Page:Evgenii Zamyatin - We (Zilboorg translation).pdf/41

“It’s clear . . . that is . . .!” I wanted . . . (damn that cursed “it’s clear!”).

“Oh, yes, I understand. But in fact these poets were stronger rulers than the crowned ones. Why were they not isolated and exterminated? In our State—”

“Oh, yes, in our State—” I began.

But suddenly she laughed. I saw the laughter in her eyes. I saw the resounding sharp curve of that laughter, flexible, tense like a whip. I remember my whole body shivered. I thought of grasping her . . . and I don’t know what. . . . I had to do something, it mattered little what; automatically I looked at my golden badge, glanced at my watch—ten minutes to seventeen!

“Don’t you think it is time to go?” I said in as polite a tone as possible.

“And if I should ask you to stay here with me?”

“What? Do you realize what you are saying? In ten minutes I must be in the auditorium.”

“And ‘all the Numbers must take the prescribed courses in art and science,’ ” said I-330 with my voice.

Then she lifted the curtain, opened her eyes—through the dark windows the fire was blazing.

“I have a physician in the Medical Bureau; he is registered to me; if I ask him, he will give you a certificate declaring that you are ill. All right?”

Understood! At last I understood where this game was leading.

“Ah, so! But you know that every honest Number as a matter of course must immediately go to the office of the Guardians and—”

“And as a matter not of course?” (Sharp smile-bite.) “I am very curious to know: will you or will you not go to the Guardians?”

“Are you going to remain here?”

I grasped the knob of the door. It was a brass knob, a cold, brass, knob, and I heard, cold like brass, her voice:

“Just a minute, may I?”