Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
19 >
"From half-a-pound?" asked the young man, unabashed. Persikov flushed
with anger.
"Whoever measures it like that? Pah! What are you talking about? Of
course, if you were to take half-a-pound of frog-spawn, then perhaps...
Well, about that much, damn it, but perhaps a lot more!"
Diamonds flashed in the young man's eyes, as he filled up yet another
page in one fell swoop.
"Is it true that this will cause a world revolution in animal
husbandry?"
"Trust the press to ask a question like that," Persikov howled. "I
forbid you to write such rubbish. I can see from your face that you're
writing sheer nonsense!"
"And now, if you'd be so kind, Professor, a photograph of you," said
the young man, closing his note-pad with a snap.
"What's that? A photograph of me? To put in those magazines of yours?
Together with all that diabolical rubbish you've been scribbling down. No,
certainly not... And I'm extremely busy. I really must ask you to..."
"Any old one will do. And we'll return it straightaway." "Pankrat!" the
Professor yelled in a fury. "Your humble servant," said the young man and
vanished. Instead of Pankrat came the strange rhythmic scraping sound of
something metallic hitting the floor, and into the laboratory rolled a man
of unusual girth, dressed in a blouse and trousers made from a woollen
blanket. His left, artificial leg clattered and clanked, and he was holding
a briefcase. The clean-shaven round face resembling yellowish meat-jelly was
creased into a welcoming smile. He bowed in military fashion to the
Professor and drew himself up, his leg giving a springlike snap. Persikov
was speechless.
"My dear Professor," the stranger began in a pleasant, slightly throaty
voice, "forgive an ordinary mortal for invading your seclusion."
"Are you a reporter?" Persikov asked. "Pankrat!"