THETA

"Papa complains you're always moving away from him at the table. You're hurting his feelings…"

"He stinks, so I move over."

"Stinks? Picky, picky! And just what is it you smell?"

"He smells like a corpse."

"Well, what else? He's not going to smell like a tulip, is he?"

"It's disgusting."

"So what? That's his work!"

"Well, I don't like it. He shouldn't smell."

"Goodness gracious, aren't you the delicate one."

Benedikt answered distractedly, as usual, without looking up. He sat at a huge table in a bright room of the Red Terem. On the ceiling-he remembered without even looking-was a curly sort of mural with flowers and leaves. The ones that were outlined in rusht were brownish, the ones outlined with ground shells were green, and if they were outlined with a blue stone- then they were blue! Gorgeous! The light came right in through the window grates, it was summer outside, there were grass and flowers, but on the ceiling it was always summer. Benedikt was eating jam cakes and reading The Journal of Horse Breeding. He read calmly, with pleasure: there was a whole hallway of these magazines, enough to last a century. He would read a bit from the journal, and then from The Odyssey, then some Yamamoto, or Correspondence from Two Corners, or poems, or Care of Leather Footwear, or a bit of Sartre. He read whatever he felt like reading, everything was at hand, it was all his. For all time to come, amen.

He didn't feel like working at governmental affairs at all: it was a big bore. They gave the Golubchiks liberties, they gave them Decrees-what else do they need? They even gave them Instructions, what more is there? Who wants to work?

Strengthen defense? They strengthened it: sapling fences, picket fences, pike fences-they fixed everything as best they could, they spackled and stuffed rags in the holes, using whatever was to hand. The enemy couldn't get through, except maybe through the Ekimansky Swamp, but that's why it's a swamp, so you can't get through. Who in their right mind would go through a swamp?

At first they thought of fencing off the Cockynork settlement, so they wouldn't come bothering us, but then they thought again and decreed: No, no, we won't give up an inch of our land.

They conferred for a week to decide what tithe to exact from conquered Golubchiks if they entered an armed conflict with a foreign state and won-although they didn't know whether there was another state anywhere. But should the tithe be collected daily, or weekly, or perhaps quarterly?

They canceled leap year for centuries and ages to come, of course.

They issued a special Decree saying that all conjurers, sorcerers, enchanters, magicians, clairvoyants, stargazers, witches, soothsayers, fortune tellers, wicked women, and people who open and close chakras shouldn't even think about engaging in magicianry on a private basis, no, no, not even an eensy weensy bit, heaven forbid. All spellcasters, and especially cloudchasers, will henceforth be considered government workers and should always sleep in their clothes in case they're called out on an emergency.

They worked out a long, formal title for Father-in-law. In official documents he had to be called: Kudeyar-Pasha, General San-iturion and People's Beloved, Life, Health, Strength, Theofrast Bombast, Paracelsus-and-Maria, Sanchez-and-Jimenez, Wolfgang Amadeus Avitsenna Cheops von Guggenheim.

Teterya wanted to be called Petrovich-san, Minister of Transport, Oil, and Refineries. What does that mean? It means that he ordered the guzzelean water to be ladled out in buckets and pails and lugged over to the cellar. You had to admit it was beautiful water, it looked like it was covered with a rainbow. But it was foul-tasting and didn't smell very good. Teterya was Boss of all Transport and Hauling, and of all the Degenerators. Olenka and Fevronia didn't want to be called anything, they only wanted a lot of different outfits, so they could wear a new dress each time there was a public execution, whether it was the wheel or a tongue being cut out, or something else.

It was all so dull.

"… Papa's feelings are hurt, he says you wrinkle you nose at him. Benedikt! Don't wrinkle your nose!"

"Get out of here. I'm reading."

Benedikt waited until every last inch of Olenka had left through the wide doors. She broke his train of thought, the bitch.

"You're wrinkling your nose up at me, I see," said Father-in-law.

"Don't be silly."

"And here we are, friends forever and all time. We swore to it."

"Mmmmmm."

"Where you go, I go. Put that book down!"

"All right, all right, what is it?"

The family was sitting at the table, eating grilled canaries and looking at Benedikt with displeasure, all of them, even Petro-vich-san. The children, Bubble and Concordia, crawled under the table, scraping the floor with their claws.

"I've got a mind to reorganize the power structure, my dear boy."

"Be my guest."

"Petrovich and I decided to whip up an internal combustion engine. We've got the guzzelean, I can spark it with my eyes, the rest will take care of itself in the course of things."

"Godspeed. What do I have to do with it?"

"We need a little bit of consolidation," Petrovich-san piped up.

"I don't have any."

"Ay! Help, we need help!"

"I want to remove the Head Stoker," said Father-in-law.

Benedikt thought he'd misheard. He put his finger in the book, and leaned forward.

"Move him where?"

"Where, what do you mean where? Remove him-execute him! Clean out your ears!" Father-in-law sputtered. "You've gone overboard with all that reading, buried yourself in papers, abandoned the government. And you're supposed to be a Deputy! I wish to execute him as a fire hazard. In accordance with the Governmental Decree that took effect ages ago. He's harming the economy: the people have gone to seed, they get their stoves lighted for free, no one's paying the fire tax!"

"Now that we've got gasoline, we cannot tolerate any open flames," confirmed Teterya. "I declare this officially, as Minister of Oil and Refineries. We're an OPEC country now. We have to think about exports, and not all these shenanigans."

"What's more, he's carrying out dangerous excavations and undermining the government. We'll wake up one morning and the country will have collapsed."

"He's erecting columns, interfering with traffic flow-now I'm speaking in my capacity as Minister of Transport."

"The revolution goes on, there's nothing to discuss," said Father-in-law angrily. "Do we need to uphold the purity of the ranks? We do. I'm a medical worker, don't forget. You know what oath we medical workers take? Do no harm. And he's doing harm. Well? So you go on over and see him and tie him up with a rope real quick. Tie him to that column or something, only make sure he's tied tight. I would send my own people, but he'll just huff and puff at them and get away. But he won't huff and puff at you."

"I won't let you execute Nikita Ivanich, what on earth is going on!!!" cried Benedikt. "He's an old friend… he made sweet rolls for me, we carved the pushkin together, and… he… he… this… and… anyway!!!"

He decided not to mention the tail.

"You'll let us, you won't let us-no one's asking your permission!" shouted Father-in-law. "You are the Deputy for Marine and Oceanic Defense, and this is terra firma business. We'll build an engine and drive along the roads! Your job is to bring him in, so he doesn't get away!"

"Up yours!"

"So that's how it is, huh? Cosmopolitan!" shouted Teterya, shoving the table.

"Some cosmetologian you are! You four-legged warty fur-ball!" Benedikt retorted.

"That's how you talk to a Minister?" Father-in-law bent over and tore the book out of Benedikt's hands. He hurled it on the floor and the pages fell apart.