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walls with
bare hands ..."
"How did you get to Arkanar?" asked Rumata.
"With the monks."
"You're crazy! You're so easy to recognize."
"But not among monks. Among the crowds of officers of the
Holy Order
nearly half are made up of divine fools and cripples like myself. The
maimed
and the deformed are a pleasing sight in God's eyes." He stared
straight at
Rumata and laughed.
"What do you intend to do now?" asked Rumata and lowered his
eyes.
"The same as always. I know the Holy Order. Before the year is
out, the
people of Arkanar will arm themselves and crawl out of their holes--
they'll
chop each other to bits with their axes. I'll lead them so
that they
slaughter not each other, but rather those who deserve it." "Do
you need
some money?" asked Rumata.
"Yes, as usual. And weapons . . ." He fell silent. Then he
narrowed his
eyes and said; "Don Rumata, do you remember how disappointed I was
when I
found out who you really are? I hate the shavelings, and it hurts
me that
their tissue, of lies proved to be the truth. But unfortunately,
a poor
rebel is forced to profit from circumstances of all kinds. The
priests are
saying that the gods have thunderbolts at their disposal . . . Don
Rumata, I
urgently need such thunderbolts, to be able to smash the walls
of these
fortresses."
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
Rumata sighed deeply. Following his miraculous rescue,
Arata had
ceaselessly demanded explanations. Rumata had once even attempted
to tell
about himself, he even once showed him Sol, the sun of his planet,
in the
nocturnal sky --a tiny, hardly recognizable star. But the rebel
understood
only one thing: The cursed priests were right, gods were indeed
living
behind the walls of the firmament, omniscient and almighty gods.
And from
that moment on, every conversation he had with Rumata would always
lead to
the same point: God, since you do exist, lend me your strength, for
this is
the best that you can do for me. And each time Rumata made no reply
or would
steer the conversation on to a different topic.
"Don Rumata," said the rebel, "why don't you want to help us?"
"Just a minute," said Rumata. "I beg your pardon, but first tell
me how
you got into my house?"
"That isn't so important. No one besides me knows the way.
But don't
try to sidetrack me, Don Rumata. Why don't you want to confer your
powers on
us?"
"We won't go into that."
"Oh yes, we will. I did not call you. I have never asked a
favor of
anybody. You came to me of your own accord. Or did you just want to
have a
little fun?"
It's hard to be a god, thought Rumata.
Patiently, he answered: "You don't understand. I have tried
at least
twenty times to explain that I am not a god-- and you wouldn't
believe me.
And neither will you comprehend why I cannot help you with my
weapons."
"Do you have thunderbolts?"
"I cannot lend you the thunderbolt."
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
"I've heard that story twenty times," said Arata. "Now I want
to know:
why not?"
"I'll tell you once more: you won't understand."
"So try once more to explain it to me."
"What do you plan to do with the thunderbolt?"
"I will burn the golden brood like bedbugs, to the last
man, their
cursed kith and kin down to the twelfth descendant I'll
wipe their
fortresses off the face of the earth. I'll burn their armies and
all those
whom they defend and support. You can rest assured that your
lightning will
serve a just cause, and once only the freed slaves remain on earth
and peace
reigns everywhere, I shall return your thunderbolts to you and
never again
ask you for them."
Arata fell silent He was breathing heavily. His face had turned
almost
purple from the blood that had congested his brain. Apparently
he could
already see duchies and kingdoms going up in flames, the seared
bodies lying
at the scene of conflagration and among the burnt-out ruins,
and the
gigantic armies of the victors roaring triumphantly: "Liberty!
Liberty!"
"No," said Rumata. "I will not give the thunderbolt to you. It
would be
a mistake. Try to believe me, I can see further than you can."
Arata lowered his chin onto his chest. Rumata began to crack his
finger
joints. "I'll tell you just one of the reasons. Though it is
insignificant
compared with the main reason, you will understand this one.
You are
brimming over with vitality, dear Arata, but even you are mortal. And
if you
should perish and the thunderbolt should happen to fall into
the wrong
hands, those that are not quite as pure as yours, the mere thought
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
of what
this might lead to is unbearable ..."
Neither spoke for some time. Then Rumata took out a bottle of
Estorian
wine and something to eat, and placed it before his guest Without
raising
his head, Arata started silently to bite off chunks of bread and sip
at the
wine. Rumata was overcome by a strange and morbid schism within
himself. He
knew he was right and yet this awareness humbled him before Arata.
Somehow,
Arata surpassed him; but not him alone--Arata surpassed all the
others that
came unbidden to this planet and observed with full impotent
pity its
teeming life from the lofty peak of passionless hypotheses and
alien moral
standards. And for the first time Rumata thought: Nothing can be
acquired
without loss. We are infinitely stronger than Arata within our
realm of
goodness but infinitely weaker than he is within his realm of evil.
"You should not have descended from heaven," Arata remarked
suddenly.
"Go back. You are doing us here only harm!"
"No, no," said Rumata. "We don't harm anybody here."
"Oh, yes, you are harming us. You instill unfounded hopes in us."
"Who, for instance?"
"Me. You have weakened my will power, Don Rumata. It used to be
that I
relied only on myself, but now you have caused me to be always aware
of your
strength standing behind me. Formerly, I fought every battle as if
it were
my last one. But now I have noticed that I preserve my strength
for the
other battles, for the decisive ones, because you will participate
in them.
Leave this planet, Don Rumata, return to your heavens, and never
come back
here. Or else, give us your thunderbolts, or at least your iron
bird. If
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
nothing else, draw your sword and be our leader."
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