you know.” Eddie and I silently made our way to the front of the crowd.
“We want to go to seventy-six,” Eddie said quietly.
There was a respectful silence. Modest Matveevich looked us over from head to toe with great doubt.
“You look weak to me. Too green. Do you smoke?”
“No,” said Eddie.
“Occasionally,” said I.
Tikhon the house spirit ran out of the crowd and whispered in Modest Matveevich’s ear. Modest Matveevich pursed his lips.
“We’ll have to check that,” he said and took out his notebook. “What’s your business up there, Amperian?” he asked grumpily.
“The Talking Bedbug.”
“And you, Privalov?”
“The Black Box.”
“Hmm.” Modest Matveevich flipped through his book. “Correct, they are located there—The Colony of Unexplained Phenomena. Let’s see your requisitions.”
We showed him.
“Well, all right, go on up. You won’t be the first, and you won’t be the last.”
He saluted us. Sad music began playing. The crowd hushed. We entered the elevator cab. I was sad and scared and I remembered that I had not said good-bye to Stella. “They’ll wipe them out up there,” Modest Matveevich was explaining to someone. “Too bad, they’re nice guys. Amperian doesn’t even smoke; cigarettes don’t touch his lips.” The metal gate clanged shut. Eddie pushed the button for seventy-six without looking at me. The door closed automatically, a sign flashed saying “No smoking! Fasten your seatbelts!”—and off we went.
At first it moved slowly and lazily, at a half-hearted trot. You could tell that it did not like going anywhere. Familiar corridors, the sad faces of our friends, and the homemade post
ers saying “Heroes!” and “You won’t be forgotten!” floated down past us. On the thirteenth floor they waved to us for the last time, and the elevator headed for uncharted territories.
Seemingly uninhabited rooms appeared and disappeared, the jolts became less frequent and weaker, and it felt as though the elevator was falling asleep en route. It came to a complete halt on the sixteenth floor. We had barely exchanged a few words with some armed guards, who turned out to work in the Department of Enchanted Treasure, when the elevator reared up on its hind legs and galloped off wildly toward the zenith with a metallic whinny.
Lights lit up and relays clicked. The acceleration was pushing us into the floor. Eddie and I clung to each other to stay on our feet. The mirrors reflected our sweaty, tense faces, and we had prepared for the worst when the gallop changed to a canter and the force fell to one and a half g’s. We cheered up. Making our hearts skip, the elevator parked itself at the fifty-seventh floor. The door opened and a heavy-set middle-aged man came in, carrying an open accordion. He casually extended “Greetings to one and all!” and pushed sixty-three. When the elevator started moving, he leaned against the wall and, rolling his eyes, started playing “Little Bricks” softly. “From below?” he inquired indolently, without turning to us. “From below,” we replied. “Kamnoedov still there?” “Yes.” “Well, say hello,” the stranger said and paid no more attention to us. The elevator rose slowly, trembling in time with the song.
Eddie and I were so embarrassed that we set ourselves to learning the “Rules of Operation” etched on a brass plate. We learned that it was against the rules: for bats, vampires, and flying squirrels to settle in the car; to exit through the walls in case of an emergency stop between floors; to transport flammable and explosive materials as well as vessels containing genies or dragons without fireproof muzzles; and for house spirits to use the elevator without accompanying humans. Also everyone without exception was forbidden to create mischief, be involved in sleeping, or to hop.
We did not have the chance to read all the rules. The car stopped, the stranger got out, and Eddie pressed seventy-six one more time. At that very second the elevator rushed up with a ferocity that made us blank out. When we came to, the elevator was motionless and the door was open. We were on the seventy-sixth floor. We looked at each other and went out bearing our requisitions over our heads like white flags. I do not know for sure what it was we expected, but it was bound to be bad.
However, nothing terrible happened. We found ourselves in a round, empty, and very dusty room with a low gray ceiling. A white boulder, looking like an antitank stake placement, grew out of the parquet floor. Old yellowed bones were scattered around the boulder. There was the smell of mice, and it was murky. Suddenly the elevator gate clanged shut. We shuddered and turned around, but all we saw was the roof of the descending car. An evil roar filled the room and died down. We were trapped. I desperately wanted to get back downstairs immediately, but the lost look that crossed Eddie’s face gave me strength. I stuck out my jaw, folded my hands behind my back, and headed for the boulder, maintaining an independent and skeptical air. Just as I had expected, the boulder was a road marker, often encountered in fairy tales. The sign over it looked something like this:
No.1. If you go to the right, you’ll lose your head.
No.2. If you go to the left, you’ll get nowhere.
No.3. If you go straight, you’ll
“They’ve scraped off the last part,” Eddie explained. “Aha. There’s something else written in pencil: ‘We are here…we consulted the people…and the opinion is…that we should go…straight. Signed: L. Vuniukov.’”
We looked straight ahead. Our eyes had adjusted to the diffused light, and we saw the doors. There were three of them. The doors leading to what might be considered the right and the left were boarded shut, and there was a path going around the boulder through the dust from the elevator to the middle door.
“I don’t like any of this,” I said with courageous forthrightness. “These bones…”
“I think they’re ivory,” Eddie said. “But that’s not important. We can’t go back, can we?”
“Maybe we could write a note and throw it down the shaft? Otherwise we’ll disappear without a trace.”
“Alex, don’t forget that we are in telepathic communication. It’s embarrassing. Get yourself together.”
I got myself together. I stuck out my jaw again and resolutely strode toward the middle door. Eddie walked next to me.
“The Rubicon is crossed!” I announced and kicked the door.
The effect was wasted. There was a barely noticeable sign on the door that said “Pull,” and the Rubicon had to be crossed a second time, without the grand gestures and with the humiliating application of force to the powerful springs.
There was a park bathed in sunlight on the other side of the door. We saw sandy paths, trimmed hedges, and warning signs: “Do not walk on the lawn and do not eat the grass.” There was a cast-iron park bench with a broken back, and a strange man wearing a pince-nez was sitting on it, reading a newspaper and wriggling his bare toes. Seeing us, he became embarrassed for some reason, and without lowering the paper, removed the pince-nez agilely with his toes, wiped the lenses on his trousers, and put it back. Then he set aside the paper and rose. He was tall, very hairy, and wore a clean white vest and blue linen pants with suspenders. The gold-rimmed pince-nez squeezed the broad bridge of his nose and gave him a foreign look. He resembled something out of a political cartoon in the central newspapers. His big pointy ears twitched, and he took several steps toward us and spoke in a hoarse but pleasant voice:
“Welcome to Tmuskorpion, and allow me to present myself. I am Fedya the Abominable Snowman.”
We bowed silently.
“You’re from below, no? Thank God. I’ve been waiting for you for over a year—ever since I was rationalized. Let’s sit down. There’s still an hour until the evening session of the Troika. I would very much like, with your permission, for you to appear at the meeting with some preparation. Of course, I do not know that much, but permit me to tell you all that I do.”
CASE 42:
OLD MAN EDELWEISS
We crossed the threshold of the meeting room exactly at five o’clock. We had been briefed, we were prepared for anything, and we knew what to expect. Or so I thought. I must admit that Fedya’s explanations had calmed me somewhat. But Eddie had become depressed. I was surprised by his depression, but I attributed it completely to the fact that Eddie had always been a man of pure science far removed from lost shipments, paper punching, and expense forms. And so his depression made me, a man of wider experience, feel superior. I felt more mature and I was ready to act accordingly.
There was only one man in the room—judging by Fedya’s descriptions, it was Comrade Zubo, the Commandant of the Colony. He sat at a small table, holding an open folder, and was blinking with barely repressed excitement. He was emaciated, his lips were in constant motion, and his eyes were white, like an antique statue’s. He did not notice us at first, and we quietly found seats under the sign on the wall that said “Representatives.” The room was three windows wide, and a bare demonstration table stood by the door. Another table, a huge one covered with green baize, stood against the opposite wall. A hideous brown safe towered in the corner; the commandant’s table, littered with manila folders, huddled next to it. There was still another table in the room, under the “Scientific Consultant” sign, as well as a gigantic cloth banner, covering a wall and a half, that read: “The people do not need unhealthy sensationalism. The people need healthy sensationalism.” I looked over at Eddie. He was staring at the banner, utterly crushed.
The commandant suddenly looked up, sniffed with his big nose, and unearthed our presence.
“Outsiders!”
We stood and bowed. The commandant, keeping his eyes fixed on us, got up from his little table, took a few stealthy steps, and stopped before Eddie and extended his hand. Polite Eddie, smiling
weakly, shook hands and introduced himself, then stepped back and bowed once more. The commandant seemed shaken. For a few seconds he remained in position, then brought his hand up to his face and examined it suspiciously. Something was wrong. The commandant blinked rapidly and then anxiously examined the floor at his feet, as though looking for something he had dropped. Then I got it.
“The documents! Show him the documents!”
The commandant, smiling nervously, kept looking around him. Eddie quickly shoved his ID and requisition at him. The commandant came to life. His movements became rational. His eyes devoured the requisition, then the photograph on the papers, and then Eddie himself for dessert. The resemblance between the photograph and the original brought him obvious joy.
“Very pleased!” he exclaimed. “The name is Zubo. Commandant. Glad to welcome you. Make yourself comfortable, Comrade Amperian, make yourself at home, you and I still have a lot of work ahead of us.” He stopped and looked at me. I already had my papers in my hand. The process of devouring was repeated.
“Very pleased!” the commandant exclaimed with exactly the same intonation. “The name is Zubo. Commandant. Glad to welcome you. Make yourself comfortable, Comrade Privalov, make yourself at home.”
“What about a hotel?” I asked in a businesslike manner. I felt that that would be the right tone to take with him. But I was wrong. The commandant let my question fall on deaf ears. He was examining the requisition.
“Box, Black, Ideal,” he muttered. “We do have one, it hasn’t been examined yet. The Talking Bedbug has been rationalized, Comrade Amperian. I don’t know, I don’t know. It all depends on Lavr Fedotovich. I’d be worried if I were you.”
He suddenly clammed up, listened, and dashed back to his seat. There were footsteps, voices, and coughing in the foyer. The door opened, pushed by a powerful hand, and the Troika, that mighty triumvirate, appeared in the room in full complement—all four of them.