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the Hunter had listened to this story, a violet flash over a black hillcrest
appeared before his eyes.
When a strange landing pad had been discovered on Crookes, doubts turned into
horrible certainty. The Hunter had run to Kostylin. What have I killed? he
shouted. Was it an animal or a person? Lin, what have I killed?
Kostylin listened to him, his eyes turning bloodshot, and then shouted, Sit
down! Cut the hysterics you re like a whining old woman! Where do you get off
talking to me this way? Do you think that I, Aleksandr Kostylin, can t tell
the difference between an intelligent being and an animal?
But the landing site!
You yourself landed on that mesa with Sanders.
The flash! I hit his oxygen tank!
You shouldn t have fired thermite bullets in a hydrocarbon atmosphere.
Have it your way, but Crookes still didn t find even one more threefinger! I
know it was an alien spacer!
Hysterical old woman! yelled Lin. It could be they won t find one more
threefinger on Crookes for another century! It s an enormous planet, filled
with caves like a giant Swiss cheese! You simply lucked out, you idiot, and
then you didn t manage to follow it through, so you ended up bringing me
charred bones instead of an animal!
The Hunter clenched his hands so that his knuckles cracked. No, Lin, I didn t
bring you an animal, he muttered. I brought you an alien spacer.
How many words you wasted, Lin old fellow! How many times you tried to
convince me! How many times I thought that doubt had departed forever, that I
could breathe easy again and not know myself a murderer. Could be like other
people. Like the children playing Martian hide-and-seek. But you can t kill
doubt with casuistry.
He lay his hands on the case and pressed his face to the clear plastic. What
are you? he asked with sad yearning.
Lin saw him from afar, and, as always, he was unbearably pained by the sight
of a man once so daring and cheerful, now so fearfully broken by his own
conscience. But he pretended that everything was wonderful, like the wonderful
sunny Capetown day. Clicking his heels noisily, Lin went up to the Hunter, put
his hand on his shoulder, and exclaimed in a deliberately cheery voice, The
meeting is over! I could eat a horse, Polly, so we ll go to my place now and
have a glorious dinner! Marta has made real Afrikaner oxtail soup in your
honor today. Come on, Hunter, the soup awaits us!
Let s go, the Hunter said quietly.
I already phoned home. Everyone is aching to see you and hear your stories.
The Hunter nodded and walked slowly toward the exit. Lin looked at his stooped
back and turned to the exhibit. His eyes met the dead white eyes behind the
clear pane. Did you have your talk? Lin asked silently.
Yes.
You didn t tell him anything?
No.
Lin looked at the descriptive plaque. Quadrabrachium tridac-tylus. Acquired
by Hunter P. Gnedykh. Prepared by Doctor A. Kostylin. He looked at the Hunter
again and quickly, stealthily, after Quadrabrachium tridactylus, with his
little finger he traced the word sapiens. Of course not one stroke remained
on the plaque, but even so Lin hurriedly erased it with his palm.
It was a burden on Doctor Aleksandr Kostylin too. He knew for sure, had known
from the very first.
20. What You Will Be Like
The ocean was mirror smooth. The water by the shore was so calm that the dark
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fibers of seaweed that usually swayed on the bottom, hung motionless.
Kondratev steered the minisub into the cove, brought it right up to shore, and
announced, We re here.
The passengers began to stir.
Where s my camera? asked Slavin.
I m lying on it, Gorbovsky answered in a weak voice. Which, I might add, is
very uncomfortable. Can I get out?
Kondratev threw open the hatch, and everyone caught sight of the clear blue
sky. Gorbovsky climbed out first. He took some uncertain steps along the
rocks, stopped, and poked at a dry mat of driftwood with his foot. How nice
it is here! he exclaimed. How soft! May I lie down?
You may, said Slavin. He also got out of the hatch and stretched happily.
Gorbovsky lay down immediately.
Kondratev dropped anchor. I personally don t advise lying on driftwood. There
are always thousands of sand fleas there.
Slavin, spreading his legs exaggeratedly wide, started the movie camera
chattering. Smile! he said sternly.
Kondratev smiled.
Wonderful! shouted Slavin, sinking down on one knee.
I don t quite understand about fleas, came Gorbovsky s voice. What do they
do, Sergei, just hop? Or can they bite you?
Yes, they can bite you, Kondratev answered. Quit waving that camera at me,
Evgeny! Go gather some driftwood and make a fire. He climbed into the
hatchway and got a bucket.
Slavin squatted down and started digging briskly into the driftwood with two
hands, picking out the larger pieces. Gorbovsky watched him with interest.
Still, Sergei, I don t quite understand about the fleas.
They burrow into the skin, Kondratev explained, rinsing the pail out with
industrial alcohol. And they multiply there.
Oh, said Gorbovsky, turning over on his back. That s terrible.
Kondratev filled the pail with fresh water from the tank on the submarine, and
jumped onto the shore. Without talking, he deftly gathered driftwood, lit a
fire, hung the pail over it, and got a line, hooks, and a box of bait out of
his voluminous pockets. Slavin came up with a handful of wood chips.
Look after the fire, Kondratev directed. I ll catch some perch. I ll be
back in an instant. Jumping from stone to stone, he headed toward a large
moss-covered rock sticking out of the water twenty paces from the shore, moved
around a bit on it, and then settled down. The morning was quiet the sun, just
coming above the horizon, shone straight into the cove, blinding him. Slavin
sat down tailor-fashion by the fire and started feeding in chips.
Amazing creatures, human beings, Gorbovsky said suddenly. Follow their
history for the past ten thousand years. What an amazing development has been
achieved by the productive sector, for instance. How the scope of scholarship
has broadened! And new fields and new professions crop up every year. For
instance, I recently met a certain comrade, a very important specialist, who
teaches children how to walk. And this specialist told me that there is a very
complicated theory behind this work.
What s his name? Slavin asked lazily.
Elena something. I ve forgotten her last name. But that s not the point. What
I mean is that here we have the sciences and the means of production always
developing, while our amusements, our means of recreation, are the same as in
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