Still not the slightest sound was heard from outside.
Only the wall went on ticking:
HE IS SHOUTING FOR HELP.
HE IS SHOUTING FOR HELP, Rubashov tapped to 406.
He listened.
One heard nothing.
Rubashov was afraid that the next time he went near the bucket he would be sick.
THEY ARE BRINGING HIM. SCREAMING AND HITTING OUT. PASS IT ON, tapped No. 402.
WHAT IS HIS NAME?
Rubashov tapped quickly, before 402 had quite finished his sentence.
This time he got an answer:
BOGROV.OPPOSITIONAL. PASS IT ON.
Rubashov’s legs suddenly became heavy.
He leant against the wall and tapped through to No. 406:
MICHAEL BOGROV, FORMER SAILOR ON BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN, COMMANDER OF THE EASTERN FLEET, BEARER OF THE FIRST REVOLUTIONARY ORDER, LED TO EXECUTION.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, was sick into the bucket and ended his sentence:
PASS IT ON.
He could not call back to his memory the visual image of Bogrov, but he saw the outlines of his gigantic figure, his awkward, trailing arms, the freckles on his broad, flat face with the slightly turned-up nose.
They had been roommates in exile after 1905; Rubashov had taught him reading, writing and the fundamentals of historical thought; since then, wherever Rubashov might happen to be, he received twice a year a hand-written letter, ending invariably with the words:
“Your comrade, faithful unto the grave, Bogrov.” THEY ARE COMING, tapped No. 402 hastily, and so loudly that Rubashov, who was still standing next to the bucket with his head leaning against the wall, heard it across the cell! STAND AT THE SPY-HOLE. DRUM. PASS IT ON.
Rubashov stiffened.
He tapped the message through to No. 406: STAND AT THE SPY-HOLE. DRUM. PASS IT ON.
He pattered through the dark to the cell door and waited.
All was silent as before.
In a few seconds there came again the ticking in the wall: NOW.
Along the corridor came the low, hollow sound of subdued drumming.
It was not tapping nor hammering: the men in the cells 380 to 402, who formed the acoustic chain and stood behind their doors like a guard of honour in the dark, brought out with deceptive resemblance the muffled, solemn sound of a roll of drums, carried by the wind from the distance.
Rubashov stood with his eyes pressed to the spy-hole, and joined the chorus by beating with both hands rhythmically against the concrete door.
To his astonishment, the stifled wave was carried on to the right, through No. 406 and beyond; Rip Van Winkle must have understood after all; he too was drumming.
At the same time Rubashov heard to his left, at some distance still from the limits of his range of vision, the grinding of iron doors being rolled back on their slidings.
The drumming to his left became slightly louder; Rubashov knew that the iron door which separated the isolation cells from the ordinary ones, had been opened.
A bunch of keys jangled, now the iron door was shut again; now he heard the approach of steps, accompanied by sliding and slipping noises on the tiles.
The drumming to the left rose in a wave, a steady, muffled crescendo. Rubashov’s field of vision, limited by cells No. 401 and 407, was still empty.
The sliding and squealing sounds approached quickly, now he distinguished also a moaning and whimpering, like the whimpering of a child.
The steps quickened, the drumming to the left faded slightly, to the right it swelled.
Rubashov drummed.
He gradually lost the sense of time and of space, he heard only the hollow beating as of jungle tom-toms; it might have been apes that stood behind the bars of their cages, beating their chests and drumming; he pressed his eye to the judas, rising and falling rhythmically on his toes as he drummed.
As before, he saw only the stale, yellowish light of the electric bulb in the corridor, there was nothing to be seen save the iron doors of Nos.
401 to 407, but the roll of drums rose, and the creaking and whimpering approached.
Suddenly shadowy figures entered his field of vision: they were there.
Rubashov ceased to drum and stared A second later they had passed.
What he had seen in these few seconds, remained branded on Rubashov’s memory.
Two dimly lit figures had walked past, both in uniform, big and indistinct, dragging between them a third, whom they held under the arms.
The middle figure hung slack and yet with doll-like stiffness from their grasp, stretched out at length, face turned to the ground, belly arched downwards.
The legs trailed after, the shoes skated along on the toes, producing the squealing sound which Rubashov had heard from the distance.
Whitish strands of hair hung over the face turned towards the tiles, with the mouth wide open.
Drops of sweat clung to it; out of the mouth spittle ran thinly down the chin.
When they had dragged him out of Rubashov’s field of vision, further to the right and down the corridor, the moaning and whimpering gradually faded away; it came to him only as a distant echo, consisting of three plaintive vowels: “u-a-o”.
But before they had turned the corner at the end of the corridor, by the barber’s shop, Bogrov bellowed out loudly twice, and this time Rubashov heard not only the vowels, but the whole word; it was his own name, he heard it clearly: Ru-ba-shov. Then, as if at a signal, silence fell.
The electric lamps were burning as usual, the corridor was empty as usual. Only in the wall No. 406 was ticking