Arkady & Boris Strugatsky - The Final Circle Of Paradise

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Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. The Final Circle of Paradise

Published by D.A.W. Books, Inc; November 1976.

"Hishnye veshi veka" (in Russian)

"Tidselderns rovgiriga ting" (in Sweeden)

("Hischnye Veschi Veka", "Century's Ravenous Pleasures")

There is but one problem --

the only one in the world --

to restore to men a spiritual

content, spiritual concerns....

-- A de St. Exupery

Chapter ONE

The customs inspector had a round smooth face which

registered the most benevolent of attitudes. He was

respectfully cordial and solicitous.

"Welcome," he murmured. "How do you like our sunshine?" He

glanced at the passport in my hand. "Beautiful morning, isn't

it?"

I proffered him my passport and stood the suitcase on the

white counter. The inspector rapidly leafed through it with his

long careful fingers. He was dressed in a white uniform with

silver buttons and silver braid on the shoulders. He laid the

passport aside and touched the suitcase with the tips of his

fingers.

"Curious," he said. "The case has not yet dried. It is

difficult to imagine that somewhere the weather can be bad."

"Yes," I said with a sigh, "we are already well into the

autumn," and opened the suitcase.

The inspector smiled sympathetically and glanced at it

absent-mindedly. "It's impossible amid our sunshine to

visualize an autumn. Thank you, that will be quite all

right.... Rain, wet roofs, wind...

"And what if I have something hidden under the linen?" I

asked -- I don't appreciate conversations about the weather. He

laughed heartily.

"Just an empty formality," he said. "Tradition. A

conditioned reflex of all customs inspectors, if you will." He

handed me a sheet of heavy paper. "And here is another

conditioned reflex. Please read it -- it's rather unusual. And

sign it if you don't mind."

I read. It was a law concerning immigration, printed in

elegant type on heavy paper and in four languages. Immigration

was absolutely forbidden. The customs man regarded me steadily.

"Curious, isn't it?" he asked.

"In any case it's intriguing," I replied, drawing my

fountain pen. "Where do I sign?"

"Where and how you please," said the customs man. "Just

across will do."

I signed under the Russian text over the line "I have been

informed on the immigration laws."

'Thank you," said the customs man, filing the paper away

in his desk, 'Now you know practically all our laws. And during

your entire stay -- How long will you be staying with us?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"It's difficult to say in advance. Depends on how the work

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will go."

"Shall we say a month?"

'That would be about it. Let's say a month."

"And during this whole month," he bent over the passport

making some notation, "during this entire month you won't need

any other laws." He handed me my passport. "I shouldn't even

have to mention that you can prolong your stay with us to any

reasonable extent. But in the meantime, let it be thirty days.

If you find it desirable to stay longer, visit the police

station on the 16th of May and pay one dollar... You have

dollars?"

"Yes."

"That's fine. By the way, it is not at all necessary to

have exclusively a dollar. We accept any currency. Rubles,

pounds, cruzeiros."

"I don't have cruzeiros," I said. 'I have only dollars,

rubles, and some English pounds. Will that suit you?"

"Undoubtedly. By the way, so as not to forget, would you

please deposit ninety dollars and seventy-two cents."

"With pleasure," I said, "but why?"

"It's customary. To guarantee the minimum needs. We have

never had anyone with us who did not have some needs."

I counted out ninety-one dollars, and without sitting

down, he proceeded to write out a receipt. His neck grew red

from the awkward position. I looked around. The white counter

stretched along the entire pavilion. On the other side of the

barrier, customs inspectors in white smiled cordially, laughed,

explained things in a confidential manner. On this side,

brightly clad tourists shuffled impatiently, snapped suitcase

locks, and gaped excitedly. While they waited they feverishly

thumbed through advertising brochures, loudly devised all kinds

of plans, secretly and openly anticipated happy days ahead, and

now thirsted to surmount the white counter as quickly as

possible. Sedate London clerks and their athletic-looking

brides, pushy Oklahoma farmers in bright shirts hanging outside

Bermuda shorts and sandals over bare feet, Turin workers with

their well-rouged wives and numerous children, small-time

Catholic bosses from Spain, Finnish lumbermen with their pipes

considerately banked, Hungarian basketball players, Iranian

students, union organizers from Zambia...

The customs man gave me my receipt and counted out

twenty-eight cents change.

"Well -- there is all the formality. I hope I haven't

detained you too long. May I wish you a pleasant stay!"

"Thank you," I said and took my suitcase.

He regarded me with his head slightly bent sideways,

smiling out of his bland, smooth face.

"Through this turnstile, please. Au revoir. May I

once more wish you the best."

I went out on the plaza following an Italian pair with

four kids and two robot redcaps.

The sun stood high over mauve mountains. Everything in the

plaza was bright and shiny and colorful. A bit too bright and

colorful, as it usually is in resort towns. Gleaming

orange-and-red buses surrounded by tourist crowds, shiny and

polished green of the vegetation in the squares with white,

blue, yellow, and gold pavilions, kiosks, and tents. Mirrorlike

surfaces, vertical, horizontal, and inclined, which flared with

sunbursts. Smooth matte hexagons underfoot and under the wheels

-- red, black, and gray, just slightly springy and smothering

the sound of footsteps. I put down the suitcase and donned

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sunglasses.

Out of all the sunny towns it has been my luck to visit,

this was without a doubt the sunniest. And that was all wrong.

It would have been much easier if the day had been gray, if

there had been dirt and mud, if the pavilion had also been gray

with concrete walls, and if on that wet concrete was scratched

something obscene, tired, and pointless, born of boredom. Then

I would probably feel like working at once. I am positive of

this because such things are irritating and demand action. It's

still hard to get used to the idea that poverty can be wealthy.

And so the urge is lacking and there is no desire to begin

immediately, but rather to take one of these buses, like the

red-and-blue one, and take off to the beach, do a little scuba

diving, get a tan, play some ball, or find Peck, stretch out on

the floor in some cool room and reminisce on all the good stuff

so that he could ask about Bykov, about the Trans-Pluto

expedition, about the new ships on which I too am behind the

times, but still know better than he, and so that he could

recollect the uprising and boast of his scars and his high

social position.... It would be most convenient if Peck did

have a high social position. It would be well if he were, for

example, a mayor....

A small darkish rotund individual in a white suit and a

round white hat set at a rakish angle approached deliberately,

wiping his lips with a dainty handkerchief. The hat was

equipped with a transparent green shade and a green ribbon on

which was stamped "Welcome." On his right earlobe glistened a

pendant radio.

"Welcome aboard," said the man.

"Hello," said I.

"A pleasure to have you with us. My name is Ahmad."

"And my name is Ivan," said I. "Pleased to make your

acquaintance."

We nodded to each other and regarded the tourists entering

the buses. They were happily noisy and the warm wind rolled

their discarded butts and crumpled candy wrappers along the

square. Ahmad's face bore a green tint from the light filtering

through his cap visor.

"Vacationers," he said. "Carefree and loud. Now they will

be taken to their hotels and will immediately rush off to the

beaches."

"I wouldn't mind a run on water skis," I observed.

"Really? I never would have guessed. There's nothing you

look less like than a vacationer."

"So be it," I said. "In fact I did come to work"

"To work? Well, that happens too, some do come to work

here. Two years back Jonathan Kreis came here to paint a

picture." He laughed. "Later there was an assault-and-battery

case in Rome, some papal nuncio was involved, can't remember

his name."

"Because of the picture?"

"No, hardly. He didn't paint a thing here. The casino was

where you could find him day or night. Shall we go have a

drink?"

"Let's. You can give me a few pointers."

"It's my pleasurable duty -- to give advice," said Ahmad.

We bent down simultaneously and both of us took hold of

the suitcase handle.

"It's okay -- I'll manage."

"No," countered Ahmad, "you are the guest and I the host.

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Let's go to yonder bar. It's quiet there at this time."

We went in under a blue awning. Ahmad seated me at a

table, put my suitcase on a vacant chair, and went to the

counter. It was cool and an air conditioner sighed in the

background. Ahmad returned with a tray. There were tall glasses

and flat plates with butter-gold tidbits.

"Not very strong," said Ahmad, "but really cold to make up

for that."

"I don't like it strong in the morning either," I said.

I quaffed the glass. The stuff was good.

"A swallow -- a bite," counseled Ahmad, "Like this: a

swallow, a bite."

The tidbits crunched and melted in the mouth. In my view,

they were unnecessary. We were silent for some time, watching

the square from under the marquee. gently purring, the buses

pulled out one after another into their respective tree-lined

avenues. They looked ponderous yet strangely elegant in their

clumsiness.

"It would be too noisy there," said Ahmad. "Fine cottages,

lots of women -- to suit any taste -- and right on the water,

but no privacy. I don't think it's for you."

"Yes," I agreed. "The noise would bother me. Anyway, I

don't like vacationers, Ahmad. Can't stand it when people work

at having fun."

Ahmad nodded and carefully placed the next tidbit in his

mouth. I watched him chew. There was something professional and

concentrated in the movement of his lower jaw. Having

swallowed, he said, "No, the synthetic will never compare with

the natural product. Not the same bouquet." He flexed his lips,

smacked them gently, and continued, "There are two excellent

hotels in the center of town, but, in my view..."

"Yes, that won't do either," I said. "A hotel places

certain obligations on you. I never heard that anything

worthwhile has ever been written in a hotel."

"Well, that's not quite true," retorted Ahmad, critically

studying the last tidbit. "I read one book and in it they said

that it was in fact written in a hotel -- the Hotel Florida."

"Aah," I said, "you are correct. But then your city is not

being shelled by cannons."

"Cannons? Of course not. Not as a rule, anyway."

"Just as I thought. But, as a matter of fact, it has been

noted that something worthwhile can be written only in a hotel

which is under bombardment."

Ahmad took the last tidbit after all.

'That would be difficult to arrange," he said. "In our

times it's hard to obtain a cannon. Besides, it's very

expensive; the hotel could lose its clientele."

"Hotel Florida also lost its clients in its time.

Hemingway lived in it alone."

"Who?"

"Hemingway."

"Ah... but that was so long ago, in the fascist times. But

times have changed, Ivan."

"Yes," said I, "and therefore in our times there is no

point in writing in hotels."

"To blazes with hotels then," said Ahmad. "I know what you

need. You need a boarding house." He took out a notebook.

"State your requirements and we'll try to match them up."

"Boarding house," I said. "I don't know. I don't think so,

Ahmad. Do understand that I don't want to meet people whom I

don't want to know. That's to begin with. And in the second

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place, who lives in private boarding houses? These same

vacationers who don't have enough money for a cottage. They too

work hard at having fun. They concoct picnics, meets, and song

fests. At night they play the banjo. On top of which they grab

anyone they can get hold of and make them participate in

contests for the longest uninterrupted kiss. Most important of

all, they are all transients. But I am interested in your

country, Ahmad. In your townspeople. I'll tell you what I need:

I need a quiet house with a garden. Not too far from downtown.

A relaxed family, with a respectable housewife. An attractive

young daughter. You get the picture, Ahmad?"

Ahmad took the empty glasses, went over to the counter,

and returned with full ones. Now they contained a colorless

transparent liquid and the small plates were stacked with tiny

multistoried sandwiches.

"I know of such a cozy house," declared Ahmad. "The widow

is forty-five and the daughter twenty. The son is eleven. Let's

finish the drinks and we'll be on our way. I think you'll like

it. The rent is standard, but of course it's more than in a

hoarding house. You have come to stay for a long time?"

"For a month."

"Good Lord! Just a month?"

"I don't know how my affairs will go. Perhaps I may tarry

awhile."

"By all means, you will," said Ahmad. "I can see that you

have totally failed to grasp just where you have arrived. You

simply don't understand what a good time you can have here and

how you don't have to think about a thing."

We finished our drinks, got up, and went across the square

under the hot sun to the parking area. Ahmad walked with a

rapid, slightly rolling gait, with the green visor of his cap

set low over his eyes, swinging the suitcase in a debonair

manner. The next batch of tourists was being discharged

broadcast from the customs house.

"Would you like me to... Frankly?" said Ahmad suddenly.

"Yes, I would like you to," said I. What else could I say?

Forty years I have lived in this world and have yet to learn to

deflect this unpleasant question.

"You won't write a thing here," said Ahmad. "It's mighty

hard to write in our town."

"It's always hard to write anything. However, fortunately

I am not a writer."

"I accept this gladly. But in that case, it is slightly

impossible here. At least for a transient."

"You frighten me."

"It's not a case of being frightened. You simply won't

want to work. You won't be able to stay at the typewriter.

You'll feel annoyed by the typewriter. Do you know what the joy

of living is?"

"How shall I say?"

"You don't know anything, Ivan. So far you still don't

know anything about it. You are bound to traverse the twelve

circles of paradise. It's funny, of course, but I envy you."

We stopped by a long open car. Ahmad threw the suitcase

into the back seat and flung the door open for me.

"Please," he said.

"Presumably you have already passed through them?" I

asked, sliding into the seat.

He got in behind the wheel and started the engine.

"What exactly do you mean?"

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"The twelve circles of paradise."

"As for me, Ivan, a long time ago I selected my favorite

circle," said Ahmad. The car began to roll noiselessly through

the square. "The others haven't existed for me for quite a

while. Unfortunately. It's like old age, with all its

privileges and deficiencies."

The car rushed through a park and sped along a shaded,

straight thoroughfare. I kept looking around with great

interest but couldn't recognize a thing. It was stupid to

expect to. We had been landed at night, in a torrential rain;

seven thousand exhausted tourists stood on the pier looking at

the burning liner. We hadn't seen the city -- in its place was

a black, wet emptiness dotted with red flashes. It had rattled,

boomed, and screeched as though being rent asunder. "We'll be

slaughtered in the dark, like rabbits," Robert had said, and I

immediately had sent him back to the barge to unload the

armored car. The gangway had collapsed and the car had fallen

into the water, and when Peck had pulled Robert out, all blue

from the cold, he had come over to me and said through

chattering teeth, "Didn't I tell you it was dark?"

Ahmad said suddenly, "When I was a boy, we lived near the

port and we used to come out here to beat up the factory kids.

Many of them had brass knuckles, and that got me a broken nose.

Half of my life I put up with a crooked nose until I had it

fixed last year. I sure loved to scrap when I was young. I used

to have a hunk of lead pipe, and once I had to sit in jail for

six months, but that didn't help."

He stopped, grinning. I waited awhile, then said, "You

can't find a good lead pipe these days. Now rubber truncheons

are in fashion: you buy them used from the police."

"Exactly," said Ahmad. "Or else you buy a dumbbell, cut

off one ball and there you are, ready to go. But the guys are

not what they used to be. Now you get deported for such stuff."

"Yes. And what else did you occupy yourself with in your

youth?"

"And you?"

"I planned on joining the interplanetary force and trained

to withstand overstress. We also played at who could dive the

deepest."

"We too," said Ahmad. "We went down ten meters for

automatics and whiskey. Over by the piers they lay on the

seabed by the case. I used to get nosebleeds. But when the fire

fights started, we began to find corpses with weights around

their necks, so we quit that game."

"It's a very unpleasant sight, a corpse under water --

especially if there is a current," said I.

Ahmad chuckled "I've seen worse. I had occasion to work

with the police."

"This was after the fracas?"

"Much later. When the anti-gangster laws were passed."

'They were called gangsters here too?"

"What else would you call them? Not brigands, certainly.

'A group of brigands, armed with flame throwers and gas bombs,

have laid siege to the municipal buildings,' " he pronounced

expressively. "It doesn't sound right, you can feel that. A

brigand is an ax, a bludgeon, a mustache up to the ears, a

cleaver --"

"A lead pipe," I offered.

Ahmad gurgled.

"What are you doing tonight?" he asked.

"Going for a walk."

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"You have friends here?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Well... then it's different."

"How come?"

"Well, I was going to suggest something to you, but since

you have friends..."

"By the way, " I said, "who is your mayor?"

"Mayor? The devil knows, I don't remember. Somebody was

elected."

"Not Peck Xenai, by any chance?"

"I don't know." He sounded regretful. "I wouldn't want to

mislead you."

"Would you know the man anyway?"

"Xenai... Peck Xenai... No, I don't knew him; haven't

heard of him. What is he to you -- a friend?"

"Yes, an old friend. I have some others here, but they are

all visitors."

"Well," said Ahmad, "if you should get bored and all kinds

of thoughts begin to enter your head, come on over for a visit.

Every single day from seven o'clock on I am at the Chez

Gourmet. Do you like good eating?"

"Quite," said I.

"Stomach in good shape?"

"Like an ostrich's."

"Well, then, why don't you come by? We'll have a fine

time, and it won't be necessary to think about a thing."

Ahmad braked and turned cautiously into a driveway with an

iron gate, which silently swung open before us. The car rolled

into the yard.

"We have arrived," announced Ahmad. "Here is your home."

The house was two-storied, white with blue trim. The

windows were draped on the inside. A clean, deserted patio with

multi-colored flagstones was surrounded by a fruit-tree garden,

with apple branches touching the walls.

"And where is the widow?" I said.

"Let's go inside," said Ahmad.

He went up the steps, leafing through his notebook I was

following him while looking around. I liked the mini-orchard.

Ahmad found the right page and set up the combination on the

small disc by the doorbell. The door opened. Cool, fresh air

flowed out of the house. It was dark inside, but as soon as we

stepped into the hall, it lit up with concealed illumination.

Putting away his notebook, Ahmad said, "To the right is the

landlord's half, to the left is yours. Please come in. Here is

the living room, and there is the bar. In a minute we'll have a

drink. And now here is your study. Do you have a phonor?"

"No."

"It's just as well. You have everything you need right

here. Come on over here. This is the bedroom. There is the

control board for acoustic defense. You know how to use it?"

"I'll figure it out."

"Good. The defense is triple, you can have it quiet as a

tomb or turn the place into a bordello, whatever you like...

Here's the air-conditioning control, which, incidentally, is

not too convenient, as you can only operate it from the

bedroom."

"I'll manage," I said.

"What? Well, okay. Here is the bathroom and powder room."

"I am interested in the widow," I said, "and the

daughter."

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"All in good time. Shall I open the drapes?"

"What for?"

"Right you are, for no reason. Let's go have a drink."

We returned to the living room and Ahmad disappeared up to

his waist in the bar.

"You want it on the strong side?" he asked.

"You have it backwards."

"Would you like an omelette? Sandwiches?"

"How about nothing?"

"No," said Ahmad, "an omelette it shall be -- with

tomatoes." He rummaged in the bar. "I don't know what does it,

but this autocooker makes an altogether astonishingly good

omelette with tomatoes. While we are at it, I will also have a

bite."

He extracted a tray from the bar and placed it on a low

table by a semicircular couch. We sat down.

"Now about the widow," I reminded him. "I would like to .

present myself."

"You like the rooms?"

"They'll do."

"Well, the widow is quite all right, too. And the daughter

is not bad either."

He extracted a flat case from an inside pocket. Like a

cartridge clip it was stacked with a row of ampoules filled

with colored liquids. Ahmad ran his index finger over them,

smelled the omelette, hesitated, and finally selected one with

a green fluid, broke it carefully, and dripped a few drops on

the tomatoes. An aroma pervaded the room. The smell was not

unpleasant, but, to my taste, bore no particular relation to

the food.

"Right now," continued Ahmad, "they are still asleep." His

gaze turned abstracted. "They sleep and see dreams."

I looked at my watch.

"Well, well!"

Ahmad was enjoying his food.

"Ten-thirty!" I said.

Ahmad was enjoying his food. His cap was pushed back on

his head, and the green visor stuck up vertically like the

crest of an aroused mimicrodon. His eyes were half-closed. I

regarded him with interest.

Having swallowed the last bit of tomato, he broke off a

piece of the crust of white bread and carefully wiped the pan

with it. His gaze cleared.

"What were you saying?" he asked. "Ten-thirty? Tomorrow

you too will get up at ten-thirty or maybe even at twelve. I,

for one, will get up at twelve."

He got up and stretched luxuriously, cracking his joints.

"Well," he said, "it's time to go home, finally. Here's my

card, Ivan. Put it in your desk, and don't throw it out until

your very last day here." He went over to the flat box and

inserted another card into its slot. There was a loud click.

"Now this one," he said, examining the card against the

light. "Please pass on to the widow with my very best

compliments."

"And then what will happen?" said I.

"Money will happen. I trust you are not a devotee of

haggling, Ivan? The widow will name a figure, Ivan, and you

shouldn't haggle over it. It's not done."

"I will try not to haggle," I said, "although it would be

amusing to try it."

Ahmad raised his eyebrows.

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"Well, if you really want to so much, then why not try it?

Always do what you want to do. Then you will have excellent

digestion. I will get your suitcase now."

"I need prospects," I said. "I need guidebooks. I am a

writer, Ahmad. I will require brochures on the economic

situation of the masses, statistical references. Where can I

get all that? And when?"

"I will give you a guidebook," said Ahmad. "It has

statistics, addresses, telephone numbers, and so on. As far as

the masses are concerned, I don't think we publish any such

nonsense. Of course, you can send an inquiry to UNESCO, but

what would you want with it? You'll see everything for

yourself. Just hold on a minute. I'll get the suitcase and the

guidebook."

He went out and quickly returned with my suitcase in one

hand and a fat bluish-looking little tome in the other.

I stood up.

"Judging by the look on your face," he announced, smiling,

"you are debating whether it's proper to tip me or not."

"I confess," I said.

"Well then, would you like to do it or not?"

"No, I must admit."

"You have a healthy, strong character," Ahmad approved.

"Don't do it. Don't tip anybody. You could collect one in the

face, especially from the girls. But, on the other hand, don't

haggle either. You could walk into one that way too. Anyway,

that's all a lot of rot. For all I know you may like to have

your face slapped, like that Jonathan Kreis. Farewell, Ivan,

have fun, and come to Chez Gourmet. Any evening at seven. But

most important of all, don't think about a thing."

He waved his hand and left. I picked up the mixture in the

dewy glass and sat down with the guidebook.

Chapter TWO

The guidebook was printed on bond paper with a gilt edge.

Interspersed with gorgeous photographs, it contained some

curious information. In the city there were fifty thousand

people, fifteen hundred cats, twenty thousand pigeons, and two

thousand dogs (including seven hundred winners of medals). The

city had fifteen thousand passenger cars, five thousand helis,

a thousand taxis (with and without chauffeurs), nine hundred

automatic garbage collectors, four hundred permanent bars,

cafes, and snack bars, eleven restaurants, and four first-class

hotels, and was a tourist establishment which served over one

hundred thousand visitors every year. The city had sixty

thousand TV sets, fifty movie theaters, eight amusement parks,

two Happy Mood salons, sixteen beauty parlors, forty libraries,

and one hundred and eighty automated barber shops. Eighty

percent of the population were engaged in services, and the

rest worked in two syntho-bakeries and one government shipyard.

There were six schools and one university housed in an old

castle once the home of crusader Ulrich da Casa. In the city

there were also eight active civilian societies, among them the

Society of Diligent Tasters, the Society of Connoisseurs and

Appraisers, and the Society for the Good Old Country Against

Evil Influences. In addition, fifteen hundred citizens were

members of seven hundred and one groups where they sang,

learned to act, to arrange furniture, to breast-feed, and to

medicate cats. As to per-capita consumption of alcoholic

beverages, natural meat, and liquid oxygen, the city was sixth,

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twelfth, and thirteenth highest in Europe respectively. The

city had seven men's clubs and five women's clubs, as well as

sport clubs named the Bulls and Rhinos. By a majority of

forty-six votes, someone by the name of Flim Gao had been

elected mayor. Peck was not among the municipal officials.

I put the guidebook aside, took off my jacket, and made a

thorough examination of my domain. I approved of the living

room. It was done in blue, and I like that color. The bar was

full of bottled and refrigerated victuals so that I could at a

moment's notice entertain a dozen starving guests.

I went into the study. There was a large table in front of

the window and a comfortable chair. The walls were lined with

shelves tightly filled with collected works. The clean bright

bindings were arranged with great skill so that they formed a

colorful and appealing layout. The top shelf was occupied by

the fifty-volume encyclopedia of UNESCO. Lower shelves were

kaleidoscopic with the shiny wrappers of detective novels.

As soon as I saw the telephone on the table, I dialed

Rimeyer's number, perching on the chair arm. The receiver

sounded with prolonged honkings and I waited, twirling a small

dictaphone which someone had left on the table. Rimeyer did not

answer. I hung up and inspected the dictaphone. The tape was

half-used-up, and after rewinding, I punched the playback

button.

"Greetings and more greetings," said a merry male voice.

"I clasp your hand heartily or kiss you on the cheek, depending

on your sex and age. I have lived here two months and bear

witness that it was most enjoyable. Allow me a few points of

advice. The best institution in town is the Hoity Toity in the

Park of Dreams. The best girl in town is Basi in the House of

Models. The best guy in town is me, but I have already left. On

television just watch Program Nine; everything else is chaff.

Don't get involved with Intels, and give the Rhinos a wide

berth. Don't buy anything on credit -- there'll be no end to

the runaround. The widow is a good woman but loves to talk and

in general... As for Vousi, I didn't get to meet her, as she

had left the country to visit her grandmother. In my opinion

she is sweet, and there was a photograph of her in the widow's

album, but I took it. There's more: I expect to come back next

March, so be a pal, if you decide to return, pick another time.

Have a --"

Music followed abruptly. I listened awhile and turned off

the machine.

There wasn't a single tome I could extract from the

shelves, so well were they stuck in, or maybe even glued on,

and as there was nothing else of interest in the study, I went

into the bedroom.

Here it was especially cool and cozy. I have always wanted

just such a bedroom, but somehow never had the time to get

around to setting one up. The bed was big and low. On the night

table stood an elegant phonor and a tiny remote-control box for

the TV. The screen stood at the foot of the bed, while at the

head the widow had hung a very natural-looking picture of field

flowers in a crystal vase. The picture was painted with

luminous paints and the dewdrops glistened in the darkened

room.

I punched the TV control at random and stretched out on

the bed. It was soft yet somehow firm. The TV roared loudly. An

inebriated-looking man launched himself out of the screen,

crashed through some sort of railing, and fell from a great

height into a colossal fuming vat. There was a loud splash and

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Arkady & Boris Strugatsky - The Final Circle Of Paradise

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