“Guys!” muttered the grand strategist as he was being belted to the stretcher.
“Please tell my late father, a Turkish subject, that his beloved son, who once specialized in horns and hoofs, fell like a hero on the battlefield.”
In the end, the battlefield casualty recalled a few songs:
“Sleep, oh ye warrior eagles!
Nightingale, nightingale, teensy bird . . .”
The stretcher started moving. Ostap fell silent and gazed into the sky, which was getting quite busy.
Light-colored puffs of smoke, as dense as hearts, rolled across it.
Transparent celluloid planes moved at high altitude in an irregular V formation.
They emitted a resonant quiver, as if they were all connected with tin threads.
The howling sirens could still be heard between the frequent artillery blasts.
Ostap was to suffer yet another humiliation.
They carried him right past the Hercules.
The Herculeans peeked out of the windows on all four floors of the lumber/timber enterprise.
The entire Finance and Accounting stood on window sills.
Lapidus Jr. teased Kukushkind, pretending that he was about to push him over the edge.
Berlaga made big eyes and bowed to the stretcher.
Polykhaev and Sardinevich, their arms around each other’s shoulders, stood in a second-floor window, with palm trees in the background.
When they spotted the bound Ostap, they started whispering and quickly shut the window.
The stretcher stopped in front of a sign that said Gas Shelter No. 34. They helped Ostap up, and since he once again tried to break free, the orderly in charge had to once again appeal for his understanding.
The gas shelter was set up in the neighborhood community center.
It was a long, bright semi-basement with a ribbed ceiling, with models of military and postal aircraft suspended from it by metal wires.
There was a small stage in the back of the room. Two dark-blue windows with the moon and the stars, along with a brown door, were painted on the wall behind it.
The Pique Vests, whose entire herd had been apprehended, were languishing near the wall under a sign that read: WE DON’T WANT A WAR, BUT WE’RE READY TO FIGHT.
A lecturer in a green military tunic was pacing on the stage. Glancing fretfully at the door that continued to noisily admit new groups of victims, the lecturer was enunciating with military clarity:
“In terms of their effect, the poisonous chemicals used in warfare include asphyxiating agents, tear-inducing agents, lethal poisons, blistering agents, general irritants, etc.
Of the tear-inducing agents, we might mention chloropicrin, benzyl bromide, bromoacetone, chloracetophenone . . .”
Ostap shifted his gloomy gaze from the lecturer to the audience.
Young men were listening intently, or took notes, or were occupied with the display of rifle parts.
A sporty looking young woman sat alone in the second row, gazing pensively at the painted moon.
“A nice girl,” decided Ostap, “too bad there’s no time for that.
What is she thinking about?
I bet it’s not benzyl bromide.
What a shame!
Just this morning, I could have dashed off with a girl like this to Oceania, or Fiji, or some High Society Islands—or to Rio de Janeiro.”
The thought that Rio had been lost sent Ostap pacing frantically around the shelter.
The Pique Vests, numbering forty, had already recovered from the shock, straightened their starched collars, and launched into a heated debate about the pan-Europe proposal, the Tripartite Maritime Conference, and Gandhism.
“Did you hear?” one Vest asked another. “Gandhi arrived in Dandi.”
“Gandhi is a real brain!” the other sighed. “Dandi is a brain, too.”
An argument ensued.
Some Vests maintained that Dandi was a place and thus couldn’t possibly be a brain.
Others vehemently argued the opposite.
In the end, everybody agreed that Chernomorsk was about to be declared a free city any day.
The lecturer cringed again because the door opened, and two new arrivals noisily entered the room: Balaganov and Panikovsky.
They were caught in the gas attack on the way back from their nighttime jaunt.
After working on the weights, they were as filthy as naughty tomcats.
Seeing the captain, they both looked down.
“Have you been to a dinner party or something?” asked Ostap gloomily.
He was afraid they might ask him about the Koreiko case, so he frowned angrily and went on the attack.
“Well, boys and girls, what have you been up to?”
“I swear,” said Balaganov, putting his hand on his heart, “it was all Panikovsky’s idea.”