Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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eggs."
"Ye-e-es," Persikov began maliciously. "Just think, Pyotr Stepanovich.
Well, of course, it's highly possible that the ray will have the same effect
on the deuteroplasma of a chicken egg as on the plasma of amphibians. It is
also highly possible that he will hatch out chickens. 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."