So OK, he told himself. Then what the hell are you going on for? Just give the order tomorrow, we’ll flap our wings and fly, and in a month we’ll be home, and we’ll dump the high authority delegated to us at Heiger’s feet: right, fuck you, brother, go and do it yourself, if you’re so eager to press on with this expansion, if you’ve got an itch up the you-know-where… Ah, no, why necessarily make a big scandal out of it? After all, we’ve covered nine hundred kilometers, made a map, collected ten crates of archives—isn’t that enough? There isn’t anything up ahead! How much longer can we go on grinding down our feet? This isn’t Earth, it’s not a sphere… There isn’t any oil here, there isn’t any water, there aren’t any large settlements… And there isn’t any Anticity—of course not, that’s absolutely clear now; no one here has ever even heard of it… Anyway, the excuses can be found. Excuses… That’s just it. They’re excuses!
Exactly how do things stand here? The agreement was to go all the way, and you were ordered to go all the way. Right? Right. And now: Can you go on? I can. We have chow. We have fuel, the guns are in good order… Of course, the men are bushed, but they’re all unscathed, none of them are hurt… And when all’s said and done, they’re not so badly exhausted, if they can monkey around with Skank all evening. No, brother, your argument doesn’t hold water. You’re a crappy boss, that’s what Heiger will tell you. I was mistaken about you, he’ll say. And he’s got Quejada whispering in one ear and Permyak in the other, and Ellisauer standing by in reserve…
Andrei tried to drive this last thought out of his head as quickly as possible, but it was already too late. He realized with a shudder that his status as “Mr. Counselor” was in fact very important to him, and he found it very painful to think that this status might suddenly change.
Well, let it change, he thought defensively. Am I going to starve to death without that position? By all means, let Mr. Quejada take my place, and I’ll take his. What harm will that do to the cause? My God, he suddenly thought. What cause is that, anyway? What are you driveling about, friend? You’re not a little kid any longer, taking responsibility for the fate of the world. You know, the fate of the world will get by without you, and without Heiger… Everyone must do his own duty at his own post? By all means, I don’t object to that. I’m willing to do my own duty at my own post. At my own. At this one. Wielding power. And there you have it, Mr. Counselor! What the hell! What gives a former noncommissioned office of a defeated army the right to rule a city of a million people, and here I am, within spitting distance of a doctorate, a man with a university education, a Komsomol member, and I don’t have the right to run a science department? What’s wrong here? Do I get worse results than he does? What’s the problem?
This is all garbage—I have the right; I don’t have the right… The right to power belongs to whoever holds the power. Or more precisely, if you like, the right to power is held by whoever exercises power. If you know how to bend people to your will, you have the right to power. And if you don’t—sorry!
And you will go on when I tell you to, you motherfuckers! he thought, addressing the sleeping expedition. And you’ll go on when I tell you to not because I’m desperate to push on into uncharted territory like that bearded baboon; you’ll go on when I tell you to because I order you to go on. And I’ll order you to go on, you sons of bitches, you slobs, you shit-assed soldiers of fortune, not out of any sense of duty to Heiger—perish the thought—but because I have power, and I have to constantly affirm that power—affirm it to you, you dumb assholes, and affirm it to myself. And to Heiger… To you—because otherwise you’ll devour me. To Heiger—because otherwise he’ll sack me, and he’ll be right. And to myself… You know, the kings and all the monarch types used to have this hocus-pocus formula: their power was given to them by God in person; they couldn’t even imagine themselves without power, and neither could their subjects. And even so, they still had to keep their wits about them. But we little people don’t believe in God. No one has anointed us to the throne. We have to take care of ourselves. Fortune favors the brave—that’s the way it is with us. We don’t need any imposters; I’m the one who’s going to command. Not you, not him, not those guys, and not those dames. Me. The army will support me…
What a heap of baloney, he thought, even feeling a bit embarrassed. He turned over onto his other side, pushing his hand in under the pillow, where it was a bit cooler, to make himself more comfortable. His fingers ran into the pistol…
So how do you intend to implement your program of action, Mr. Counselor? You’ll have to shoot! Not just imagine yourself shooting (“Private Hnoipek, step out of the ranks!”), not just engage in mental masturbation, but do it—go ahead and shoot a live human being, a man who might be unarmed, not even suspecting anything, maybe not even guilty when all’s said and done… but to hell with all that! A live human being—shoot him in the stomach, the soft belly, the guts… No, I don’t know how do that, I’ve never done that, and God help me, I can’t even imagine it… Of course, in the skirmish at 340 kilometers, I fired like everyone else, simply out of fright, I didn’t understand anything… But I couldn’t see anyone there, and they were firing at me too, dammit!
OK, he thought. All right, then—so I’m some kind of humanist, and then again, I’m not accustomed to it… But then, what if they won’t go on? I order them to and they answer, you can fuck off, brother, go yourself, if you’ve got an itch up the you-know-where…
Now there’s an idea! he thought. Issue the slobs a small amount of water, allocate them some of the food for the journey back, and let them fix the broken tractor… Off you go, we’ll get by without you. Now, wouldn’t that be great, to just dump all that shit in a single stroke! But then he immediately imagined the colonel’s face if he heard a proposal like that. Mmm, yes, the colonel won’t understand. He’s the wrong breed. He’s precisely one of those… those monarchs. The idea of possible insubordination doesn’t even enter his head. And in any case, he won’t agonize over all these problems… Aristocratic, military blood. It’s fine for him—his father was a colonel, and his grandfather was a colonel, and his great-grandfather was a colonel; just look what an empire they built up, and no doubt they killed plenty of people in the process… So let him shoot them, if need be. After all, they’re his men, and I’ve got no intention of interfering in his business… Dammit, I’m sick of all this. Gutless intelligentsia whining, it’s turned my brains to mush! They must go—and that’s the end of it! I’m carrying out my orders, so you carry out yours, all right? I won’t get any thanks for disobeying, and it won’t be good for your health either, damn and blast you! That’s all. To hell with it. I’d be better off thinking about women than this hogwash. Some philosophy of power this is…
He turned over again, twisting up the sheet under him, and strained to picture Selma in that lilac negligee of hers, bending over in front of the bed and putting down the tray of coffee on the little table… He imagined all the details of how it would be with Selma, then suddenly—without any strain this time—he was in his office, where he found Amalia in the big armchair, with her little skirt rolled right up to her armpits… Then he realized things had gone too far.