Snail on the Slope

Chapter Five

Pepper presented himself in the director's anteroom at exactly ten. There was a line there already, about twenty people. Pepper was put in fourth place. He took an armchair between Beatrice Vakh of the Aid to Native Populations Group and a morose member of the Engineering Penetration Group. The morose member, judging by the identification button on his chest and the legend on his white mask, bore the name Brandskugel. The anteroom was decorated in pale pink, on one wall hung a board, "No smoking, no litter, no noise," on the other a large picture of pathfinder Selivan's exploit: Selivan with arms upraised, was turning into a jumping tree before the eyes of his stunned comrades. The pink blinds on the windows were tightly down, an enormous chandelier blazed from the ceiling. Apart from the entrance door on which was written "Exit," the room possessed one other door, vast and covered in yellow leather, with the sign "No Exit." This notice was done in fluorescent colors and had the effect of a lugubrious warning. Under it the secretary's desk stood with its four different-colored telephones and electric typewriter. The secretary herself, a plump middle-aged lady in pince-nez, was haughtily perusing the Textbook of Atomic Physics. The visitors talked among themselves in restrained voices. Many were plainly nervous and were compulsively leafing through old illustrated magazines.

It was all extraordinarily like a dentist's waiting room and Pepper again experienced an unpleasant chill, a quiver in the jaw, and a desire to go somewhere else quickly.

"They're not lazy even," said Beatrice Vakh, turning her beautiful red head slightly toward Pepper. "But they can't tolerate systematic work. How, for instance, can you explain the extraordinary ease with which they abandon their living places?"

"Are you addressing me?" asked Pepper timidly. He hadn't the faintest idea how to explain the extraordinary ease.

"No, I was talking to Monsher Brandskugel." Monsher Brandskugel adjusted his left moustache, which had come unstuck, and gave a muffled mumble. "I don't know!"

"Nor do we," said Beatrice bitterly. "As soon as our groups get near a village, they leave their houses and possessions and go. You get the impression they're absolutely uninterested in us. We've got nothing for them. Do you see it that way?"

Monsher Brandskugel was silent for a while as if pondering and looked at Beatrice through the strange cross-shaped embrasures of his mask. At length he brought out in his previous intonation, "I don't know."

"It's a great pity," Beatrice continued, "that our group is made up exclusively of women. I realize that • there is an underlying reason for it, but we often lack masculine toughness and endurance, I'd call it pur-posefulness. Women unfortunately tend to dissipate their energies, no doubt you've noticed that?"

"I don't know," said Brandskugel, at which his moustaches came off and floated softly to the floor. He picked them up, inspected them carefully, lifting the edge of his mask and, applying spit matter-of-factly, replaced them.

A bell rang sweetly on the secretary's desk. She put aside her book, glanced through her list, holding on her pince-nez with an elegant gesture, and announced:

"Professor Cockatoo, please go in." Professor Cockatoo dropped his picture magazine, jumped to his feet, sat down again, glanced around, grew perceptibly pale and then, biting his lip and with a violently distorted face, pushed off from his chair and disappeared behind the door marked "No Exit." A painful silence reigned in the anteroom for several seconds. Then voices resumed humming and pages rustling.

"We simply cannot find any way of engaging their interest, of absorbing them. We built them convenient day houses on piles. They fill them up with peat and colonize it with insects of some kind. We tried to offer them tasty food in place of the sour filth they eat. Useless. We tried to dress them like human beings. One died, two fell ill. Well, we're pushing on with our experiments. Yesterday we scattered a truckload of mirrors and gilt buttons in the forest... The cinema doesn't interest them, neither does music. Immortal works are just received with giggles... No, we'll have to start with the children. For instance, I suggest catching the children, and organizing special schools. Unfortunately that's linked with technical difficulties; human hands can't touch them, special machines are needed... Anyway, you know that as well as I dp."

"I don't know," said Brandskugel miserably.

The bell tinkled again and the secretary said, "Beatrice, you now. Go through, please."

Beatrice started fussing about. She was about to rush toward the door, stopped, however, looking about her in dismay. She came back, glanced under the chair, whispering: "Where on earth is it? Where?" sweeping the room with her enormous eyes; pulling at her hair, she exclaimed loudly, "Where is it?" and suddenly seized Pepper by the jacket and rolled him out of his chair onto the floor. A brown briefcase was discovered where he had been. Beatrice seized it and stood for some seconds with eyes closed and an expression of immense happiness, pressing the case to her chest; she then moved slowly toward the door of yellow leather and disappeared behind it. Amid a deathly hush, Pepper got up and, trying not to look at anyone, brushed his trousers. Nobody was paying him attention in any case: everyone was looking at the yellow door.

What on earth am I going to say to him? thought Pepper. I'll say I'm an arts graduate, can't be of any use to the Directorate, let me go, I'll leave and never come back, I give my word. And why on earth did you come here? I'd always been interested in the forest, but well, nobody lets me get into the forest. And anyway I got here purely by chance, I'm an arts man. Arts people, writers, philosophers are out of place in the Directorate. They do right to keep me out, I accept this... I can't possibly be in a Directorate where they excrete onto the forest, or in a forest where they catch children with machines. I should leave and occupy myself with something simpler. I know I'm popular here, but they like me the way a child is fond of a toy. I'm here for amusement, I can't teach anybody here what I know... No, I can't say that. I have to cry a bit, how can I do that? I'll blow up in there, just let him try and keep me here. I'll blow my top and leave on foot. Pepper pictured himself walking the dusty road mile after mile under the blazing sun, with his case, getting more and more empty-headed. And every step carrying him farther and farther from the forest, his dream, his anxiety, that which had long ago become the meaning of his existence...

They haven't called anybody in for a long time, he thought. The director's probably vastly taken by the children-trapping plan. And why didn't anyone come out of the study? Doubtless, another exit.

"Excuse me," he said, addressing Monsher Brandskugel, "what time is it?"

Monsher Brandskugel looked at his wristwatch and thought for a moment:

"I don't know," he said.

At this, Pepper bent over and whispered in his ear, "I shan't tell anybody. An-y-body."

Monsher Brandskugel hesitated. He fingered his plastic button in indecision, stole a look around, yawned nervously, took another look around, and fixing his mask more firmly, answered in a whisper:

"I don't know."

After which he rose and hurriedly betook himself to the other corner of the anteroom.

The secretary spoke:

"Pepper, your turn."

"How's that," Pepper said, surprised. "I'm fourth."

"Temporary staff Pepper," the secretary raised her voice, "your turn."

"Arguing," grumbled somebody.

"Should get rid of the likes of him," someone on the left said loudly, "with a red-hot broom!"

Pepper got to his feet. His legs were like cotton wool. He was scraping his palms senselessly along his sides. The secretary was looking intently at him.

"The cat knows when he's in for it..."

"However much you twist..."

"We've put up with the likes of him!"

"Pardon me, you may have. I've never seen him before."

"Well, I don't see him every day."

"Quiet!" said the secretary, raising her voice. "Observe silence! And don't drop litter on the floor - you there ... yes, yes, you I'm speaking to. Now then, Pepper, will you go through? Or shall I call the guard?"

"Yes," said Pepper, "I'm going."

The last person he saw in the anteroom was Monsher Brandskugel, barricaded behind an armchair in the corner, teeth bared, on his haunches with his hand in his rear trouser pocket. Then his eye fell on the director.

The director turned out to be a slender well-proportioned man of about thirty-five, in an expensive superbly-cut suit. He was standing by the open window scattering crumbs for the pigeons clustered on the windowsill. The study was completely empty, there wasn't a single chair, not even a table, on the wall opposite the window hung a small copy of "Pathfinder Selivan's Exploit."

"Temporary employee Pepper?" the director said in a clear ringing bass, turning toward Pepper the fresh face of a sportsman.

"Y-yes. I..." mumbled Pepper. "Glad, very glad to make your acquaintance at last. How d'you do. My name's Alas. I've heard a lot about you. Shake hands."

Pepper stooping timidly pressed the proffered hand. The hand was dry and firm.

"As you see, I'm feeding the pigeons. Curious bird. One senses enormous potential there. How do you see the pigeon, Pepper?"

Pepper faltered. He couldn't stand pigeons. The director's face, however, was radiating such joy and weird interest, such impatient expectation that Pepper took a grip on himself and lied:

"I like them very much, Monsieur Alas." "You like them roasted? Or stewed? I like them in a pie, myself. Pigeon pie with a glass of good wine - demi-sec - what could be nicer? What's your opinion!"

Once more Monsieur Alas' face expressed the most lively interest and impatient expectation.

"Terrific," said Pepper. He had decided to give up guessing and agree with everything.

"What about Picasso's 'Dove'?" said Monsieur Alas. "I call to mind at once: 'Nor eat, nor drink, nor kiss, the moments fly unchecked...' How exactly that catches the idea of our incapacity to catch and materialize the beautiful!"

"Splendid verses," said Pepper stupidly. "What I first saw the 'Dove,' I, like many another I expect, thought the drawing a poor likeness, or at any rate unnatural. Later, however, in the course of service, I had occasion to observe pigeons closely and I suddenly realized that Picasso, that magician, had seized on that moment when the bird folds its wings prior to landing. Its feet are already touching the ground while the bird itself is still in the air, in flight. The moment when movement turns into immobility, flight into rest."

"Picasso has strange paintings, which I don't understand," said Pepper, demonstrating his independent judgment.

"Ah, you've simply not looked at them long enough.

To understand real art, it's not enough to go through a museum two or three times a year. You should look at a picture for hours on end. As often as possible. And only originals. No reproductions. No copies... Take a look at that picture there. I can see by your face what you think of it. And you're right: it's a bad copy. If you'd ever familiarized yourself with the original, you would understand the artist's idea." "What exactly is it?"

"I'll try to explain it to you," said the director readily. "What do you see in that picture? Formally - half man, half tree. The picture is static. What can't be seen, isn't caught, is the transition from one essence into the other. The most important element is missing from the picture - the direction of time. Now if you had the opportunity of studying the original you would realize that the artist had succeeded in introducing into the image a most profound symbolic meaning, that he had depicted, not a man-tree, not even a man turning into a tree, but a tree turning into a man and that only. The artist made use of the old legend in order to depict the emergence of a new personality. New from old. Life from death. Intelligence from inert matter. The copy is absolutely static and everything pictured in it exists outside the stream of time. The original contains that time-flow! Vector! The arrow of time as Eddington would have said..."

"Where exactly is the original?" asked Pepper politely.

The director smiled.

"The original, naturally, has been destroyed as a work of art, not permitting ambiguous interpretation. The first and second copies were also destroyed as a precautionary measure."

Monsieur Alas returned to the window and elbowed the pigeons off the sill.

"Well. We've talked of pigeons," said he in a new, somehow official voice. "Your name?"

"Pardon?"

"Name. Your name."

"Pe - Pepper."

"Year of birth." "Thirty."

"More precisely!" "Nineteen thirty. Fifth of March." "What are you doing here?"

"Temporary employee. Seconded to Science security."

"I'm asking you: what are you doing here?" said the director, turning his distant eyes on Pepper. "I ... don't know. I wish to leave." "Your opinion of the forest. Briefly." "The forest ... is... I always... I... fear it. And love it."

"Your opinion of the Directorate." "There are lots of good people here, but ..." "That's enough."

The director came up to Pepper, clasped him by the shoulders and, looking him in the eyes, said:

"Listen, friend! Drop it! Let's make a threesome? Let's call the secretary in, did you see the dragon? She's no dragon, she's a box of delights! 'Come lads, let's open the long-cherished wine,' " he sang through his nose. "Well? Shall we open it? Drop that, I don't like it. Understand? How does it grab you?"

He suddenly gave off a smell of liquor and garlic sausage, his eyes came together over his nose.

"We'll get the engineer in, Brandskugel. My mon cher," he went on, clasping Pepper to his chest. "He can tell such a tale - you'll not need a bite to eat with it. Shall we?"

"Well, why not?" said Pepper. "But after all, I ..." "Well, what about you then?" "Monsieur Alas, I ..."

"Drop that! What sort of monsieur am I? Kamerad - see? Mio Caro!"

"I, Kamerad Alas, came to request you ..." "Ask aw-a-y! I shan't be mean! You want money? Take it! Somebody you don't like? Just say and we'll look into it! Well?"

"N-no. I just want to leave. I can't get away no matter what I try. I came here by accident. Permit me to leave. Nobody wants to help me, and I'm requesting you as director..."

Alas released Pepper, put his tie right, and smiled coldly.

"You're in error, Pepper," said he, "I'm not the director. I'm the director's personnel officer. Forgive me, I've delayed you somewhat. Please go through that door. The director will receive you."

He threw the door wide before Pepper at the far end of his bare office and made inviting gestures. Pepper coughed, nodded in restrained fashion, and leaned forward as he passed into the next room. As he did so he thought he was lightly struck on the rear. Probably his imagination, or perhaps Monsieur Alas was in some haste to close his door.

The room in which he found himself was a facsimile of the anteroom; even the secretary here was an exact copy of the first one. She was reading, however, a book entitled Sublimation of Genius. The same pale visitors were sitting in armchairs with newspapers and magazines. Professor Cockatoo was here, suffering severely from nervous itch as was Beatrice Vakh with her brown briefcase across her knees. True, all the others were unfamiliar. Under a copy of "Pathfinder Selivan's Exploit" a sign saying "Quiet!" regularly flared and dimmed. For this reason, nobody here talked. Pepper cautiously lowered himself onto the edge of a chair. Beatrice Vakh smiled at him - somewhat warily but welcoming on the whole.

After a minute of apprehensive silence the little bell rang and the secretary put aside her book. "The venerable Luke, go through." The venerable Luke was frightful to look upon and Pepper averted his gaze. Doesn't matter, he thought, closing his eyes. I can stand it. He remembered the rainy autumn evening when they had brought Esther into his flat, after she had been knifed by a drunken yob in the hallway, and the neighbors hanging onto him, and the glass shards in his mouth - he had chewed the glass when they brought him some water... Yes, he thought, the worst was past.

His attention was attracted by swift scratching sounds. He opened his eyes and looked about him. In the next chair but one. Professor Cockatoo was furiously scratching himself under the arms with both hands. Like a monkey.

"What do you think, should we separate the boys from the girls?" asked Beatrice in a trembling voice. "I don't know," Pepper said irritably. "Co-education has its advantages, of course," Beatrice went on, "but this is a special situation... Lord!" she said, suddenly lachrymose. "Surely he won't throw me out? Where could I go then? I've been thrown out everywhere, I haven't got a single pair of decent shoes left. All my tights are in holes, my powder's all lumpy..."

The secretary put aside Sublimation of Genius to say severely:

"Don't lose your concentration." Beatrice Vakh froze in terror. At once the small door opened and a completely shaven head was thrust into the waiting room.

"Is there a Pepper here?" it inquired in a stentorian voice.

"Yes," said Pepper, leaping to his feet. "To the outbound area with your stuff! Vehicle leaves in ten minutes. Jump to it!" "Vehicle where to? Why?" "You're Pepper?" "Yes..." "You wanted to leave or not?" "I wanted to, but ..."

"Well, just as you like," bellowed the shaven one angrily. "I'm just supposed to tell you."

He disappeared and the door slammed. Pepper rushed after him.

"Back," cried the secretary, and several hands clutched at his clothing. Pepper struggled desperately and heard his jacket rip.

"The vehicle is there!" he groaned. "You're off your head!" said the secretary peevishly.

"Where are you trying to get? The door marked 'Exit' is over there, where are you going?"

Horny hands propelled Pepper to the 'Exit' sign. Beyond the door lay a spacious polygonal hall, with a multiplicity of doors; Pepper rushed about opening one after the other.

Bright sunlight, sterile-white walls, people in white coats. A naked back, smeared with iodine. Smell of a chemist's shop. Not that one.

Blackness. Whirring of a cine-projector. On the screen, someone being pulled by the ears in all directions. White patches of displeased faces. A voice:

"Door! Shut the door!" Not that one either... Pepper crossed the hall, slipping on the parquet. Smell of a cake shop. A short line with bags. Behind the glass counter glint bottles of yogurt, cakes, and gateaux in colorful array.

"Gentlemen!" shouted Pepper. "Where is the exit?" "Exit out of where?" asked a plump assistant in a cook's hat.

"Out of here..." "It's the door you're standing in." "Don't listen to him," said a feeble old man in the line. "We've got a wise guy around here who just holds lines up... Keep serving, don't pay any attention."

"No, no, I'm not joking," said Pepper. "I've got a car, it'll go in a minute..."

"No, it's not him," said a fair-minded old man. "That bloke always asks where the toilet is. Where is the car you speak of, sir?" "In the street."

"What street?" asked the assistant. "There's plenty of streets."

"I don't care as long as it's outside!" "No," said the shrewd old man. "It's the same chap. He's just changed his program. Pay no attention to him."

Pepper looked around in despair, leaped back into the hall and pushed against the next door. It was locked. A testy voice inquired:

"Who's there?" "I have to get out!" shouted Pepper. "Where's the exit here?"

"Just a moment."

Behind the door came noises, the splash of water, the clatter of boxes being moved. The voice said:

"What do you want?"

"To get out! I must get out!"

"Right away."

A key scraped and the door opened. It was dark inside.

"Come through," said the voice.

It smelled of fumigation. Pepper put his hands up in front of him and essayed several uncertain steps.

"I can't see a thing," he said.

"You'll get used to it in a minute," the voice assured. "Well, come on, why've you stopped?"

Pepper was taken by the sleeve and led on.

"Sign here," said the voice.

A pencil appeared in Pepper's fingers. Now he perceived in the darkness the vague whiteness of paper.

"Have you signed?"

"No. What am I signing?"

"Don't you be afraid, it isn't a death sentence. Sign that you haven't seen anything."

Pepper signed anywhere. He was seized firmly by the sleeve again and propelled between some door curtains, then the voice asked:

"Are there a lot of you here?"

"Four," came from behind the door apparently.

"Is there a line formed? Bear in mind I'm opening the door now and letting a person out. Move up one, don't push and no funny remarks. That clear?" "All right. Not the first time." "Nobody's forgotten his clothes?" "Nobody, nobody. Let him out." The key scraped again. Pepper was almost blinded by the bright light and he was pushed out. Still not opening his eyes properly, he reeled down some steps and only then realized that he was in the Directorate's inner courtyard. Peevish voices were shouting:

"Come on now, Pepper! Get a move on! How long are we supposed to wait?"

In the middle of the yard stood a truck, packed with Scientific Security personnel. Kim was looking out of the cab and gesturing angrily. Pepper ran up to the truck and scrambled aboard, they tugged at him, lifted him and dumped him on the bottom of the truck. The vehicle revved up at once, gave a jerk, somebody stood on Pepper's hand, somebody else gaily sat on him, everyone started up singing and laughing, and they set off.

"Peppy, here's your suitcase," said somebody. "Is it true you're leaving, Pepper?" "Care for a cigarette, Monsieur Pepper?" Pepper lit up, seated himself on his case and turned up his jacket collar. Someone gave him a raincoat;

Pepper smiled his thanks and wrapped himself up in it. The truck sped on faster and faster and although it was a hot day, the head wind seemed savagely penetrating. Pepper smoked, concealing the cigarette in his fist and gazed about him. I'm on my way, he thought, I'm on my way. This is the last time I'll see you, wall. Last time I'll see you, cottages. Good-bye scrap-heap, I left my galoshes here somewhere. Good-bye pool, good-bye chess, good-bye yogurt. It's so marvelous, so easy! I'll never drink yogurt in my life again. Never will I sit down to a chess board..."

The personnel, crowded up near the cab, clutching one another and huddling behind each other from the wind, conversed on abstract subjects.

"It's been worked out, and I've worked it out. If it goes on like this, in a hundred years there'll be ten scientists for every square yard, and the total mass will cause the cliff to collapse. So much transport for food and water delivery will be needed, they'll have to have a continuous transport service between the Mainland and the Directorate; the trucks will go at twenty-five miles an hour, one yard apart, and be unloaded on the move... No, I'm absolutely certain the top people are considering regulating the recruitment of new personnel. Well now, judge for yourselves: the hotel warden - you can't have the likes of that, seven and one more arriving. All healthy. Hausbotcher thinks something should be done about it. No, not sterilization, necessarily, as he suggests..."

"Hausbotcher is the last person who should suggest that."

"That's why I say, not necessarily sterilization."

"They say the annual holidays are being extended to six months."

They went by the park, and Pepper suddenly realized that the truck was going in the wrong direction. They'd be out of the gates soon and descend by way of the hairpins to the foot of the cliff.

"Here listen, where are we going?" he asked, alarmed.

"What d'you mean - where? To get paid."

"Not to the Mainland?"

"Why on earth should we? The cashier's arrived at the biostation."

"You mean you're going to the biostation, the forest."

"Well of course. We're Science Security and get paid at the biostation."

"And what about me?" asked Pepper in bewilderment.

"You'll be paid as well. You're due for a bonus... Incidentally, everybody got his papers?"

The men fussed about, extracting from their pockets stamped papers of assorted shapes and colors. These they examined intently.

"Pepper, did you fill the questionnaire in?"

"What questionnaire?"

"Pardon me, but what a question! Form number eighty-four."

"I didn't fill anything in," Pepper said.

"Dear sirs! What have we here? Pepper's got no papers."

"That doesn't matter. He's probably got a permit..."

"I haven't got a permit," said Pepper. "I haven't got anything. Only a suitcase and a raincoat... I didn't intend going into the forest, I wanted to get away altogether..."

"And the medical check? Inoculations?"

Pepper shook his head. The truck was already rolling down through the hairpins and Pepper took a detached look at the forest, at the level porous layers of it on the horizon, at its arrested storm-cloud seething, the clinging web of mist in the shade of the cliff.

"You can't get away with things like that," somebody said.

"Well now, there aren't any classified objects along the road."

"What about Hausbotcher?"

"Well what of him, if there's no classified objects?"

"Let's assume you don't know that. Nobody does. There now, last year Kandid flew out without documents and where's Kandid now, desperate lad?"

"In the first place it wasn't last year, it was long before that. Secondly, he was simply killed. At his post."

"Oh yes? Have you seen the directive?"

"That's true, there was no directive."

"So, there's nothing to argue about. Since they put him in the bunker at the checkpoint, he's been sitting filling in forms..."

"How did you not fill in the forms. Peppy? Maybe you've got a black mark against you?"

"One moment, gentlemen! This is a serious matter. I propose we investigate employee Pepper to be on the safe side. By democratic methods, so to speak. Who'll be secretary?"

"Hausbotcher for secretary!"

"Excellent suggestion. As honorary secretary we choose our much-respected Hausbotcher. I see by your faces - unanimous. And who will be the secretary's assistant?"

"Vanderbilt for secretary's assistant!"

"Vanderbilt? ... Well, why not... We have Vanderbilt proposed as secretary's assistant. Any other nominations? For? Against? Abstentions? Hm ... two abstainers. Why did you abstain?"

"Me?"

"Yes, yes, I mean you."

"I don't see the sense. Why torment a man? He's in a bad way as it is."

"All right. And you?"

"None of your damned business."

"As you wish... Secretary's assistant, note please, two abstentions. Let's begin. Who first? No takers? Then permit me. Employee Pepper answer the following question. What distances have we covered between years twenty-five and thirty; (a) on foot (b) by land transport (c) by air? Take your time, think. Here's paper and pencil."

Pepper took the paper and pencil obediently and set to work remembering. The truck shook. To start with everybody looked at him, but eventually they all got bored.

"I'm not afraid of overpopulation," mumbled somebody. "But have you seen how much hardware there is? On the empty lot behind the repair-shops - have you seen it? And what is it, d'you know? Of course it's in packing cases, nailed down. Nobody's got time to open it up and have a look. D'you know what I saw night before last over there? I'd stopped to have a smoke when I heard a sort of crash. I turn around and I see the side of one of the cases, the size of a house end, cracking open, and widening like a set of gates. Out of the case crawls a machine. I'm not going to describe it, you understand why. But what a sight... It stood there for a few seconds then threw up this long tube with a rotating thing on the end as if it were taking a look around, then it crawled back into the case and the lid shut. I felt bad then and couldn't believe what I'd seen. This morning I think: 'I'll have another look anyway.' I arrived and my skin crept, I can tell you. The packing case was perfectly all right, not a crack, but the side was nailed up from the inside! The nails stuck out as long as your finger, shiny and sharp. And now I'm thinking, why was it climbing out? Was it the only one? Maybe they come out every night and... have a look around. While we're getting over-populated they're organizing a Bartholomew massacre and our bones will go flying over the cliff - or what's left of them ... What? No thank you, friend, you tell the engineers if you want. After all I saw that machine and how do I know whether that's forbidden or not? There's no markings on the cases..." "All right, Pepper. You ready?" "No," Pepper said. "I can't remember anything. It was a long time ago."

"That's odd. I can remember perfectly, for example. Six thousand seven hundred and one kilometer by rail, seventeen thousand one hundred and fifty-three by air (out of that three thousand two hundred and fifteen for personal travel) and fifteen thousand and seven on foot. And I'm older than you. Strange, very strange, Pepper... W-e-ll all right. Let's try the next point. What toys were you specially fond of before you went to school?"

"Clockwork tanks," said Pepper, wiping sweat from his brow. "And armored cars."

"Aha! You remember! And yet it was before you went to school, times, so to speak, a great deal further removed. Though less care-laden, eh, Pepper? So then. Tanks and armored cars it is... Next. At what age did women, brackets, men become attractive to you? The expression in brackets is addressed as a rule, to women. Go ahead and answer."

"A long time ago," said Pepper. "It was long, long ago."

"Exactly when?"

"What about you?" asked Pepper. "You say first, then I will."

The presider shrugged. "I've nothing to hide. The first time was when I was nine, when they bathed me and my female cousin together... Now you."

"I can't," said Pepper. "I don't wish to answer such questions."

"Idiot," somebody whispered in his ear. "Tell some lie with a straight face, and that's it. Why torment yourself? Who's going to check you?"

"All right," Pepper said submissively. "When I was ten. When they bathed me and Murka the dog together."

"Splendid!" exclaimed the presider. "Now list me all the diseases of the legs you've had."

"Rheumatism."

"What else?"

"Intermittent lameness."

"Very good. What else?"

"Cold," said Pepper.

"That's not a leg disease."

"I don't know. With you no, perhaps. With me it's the legs. My legs get wet - a cold."

"We-ll, let it pass. Anything else?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"As you wish. But I warn you: the more the better."

"Spontaneous gangrene," said Pepper. "Subsequent amputation. That was my last leg disease."

"That's enough then. Last question. Your world-view. Briefly."

"Materialist," Pepper said.

"What sort of a materialist exactly?"

"Emotional."

"I've no more questions. Any questions, gentlemen?"

There were no more questions. Some of the travelers were half-asleep, some were chatting with their backs to the presider. The truck was going slowly now. It was getting hot and the forest's damp and sharp unpleasant • smell was ever-present. The smell never reached the Directorate on normal days.

The truck rolled along with the engine switched off, and far far away could be heard the faint rumbling of a storm.

"I'm amazed, looking at you," said the secretary's assistant, also with his back to the presider. "It's unhealthy pessimism. Man is an optimist by nature, that's one thing. And the second and main thing is - surely you realize the director considers these matters as much as you do? It makes me laugh. In the last speech addressed to me, the director revealed majestic prospects. I caught my breath from sheer admiration, I'm not ashamed to admit. I always was an optimist, but that picture... If you want to know, everything's going to be cleared, all these rocks, cottages... Instead buildings of dazzling beauty will rise from transparent and semi-transparent materials, stadia, swimming-pools, aerial parks, crystal bars, and cafes. Stairways to the sky! Slender, swaying women with dark supple skin! Libraries! Muscles! Laboratories! Penetrated by sun and light! A free timetable! Cars, gliders, airships ... debates, hypnopaedia, stereo-cinema... After their working hours, the workers will sit in libraries, ponder, compose melodies, play guitars and other musical instruments, carve in wood, read poems to each other!"

"And what will you be doing?"

"I shall do wood-carving."

"What else?"

"I shall write poetry. They will teach me to write poetry. I have good handwriting."

"What will I do?"

"Whatever you like!" said the secretary's assistant magnanimously. "Carve wood, write poetry... Whatever you like."

"I don't want to carve wood. I'm a mathematician."

"Well all right! Do maths to your heart's content!"

"I do it now to my heart's content."

"Now you get paid for doing it. Silly. You'll jump from towers."

"Why?"

"There you go - why? It's interesting isn't it?"

"No."

"What are you trying to say, then? That apart from mathematics you're not interested in anything?"

"Well now, that's about right. After a day's work you're so fagged out that you take no interest in anything."

"You're just a narrow person. Never mind, you'll develop. You'll find you have some aptitudes, you'll be composing music, doing a bit of fretwork, or something..."

"Composing music isn't the trouble, it's finding an audience."

"Well, I'll listen to you with pleasure... Pepper here."

"You just think that. You won't do it though. You'll do a bit of fretwork then you'll be off to join the ladies. Or get drunk. I know you all right, I know everybody here. You'll shamble about from crystal bar to diamond cafeteria. Especially if work is optional. I'm afraid to think, even, what it'll be like if they make work optional here."

"Every man is a genius at something," retorted the assistant. "You've only to find what it is. We don't even suspect that I'm, say, a genius at cooking, you, perhaps, a pharmaceutical genius, but we have other jobs and find out little about ourselves. The director said specialists would be put on that, they'll bring to light our hidden potential..."

"Potential, now, that's a murky business. I'm not arguing, maybe everybody's a potential genius, only what's to be done if it can only be applied, say, in the distant past or future, and it isn't regarded as genius now whether you've got it or not? Very good if you're a cooking genius. But how's it going to be discovered that you're a cab-driver of genius, or Pepper's a genius at chipping arrow heads, or I'm a genius at finding an X-field about which nobody knows yet and which won't be discovered for ten years? ... Well then, as the poet said, leisure's black face will turn our way..."

"Boys," said someone, "we've brought no grub with us. While we're traveling and till they pay us..."

"Stoyan'll see us all right."

"Like heck he will. They're on rations there."

"Never mind, we'll last out. There's the checkpoint already."

Pepper extended his neck. In front, the forest stood, a yellow-green wall and the road ran straight into it, like a thread going into a multi-colored carpet. The truck passed by a plywood sign:

ATTENTION! REDUCE SPEED! PREPARE TO SHOW DOCUMENTS!

The striped bar was already visible; it was lowered and had to the left of it a sentry-box, on the right, barbed wire, white insulators, lattice towers with searchlights. The truck came to a halt. Everybody looked at the guard who was dozing with his carbine under his arm, as he stood cross-legged in his box. An extinguished cigarette hung on his lip and the concrete around the box was littered with ends. Next to the box stood a pole with various admonishments nailed to it:

ATTENTION! FOREST! DISPLAY PERMITS! DON'T SPREAD INFECTION! The driver hooted tactfully. The guard opened his eyes and stared muz-zily before him, he then detached himself from the box and walked around the lorry.

"There's plenty of you," said he. "Money, is it?"

"Right first time," said the former presider.

"That's fine, good," said the guard. He circled the vehicle, hoisted himself up onto the step and glanced inside. "Gee, there's a lot of you," he said reproachfully. "What about hands? Hands clean?"

"Yes!" chorused everyone.

"Everybody?"

"Everybody."

"All righty," said the guard, thrusting the top half of his body into the cab. From the cab: "Who's in charge? You? How many you got? Aha ... you telling the truth? Name? Kim? Well now Kirn, I'm writing your surname down... Great, Voldemar! Drive all the time do you? I'm on guard all the time. Show us your pass... Now, now, no snarling, just show us it... Pass in order, otherwise I'd... Why d'you write telephone numbers on your pass? Wait a minute ... what Charlotte is this? Ah yes, I remember. Give it here, I'll write it down as well... Okay, thanks. Drive on. Permission to pass."

He jumped down from the step, raising the dust as he did so, went over to the barrier, and dropped on the counterweight. The barrier slowly rose, and the long underpants strung along it dropped into the dust. The truck started up.

There was a hubbub of conversation in the back, but Pepper heard nothing. He was going into the forest. The forest was getting closer, nearing and massing higher and higher, like an ocean wave and suddenly, it swallowed him. There was no more sun and sky, space or time, the forest had taken their place. All there was, was a flickering of murky tints, thick moist air, incredible smells, fumes rather, and an acrid taste in his mouth. Only sound was untouched by the forest: the noises of the forest were overpowered by the roar of the engine and the chatter of the passengers. So here's the forest, Pepper kept repeating, here I am in the forest, he repeated meaninglessly. Not from up above, but inside, not an observer, a participant. Here I am in the forest. Something cool and moist touched his face, ticklish, detached itself and slowly descended to his knees. He looked down: a long, thin, filament of some plant or other, or maybe some animal, or maybe just the contact of the forest, a friendly greeting or a wary feeling out; he did not touch the filament.

Meanwhile the truck roared along the road of glorious advance; yellow, green and brown meekly sank away behind, while along the verges streamed the untidy, forgotten columns of the veterans of the invading army, black bulldozers upended with shields furiously ripped, tractors buried in the earth as far as the driving-cab, their caterpillar tracks squashed flat and trailing behind them, lorries lacking wheels or glass - everything dead, deserted forever, but maintaining their former fearless gaze ahead, into the depths of the forest with their wrenched radiators and shattered headlights. And all around, the forest stirred, palpitated, and contorted, changing its hues, blurring and flaring up, flowing forward and retreating, deceiving the sight, the forest terrified and mocked and gloated, and it was all strange and it was impossible to describe, and it was nauseating.