'Out', several voices answered from downstairs.
'O.K.!
On!' came a shout from the upper floor.
Satisfied, Myshlaevsky finally switched on the lights in the assembly hall, in the corridor and the spotlight over the Emperor Alexander, locked the switchbox and put the key in his pocket.
'All right, you can go back to bed now, old fellow,' he said reassuringly, 'all's well now.'
The old man's near-sighted eyes blinked anxiously:
'But what about the key, your . . . your honor . . .
Are you going to keep it?'
'That's right. I'm going to keep the key.'
The old man stood trembling for a few moments longer then began slowly going downstairs.
'Cadet!'
A stout, red-faced cadet snapped to attention beside the switch box.
'You are to allow only three people to have access to the box: the regimental commander, the executive officer and myself.
And nobody else.
In case of necessity, on the orders of one of those three officers, you are to break open the box, but carefully so as not to damage the switchboard.'
'Very good, sir.'
Myshlaevsky walked over to Alexei Turbin and whispered:
'Did you see him - old Maxim?'
'God, yes, I did . . .' whispered Turbin.
The battery commander was standing in the entrance to the assembly hall, thousands of candle-power sparkling on the engraved silver of his scabbard.
He beckoned to Myshlaevsky and said:
'Lieutenant, I am very glad you were able to join our regiment.
Well done.'
'Glad to do my duty, sir.'
'One more thing: I just want you to fix the heating in this hall so that the cadets on sentry-duty will be kept warm. I'll take care of everything else.
I'll see you get your rations and some vodka -not much, but enough to keep the cold out.'
Myshlaevsky gave the colonel a charming smile and cleared his throat in a way that conveyed tactful appreciation.
Alexei Turbin heard no more of their conversation.
Leaning over the balustrade, he stared down at the little white-haired figure until it disappeared below.
A feeling of hollow depression came over Turbin.
Suddenly, leaning on the cold metal railings, a memory returned to him with extreme clarity.
... A crowd of high-school boys of all ages was rushing along that same corridor in a state of high excitement.
Maxim, the thickset school beadle, made a grab at two small dark figures at the head of the mob.
'Well, well, well', he muttered. 'The school inspector will be pleased to see Mr Turbin and Mr Myshlaevsky, today of all days, when the school governor is visiting.
He will be pleased!'
Needless to say Maxim's remark was one of crushing sarcasm.
Only someone of perverted taste could have gained any pleasure from the contemplation of Mr Turbin and Mr Myshlaevsky, especially on the day of the school governor's visit.
Mr Myshlaevsky, gripped in Maxim's left hand, had a split upper lip and his left sleeve was dangling by a thread.
Mr Turbin, a prisoner of Maxim's right hand, had lost his belt and all his buttons - not only on his tunic but his fly-buttons as well, revealing a most indecent display of underwear.
'Please let us go, kind Maxim', begged Turbin and Mysh-laevsky gazing beseechingly at Maxim with bloodstained faces.
'Go on, Max, wallop him!' shouted the excited boys from behind. 'That'll teach him to beat up a junior!'
Oh God, the sunshine, noise and bustling of that day.
And Maxim had been very different from this white-haired, hunched and famished old man.
In those days Maxim's hair had been as thick and strong as a black boot-brush, scarcely touched with a few threads of grey, Maxim's hands had been as strong as a pair of steel pincers and round his neck he had worn a medallion the size of a wagon-wheel . . .
Yes, the wheel, the wheel of fate had gone on rolling from village
'A', making 'x' number of turns on the way . . and it had never reached village 'B' but had landed up in a stony void.
God, it was cold.
Now they had to defend . . .
But defend what?
A void?