“And why would they definitely lambaste me?” Heiger asked indignantly. “Maybe just the opposite—they’d sing my praises?”
“No,” said Izya. “They won’t sing your praises. Andrei already explained to you today about the scientists. Well, great writers are always grouching too. It’s their normal condition, because they are society’s sick conscience, although society doesn’t have the slightest suspicion that they even exist. And since in this case you are the symbol of society, you’ll be the first one they start throwing tin cans at.” Izya giggled. “I can just imagine what a roasting they’ll give your Ruhmer!”
Heiger shrugged. “Of course, if Ruhmer has shortcomings, a genuine writer is obliged to depict them. That’s what a writer does: he heals the open sores.”
“Writers have never, ever healed any open sores,” Izya objected. “A sick conscience simply hurts, that’s all—”
“But after all, that’s not the question,” Heiger interrupted. “You give me a straight answer: Do you consider the current situation to be normal or not?”
“Well, what do you take as the norm?” Izya asked. “Can we regard the situation on Earth as normal?”
“Away he goes!” Andrei said, screwing up his face. “You’re being asked a simple question: Can a society exist without creative talents? Have I got that right, Fritz?”
“I’ll ask even more precisely,” said Heiger. “Is it normal for a million people—it doesn’t matter if they’re here or on Earth—not to produce a single creative talent in decades?”
Izya said nothing, absentmindedly plucking at his wart, and Andrei said, “If we judge by ancient Greece, for example, it’s very far from normal.”
“Then what’s wrong?” asked Heiger.
“The Experiment is the Experiment,” said Izya. “But if we judge by the Mongols, for instance, then everything here is in fine shape.”
“What do you mean by that?” Heiger asked suspiciously.
“Nothing special,” Izya said in surprise. “Just that there are a million of them, or maybe even more. We could also take the example of the Koreans, say… and almost any Arab country…”
“Why not take the gypsies?” Heiger asked peevishly.
Andrei suddenly brightened up. “Yes, by the way, guys,” he said. “Are there any gypsies in the City?”
“You can all go to hell!” Heiger said angrily. “It’s absolutely impossible to talk seriously about anything with you…”
He was about to add something else, but at that point ruddy-cheeked Parker appeared in the doorway, and Heiger immediately looked at his watch.
“Well, that’s it,” he said, getting up. “Got to go!” He sighed and started buttoning up his military tunic. “To your posts, Counselors!” he said, “To your posts!”
3
Otto Friese hadn’t lied to them: the rug was genuinely luxurious. It was black and crimson, with aristocratic tones, and it occupied the entire wall on the left of the study, opposite the windows. Hanging there, it gave the study an absolutely special look. It was devilishly beautiful, it was elegant, it was significant.
Absolutely delighted, Andrei gave Selma a peck on the cheek, and she went back to the kitchen to give the maid orders while he walked around his study, examining the rug from every possible viewpoint, gazing at it straight on first, then at a steep angle with his peripheral vision. Then he opened his cherished cupboard and took out a massive Mauser—a ten-round monster, born in the special section of the Mauserwerke, which became famous during the Russian Civil War as the beloved weapon of commissars in dusty helmets, and also of Japanese imperial officers in greatcoats with dog-fur collars.
The Mauser was clean and burnished to a high gleam—it looked completely combat ready—but unfortunately the firing pin had been filed down. Andrei held the gun, weighing it in both hands, then took hold of the rounded, fluted handle, lowered the gun, raised it again to eye level, and aimed it at the trunk of an apple tree outside the window, like Heiger at the shooting range.
Then he turned to face the rug and started choosing a spot. It didn’t take long to find one. Andrei kicked off his shoes, climbed up onto the couch, and held the Mauser at that spot. Pressing it against the rug with one hand, he leaned back as far as he could and admired it. It was superb. He skipped down onto the floor, impetuously ran out into the hallway in his socks, pulled a toolbox out of the wall cupboard, and went back to the rug.
He hung the Mauser, then a Luger with an optical sight (Tailbone had shot two militiamen dead with that Luger on the last day of the Turning Point), and he was fiddling with a 1906 model Browning—small and almost square—when a familiar voice spoke behind his back:
“Farther to the right, Andrei, a little farther to the right. And a centimeter lower.”
“Like that?” Andrei asked, without turning around.
“Yes.”
Andrei secured the Browning, jumped down backward off the couch, and backed away as far as the desk, surveying the work of his own hands.
“It’s beautiful,” the Mentor said approvingly.
“Beautiful, but not enough,” Andrei said with a sigh.
Without making a sound, the Mentor walked over to the cupboard, squatted down, rummaged around, and took out a Nagant army revolver. “What about this?” he asked.
“No wooden grips on the handle,” Andrei said regretfully. “I keep meaning to order some and I always forget.” He found his shoes, sat on the windowsill beside the desk, and lit a cigarette. “I’ll put my dueling arsenal at the top. Early nineteenth century. You come across some incredibly beautiful examples, with incised silver work, and the shapes are quite amazing—from tiny little ones like this to huge ones with long barrels…”
“Lepages,” said the Mentor.
“No, in fact the Lepages are small… And at the bottom, just above the couch, I’ll hang the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century combat weapons.”
He fell silent, picturing to himself how beautiful it would be. The Mentor, squatting on his haunches, rummaged in the cupboard. Somewhere close by outside the window a motorized lawn mower spluttered. Birds twittered and whistled.
“A good idea—to hang the rug here, wasn’t it?” Andrei asked.
“An excellent idea,” said the Mentor, getting up. He tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands. “Only I’d put the floor lamp over in that corner, beside the phone. And you need a white phone.”
“I’m not entitled to a white phone,” Andrei said with a sigh.
“Never mind,” said the Mentor. “When you get back from the expedition, you’ll have a white one.”
“So I did the right thing by agreeing to go?”
“Did you have any doubts about it?”
“Yes,” Andrei said, and stubbed out his butt in the ashtray. “In the first place, I didn’t want to go. I just didn’t want to. And in the second place, to be quite honest, it’s a bit frightening.”
“Oh, come on,” said the Mentor.
“No, really. You—can you tell me what I’ll come up against out there? There, you see! Total uncertainty… A dozen of Izya’s terrifying legends and total uncertainty… Plus all the charms of life on the march. I know these expeditions. I’ve been on archeological expeditions, and all sorts of other kinds…”
At this point, just as Andrei was expecting, the Mentor asked curiously, “What is it about these expeditions… how can I put it… what’s the most frightening thing about them, the most unpleasant thing?”