“That’s enough of that, now,” Modest said wearily.
“I’ve got my orders,” Kovalyov responded just as wearily.
“Our five-kopeck piece is in its proper place…”
“Then let the old woman come in and make a statement…”
“What do you think we are, counterfeiters?”
“I didn’t say that…”
“A slur on the name of the entire collective…”
“We’ll get to the bottom of this…”
Kovalyov didn’t notice me, but Modest stopped, ran his lackluster gaze over me, then raised his eyes and pronounced wearily, “Laboratory ham-munculus, generic view,” and went on.
I followed him, with a strange feeling that something bad was about to happen. Roman was waiting for us by the door.
“Well?” he asked.
“Outrageous bureaucracy,” Modest said wearily.
“I have my orders,” Sergeant Kovalyov repeated stubbornly from the hallway.
“Come on out then, Roman Petrovich, come on,” said Modest, jangling the keys.
Roman went out. I was about to dart through after him, but Modest stopped me.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, crestfallen.
“You go back to your place.”
“What place?”
“Well, where is it you stand? You’re one of those… ham-munculuses, aren’t you? Go and stand where you’re supposed to.”
I thought I was done for. And I probably would have been, because Roman was obviously dismayed as well, but just at that moment Naina Kievna burst into the hall, clattering and stamping and leading a huge black goat on a rope. At the sight of the militia sergeant the goat gave a discordant bleat and made a dash for it. Naina Kievna fell over. Modest dashed out into the hallway and there was an almighty racket as the empty water tub was sent tumbling. Roman grabbed me by the arm, whispered, “Move it! Move it!” and ran for my room. We slammed the door shut behind us and leaned back against it, gasping for breath. We heard voices shouting in the hallway: “Let me see your papers!”
“Good grief, what’s going on?”
“Why’s that goat here? What’s a goat doing on the premises?”
“Me-e-e-eh…”
“That’s enough of that, you’re not in a beer hall now!”
“I don’t know anything about any five-kopeck pieces!”
“Me-e-e-eh…”
“Citizeness, take the goat outside!”
“That’s enough of that, that goat’s been properly inventoried!”
“A goat, inventoried?”
“It’s not a goat! It’s one of our employees!”
“Then let it show me its papers!”
“Out of the window and into the car!” Roman ordered.
I grabbed my jacket and jumped through the window. The cat Vasily darted out from under my feet with a loud meow. I crouched over and ran to the car, swung open the door, and jumped into the driver’s seat. Roman was already pushing back the massive main gates.
The engine wouldn’t start. As I struggled with the ignition I saw the door of the house swing open and the black goat come darting out of the hallway and away around the corner in massive bounds. The engine roared into life. I turned the car around and hurtled out into the street. The oak gates slammed shut with a crash. Roman appeared through the wicket gate and threw himself in beside me.
“Now step on it!” he said cheerfully. “Into the center!”
As we were turning onto Peace Prospect, he asked, “Well, how do you like it round these parts?”
“I like it,” I said. “Only it’s almost too lively.”
“It’s always lively at Naina’s place,” said Roman. “She’s a cantankerous old woman. Didn’t upset you, did she?”
“No,” I said. “We hardly even spoke.”
“Hang on,” said Roman. “Slow down.”
“Why?”
“There’s Vladimir. Remember Volodya?”
I stopped the car. The bearded Volodya got into the backseat and shook our hands with a beaming smile. “That’s great!” he said. “I was just on my way to see you!”
“That would have just made our day,” said Roman.
“So what happened in the end?”
“Nothing,” said Roman.
“Then where are you going now?”
“To the Institute,” said Roman.
“What for?” I asked.
“To work,” said Roman.
“I’m on vacation.”
“Makes no difference,” said Roman. “Monday starts on Saturday, and this year August starts in July!”
“But the guys are expecting me,” I pleaded.
“We can handle that,” said Roman. “The guys won’t notice a thing.”
“I don’t believe this,” I said.
We drove between shop number 2 and cafeteria number 11. “He already knows the way,” remarked Volodya.
“He’s a great guy,” said Roman, “a colossus!”
“I took a liking to him straightaway,” said Volodya.
“You obviously do need a programmer very badly,” I said.
“But we don’t need just any old programmer,” Roman retorted.
I stopped the car in front of the strange building with the sign saying “NITWiT” between the windows. “What does that mean?” I asked. “Am I at least allowed to know where I’m being press-ganged into working?”
“Yes, you are,” said Roman. “You’re allowed to know everything now. It’s the National Institute for the Technology of Witchcraft and Thaumaturgy… Well, what are you waiting for? Drive in!”
“In where?” I asked.
“You mean you can’t see it?” And then I did see it.
But that’s an entirely different story.
STORY No. 2
Vanity of Vanities
1
Of all the characters in a story, one or two central heroes stand out, and all the others are regarded as secondary.
About two o’clock in the afternoon, when the Aldan’s input device blew its fuse again, the phone started to ring. It was the deputy director for the administration of buildings and contents, Modest Matveevich Kamnoedov.
“Privalov,” he said sternly, “why aren’t you where you’re supposed to be again?”
“Why, where am I supposed to be?” I asked petulantly. That day had been just full of hassle, and I’d forgotten everything.
“Now, that’s enough of that,” said Modest Matveevich. “You were supposed to report to me for instructions five minutes ago.”
“Holy cow,” I said, and put down the phone.
I turned off the computer, took off my lab coat, and told the girls not to forget to shut off the power. The big corridor was empty, the windows were half frozen over, and there was a blizzard raging outside. I put my jacket on as I walked along, then set off at a run to the Department of Buildings and Contents.
Modest Matveevich, wearing his shiny suit, was waiting imperiously for me in his own waiting room. Behind him a little gnome with hairy ears was running his fingers over a massive register with despondent diligence.
“You, Privalov, are like some kind of ham-munculus,” said Modest, “never where you’re supposed to be.”
Everyone tried to keep on the right side of Modest Matveevich, because he was a powerful man, absolutely intransigent and quite incredibly ignorant. So I roared out, “Yes, sir!” and clicked my heels.