Record Twenty-Six

Morning. Through the ceiling the sky is as usual firm, round, red-cheeked. I think I should have been less surprised had I found above some extraordinary quadrangular sun, or people clad in many-colored dresses made of the skins of animals, or opaque walls of stone. Then the world, our world, does still exist? Or is it only inertia? Is the generator already switched out, while the armature is still roaring and revolving;—two more revolutions, or three, and at the fourth will it die away?

Morning. Through the ceiling, the sky is as usual firm, round, and red-cheeked. I think I would have been less surprised to see some strange square sun overhead. Or people dressed in many-colored animal skins. Or opaque stone walls. So the world, our world, still exists? Or is it only inertia? Has the generator already been switched off, while the armature is still roaring and spinning? Will it make two or three more revolutions, then stop on the fourth?

Are you familiar with that strange state in which you wake up in the middle of the night, open your eyes into the darkness and then suddenly feel you are lost in the dark; you quickly, quickly begin to feel around, to seek something familiar and solid, a wall, a lamp, a chair? In exactly the same way I felt around, seeking in the Journal of the United State; quickly, quickly—I found this:

Have you ever woken in the middle of the night, opened your eyes in the darkness, and suddenly felt lost? You quickly, quickly feel around for something familiar and solid: a wall, a lamp, a chair. In exactly the same way, I searched the Journal of the United State. Quickly, quickly, I found this:

Oh, great Sage! Is it really true that despite everything we are saved? What objection indeed can one find to this most crystalline syllogism? And further on a few more lines:

Oh, great Sage! Is it really true that, despite everything, we are saved? What objection could anyone raise to this crystal-clear syllogism? And a few more lines farther on:

No, the Walls still stand erect. Here they are! I can feel them. And that strange feeling of being lost somewhere, of not knowing where I am—that feeling is gone. I am not surprised any longer to see the sky blue and the sun round and all the Numbers going to work as usual....

No, the Walls are still standing. Here they are! I can feel them. And that strange feeling of being lost somewhere, of not knowing where I am, is gone. I’m no longer surprised that the sky is blue, the sun is round, and all the Numbers are going to work as usual....

I walked along the avenue with a particularly firm resounding step. It seemed to me that everyone else walked exactly like me. But at the crossing, on turning the corner, I noticed people strangely shying away, going around the corner of a building sidewise, as if a pipe had burst in the wall, as if cold water were spurting like a fountain on the sidewalk and it was impossible to cross it.

I walked down the avenue with especially firm, resounding steps. Everyone else seemed to walk exactly as I did. But at the crossing, as I turned the corner, I noticed people strangely shying away. They were moving sideways around the corner of a building. It was as if a pipe had burst in the wall and cold water was spraying onto the sidewalk like a fountain, making it impossible to cross.

Another five or ten steps and I too felt a spurt of cold water that struck me and threw me from the sidewalk; at a height of approximately two meters a quadrangular piece of paper was pasted to the wall and on that sheet of paper,—unintelligible, poisonously green letters:

Five or ten steps later, I too felt a spurt of cold water strike me and knock me off the sidewalk. A rectangular piece of paper was pasted to the wall about two meters above the ground. On it were letters in a poisonous green, impossible to make out:

MEPHI

MEPHI

And under the paper,—an S-like curved back and wing-ears shaking with anger or emotion. His right arm lifted as high as possible, his left arm hopelessly stretched out backward like a hurt wing, he was trying to jump high enough to reach the paper and tear it off but he was unable to do so. He was a fraction of an inch too short.

And under the paper, an S-shaped back and winglike ears shook with anger or emotion. His right arm reached as high as it could, while his left stretched helplessly behind him like an injured wing. He tried to jump high enough to reach the paper and tear it off, but he couldn’t. He was a fraction of an inch too short.

Probably every one of the passers-by had the same thought: “If I go to help him, I, only one of the many, will he not think that I am guilty of something and that I am therefore anxious to....”

Probably every passerby had the same thought: “If I go to help him, just one person among many, won’t he think I’m guilty of something and therefore eager to....”

I must confess, I had that thought. But remembering how many times he had proved my real Guardian-angel and how often he had saved me, I stepped towards him and with courage and warm assurance I stretched out my hand and tore off the sheet. S- turned around. The little drills sank quickly into me to the bottom and found something there. Then he lifted his left brow, winked toward the wall where “Mephi” had been hanging a minute ago. The tail of his little smile twinkled even with a certain pleasure which greatly surprised me. But why should I be surprised? A doctor always prefers a temperature of 40° C. and a rash to the slow, languid rise of the temperature during the period of incubation of a disease; it enables him to determine the character of the disease. Mephi broke out today on the walls like a rash. I understood his smile.

I must admit, I had that thought. But I remembered how many times he had been my true Guardian-angel and how often he had saved me. So I stepped toward him and confidently, warmly held out my hand and tore off the sheet. S- turned around. The little drills quickly bored deep into me and found something there. Then he raised his left eyebrow and winked toward the wall where “Mephi” had been hanging a minute ago. The tail of his little smile twinkled, even with a certain pleasure, which greatly surprised me. But why should I be surprised? A doctor always prefers a temperature of 40° C. and a rash to the slow, sluggish rise in temperature during a disease’s incubation period. The fever and rash let him identify the disease. Mephi broke out on the walls today like a rash. I understood his smile.

In the passage to the underground railway, under our feet on the clean glass of the steps again a white sheet: Mephi. And also on the walls of the tunnel and on the benches and on the mirror of the car. (Apparently pasted on in haste as some were hanging on a slant.) Everywhere the same white gruesome rash.

In the passage to the underground railway, another white sheet lay under our feet on the clean glass steps: Mephi. There were more on the tunnel walls, the benches, and the mirror in the car. (They had apparently been pasted up in a hurry, since some hung crooked.) Everywhere, the same gruesome white rash.

I must confess that the exact meaning of that smile became clear to me only after many days which were overfilled with the strangest and most unexpected events.

I must admit that I understood exactly what that smile meant only many days later. Those days were filled with the strangest and most unexpected events.

The roaring of the wheels, distinct in the general silence, seemed to be the noise of infected streams of blood. Some Number was inadvertently touched on the shoulder and he started so that a package of papers fell out of his hands. To my left another Number was reading a paper, his eyes fixed always on the same line; the paper perceptibly trembled in his hands. I felt that everywhere, in the wheels, in the hands, in the newspapers, even in the eyelashes, the pulse was becoming more and more rapid and I thought it probable that today when I-330 and I should find ourselves there, the temperature would rise to 39°, 40°, perhaps 41° and....

The roar of the wheels stood out in the silence. It sounded like infected blood rushing through veins. Someone accidentally touched a Number on the shoulder. He startled so badly that he dropped a package of papers. To my left, another Number was reading a paper, his eyes fixed on the same line. The paper visibly trembled in his hands. I felt the pulse quickening everywhere: in the wheels, the hands, the newspapers, even the eyelashes. I thought it likely that today, when I-330 and I found ourselves there, the temperature would rise to 39°, 40°, perhaps 41° and....

At the docks—the same silence filled with the buzzing of an invisible propeller. The lathes were silent as if brooding. Only the cranes were moving almost inaudibly as if on tip-toe, gliding, bending over, picking up with their tentacles the lumps of frozen air and loading the tanks of the Integral. We are already preparing the Integral for a trial flight.

At the docks, the same silence was filled with the buzz of an invisible propeller. The lathes were silent, as if deep in thought. Only the cranes moved, almost silently, as if on tiptoe. They glided and bent over, picking up lumps of frozen air with their tentacles and loading them into the tanks of the Integral. We are already preparing the Integral for a trial flight.

“Well, shall we have her up in a week?” This was my question addressed to the Second Builder. His face is like porcelain, painted with sweet blue and tender pink little flowers (eyes and lips), but today those little flowers looked faded and washed-out. We were counting aloud when suddenly I broke off in the midst of a word and stopped, my mouth wide open; above the cupola, above the blue lump lifted by the crane, there was a scarcely noticeable small white square. I felt my whole body trembling—perhaps with laughter. Yes! I myself heard my own laughter. (Did you ever hear your own laughter?)

“Well, shall we have her up in a week?” I asked the Second Builder. His face is like porcelain, painted with sweet little blue and soft pink flowers, his eyes and lips. But today those little flowers looked faded and washed out. We were counting aloud when I suddenly broke off in the middle of a word and stopped, my mouth wide open. Above the cupola and the blue lump lifted by the crane was a barely visible little white square. I felt my whole body trembling, perhaps with laughter. Yes! I myself heard my own laughter. (Have you ever heard your own laughter?)

“No, listen,” I said. “Imagine you are in an ancient aeroplane. The altimeter shows 5000 meters. A wing breaks; you are dashing down like.... And on the way you calculate: ‘Tomorrow from twelve to two ... from two to six ... and dinner at five!’ Would it not be absurd?”

“No, listen,” I said. “Imagine you’re in an old airplane. The altimeter reads 5,000 meters. A wing breaks, and you’re plunging down like.... As you fall, you work out your schedule: ‘Tomorrow from twelve to two ... from two to six ... and dinner at five!’ Wouldn’t that be absurd?”

The little blue flowers began to move and bulge out. What if I were made of glass and he could have seen what was going on within me at that moment? If he knew that some three or four hours later....

The little blue flowers began to move and bulge. What if I were made of glass and he could see what was happening inside me at that moment? If he knew that in three or four hours....