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Maxim laid his cheek on the steering wheel. “It would be good to survive this day,” he said. “It would be good to see the evening.” Boar looked at him in alarm. “I really don’t feel like going,” Maxim explained. “Oh, I don’t feel like it at all… By the way, Boar, don’t forget to tell your friends that you don’t live on the inner surface of a sphere. You live on the outer surface of a sphere. And there are many such spheres in existence on which people live far worse than you do, and some on which they live far better. But nowhere do they live more stupidly… You don’t believe me? Well, to hell with you anyway. I’m going.”

He swung open the door and clambered out. He walked across the asphalt surface of the parking lot and started walking up the stone steps, one step at a time, fingering in his pocket the entry pass that the prosecutor had had made for him. It was hot and the sky was shimmering like aluminum—the impenetrable sky of the inhabited island. The stone steps burned his feet through the soles of his shoes, or maybe he was just imagining it.

It was all stupid. The entire undertaking was amateurish. Why the hell should he do all of this when they hadn’t had a chance to properly prepare… What if there are two officers sitting there instead just one? Or even three officers sitting there in that little room, waiting for me with their automatic rifles at the ready? Cornet Chachu shot me with a pistol, the caliber’s the same, only there’ll be more bullets, and I’m not the same man I used to be; it’s really worn me down, this inhabited island of mine. And this time they won’t just let me just creep away… I’m a fool. I always was a fool and I still am. Mr. State Prosecutor snared me, hooked me on his rod… But how could he have trusted me? It doesn’t make any sense… It would be good to slope off and head for the mountains right now, breathe some pure mountain air—I’ve never had a chance to visit the mountains here… And I really love mountains… Such a clever, distrustful man—and he trusted me with such a valuable thing! The greatest treasure of this world. This abominable, repulsive, iniquitous treasure! Curse and confound it, massaraksh, and three more massarakshes, and another thirty-three massarakshes!

He opened the glass door and held out his pass to the guardsman. Then he walked across the vestibule—past the girl in glasses, who was still stamping pieces of paper, past the administrator in the peaked cap, who was bawling somebody out on the phone—and at the entrance to the corridor he showed his internal pass to another guardsman. The guardsman nodded to him—they were already acquainted, you could say: Maxim had come here every day for the last three days.

Onward.

He walked down a long corridor without any doors and turned left. This was only the second time he had been here. The first time had been the day before yesterday, by mistake. (“Where is it that you are actually trying to get to, sir?” “I’m actually trying to get to room number sixteen, Corporal.” “You’ve taken a wrong turn, sir. You need the next corridor.” “Sorry, Corporal, I beg your pardon. Yes, indeed…”)

He handed the corporal his internal pass and squinted at the two beefy guardsmen with automatic rifles standing motionless at each side of the door facing him. Then he glanced at the door that he was about to enter: SPECIAL TRANSPORTATION DIVISION. The corporal carefully examined the pass and then, still examining it, pressed a button in the wall, and a bell rang on the other side of the door. Now he had readied himself, that officer who was sitting in there beside the green curtain. Or two officers had readied themselves. Or maybe even three officers… They’re waiting for me to walk in, and if I panic at the sight of them and dart back out, I’ll be met by the corporal, and the guardsmen guarding the door without a plaque on it, which no doubt has a whole pack of soldiers lurking behind it.

The corporal handed back his pass and said, “Please go through. Have your credentials ready.”

Taking out a piece of pink cardboard, Maxim opened the door and stepped into the room.

Massaraksh. Just as he had feared.

Not one room. Three. An enfilade. And at the end—the green curtain. And a carpet runner stretching from under his feet all the way to the curtain. At least thirty yards.

And not two officers. Not even three. Six.

Two in army gray—in the first room. They had already aimed their automatics.

Two in guardsmen’s black—in the second room. They hadn’t aimed yet, but they were also ready.

Two in civilian clothes—one at each side of the green curtain in the third room. They had their heads turned and were looking off to one side.

Right then, Mak!

He went hurtling forward. It was something like a hop, skip, and jump from a standing start. He just managed to think, I’d better not rupture any tendons. The air firmly struck him in the face.

The green curtain. The civilian on the left was looking off to the side, his neck was exposed. A blow with the edge of the hand.

The civilian on the right was probably blinking. His eyelids were motionless, half-lowered. A blow up across the sinciput—and straight into the elevator.

It was dark in the elevator. Where’s the button? Massaraksh, where’s the button?

An automatic rifle started stuttering slowly and sonorously, and immediately a second one started up. Well now, excellent reactions… . But they’re still firing at the door, at the place where they saw me. They still haven’t realized what happened. It’s merely a reflex response.

The button!

A shadow slowly crept across the curtains, moving diagonally downward—one of the civilians was falling

Massaraksh, there it is—in the most obvious place.

He pressed the button and the cabin started moving downward. It was a high-speed elevator and the cabin crept down quite fast. But then, that wasn’t important now… Massaraksh, I’ve broken through!

The cabin stopped. Maxim darted out and rumbling and clanging immediately erupted in the elevator shaft, and chips of wood started flying. They were firing at the roof of the cabin from above with three barrels. OK, OK, fire away… Now they’ll realize that they don’t need to shoot, they need to get the elevator back up and come down themselves… They missed their chance, got flummoxed.

He looked around. Massaraksh, stymied again. Not one entrance but three. Three absolutely identical tunnels… Ah, but they’re simply duplicate generators. One’s working, the others are on preventive maintenance. Which one of them is working now? I think it’s that one…

He dashed toward the middle tunnel. Behind his back the elevator started growling. Oh, no, too late already… Too slow, you won’t get here in time… although, I must say, this is a long tunnel, and my foot hurts… Now here’s a turn, and now there’s no way you can get me…

He ran up to the generators, rumbling on a deep bass note under a steel slab, stopped, and rested for a few seconds with his arms lowered. Right, three-quarters of the job is already done. Even seven-eighths… What’s left is a mere trifle, no more than a half of one thirty-fourth… now they’ll come down in the elevator and plunge straight into the tunnel, about which they definitely know damn all, and the depressive radiation will drive them back out again… What else can happen? They could fling a gas grenade along the corridor. Not likely—where would they get them from? They’ve probably already raised the alarm.

The Fathers could have switched off the depressive barrier, of course… Oh, they wouldn’t decide to do that, and they won’t have time, because the five of them need to get together, with five keys, come to an agreement, figure out whether this is a stunt by one of them, a provocation… And really, who in the world can break his way in here through the radiation barrier? Wanderer, if he has secretly invented a protective device? He would be detained by the six men with automatics… There isn’t anybody else… All right, while they squabble, look for answers, and try to figure things out, I’ll get the job finished…