are permitted to alter that life.  But what kind of
a model is  it that does not replicate  the  original? Irene's mother  stays
alive, Lange is shot down by a burst of gunfire, and  Etienne will  probably
be finished off by his own men. Why? In the name of supreme justice attained
with our aid? I  hardly  think so;  that  would  no longer  be a  model  but
creativity. Then what is real in this model and what is simply make believe?
Whence flows the  Moskva River  and where  does it  break  off?  Perhaps  it
doesn't flow  at all. Is the entire parapet made of granite or is the inside
compressed smoke like in Sand City? Maybe the only reality in this  model is
myself,  standing  somewhere,   whereas  all  the  rest  is  a  mirage,  the
projections of dreams and of memory. But of  whose? What connection is there
between it and the  memory of Lange?  Why connect the unconnectable? Why, in
order to make  contact with us, it  is necessary to paste  together the past
and the present-what is  more, an alien past-and then alter it? Millions  of
'whys' and 'wherefores' and not one iota of logic."
     I  said all that without stopping. A  rose-coloured  fog was  billowing
above us, condensing and turning crimson underneath, near the staircase. One
could  not distinguish things at a meter and a half distance. I  counted six
steps, the seventh was enveloped in red smoke.
     "Still billowing," said  Zernov, catching my glance. "Let's  sit  quiet
until it strikes. There are some answers to our queries. You'll  answer them
yourself after some thought. First of all, what  is  modelled? Not  only the
memory. The  psychic make-up of the  individual  as  well. Thoughts, wishes,
recollections,  dreams.  Thoughts, as  you  know,  are not  always  logical,
associations are not always comprehensible, and recollections do not  always
follow events chronologically. Do not be surprised at the fragmentary nature
or  chaotic  arrangement of what has been seen,  this  is not  a film. Life,
recreated by  memory cannot be otherwise. Try to recall some eventful day of
the past.  Keep the events properly  sequenced,  from  morning till evening.
You'll never do it. No matter how hard  you try, you will lack coherency and
sequence. Something will be forgotten, something left out, something will be
recalled more vividly, something hazily, some  act  will slip by  nebulously
and indistinct, and you  will make  yourself miserable striving to  catch at
the recollection that is just  beyond your grasp. But still this is life. It
may be hazy and alogical, but it  is real and not concocted. Then  of course
there is the completely false."
     I couldn't get it.
     "False, why false?"
     "Imagined," he explained. "Life created solely by  the  force of  whim,
fancy or  simply supposition.  Say,  recalling something read  or seen at  a
movie, and you imagine  yourself the  hero, offering this  life concocted by
someone as  the real actuality, or  something  you yourself  create, invent,
make up. It's lucky you and I haven't  as yet come across any  such life, if
you can call it such. So far..." he repeated deep in thought. "The encounter
might still take place. Not excluded at all. Look how it's billowing...."
     The red fluid was still flowing round the staircase. I sighed.
     "Taking their  time about  today, it seems. And silent  as  hell, awful
silence, no squeaks, not a rustle."
     Zernov did not reply. A few seconds passed before he said, in a worried
tone, "The curious  thing is that every time  we are given full  freedom  of
action, they do not interfere or control us. And  they give us to understand
as much."
     "Martin and I  never realized  that," I said. "I still don't understand
why we were allowed to alter the model?"
     "Well,  you have the  stimulus of experimentation, don't you?  They are
studying, trying and combining things. Say, an exposure of somebody's memory
is obtained, a picture of the past. But this is not a film,  only the course
of a life. The past becomes,  as it were, the present and ready to form  the
future. Now,  do  we  have  a new factor  in  the  present  The future  will
unavoidably change. We are the new factor, the basis of the experiment. With
our help, they get two exposures  of the same picture  and can compare them.
You think they understand everything we do? Most likely not. That's why they
try one experiment after the other."
     "Yea, and meanwhile our hair stands on end," I said.
     It seemed to be getting lighter. Zernov noticed it too.
     "How many steps do you see?" he asked.
     "Ten," I counted.
     "There were six before, I counted them. The rest was a blur of red. I'm
fed up with this. 'isle of safety'. My back's aching. Let's risk it, what do
you say? Over to my room. We'll at least get some rest, like human beings."
     "Mine's a floor above yours."
     "Mine's  right here," Zernov pointed to the nearest door that was still
enveloped in red smoke. "Let's try."
     We dived into the flowing cloud of red, cautiously approached the door.
Zernov opened it and we went in.




        Chapter XXIII. A CLASH



     But there was no room at all. No ceiling, no walls,  no floor. Instead,
a broad roadway opened up before us, grey from the dust. All about was grey,
the  bushes  along  the  road, the  woods  beyond, all cockeyed, grotesquely
distorted  like the drawings of Gustav Dore, above  this dirty ragged clouds
crawled.
     "We risked it," said Zernov turning round. "Where has it gotten us?"
     On the right the road went down towards a river hid by a small hill, to
the  left it turned round  an enormous  oak  tree,  also grey, as if freshly
powdered with lead dust. From that direction came the sounds of a shepherd's
or,  more  likely,  child's  pipe because  the  melody  was very  primitive,
monotonous with the same importunate sad refrain.
     We  went  over to the  other  side of  the highway and  beheld the most
unlikely procession imaginable.  A few dozen  kids,  little kids, dressed in
shirts reaching to their knees and in pants, in tiny fur-trimmed jackets and
in hoods and tassels. Heading the procession  was  a ragged man in the  very
same  absurd jacket and short pants.  He had on long  woollen  stockings and
heavy shoes with tin buckles. He was the one who was piping the song that so
hypnotized the children. Hypnotized is the word because the kids moved as if
in  a  trance, speechless, never  turning  their heads to right or left. The
leader kept  on  playing  and kept  on  plunking  his heavy  feet  down in a
soldier's march, throwing up clouds of grey dust.
     "Hey," I yelled, when the curious procession had come up to us.
     "Leave'm alone," Zernov said. "That's a fairy tale "
     "A fairy tale?"
     "You know, the Pied Piper of Hamelin."
     Off in the  distance, in an  opening in the  curved woods, rose  Gothic
spires of a medieval  town. The children kept  following the  Pied Piper who
had hypnotized them.
     I had  wanted to grab  the last  one, barefoot in  ragged  pants, but I
stumbled over  something and spread out there  on  the road. Nobody  even so
much as turned his head.
     "Strange dust," I said knocking it out of my clothing,  "Doesn't  leave
any traces."
     "Maybe there isn't any  dust  at all. And no road either,"  said Zernov
with a smirk, and added, "False life, remember?"
     The  solution to the  riddle that had  plagued  me  for so long at last
percolated through.
     "You know why it's so grey all about?  It's from the line illustrations
to the fairy tale  done in pencil or pen. Lines and blur, no colours at all.
An illustration from a children's book."
     "We even know from which  one. Remember the little girl and the cure at
the table d'hote?"
     I did not answer, something changed instantaneously. The piping ceased.
A distant clack of hooves on the  road took its place. The familiar red  fog
enveloped  the bushes. Incidentally, it vanished  almost immediately and the
bushes stretched out along  the roadway all green. The woods disappeared and
the road broke off into a steep rocky decline, beyond which vineyards sloped
away. Lower still, just like in the Crimea, was a blue sea. Everything about
took on its natural colours:  the blue of the  sky showing through breaks in
the clouds, the red  spots of  clayey  soil  between rocks and the yellow of
sun-burnt grass. Even the dust on the road was, you might say, suntan.
     "There's  somebody coming on  horseback," said Zernov, "the  show isn't
over yet."
     Three horsemen emerged from a turn in the road. They were coming single
file,  behind them  were two horses both with saddles. The cavalcade came to
halt near where  we stood. All three of them were in different cuirasses and
identical  long black  coats with copper buttons.  Their jack boots,  turned
reddish from long wear, were covered with grey mud.
     "Who are these?" asked the senior horseman in  broken French. Away from
his  black  moustache  stretched  a  week's   growth   of  stubble.  In  his
museum-piece cuirass and sheathless sword stuck into his belt, he  seemed to
have stepped right out of an old novel.
     "What century is it?" I asked myself mentally. "The thirty-years war or
later? The soldiers of Wallenstein or Karl the Twelfth? Or the Swiss Reiters
in France? And in what France? Before Richelieu or after?"
     "Papists?" asked the horseman.
     Zernov laughed. This masquerade was getting to be funny indeed.
     "We  have no  faith,"  he replied  in  good  French,  "we're  not  even
Christians. We're atheists."
     "What's  that  he says, Captain?"  asked the junior  horseman. He spoke
German.
     "I do not know myself," he  said  switching  to  German. "Strange dress
too, like comedians at the fair."
     "Perhaps this is a mistake, Captain. They may not be the ones."
     "And  where will we look for those? Let Bonnville  himself Investigate.
Come along," he added in French.
     "I can't," said Zernov.
     "What?"
     "I don't know how to ride a horse."
     The  horseman laughed  and  said  something in  German.  Now all  three
laughed. "So he can't ride horseback! A doctor, no less."
     "Put  him in the middle. You two on the sides, one foot apiece. And see
that he doesn't fall off. And you?" the black moustache turned to me.
     "I don't intend to go anyway," I said.
     "Yuri, don't argue!" Zernov yelled in Russian- he was already seated on
the horse  holding onto the pommel of the  saddle. "Agree to everything  and
hold off as long as possible."
     "What's  the language  he speaks?" asked the  black-moustache frowning.
"Gipsy?"
     "Latin," I growled. "Dominus vobiscum. Let's get going."
     And I jumped into the saddle. It was not English, not modern, but of an
old unfamiliar shape with copper badges at the corners. That did not disturb
me, I had learned to ride horseback at the institute riding club that taught
most  of  the  elements of  the modern  pentathlon. Back in  the old days  a
certain brave man volunteered to deliver  an urgent message. He overcame all
obstacles in  his  way: he jumped, ran, swam a rushing river, used firearms,
and his sword. At the club we weren't taught  that much, but we learned some
of  the elements. One thing, I  wasn't very  good  at clearing  obstacles on
horseback. "If ever a fence or ditch turns up along the way, I'll never make
it," I thought to myself apprehensively. But there was no time to think. The
black  moustache lashed my  horse  and we took off, catching  up with Zernov
with  his side bodyguards. His  face was whiter than paper, quite naturally,
since  this was his first ride  in a saddle  and what is more, in  a furious
race!
     We pounded  along  without a word spoken,  the  black moustache  always
close by. I heard the thud of the hooves of my horse, the heavy panting, the
warmth  of  its neck,  the tense  resistance of the stirrups-no, this was no
illusion, no deception, this was real  life, a different alien life in other
space and  time, life that had sucked us under like a swamp its victims. The
closeness of the sea, the warm humidity of the air, the twisting rocky road,
vineyards  on the slopes,  unfamiliar trees with large broad leaves  shining
brightly in the sunlight, donkeys slowly dragging squeaky two-wheeled carts,
one-storey stone houses in the villages, mica windows and garlands of drying
red pepper, crude  sculptures of madonnas  near wells,  men with  bronze-tan
torsos  in  ragged  trousers  reaching  to their  knees,  women in  homespun
dresses, and completely naked children-this was a picture of the  south, the
south of France, and of no modern France either.
     We galloped for about an hour. Luckily there  were no major  obstacles,
except huge boulders  along the roadside, the  remnants of landships cleared
away long ago. A white stone wall half  as high again as a man brought us to
a halt. The wall surrounded a woods or park several  kilometres on  one side
because the end was nowhere in sight. Here, where the wall turned northwards
from  the sea, was  a man waiting. He  was  dressed  in  the same fancy-ball
costume  of green velvet and in  well-worn  reddish  boots like those  of my
companions and in a hat  without feathers but  with a  large brightly shined
copper buckle. His  right hand was  in a sling made of rags, perhaps from an
old shirt,  one eye  was  covered  with a black patch.  There  was something
familiar in the  face, though it was not the face that interested me but the
sword at his side. Out of what century  had this d'Artagnan appeared, though
this one resembled  more  a  common  scarecrow  than my  favourite  hero  of
childhood.
     The horsemen dismounted and pulled down Zernov. He could not even stand
and slumped to  the grass by  the  roadway. I  wanted to  help him,  but the
one-eyed man was already at his side.
     "Get up," he said to Zernov. "Can you stand?"
     "I can't", Zernov groaned.
     "What shall I do with  you?" asked  the  one-eyed man worried, and then
turned to me. "I've seen you some place before."
     I  recognized him at once. This was  Mongeus-seau, the interlocutor  of
the  Italian  movie  man  at  the  restaurant,  Mongeusseau,  rapierist  and
swordsman, Olympic champion and the first sword of France.
     "Where did you pick them up?" he asked the black moustache.
     "On the road. Aren't they the ones?"
     "Don't you  see?  What am I going to do  with them?" he repeated  at  a
loss. "I'm no longer Bonnville with them."
     A  red cloud boiled  up on the road. Out of the foam came a head,  then
black silk pajamas, I recognized the producer Carresi.
     "You are Bonnville  and not Mongeusseau,"  he said. The corners  of his
lips and his sunken cheeks trembled terribly as he spoke.  "You are somebody
from another age. Clear?"
     "I have my memory," objected the one-eyed man.
     "Then stamp it out. Switch out. Forget everything outside the film."
     "Do these  people  have any relation  to  the film?" and  the  one-eyed
glanced in my direction. "Have you warned them?"
     "No, of course not. That is the act of a different will. I am powerless
to extract them. But you, Bonnville, can."
     "How?"
     "Like a Balzac  hero freely creating  the plot. My thoughts only direct
you. You are the master of  the plot. Bonnville is a mortal enemy of Savari.
That is  crucial  to  you at the  present.  But remember:  without the right
hand!"
     "As a lefty I won't even be allowed to contest?"
     "As the left-hander Mongeusseau, not even today. As  a lefty, Bonnville
living in another age will fight with his left hand."
     "Like a schoolboy."
     "Like a tiger."
     The cloud again boiled  up consuming the film producer and then  melted
away. Bonnville turned to the dismounted horsemen.
     "Throw him  over the wall."  He nodded in the direction of Zernov lying
on the ground. "Let Savari nurse him himself."
     "Wait a minute!" I cried.
     But the point of Bonnville's sword was at my chest.
     "Worry about yourself," he said imperiously.
     Zernov  was already on the other side  of the wall, not even having had
time to cry out.
     "Murderer," I exclaimed.
     "Nothing's going to happen to him," Bonnville grinned. "The grass is up
to  your  waistline over  there.  He'll rest for  a while  and then  get up.
Meanwhile let's not be wasting  any time. Defend  yourself!" He  raised  his
sword.
     "Against you? That's ridiculous."
     "Why?"
     "Because you are Mongeusseau, Champion of France."
     "You are mistaken, I am Bonnville."
     "Don't try to fool me, I heard your conversation with the producer."
     "With whom?" he asked, failing to grasp what I had said.
     I  looked  him straight  in the eye.  He  was not playing any  role, he
indeed had failed to understand.
     "You must have been seeing things."
     It was useless to argue: here, before  me, was a switch-over man devoid
of his own memory. The film producer had done the thinking for him.
     "Defend yourself," he repeated severely.
     I purposely turned my back to him.
     "What for? I don't intend to in the least."
     The point of the sword bit  into my  back,  not deep, just through  the
jacket and enough for me to feel it. The most important thing was that I did
not doubt for  a moment that the sword would  have pierced me  through if he
had struck with more force.  I don't know how someone else would have  acted
in  my place, but suicide  does not have any attractions  for  me.  To fight
Mongeusseau would have been tantamount to committing suicide, but it was not
Mongeusseau that had bared his sword, but lefty  Bonnville. How long would I
stand  up  against  him? One minute, two minutes? Perhaps  a bit longer, who
knows.
     "Are you going to defend yourself?" he repeated once again.
     "I am unarmed."
     "Captain, your sword, please!" he cried.
     The black moustache, standing at some  distance,  threw me his sword. I
caught it by the handle.
     "Well done," Bonnville remarked.
     The sword was light  and sharp as  a  needle. It  did  not have the tip
covering the  point of the weapon in  sporting contests that I was used  to.
But the wrist  was protected by the familiar  spherical guard. The  grip was
likewise convenient. I cut the air with it and heard the swish that recalled
the days I fought for my team.
     "L'attack de droit," said Bonnville.
     I translated to myself "attack  from the  right". Bonnville was warning
me  condescendingly that he  was not afraid to open up his  plans to me.  At
that same instant he struck.
     I parried the blow.
     "Parre," he said. In  fencing lingo,  that means  to congratulate on  a
successful defence.
     I  retreated a little,  protecting myself with  the  sword,  which  was
somewhat longer than Bonn-ville's, thus giving me an advantage in defence. I
tried to recall the  words of my fencing instructor  in the old days: "Don't
let  yourself be fooled; he will retreat and your sword will cut the air. Do
not attack too  soon." I  made believe I was reverting  to the  defence.  He
jumped softly, cat-like, and dealt a blow from the left this time.
     Again I parried it.
     "Clever,"  Bonnville remarked.  "You  have intuition. Your luck that  I
attack with my left. You would be finished if it were with the right."
     His  blade, went for me like  a slender darting tentacle, quivering, as
if in search. He was after an opening in my  defence,  even the tiniest. Our
blades were holding a silent conversation. Mine said: "You won't get me, I'm
longer than you. Just turn aside and I'll get your shoulder." His said: "You
won't  get away.  See how I'm closing the distance? I'll get  you in the arm
now." Mine replied: "You won't have time. I'm above, and I'm longer than you
are." But Bonnville got around the length of my sword, he took  it aside and
then dealt a lighting blow.  However, the  blade  only pierced my jacket and
skimmed the skin of my body. Bonnville frowned.
     "Let's take off our coats," and he stepped back.
     I remained where  I stood. Without my jacket, in  my shirt, and  I felt
freer. And perhaps more defenceless. In our sport contests we usually put on
special  jackets that were  sewn with  fine  metal  threads. When the  sword
contacted the metal threads, the blow was recorded electrically. Here a blow
was a real one. The blade dipped into living tissue  and  cut blood vessels.
It could wound deeply, even kill. True, we were  in the same situation,  but
our skills differed. The blades  of our swords  struck in the same way,  our
shirts both freely opened up our bodies to  the opponent. But my tight short
sports  shirt  couldn't  match his  white  silken  shirt, like the one  Paul
Scofield played Hamlet in.
     We  crossed  swords.  I  recalled yet  another one of  my  instructor's
warning:  do not  attack too  soon, not until your opponent has  just for an
instant lost his feeling of distance. Wait until he  opens up. But Bonnville
did not open up.  His sword  buzzed around  my  chest like a wasp, ready  to
sting. But I retreated and parried blow after blow. What luck that he fought
with his left hand, I anticipated all his movements.
     Bonnville was obviously reading my thoughts.
     "With my left all I can do is stitch boots," he  said. "Would  you like
to see my right?"
     He took his arm out of the sling and tossed the sword over to his other
hand. Its blade flashed, knocked mine aside and hit me in the chest.
     "That's  the way  it's  done,"  he boasted, but  did not  have  time to
continue.
     Somebody, unseen, reminded him:
     "Use your left, Bonnville, your left! Take away the right!"
     Bonnville  obediently  switched  hands. The  red  spot on  my chest was
spreading.
     "Bandage it," said Bonnville.
     I was stripped of my  shirt and my shoulder was bandaged. It was not  a
deep  wound but  a  lot of blood was flowing. I flexed and extended my right
arm: there was no pain. I could still play for time.
     "Where did you study?" asked Bonnville. "In Italy?"
     "Why? What makes you  think  so?" "Your  defence  is very much like the
Italian way. But that will not help you."
     I  laughed and almost  let him  pass, for he was waiting for me  on the
right.  I  hardly  had  time  to back down,  his sword  only  slid along  my
shoulder. I parried it upwards and, in my turn, dealt
     a blow.
     "Well done," he said.
     "There's blood on your hand."
     "Nothing to worry about."
     His sword again whirled  about me. I parried, retreated, and my fingers
gripping the handle felt like ice.  I repeated  to myself, "Don't  fall, the
main thing is not to fall, don't fall!"
     "Don't drag it  out, Bonnville,"  said the  invisible voice, "there are
not going to be any retakes."
     "There  won't be anything,"  Bonnville replied, retreating  a  bit  and
giving me a breathing spell. "I can't get him with my left."
     "Then  he'll  get you. I'll change  the  plot. But you are a  superman,
Bonnville. That's the way I have devised you. Act! Courage, man!"
     Bonnville again stepped towards me.
     "So there was a conversation," I said with a snigger.
     "What conversation?"
     This was again a robot that forgot everything with the exception of his
ultra-task. Suddenly I felt a wall at my back. There was no room for further
retreat. "The end," I thought to myself helplessly.
     His sword again caught mine, flashed back  and then ran into my neck. I
did not feel  any  pain,  but something gurgled in my  throat. My knees gave
way, I fell on my sword, but it slipped  from my hands. The last I heard was
an exclamation as if from another world:
     "That's it."



         * PART FOUR. CONTACT ESTABLISHED!




        Chapter XXIV. AWAKENING



     What followed  I saw as fragments,  a disconnected sequence of nebulous
white patterns. The white spot  of the ceiling  above me,  white curtains at
the  windows that did not darken  the  room, and white sheets at my chin. In
this whiteness I  suddenly recognized some sort of nickel-plated cylindrical
surfaces, long tubes that coiled like snakes, and some faces bent over me.
     "He's conscious," I heard.
     "I see. Anesthesia."
     "Everything's ready, Professor."
     All this conversation was in French, fast French  that penetrated to my
consciousness  or  skimmed  across  a  chaos  of obscure  coded terms.  Then
everything  was blanked  out-light, thoughts, everything-then  again a fresh
awakening in white.  Again unfamiliar faces bent over me,  polished surfaces
of scissors or a spoon, a wrist-watch  or a needle. At times the nickel gave
way to the  transparent  yellow  of rubber gloves or  the rosy sterility  of
hands with close-cut nails. All of this lasted only a short time, then again
dropped  into  darkness where there  was no  space, no time, only  the black
vacuum of sleep.
     Then the  pictures gradually straightened out as if someone at controls
were  bringing them  into focus.  The peaked strict face of the professor in
white cap faded into a still more drawn face of the nurse in white headgear.
I  was  fed  broth and juices, my  throat was swathed and I was told not  to
talk.
     Somehow, however, I got out the words:
     "Where am I?"
     Rough hands of the nurse clamped down on my lips.
     "Silence. You  are  in  the clinic  of Professor Peletier. Take care of
your throat. Do not talk."
     Once, a very familiar  face bent down towards me with tinted glasses in
gold frames on.
     "You?" I exclaimed and did not  recognize  my own voice, neither hoarse
nor the scream of a bird.
     "Tss.. .." And she too covered my mouth, but so carefully, so  lightly.
"Everything's  all right, my love. You  are getting well but  you  must  not
speak yet.  Be silent  and wait. I will  return soon, very  soon.  Now go to
sleep."
     I slept, and woke up again, and I felt my throat become freer,  I could
taste the broth they gave me; then again the jab of a needle, again the dark
emptiness until finally I woke up for  good. I could speak, yell, sing-and I
knew it, there wasn't even any bandage.
     "What is  your name?" I asked my usually stern-faced guest in the white
cap.
     "Sister Therese."
     "Are you a nun?"
     "We are all nuns in this clinic."
     She  did not  stop me from  yelling  "hurrah", and I asked her  without
hidden guile, "So the Professor is catholic, isn't he?"
     "The Professor will burn in hell," she replied without a smile, "but he
knows that we are the most skilled nurses. That is our vow."
     "I'll probably burn in hell too," I thought and so changed the subject.
     "How long have I been in the clinic?"
     "This is the second week after the operation."
     "So he's an atheist?" I sniggered.
     She sighed, "These are all the affairs of God."
     "And the rose clouds too?"
     "In the Encyclical  of His  Holiness they are proclaimed to be made  by
human hands. The  creation of  our brethren  of  the Universe created in the
image of God."
     I  saw that His Holiness had given way to the lesser evil, casting  his
lot with the anthropocentric hypothesis. That was the only  way out for  the
Christian world. But for  science? What hypothesis did the  Congress uphold?
And why is it that I still don't know anything about this matter?
     "Is  this  a hospital or a jail?" I raged. "And  why am I being starved
with sleep?"
     "Not starved but treated. This is sleep therapy."
     "Aren't there any newspapers around here? Why can't I have something to
read?"
     "Complete cut-off from the outside world is also part of the treatment.
When the course of treatment is over, you'll have all the papers you want."
     "And when will that be?"
     "As soon as you are well."
     "And when.. .."
     "Ask the Professor."
     In a way, this was funny, but I wasn't getting anywhere so I decided an
attack from the flank.
     "Well, I certainly am much better, don't you think so?"
     "Yes, definitely."
     "Then, why am I not allowed visitors? Or have I been forgotten?'
     You have to be a nun to stand up to a patient like that. Sister Therese
withstood it all,  except once. Something like a smile even  ran  across her
imperturbable lips.
     "Today is visitor's day. It begins in. .." and she looked at her watch,
whose reflections I had  seen so many times during  my  awakenings, "in  ten
minutes."
     I  got through those ten minutes as  submissive as a lamb.  I was  even
allowed to  sit  up in bed  and  talk without looking at the clock, my vocal
chords had healed completely. But Irene said:
     "I'll do the talking, you ask questions."
     But  I didn't want  to ask anything, I just wanted to  repeat "dearest,
dearest, dearest" .... It was funny how it all happened: no explanations, no
sighing, no hints, no play. The whole preparatory work was carried out by my
opponent Bonnville-Mongeusseau. I wonder whether Irene knew about that. Yes,
it turned  out, she did. She got  it all from Zernov. She herself during all
this time  was in  a  kind  of trance,  a dream yet not  a dream, a complete
blot-out  of all memory. She  woke up, it  was  morning, drowsiness. She was
drowsy, didn't want to get up.
     "And you  meanwhile were  bleeding  to  death in Zernov's  room  at the
hotel. Luckily he got here in time, you were still breathing."
     "Where did he come from?"
     "From  below,  from the  hall.  He  himself  had  been  knocked  almost
unconscious,  his whole body was beaten up. Miracles! Almost as  if  you had
come back from the crusades."
     "Must  have been  somewhat later.  The sixteenth  century,  I  believe.
Swords without sheaths, and slender blades fast as lightning!"
     "Why? Did you fight? You're some musketeer! You have to know how!"
     "We  were taught a  bit  in the  institute, movie  people  have to know
everything. That's when it came in handy."
     "Very helpful on the operating table."
     "But I was ambushed. Behind was a wall, a ditch on one side. And he was
good!"
     "Who was this?"
     "Mongeusseau. Try standing up to an Olympic champion. Remember the  guy
with the eye patch at the table d'hote?"
     Irene was not surprised.
     "He's here in the hotel right now  too. And he's together with Carresi.
Incidentally,  I  took him for a  movie actor,  for  some  reason. With  the
exception of us, these two are the only guests that  did not leave the hotel
after  that night.  Boy, that was some panic! And the doorman even committed
suicide, he hanged himself."
     "Which one?" I exclaimed.
     "That one, the baldheaded one."
     "Etienne?" I asked to make sure. "Why?"
     "Nobody knows. He didn't even leave a note. But I think Zernov has some
suspicions."
     "Marvellous," I exclaimed, "A dog's death for a dog."
     "You have suspicions too?"
     "I don't suppose anything, I know!"
     "What?"
     "It'd take a long time to tell. Not now."
     "Why are you hiding things from me?"
     "Certain  things  need not  be revealed  now. You'll  learn about  them
later. Don't  be offended, it's for the best. Now  tell me what  happened to
Lange. Where is he?"
     "He's left. It seems he's left Paris for good. He got into some kind of
a  fix  too."  She  laughed.  "Martin  for  some  reason put  him  through a
meat-grinder,  you wouldn't recognize him now. At least not during the first
few days. There was talk it'd develop into a diplomatic scandal, but nothing
happened. The  West Germans were quiet as mice. Martin's an American and the
right hand  of  Thompson. Local Ribbentropites find that too hard  a nut  to
crack. Then  Lange himself all of a  sudden relinquished all claims. He said
you couldn't deal with a madman. Newsmen attacked Martin for  an explanation
and he served up  whiskey  and reported that Lange wanted to get the Russian
girl  away from him. He meant  me. A  lot  of fun and laughter  but  there's
something  mysterious  behind  it all. Martin  has  now  left  together with
Thompson. Don't look so surprised. That's  a  long story  to tell too.  I've
collected all the paper clippings, you  can  read  them. There's also a note
for you from Martin, but not a word about the fight. But I think that Zernov
knows something on  that  score. Yes, tomorrow he's  speaking at the plenary
session. All the reporters are waiting like  sharks, and he keeps putting it
off. All because  of you, incidentally. He  wants  to have a talk  with  you
first. Right now. Surprised again? Really, I mean it, right now."
     Zernov appeared as  fast as they do in movies. He wasn't  alone. He was
accompanied  by Carresi and Mongeusseau. He couldn't have produced a greater
effect.  I opened  my mouth  as  I  recognized Mongeusseau and did  not even
respond to their greetings.
     "He recognizes you," said Zernov to his companions in English. "And you
wouldn't believe it."
     Then I went  off the handle; luckily it was easier to go off the handle
in any other language except Russian.
     "I have not gone mad nor have I lost any of my memory. It would be hard
to forget the sword that cut my throat."
     "And you remember the sword?" asked Carresi, for some reason overjoyed.
     "It's the last thing I'll forget."
     "And your own?" Carresi even rose to his feet, he was so excited. "From
Milan, a steel snake at the guard coiled round the handle, remember?"
     "Let  him  remember," I said maliciously,  nodding in the  direction of
Mongeusseau.
     The latter did not seem offended, nor was he embarrassed in the least.
     "I've  had   it  since   1960.  The  prize  of  Toulouse,"  he  replied
phlegmatically.
     "That's where I remember it from. Both the blade and the snake," put in
Carresi again.
     But Mongeusseau was not listening.
     "How  long did you last?" he asked, looking at me with interest for the
first time. "One minute, two minutes?"
     "More," I said. "You were fighting with your left hand."
     "Makes no difference. My left is much weaker, hasn't the lightness that
is  needed. But in  training...."  For some reason,  he  did  not finish the
sentence  and  changed his  tone  of  voice: "I  know  your  swordsmen, I've
encountered them in contests,  but I don't remember you.  You  weren't taken
off the team, were you?"
     "I gave up fencing," I said; I didn't want to let him know too much. "I
gave it up a long time ago."
     "Too bad," he said slowly and looked at Carresi.
     I never found out  what he was sorry about: about my losing interest in
swordplay or that his fight with  me took him more than two precious minutes
of the champion's time. Carresi noticed my perplexed look and laughed:
     "Gaston wasn't present at the fight."
     "What do  you  mean, wasn't there?" I asked  in astonishment.  "Who was
then?"
     I  cautiously  ran my fingers over the slanting healed  slit across  my
throat.
     "Blame me," said Carresi in confusion. "I thought the whole thing up at
home lying on my couch. Gaston, who was synthesized and given an identically
synthesized  sword,  is the  fruit  of my imagination. How  it was  done,  I
certainly  do not understand. But the real honest to  God Gas-ton never even
touched you. So don't be angry."
     "Honestly, I  don't  even  remember  you  at  the table  dhoti,"  added
Mongeusseau.
     "False life," Zernov  reminded me of our talk on the stairs. "I allowed
for  modelling  of  suppositions  or  imagined situations," he explained  to
Carresi.
     "And  I didn't  allow for anything," Carresi objected  impatiently.  "I
didn't  want to have anything to do with that world-wide scandal. At first I
simply refused to  believe  it, like  those flying saucers,  then I saw your
film and was petrified:  that was it! For a whole week I could not  think of
one single thing except that. Then I got used to the idea, like you get used
to something unusual and quite  far-fetched but repeated a sufficient number
of  times. Professional interests took me away from  common sense and a good
heart: even on the eve of the Congress I  could  think of  nothing except my
new picture. I wanted to revive an historical film, not Hollywood  syrup and
not a museum  piece,  but something re-evaluated  by  the  eyes and minds of
people of  today. I chose the age, the heroes and, as you people put it, the
socio-historical  background.  Then at  the restaurant  I found a 'star' and
convinced him. There  was only one thing he didn't  like: fighting  with his
left  hand. But,  you see,  that was my lookout, strange as  it  may seem. I
remember  him  at fencing  contests. The sword in his right hand-it would be
too  professional,  he wouldn't be able to enter  the image. Now in the left
hand, he was a God!  There  were threats and mistakes and anger with himself
and a miracle of naturalness. I convinced him. We parted. Then I lay down in
my hotel room, thinking. A red light bothered me. The hell with it, I closed
my  eyes. And I imagined the whole  scene, the road high above the  sea, the
rocks,  the  vineyards, the  white wall  of  the Count's park. And then this
craziness: the hirelings of Gaston-he's Bonnville in the play-stop some bums
on the road.  Well, not bums,  tourists, if you like, outsiders, in a  word.
The age is changed and the  plot too. I want to  throw them out but I can't,
they're just stuck there. So then I  switch round and include them too. This
produces a new plot,  very original: say, the bums are wandering actors. Now
Gaston,  quite naturally, at home is thinking about the film, not  about the
plot but about  himself, his dilemma of fighting either with his left or his
right. Mentally,  I get into an argument  with him: I get  excited,  try  to
convince him, then demand subordination. Period!"
     "I saw  that,"  I recalled. "A pile of crimson foam near the road,  and
then you stepped out like a devil from a box."
     Carresi  closed his  eyes,  obviously trying to visualize  what  he had
heard and was again pleased.
     "Now  that's an idea! A marvellous angle for  the  plot. Let's  restore
everything that happened and exactly the way  it occurred. In  short, do you
want to play together with Gaston?"
     "Thanks a lot," I said hoarsely, "I don't want to die a second time."
     Mongeusseau smiled politely but with a certain amount of guile.
     "In your place, I would refuse too. But drop in to see me on Rivoli for
a friendly  visit. We'll cross  swords. Don't be  afraid,  they're  only for
training. Everything according  to regulations, outfit and masks. I  want to
try you out a bit, and find out how you stood up so long. I'll work with  my
left on purpose."
     "Thanks," I repeated, but knew that I would never again see him.




        Chapter XXV. ASSIGNMENT: GREENLAND



     When the producer and the  swordsman had left, a  strange uncomfortable
silence  set  in. I contained  myself  with  difficulty exasperated by  this
unneeded visit. Zernov laughed, waiting to find out what I would say. Irene,
noticing at once the import of the pause, remained silent as well.
     "Angry?" asked Zernov.
     "Positively,"  I  said.  "You  think  it's  fun  being  polite to  that
murderer?"
     "Mongeusseau  is  not  to blame,  even indirectly,"  Zernov  continued.
"That's what I have just figured out."
     "Presumption of innocence," I taunted.
     He did not respond.
     "It's my  fault,  I got you two together on purpose, don't be angry.  I
wanted to correlate the model with the source. For  my paper I had to have a
perfect  check  on  what  was modelled,  whose  psyche.  And  what  is  more
important-the memory or imagination. Now I know. They have dipped into both.
The other  one simply  wanted  to go to sleep, probably going over Carresi's
proposition lazily: not too  much  work, it  would  seem, and the pay not so
bad. But  Carresi created, he was the  one who  contrived the conflicts, the
dramatic  situations, in  a word,  the illusion of real  life.  It  was  the
illusion that they modelled. And rather exactly, incidentally. Remember  the
landscape?  Vineyards  on  the  background  of the sea.  More exact  than  a
photograph."
     I involuntarily touched my throat.
     "And this? Another illusion?"
     "That's  an accident. While  experimenting  they probably  did not even
realize that it was dangerous."
     "I don't  get it,"  Irene  interrupted,  continuing her  own  thoughts,
"there  must be something else  to  all this, and not life.  Biologically it
can't  be  life, even  if  it  reproduces life.  Life  can't be made  out of
nothing."
     "Why out of nothing? They probably have some sort of building material,
a kind of primary matter of life."
     "The red fog?"
     "Perhaps. So  far  nobody  has  found any explanation, nobody has  even
advanced  a  hypothesis,"  Zernov  sighed. "Don't expect hypotheses