Arkady & Boris Strugatsky - Monday begins on Saturday

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Arkadi and Boris Strugatsky. Monday begins on Saturday

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Origin: "Ponedelnik nachinaetsya v subbotu"

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BY WAY OF AN INTRODUCTION...

There is probably hardly a Russian alive who could not at the drop of a

hat recite the opening lines from Pushkin's "Ruslan and Ludmilla," which set

the mood of that fairy tale. They tell of Lukomoriye, the bight in the sea,

where a verdant and mighty oak makes a home for a mermaid dwelling in its

branches and a prison for a learned cat chained to its trunk. A cat who goes

round and round on its golden links, singing on his clockwise journey, and

telling tales when unwinding to the left.

There, in that enchanted land, are miracles and wonders, and unseen

beasts wandering by unknown paths in the shadowy woods.

There stands the house on hen's legs, without doors or windows, and

grove and dale are full of visions strange.

There, at dawn, thirty heroes radiant exit from the briny waves, led by

their sea monarch. There, the youthful prince takes the stern king prisoner

in passing, and in the clouds, the magician is bearing off the mighty

warrior.

There the princess languishes in durance with her faithful wolf; there

Baba Yaga rides by in her mortar and Czar Koschei wastes away in

contemplation of his golden hoards. There, in sum, are collected all the

wonders of Russian folklore.

The Strugatskis, also, make use of this common cultural background to

set the stage for their tale at the outset and to prepare the reader for the

wonders of hybrid magi-science. But be not deceived-- behind the Daliesque

landscapes, just as in his case, there underlie superb craftsmanship and an

unyielding adherence to the rules of objective reason.

-- Leonid Renen

Translator

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MONDAY BEGINS ON SATURDAY by Arkadi & Boris Strugatski

Translated by Leonid Renen

DAW BOOKS, INC. DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, PUBLISHER

1301 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N. Y. 10019

by DAW Books, INC.

Cover art by Bob Pepper.

Originally published in Russian by the Young Guard

Publishing House, Moscow, 1966.

Translation by Leonid Renen.

FIRST PRINTING, NOVEMBER 1977 PRINTED IN U.S.A.

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"But what is the strangest, the most incomprehensible of all, is the

fact that authors can undertake such themes-- I confess this is altogether

beyond me, really... No, no, I don't understand it at all."

N.V. Gogol

* THE FIRST TALE. Run Around a Sofa *

Chapter 1

Teacher: Children, write down the proposition:

"The fish was sitting in a tree."

Pupil: But is it true that fish sit in trees?

Teacher: Well . . . it was a crazy fish.

School Joke

I was approaching my destination. All around, pressing up against the

very edge of the road, the green of the forest yielded now and then to a

meadow overgrown with yellow sedge. The sun had been setting for an hour and

still couldn't make it, hanging low on the horizon. The car rolled along,

crunching on a gravel surface. I steered around the bigger rocks, and each

maneuver caused the empty canisters to rattle and clang in the trunk.

A couple of men came out of the woods on the right and stopped on the

shoulder, looking in my direction. One of them raised his hand. I took my

foot off the gas, scrutinizing the pair. They seemed to be hunters, young,

and maybe a bit older than myself. Deciding I liked their looks, I stopped.

The one who had raised his hand stuck his swarthy, hawk-nosed face

through the window and asked, grinning, "Could you give us a lift to

Solovetz ?"

The second man, with a reddish beard and without a moustache, peering

over his shoulder, was also smiling. These were positively nice people.

"Sure thing. Get in," I said. "One in the front and one in the back,

‘cause I have some junk on the rear seat."

"A true philanthropist," pronounced the hawk-nosed one joyfully as he

slid the gun off his shoulder and sat down next to me.

The bearded one was looking through the rear door in a quandary of

indecision and said, "Eh, could you maybe move it a little?"

I leaned over the back of the seat and helped him clean off a space

occupied by a sleeping bag and a rolled-up tent. He sat down gingerly,

placing his gun between his knees.

"Shut the door tighter," I said.

Everything was going along normally. The car started off. The

hawk-nosed one turned around and started an animated discourse about how

much nicer it was to be riding in a passenger car than to be traveling on

foot. The bearded one mumbled assent and kept slamming the door. "Pick up

the poncho," I counseled, looking at him through the rear-view mirror.

"You're pinching it in the door." After five minutes everything finally

settled down. I asked, "Is it some ten kilometers to Solovetz?"

"Right" answered Hawk-nose, "or a little more. Though, in truth, the

road isn't very good, made mostly for trucks."

"The road is quite decent," I contradicted. "I was promised I couldn't

get through at all."

"On this road you can get through even in the fall."

"Here, maybe but from Korobetz on it's just a plain dirt road."

"It's a dry summer this year; everything is dried out from the

drought."

"Over by Zatonyie there have been some rains, they say," noted the

bearded one on the rear seat

"Who said?" asked Hawk-nose.

"Merlin said."

For some reason they both laughed. I fished out my cigarettes, lighted

up, and passed them around.

"Clara Tsetkin brand," said Hawk-nose, studying the pack. "Are you from

Leningrad?"

"Yes."

"Touring?"

"Touring," I said. "And you-- are you from around here?"

"Native," said Hawk-nose.

"Me, I am from Murmansk," offered the bearded one.

"For Leningrad it must be all the same-- North, whether it's Murmansk

or Solovetz," said Hawk-nose.

"Well, not really," I said politely.

"Are you going to stop over in Solovetz?" asked Hawk-nose.

"Of course," I said. "It's Solovetz I am going to."

"You have friends or relatives there?"

"No," I said, "just going to wait up for some friends. They are taking

the shore route and Solovetz is our rendezvous point"

I saw a heap of gravel piled up ahead, braked, and said, "Hang on

tight" The car bounced and pitched. Hawk-nose banged his nose on the gun

barrel. The engine roared, rocks flew up against the undercarriage.

"Poor old car," said Hawk-nose.

"Can't be helped," I said.

"It's not everyone who would drive on a road like this with his own

car."

"I would," I said. The freshly graveled section came to an end.

"Oh, so it's not your own car," guessed Hawk-nose with some tone of

disappointment, it seemed to me. I felt piqued.

"And what sense would there be in buying a car so you could drive on

pavement? Where there is pavement there is nothing of interest and where

it's interesting-- there's no pavement."

"Yes, of course," Hawk-nose commented diplomatically.

"It's dumb to make an idol out of a car," I asserted.

"So it is," said the bearded one. "But not everyone thinks so."

We started talking cars and came to the conclusion that if you were

going to buy anything at all, a GAZ-69 would be best, but unfortunately they

were not for sale to the public. Later Hawk-nose asked, "So, where do you

work?"

I answered, "Colossal!"

Exclaimed Hawk-nose, "A programmer! That's exactly what we are looking

for. Listen. Quit your institute and join up with us!"

"And what do you have to offer?"

"What do we have?" asked Hawk-nose, turning around.

"Aldan-three," said The Beard.

"A well-endowed machine," I said. "Has it been running well?"

"Well, how shall I say..

"I get it," I said.

"As a matter of fact, it hasn't been debugged yet," said The Beard.

"Stay here with us and fix it up."

"We'll arrange your transfer before you can count to two," added

Hawk-nose.

"What are you working on?" I asked.

"As with all science-- the happiness of man."

"Understood," I said. "Something to do with space?"

"That too," said Hawk-nose.

"Well, you know what they say-- let well enough alone," said I.

"Big city and good pay," said The Beard in a low voice, but I heard

him.

"Don't," I said, "don't judge it in terms of money."

"No, really, I was just kidding," said The Beard. "It's his idea of a

joke," said Hawk-nose. "You couldn't find more interesting work anywhere

else than with us."

"Why do you think so?"

"I am positive."

"But I am not convinced."

Hawk-nose chuckled. "We'll talk about that some more," he said. "Are

you going to stay long in Solovetz?"

"Two days maximum."

"So we'll talk on day two."

The Beard announced: "Personally, I see the hand of fate in this. There

we were walking through the woods and we meet a programmer. I sense that we

are committed."

"You really need a programmer that badly?" I asked.

"Our need is dire indeed."

"I'll talk to the fellows," I promised. "I know some who are unhappy."

"We don't need just any programmer," said Hawk-nose. "Programmers are

in short supply, and are spoiled, but we don't need a prima donna."

"That's more complicated," I said.

Hawk-nose started counting his fingers. "We need a programmer who: a--

is not spoiled; b-- is a volunteer; c-- is willing to live in a dorm-- "

"D," picked up The Beard, "will take one hundred and twenty rubles."

"And how about wings?" I asked. "Or, say, a halo around the head? You

are searching for one in a thousand!"

"But all we need is just that one," said Hawk-nose.

"But what if there's only nine hundred?"

"We'll settle for nine-tenths."

The forest fell away on either side; we crossed a bridge and ran along

between potato fields.

"Nine o'clock," said Hawk-nose. "Where are you planning to spend the

night?"

"I'll sleep in the car. How late are the stores open?"

"The stores are already closed," said Hawk-nose. "You could stay in the

dorm," said The Beard. "I have an extra bunk bed in my room."

"You can't park near the dorm," Hawk-nose said dreamily.

"Yeah, I guess so," said The Beard, chuckling for some private reason.

"We can park the car over by the police," said Hawk-nose.

"That's a lot of folderol," said The Beard. "Here I am prattling

nonsense, and you trail right along. How's he going to get in the dorm?"

"Right, right, damn it," said Hawk-nose. "Quite so; can't get through a

workday without forgetting one of these sidelights."

"How about transvecting him?"

"That's a no-no," said Hawk-nose. "You are not dealing with a sofa, you

know. And you are no Cristobal Junta, and neither am I..."

"Don't worry yourselves," I said. "It's not the first time I slept in

the car."

Suddenly I felt a terrible yen to sleep between sheets. It had been

four nights that I had been sleeping in a bag.

"I've got it," said Hawk-nose. "Ho-ho-- -- Iznakurnozh !"*

"Right!" exclaimed The Beard. "Over to Lukomoniye with him!"

____________________________________________________________________________

* lzba na kuryikh nozhkakh: Log cottage on hen's legs, of Russian

folklore.

"Honest to God, I can sleep over in the car," I said.

"You are going to sleep in a house," said Hawk-nose, "on relatively

clean sheets. There must be some way we can repay you...."

"You wouldn't want us to push a ruble on you, would you?" said The

Beard.

We entered the town. Ancient stout fences, mighty log houses with

blackened timbers and narrowish windows, decorated with filigreed fronts and

the regulation carved wooden cockerels on the roofs, stretched on both sides

of the street. Here and there a dirty brick structure with iron doors evoked

the half-known word for grain stone. The street was wide and straight and

bore the name of Peace Prospect. Up ahead, toward the center of town, I

could make out some two-story town houses with interspersed open squares.

"Turn right at the next alley," said Hawk-nose.

I switched on the turn signal, braked, and turned right. Here the road

was overgrown with grass, but a brand-new car manufactured in the Ukraine

was snuggled up against one of the gates. House numbers were hung over the

posterns, and the numerals were almost invisible against the rusty tinplate.

The alley was modishly titled Lukomoriye Street.* It was rather narrow and

squeezed between sturdy palisades that must have been erected in those times

when Swedish and Norwegian pirates raided the lands.

"Halt," said Hawk-nose. I braked, and he bumped his nose on the gun

barrel again. "Now, then," he said, massaging his nose. "You wait for me

here and I will go to arrange everything."

"Really, you shouldn't," I said, for the last time.

"No more arguments. Volodia, keep him in your sights."

Hawk-nose climbed out of the car, and, bending down, squeezed through

the low gate. The house was invisible behind the towering gray stockade. The

postern was altogether remarkable, big enough for a locomotive depot, hung

on rusty hinges that must have weighed a stone apiece.

____________________________________________________________________________

* A magical place in Russian literature.

I read the signs with growing astonishment. There were three. On the

left wing, coldly gleaming with thick glass, there was an imposing blue sign

with silver letters:

SRITS Izba on Hen's Legs Monument of Solovetz

Antiquity

On the right wing hung a rusty sheet-metal tablet reading, Lukomoriye

St., No. 13, N.K. Gorynitch,* while under it, in shameless splendor, a piece

of plywood bore in inked letters leaning every which way:

CAT OUT OF ORDER

Administration

______________________________________________________________________________

* Reference to Zmei Gorynitch, a fire-breathing dragon of Russian

folklore.

"What CAT?" I asked. "Committee for Advanced Technology?"

The bearded one tittered. "Main thing is-- don't worry about it," he

said. "It's quite amusing here with us, but everything will be quite under

control."

I got out of the car and proceeded to wipe the windshield. Something

suddenly scuffled overhead. I took a look. Settling in and propping himself

comfortably on the gate was a gray-and-white tomcat of gigantic proportions

such as I had never seen before. Having settled himself to his satisfaction,

he bestowed me with a sated and indifferent gaze out of his yellow eyes.

"Kiss-kiss-kiss," I said mechanically. The cat politely but coldly opened

his huge and toothy jaws, delivered a dull throaty growl, and turned away to

look inside the yard. The voice of Hawk-nose issued thence:

"Basil, old friend, may I be permitted to disturb you?"

The bolt squealed. The cat got up and noiselessly dived into the yard.

The gates swayed heavily, there was an awful cracking and screeching, and

the left wing of the gate slowly swung open, followed by Hawk-nose's

straining and reddened face.

"Philanthropist!" he called. "Drive in!"

I got back in the car and slowly drove into the yard. The yard was

quite extensive. In its depths stood a house constructed of huge logs, and

in front of it a squat giant of an oak with a thick, wide, and heavy crown,

which screened the roof from view. A path paved with flagstones led from the

gate to the house, curving around the oak. To the right there was a

vegetable garden, and to the left, in the middle of the lawn, reared a

well-house with windlass, blackened by time and covered with moss.

I parked the car off to the side, turned off the engine, and got out.

The bearded Volodia also climbed out, leaned the gun against the body

of the car, and started to shrug on his rucksack.

"Here you are, all settled," he said.

Hawk-nose was closing the gates with groanings and squealings for

accompaniment while I, feeling a bit out of place, was looking about, not

quite knowing what to do with myself.

"Ah, and here's the landlady!" cried The Beard. "And how be ye,

Granny-, Naina, light of my eyes, Kievna!

The landlady must have been well on the other side of a hundred. She

came toward us slowly, leaning on a knobby cane, dragging her feet clad in

felt boots with galoshes over them. Her face was a dark sepia web of

wrinkles, out of which jutted a nose as sharp and curved as a yatagan. and

her eyes peered pale and dim, as though obscured by cataracts.

"Greetings, greetings, my young one," she pronounced in an unexpectedly

resonant basso. "So this will be the new programmer? Hello, friend, welcome,

and make yourself at home!"

I bowed, feeling well advised to keep quiet. Over the black kerchief

tied under her chin, the old hag's head was covered with a nylon scarf,

which was gaily decorated with a picture of the Atomium and bearing the same

inscription in several languages: Brussels World Fair. Sparse bristles stuck

out under her nose and on her chin. She was dressed in black broadcloth and

a quilted vest

"Here's the situation, Naina Kievna," said Hawk-nose, wiping rust from

his palms. "We have to put up our new colleague for two nights. May I

present.. - Mmm..

"Don't bother," said the crone, riveting me with her gaze. "I can see

for myself. Privalov, Alexander Ivanovich, 1938, male, Russian, member of

VLKSM, no, no, has not participated, had not, was not, but will have, my

crystal one, a long, long road and an interest in a government house, and

what you should fear and avoid, my very diamond, is an ill-willed redheaded

man, and won't you gild my palm, my precious. . .

"Ha-hm!" Hawk-nose pronounced loudly, and the crone stopped short.

"Just call me Sasha. . . ." I squeezed out the previously prepared

phrase.

"And where shall I put him?" inquired the crone.

"In the spare room, of course," said Hawk-nose in a somewhat irritated

manner.

"And who will be responsible?"

"Naina Kievna!" roared Hawk-nose in the best rolling tones of a

provincial tragedian. He grabbed the old hag under the arm and dragged her

off toward the house. You could hear them arguing.

"But we agreed!"

"And what if he swipes something?"

"Can't you be quiet! He is a programmer, don't you understand? A

Comsomol! Well educated!"

"And what if he starts sucking his teeth?"

I turned toward Volodia, ill at ease. Volodia tittered.

"It's a bit embarrassing," I said.

"Don't worry; it's going to work out just fine . . ." He was going to

say something else, when the crone started shouting: "And the sofa-- how

about the sofa?"

I started nervously and said, "You know what? I think I'd better go,

no?

"Let's have no more of that kind of talk," Volodia said decisively.

"Everything will be worked out. It's just that the old woman is looking to

have her due, and Roman and I don't have any cash."

"I will pay," I said. Now I wanted to leave very badly. I can't stand

these so-called daily-life collisions.

Volodia shook his head. "Nothing of the sort. Here he comes.

Everything's in order."

The hawk-nosed Roman came up to us, took me by the arm, and said,

"Well, it's all fixed. Let's go."

"Listen. It doesn't feel right, somehow," I said. "After all, she is

not obliged..

But we were already on the way to the house.

"She is obliged-- she is obliged," repeated Roman.

Having circumnavigated the oak, we came up to the rear entrance. Roman

pushed on the naugahyde-covered door, and we found ourselves in a large,

clean but poorly lighted entryway. The old hag waited for us with compressed

lips, and hands folded on her stomach.

At the sight of us, she boomed out vindictively, "And the statement--

let's have that statement now! Stating thus and so: have received such and

such, from such and such; which person has turned over the above-mentioned

to the undersigned. . .

Roman yelped weakly, and we entered the assigned room. It was cool,

with a single window hung with a calico curtain.

Roman said in a tense voice, "Make yourself at home."

The old woman immediately inquired from the entry in a jealous tone,

"And he won't be sucking his teeth?"

Roman barked without turning around, "No, he won't! I'm telling you

there are no teeth to worry over."

"Then let's go and write up the statement."

Roman raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes, shook his head, but still

left the room. I looked around. There wasn't much furniture. A massive table

covered with a sere gray cloth with a fringe stood by the window, and in

front of it-- a rickety stool. A vast sofa was placed against a bare wood

wall, and a wardrobe stood against the other wall, which was decorated with

assorted wallpaper. The wardrobe was stuffed with old trash (felt boots,

bald fur coats, torn caps, and earmuffs) - A large Russian stove jutted into

the room resplendent with fresh calcimine, and a large murky mirror in a

peeling frame hung in the opposite corner. The floor was scoured clean and

covered with striped runners.

Two voices boomed on in a duet behind the wall: the old woman's voice

buzzed on the same note; Roman's went up and down.

"Tablecloth, inventory number two hundred and forty-five.. .

"Are you going to list each floorboard?"

"Table, dining...

"Put down the stove, too."

"You must be orderly.... Sofa. ..

I went up to the window and drew the curtain. Outside was the oak, and

nothing else could be seen. Quite evidently it was a truly ancient tree. Its

bark was gray and somehow dead looking, and its monstrous roots, which had

worked out of the ground, were covered with red-and-white lichen. "Put down

the oak, too!" said Roman behind the wall. A fat, greasy book lay on the

windowsill. I ruffled it absentmindedly, came away from the window, and sat

down on the sofa. All at once, I felt sleepy. Remembering that I had driven

the car for fourteen hours that day, I decided that perhaps there was no

point in all this rush, that my back ached, that everything was jumbled in

my head, that I didn't give a hang about the tiresome hag, and that I wished

everything would get settled so I could lie down and go to sleep....

"There you are," said Roman, appearing in the doorway. "The formalities

are over." He waved his hands, fanning ink-stained fingers. "Our digits are

fatigued; we wrote and wrote. . . . Go to bed. We are leaving, and you can

rest easy. What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Wait," I said, listless.

"Where?"

"Here, and at the post office."

"You'll not leave tomorrow . .. chances are?"

"Probably not. Most likely-- the day after tomorrow."

"Then we'll see you again. Our liaison is still ahead of us." He smiled

and went out with a wave of his hand. I should see him out and say good-bye

to Volodia, I thought lackadaisically, and lay down. And there was the old

woman in the room again. I got up. She looked hard at me for some time.

"I fear me, old fellow, that you'll be smacking through your teeth,"

she said.

"No I won't be," I said. Then, exhausted, "It's sleeping I'll be."

"Then lie down and sleep. . . . Just pay me and welcome to snooze."

I reached for my wallet in the back pocket. "What do I owe you?"

The crone raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Let's say a ruble for the

quarters. . . Fifty kopecks for the bed-clothes-- that's my own, not G.I.

For two nights, that comes out to be three rubles. . . . As to what you'll

throw in for generosity's sake-- that's for my troubles, you know-- that I

couldn't say...

I proffered her a five-ruble note.

"Make it a ruble out of generosity for now," said I, "and then we'll

see."

The crone snatched the money and retired, muttering something about

change. She was absent a fair time and I was about to forget the change and

the bed-sheets, but she came back and laid a handful of dirty coppers on the

table.

"And here's your change, governor," she said. "One nice ruble, exactly;

you needn't count."

"I won't count," I said. "How about the sheets?"

"I'll make your bed right away. You go take a walk in the yard, and

I'll get right to it."

I went out, extricating my pack of cigarettes. The sun had finally set

and the white night had arrived. Dogs were barking somewhere in the

distance. I sat down by the oak on a garden bench that had sunk into the

ground, lighted up, and stared at the pale, starless sky. The cat appeared

noiselessly out of somewhere, glanced at me with his fluorescent eyes, and

then rapidly climbed up the oak and disappeared in its foliage. I forgot

about him at once, and started when he began pottering above me. Some sort

of rubbish fell on my head. "You darned . . ." I said aloud, and shook

myself. The desire to sleep became overwhelming. The crone came out, and

wended her way to the well, not seeing me. I took this to mean that the bed

was ready, and went back to the room.

The perverse crone had made my bed on the floor. Oh no you don't, I

thought, slid the bolt on the door, dragged the bedding over onto the sofa,

and began to undress. The somber light fell through the window; the cat was

thrashing about noisily in the oak. I shook my head, to dislodge the rubbish

from my hair. It was strange and unexpected rubbish: largish dry fish

scales. Prickly to sleep on, I thought. I fell on the pillow and was

immediately asleep.

Chapter 2

... The deserted house became the lair of foxes and badgers, and

that is why weird spirits and shape-shifters can now appear here.

A. Weda

I woke up in the middle of the night because a conversation was going

on in the room. Two voices were talking in a barely audible whisper. They

were very similar, but one was a bit stifled and hoarse and the other

betrayed an extreme irritation.

"Stop wheezing," whispered the irritated one. "Can't you do without

it?"

"I can," responded the stifled one, and began to hack.

"Be quiet!" hissed the irritated voice.

"It's the wheezes," explained the stifled one. "The morning cough of

the smoker... ." He started hacking again.

"Get out of here," said the irritated one.

"He is asleep, in any case..."

"Who is he? Where did he come from?"

"How should I know?"

"What a disgusting development . . . such phenomenal bad luck."

Again the neighbors can't get to sleep, I thought, half awake. I

imagined I was at home. I have these neighbors there, two brother

physicists, who adore working through the night. Toward two A.M. they run

out of cigarettes and then they invade my room and start feeling about for

them, banging the furniture and cursing at each other.

I grabbed the pillow and flung it at random. Something fell with a

crash, and then silence ensued.

"You can return my pillow," I said, "and welcome to leave. The

cigarettes are on the table."

The sound of my own voice awakened me completely. I sat up. Somewhere

dogs were barking despondently; behind the wall the old woman snored

menacingly. At last I remembered where I was. There was nobody in the room.

In the dim light I saw the pillow on the floor and the trash that had

fallen from the wardrobe. The old crone will have my head, I thought,

jumping up. The floor was icy and I stepped over on the runners. The snoring

stopped. I froze. The floorboards creaked; something crackled and rustled in

the corners. The crone gave a deafening whistle and continued her snoring. I

picked up the pillow and threw it on the sofa. The trash smelled of dog. The

hanger rod had fallen off its support on one side. I re-hung it and began

picking up the old trash. No sooner had I hung up the last coat, than the

pole came away again and, sliding along the wallpaper, hung by one nail

again. The crone stopped snoring and I turned cold with sweat. Somewhere,

nearby, a cock crowed loudly. To the soup pot with you, I thought

venomously. The crone behind the wall set to turning, the bedspring snapping

and creaking. I waited, standing on one foot

Someone in the yard said softly, "Time for bed; we have sat up too long

today." The voice was youthful and female.

"So be it, it's off to sleep," responded the other voice. There was a

protracted yawn.

"No more splashing for you today?"

"It's too cold. Let's go bye-bye."

All was quiet. The old hag growled and muttered, and I returned

cautiously to the sofa. I'll get up early in the morning and fix everything

up properly.

I turned on my right side, pulled the blanket over my ear, and it

suddenly became crystal clear to me that I wasn't at all sleepy-- that I was

hungry. Oh-oh, I thought. Severe measures had to be taken at once, and I

took them.

Consider, for instance, a system of integral equations of the type

commonly found in star statistics: both unknowns are functions to be

integrated. Naturally the only solutions possible are by successive

numerical approximations and only with computers such as the RECM. I

recalled our RECM. The main control panel is painted the color of boiled

cream. Gene is laying a package on the panel and is opening it unhurriedly.

"What have you got?"

"Mine is with cheese and sausage." Polish, lightly smoked, in round

slices.

"Poor you, it's married you should be. I have cutlets, with garlic,

home-made. And a dill pickle."

No, there are two dill pickles . . . . Four cutlets, and to make things

even, four pickles. And four pieces of buttered bread.

I threw off the blanket and sat up. Maybe there was something left in

the car? No-- I had already cleaned out everything there was. The only

remaining item was the cookbook that I had got for Valya's mother, who lived

in Liezhnev.

Let's see, how does it go? Sauce piquant . . . half a glass of vinegar,

two onions, and a pinch of pepper. Served with meat dishes. . . . I can see

it now with miniature steaks. What a rotten trick, I thought, not just any

old steaks, but miniature ones. I jumped up and ran to the window. The night

air was distinctly laden with the odor of miniature beefsteaks. Out of some

nether depths of my subconscious this floated up: "Such dishes were usually

served him in the taverns as: marinated vegetable soup, brains with fresh

peas, pickles [I swallowed], and the perpetual layer cake..." I must

distract myself, I thought, and took the book on the windowsill. It was The

Gloomy Morning by Alexis Tolstoi. I opened it at random.

"Makhno, having broken the sardine can opener, pulled out a

mother-of-pearl knife with half a hundred blades, and continued to operate

with it, opening tins with pineapple [Now I've had it, I thought], French

pâté, with lobsters, which filled the room with a pungent smell."

Gingerly I put down the book and sat down on the stool by the table. At

once a strong, appetizing odor permeated the room: it must have been the

odor of lobsters. I began to ponder why I had never tried a lobster before,

or, say, oysters. With Dickens, everybody eats oysters; working with folding

knives, they cut huge slabs of bread, spread them thickly with butter. . . .

I began to smooth the tablecloth with nervous movements. On it, latent food

stains appeared clearly visible. Much and tasty eating has been done on it,

I thought. Probably lobsters and brains with peas. Or miniature steaks with

sauce piquant. Also large and medium-sized steaks. People must have sighed,

replete with food, and sucked their teeth in huge satisfaction. There was no

cause for sighing and so I took to sucking my teeth.

I must have been doing it loudly and ravenously because the old woman

behind the wall creaked her bed, muttered angrily, rattled something

noisily, and suddenly entered my room. She had on a long gray nightshirt,

and she was carrying a plate, so that a genuine and not an imaginary odor of

food spread through the room. She was smiling, and set the plate directly in

front of me and rumbled sweetly, "Dig in, dear friend Alexander Petrovitch.

Help yourself to what God has sent, by his unworthy messenger....

"Really now, really, Naina Kievna," I was stammering, you shouldn't let

Arkady & Boris Strugatsky - Monday begins on Saturday

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