Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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fifteen, well, certainly not more than twenty, plus two days to get them to
London, and another one from London to Berlin. And from Berlin it's only six
hours to get here. It's an utter disgrace!"
He snatched up the phone in a rage and began ringing someone.
Everything in his laboratory was ready for some mysterious and highly
dangerous experiments. There were strips of paper to seal up the doors,
divers' helmets with snorkels and several cylinders shining like mercury
with labels saying "Volunteer-Chem" and "Do not touch" plus the drawing of a
skull and cross-bones on the label.
It took at least three hours for the Professor to calm down and get on
with some minor jobs. Which is what he did. He worked at the Institute until
eleven in the evening and therefore had no idea what was happening outside
its cream-painted walls. Neither the absurd rumours circulating around
Moscow about terrible dragons, nor the newsboys' shouts about a strange
telegram in the evening paper reached his ears. Docent Ivanov had gone to
see TsarFyodor Ivanovich at the Arts Theatre, so there was no one to tell
the Professor the news.
Around midnight Persikov arrived at Prechistenka and went to bed, where
he read an English article in the Zoological Proceedings received from
London. Then he fell asleep, like the rest of late-night Moscow. The only
thing that did not sleep was the big grey building set back in Tverskaya
Street where the Izvestia rotary presses clattered noisily, shaking the
whole block. There was an incredible din and confusion in the office of the
duty editor. He was rampaging around with bloodshot eyes like a madman, not
knowing what to do, and sending everyone to the devil. The maker-up followed
close on his heels, breathing out wine fumes and saying:
"It can't be helped, Ivan Vonifatievich. Let them bring out a special