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men in power might despise culture and knowledge, in the long run
they are
nevertheless impotent in the face of objective historical
necessity--they
can only delay the course of progress, but they can not bring
it to a
complete standstill. And even if they fear and scorn educated
minds, they
are inescapably forced to further them eventually, simply in
order to
survive. Sooner or later they must stand by as universities are
founded,
scientific societies are organized, scientific research centers are
set up,
observatories and laboratories are built, to train cadres of experts
who are
already beyond the rulers' control--to educate men with a totally
different
psyche, with completely different demands.
These people, however, cannot exist--nor can they function
properly--in
an atmosphere of common greed, plebeian interests, dull self-
sufficiency,
and exclusively sensual desires. They need a new type of
atmosphere--an
atmosphere of general and all-encompassing cognition, imbued with
artistic
tension; they need writers, poets, painters, composers --and the
mighty Gray
Ones will see themselves forced to make concessions here, too.
Those who
resist will be swept away by cleverer rivals in the battle for power;
those,
on the other hand, who agree to make such concessions, will be
digging their
own graves against their own will--inescapably and
paradoxically. For
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
ignorant egoists and fanaticists are doomed, once the people's
culture
awakens in all areas, from scientific research to the ability to
enjoy good
music. This is followed by an epoch of vast social upheavals,
accompanied by
an upswing of the sciences such as has never been seen before.
And in
conjunction with the intellectualization of society through all
strata will
follow an era when the powers of Gray will gather their final
effort in a
battle whose cruelty will throw mankind back to the inhumanity of the
Middle
Ages. This life-and-death struggle will see the downfall of the
powers of
Gray, and they will ultimately go under in a society freed of
all class
distinctions and the oppression of man .. .
Rumata was still looking out over the city, a petrified glob
veiled in
gloom. Somewhere in its midst, in some stifling little room, was
Father
Tarra, twisting and squirming on a wretched cot, racked by
fever, but
Brother Nain was sitting next to him at a lopsided little table--
drunk,
happy, and mean--finishing his Treatise about Rumors, the book
wherein he
ridiculed with obvious relish, and with artfully chosen words, the
life of
Graydom. Somewhere else, down there, Gur, the poet, was pacing the
floor of
his empty, elegant rooms, blind with despair and terrified
at the
realization that in spite of everything new worlds were trying to
surface
from the depths of his ravaged soul. These new, bright worlds
seemed to be
buoyed up by an unknown force, seemed to be filled with
wonderful human
beings and staggering emotions. And somewhere down there Doctor
Budach was
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
spending the night, who knew how? Humbled, forced to his knees, and
beaten,
but still alive . . . My brothers all, thought Rumata. I am one
of you.
After all, we are of the same flesh! Suddenly he was overwhelmed
by the
insight that he was no god protecting the luminaries of the mind
between the
palms of his hands, but rather a brother helping another brother,
or a son
hurrying to his father's rescue. "I'll kill Don Reba."--'What
for?"--"He has
destroyed my brothers."--"He does not know what he is
doing."--"But he is
murdering the future."--"He is innocent; a child of his time."--"You
mean he
does not realize his guilt? But what does it matter whether or
not he is
aware of his guilt?"--"And what about Father Zupik? What wouldn't he
give if
someone were to slay Don Reba? Now you're silent. You'll have to do a
lot of
killing, won't you?" --"I don't know. Perhaps. One after the
other. All
those who try to prevent the future from happening."--"The same old
story.
Poison, homemade bombs--they never changed anything."--"Oh yes,
they did.
The strategy of the revolution was born."--"What do you care
about the
strategy of the revolution? All you want is to kill."--"Yes, I
want to
kill."--"Can you really go through with it?"--"Yesterday I caused
the death
of Dona Okana. I knew she would be killed the moment I went to
her house
with a feather stuck behind my ear. I only regret having
killed her
senselessly. They've almost managed to teach me such things
here."-- "But
this is bad. It's a serious matter, and a dangerous one. Do you
remember
Sergei Koschin, George Lenni or Sabine Krueger?"--Rumata ran his
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
hand over
his sweat-covered forehead. Here you are, pondering,
contemplating and
worrying--and all you have to show for it is a load of garbage.
He leapt to his feet and tore the window open. The widely
dispersed
concentrations of lights throughout the dark city were set in
motion,
broken, scattered, drifted apart, moved along in chains, vanished
behind
invisible houses and appeared again. An indefinable roar surged up
over the
city, a distant, many-voiced din. Two conflagrations flared up,
illuminating
the neighboring rooftops. Something exploded in the harbor area.
It had
begun. In a few hours it would be known what the significance was
of the
union between the Gray hordes and the nocturnal army, this
unnatural
alliance of little shopkeepers and robbers. And it would also be
known then
what Don Reba had accomplished with that and what new provocation
he had
managed to finagle, or--to put it in a plain language--who was
to be
slaughtered tonight. Most likely this was the beginning of a night
of the
long knives, a blood-letting among the leadership of the Gray hordes
and at
the same time the annihilation of those unfortunate barons who just
happened
to be in town, as well as of those aristocrats who represented the
greatest
nuisance. I wonder what Pampa is doing, he thought. If only he isn't
asleep.
Hell make out all right then.
There was no more time now to give free rein to his thoughts.
The door
began to shake from a violent hammering with fists; somebody was
yelling in
a hoarse voice: "Open up! Open up!" Rumata pushed back the bolt. A
man, half
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