But neither you nor I can say precisely what sort of chickens they will be. They may be of no earthly use to anyone. They may die after a day or two. Or they may be inedible. And can I even guarantee that they'll be able to stand up. Perhaps they'll have brittle bones." Persikov got excited, waved his hand and crooked his fingers.

"Quite so," Ivanov agreed.

"Can you guarantee, Pyotr Stepanovich, that they will be able to reproduce? Perhaps that character will hatch out sterile chickens. He'll make them as big as a dog, and they won't have any chicks until kingdom come."

"Precisely," Ivanov agreed.

"And such nonchalance," Persikov was working himself into a fury. "Such perkiness! And kindly note that I was asked to instruct that scoundrel."

Persikov pointed to the warrant delivered by Feight (which was lying on the experimental table). "But how am I to instruct that ignoramus when I myself can say nothing about the question?"

"Couldn't you have refused?" asked Ivanov.

Persikov turned purple, snatched up the warrant and showed it to Ivanov who read it and gave an ironic smile.

"Yes, I see," he said significantly.

"And kindly note also that I've been expecting my shipment for two months, and there's still no sign of it. But that rascal got his eggs straightaway and all sorts of assistance."

"It won't do him any good, Vladimir Ipatych. In the end they'll just give you back your chambers."

"Well, let's hope it's soon, because they're holding up my experiments."

"Yes, that's dreadful. I've got everything ready."

"Has the protective clothing arrived?"

"Yes, today."

Persikov was somewhat reassured by this and brightened up.

"Then I think we'll proceed like this. We can close the doors of the operating-room tight and open up the windows."

"Of course," Ivanov agreed.

"Three helmets?"

"Yes, three."

"Well then, that's you and me, and we'll ask one of the students. He can have the third helmet."

"Grinmut would do."

"That's the one you've got working on salamanders, isn't it? Hm, he's not bad, but, if you don't mind my saying so, last spring he didn't know the difference between a Pseudotyphlops and a Platyplecturus," Persikov added with rancour.

"But he's not bad. He's a good student," Ivanov defended him.

"We'll have to go without sleep completely for one night," Persikov went on. "Only you must check the gas, Pyotr Stepanovich. The devil only knows what it's like. That Volunteer-Chem lot might send us some rubbish."

"No, no," Ivanov waved his hands. "I tested it yesterday. You must give them some credit, Vladimir Ipatych, the gas is excellent."

"What did you try it on?"

"Some common toads. You just spray them with it and they die instantly.

And another thing, Vladimir Ipatych. Write and ask the GPU to send you an electric revolver."

"But I don't know how to use it."

"I'll see to that," Ivanov replied. "We tried one out on the Klyazma, just for fun. There was a GPU chap living next to me. It's a wonderful thing. And incredibly efficient. Kills outright at a hundred paces without making a sound. We were shooting ravens. I don't even think we'll need the gas."

"Hm, that's a bright idea. Very bright." Persikov went into the comer, lifted the receiver and barked:

"Give me that, what's it called, Lubyanka."

The weather was unusually hot. You could see the rich transparent heat shimmering over the fields. But the nights were wonderful, green and deceptive. The moon made the former estate of the Sheremetevs look too beautiful for words. The palace-cum-state farm glistened as if it were made of sugar, shadows quivered in the park, and the ponds had two different halves, one a slanting column of light, the other fathomless darkness. In the patches of moonlight you could easily read Izvestia, except for the chess section which was in small nonpareil. But on nights like these no one read Izvestia, of course.