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circling
above something unpleasant nearby. It smelled of rot and decay. The
fog in
Rumata's head lifted quickly, the usual penetrating lucidity and
reliability
of all his senses returned. A pleasant taste of mint seemed to linger
on his
tongue. The fingers of his right hand hurt badly. Rumata lifted
his right
fist, all cramped up, to his eyes. The skin around his wrist was
chafed. He
opened his fist and found that he had still been grasping an empty
vial of
Casparamid, the potent medication against alcohol poisoning
that was
standard equipment --just as a precautionary measure--for all
Terranian
emissaries sent by the various institutes to extraterrestrial
planets.
Apparently he had followed some blind instinct and poured the whole
contents
of the vial into his mouth before he had sunk completely
into brute
unconsciousness here on this large empty lot.
The neighborhood seemed familiar. The charred skeleton
of the
observatory tower jutted skywards and to the left of the burnt-out
ruin, the
watchtowers of the royal palace, thin as minarets, pierced the pale
light of
the dawn. Rumata breathed in deeply the cold, humid air, then set
out for
home.
Baron Pampa had had a wonderful night, exactly the kind he
liked.
Accompanied by a little band of moneyless dons who were easily
inclined to
lose their dignity, he set out on a gigantic roving expedition
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
through the
cheap saloons of Arkanar, where he downed unbelievable
quantities of
alcohol, accomplished amazing feats of gluttony, and became
involved in no
less than eight brawls. At least this was the number of times that
Rumata
could clearly recall having intervened to separate the belligerents
in order
to prevent the worst from happening. The rest had vanished in a
haze. Only
occasionally the fog would lift and animallike, grimacing faces,
knives held
in their teeth, would emerge, then again the bewildered, bitter face
of the
last of the moneyless dons, whom Don Pampa tried to sell as a slave
down in
the harbor area, then again an Irukanian with a bulbous nose and
mean eyes,
who, boiling with rage, demanded from the noble dons the return
of his
horse.
In the beginning Don Rumata still remained a spy. He did not
drink any
less than the baron: Irukanian, Estorian, Soanian, and Arkanarian
wine; but
every time he changed the brand of wine he secretly popped a
vial of
Casparamid into his mouth. He retained his discerning power of
judgment and
noticed that the Gray Patrols were stationing themselves in far
larger
numbers than usual at intersections and bridges; then there was a
sentry
post of barbarians on horseback somewhere on the Soanian cross-
country road,
who would probably have shot the baron if Don Rumata had not
understood and
mastered their dialect. He remembered clearly the thought that
flashed
through his mind at the motionless rows of strange soldiers in
long, black
cloaks with hoods, who had taken up position in front of the
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
Patriotic
School:
But isn't that the guard of the monks? What business does the
church
have in this place? he had wondered. Since when does the church
mix in
secular affairs here in Arkanar? Only very gradually did he get
inebriated,
but then, all at once, he was overcome by deep intoxication. In a
fleeting
moment of lucidity he noticed a totally wrecked table in some
unfamiliar
room, saw his own hand brandishing a sword and the pitiful,
imploring
figures of the impoverished dons around him. He almost thought it
was time
to go home; but by then it was already too late. He was seized by a
wave of
mad rage and by a disgusting, irresistible joy to be able for once
to throw
off all traces of humaneness. Nevertheless, he had still
remained a
Terranian and an emissary of the institute back on Earth, a
descendant of
man, the masters over fire and iron, who will neither spare
themselves nor
stop before anything if it is in the cause of a great goal to be
achieved.
He could not remain Rumata of Estoria, flesh from the flesh of
twenty
generations of his warrior ancestors, who were famed for their
robbing and
drunkenness. But neither was he a communard, a comrade any longer.
He no
longer felt any obligation to the great Experiment. He was only
concerned
now with obligations toward his own person. And he was no more
beset by
doubts. Everything seemed clear now, absolutely clear. He now knew
exactly
who was to blame for everything and he knew exactly what he wanted to
do: to
lash out blindly, to hurl down into the fire, down from the steps
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
of the
palace, down onto the spears and pitchforks of the raging mob . . .
Rumata gave a sudden start; he unsheathed his swords. There
were nicks
on the blades that were otherwise blank. He remembered vaguely having
fought
with someone. But with whom? And how had it ended?
They had boozed away their horses. The impoverished dons had
vanished
somehow. Rumata had dragged the baron home--this he could recall,
too. Pampa
Don Bau was enterprising, apparently completely sober and good and
ready to
continue with this most entertaining evening--only he could not stand
on his
legs any longer. Besides, he believed for some obscure reason that
he had
just taken leave of his beloved baroness and that he was now on a
campaign
against his arch enemy, Baron Kaska, who had already had the
audacity to
commit the most outrageous feats ("Will you judge for yourself,
my dear
friend, this scoundrel brought forth from his hip a six-fingered
boy and
named him Pampa...").
"The sun is about to set," he declared as he regarded a
gobelin
representing a sunrise. "We could drink all night through, noble
dons, but
we need some sleep before the battle. And not a drop of wine
during the
battle! Besides, the baroness would not care for it."
"What? A bed? Beds on a battlefield? Our bed is our saddled
steed."
With these words he tore the gobelin off the wall, wrapped it
around his
entire body and stumbled noisily over to the comer under the big
chandelier.
Rumata ordered the boy Uno to place a tub with pickled cucumbers
and a tub
with sauerkraut beside the baron. The boy's face was sleepy and very
angry.
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
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