Page:Evgenii Zamyatin - We (Zilboorg translation).pdf/184

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172
We

My head was breaking into pieces; two logical trains collided and crawled upon each other, rattling and smothering. . . .

“Well, I am waiting. You must choose; the Operation and one-hundred-per-cent happiness, or . . .”

“I cannot . . . without you. . . . I must not . . . without you . . .” I said, or perhaps I only thought—I am not sure which—but I-330 heard.

“Yes, I know,” she said. Then, her hands still on my shoulders and her eyes not letting my eyes go, “Then . . . until tomorrow. Tomorrow at twelve. You remember?”

“No, it was postponed for a day. Day after tomorrow!”

“So much the better for us. At twelve, day after tomorrow!”

I walked alone in the dusky street. The wind was whirling, carrying, driving like a piece of paper; fragments of the leaden sky were soaring, soaring—they had to soar through the infinite for another day or two. . . .

Unifs of Numbers were brushing my sides—yet I was walking alone. It was clear to me that all were being saved but that there was no salvation for me. For I do not want salvation. . . .

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