Definitely Maybe by Arkady Strugatsky, Boris Strugatsky Page A

about what kind of press is squeezing you; you should be thinking about how to behave under the pressure. And thinking about that is much more complex than fantasizing about King Asoka, because from now on each of you is
alone
! No one will help you. No one will give you any advice. No one will decide for you. Not the academicians, not the government, not even progressive humanity—Val made that perfectly clear for you.”
    He stood, poured himself some tea, and returned to his chair—intolerably confident, pulled together, elegantly casual, still looking like a peer at a diplomatic reception at the palace.
    The boy read aloud:
    “ ‘If the patient does not follow doctor’s orders, does not take his medication, and abuses alcohol, then approximately five or six years later the secondary phase is followed by the disease’s third—and last—stage.’ ”
    Zakhar sighed.
    “But why? Why me?”
    Vecherovsky placed the cup in the saucer with a light clatter and put the saucer on the table next to him.
    “Because our age is wearing black,” he explained, dabbing his pinkish gray equine lips with a snowy white handkerchief.“It is still wearing a tall top hat, and still we continue to run, and when the clock strikes the hour of inaction and the hour of leave-taking from daily cares, then comes the moment of division, and we no longer dream of anything—”
    “The hell with you,” Malianov said, and Vecherovsky pealed with smug Martian guffaws.
    Weingarten fished a longish butt out of the ashtray, stuck it between his fat lips, struck a match, and sat for a while, his crossed eyes focused on the glowing tip.
    “Really,” he muttered, “does it really matter what power … as long as it is more powerful than humans?” He inhaled. “An aphid squashed by a brick and an aphid squashed by a coin … but I’m no aphid. I can choose.”
    Zakhar looked at him hopefully, but Weingarten said nothing else. Choose, thought Malianov. That’s easy enough to say.
    “That’s easy enough to say—choose!” Zakhar began, but Glukhov started talking. Zakhar looked at him hopefully.
    “But it’s clear,” Glukhov said with unusual feeling. “Isn’t it obvious which you should choose? You must choose life! What else? Surely not your telescopes and test tubes. Let them choke on your telescopes! And interstellar gases! You have to live, love, feel nature—really
feel
it, not dig around in it! When I look at a tree or a bush now, I feel, I know that it is my friend, that we exist for each other, that we need each other.”
    “Now?” Vecherovsky asked loudly.
    Glukhov stuttered to a stop.
    “Excuse me?”
    “We’ve met, you know, Vladlen,” Vecherovsky said. “Remember? Estonia, the math-linguistics school? The sauna, the beer.”
    “Yes, yes,” Glukhov said, lowering his eyes. “Yes.”
    “You were quite different then,” Vecherovsky said.
    “Well, back then …” Glukhov began. “Barons grow old, you know.”
    “Barons also struggle,” Vecherovsky said. “It wasn’t so long ago.”
    Glukhov spread his hands in silence.
    Malianov understood nothing of this interlude, but there was something to it, something unpleasant, sinister, there was some reason for what they were saying to each other. And Zakhar, apparently, had understood, in his own way. Malianov felt some insult to himself in that brief exchange, because suddenly, with unusual harshness, almost with anger, he shouted at Vecherovsky:
    “They killed Snegovoi! It’s easy for you to talk, Philip, they don’t have you by the throat, you’re all right!”
    Vecherovsky nodded.
    “Yes,” he said. “I’m all right. I’m all right, and Vladlen here is all right, too. Right, Vladlen?”
    The little cozy man with the bunny-rabbit eyes behind the strong glasses in steel frames spread his hands again in silence. Then he stood up and, avoiding everyone’s eyes, said:
    “Excuse me, friends, but it’s time for me to go. It’s getting