On the rampart opposite the sentinel was pacing up and down.
Once, when turning, he spat in a wide arc into the snow; then leant over the ramp to see where it had fallen and frozen.
The old disease, thought Rubashov.
Revolutionaries should not think through other people’s minds.
Or, perhaps they should?
Or even ought to?
How can one change the world if one identifies oneself with everybody?
How else can one change it?
He who understands and forgives—where would he find a motive to act?
Where would he not?
They will shoot me, thought Rubashov.
My motives will be of no interest to them.
He leaned his forehead on the window pane.
The yard lay white and still.
So he stood a while, without thinking, feeling the cool glass on his forehead.
Gradually, he became conscious of a small but persistent ticking sound in his cell.
He turned round listening.
The knocking was so quiet that at first he. could not distinguish from which wall it came.
While he was listening, it stopped.
He started tapping himself, first on the wall over the bucket, in the direction of No. 406, but got no answer.
He tried the other wall, which separated him from No. 402, next to his bed.
Here he got an answer.
Rubashov sat down comfortably on the bunk, from where he could keep an eye on the spy-hole, his heart beating.
The first contact was always very exciting.
No. 402 was now tapping regularly; three times with short intervals, then a pause, then again three times, then again a pause, then again three times.
Rubashov repeated the same series to indicate that he heard. He was anxious to find out whether the other knew the “quadratic alphabet”—otherwise there would be a lot of fumbling until he had taught it to him.
The wall was thick, with poor resonance; he had to put his head close to it to hear clearly and at the same time he had to watch the spy-hole.
No. 402 had obviously had a lot of practice; he tapped distinctly and unhurriedly, probably with some hard object such as a pencil.
While Rubashov was memorizing the numbers, he tried, being out of practice, to visualize the square of letters with the 25 compartments—five horizontal rows with five letters in each.
No. 402 first tapped five times—accordingly the fifth row: V to Z; then twice; so it was the second letter of the row: W. Then a pause; then two taps—the second row, F—J; then three taps—the third letter of the row: H. Then three times and then five times; so fifth letter of the third row: O.
He stopped.
WHO?
A practical person, thought Rubashov; he wants to know at once whom he has to deal with.
According to the revolutionary etiquette, he should have started with a political tag; then given the news; then talked of food and tobacco; much later only, days later, if at all, did one introduce oneself.
However, Rubashov’s experience had been so far confined to countries in which the Party was persecuted, not persecutor, and the members of the Party, for conspiratorial reasons, knew each other only by their Christian names—and changed even these so often that a name lost all meaning.
Here, evidently, it was different. Rubashov hesitated as to whether he should give his name.
No. 402 became impatient; he knocked again: WHO?
Well, why not? thought Rubashov.
He tapped out his full name: NICOLAS SALMANOVITCH RUBASHOV, and waited for the result.
For a long time there was no answer.
Rubashov smiled; he could appreciate the shock it had given his neighbour.
He waited a full minute and then another; finally, he shrugged his shoulders and stood up from the bunk.
He resumed his walk through the cell, but at every turn he stopped, listening to the wall.
The wall remained mute.
He rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve, went slowly, with tired steps, to the door and looked through the spy-hole into the corridor.
The corridor was empty; the electric lamps spread their stale, faded light; one did not hear the slightest sound.
Why had No. 402 become dumb?
Probably from fear; he was afraid of compromising him. self through Rubashov.
Perhaps No. 402 was an unpolitical doctor or engineer who trembled at the thought of his dangerous neighbour.
Certainly without political experience, else he would not have asked for the name as a start.