ishes the construction of a new station? No, Yurkovski the planetologist would reason altogether differently. He wouldn't tell me off for overcrowding. And he would not insist on me explaining everything to him. Especially because, he is not Heisenberg, and would not understand more than half of it, anyway. No, Yurkovski the planetologist would say: "Kostya! What I need, is for you to provide an experimental basis for my new grand idea. Let's do it, Kostya!" And then I would give up my bunk for you, and sleep in the emergency elevator myself. And we would work together until such time, when everything would be as clear as Sunday morning! Instead you come to collect complaints. What complaints can a man with an interesting job have? Yura sighed with relief. The thunder has not struck, after all. Yurkovski's face was becoming more and more pensive, even gloomy. - Yes, - he said. - I guess, you are right... err... Kostya. I really should not have come here in this... err... capacity. And I am... err... jealous of you. With you I would be delighted to work. But... err.. there are stations and there are... err... stations. You can't even imagine, Kostya, how many disgraceful goings-on exist in our system. And hence Yurkovski the planetologist was compelled to... err... become a chief inspector. - Disgraceful goings-on, - Kostya said quickly, - are matters for cosmic police... - Not always, - said Yurkovski, - unfortunately, not always. Something clanked and rattled in the corridor. Disorderly clattering of magnetic soles could be heard. Someone yelled out: - Kostya-a! We have a forestalling! Of three milliseconds!... - Ah! - said Kostya. - Here come my workmen, they will be demanding food now. Ezra, - he said, - what's the gentlest way of informing them that the tanker is only coming tomorrow? - Kostya, - said Yurkovski, - I will give you a case of tinned rations. - You're joking! - Kostya rejoiced. - You are god. One who gives in time, gives two-fold. Consider that I owe you two cases of rations! Into the hatch, one after another squeezed four people, and the room immediately became crammed. Yura was jammed into a corner and fenced off by broad backs. The only thing he could see well was the lean shaggy back of Ezra's head, someone's mirror-smooth scalp and one more muscular neck. Besides that, Yura could see feet - they were arranged above the heads, and giant boots with shiny worn-out plates that were moving cautiously two centimetres away from the shaved scalp. In the gap between back and necks, Yura could occasionally see Kostya's aquiline profile and a thick-bearded face of the fourth operative. Yurkovski could not be seen, most likely he had also been jammed. Everyone was speaking at once. - The dispersion of coordinates is really small. I was calculating in a hurry, but three milliseconds, I think, go without any question... - But it's still only three, and not six! - That's not the point! The point is, it lies outside the error margin! - Wish we could blow up Mars, now that would give us precision. - Yep, buddy, then we could remove half the graviscopes. - What a hateful device - the graviscope. Just who had come up with it! - Be grateful, that we even have these. Do you know, how we used to do it before? - Get this, he doesn't like graviscopes! - Are we getting food? - Yes, about food. Kostya, we have finished all our radiophagus. - Right, right, it's good that you have remembered. Kostya, give us some pills. - Guys, I think I just lied to you. It's not three milliseconds, but four. - Total boloney. Give it to Ezra, Ezra will calculate properly. - That's a good idea... Ezra, here, take this, sweetie, you are the most cold-blooded of us, because my hands are already shaking from greed. - The flash today was of amazing beauty. I almost went blind. I just love annihilative detonations! You feel a kind of creator, the man of tomorrow... - Listen, Kostya, why is Pagava saying, that we will now be conducting only localised explosions? And what about us? - And do you have a conscience? What, have you imagined that this is a gravitational observatory? And the cosmogonists, they are just mere boys? - Oh, Panas, don't you get involved in that row. Kostya is our director, after all. And why does a director exist. To make sure everything is fair. - Then what is the point of having your buddy as the director? - Whoa! I am no longer good enough as a director? What's this, mutiny? Fetch my jack boots, laced cuffs and pistols! - By the way, I wouldn't mind eating something. - I have computed, - said Ezra. - Well? - Don't you rush him, he can't go that fast. - Three and eight. - Ezra! Your every word is gold! - Error margin is plus or minus two and two. - How loquacious is our Ezra today! Yura couldn't take it any longer and whispered straight into Ezra's ear: - What happened? Why is everyone so happy? Ezra, turning his head slightly, muttered: - Got a forestalling. Proved. That gravitation spreads. Faster than light. Proved for the first time. - Three and eight tenths, guys, - the man with a shaved head announced, - this means that we have stuck one up this haphazarder from Leningrad. What's his name... - An excellent start. All we have to do now is eat, thrash the cosmogonists and start working seriously on this thing. - Listen, scientists, why isn't Kramer here? - He had been lying, that he has two tins of preserves. Right now he is looking for them amongst the old documents. Let's throw a feast of the scrawny with one tin for fourteen people. - A feast of scrawny-bodied, and poor in spirit. - Quiet, scientists, and I shall make you happy! - What preserves had Valerka been lying about? - Rumour has it, he's got a tin of canned peaches and a tin of zucchini marrow... - Some sausage would be nice now... - Are you going to listen to me here or not? Attention, you, scientists! That's better. I can inform you, that amongst us we have one general inspector - Yurkovski Vladimir Sergeevich. He is granting us a box of tinned rations from his own table! - Yeah? - someone said. - Nah, this is not even amusing. Who would joke like this? From the corner somewhere they heard: - Err... hello. - Bah! Vladimir Sergeevich? How did we miss you? - How boorish have we become, brothers, death-planeters! - Vladimir Sergeevich! Is it true about the preserves? - Absolutely true, - said Yurkovski. - Hooray! - And one more time... - Hooray! - And one more time... - Ho-o-ra-ay! - The preserves are with meat, - said Yurkovski. A hungry groan carried through the room. - Oh, why do we only have weightlessness here? Such a man must be chaired up! Carried around in a stretcher! Yet another beard peered through the open hatch. - Why are you all screaming here? - it asked gloomily. - Got the forestalling, but that there is no grub - did you know that? The tanker will shuffle here only tomorrow. For a while everyone observed the beard. Then the man with a muscular neck said reflectively: - I recognise a cosmogonist by his eloquent expression. - Hey guys, he must be hungry, don't you reckon. - No wonder! Cosmogonists are always hungry! - Do you think we should send him to deliver the preserves? - Paul, my dear friend, - said Kostya, - right now you will be going to get the preserves. Go and put on the vacuum-suit. - Yura, - said Yurkovski, - please accompany this comrade to "Takhmaseeb". Or, never mind, I will go myself. - Good day, Vladimir Sergeevich, - said the bearded man, breaking into a smile. - How did you make it to us? He stepped away from the hatch, letting Yurkovski pass. They left. - A good man, Yurkovski. A kind man. - Then why inspect us. - He hasn't come to inspect. As far as I understood, he is simply curious. - Then let him. - Is it possible for him to negotiate the expansion of our program? - Expansion of the program - that's one thing. I hope he won't be cutting staff. I'd better go and get my sleeping gear from the elevator. - Yeah, inspectors don't like it when people live in elevators. - Scientists, don't be afraid! I have already told him everything. He is not like that. This is Yurkovski! - Guys, let's go find a dining room. The library, perhaps? - Cosmogonists have cramped up the library. Everyone began climbing in turn through the hatch. Then the man with a muscular neck came up to Kostya and said quietly: - Can you give me another pill, Kostya. I feel somewhat dizzy. Eunomia lay far behind. "Takhmaseeb" set its course for asteroid Bamberga - into the realm of the mysterious "Space Pearl Limited". Yura woke up late at night - the injection under the shoulder blade was aching and itching, he had an awful thirst. Yura heard heavy erratic steps in the corridor. It even seemed he had heard a constrained moan. "Ghosts, - he thought with frustration. - That's all we need now". Without getting off his bunk, he opened the door slightly and looked out. In the corridor Yurkovski stood in his splendid bathrobe, strangely lopsided. His face was flaccid, eyes closed. His breathing was fast and heavy, his mouth distorted. - Vladimir Sergeevich! - Yura called out, frightened. - What's wrong with you? Yurkovski opened his eyes quickly and tried to straighten out, but folded up again. - Si-lence! - he said quickly in a menacing tone and twisting all over, walked to Yura. Yura moved aside and let him inside the cabin. Yurkovski shut the door tightly and carefully sat next to Yura. - Why aren't you sleeping? - he asked in a whisper. - What is it with you, Vladimir Sergeevich? - Yura mumbled. - Are you feeling ill?... - It's rubbish, just my liver. - Yura was looking in horror at his hands, spasmodically clasped to the sides, as if frozen. - A mean thing, she is always like that after a radiation attack... But still, our stop at Eunomia hadn't been in vain. These are the people, Yura! Genuine people! Workers. Pure. And no haphazarders will ever get in their way, - he carefully leaned his back against the wall, and Yura hastily put a pillow under it. - A funny word "haphazarders" - isn't it, Yura? But soon we will see a different sort of people... Altogether different... Rotters, trash... Worse than the Martian leeches... You, of course, won't see them, however, I will have to... - He closed his eyes. - Yura... I am sorry... I might fall asleep here... I took... some medicine... If I fall asleep... go and sleep... in my room... BAMBERGA. POOR IN SOUL. Bela Barabash stepped over the coaming and shut the door tightly behind him. On the door a black plastic sign hung in splendour: " The General Manager of Bamberga Mines. Space Pearl Limited". The sign was cracked. It was in one piece only yesterday. The bullet hit the lower left corner of the sign, and the crack passed through the capital "B". Rotten sluggard, Bela thought. "I can assure you, there are no weapons at the mines. Only you have it, Mr Barabash, and the policemen also. Even I don't have any". Scoundrel. The corridor was empty. Right in front of the door a cheerful poster was hanging: "Remember - you are a stakeholder. Company's interests - are your interests". Bela clasped his head, closed his eyes and stood like that for some time, swaying a little. My God, he thought. When will all this end? When will they take me away from here? I mean, what sort of a commissioner am I? Indeed, I can't get anything done. I don't have the energy any more. Can you understand me? I have no strength left. Take me away from here, please. Yes, I am ashamed and all that. But I can't take it any longer... Somewhere a hatch shut with a clang. Bela lowered his hands and shuffled his feet down the corridor. Past the loathsome advertisement posters on the walls. Past the locked cabins of engineers. Past the tall narrow door of the police station. I wonder, whom could they be shooting at on the administration's floor? Of course, they won't tell me who the shooter was. But, perhaps, I will be able to find out, whom they were shooting at? Bela walked into the police room. At the table, holding up his cheek with his hand, sergeant Higgins, the police chief, one of the three policemen on Bamberga mines, was dozing. In front of Higgins on the table stood a microphone, on his right - the radio, on the left lay a magazine with a bright cover. - Hello, Higgins, - said Bela Higgins opened his eyes. - Good day, mister Barabash. A manly voice, a little husky. - What's news, Higgins? - "Geya" arrived, - said Higgins. - Brought the mail. My wife writes, that she misses me a lot. As if don't miss her. There are also four packages for you. I said that they should deliver them to you. I thought, you were in your cabin. - Thank you, Higgins. Do you know, who was shooting today on this floor? Higgins thought about it. - I just can't remember that there was any shooting today, - he said. - What about yesterday evening? Or during the night? Higgins said reluctantly: - Someone shot at engineer Meyer at night. - Did Meyer tell you that? - Barabash asked. - I wasn't there. I was on duty at the saloon. - You see, Higgins, - Barabash said. - I have just gone to see the head manager. The head manager had assured me for the tenth time, that only you have weapons here. The policemen. - That may very well be. - Then, one of your subordinates was shooting at Meyer? - I don't think so, - said Higgins. - Tom was with me at the saloon, and Konrad... Why would Konrad shoot the engineer? - Therefore, somebody else has got a weapon? - I haven't seen it, that weapon, Mr Barabash. If I saw it - I would confiscate it. Because all weapons are forbidden. But I didn't see it. All of a sudden Bela felt totally indifferent about the whole thing. - Alright, - he said listlessly. - After all, upholding the law - is your business, not mine. My business is to inform IBCC how you carry out your duties. He turned around and walked out. He took the lift down to the second floor and walked across the saloon. No one was in the saloon. Along the walls vending machines blinked with yellow lights. Should I get drunk, or something, Bela thought. Get pissed as a swine, get into bed and sleep for two days. And then get up and get loaded again. He passed the saloon and walked down a long wide corridor. The corridor was called "broadway" and stretched from the saloon to the toilets. Here posters hung too, reminding passers-by that "company's interests - are your interests", movie programs for the current decade were hanging, stockmarket reports, lottery results, tables of baseball and basketball matches conducted on Earth were hanging, and also the tables of boxing and freestyle wrestling competitions, taking place here, on Bamberga. The doors of both movie theatres and library doors all faced "broadway". The gymnasium and the church were located one floor below. At night, "broadway" was jam-packed, and multi-coloured lights of absurd advertisements blinded the eyes. On the other hand, not so absurd, after all - they reminded workers nightly, what awaits them on Earth, when they return to their homes with a full wallet. Right now "broadway" was empty and semi-dark. Bela turned into one of the corridors. On the right and on the left identical doors stretched. The dorms were situated here. Smells of tobacco and eau de cologne reached through the doors. In one of the rooms Bela saw a man lying on a bunk and walked in. The lying man's face was covered with plaster patches. A lonely eyed looked dolefully up into the ceiling. - What's wrong, Joshua? - Bela asked, coming closer. Joshua's forlorn eye turned to him. - I am lying down, - said Joshua. - I ought to be in a mineshaft, and I am lying down. And losing a heap of money every hour. I am even afraid to count, how much I am losing. - Who bashed you up? - How would I know? - Joshua answered. - I got so drunk yesterday, that I don't remember a thing. What the hell made me do it... I was bracing myself for a whole month. And now I have drunk through a whole day's wages, I am lying down and I will keep lying down. - He resumed staring dolefully into the ceiling. - Yeah, - said Bela. Well, what would you do with him, he thought. Convincing him, that drinking is harmful - he knows that himself. When he gets up, he will sit in a mineshaft for fourteen hours each day, to catch up on lost hours. And then he will return to Earth and he will get black radiation paralysis and won't have any kids or will produce mutants - Do you know, that working longer than six hours in a mineshaft is dangerous? - Bela asked. - Go and..., - Joshua said quietly. - This ain't your business. You ain't the one working. Bela said with a sigh: - Well, then, I hope you'll get better. - Thank you, mister commissioner, - Joshua grumbled. - You ain't worrying about the right stuff. Why don't you make sure, that the saloon gets closed down. And that the boot-leggers be tracked down. - Alright, - Bela said. - I'll try. Here we are, he was thinking, heading back to his room. If we just tried to close the saloon, you will be the first one to yell at a meeting, that all sorts of communists are sticking their noses into others' business. There is no way out of this circle. None. He walked into his room and saw engineer Samuel Livington sitting there. The engineer was reading an old newspaper and eating sandwiches. In front of him on the table lay a chessboard with the figures set up. Bela greeted him and wearily sat at the table. - Shall we play? - engineer suggested. - In a moment, I'll just have a look at what they sent me. Bela unsealed the packets. In three packets were books, in the fourth one - a letter from his mother and some postcards with the views of New Pest. On the table also lay a small pink envelope. Bela knew what was in that envelope, but opened it nevertheless. "Mister commissioner! Get the hell out of here. Stop stirring up trouble, whilst you are still in one piece. Well-wishers". Bela sighed and set the note aside. - Your move, - he said. The engineer moved a pawn. - Trouble again? - he asked. - Yes. He emulated the Karo-Kann defence. The engineer received a small positional advantage. Bela took a sandwich and began chewing pensively, looking at the board. - You know, Bela, - the engineer said, - when I shall see you happy for the first time, I will declare, that I have lost an ideological war. - You will see it still, - Bela said without any great hope. - No, - said the engineer. - You are doomed. Look around, you can see yourself, that you are doomed. - I? - Bela asked. - Or us? - All of you with your communism. People can't be idealists in our world. - Come on, we were told that twenty times in the last one hundred years. - Check, - the engineer said. - They told you right. A few things, of course, they have underestimated and hence often talked rubbish. It would be a joke to say, that you will yield to military force or will lose in economic competition. Every strong government and every sufficiently wealthy nation in our times is unbeatable in miliary and economic terms. Yep, yep, communism, as an economic system, has taken over, it's clear. Where are they now, glorious empires of Morgans, Rokefellers, Krupps, all those Mitsui and Mitsubishi? All blown up, and forgotten already. What remains are pitiful fragments, like our "Space Pearl", respectable enterprises engaged in production of luxury mattresses for a niche market... And even those ones are compelled to cover up with slogans of universal prosperity. Check, once more. And a few million of stubborn hotel owners, real estate agents, despondent craftsmen. All these are doomed as well. All of this is holding together only by the fact, that in both Americas currency is still circulating. But here you have hit a dead end. There is a force which even you cannot overcome. What I mean is petty bourgeoisie. Inertness of small people. Petty bourgeois cannot be overcome with force, because, for that, you would have to exterminate them physically. And they cannot be overcome with an idea, since petty bourgeois are narrow minded and won't accept any new ideas. - Have you ever been to a communist country, Sam? - I have. And have seen petty bourgeois there. - You are right, Sam. We, too, have them still. We have them still, and that you have noticed. But you haven't noticed, that we have a lot fewer of them than you do, and that ours are the quiet ones. We don't have warrior bourgeois. One generation will pass, another one will and we won't have any at all. - So I am taking your bishop, - the engineer said. - Please try, - said Bela. For a while the engineer was thinking it over, then took the bishop. - Two generations later, you are saying? Or perhaps, two hundred thousand generations later? Take a reality check for once, Bela. There they are all around you, these little people. I am not taking into account adventurers and milksops, who pretend to be adventurers. Take people like Joshua, Smith, Blackwater. Those, whom you call "conscientious" or "peaceful", depending on your mood. But they have so few desires, that you cannot offer anything to them. And that, which they desire, they will achieve without any communism. They will become the owners of cafes, acquire a wife, kids and will live quietly, enjoying their life. Communism, capitalism - what do they care? Capitalism is even better, since capitalism encourages this mode of being. A man is just a working beast according to his nature. Give him a full manger, no worse than what his neighbour has, let him fill his gut and let him giggle at some simple show. Now you are going to tell me: we can offer him something greater. But what does he need anything greater for? He will tell you: this is none of your business. A little indifferent beast. - You are slandering people, Sam. Joshua and the company look like working beasts to you, only because you have put a lot of effort into making them what they are. Who convinced them from birth, that the most important thing in life - is money? Who taught them to be envious of millionaires, property owners, the next door milk bar owner? You crammed their head with ridiculous films and ridiculous books and told them, that one cannot jump above god. And drummed into their heads, that there is a god, a home and a business and nothing more in the entire world. That's how you turn people into working beasts. But a man is not a beast, Sam. Tell him from the cradle, that the most important things in life - - are friendship and knowledge, that, besides his cradle, there is a great big world, which he and his friends are going to win over - only then you will have a genuine person. Here we are, I let the rook slip. - You can take another turn, - the engineer said. - I won't argue with you. Perhaps, the role of education is really as great as you say. Although, even despite your way of education, despite the national intolerance of petty bourgeoisie, they still manage to spring up, those... how do you say it in Russian... thistles. And over on our side, with our education, those whom you call genuine people, somehow contrive to grow up. Naturally, you have far less Philistines than we do... Check... Anyway, I still have no idea, what you are going to do with the two billion of Philistines of the capitalist world. We don't intend to re-educate them. True, capitalism - is a corpse. But it is a dangerous corpse. And on top of that you have opened the borders. And whilst borders stay open, petty bourgeoisie in all guises shall flow through these borders. I hope you won't choke on it... Check again. - I don't recommend it, - said Bela. - And what is the matter? - I will retreat to G-eight, and your queen is under attack. The engineer pondered over it for a while. - Yes, you may be right, - he said. - There won't be a check. - It would be foolish to deny the danger of Philistinism, - Bela said. - One of your political leaders had rightly said that ideology of a petty proprietor, presents a greater danger to communism, than the now forgotten hydrogen bomb. But he had addressed that danger incorrectly. Not to communism, but to the entire humanity is Philistinism a danger. Because in your musings, Sam, there is one mistake. A Philistine - is still a person, after all, and he always wants something greater. But since he is a beast at the same time, this urge for something greater assumes the most horrific form, out of necessity. The craving for power, for example. The craving for worship. The craving for popularity. When two such people come head to head, they tear each other to shreds, like dogs. And when two such people come to an agreement, they tear others around them to shreds. And then funny stuff begins, such as fascism, segregation, genocide. And primarily because of that, we are conducting a war against Philistinism. And soon you will be compelled to start a similar war simply to being stifled by your own manure. Do you remember the teachers' march to Washington two years ago? - I remember, - Livington said. - But I think, that struggling against Philistinism - is as good as chopping water with a knife. - My engineer, - Bela said, mockingly, - this contention is as unsubstantiated, as apocalypse. You are simply a pessimist. How does it go?.. "The miscreants shall rise above the heroes, the sages shall stay silent, and the fools shall be saying: none of that which people think, shall come to be". - Oh well, - said Livington. - There were such times, too. And I am, of course, a pessimist. Why would I exactly be an optimist? And you, too. - I am not a pessimist, - said Bela. - I am just a bad worker. But the time of poor in spirit had passed, Sam. It had passed long ago, as it says in those same apocalyptic writings. The door flung open and on the threshold stood a tall man with a high forehead and a pale, slightly flabby face. Bela froze, looking closely at him. A second later, he recognised him. Well, that is it, he thought with anguish and relief. That is the end. The man briefly looked the engineer over, and stepped inside the room. Now he was looking only at Bela. - I am the chief inspector of IBCC, - he said. - My name is Yurkovski. Bela stood up. The engineer also stood up respectfully. Following Yurkovski a huge tanned man wearing loose blue overalls walked into the room. He briefly looked Bela over and began staring at the engineer. - Please excuse me, - said the engineer and walked out. After walking a few paces down the corridor, he stopped and whistled pensively. Right, he thought. The ideological struggle on Bamberga is entering a new phase. Urgent measures must be taken. Engrossed in thought, he walked down the corridor, accelerating his pace constantly. When he got to the lift, he was almost running. Having come to the top floor, he headed for the radio room. The radio operator looked at him with surprise. - Anything's the matter, mister Livington? - he asked. Livington ran his hand across a damp forehead. - I got bad news from home, - he said abruptly. - When is the nearest session with Earth? - In half an hour, - the radio operator said. Livington sat at the nearest table, ripped a sheet out of a notepad and quickly wrote down a radiogram. - Send this urgently, Michael, - he said, handing the sheet to the operator. - This is very important. The radio operator looked at the sheet and whistled in surprise. - What do you need that for? - he asked. - Who would sell "Space Pearl" at the end of the year? - I need cash urgently, - said the engineer and walked out. The radio operator put the paper down in front of him and became engrossed in thought. Yurkovski sat down and pushed the chessboard to the side with his elbow. Zhilin sat away from them. - You have covered yourself with shame, comrade Barabash, - Yurkovski said in a low voice. - Yes, - said Bela and swallowed. - How do spirits get onto Bamberga, have you worked that out? - No. Most likely spirits get distilled right here. - During last year, the company had sent to Bamberga four transports with pressed fibre. What works on Bamberga require such amount of fibre? - I don't know, - said Bela. - I don't know any such works. - I don't know either. They distil spirits from fibre, comrade Barabash. That would be clear even to a hedgehog. Bela stayed silent. - Who has weapons on Bamberga? - Yurkovski asked. - Don't know, - said Bela. - I could not find out. - But weapons still exist? - Yes. - Who sanctions the over-time works? - No one prohibits them. - Have you addressed an appeal to the general manager? Bela clenched his hands. - I have addressed an appeal to that scoundrel twenty times. He doesn't want to hear anything. He sees nothing, hears nothing and understands nothing. He is deeply sorry, that I have poor information sources. You know what, Vladimir Sergeevich, either you transfer me the hell out of here or give me an authority to shoot the bastards. I can't do anything. I have talked sense into them. I begged them. I threatened them. This is a wall. For all workers, the IBCC commissioner is a red scarecrow. Nobody would speak to me. "I don't know nothing and it's not any damn business of yours". They don't give a hoot about the international trade laws. I can't go on like this any more. Have you seen the posters on the walls? Yurkovski looked at him pensively, rotating a white queen between his fingers. - I have nobody I can rely on here, - Bela continue. - These are either bandits, or quiet scum, who only dream about stuffing their pockets and don't give a damn if they will crank over after it or not. Real people don't come here, you know. Garbage, failures. Lumpen-proletarians. My hands shake at night after all of this. I cannot sleep. Two days ago they invited me to sign an accident report. I refused: it was clear as day, that a man's vacuum-suit was cut open with autogenous welding gear. Then this bastard, the union secretary, said that he will complain about me. A month ago, on Bamberga, three girls appear and vanish in one morning. I go to the general manager, and this prick laughs me in the face: "You are hallucinating, mister commissioner, you must go back to your wife, you are seeing girls already". After all, I was shot at three times. Yes, yes, I know that not a single idiot was aiming at me. But it doesn't make my life any easier. Just think about it, I was put in here to protect the lives and well being of these blockheads! They can all go to... Bela stopped talking and cracked his fingers. - Come on now, easy, Bela, - Yurkovski said strictly. - Allow me to leave, - said Bela. - This comrade, - he pointed at Zhilin, - he, I presume, is the new commissioner... - This isn't the new commissioner, - said Yurkovski. - Please, meet "Takhmaseeb's" engineer, Zhilin. Zhilin bowed slightly. - Of what "Tahkmaseeb"? - It's my ship, - said Yurkovski. - This is what we are going to do now. We'll go to the general manager, and I will say a few words to him. And then we'll talk to the workers. - He got up. - It's alright, Bela, don't be disappointed. You are not the first one. I have had this Bamberga up to here. Bela said worriedly: - We really need to take a few of our men. There can be a fight. The manager here keeps a gang of thugs at hand. - What 'our men'? - Yurkovski asked. - You have just told me that you cannot rely on anyone here. - So you have come alone? - Bela asked in horror. Yurkovski shrugged his shoulders. - Yeah, naturally, - he said. - I am not your general manager, you know. - Alright, - said Bela. He unlocked the safe and took a handgun. His face was pale and decisive. The first bullet I will plant into that slug, he thought with acute joy. Let anyone shoot at me then, but Mr Richardson is getting the first bullet. Into his fat, smooth, foul mug. Yurkovski looked at him closely. - You know what, Bela, - he spoke in a sincere voice, - I'd leave the gun here if I were you. Or give it to comrade Zhilin. I am afraid, you won't be able to resist. - And do you think, he will resist? - Resist I will, - said Zhilin, smiling. Bela gave him the gun with regret. Yurkovski opened the door and stopped. Before him appeared the swagging sergeant Higgins wearing full clean-pressed uniform and a blue helmet. Higgins saluted him distinctly. - Sir, - he said, - the chief of police of Bamberga mines sergeant Higgins has arrived under your command. - Glad to see you, sergeant Higgins, please follow us, - said Yurkovski. They passed a short corridor and walked out onto the "broadway". The clock has not yet struck six, but "broadway" was flooded with bright light and tightly packed with workers. "Broadway" hummed with worried voices. Yurkovski was walking leisurely, smiling courteously and looking closely into the workers faces. He could see these faces well under the even fluorescent light - sunken cheeks, with sickly sallow skin, with bags under their eyes, apathetically nonchalant, angry, curious, spiteful, full of hate. The workers parted, letting him pass, and behind Higgins' back drew closer again and followed them. Sergeant Higgins kept yelling out: - Make way for the chief inspector! Don't push, guys! Make way for the chief inspector! Walking like this they came to the lift and went up to the administration floor. Here the crowd was even denser. And no one would give way here. Amongst the tired faces of the workers flickered some cheerful and audacious mugs. Now sergeant Higgins walked ahead, pushing through the crowd with a blue baton. - Move aside, - he was saying in a low voice, - let us pass... Move off... The back of his head between the edge of the helmet and the collar became engorged with blood and glistened with sweat. Zhilin closed the procession. The audacious mugs pushed towards the front rows, calling to one another: - Hey guys, which one of them is the inspector? - Can't tell, they are all red, like tomato juice... - They are red throughout, inside and outside... - I don't believe it, wanna see... - Have a look, I won't stop you... - Hey sergeant! Higgins! What a company have you landed yourself into! Zhilin was tripped. He did not turn around, but started looking carefully at his feet. Upon noticing another boot made from soft cord, he stepped on it assiduously, with all his weight. Someone wailed next to him. Zhilin looked into a twisted face with whiskers that had gone white and said: - Please forgive me, I am so clumsy! He was wearing huge, unusually heavy boots with rifled magnetic soles. The noise was rising. By now everyone was yelling. - Who called them here? - Hey, you! Don't stick your nose in other people's business! - Let us work the way we want to! We aren't meddling in your affairs! - Go back home and give orders there! Sergeant Higgins, wet as a mouse, finally made it to the door with the cracked sign and flung it open before Yurkovski. - In here, sir, - breathing heavily, he said. Yurkovski and Bela walked in. Zhilin stepped over the coaming and looked back. He saw a lot of audacious mugs and only behind them, in the tobacco smoke, the workers' hardened gloomy faces. Higgins also stepped over the coaming and shut the door. The office of Mr Richardson, the mine manager, was spacious. Along the walls stood large soft chairs and glass cabinets with mineral samples and imitations of the largest "cosmic pearls", found on Bamberga. From behind the table, a pleasant noble-looking man wearing a black suit got up to meet Yurkovski. - Ah, mister Yurkovski, - he thundered, and having circled the table walked to Yurkovski, stretching his hands out. - I am infinitely glad... - Don't bother, - said Yurkovski, circling the table from the other side. - I won't shake your hand anyway. The general manager stopped, smiling pleasantly. Yurkovski sat behind the desk and turned to Bela. - Is this the general manager? - he asked. - Yes! - said Bela with delight. - This is the chief mine manager Mr Richardson. The manager shook his head. - Oh, Mr Barabash, - he said with reproach, - do I really owe to you such unfriendliness on behalf of mister inspector? - Who issued the patent for the management of this mine? - Yurkovski asked. - As it is done in the western world, mister Yurkovski, by the board of directors. - Present it to me. - Please, - the manager said quite courteously. He slowly crossed the room, unlocked a large safe, built into the wall, produced a large folder made from brown leather and extracted from the folder a sheet of thick paper with golden edges. - Please, - he repeated and laid the sheet before Yurkovski. - Lock the safe, - said Yurkovski, - and hand the keys to the sergeant. Sergeant Higgins accepted the keys, stone-faced. Yurkovski looked through the patent, folded it in four, and shoved it in his pocket. Mister Richardson kept smiling. Zhilin thought, that never in his life had he seen a man of such pleasant appearance. Yurkovski placed his elbows on the table and looked at Richardson with reflection. Richardson thundered: - I would be pleased to know, mister Yurkovski, what the meaning of all these strange actions is. - You are charged with a number of offences under the international law, - Yurkovski said casually. Mister Richardson raised his hands, exceptionally surprised. - You are charged with breaching the prescribed legal rights within cosmic space. - There was no bound to Mr Richardson's astonishment. - You are charged with the murder - at this stage, not premeditated - of sixteen workers and three women. - Me? - Mr Richardson cried out, insulted. - I am charged with murder? - Inter alia, murder, too, - said Yurkovski. - I am relieving you of your post, and shortly you will be arrested and sent to Earth, where you will front the international tribunal. But right now don't let me hold you any longer. - I give in to brute force, - said Mr Richardson with dignity. - And you are doing the right thing, - said Yurkovski. - Present yourself here in an hour to transfer all current matters to your successor. Richardson turned abruptly, walked to the door and flung it open. - My friends! - he spoke out loud. - These people have detained me! They don't like your high earnings! They want you to work for six hours a day and remain destitute! Yurkovski was looking at him with curiosity. Higgins, undoing his holster, retreated to the desk. Richardson was swept aside. Into the door burst screaming hoodlum, but they were imm