“He knows everything,” the state prosecutor told me, fearfully glancing back over his shoulder… But no, not everything—you have outsmarted Wanderer, Mak, you have beaten the devil. And now you have to finish him off before it’s too late, before he has time to bounce back. Or maybe he has already been finished off—right in front of the gates of his own lair… Oh, I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it, the guys aren’t up to that job. Blister had twenty-four relatives with machine guns…
Massaraksh. It’s true that I don’t know how revolutions are made. I didn’t make any preparations for seizing the telegraph office, the telephone exchange, and the bridges right at the very outset, I have hardly any men at all, the rank-and-file underground members don’t know me, Central HQ will be against me… I didn’t even manage to inform General in the penal labor camp to get ready to rouse the political prisoners and shoot them up here on a special train. But no matter what happens there, I have to finish Wanderer off. I have to be able to finish Wanderer off and hold out for a few hours until the army and the Guards are knocked out by radiation deprivation. None of them know about radiation deprivation, do they? Even Wanderer probably doesn’t know—how could he know? After all, in the entire country, Gai is the only one who has ever been removed from the radiation field—by me.
There were lots of cars on the highway, all of them standing in chaotic disarray—across the roadway, at a slant, slumped over into the roadside ditches. The drivers and passengers, crushed by depression, were sitting, dolefully lamenting, on the running boards, helplessly slouching off the seats, and lying around at the edge of the road. All of this was a hindrance; Maxim constantly had to brake, doubling back and driving around blockages, and he didn’t immediately notice that moving toward him from the direction of the city, also doubling back and driving around blockages, was a low, flat, bright yellow government automobile.
They met on a relatively clear section of the highway and shot past each other, almost colliding, and Maxim had time to spot a naked cranium, round green eyes, and immense, protruding ears. He cringed bodily, because suddenly everything had gone down the tubes again… Wanderer! Massaraksh! The entire country is lying around in a state of depression, and that bastard, that devil, has wormed his way out of things again! So he did invent his protective device after all… And I don’t have a gun…
Maxim looked in the mirror: the long yellow car was turning around. Well then, I’ll have to get by without a gun. At least this is something that my conscience won’t torment me about… Maxim stepped on the accelerator. Speed, speed… come on, come on, sweetheart, more… The flat yellow hood was moving closer, growing larger, Maxim could already see the intent green eyes above the steering wheel… Right, Mak!
Maxim splayed out his legs to brace himself, barricaded Boar in place with one arm, and stamped down on the brake with all his strength.
With an ear-shredding howling and squealing of brakes, the yellow hood smashed into Maxim’s trunk, grinding and crunching, crumpling up into a concertina and standing up on end. Glass showered everywhere. Maxim kicked open the door and tumbled out of his car. The pain was terrible—there was pain in his heel, pain in his smashed knee, pain in his skinned arm—but an instant later he forgot about it, because Wanderer was already standing there in front of him. It was impossible, but it was true. A long, lean devil, with his hand menacingly drawn back to strike…
Maxim flung himself at Wanderer, putting everything he had left into that leap. He missed! And then there was a terrible blow to the back of his head… The world tilted over and Maxim almost fell, but he didn’t after all, and then Wanderer was back in front of him again, with his naked cranium, intent green eyes, and hand drawn back to strike… Stop, stop, he’s going to miss… Aha!… What’s he looking at?… Come on, you can’t fool us like that… With his face frozen still, Wanderer was staring over Maxim’s head; Maxim pounced again and this time he hit the target. The long, black man doubled over and slowly collapsed onto the asphalt. Then Maxim looked around.
The gray cube of the Center was clearly visible from here, but it was no longer a cube. It was caving in as he watched, heaving up and collapsing into itself; a trembling haze of sultry air, steam, and smoke was rising up from it, and something blindingly white, hot even at this distance, was peeping out in appalling merriment through the long vertical cracks and the window holes… OK, so everything’s in order there.
Maxim triumphantly turned back to Wanderer. The devil was lying on his side, clutching his stomach in his long arms, and his eyes were closed. Maxim cautiously moved a little bit closer. Boar stuck his head out of the crumpled little car. He wriggled and squirmed around as he tried to clamber out. Maxim stopped beside Wanderer and leaned down, trying to figure out how to strike to instantly finish this. Massaraksh, his damned hand refused to strike at a man on the ground…
And then Wanderer half-opened his eyes and said in a hoarse voice, “Dummkopf! Rotznase!”
Maxim didn’t immediately understand him, and when he did, his legs almost buckled underneath him.
Fool…
Snot-nose…
Fool…
Snot-nose…
Then he heard Boar’s voice speak out of the gray, echoing void, “Just move away, Mak, I’ve got a pistol.”
Without even looking, Maxim grabbed hold of his hand.
Wanderer sat up with a struggle, still clutching his stomach. “Snot-nosed kid…” he hissed, straining to speak. “Don’t just stand there stock-still… go find a car… move it, move it. Don’t just stand there like that, look around!”
Maxim obtusely looked around. The highway was coming to life. There was no more Center, it had been transformed into a puddle of molten metal, into steam and stench, the towers weren’t working any longer, the puppets had ceased to be puppets. As they came to, dumbfounded people were sullenly gazing around, shuffling their feet beside their cars, trying to figure out what had happened to them, how they had ended up here, and what to do next.
“Who are you?” asked Wild Boar.
“None of your business,” Wanderer replied in German. He was in pain, groaning and gasping for breath.
“I don’t understand,” said Boar, raising the barrel of his pistol.
“Kammerer…” Wanderer exclaimed. “Shut your terrorist’s mouth… and go find a car…”
“What car?” Maxim dim-wittedly asked.
“Massaraksh…” Wanderer croaked. He raggedly struggled to his feet, still hunching over and pressing his hand against his stomach, staggered over to Maxim’s little car, and climbed inside.
“Get in… quickly…” he said from behind the steering wheel. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the pillar of smoke illuminated by flames. “What did you plant in there?” he asked in a despairing voice.
“A thermobaric bomb.”
“In the basement or in the vestibule?”
“In the basement,” Maxim said.
Wanderer groaned and sat there for a moment with his head thrown back, then switched on the engine. The car gave a shudder and started rattling. “Get in will you, at last!” he yelled.
“Who are you,” asked Boar. “A Hontian?”
Maxim shook his head, tore open the door that was jammed shut, and told him, “Climb in.”
He himself walked around the car and got in beside Wanderer. The car jerked, and something inside it started squealing and crunching, but it was already rolling down the highway, grotesquely wobbling along, jangling its doors that wouldn’t close properly and loudly backfiring.