“I remembered it too late. Anyway, I’ve already expressed my opinion.”
“Not very effectively,” the civilian remarked softly to the captain. “Besides, the situation is changing. Opinions are changing.”
“Not for us in the Legion,” said the captain coldly.
“Now, really, gentlemen,” said the brigadier. “Come to today’s meeting anyway.”
“I hear they’ve brought in fresh lake mushrooms,” said the adjutant, still digging through his papers. “In their own juice.”
“Hear that, captain?” said the civilian.
“No, gentlemen,” said the captain. “I have one opinion and I’ve already expressed it. As for the lake mushrooms ...”He added something else that Pandi and Maxim couldn’t hear, and the entire group burst into laughter. Captain Chachu leaned back in his chair, looking pleased. The adjutant stopped digging through his papers and whispered something to the brigadier. The brigadier nodded several times. The adjutant sat down and, as if he were addressing the empty seat, called out: “Nole Renadu.”
Pandi pushed the door open, thrust his head into the corridor, and repeated in a loud voice: “Nole Renadu.”
Movement was heard in the corridor, and an elderly man, expensively dressed but somewhat battered and disheveled, entered the room. His legs were slightly unsteady, so Pandi took him by the elbow and planted him in the prisoner’s seat. The door clicked shut. The man coughed loudly, rested his hands on his knees, and raised his head proudly.
“So-o...” drawled the brigadier, studying the papers. He rattled off something that sounded like a tongue twister: “Nole Renadu-fifty-five-years-old-homeowner-member-of-the-city council. So-o. Member of the Veteran’s Association.” The civilian beside the brigadier yawned, slipped a magazine from his pocket, set it on his knees, and leafed through it. “The prisoner... removed during a search... then and there. So-o. What were you doing at Number Eight Trumpeter Street?”
“I’m the owner of the building,” said Renadu with dignity. “I was having a conference with my manager.”
“Have you checked his documents?” The brigadier turned to the adjutant.
“Yes, sir. Everything is in order.”
“So-o,” said the brigadier. “Mr. Renadu, do you know any of the prisoners?”
“No, I do not,” said Renadu, shaking his head vigorously. “Not personally. But the name of one of them—Ketshef—I think someone by that name lives in the building. But I don’t remember. Maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe not in this building. I have two more, and one of them—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted the civilian without raising his eyes from the magazine. “What were the other prisoners in the cell talking about? Didn’t you listen?”
“Uh... I... uh,” hesitated Renadu. “I must confess... well, your cell has... insects. So most of the time we were busy with them. Someone was whispering in a comer, but I was too busy fighting off the insects.” He laughed nervously.
“Of course,” agreed the brigadier. “Well, now, I don’t think an apology is necessary, Mr. Renadu. Here are your documents. You are free. Chief escort!” he called out.
Pandi opened the door wide and shouted: “Chief escort, report to the brigadier!”
“I wouldn’t even consider discussing the question of apologies,” said Renadu gravely. “I and I alone am to blame. More precisely, my damned heredity. May I?” he asked Maxim, pointing to the table where his documents lay.
“Stay where you are,” said Pandi in a low voice.
Guy entered. The brigadier handed him the documents and ordered the return of confiscated property. Mr. Renadu was released.
“Rashe Musai,” said the adjutant to the iron stool.
“Rashe Musai,” repeated Pandi through the open door.
A thin, utterly exhausted man wearing a shabby robe and one slipper entered. He had scarcely sat down when the brigadier shouted: “So, you murderer, you’ve been hiding?” Rashe responded with a lengthy, muddled explanation. He had not been hiding, he had a sick wife and three children, his rent wasn’t paid, he had been arrested twice and released, he was now employed in a factory as an upholsterer, and he had not done anything wrong. Maxim was certain he would be released, but the brigadier rose suddenly and declared that Rashe Musai, age forty-two, married, twice arrested, was sentenced to seven years in accordance with the law on preventive detention. For an instant Rashe Musai appeared not to understand the sentence. Then a terrible scene erupted. The upholsterer sobbed, pleaded incoherently to be forgiven, and continued to shout and cry while Pandi dragged him out into the corridor. Maxim caught Captain Chachu’s eye on him again.
“Kivi Popshu,” announced the adjutant.
A broad-shouldered fellow whose face was disfigured by some skin disease was pushed through the door. This housebreaker, a repeater, caught at the scene of the crime, behaved in an insolently ingratiating manner. First he begged the authorities not to sentence him to a cruel death, then he laughed hysterically, made wisecracks, and told stories about himself, all of them beginning in the same way: “I entered a house...” He would not give anyone else a chance to speak. After several unsuccessful attempts to question him, the brigadier leaned back in his chair and looked to his right and left indignantly. Captain Chachu said in a monotone: “Candidate Sim, shut him up!”
Not knowing how to silence the prisoner, Maxim simply grabbed Kivi Popshu by the shoulder and shook him hard. The prisoner’s jaws snapped shut; he bit his tongue and fell silent. Then the civilian, who had been observing the prisoner, said:
“I’ll take this one. He’ll be useful.”
“Fine,” said the brigadier and ordered the escort to return Kivi Popshu to his cell.
When the prisoner had been led out, the adjutant said: “That finishes the small fry. Now for the group.”
“Begin with their leader,” suggested the civilian. “What’s his name—Ketshef?”
The adjutant glanced at his papers and again addressed the prisoner’s seat: “Gel Ketshef.”
A handcuffed man was led into the room. His eyes were red, his face swollen. He sat down and fixed his gaze on the picture above the brigadier’s head. “Is your name Gel Ketshef?” asked the brigadier.
“Yes.”
“You are a dentist?”
“I was.”
“What is your relationship to the dentist Hobbi?”
“I bought his practice.”
“Why aren’t you in practice now?”
“I sold my equipment.”
“Why?”
“Financial problems.”
“What’s your relationship to Ordi Tader?”
“She’s my wife.”
“Any children?”
“We had a son.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you do during the war?”
“I fought.”
“Why did you decide to engage in antigovemment activity?”
“Because in the history of the World there has never been a more loathsome government,” said Ketshef. “Because I loved my wife and child. Because you’ve killed my friends and corrupted my people. Because I’ve always hated you. Isn’t that enough?”
“Enough,” said the brigadier calmly. “More than enough. Now tell us how much the Khontis are paying you? Or is it Pandeya?”
The man broke into laughter—but it was an oppressive laughter, the laughter of a dead man.
“Come off it. Let’s put an end to this farce. What good will it do you?”
“Are you the leader of this group?”
“I was.”
“Who are the members of your organization?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re sure?” the civilian asked suddenly.
“Yes.”
“You know, Ketshef,” said the civilian gently, “your position is extremely serious. We know everything about your group. We even know something about your group’s connections. But whether your name or another’s is given out as our source depends completely on you.”
Ketshef lowered his head and remained silent.