"There's one thing I can't understand," said Persikov. "Why the need for all this speed and secrecy?"
"You've got me all muddled up. Professor," Feight replied. "You know there's not a single chicken left in the whole country."
"Well, what of it?" Persikov howled. "Surely you're not going to try and resurrect them all at the drop of a hat, are you?
And why do you need this ray which hasn't been properly studied yet?"
"Comrade Professor," Feight replied, "you've got me all muddled, honest you have.
I'm telling you that we must put poultry-keeping back on its feet again, because they're writing all sorts of rotten things about us abroad.
Yes."
"Well, let them..."
"Tut-tut," Feight replied enigmatically, shaking his head.
"Who on earth, I should like to know, would ever think of using the ray to hatch chickens..."
"Me," said Feight.
"Oh, I see. And why, if you don't mind my asking?
How did you find out about the properties of the ray?"
"I was at your lecture, Professor."
"But I haven't done anything with the eggs yet!
I'm only planning to!"
"It'll work alright, honest it will," said Feight suddenly with great conviction. "Your ray's so famous it could hatch elephants, not only chickens."
"Now listen here," Persikov said. "You're not a zoologist, are you?
That's a pity. You would make a very bold experimenter. Yes, only you risk ... failure ... and you're taking up my time."
"We'll give the chambers back to you.
Don't you worry!"
"When?"
"After I've hatched out the first batch."
"How confidently you said that!
Very well!
Pankrat!"
"I've brought some people with me," said Feight. "And a guard..."
By evening Persikov's study was desolate. The tables were empty.
Feight's people took away the three big chambers, only leaving the Professor the first, the small one which he had used to begin the experiments.
The July dusk was falling. A greyness invaded the Institute, creeping along the corridors.
Monotonous steps could be heard in the study. Persikov was pacing the large room from window to door, in the dark... And strange though it may seem all the inmates of the Institute, and the animals too, were prey to a curious melancholy that evening.
For some reason the toads gave a very mournful concert, croaking in a most sinister, ominous fashion.
Pankrat had to chase a grass-snake that slipped out of its chamber, and when he caught it in the corridor the snake looked as if it would do anything just to get away from there.
Late that evening the bell from Persikov's study rang.
Pankrat appeared on the threshold to be greeted by a strange sight.
The scientist was standing alone in the middle of the study, staring at the tables.
Pankrat coughed and froze to attention.
"There, Pankrat," said Persikov, pointing at the empty table.
Pankrat took fright.
It looked in the dark as if the Professor had been crying.
That was unusual, terrifying.
"Yessir," Pankrat replied plaintively, thinking,
"If only you'd bawl at me!"
"There," Persikov repeated, and his lips trembled like a little boy's whose favourite toy has suddenly been taken away from him.
"You know, my dear Pankrat," Persikov went on, turning away to face the window. "My wife who left me fifteen years ago and joined an operetta company has now apparently died... So there, Pankrat, dear chap... I got a letter..."
The toads croaked mournfully, and darkness slowly engulfed the Professor. Night was falling.
Here and there white lamps went on in the windows. Pankrat stood to attention with fright, confused and miserable.
"You can go, Pankrat," the Professor said heavily, with a wave of the hand. "Go to bed, Pankrat, my dear fellow."
And so night fell.
Pankrat left the study quickly on tiptoe for some reason, ran to his cubby-hole, rummaged among a pile of rags in the corner, pulled out an already opened bottle of vodka and gulped down a large glassful.