so hard that my books fell on the pavement. Her portfolio fell open, and her papers tumbled out.
“Lord,” Masha muttered, recoiling and pressing her palm to her forehead: her forehead had hit my chin.
I looked at her, crazed. Collecting herself, she started laughing. I helped her put her papers together and picked up my books.
“This is insane!” she said, shaking her head and laughing. “You know, I was talking about you just half an hour ago.”
“With whom?” I asked.
“With Kulik. Do you want to go on an expedition? Two of their people have come down with dysentery. And they’re leaving the day after tomorrow.”
I looked at her silently, rubbing my chin. And suddenly, in one second, just as it happened after the blast, after my head spinning, after Kiev and counting all the corners, I felt that I
was setting out
. I had to move. Farther on.
And I answered, “I want to.”
The Expedition
The next day at 9:00 a.m. Masha and I entered the building housing the Mining Institute. We walked down a dim hallway and soon stopped near a door with a new copper plate that read METEORITE DEPARTMENT . The plate looked unusual. Masha knocked on the door. No one answered. She put her ear to the door.
“Lord, don’t tell me he’s already in a meeting!”
“Not yet, but he’ll definitely be heading there soon,” came a slightly haughty, high-pitched voice behind our backs.
We turned around. Before us stood a thin man with glasses and thick, light-brown mustaches à la Nietzsche. He was dressed in an emphatically casual manner.
“Leonid Andreich!” Masha prattled, and I realized that she was deeply in love with Kulik.
“This is your protégé?” asked Kulik, glancing at me with his intelligent, piercing, and somewhat mocking eyes. “He’s the one who was born June 30, 1908?”
“Ye s... this is Snegirev. He’s been dismissed from the university, but he’s — ” Masha muttered, but Kulik interrupted her.
“I don’t care about that. Have you been on an expedition before?”
“No.”
“All right,” Kulik’s eyes drilled right through me. “Do you know how to dig?”
“Wel l... ” I faltered.
“Haul heavy loads?”
“In principl e... yes.”
“In principle! Well, I’ll tell you the way it goes.” Kulik took out a worn, gilded watch, looked at it, and put it back. “In principle, I’ll get rid of you halfway there. And now — follow me.”
He turned sharply on his thin legs and took off in a sweeping stride, almost running along the hallway. Masha and I hurried after him. Kulik turned once, twice, ran up a staircase, and disappeared into the open doors of an auditorium. We ran in after him.
“Close the door!” he shouted from the rostrum.
With a habitual movement Masha fastened the hook. I sat at the edge of the room, half turned, and surveyed the place: there were sixteen people sitting in the spacious lecture hall.
Kulik took out a crumpled handkerchief and wiped his glasses. He put them on, immediately took complete control of the rostrum with his long, wiry fingers, and began speaking.
“Hello, comrades. Now then, today we will get acquainted with our greenhorn meteorologists, that is, the newcomers, and we’ll correct the vector of our route to the place where the Tungus meteorite fell. Considering that only three of you remain from last year’s expedition, since the rest I had to throw out to the dogs, I’ll begin by introducing each of you.”
He opened a thick, well-thumbed notebook and introduced everyone, naming each person’s surname and profession. He didn’t mention me. Closing the notebook with a bang, Kulik continued.
“Now I will permit myself to make a short announcement about the so-called Tungus meteorite, because of which so many spades have been broken and so many kilometers traversed. Thus, on June 30, 1908, a huge fireball fell to earth in eastern Siberia. Siberians saw and heard its fall; it created quite a hullabaloo and left incredible
“Lord,” Masha muttered, recoiling and pressing her palm to her forehead: her forehead had hit my chin.
I looked at her, crazed. Collecting herself, she started laughing. I helped her put her papers together and picked up my books.
“This is insane!” she said, shaking her head and laughing. “You know, I was talking about you just half an hour ago.”
“With whom?” I asked.
“With Kulik. Do you want to go on an expedition? Two of their people have come down with dysentery. And they’re leaving the day after tomorrow.”
I looked at her silently, rubbing my chin. And suddenly, in one second, just as it happened after the blast, after my head spinning, after Kiev and counting all the corners, I felt that I
was setting out
. I had to move. Farther on.
And I answered, “I want to.”
The Expedition
The next day at 9:00 a.m. Masha and I entered the building housing the Mining Institute. We walked down a dim hallway and soon stopped near a door with a new copper plate that read METEORITE DEPARTMENT . The plate looked unusual. Masha knocked on the door. No one answered. She put her ear to the door.
“Lord, don’t tell me he’s already in a meeting!”
“Not yet, but he’ll definitely be heading there soon,” came a slightly haughty, high-pitched voice behind our backs.
We turned around. Before us stood a thin man with glasses and thick, light-brown mustaches à la Nietzsche. He was dressed in an emphatically casual manner.
“Leonid Andreich!” Masha prattled, and I realized that she was deeply in love with Kulik.
“This is your protégé?” asked Kulik, glancing at me with his intelligent, piercing, and somewhat mocking eyes. “He’s the one who was born June 30, 1908?”
“Ye s... this is Snegirev. He’s been dismissed from the university, but he’s — ” Masha muttered, but Kulik interrupted her.
“I don’t care about that. Have you been on an expedition before?”
“No.”
“All right,” Kulik’s eyes drilled right through me. “Do you know how to dig?”
“Wel l... ” I faltered.
“Haul heavy loads?”
“In principl e... yes.”
“In principle! Well, I’ll tell you the way it goes.” Kulik took out a worn, gilded watch, looked at it, and put it back. “In principle, I’ll get rid of you halfway there. And now — follow me.”
He turned sharply on his thin legs and took off in a sweeping stride, almost running along the hallway. Masha and I hurried after him. Kulik turned once, twice, ran up a staircase, and disappeared into the open doors of an auditorium. We ran in after him.
“Close the door!” he shouted from the rostrum.
With a habitual movement Masha fastened the hook. I sat at the edge of the room, half turned, and surveyed the place: there were sixteen people sitting in the spacious lecture hall.
Kulik took out a crumpled handkerchief and wiped his glasses. He put them on, immediately took complete control of the rostrum with his long, wiry fingers, and began speaking.
“Hello, comrades. Now then, today we will get acquainted with our greenhorn meteorologists, that is, the newcomers, and we’ll correct the vector of our route to the place where the Tungus meteorite fell. Considering that only three of you remain from last year’s expedition, since the rest I had to throw out to the dogs, I’ll begin by introducing each of you.”
He opened a thick, well-thumbed notebook and introduced everyone, naming each person’s surname and profession. He didn’t mention me. Closing the notebook with a bang, Kulik continued.
“Now I will permit myself to make a short announcement about the so-called Tungus meteorite, because of which so many spades have been broken and so many kilometers traversed. Thus, on June 30, 1908, a huge fireball fell to earth in eastern Siberia. Siberians saw and heard its fall; it created quite a hullabaloo and left incredible
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