Record Nine

A solemn bright day. On such days one forgets one’s weaknesses, inexactitudes, illnesses, and everything is crystalline and imperturbable like our new glass....

A solemn, bright day. On days like this, you forget your weaknesses, inaccuracies, and illnesses. Everything is clear and unshakable, like our new glass....

The Plaza of the Cube. Sixty-six imposing concentric circles—stands. Sixty-six rows of quiet serene faces. Eyes reflecting the shining of the sky,—or perhaps it is the shining of the United State. Red like blood, are the flowers—the lips of the women. Like soft garlands the faces of the children in the first rows, nearest the place of action. Profound, austere, gothic silence.

The Plaza of the Cube. Sixty-six imposing concentric circles of stands. Sixty-six rows of quiet, serene faces. Their eyes reflect the shining sky, or perhaps the shining United State. The women’s lips are flowers, red as blood. The children’s faces form soft garlands in the front rows, nearest the action. A deep, stern, gothic silence.

To judge by the descriptions which reach us from the ancients, they felt somewhat like this during their “Church services,” but they served their nonsensical unknown god; we serve our rational god, whom we most thoroughly know. Their god gave them nothing but eternal, torturing seeking; our god gives us absolute truth, that is, he has rid us of any kind of doubt. Their god did not invent anything cleverer than sacrificing oneself, nobody knows what for; we bring to our god, The United State, a quiet, rational, carefully thought-out sacrifice.

From the descriptions left by the ancients, they felt something like this during their “Church services.” But they served their absurd, unknown god. We serve our rational god, whom we know thoroughly. Their god gave them nothing but an endless, torturous search. Our god gives us absolute truth. In other words, he has freed us from all doubt. Their god could think of nothing cleverer than self-sacrifice, and nobody knows what for. We offer our god, The United State, a quiet, rational, carefully planned sacrifice.

Yes, it was a solemn liturgy for the United State, a reminiscence of the great days, years, of the Two Hundred Years’ War,—a magnificent celebration of the victory of all over one, of the sum over the individual!

Yes, it was a solemn ceremony for the United State, recalling the great days and years of the Two Hundred Years’ War. It was a magnificent celebration of the victory of all over one, of the sum over the individual!

That one stood on the steps of the Cube which was filled with sunlight. A white, no not even white, but already colorless glass face, lips of glass. And only the eyes—thirsty, swallowing, black holes leading into that dreadful world from which he was only a few minutes away. The golden badge with the number already had been taken off. His hands were tied with a red ribbon. (A symbol of ancient custom. The explanation of it is that in the old times when this sort of thing was not done in the name of the United State, the convicted naturally considered that they had the right to resist, hence their hands were usually bound with chains.)

That one stood on the steps of the Cube, which was filled with sunlight. His face was white, no, not even white, but already colorless glass. His lips were glass. Only his eyes were different: thirsty, swallowing, black holes leading into that dreadful world, only minutes away from him. His golden badge with his number had already been removed. His hands were tied with a red ribbon. (This symbol came from an ancient custom. In the old days, when this sort of thing was not done in the name of the United State, the condemned naturally believed they had the right to resist. So their hands were usually bound with chains.)

On the top of the Cube, next to the Machine, the motionless, metallic figure of him whom we call the Well-Doer. One could not see his face from below. All one could see was that it was bounded by austere, magnificent, square lines. And his hands.... Did you ever notice how sometimes in a photograph the hands, if they were too near the camera, come out enormous? They then compel your attention, overshadow everything else. Those hands of his, heavy hands, quiet for the time being, were stony hands,—it seemed the knees on which they rested must have had pains to bear their weight.

On top of the Cube, next to the Machine, stood the motionless, metallic figure of the man we call the Well-Doer. From below, you could not see his face. All you could see was that its outline had severe, magnificent, square lines. And his hands.... Have you ever noticed how hands can look enormous in a photograph if they were too close to the camera? Those hands draw your attention and overshadow everything else. His hands were heavy and still for the time being. They were like stone. It seemed that the knees they rested on must have ached under their weight.

Suddenly one of those hands rose slowly. A slow cast-iron gesture; obeying the will of the lifted hand, a Number came out on the platform. It was one of the State poets, whose fortunate lot it was to crown our celebration with his verses.

Suddenly one of those hands rose slowly, in a slow, cast-iron gesture. Obeying the raised hand, a Number came onto the platform. It was one of the State poets, who had the good fortune to crown our celebration with his poems.

Divine iambic brass verses thundered over the many stands. They dealt with the man, who, his reason lost and lips like glass, stood on the steps and waited for the logical consequences of his own insane deeds.

Divine iambic verses thundered in brass over the many stands. The verses were about the man standing on the steps, his reason lost and his lips like glass. He waited for the logical consequences of his own insane deeds.

... A blaze.... Buildings were swaying in those iambic lines, and sprinkling upward their liquified golden substance, they broke and fell. The green trees were scorched, their sap slowly ran out and they remained standing like black crosses, like skeletons. Then appeared Prometheus (that meant us).

... A blaze.... Buildings swayed in those iambic lines, spraying their melted gold upward. Then they broke apart and fell. The green trees were scorched. Their sap slowly ran out, and they remained standing like black crosses, like skeletons. Then Prometheus appeared (that meant us).

The world was renovated; it became like steel,—a sun of steel, trees of steel, men of steel. Suddenly an insane man, “Unchained the fire and set it free,” and again the world had perished.... Unfortunately I have a bad memory for poetry, but one thing I am sure of: one could not choose more instructive or more beautiful parables.

The world was rebuilt, becoming like steel: a steel sun, steel trees, steel people. Suddenly, a madman “Unchained the fire and set it free,” and once again the world was destroyed.... Unfortunately, I have a bad memory for poetry. But I am sure of one thing: no one could choose more instructive or beautiful parables.

Another slow, heavy gesture of the cast-iron hand and another poet appeared on the steps of the Cube. I stood up! Impossible! But ... thick negro lips,—it was he. Why did he not tell me that he was to be invested with such high.... His lips trembled; they were gray. Oh, I certainly understood; to be face to face with the Well-Doer, face to face with the hosts of Guardians! Yet one should not allow oneself to be so upset.

The cast-iron hand made another slow, heavy gesture, and another poet appeared on the steps of the Cube. I stood up! Impossible! But ... those thick Black lips, it was him. Why hadn't he told me he was to receive such a high.... His lips trembled. They were gray. Oh, I certainly understood. He was face to face with the Well-Doer, face to face with the hosts of Guardians! Still, one shouldn't let oneself get so upset.

Swift sharp verses like an axe.... They told about an unheard-of crime, about sacrilegious poems in which the Well-Doer was called.... But no, I do not dare to repeat....

Swift, sharp verses like an axe.... They told of an unheard-of crime, of sacrilegious poems that called the Well-Doer.... But no, I don't dare repeat it....

R-13 was pale when he finished, and looking at no one (I did not expect such bashfulness of him) he descended and sat down. For an infinitesimal fraction of a second I saw right beside him somebody’s face—a sharp, black triangle—and instantly I lost it; my eyes, thousands of eyes, were directed upward toward the Machine. Then—again the superhuman, cast-iron, gesture of the hand.

R-13 was pale when he finished. Without looking at anyone, he stepped down and sat down. I had not expected him to be so shy. For a tiny fraction of a second, I saw someone’s face right beside him, a sharp, black triangle. Then I lost sight of the face. My eyes, thousands of eyes, were fixed upward on the Machine. Then came the superhuman, cast-iron gesture of the hand again.

Swayed by an unknown wind the criminal moved; one step ... one more, ... then the last step in his life. His face was turned to the sky, his head thrown backward—he was on his last.— ... Heavy, stony like fate, the Well-Doer went around the machine, put his enormous hand on the lever.... Not a whisper, not a breath around; all eyes were upon that hand.... What crushing, scorching power one must feel to be the tool, to be the resultant of hundreds of thousands of wills! How great his lot!

Moved by an unknown wind, the criminal took one step ... then another ... then the last step of his life. His face was turned toward the sky, his head thrown back. He was taking his last step.... Heavy and stony as fate, the Well-Doer walked around the machine and placed his enormous hand on the lever.... There was not a whisper or a breath around him. All eyes were on that hand.... What crushing, scorching power one must feel as the tool, the combined force of hundreds of thousands of wills! How fortunate he is!

Another second. The hand moved down, switching in the current. The lightning-sharp blade of the electric ray.... A faint crack like a shiver, in the tubes of the Machine.... The prone body, covered with a light phosphorescent smoke; then suddenly, under the eyes of all, it began to melt,—to melt, to dissolve with terrible speed. And then nothing; just a pool of chemically pure water which only a moment ago was so red and pulsated in his heart....

Another second passed. The hand moved down, switching on the current. The electric ray flashed like a blade of lightning.... A faint crack ran through the tubes of the Machine, like a shiver.... A light phosphorescent smoke covered the body lying there. Then suddenly, before everyone’s eyes, the body began to melt, to dissolve with terrifying speed. Then nothing remained but a pool of chemically pure water. Only a moment ago, the water had been red and pulsing in his heart....

All this was simple; all of us were familiar with the phenomenon, dissociation of matter,—yes, the splitting of the atoms of the human body! Yet every time we witnessed it, it seemed a miracle; it was a symbol of the superhuman power of the Well-Doer.

All this was simple. We were all familiar with the dissociation of matter. Yes, the atoms of the human body were being split! Yet every time we saw it happen, it seemed like a miracle. It was a symbol of the Well-Doer’s superhuman power.

Above, in front of Him, the burning faces of the female numbers, mouths half open from emotion, flowers swaying in the wind.² According to custom, ten women were covering with flowers the unif of the Well-Doer, which was still wet with spray. With the magnificent step of a supreme priest He slowly descended, slowly passed between the rows of stands; and like tender white branches there rose toward Him the arms of the women; and, millions like one, our tempestuous cheers! Then cheers in honor of the Guardians, who all unseen, were present among us.... Who knows, perhaps the fancy of the ancient man foresaw them centuries ahead, when he created the gentle and formidable “guardian-angels” assigned to each one from the day of his birth?

Above, in front of Him, the female numbers’ faces burned, their mouths half open with emotion, like flowers swaying in the wind.² As was customary, ten women covered the Well-Doer’s unif with flowers. It was still wet with spray. He descended slowly, walking with the majestic stride of a high priest. He passed slowly between the rows of stands. The women’s arms rose toward Him like tender white branches, and millions of us cheered wildly as one! Then we cheered the Guardians, who were all there among us, unseen.... Who knows? Perhaps the imagination of ancient man foresaw them centuries in advance. He created the gentle and formidable “guardian-angels” assigned to each person from birth.

Yes, there was in our celebration something of the ancient religions, something purifying like a storm.... You whose lot it may be to read this, are you familiar with such emotions? I am sorry for you if you are not.

Yes, our celebration had something of the ancient religions in it, something cleansing like a storm.... You who may read this, have you felt such emotions? I feel sorry for you if you have not.