The Final Circle of Paradise

Dreariness and desolation! There had to be some curse upon these people, some awful predilection for dangers and disasters. Imperialism, fascism, tens of millions of people killed and lives destroyed, including millions of these same boobs, guilty and innocent, good and bad. The last skirmishes, the last putsches, especially pitiless because they were the last. Criminals, the military driven berserk by prolonged uselessness, all kinds of leftover trash from intelligence and counterintelligence, bored by the sameness of commercial espionage, all slavering for power. Again we were forced to return from space, to come out of our laboratories and factories, to call back our soldiers. And we managed it again. The zephyr was gently turning the pages of History of Fascism by my feet. But hardly had we had the time to savor the cloudless horizons, when out of these same sewers of history crept the scum with submachine guns, homemade quantum pistols, gangsters, syndicates, gangster corporations, gangster empires. "Minor malfunctions are still encountered here and there," soothed and calmed Doctor Opir, while napalm bottles flew through university windows, cities were seized by bands of outlaws, and museums burned like candles… All right.

Brushing aside Doctor Opir and his kind, once again we came out of space, out of the labs and factories, recalled the soldiers, and once again managed the problem. And again the skies were clear. Once more the Opirs were out, the weeklies were purring, and once more filth was flowing out of the same sewers. Tons of heroin, cisterns of opium, and oceans of alcohol, and beyond all that something new, something for which we had no name…

Again everything was hanging by a thread for them, and boobs were solving crosswords, dancing the fling, and desired but one thing: to have fun. But somewhere idiot children were being born, people were going insane, some were dying strangely in bathtubs, some were dying no less strangely with some group called the Fishers, while art patrons defended their passion for art with brass knuckles. And the weeklies were attempting to cover this foul-smelling bog with a crust, fragile as a meringue, of cloyingly sweet prattle, and this or that diplomaed fool glorified sweet dreams, and thousands of idiots surrendered with relish to dreams in lieu of drunkenness (so that they need not think)… and again the boobs were persuaded that all was well, that space was being developed at an unprecedented pace (which was true), and that sources of energy would last for billions of years (which was also true), that life was becoming unquestionably more interesting and varied (which was also undoubtedly true, but not for boobs), while demagogue-denigrators (real-thinking men who considered that in our times any drop of pus could infect the whole of mankind, as once upon a time a beer putsch turned into a world menace) were foreign to the people's interests and deserved of universal condemnation. Boobs and criminals, criminals and boobs.

"Have to work at it," I said aloud. "To hell with melancholy! We'd show you skeptics!"

It was time to go see Rimeyer. Although there were the Fishers. But all right, the Fishers could be attended to later.

I was tired of poking around in the dark. I went out in the yard. I could hear Aunt Vaina feeding Len.

"But, Mom, I don't want any!"

"Eat, son, you must eat. You are so pale."

"I don't want to. Disgusting lumps l"

"What lumps? Here, let me have some myself! Mm! Delicious!

Just try some and you'll see it's very tasty."

"But I don't want any! I'm ill, I'm not going to school."

"Len, what are you saying? You've skipped a lot of days as it is."

"So what?"

"What do you mean, so what? The director has already called me twice. We'll be fined."

"Let them fine us!"

"Eat, son, eat. Maybe you didn't get enough sleep?"

"I didn't. And my stomach hurts… and my head… and my tooth, this one here, you see?"

Len's voice sounded peevish, and I immediately visualized his pouting lips and his swinging stockinged foot.

I went out the gate. The day was again clear and sunny, full of bird twitter. It was still too early, so that on my way to the Olympic, I met only two people. They walked together by the curb, monstrously out of place in the joyful world of green branch and clear blue sky. One was painted vermilion and the other bright blue. Sweat beaded through the paint on their bodies. Their breaths heaved through open mouths and the protruding eyes were bloodshot. Unconsciously I unbuttoned all the buttons of my shirt and breathed with relief when this strange pair passed me.