Bender's."
"How should I know it? "
"But the comrade said you would."
"I have no idea of it.
Ask the receptionist."
"Couldn't you remember, Comrade?
He was wearing yellow boots."
"I'm wearing yellow boots myself.
In Moscow there are two hundred thousand people wearing yellow boots.
Perhaps you'd like all their addresses?
By all means.
I'll leave what I'm doing and do it for you.
In six months' time you'll know them all.
I'm busy, citizeness."
But the widow felt great respect for Persidsky and followed him down the corridor, rustling her starched petticoat and repeating her requests.
That son of a bitch, Steve, thought Persidsky. All right, then, I'll set the inventor of perpetual motion on him. That will make him jump.
"What can I do about it?" said Persidsky irritably, halting in front of the widow. "How do I know the address of Citizen O. Bender?
Who am I, the horse that knocked him down?
Or the cab-driver he punched in the back-in my presence?"
The widow answered with a vague rumbling from which it was only possible to decipher the words "Comrade" and "Please".
Activities in the House of the Peoples had already finished.
The offices and corridors had emptied.
Somewhere a typewriter was polishing off a final page.
"Sorry, madam, can't you see I'm busy?"
With these words Persidsky hid in the lavatory.
Ten minutes later he gaily emerged.
Widow Gritsatsuyev was patiently rustling her petticoat at the corner of two corridors.
As Persidsky approached, she began talking again.
The reporter grew furious.
"All right, auntie," he said, "I'll tell you where your Bender is.
Go straight down the corridor, turn right, and then continue straight.
You'll see a door.
Ask Cherepennikov.
He ought to know."
And, satisfied with his fabrication, Persidsky disappeared so quickly that the starched widow had no time to ask for further information.
Straightening her petticoat, Madame Gritsatsuyev went down the corridor.
The corridors of the House of the Peoples were so long and | narrow that people walking down them inevitably quickened their pace.
You could tell from anyone who passed how far they had come.
If they walked slightly faster than normal, it meant the marathon had only just begun.
Those who had already completed two or three corridors developed a fairly fast trot.
And from time to time it was possible to see someone running along at full speed; he had reached the five-corridor stage.
A citizen who had gone eight corridors could easily compete with a bird, racehorse or Nurmi, the world champion runner.
Turning to the right, the widow Gritsatsuyev began running.
The floor creaked.
Coming towards her at a rapid pace was a brown-haired man in a light-blue waistcoat and crimson boots.
From Ostap's face it was clear his visit to the House of the Peoples at so late an hour I was necessitated by the urgent affairs of the concession.
The | technical adviser's plans had evidently not envisaged an encounter with his loved one.
At the sight of the widow, Ostap about-faced and, without looking around, went back, keeping close to the wall.
"Comrade Bender," cried the widow in delight. "Where are you going? "
The smooth operator increased his speed.