THE BEEHIVE STAGE
ïåðåâåëà Ìàðèÿ Ìèëëåð Ñòîóí
Would someone give me a headache pill? That noise outside the building is unbearable. You can catch a breath of fresh air in the Canaries. We can’t, scream their banners.
Goofballs! How do you know there’s even air in the Canaries? The place is strangled by cars as much as Tokyo is. You think my life’s a picnic? No kidding. The other day, my limo was stuck in street traffic for five hours! I had to have my conference over the phone, right out of the car, with my head tightening. My driver was later taken to the hospital, acutely poisoned with exhaust fumes.
No really, I should cut down the car production? Why would I do that? It’s a buyer’s market!
Ever since I hired this young genius (there’s no other way to put it) Crandie (some names they now call themselves), our competitors have been buying our new models, disassembling them, and trying hard to imitate us. The jolly Crandie (the guy likes to joke) would immediately invent something new. Like the latest charming gadget – a voice-sensitive lighter-ashtray that flies around the interior keeping track of the smoked cigarettes, and playing the funeral march after you’ve reached the number twenty.
There’s no way our rivals can keep up with us. Yet, a little longer and we’ll all be suffocated by exhaust fumes like fish out of the water.
It was late night. I called Crandie. He’s a good guy, just like me – working overtime and sometimes staying well after midnight at the office.
“We’re in bad shape, buddy,” I said. “I don’t see a way out.”
“Perhaps we should cut down the production, boss?” Crandie asked, taking a seat opposite me, looking aloof as usual. He can easily do two things at a time – listen to me while mentally designing a new version of universal joint.
“Sure. And let our grateful rivals multiply theirs. We have to think of something else. Crandie (where do they get such names, in the U.S.?), I’ll be honest with you; I can’t breathe this air anymore. I no longer care about the money or the people. I know everything about the people. And my money’s turned into an abstract number. I might build a couple more skyscrapers, and the Tallinn preservation of ancient buildings inspection might give me a slap on the wrist… But, Crandie, the way you’d put it, I don’t give a damn.
“We-e-ell,” he drawled dazedly. “Don’t you always say there can’t be too much money?”
“Fuck what the people say, kid. Watch what they do. And here’s what I’m going to do. I decided to go for anabiosis, say, for forty years.”
“I won’t handle it,” Crandie said sadly.
“Those are just words. You’ll get by. Don’t be sad, I’ll be back. Perhaps, a little sooner…say, in thirty years. I definitely want to find you alive. Meanwhile, you’ll create a car of the future. When I think about it, I realize I haven’t yet died to the world. What would that car be like? However, I can’t stand those protestors outside my windows anymore. Crandie, I really count on you, on your inventive mind.
I called the ashtray. It flew over informing me that it was already my twenty-fifth cigarette today and performed the funeral march, which was very fitting, given my decision.
I created a detailed contract. I obliged my will-performers not to relocate my preserved body in a clear sleep box anywhere beyond the walls of my office, and wake me up in thirty years sharp on the same spot. I deliberately wanted to hover before the eyes of my associates to make sure they’d stay alert.
I wondered which elegant solution Crandie would offer. I bet the car of the future will be shaped as a cigar and will be fueled by air, by exhaust fumes, that is. I even dreamed a dream about this beauty, a cross between a Mercedes Benz, a Ferrari, and a Lexus.
I said my final goodbye to my grieving relatives. I’ll hardly find them alive when I wake up. What can I do? I have an aim in life while all they want is to pleasantly fill in their remaining time.
***
I woke up surrounded by a crowd in which I barely recognized some of my badly aged associates. Right there stood a grown up, already aging but still spectacular and grinning Crandie.
“Boss!” he exclaimed. “God I missed you! How are you?”
“Fine,” I said in a suddenly quiet and week voice as I tried lifting myself but failed – my muscles had atrophied due to my long-lasting sleep. “How’s it going?”
Crandie clicked a remote control and my bed transformed into a comfortable armchair.
“So tell me, buddy, is the air clear now?” I asked after I polished off a vitamin cocktail.
“Crystal clear!”
Crandie scooted my armchair towards the panoramic office window with a gorgeous view of the city and the bay.
There were several new high rises. Far ahead, in the Tallinn harbor, there had used to be one or two “Silja Line” multi-deck motor ships. They were nowhere to be seen now. Far above the sea, lining in a triangle, a flock of birds guided by its leader was heading to the southern skies… Fall… Indeed, life went on without me. What is a human being, after all? The city is eternal. So is the sea.
“All right, Crandie. I can see that Tallinn is still there and it hasn’t changed much over the past thirty years. So, I assume, there was no atomic war. But I’d like to see the car you created.”
“That’s exactly what I’m showing you, boss. You see that group of tourists heading to Helsinki? You see how they formed a triangle and follow their guide?”
Terrified, I stared at the graying genius.
“You mean those aren’t birds?”
“Are you kidding? Of course not! I invented a new special armor powered by an engine. Its functional concept is the magnetic field. It’s a long story… Those armors superseded cars. The air is clear, and the savings are enormous – there’s no need in elevators, escalators, parking lots, motor ships, airplanes… People just don the armor, fly out of the window and come back. The mankind has moved from the ant stage to the beehive stage,” he delivered proudly. “You are a billionaire now, boss. I’m not poor, either.”
I gave a nervous whistle, calling the ashtray. It didn’t emerge.
“I’m sorry, but no one smokes anymore,” Crandie said. “The air is so clear, it shouldn’t be ruined.”
“Crandie…Oh God, what have you done! Where are the cars? My babies! And what’s that? Who’s making that noise? I can hear the noise outside.”
“The protesters, boss.”
“Who?”
“The ones who have been wiped out by our enterprise,” Crandie replied, looking away.