“What’s the matter?” asked Zvantsev. “Are you falling asleep again?”
Mikhailov looked at him. Zvantsev walked on, his hood raised, his arms stuck under the rain cape. In the red, flickering light his face seemed drawn and hard. “No,” said Mikhailov. “I’m thinking. I’m not sleeping.”
Some sort of dark hulk loomed ahead. They walked quickly, and soon caught up to a large truck that was slowly crawling along the highway. At first Zvantsev did not realize that the truck was moving with its engine turned off. Two good-sized camels were pulling it.
“Hey, Saka!” shouted the technician.
The door of the cab opened a bit, a head stuck out, fixed shining eyes on them, and disappeared again. “What can I do for you?” asked a voice from the cab.
“Let me have a candy bar,” Mikhailov said.
“Get it yourself—I don’t feel like getting out. It’s wet.”
“So I’ll get it myself,” Mikhailov said briskly, and disappeared somewhere along with the torch.
It got very dark. Zvantsev walked alongside the truck, matching his pace to that of the camels, which were barely moving. “Can’t they go a little faster?” he muttered.
“They don’t want to, the scoundrels,” came the voice from the cab. “I’ve tried thrashing them with a stick, but they only spit at me.” The voice was silent for a bit and then added, “Just four kilometers an hour. And they spit all over my rain cape.” The driver sighed deeply and suddenly yelled, “Hey, you weird critters! Giddap! Giddap! Or whatever they say where you come from.”
The camels snorted distainfully.
“You should move over to the side,” advised the driver. “Though I guess they’re not going to do anything right now.”
The air smelled of oil, and Mikhailov again appeared alongside. His torch smoked and crackled. “Let’s go,” he said. “It’s close now.”
They easily passed the camel team, and soon low, dark structures appeared along the sides of the road. Peering ahead in the darkness, Zvantsev made out an enormous building—a black rift in the black sky. Here and there in the windows, yellow flames flickered weakly.
“Look,” Mikhailov said in a whisper. “Do you see the buildings by the sides of the road?”
“So?” Zvantsev whispered back.
“That’s where the quasibiomass is. This is where he’ll be kept.”
“Who?”
“Well, the brain, then,” Mikhailov whispered. “His brain!”
They suddenly turned and came out right at the entrance to the Institute building. Mikhailov swung open the heavy door. “Go on in,” he said. “Just don’t make any noise, please.”
It was dark, cold, and strange-smelling in the hall. In the middle of a large table winked several fat, guttering candles, along with dishes and a large soup pot. The dishes were dirty. Dried-out pieces of bread lay in a basket. The candlelight provided only poor illumination. Zvantsev took several steps, and brushed his rain cape against a chair. The chair fell over with a crash.
“Yike!” someone shouted from behind. “Tolya, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” Mikhailov said.
Zvantsev looked around. A reddish form occupied a corner of the hall, and when Mikhailov went over there with his torch, Zvantsev saw a girl with a pale face. She was lying on a sofa, wrapped up in something black.
“Did you bring something scrumptious?” the girl asked.
“Saka is bringing it,” Mikhailov answered. “Would you like a chocolate bar?”
“Please.”
Mikhailov started digging into the folds of his rain cape, waving his torch.
“Go spell Zina,” the girl said. “She can sleep in here. The boys are sleeping in Room Twelve now. Is it still raining outside?”
“Yes.”
“Good. There’s not much to go now.”
“Here’s your candy bar,” said Mikhailov. “I’m going. This comrade is here to see the Academician.”
“To see who?”
“The Academician.”
The girl whistled softly.
Zvantsev walked across the hall and looked back impatiently. Mikhailov came after him, and the girl sat down on the couch and unwrapped the candy bar. By the candlelight Zvantsev could only make out her small, pale face and a strange silvery lab coat with a hood. Mikhailov threw off his rain cape, and Zvantsev saw that he also wore a long silvery coat. In the uncertain light of the torch he looked like a ghost.
“Comrade Zvantsev,” he said, “wait here for a little bit. I’ll go bring you a lab coat. Only, in the meantime, don’t take off your rain cape.”
“All right,” Zvantsev said, and sat down on a chair.
Casparo’s study was dark and cold. The rain pattered on. Mikhailov had left, saying that he would call Casparo. He had taken the torch, and there were no candles in the study. At first Zvantsev sat in the visitors’ chair in front of the large empty desk. Then he got up, went over to the window, and started looking out into the night, leaning his forehead against the cold glass. Casparo did not come.
It’s going to be very difficult without Okada, Zvantsev thought. He could have lasted another twenty years—we should have taken better care of him. We should have stopped him from going on deep-water searches a long time ago. If a man is over a hundred, and has spent sixty of those years at a depth of five hundred fathoms… then begets blue palsy, damn him!
Zvantsev stepped back from the window, went over to the door, and looked out into the corridor. Candles burned sparsely along the long corridor walls. From somewhere came a voice repeating something over and over with the steadiness of a metronome. Zvantsev listened closely, but he could not make out a single word. Then long white figures glided out of the reddish twilight at the end of the corridor, and slipped past noiselessly, as if swimming in air. Zvantsev saw drawn dark faces under the peaks of the silvery hoods.
“Are you hungry?” one said.
“No. Sleepy.”
“I think I’ll go eat.”
“No, no. Sleep. First sleep.”
They spoke softly, but he could hear them a long way down the corridor.
“Jean almost screwed up her section. Casparo grabbed her arm just in time.”