"Are you crazy?" the editor replied. "I'm surprised the secretary let it through. It was written under the influence alright."
"Yes, they must have had a drop or two," agreed the compositors, and the maker-up removed the ostrich report from the desk.
So it was that Izvestia came out next day containing, as usual, a mass of interesting material but no mention whatsoever of the Grachevka ostrich.
Decent Ivanov, who was conscientiously reading Izvestia in his office, rolled it up and yawned, muttering: "Nothing of interest," then put on his white coat.
A little later the Bunsen burners went on in his room and the frogs started croaking.
In Professor Persikov's room, however, there was hell let loose.
The petrified Pankrat Stood stiffly to attention.
"Yessir, I will," he was saying.
Persikov handed him a sealed packet and told him:
"Go at once to the head of the Husbandry Department, and tell him straight that he's a swine.
Tell him that I said so.
And give him this packet."
"That's a nice little errand and no mistake," thought the pale-faced Pankrat and disappeared with the packet.
Persikov fumed angrily.
"The devil only knows what's going on," he raged, pacing up and down the office and rubbing his gloved hands. "It's making a mockery of me and zoology.
They're bringing him pile upon pile of those blasted chicken eggs, when I've been waiting two months for what I really need.
America's not that far away!
It's sheer inefficiency! A real disgrace!" He began counting on his fingers. "Catching them takes, say, ten days at the most, alright then, fifteen, well, certainly not more than twenty, plus two days to get them to London, and another one from London to Berlin. And from Berlin it's only six hours to get here. It's an utter disgrace!"
He snatched up the phone in a rage and began ringing someone.
Everything in his laboratory was ready for some mysterious and highly dangerous experiments. There were strips of paper to seal up the doors, divers' helmets with snorkels and several cylinders shining like mercury with labels saying
"Volunteer-Chem" and "Do not touch" plus the drawing of a skull and cross-bones on the label.
It took at least three hours for the Professor to calm down and get on with some minor jobs.
Which is what he did.
He worked at the Institute until eleven in the evening and therefore had no idea what was happening outside its cream-painted walls.
Neither the absurd rumours circulating around Moscow about terrible dragons, nor the newsboys' shouts about a strange telegram in the evening paper reached his ears. Docent Ivanov had gone to see TsarFyodor Ivanovich at the Arts Theatre, so there was no one to tell the Professor the news.
Around midnight Persikov arrived at Prechistenka and went to bed, where he read an English article in the Zoological Proceedings received from London.
Then he fell asleep, like the rest of late-night Moscow. The only thing that did not sleep was the big grey building set back in Tverskaya Street where the Izvestia rotary presses clattered noisily, shaking the whole block.
There was an incredible din and confusion in the office of the duty editor.
He was rampaging around with bloodshot eyes like a madman, not knowing what to do, and sending everyone to the devil.
The maker-up followed close on his heels, breathing out wine fumes and saying:
"It can't be helped, Ivan Vonifatievich. Let them bring out a special supplement tomorrow.
We can't take the paper off the presses now."
Instead of going home, the compositors clustered together reading the telegrams that were now arriving in a steady stream, every fifteen minutes or so, each more eerie and disturbing than the one before.
Alfred Bronsky's pointed hat flashed by in the blinding pink light of the printing office, and the fat man with the artificial leg scraped and hobbled around.
Doors slammed in the entrance and reporters kept dashing up all night.
The printing office's twelve telephones were busy non-stop, and the exchange almost automatically replied to the mysterious calls by giving the engaged signal, while the signal horns beeped constantly before the sleepless eyes of the lady telephonists.
The compositors had gathered round the metal-legged ocean-going captain, who was saying to them:
"They'll have to send aeroplanes with gas."
"They will and all," replied the compositors. "It's a downright disgrace, it is!" Then the air rang with foul curses and a shrill voice cried:
"That Persikov should be shot!"
"What's Persikov got to do with it?" said someone in the crowd. "It's that son-of-a-bitch at the farm who should be shot."
"There should have been a guard!" someone shouted.
"Perhaps it's not the eggs at all."
The whole building thundered and shook from the rotary machines, and it felt as if the ugly grey block was blazing in an electrical conflagration.
Far from ceasing with the break of a new day, the pandemonium grew more intense than ever, although the electric lights went out.
One after another motorbikes and automobiles raced into the asphalted courtyard.
All Moscow rose to don white sheets of newspapers like birds.
They fluttered down and rustled in everyone's hands. By eleven a.m. the newspaper-boys had sold out, although that month they were printing a million and a half copies of each issue of Izvestia.
Professor Persikov took the bus from Prechistenka to the Institute.
There he was greeted by some news.