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[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Rumata quickly skimmed the contents of the document. It was
not an
order for Doctor Budach's release. It was merely a document to
obtain an
entry permit to the fifth special department of the chancellery,
where he
was supposed to pick up a recommendation for the secretary of the
secret
police. "What did you give me here, you nitwit?" asked Rumata. "Where
is the
official release order?!"
"Through the yellow door, to the second floor, room six,
straight
through the corridor, make a right turn first, then one to the
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
left,"
repeated the official.
"I am asking you, where is the release order!" yelled Rumata.
"Haven't the faintest idea ... no idea . . . Next one, please!"
A softly rattling breath sounded above Rumata's ears and
something warm
and soft leaned against his back. He shook it off with a brief
resolute
movement. It was Don Pifa, who had pushed his way back once more
to the
front.
"It doesn't fit," he complained in a whining voice.
The official looked up and regarded him with his tired, dull
eyes.
"Name? Rank?" he inquired.
"It doesn't fit," repeated Don Pifa, and pulled and pushed the
bracelet
that would hardly fit over three of his fat fingers.
"It doesn't fit ... it doesn't fit . . ." murmured one of
the two
officials and suddenly seized a fat book that had been lying on
the table
over in a comer. The book looked ominous in its greasy, black
cover. For a
few seconds Don Pifa stared in confusion at the book, then swiftly
recoiled
one step and without another word quickly stomped toward the exit.
Voices
from the queue began to complain: "Don't keep us waiting!... hurry
up, will
you!"
Rumata, too, left the table. You filthy beast. I'll show you a
thing or
two! thought Rumata. The official started loudly to read from the
greasy
black book in a droning voice: "In case said bracelet should not
fit the
left wrist, or if the purified person should not have a left
hand . . ."
Rumata walked around to the other side of the table, stuck both
hands into
the box with the bracelets, took out as many as he could hold in
his hands
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
and went his way.
"Hey, hey," shouted the official in the same monotonous
tone, "the
motivation ..."
"In the name of the Lord," said Rumata over his
shoulder with
significant emphasis. The official and Brother Tibak rose swiftly
from their
seats and answered confused: "In His name!" The people waiting
in line
stared after Rumata with envy and admiration.
Rumata left the chancellery and made his way toward the Tower
of Joy,
merrily jingling the iron rings on his left hand. It turned out that
he had
snatched nine iron rings but he could find enough place for only five
on his
left arm. So he slipped the other four over his right wrist. That's
the way
the bishop of Arkanar intended to get rid of me, he thought.
Well, he's
barking up the wrong tree! His metal bracelets were clanking with
every step
he made and in his hand he held an important-looking piece of
paper--form
6/17/11-- decorated with many colorful stamps. The monks in the
street,
walking or riding toward him, quickly gave him a wide berth.
Occasionally he
caught a glimpse in the crowd of his faithful spy and bodyguard, who
always
kept at a respectful distance. Rumata arrived at the gate of the
Tower of
Joy. He rattled his swords in a menacing manner at the guard who
stuck out
his head in curiosity, but who just as quickly withdrew it when
he heard
Rumata's growl. Rumata passed through the courtyard and
descended the
slippery, worn-out state down into the semidarkness, only relieved
by some
primitive, sputtering oil lamps. Here was the entrance to the Holy of
Holies
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
of the former Ministry of Internal Security, the royal prison,
and the
torture chambers.
Every ten paces along the vaulted corridor he could see a
stinking
torch fastened in a rusty holder on the wall. Below each torch
was a
cavelike recess that ended in a small black door with a tiny window
provided
with iron bars. This was the entrance to the prison cells; heavy
bolts on
the outside secured the doors. The corridors were teeming with
people. They
bumped into each other, ran back and forth, shouted and screamed,
trying to
give orders to each other. Bolts rattled and clanked, doors were
opened and
slammed, somebody was being beaten and cried out in pain,
another tried
desperately to hold onto the railing as he was dragged away,
another was
shoved into a cell that was already overflowing with too many
prisoners, and
another prisoner, whom some men were unsuccessfully trying to drag
out of a
crowded cell, clutched his neighbor with an iron grip, screaming
all the
while: "Not me, not me!" The faces of the passing monks were
eager and
puckered up. Everyone was in a hurry, everyone performed duties
of great
importance to the State. Rumata intended first of all to find out
what was
going on in this place. He wandered leisurely through a number of
passages
and corridors, gradually venturing farther down the stairs. The lower
floors
were somewhat quieter. Judging by the conversations he overheard,
this was
the place where the graduates of the School for Patriots were
examined. Clad
only in leather breechcloths, the adolescents stood at the doors
of the
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
torture chambers, leafed through old greasy manuals, and occasionally
walked
over to a big wooden tub to drink water from a tin cup that was
fastened by
a chain to the wall above. Horrible cries came from the chambers,
the sound
of thrashings, and it smelled unmistakably of burnt flesh. And
their talk!
Oh, that talk!
"You know, the rack has a screw on top, and it got worn out
and went
right through. Is that my fault, I ask you? He had them whip me
for that.
'You rotten, stupid pig,' he said. 'You ape, go get five on your
naked butt.
Then let me see you again.'"
"If we only could find out who does the whipping. Maybe it's one
of us,
a student. We could grease his palm--a few copper pennies would do
the trick
..."
"If you get a fat man, the spikes won't leave a mark in his
flesh. The
best thing to do is take a couple of red-hot needles and push the
lard aside
a bit..." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
