Chapter 10
STEPAN ARKADYICH’S AFFAIRS were in a very bad way.
The money for two-thirds of his small, inherited groznium pit had all been spent already, and he had borrowed from the merchant in advance at 10 percent discount, almost all the remaining third. The merchant would not give more, not given the recent flurry of rumors about impending alterations to groznium-extraction policy: some said the mines were to be turned into farmland, others that the pits were all to be seized and administered directly by the Department of Extraction. All Stiva’s salary went to household expenses and payment of petty debts that could not be put off. There was positively no money.
All his finances had always been arranged and tended by Small Stiva in consultation with a trusted, old family Class II finance-robot. Without them he was lost in a sea of baffling numbers, which was unpleasant and awkward, and in Stepan Arkadyich’s opinion things could not go on like this. The explanation of the position was, in his view, to be found in the fact that his salary was too small. The post he filled had been unmistakably very good five years ago, but it was so no longer.
Clearly I’ve been napping, and the world has overlooked me, Stepan Arkadyich thought about himself. And he began keeping his eyes and ears open, and toward the end of the winter he had discovered a very good post and had formed a plan of attack upon it, at first from Moscow through aunts, uncles, and friends, and then, when the matter was well advanced, in the spring, he went himself to Petersburg. The post he sought was of overseer of a recently announced committee charged with effecting certain crucial transformations to the Grav. Stiva had little idea of what changes were being proposed, or how they were to be effected, but he felt certain that, nevertheless, he was just the man for the position.
The appointment yielded an income of from seven to ten thousand a year, and Oblonsky could fill it without giving up his position in the Middle Branches. Better still, Stiva had an inside connection to the position, as this mysterious Grav-improvement project reportedly was to be directly overseen by Stiva’s brother-in-law, Alexei. And so it was Karenin whom Stiva set off to see in Petersburg. Besides this business, Stepan Arkadyich had promised his sister Anna to obtain from Karenin a definite answer on the question of her status—had the Ministry accepted their plea for amnesty? Were they to be forgiven, and would Karenin grant Anna a divorce? And begging fifty rubles from Dolly, he set off for Petersburg.
Stepan Arkadyich entered Karenin’s study in the headquarters of the Ministry, and managed to stifle with some effort a gasp of horror. The silver mask that had once hidden but the one half of his brother-in-law’s face was now spread like a caul across its entirety: Karenin was gone, entirely subsumed in gleaming metal casing. Only the fearsome metallic eye protruded, jutting out of the upper right-hand quadrant like the periscope of a submarine. Atop the oculus, bizarrely, sat a pince-nez, through which Karenin appeared to be reading a newspaper when Oblonsky entered.
“Questions,” said Karenin suddenly, affecting a high, mocking voice while he held the newspaper aloft disdainfully. “This editorialist has questions. He feels in his breast, you see, that the Russian people deserve answers. Well, answers we shall provide. Answers we shall provide!”
Karenin went back to reading, and Stepan waited awkwardly, only waiting for the moment when he would finish to speak about his own business or about Anna.
“Questions!” Karenin repeated. “You see, Stepan Arkadyich, a writer named Levitsky has doubts about the cashiering of the Class One devices. He feels this latest diktat, promulgated by myself and my colleagues in the Higher Branches for the safety and security of our fellow citizens, may have been ‘a bridge too far’ for the people of Russia. Yet it is the role of the Ministry to determine what is best for the people of Russia!”
“Yes, that’s very true,” Oblonsky said, when Alexei Alexandrovich took off the pince-nez and cocked his head, “that’s very true, but still the principle holds, people did enjoy the tiny freedoms, the petites-libertiés afforded them by their Class Ones.”
“Yes, but I operate under another principle, one embracing a larger vision of freedom,” replied Alexei Alexandrovich, his voice emerging from behind his metal caul as if from the depths of a well. “These devices are held up as granting freedom, but really what they do is take . . . take our ability to think for ourselves, to pursue enjoyment independently, and primarily to make those small efforts that lend dignity to human life.
“I don’t pursue our policies for the sake of private interests, but for the public weal, for the protection of the lower and upper classes equally,” he said, tilting his head as if looking over his pince-nez at Oblonsky. “But they cannot grasp that, they are taken up now with personal interests, and carried away by phrases. This they shall learn to regret.”
Karenin rang a bell on his desk, and a tall, imposing Toy Soldier entered on his slim black boots. “Levitsky. The Observer” Karenin murmured to the imposing servomechanism, and the Toy Soldier saluted and hastened from the chamber.
Stepan Arkadyich saw it was useless to protest again under the spirit of petites-libertiés; now he eagerly abandoned the principle, and fully agreed. Alexei Alexandrovich paused, thoughtfully turning over the pages of his newspaper.
“Oh, by the way,” said Stepan Arkadyich, “I wanted to ask you, some time when you see Pomorsky to drop him a hint that I should be very glad to get that new appointment of overseer of the Committee of the Reformation of the Grav.” Stepan Arkadyich was familiar by now with the title of the post he coveted, and he brought it out rapidly without mistake.
Alexei Alexandrovich questioned him as to the duties of this new committee, and pondered. Looking nervously back at him, Stiva presumed that Karenin was considering, even somewhat idly, whether the new committee would not be acting in some way contrary to the views he had been advocating. Meanwhile the Face displayed for Karenin, on a miniature display that lit up directly between his eyes, a dozen possible responses to Oblonsky’s request: from granting him the position to killing him and hurling his body from the window.
This was a version of the rapid-option-analysis technology in which certain beloved-companions, such as Levin’s Socrates, had been proficient. But the Face, in the continuing evolution of its remarkable powers, accomplished this system set a thousand times more accurately and efficiently than even the most advanced Class III.
Finally, taking off his pince-nez, Karenin said:
“Of course, I can mention it to him; but what is your reason precisely for wishing to obtain the appointment?”
“It’s a good salary, rising to nine thousand, and my means . . .”
“Nine thousand!” bellowed Alexei Alexandrovich at full voice. He hurled his teacup across the room, where it barely missed Stiva’s head before smashing against the wall and shattering to bits. “Is it money then? Only rubles you seek? Would you prostitute your world for a pocketful of rubles?” Then he sat, calmly, and made a small gesture of his left hand, whereupon the pieces of teacup jumped up and reassembled themselves. The spilled tea, which following nature’s laws had puddled at the base of the wall, flowed backward up and into the cup.
The Face was evolving in its remarkable powers, indeed.
“But what’s to be done?” stammered Stepan Arkadyich, choosing to focus on what he perceived as the substance of Karenin’s argument, rather than the surprising manner with which he had underscored it. “Suppose a bank director gets ten thousand—well, he’s worth it; or an engineer gets twenty thousand—after all, it’s a growing thing, you know!”
“I assume that a salary is the price paid for a commodity, and it ought to conform with the law of supply and demand! I consider—”
Stepan Arkadyich nervously interrupted his brother-in-law. “Yes; but you must agree that this is to be an important undertaking.”
Alexei Alexandrovich settled back in his chair. “Yes, indeed it is. Indeed it is. Do you even know what the job entails?”
Stepan Arkadyich stopped short—of the many things he had considered in preparing for this interview, he had not thought to gain actual knowledge of the requirements of the position.
Alexei Karenin slowly and with apparent relish explained: “The entire Grav-way is to be dismantled. The cars will be dismantled, the groznium rails stripped and sent to Moscow for repurposing. The magnet bed will be shut off, up and down the line.”
“But . . .”
“Do not fear, Stepan Arkadyich. The people of Russia will still be able to travel; they will travel, however, on a simple mechanical apparatus, rather than a groznium-powered one. The cars will be fired by the steam generated by burning heaps of noxious, dirty coal, and will run on rickety metal wheels along non-charged rails. This transportation machine we shall call a ‘train.’”
Karenin spoke with relish this last, unfamiliar word, train, taking obvious pleasure in pronouncing the thick, dull syllable.
“But—but why?” said Stepan Arkadyich.
The answer came in a brash, echoing voice, one no longer recognizable to Stepan Arkadyich as that belonging to his brother-in-law:
“WHY? WHY, FOR THE SOUL OF THE PEOPLE.”
“What?” replied Stiva helplessly.
“THE GRAV WAS SMOOTH AND EFFICIENT AND POWERFUL. THE GRAV WAS EASY. EASY THINGS MAKE US WEAK. IT IS DIFFICULTY THAT MAKES US STRONG.”
“Well, you’ll do me a great, a great—that is, a service, anyway,” said Stepan Arkadyich, cringing and stuttering slightly, “by putting in a word to Pomorsky—-just in the way of conversation. . . .”
“I WILL DO PRECISELY AS I CHOOSE.”
Karenin slammed his fist down on the table with incredible force, and Stiva thought it best to change the subject. Fortunately, or unfortunately, as he would soon realize, he had a second topic of conversation at hand.
“Now there is something I want to talk about, and you know what it is. About Anna.”
As soon as Oblonsky uttered Anna’s name, he wished he had not done so. Alexei Alexandrovich smashed his other fist down on the table, and for the first time Oblonsky noticed that Karenin’s right arm, like his face, was now composed entirely of metal. Each of his ten fingers was apparently detachable, with a screw-and-thread mechanism where the bottom knuckle connected to the hand.
“What is it exactly that you want from me?” he said, moving in his chair and snapping his pince-nez.
“A definite settlement, Alexei Alexandrovich, some settlement of the position. I’m appealing to you”—not as an injured husband, Stepan Arkadyich was going to say, but afraid of wrecking his negotiation by this, he changed the words—“not as a statesman”—which, truly, did not sound apropos—“but simply as a man, and a good-hearted man and a Christian. You must have pity on her,” he said.
As Oblonsky spoke, Karenin very slowly and with great care unscrewed his right index finger, laid it down on the desk, and screwed in its place a sleek, cruel-looking attachment. It was the approximate length of a finger, but made of solid black metal.
“That is, in what way precisely?” Karenin answered finally. He flexed the obsidian phalangeal and its tip glowed to life, a deep, menacing red. Stiva edged backward in his chair.
“Yes, pity on her. If you had seen her as I have!—I have been spending all the winter with her—you would have pity on her. Her position is awful, simply awful!”
“I had imagined,” answered Alexei Alexandrovich in a higher, almost shrill voice, “that Anna Arkadyevna had everything she had desired for herself. I have allowed them to return . . . let them carry on unmolested . . .” And here his voice seemed to transform, taking on again the booming, echoing roar.
“AND YET THEY SEND THIS WORM, THIS COWERING SPECIMEN OF HUMANITY, TO PLEAD FOR FAVORS? FOR FORGIVENESS?”
Karenin threw back his head and barked a high, shrill laugh.
“HERE IS YOUR ANSWER. TELL THEM THEY SHALL BE DESTROYED. TELL THEM I POSSESS THE POWER TO DESTROY THEM AT MY WILL, AND THIS IS MY INTENTION. TELL THEM THEY MAY RUN IF THEY CHOOSE. COWER AS THEY MIGHT, STILL I SHALL DESTROY THEM.”
“Oh, Alexei Alexandrovich, for heaven’s sake, don’t let us indulge in recriminations!” responded Stepan Arkadyich, somewhat feebly.
He shot a glance at the door, considered leaving now before the conversation proceeded further; but he really was in need of the position on the Grav committee.
“I think it’s a bit too late for that,” said Karenin, his regular, human voice back again. “Ah, wonderful. Our guest has arrived. Levitsky!”
The Toy Soldier had returned, his hand clutched on the quivering elbow of a short, stout man with a mass of red curls topped by a crumpled hat in the English style.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Bow, man, before the Tsar.”
Stepan Arkadyich was astonished all over again. He had not heard the ancient honorific “Tsar” used in his lifetime, and nor, he knew, had his father, nor his father’s father: not since the dawn of the Age of Groznium and the ascendance of the Ministry of Robotics and State Administration.
Karenin accepted the unfamiliar title as his due, gestured magisterially as Levitsky cowered before him.
“Alexei?” ventured Oblonsky.
“I suppose this matter is ended. I consider it at an end,” answered Alexei Alexandrovich calmly, though the door of the room banged open and shut on its own, while the stained-glass window imploded in a cloud of pulverized glass. Levitsky yelped in terror.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t get hot!” said Stepan Arkadyich, touching his brother-in-law’s knee and then instantly pulling his hand away, repulsed by the cold, steely feeling of the other man’s body; was there any part of him left that was human?
“Sir? Sir?” began the terrified Levitsky, and the Toy Soldier silenced him with a swift boot to the stomach. Alexei Alexandrovich rose from his chair and held his red, gleaming fingertip aloft, as if examining it in the sunlight.
Oblonsky swallowed hard.
“The life of Anna Arkadyevna can have no interest for me,” Alexei Alexandrovich said to him suddenly.
“Open your eyes!” barked the Toy Soldier to Levitsky.
“No . . . please . . .”
“Open!”
“My only interest now is in the life of the nation,” Karenin continued, crossing the room to Levitsky, while the Toy Soldier grasped his chin to hold it steady. “In the protection of the nation. That is my vision.”
He raised his red-tipped finger to the newsman’s eyes, and Stepan Arkadyich fled the room.