“And exactly how are connivers and sympathizers dealt with in field conditions?” Izya inquired with tremendous curiosity; he was jubilant too.
“They are usually hanged,” the colonel replied drily.
Silence fell again. So there now, thought Andrei. I hope that’s all clear. Mr. Quejada? Or perhaps you have questions? You don’t have any questions, no way! It’s the army! The army decides everything, my friends . . . But even so, I don’t understand anything, he thought. Why is he so confident? Or maybe it’s only a mask, Colonel? I look very confident right now too, don’t I? At least, that’s the way I’m supposed to look . . . I’m obliged to.
He squinted warily at the colonel, who was still sitting up very straight, with his extinct pipe firmly clutched in his teeth. And he was very pale. Perhaps it’s merely anger. Let’s hope it’s just down to anger . . . To hell with it, to hell with it, Andrei thought frantically. A long halt! Right now! And Katzman can find me water. Lots of water. For the colonel. Just for the colonel. And starting tonight the colonel gets a double ration of water!
Ellisauer, all twisted out of shape, leaned out from behind Quejada’s fat shoulder and squeaked pitifully. “Please . . . I’ve got to go . . . Again . . .”
“Sit down,” Andrei told him. “We’re just finishing up.” He leaned back in the armchair and grasped the armrests. “Orders for tomorrow. I’m declaring a long halt. Ellisauer! Put all your men on the faulty tractor. I give you three days; kindly get it done in that time. Quejada. All day tomorrow, attend to the sick. The day after tomorrow, be prepared to accompany me on deep reconnaissance. Katzman, you will go with us . . . Water!” He tapped his finger on the table. “I need water, Katzman! Colonel! Tomorrow I order you to rest. The day after tomorrow you will take command of the camp. That’s all, gentlemen. Dismissed.”
2
Shining the flashlight down at his feet, Andrei hurried upstairs to the next floor—he thought it was the fifth at this point. Dammit, I’m not going to make it . . . He stopped for a moment, tensing every muscle as he waited for an acute urge to pass. Something in his belly churned with a muted glug and he felt a bit better. The fiends, they’ve fouled every level—there’s nowhere left to step . . . He reached the landing and pushed on the very first door. The door half-opened with a squeak, and Andrei squeezed in through the opening and sniffed. It didn’t seem too bad . . . He shone his flashlight around . . . Right beside the door, on the dried-out parquet, white bones lay in a tangle of stiffened rags, and a skull with clumps of hair caked on it grinned toothily. Clear enough: they looked inside and took fright. Moving his legs unnaturally, Andrei almost ran along the passage. The parlor . . . Dammit, something like a bedroom . . . Where’s their john? Ah, there it is . . .
Afterward, feeling calm, although the griping in his gut still hadn’t completely subsided and he was covered in cold, sticky sweat, he walked back out into the corridor and took the flashlight out of his pocket again. The Mute was right on cue, standing there, leaning his shoulder against some kind of endlessly tall, polished cupboard, with his large hands thrust in under his broad belt.
“Standing guard?” Andrei asked him with casual affability. “You do that, stand guard, or someone might sneak round a corner and stick a knife in my back—then what will you do?”
Andrei suddenly realized he’d gotten into the habit of talking to this strange man as if he were a huge dog, and he felt embarrassed. Giving the Mute a friendly pat on his cool, naked shoulder, he set off along the corridor, no longer hurrying, shining the flashlight right and left. Behind him he could hear the Mute’s soft footsteps following, neither moving closer nor falling back.
This apartment was more luxurious. Lots of rooms packed with heavy antique furniture, massive chandeliers, huge, blackened paintings in museum-style frames. But almost all the furniture was smashed: armrests had been torn off armchairs, chairs without legs were scattered around the floor, doors had been ripped off wardrobes. Did they use the furniture to heat the place, then? Andrei thought. In this heat? Strange . . .
To be honest, the entire house was a bit strange—he could completely understand the soldiers. Some apartments were standing wide open, and they were simply empty, absolutely nothing but the bare walls. Others were locked from the inside, sometimes even barricaded with furniture, and if you managed to break in, there were human bones lying on the floor. It was the same in the other houses nearby, and they could assume the picture would be the same in the other houses of this district.
None of this seemed to make any sense at all, and so far even Izya Katzman hadn’t come up with any sensible way to explain why some of the residents of these houses fled, taking with them everything they could carry, even books, and others had barricaded themselves in their homes, only to die there, apparently from hunger and thirst. And maybe from cold, too—in some of the apartments they had discovered wretched little iron stoves, and in others fires had clearly been lit directly on the floor, or on sheets of rusty iron that most likely had been torn off the roof.
“Do you understand what happened here?” Andrei asked the Mute.
The Mute slowly shook his head.
“Have you ever been here before?”
The Mute nodded.
“Did anyone live here then?”
No, the Mute signaled.
“I see,” Andrei muttered, trying to make out what was represented in a blackened painting. He thought it was some kind of portrait. Apparently of a woman . . .
“Is this place dangerous?” he asked.
The Mute looked at him with absolutely still eyes.
“Do you understand the question?”
Yes.
“Can you answer it?”
No.
“Well, thanks for that at least,” Andrei said thoughtfully. “So maybe things aren’t too bad after all. OK, let’s go home.”
They went back to the second floor. The Mute stayed in his corner, and Andrei went through into his room. Pak the Korean was already waiting for him, talking to Izya about something. When he saw Andrei, he stopped speaking and got up to greet him.
“Sit down, Mr. Pak,” Andrei said, and sat down himself.
After a very slight pause, Pak cautiously sank down onto the seat of his chair and put his hands on his knees. His yellowish face was calm, and his sleepy eyes glinted through the cracks between his puffy eyelids. Andrei had always liked him—in some subtle way Pak reminded him of Kensi, or maybe it was simply that he was always neat and clean, always good-natured and amiable with everyone, but without any familiarity; he was laconic, but polite and respectful—always a little apart, always keeping a subtle distance . . . Or maybe because it was Pak who put a stop to that absurd skirmish at 340 kilometers: when the shooting was at its height, he walked out of the ruins, holding up his open hand and slowly advancing toward the shots . . .
“Did they wake you up, Mr. Pak?” Andrei asked.
“No, Mr. Counselor. I hadn’t gone to bed yet.”
“Is your stomach bothering you a lot?”
“No more than everyone else’s.”
“But probably no less,” Andrei remarked. “And how are your feet?”
“Better than everyone else’s.”
“That’s good,” said Andrei. “And how are you feeling in general? Are you completely worn out?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Counselor.”
“That’s good,” Andrei repeated. “The reason why I bothered you, Mr. Pak, is that I’ve declared a long halt tomorrow. But the day after tomorrow I intend to make a short reconnaissance sortie with a special group. Fifty to seventy kilometers ahead. We have to find water, Mr. Pak. We’ll probably travel light but move fast.”
“I understand you, Mr. Counselor,” said Pak. “I request permission to join you.”
“Thank you. I was going to ask you to do that. So we leave the day after tomorrow, promptly at six in the morning. You’ll be issued field rations by the sergeant. Agreed? Now let me ask you th
is: What do you think, will we succeed in finding water here?”
“I think so,” said Pak. “I’ve heard a thing or two about these parts. There ought to be a spring here somewhere. According to the rumors, there was a very abundant spring here. It has probably been depleted now. But it might possibly be enough for our team. We need to check it out.”
“But maybe it has completely dried up?”
Pak shook his head. “It’s possible, but highly unlikely. I’ve never heard of springs completely drying up. The flow of water can be reduced, even greatly reduced, but apparently springs don’t dry up completely.”
“I haven’t found anything helpful in the documents yet,” said Izya. “Water was supplied to the town via an aqueduct, and now that aqueduct is as dry as . . . as I don’t know what.”
Pak said nothing to that.
“And what else have you heard about these city blocks?” Andrei asked him.
“Various more or less terrible things,” said Pak. “Some are clearly tall tales. And as for the rest . . .” He shrugged.
“Well, for instance?” Andrei asked amiably.
“Well, basically I’ve already told you all this before, Mr. Counselor. For instance, according to the rumors, the so-called City of the Ironheads is somewhere not far from here. But I haven’t been able to understand just who these Ironheads are . . . The Bloody Waterfall—but it seems that is still a long way off. Probably what we’re talking about is a stream of water that erodes some red-colored kind of rock. At least there’ll be plenty of water there. There are legends about talking animals—that’s already pushing the bounds of probability. And it clearly makes no sense to talk about what lies beyond those bounds . . . But then, the Experiment is the Experiment.”
“You’re probably sick and tired of all these questions,” Andrei said with a smile. “I can imagine how weary you are of repeating the same thing to everyone for the twentieth time. But please excuse us, Mr. Pak. After all, you are better informed than any of us.”
Pak shrugged again. “Unfortunately, the value of my knowledge is not very high,” he said drily. “Most of the rumors are not borne out. And vice versa—we come across many things that I have never heard anything about . . . And as far as the questions are concerned, does it not seem to you, Mr. Counselor, that the common soldiers in the team are too well informed when it comes to rumors? I personally only answer questions when I’m talking with someone from the command staff. I don’t consider it right, Mr. Counselor, for the privates and other rank-and-file members of the expedition to be aware of all these rumors. It’s bad for morale.”
“I entirely agree with you,” said Andrei, trying not to look away. “And in any case, I would prefer a few more rumors about a land flowing with milk and honey.”
“Yes,” said Pak. “And that’s why, when the soldiers ask me questions, I try to avoid unpleasant subjects and mostly dwell on the legend of the Crystal Palace . . . Although just recently they don’t want to hear about that anymore. They’re all seriously afraid and want to go home.”
“And you too?” Andrei asked sympathetically.
“I don’t have a home,” Pak said calmly. His face was inscrutable; his eyes turned absolutely somnolent.
“Mmm, yes,” Andrei said, and drummed his fingers on the table. “Well then, Mr. Pak. Thank you once again. Do please get some rest. Good night.”
He watched as Pak’s blue-twill-clad back receded, waited until the door closed, and said, “I’d really like to know why he tagged along with us.”
“What do you mean, why?” Izya asked with a start. “They couldn’t organize their own reconnaissance, so they asked to join up with you.”
“And what exactly do they need reconnaissance for?”
“Well, my dear friend, not everyone finds Heiger’s kingdom as congenial as you do! They didn’t want to live under Mr. Mayor before—that doesn’t surprise you, now does it? And now they don’t want to live under Mr. President. They want to live by themselves, you understand?”
“I understand,” said Andrei. “Only, in my opinion, no one intends to prevent them living by themselves.”
“That’s your opinion,” said Izya. “You’re not the president, are you?”
Andrei reached into a metal box, took out a flat flask of neat alcohol, and started unscrewing the cap.
“Surely you don’t imagine,” said Izya, “that Heiger will tolerate a strong, well-armed colony right there beside him? Two hundred men, seasoned in battle after battle, just three hundred kilometers from the Glass House! Of course he won’t leave them in peace. So they have to move farther north. But where to?”
Andrei splashed alcohol on his hands and rubbed his palms together as vigorously as he could. “I’m so damned sick of all this filth,” he muttered with revulsion. “You have absolutely no idea . . .”
“Yessiree, filth . . .” Izya said absentmindedly. “Filth sure ain’t sugar . . . Tell me, why are you always hassling Pak? What has he done to annoy you? I’ve known him for a long time, almost from the very first day. He’s an absolutely honest, highly cultured individual. So why do you hassle him? Only your feral hatred of the intelligentsia can explain these interminable, jesuitical interrogations. If you’re really that desperate to find out who’s spreading the rumors, interrogate your own informers, but Pak’s got nothing to do with it.”
“I don’t have any informers,” Andrei said icily.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments.
Then on a sudden impulse, Andrei asked, “Do you want an honest answer?”
“Well?” Izya said avidly.
“Well then, my friend, recently I’ve started getting the feeling that someone very much wants to call a halt to our expedition. A complete halt, do you understand? Not just get us to turn tail and go home, but finish us off. Wipe us out. So we disappear without a trace, do you understand?”
“Oh brother, come on!” said Izya. His fingers rummaged in his beard with a squeaky sound, searching for the wart.
“Yes, yes! And I keep trying to figure out who stands to gain from that. And it turns out that your Pak stands to gain. Quiet! Let me finish! If we disappear without a trace, Heiger won’t find out anything—not about the colony or anything else . . . And it will be a long time before he decides to organize another expedition like this one. Then they won’t have to move farther north and pull up their roots. That’s the conclusion I come to, do you understand?”
“I think you’re out of your mind,” said Izya. “Where do these feelings of yours come from? If they’re about turning tail and going home, you don’t need any feelings. Everyone wants to turn back . . . But where do you get the idea that someone wants to wipe us out?”
“I don’t know!” said Andrei. “I told you, it’s a feeling . . .” He paused for a moment. “In any case, it was the right decision to take Pak with me the day after tomorrow. I’m not leaving him hanging around in this camp when I’m not here.”
“But what has he got to do with all this?” Izya snapped. “Just take that addled brain of yours and think about it! So he wipes us out, and then what? Eight hundred kilometers on foot? Across arid desert?”
“How should I know?” Andrei snapped back. “Maybe he can drive a tractor.”
“Why not suspect Skank while you’re at it?” said Izya. “Like that . . . like in the fairy tale about Tsar Dadon. The Queen of Shamakha.”
“Mmm, yes . . . Skank,” Andrei said pensively. “Another blasted dark horse . . . And that Mute . . . Who is he? Where’s he from? Why does he follow me everywhere, like a dog? Even to the john . . . And by the way, it turns out that he’s been in these parts before.”
“What a discovery!” Izya said scornfully. “I realized that ages and ages ago. Those tongueless people arrived here from the north . . .”
“Maybe someone cut their tongues out here?” Andrei said in a low voice.
Izya looked at him. “Listen, let’s have a drink,” he said.
“There’s
nothing to dilute it with.”
“Then would you like me to bring Skank to you?”
“You go to hell . . .” Andrei got up, wincing as he moved his sore foot about in his shoe. “OK, I’ll go check out what’s going on.” He slapped his empty holster. “Have you got a pistol?”
“I’ve got one somewhere. Why?”
“Never mind, I’ll go as I am,” said Andrei.
He walked into the corridor, taking out his flashlight on the way. The Mute got up to meet him. On the right, from inside the apartment behind a half-open door, Andrei heard low voices. He stopped.
“In Cairo, Duggan, in Cairo!” the colonel insisted grandly. “I see now that you’ve forgotten everything, Duggan. The Twenty-First Yorkshire Fusiliers, and their commander at the time was old Bill, the fifth Baronet Stratford.”
“I beg your pardon, Colonel,” Duggan protested respectfully. “We could consult the colonel’s diaries . . .”
“Don’t bother, no diaries needed, Duggan! Attend to your pistol. You promised to read to me tonight as well.”
Andrei walked out onto the landing and ran into Ellisauer, standing there like a telegraph pole. Ellisauer was smoking, hunched over with his backside propped against the iron banister.
“Last one before bed?” Andrei asked.
“Precisely, Mr. Counselor. I’m just on my way.”
“Off to bed, off to bed,” Andrei said he walked on past. “You know the saying: the more you sleep, the less you sin.”
Ellisauer giggled respectfully as Andrei walked away. You half-witted beanpole, Andrei thought. You just try not getting that done in three days—I’ll harness you to the sled . . .
The lower ranks had installed themselves on the ground-floor level (although they’d gotten into the habit of crapping on the upper floors). He couldn’t hear any conversations here—apparently all of them, or almost all, were already sleeping. The apartment doors leading into the lobby were wide open—left that way to create a draft—and through them emerged a discordant medley of snoring, sleepy smacking of lips, muttering, and hoarse heavy-smoker coughing.