We - Yevgeny Zamyatin (whitelam books txt) 📗

I saw how its naked leg hung over the edge of the platform, the pink fan of its finger waved in the air.⁠ ⁠… One minute more, one second and the child would be on the floor!

A female’s scream, a wave of translucent wings, her unif on the platform! She caught the child, her lips clung to the fluffy pleat of the baby’s wrist; she moved the child to the middle of the table and left the platform. The imprints were registering in me: a pink crescent of a mouth, the horns downward! Eyes like small blue saucers filled with liquid! It was O-90. And as if reading a consequential formula, I suddenly felt the necessity, the naturalness of that insignificant occurrence.

She sat down behind me, somewhat to my left. I looked back. She quietly removed her gaze from the table and the child and looked straight into me. Within again: She, I, the table on the platform⁠—three points: and through those three points lines were drawn, a projection of some as yet unforeseen events!

Then I went home through the green dusky street which seemed many-eyed because of the electric lights. I heard myself tick-tocking like a clock. And the hands of that clock seemed to be about to pass a figure: I was going to do something, something that would cut off every way of retreat. She wants somebody, whom I do not know, to think she is with me. I want her; what do I care what she wants? I do not want to be alone behind the curtains and that is all there is to it!

From behind came sounds of a familiar gait, like splashing in a ditch. I did not need to look back, I knew it was S-. He would follow me to the very door, probably. Then he would stay below on the sidewalk, and he would try to drill upward into my room with his boring eyes, until the curtains would fall, concealing something criminal.

Was he my Guardian-Angel? No! My decision was made.

When I came into my room and turned on the light, I could not believe my eyes! O-90 stood at my table, or to be more exact, she was hanging like a creased empty dress. She seemed to have no tensity, no spring beneath the dress; her arms and legs were springless, her voice was hanging and springless.

“About my letter, did you receive it? Yes? I must know your answer, I must⁠—today.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I enjoyed looking into her blue eyes which were filled with tears as if she were the guilty one. I lingered over my answer. With pleasure I pricked her:

“Answer? Well.⁠ ⁠… You are right. Undoubtedly. In everything.”

“Then⁠ ⁠…” (She tried to cover the minute tremor with a smile but it did not escape me.) “Well, all right. I shall⁠ ⁠… I shall leave you at once.”

Yet she remained drooping over the table. Drooping eyelids, drooping arms and legs. The pink check of the other was still on the table. I quickly opened this manuscript, We, and with its pages I covered the check, trying to hide it from myself, rather than from O-.

“See, here, I am still busy writing. Already 101 pages! Something quite unexpected comes out in this writing.”

In a voice, in a shadow of a voice, “And do you remember⁠ ⁠… how the other day I⁠ ⁠… on the seventh page⁠ ⁠… and it dropped.⁠ ⁠…”

The tiny blue saucers filled to the borders; silently and rapidly the tears ran down her cheeks. And suddenly, like the dropping of the tears⁠—rushing forth⁠—words:

“I cannot⁠ ⁠… I shall leave you in a moment. I shall never again⁠ ⁠… and I don’t care.⁠ ⁠… Only I want, I must have a child! From you! Give me a child and I will leave. I will!”

I saw she was trembling all over beneath her unif, and I felt⁠ ⁠… I too, would soon⁠ ⁠… would.⁠ ⁠… I put my hands behind my back and smiled.

“What? You desire to go under the Machine of the Well-Doer?”

Like a stream her words ran over the dam.

“I don’t care. I shall feel it for a while within me. I want to see, to see only once the little fold of skin here at the wrist, like that one on the table in the Auditorium. Only for one day!”

Three points: she, I and a little fist with a fluffy fold of skin there on the table!

I remember how once when I was a child they took me up on the Accumulating Tower. At the very top I bent over the glass railing of an opening in the Tower. Below people seemed like dots; my heart contracted sweetly. “What if.⁠ ⁠…” On that occasion I only clenched my hands around the railing; now I jumped over.

“So you desire⁠ ⁠… being perfectly aware that⁠ ⁠…”

Her eyes were closed as if the sun were beating straight into her face. A wet, shining smile!

“Yes, yes! I want it!”

Quickly I took out the pink check of the other from under the manuscript and down I went to the controller on duty. O-90 caught my hand, screamed out something, but what it was I understood only later, when I returned.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands firmly clasped about the knees.

“Is it, is it her check?”

“What does it matter? Well, it is hers, yes.”

Something cracked. It must have been the springs of the bed, for O-90 made a slight motion only. She remained sitting, her hands upon her knees.

“Well, quick.⁠ ⁠…” I roughly pressed her hand. A red spot was left on her wrist (tomorrow it would become purple), where the fluffy, infantile fold.⁠ ⁠… It was the last.⁠ ⁠… I turned the switch, my thoughts went out with the light. Darkness, a spark! and I had jumped over the railing, down.⁠ ⁠…

Record Twenty

Discharge⁠—The material of a idea⁠—The zero rock.

Discharge is the best word for it. Now I see that it was actually like an electric discharge. The pulse of my last few days had been