To pass the news on to No. 406 was no use now. The cell stood empty; the chain broke off there.
He drummed and pressed his eye to the spy-hole.
In the corridor the dim electric light was burning as always.
He saw the iron doors of No. 401 to No. 407, as always.
The drumming swelled.
Steps approached, slow and dragging, one heard them distinctly on the tiles.
Suddenly Hare-lip was standing in the spy-hole’s range of vision. He stood there, with trembling lips, as he had stood in the light of the reflector in Gletkin’s room; his hands in handcuffs hung down behind his back in a peculiarly twisted position.
He could not see Rubashov’s eye behind the judas and looked at the door with blind, searching pupils, as though the last hope of salvation lay behind it.
Then an order was spoken, and Harelip obediently turned to go.
Behind him came the giant in uniform with his revolver-belt.
They disappeared from Rubashov’s field of vision, one behind the other.
The drumming faded; all was quiet again.
From the wail next to the bunk came the sound of ticking:
HE BEHAVED QUITE WELL. ...
Since the day when Rubashov had informed No. 402 of his capitulation, they had not spoken to each other.
No. 402 went on:
YOU STILL HAVE ABOUT TEN MINUTES. HOW DO YOU FEEL?
Rubashov understood that No. 402 had started the conversation in order to make waiting easier for him.
He was grateful for it.
He sat down on the bunk and tapped back:
I WISH IT WERE OVER ALREADY. ...
YOU WONT SHOW THE WHITE FEATHER, tapped No.
402. WE KNOW YOU’RE THE DEVIL OF A FELLOW... He paused, then, quickly, repeated his last words: THE DEVIL OF A FELLOW . ...
He was obviously anxious to prevent the conversation coming to a standstill. DO YOU STILL REMEMBER ‘BREASTS LIKE CHAMPAGNE GLASSES’? HA HA! THE DEVIL OF A FELLOW. ...
Rubashov listened for a sound in the corridor.
One heard nothing.
No. 402 seemed to guess his thoughts, for he at once tapped again:
DON’T LISTEN. I WILL TELL YOU IN TIME WHEN THEY ARE COMING. ... WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU WERE PARDONED?
Rubashov thought it over. Then he tapped:
STUDY ASTRONOMY.
HA-HA! expressed No. 402.
I, TOO, PERHAPS. PEOPLE SAY OTHER STARS ARE PERHAPS ALSO INHABITED. PERMIT ME TO GIVE YOU SOME ADVICE.
CERTAINLY, answered Rubashov, surprised.
BUT DON’T TAKE IT ILL. TECHNICAL SUGGESTION OF A SOLDIER. EMPTY YOUR BLADDER. IS ALWAYS BETTER IN SUCH CASES. THE SPIRIT IS WILLING BUT THE FLESH IS WEAK. HA-HA!
Rubashov smiled and went obediently to the bucket.
Then he sat down again on the bunk and tapped:
THANKS. EXCELLENT IDEA. AND WHAT ARE YOUR PROSPECTS?
No. 402 was silent for a few seconds.
Then he tapped, rather slower than he had before:
EIGHTEEN YEARS MORE. NOT QUITE, ONLY 6,530 DAYS. ...
He paused. Then he added:
I ENVY YOU REALLY.
And then, after another pause: THINK OF IT—ANOTHER 6,530 NIGHTS WITHOUT A WOMAN.
Rubashov said nothing.
Then he tapped:
BUT YOU CAN READ, STUDY. ...
HAVEN’T GOT THE HEAD FOR IT, tapped No. 402.
And then, loud and hurriedly: THEY’RE COMING. ... He stopped, but a few seconds later, added: A PITY. WE WERE JUST HAVING SUCH A PLEASANT CHAT. ...
Rubashov stood up from the bunk. He thought a moment and then tapped:
YOU HELPED ME A LOT. THANKS.