The Land of Crimson Clouds--Arkadiy and Boris Strugatskiy--Translation Chapter 1
After finishing the first trillogy of books written by the legendary Soviet sci-fi duo, brothers Arkadiy and Boris Strugatskiy, I started thinking about how much I want to share these books with my non-Russian-speaking friends. These are a bit different from the ones that made the Strugatskiy brothers famous, like Roadside Picnic, which was adapted into the well-known film Stalker, directed by Andrei Tarkovskiy. The first two, The Land of Crimson Clouds and The Way to Amalthea, are simple space adventures, without the philosophical themes typical of their later work. The third, Interns, feels like a transition into "softer", more thoughtful science fiction, though it features the same characters as the other two.
Now, some may say that "shallow" sci-fi adventures are not all that worth reading. To these people, I say "Star Wars", and continue that anything is worth reading if it is a well-designed and interestingly presented story with realistic characters and gripping action. And while the Strugatskiy brothers may have seen their first book as a bit of a failure ("The first pancake is a lump", as they say in Russian"), it was something new in the USSR at the time, and I think it can still be appreciated today. All the more, in fact, given the optimism in it, that classic spirit in all 50s and 60s sci-fi, from an era when it seemed that travel into deep space was just around the corner, that warring countries could make peace, and that any planet might support life. I don't know how much of this I can translate or how fast, but in any case, I can now proudly present to you, in modern English, the first chapter of the first book of the first trillogy written by Arkadiy and Boris Strugatskiy:
THE LAND OF CRIMSON CLOUDS
[Anything in brackets is my addition, not in the original text.]
Part One
THE SEVENTH POLYGON
1. A SERIOUS CONVERSATION [AKA Always Research the Company Before your Job Interview]
The secretary raised his single eye toward Bykov.
“From Central Asia?"
“Yes.”
“Documents, please . . .”
The secretary thrust his hand, dark and clawlike, with a disproportionately long pointer finger, across the table; he was missing three fingers and half of his palm. Bykov placed his ID and travel order in the claw. The secretary leisurely unfolded the order and read:
“Engineer-mechanic Alexei Petrovich Bykov of the Gobi Sino-Soviet Expedition Base is directed by the Ministry of Geology to attend a meeting on his future career development. Grounds: a request from SIPRC assistant chairman . . .”
He then glanced over the ID, returned it and pointed to a door covered in black linoleum.
“Go in. Comrade Krayukhin is waiting for you.”
Bykov asked:
“I leave the order with you?”
“You leave the order with me.”
In the chairs along the walls of the reception hall sat a handful of people, obviously waiting their turn to be called. None of them paid the slightest attention to Alexei. That seemed strange to him-he had heard very different reports about the customs in reception halls in the capital. But both the one-eyed secretary and the complacent visitors instantly dropped out of his mind when he stepped across the threshold into the office.
In the wide, dimly lit room, the windows were hatched with bamboo blinds. The bare plastic walls weakly reflected the faint light. The floor was covered with soft red carpeting. Bykov looked around, searching for the owner of the office, and noticed two bald heads by a broad, bare writing desk. One head, pale, even a bit greyish, towered motionlessly above the back of a visitors’ chair. Another, bright saffron, was bent over a pile of folders on the other side of the table and swaying up and down, as though its owner was suspiciously sniffing the tracings and blue photocopies of diagrams that lay before him.
Then Bykov saw a third bald head: it belonged to a monstrously fat figure in a grey jumpsuit, sprawled out on the carpet with its bare grey head clumsily jammed into the corner between the wall and a safe. A red cord stretched out from the back of its neck and disappeared under the table.
Sure, every authority figure has some unusual habits, but wasn’t this a little much? Bykov awkwardly shifted from one foot to the other, tugged once more at the zipper on his jacket, and looked anxiously at the door. At that moment the saffron head disappeared. There was a snuffling sound, and a hollow, hoarse voice contentedly proclaimed, “it holds perfectly! Just perfectly!” And then a ponderous, slumped figure in a nylon work jumpsuit slowly rose above the desk.
This was a person of incredible height, extremely broad in the shoulders and probably quite heavy. His face, covered with pockmarked brown skin, looked like a mask; his thin-lipped mouth was stretched into a straight line, and round eyes without lashes stared coldly and attentively at Bykov from underneath his powerful, jutting brow.
“What do you want?” He inquired hoarsely.
“I’m here to see comrade Krayukhin,” said Bykov, cautiously glancing at the bald figure lolling on the carpet.
“I’m Krayukhin.” The man with round eyes also glanced at the figure, then fixed his gaze on Bykov again.
The bald head in the chair remained motionless. Bykov hesitated for a second, took a few steps forward and introduced himself. Krayukhin tilted his head and listened.
“Good to meet you,” he said coldly.
“I expected you yesterday, Comrade Bykov. Please sit down.” He pointed to the chair with a huge, shovel-like palm. “Here, please. Free the space and sit.”
Understanding nothing, Bykov approached the desk, turned toward the chair and barely held back a nervous laugh. In the chair lay a strange costume, somewhat like a scuba suit, made of sturdy grey fabric. A round silvery helmet with metal fastenings stuck out behind it.
“Pick it up and put it on the floor,” said Krayukhin.
Bykov turned to look at the fat scarecrow lying by the safe in the corner.
“That’s a suit too,” said Krayukhin impatiently. “Go on and sit!”
Bykov quickly emptied the chair and sat, feeling a bit embarrassed. Krayukhin stared at him, unblinking.
“So . . .” he tapped at the table with his pale fingers. “Well then, Comrade Bykov, we’ll get to know each other. Call me Nikolai Zakharovich, love me and pity me, so to speak. You’ll be working under my direction. If, of course . . .”
A sudden ringing interrupted him. He picked up the phone.
“One minute, Comrade Bykov. Yes? Right, I . . .”
After that he didn’t say a single word, but in the blue light from the videophone screen Bykov saw that his face suddenly flushed red and dark networks of veins stood out on his bare temples. Clearly, this was a very serious conversation. Bykov politely averted his eyes and began examining the suit on the carpet next to his chair. Through the open collar, he could see the insides of the helmet. Bykov thought he could make out the rough texture of the carpet behind it, although from the outside, the silvery orb was entirely opaque. Bykov bent slightly to look at the helmet in more detail, but at that moment Krayukhin hung up the phone with a sharp crack, followed by the soft click of a switch.
“Call Pokatilov!” ordered Krayukhin in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes sir!” answered an unseen interlocuter.
“In an hour.”
“Yes sir, in an hour!”
The switch clicked again, and all was quiet. Bykov raised his eyes and saw that Krayukhin was roughly rubbing his face.
“So,” he said calmly, having noticed that Bykov was looking at him. “What a dimwit! Pushing water uphill with a rake . . . so sorry, Comrade Bykov. What were we . . . oh yes. Once more, I’m very sorry. Anyhow, this conversation of ours is a serious one, and there isn’t much time. No time at all. Let’s get down to business . . . first of all, I would like to know you a bit better. Tell me about yourself.”
“What exactly?” asked Bykov.
“Your biography.”
“Biography?” The engineer thought for a moment. “My story is very simple. I was born in 19- [1] in a boat driver’s family, near Gorky. [2] My father died young, when I wasn’t even three years old. I spent fifteen years living and studying at a boarding school. Then I worked four years as a motorist’s assistant and motorist on the amphibious rocket hydroplanes on the Volga. I played hockey. I competed in two tournaments with the “Volga” team. Then I enrolled in a land transport technical university. Formerly a school for the armored tank divisions. (He was pricked by an unpleasant thought: “why am I talking so much?”) I completed a course in exploratory jet-based transport. Well . . . they sent me to the mountains, around Tien Shan . . . then to the desert, the Gobi . . . that’s where I served. And joined the Party. What else? I guess that’s all."
“Yes, a simple enough story,” agreed Krayukhin. “So, you’re 33 now?”
“I’ll be 34 in a month.”
“And you’re not married, of course?”
A question like that from a superior seemed rather tactless to Bykov. The engineer didn’t like jabs at his appearance, and that “of course” jarred him. Besides, he was pretty sure that Krayukhin’s own face didn’t exactly correspond to the ideals of male beauty. He even started to say something to that effect, but thought better of it. In any case, his looks probably weren’t a deciding factor in Krayukhin’s opinion, and Bykov was aware of at least one woman for whom his sunburned face, slab of a nose and bristly red hair were not a deciding factor.
“I mean to say,” Krayukhin continued, “it seems that six months ago you were still a bachelor.”
“Yes,” Bykov answered dryly. “I still am. For now . . .”
Bykov suddenly realized that Krayukhin knew a lot about him already and was asking questions not because he wanted to know the answers, but rather in order to form a “personal impression”, or with some other unclear goal. That was concerning, and Bykov collected himself.
“I’m a bachelor for now,” he repeated.
“And therefore,” said Krayukhin, “you have no close relatives?”
“That’s right, none.”
“And you are, so to speak, entirely alone and independent . . .”
“Alone, yes. Alone for now.”
“Where did you say you served most recently?”
“In the Gobi . . .”
“How long?”
“Three years . . .”
“Three years! All that time in the desert?”
“Yes. With short breaks, of course. Official errands, classes . . . but mostly in the desert.”
“Aren’t you sick of it?”
Bykov thought that over.
“It was hard at first,” he said carefully. “Then I got used to it. It’s not easy to work there, of course.” He recalled the fiery sky and black ocean of sand. “But you can come to love even a desert.”
“Can you?” said Krayukhin. “Can you love the desert? Do you love it?”
“I’m used to it.”
“Your most recent position?”
“Captain of the Gobi Expedition Base Atomic All-Terrain Transporter Convoy.”
“So, you’re good with vehicles, then?”
“It depends what kind . . .”
“Well, your atomic all-terrainers, at least?”
This seemed like a pointless question to Bykov, so he didn’t answer.
“Tell me, was it you who ran the rescue mission for Dauge’s expedition last year?”
“It was.”
“Good work, you did wonderfully! Without you they would have died.”
Bykov shrugged his shoulders.
“For us it was a pretty ordinary rapid deployment exercise. Nothing more.”
Krayukhin’s eyes narrowed.
“But some of your people were injured, weren’t they? If memory serves me right.”
Bykov flushed-given the color of his face, this was a frightening sight-and said spitefully:
“There was a black storm! I’m not showing off, Comrade Krayukhin. Pretty marches with music only happen at parades in Moscow. In the sands it’s not so easy.”
He was getting flustered. Krayukhin looked him over with a vague smirk.
“Alright . . . not so easy . . . three years in the sands. That’s a lot. And that’s good. Tell me, comrade Bykov. Do you have any interests aside from your work?”
Bykov looked at him, puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you do when you aren’t working?”
“Hm . . . I read, of course. And play chess.”
“You have some written work, do you not?”
“I do.”
“A lot?”
“No, not much. Two articles in the journal Caterpillar Transport.”
“What did you write about?”
“Atomic motor repair in field conditions. Based on my experience.”
“Atomic motor repair . . . very interesting. By the way, is there any other physical activity you like, aside from hockey?”
“Unarmed self-defense . . . I’m an instructor.”
“That’s excellent. And have you ever been interested in astronomy?”
It seemed to Bykov that Krayukhin was making fun of him. He answered:
“No, I’ve never been interested in astronomy.”
“Pity!”
“I guess . . .”
“The fact of the matter is that your work with us, Alexei Petrovich, will be related to that science, to an understandable extent.”
The engineer frowned.
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand you . . .”
“What did they tell you when they sent you here?”
“That they were sending me to discuss participation in a scientific expedition. Temporarily . . .”
“And they didn’t say what sort of expedition?”
“To a desert of some kind, to search for rare minerals.”
Krayukhin cracked his pale fingers and laid his hands on the table.
“Yes, that makes sense,” he mumbled. “Perfect sense. They don’t know.” He sighed. “Now, Alexei Petrovich. Clearly enough, astronomy isn’t important here. Rather, it’s marginally important. More precisely: for you, it’s marginally important. It doesn’t matter that you’ve never been interested in astronomy. It will hardly be useful to you here. At most you might read something or have something explained to you. But the important thing is that you won’t be working here. That is, on Earth.”
Bykov blinked nervously. Suddenly he felt just as strange as he had half an hour ago, when he stepped across the threshold into the office.
“I’m afraid I . . . don’t understand,” he said with a stutter. “Not on Earth? On the Moon, then?”
“No, not on the moon. Much further off.”
This was like a bizarre dream. Krayukhin, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers, continued:
“Why are you so surprised, Alexei Petrovich? People have been flying to other planets for thirty years already. You think these are different, special people of some kind? Nothing of the sort. They’re ordinary people, just like you. People of various professions. I, for one, am convinced that you could become an outstanding interplanetor. In fact, many interplanetors came to us from outside, so to speak, for example, from aviation. I understand that for you, an engineer with a very “earth-oriented” focus, the possibility of participating in work like ours simply never came to mind. But certain circumstances have arisen, and now we are sending an expedition to Venus and need someone who is an expert on work in desert conditions. The sands there can hardly be much different from the Gobi you love. But it will be a bit more difficult there . . .”
Suddenly Bykov remembered:
“The Uranium Golkonda!”
Krayukhin glanced quickly and attentively at him.
“Yes, the Uranium Golkonda. See, you know everything already.”
“Venus . . .” Bykov said slowly. “The Uranium Golkonda . . .” he shook his head and laughed. “Me-suddenly off to the sky! It’s unbelievable!”
“Well, why not? You aren’t such a sinner. And besides, we aren’t sending you to the gardens of paradise. Or maybe . . .” Krayukhin leaned down and lowered his voice. “Maybe you’re afraid?”
Bykov thought for a moment.
“It’s frightening for sure,” he admitted. “Terrifying, even. Cause I-I might not be able to handle it. Of course, if all you need from me is what I already know how to do, then why not?” He looked at Krayukhin and smiled. “No, I’m not too afraid to accept. But you know, this is very unexpected. And anyway, why are you . . . are you really sure I can do this?”
“I am entirely sure that you can do this. Of course, it will be difficult, very, very difficult, and surely there will be dangers which, as of now, we can’t even imagine . . . but you will handle them.”
“You would know, comrade Krayukhin.”
“Yes, I believe I do know. Well then, Alexei Petrovich, shall we conclude that you won’t go running back to your ministry and start begging them to let you off for health reasons or family circumstances?”
“Comrade Krayukhin!”
“You think that doesn’t happen?” Krayukhin’s face darkened. “Stronger candidates than you, sitting in that very chair, have balked in the most deplorable way.” He ran a hand across his face. “In all honestly, I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a long time, and I’m glad I wasn’t wrong.”
Bykov huffed uncomfortably and looked away. Then, with a sudden realization, he said:
“How do you know about me, comrade Krayukhin?”
“I knew about the rescue of Dauge’s expedition. That was an expedition under our jurisdiction, and I’ve been keeping tabs on you since then. I asked for your profile and so on. Now the time has come, so we called you in.”
“Fair enough.”
“Usually we give candidates some time to think. A week, sometimes a month. But this time we can’t wait. Make your decision, Alexei Petrovich. I should warn you: if you have any reason to hesitate, you should refuse. I won’t take offense.”
Bykov laughed.
“Oh no, comrade Krayukhin, I won’t refuse. If you think I can handle this, I won’t refuse. I’m in. It’s a surprise for sure, but no problem, I’ll get used to it. I’m in.”
“Just magnificent.”
Krayukhin nodded calmly and glanced at his watch.
“Let’s see now. The expedition will be relatively short, no longer than a month and a half. Does that suit you?”
“Suits me . . .”
“I won’t be explaining the details of your assignment now. You’ll find out later. Right now time is of the essence. Just keep in mind that we fly out tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? To Venus?”
“No, not to Venus right away. We will be working on Earth for now. But not in Moscow-somewhere else. By the way, where’s your luggage?”
“Downstairs, in the coatroom. I don’t have much-a suitcase and duffel bag. I didn’t know . . .”
“No matter. Where are you planning to stay? I recommend the Hotel Prague. It’s close, right by us.”
Bykov nodded.
“I know it. A nice hotel.”
“Very nice. I’ll let you go now, and in . . .” Krayukhin looked at his watch again. “In a little over two hours, at precisely seventeen-hundred, comrade cosmonaut, you will come here again. And you’ll see someone you recognize. Have you had lunch? Of course you haven’t. We have a cafeteria on the thirteenth floor. Have some food, relax a while in our library or club-those are also right here, no need to leave the building-and come back at seventeen-hundred hours. Go on, now. It’s time to give someone a tongue-lashing, so to speak.”
Bykov, still a bit excited, got up, and after a moment’s hesitation asked the question that had been bothering him this whole time.
“Comrade Krayukhin, what’s the full name of this institution? The order just says SIPRC, and I think I interpreted that wrong.”
“The SIPRC is the State Interplanetary Relations Committee of the Council of Ministers. And I am the assistant chair of the committee.”
“Thanks,” said Bykov.
“The Interplanetary Relations Committee,” he mumbled to himself, turning to the door. Of course . . . I thought it was the State International Polytechnic Relations Committee . . . Quite the abbreviation . . .”
In the doorway Bykov ran into a long and gangly man rushing madly into the office. Bykov only had time to note that the man wore thick glasses with elegant black frames and was extremely pale. He did not notice the other visitor and, slamming right into Bykov’s chest, cried from the doorway:
“Nikolai Zakharovich!”
“Where is the sixth reactor?” Bykov heard Krayukhin’s enraged hoarse bass.
“Nikolai, just let me-”
“I said, where’s the sixth reactor?!”
Engineer Bykov closed the door and went toward the exit of the reception hall. The dark-faced secretary followed him with his one lonely eye, then bent over his desk once more.
[1] According to my calculations based on dates and ages mentioned in this book and the two subsequent ones, these events must be happening around approximately 1995, though obviously in an alternate universe where the Soviet Union survived and Everything is Fine. That means if you were born in the early 1960s (just after this book was written), Bykov is in your generation. Have fun with that.
[2] The Soviet name of the city now known as Nizhniy Novgorod.