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And he was perfectly aware that the rind ball hung motionless, and the otters' dancing was nothing more than an illusory game of his completely ruined sight. Yet he continued to watch the ball’s twist-and-roll to no music, like a topsy-turvy top swerving up there.
But Bookoff refrained from looking at the large puzzle in the center of the opposite wall. There loomed an ancient castle in the dark brown tones of the Middle Ages, and the frame around the puzzle also moved and quacked in ripples, matching the dancing shade. However, the towers, walls, and embrasures in the gloomy structure were making goddamn ugly faces at Bookoff. And all those evil critters were itching to break out of the over-strained wavering frame…
There was more than enough room for everything in the big house; he could have moved the puzzle to another place, but Bookoff didn't make changes about there, saving his strength for the wait. Even removing the castle and turning the evil spirits face to the wall required strength – he'd have to climb onto the empty marital bed, grab the puzzle, and slide it down the wall, making sure it didn't crash.
The masterpiece was rather sizable; his son spent half a year assembling it. It was before he got married and left. And there's no point in yielding to idle superstitions about all sorts of things haunting his worn-out eyes.
So, after getting a bit warmed under the blanket, Bookoff turned off the nightlight, and the whole fuss drowned in darkness, and a long night awaited him with awakenings when something went completely wrong with one or another of his bones…
All that was still ahead, and for now he was just sitting in the living room opposite the darkened window when there was a knock.
It sounded quite abrupt. Just one knock on the garden door. But in the silence of the empty house, even one was enough to bring Bookoff to his senses.
He shuffled out into the corridor and moved toward the misty figure moving toward him in the wide pane glass of the euro-door which kept the night out.
Yet, even approaching him, the reflection remained a vague, blurred figure.
Bookoff turned the doorknob and didn't let it go, but kept leaning on it as he stepped out into the darkness of the night garden. Meanwhile, his left hand felt about the outside wall for the switch to the lamp above the entrance.
But he never got the chance to snap. Two black ball lightnings exploded in his eyes. One for each.
And Bookoff was gone.
Vasiok
_
06
From a distance, the twin halves of the wingless airliner resembled the tight embrace of two roofless silos, stripped of their roofs by a tornado or, perhaps, those were cast off by the two in an equally violent gust of mutual passion. Of course, the details were caught by me in a fragmentary jumpy way, over my shoulder , on the run to get as far away as possible. But even then, the view struck me with its oddity: what did the towers need those vertical rows of portholes for? Though, their irrational surrealism somehow fitted in alongside my frantic racing.
Yes, I ran quicker than a worthless quirit who, having dropped in panic his shield and sword, runs fear-blinded, not seeing where to. Yet, cowardice shouldn't be confused with prudence. Especially when you have no idea about charge power in the eggs ticking from the nest of Manila rope.
And so, the moment I felt the firm ground under my feet, all my energy shot into the dash performed at once, no waiting for them to bring me the leader’s yellow jersey…
Catching breath at a considerable distance, I recalled the former purpose of the giant pop art of coupled silos, now half a kilometer behind. It’s undeniable that in the act of running, the flow in the stream of thoughts becomes somewhat jerky, a bunch or two of not sticky enough would even drop out. And it might take them quite a while to catch up with their cabby.
The run was easy and even pleasant, free from the unnecessary burden of those lagging thoughts, and so I went on across an unusually smooth plain that stretched to the very horizon. Above its line there grew scatterings of already familiar multicolored stars. Their seedlings thickened, turning into clusters, climbing from the nadir to the zenith, and from there down to all the other nadirs in the circle of horizons from all 4 sides of the surrounding world…
When my running gave way, of its own accord, to a sluggish jog, the thoughts left behind at my abrupt start began to catch up with me. A rather motley crowd and, I should admit, rather incoherent of themes.
Ahead of the rest, and almost not even puffing, was an excuse for the lack of wings on the silo towers. (Their pair was gradually disappearing over the horizon.) Without the wings, pop art was much more optimistic, but put them back on – and you’ll have a grave cross. No, not for you personally, but when viewing from outside the grave.
And not necessarily the St. George's Cross or the Iron Cross. You'd get an impression of a simple, nailed, white-birch-bough cross from the countless row multitudes in adhoc cemeteries by the battlefields of Slaughterhouse Nr. 2, otherwise named WW II…
The second thought to reach the finish line made me regret the brevity of my interview with Petyikka. I certainly would like to ask him about my service record. At least in general terms… Until my own memories return to be stored in the LTM casket, where they'll always be at hand. Till then, I'll have to figure out my past deeds all by myself, through guesses and deductions that strain brains, leave lines in the forehead, and sweat drops all over your brow, you know.
Say, where from is so solid grasp of Latin by me? Because of it, I just can't stand those Figla-Migla Latin incantations of Harry to Potter and back. Or the instance, when I just rattled off a quote from Linnaeus's Animals classification. About that anus of that Manila Kipling, eh?
Bet your bottom dollar, I had some special agent’s special mission at some or other special university – to steal top-secret files, or, conversely, plant them there. For disinformation purposes. Truly hard to sort certain things out without Petyikka nearby…
As for the presence of 4-letter-word layer in the strata of my vocabulary, it is as clear as day. Two or three stints in a maximum-security can for special agents serving special time take their toll. The guards there won't pick up on your communications if not interspersed with lots of ef’s and sh’s. Without those fricatives, their auditory sign system just can’t function…
When the towers disappeared already without a trace over the horizon, I scanned the plain on all sides in search for directional landmarks. But no such luck! In vain kicked my gaze around: not a hill, neither a tree nor even the slightest male mound.
The flawlessly smooth surface stretched everywhere, and you feared for your gaze midst the sterile, uniform terrain of ironed out wrinkles, pimples and heat-spots. Were your gaze to slip and accidentally get shattered, what would you substitute it with?
However, the thought did not stop me; I bravely headed toward the faint yellowish streak of dawn that scarcely started breaking.
The constant walking gave way to fatigue. I had to sit down on the ground to hopefully get some rest.
There wasn't even a hint of earth there, though, neither a blade of grass, nor a weeny wormhole. The plain, across which my feet had comfortably paced not leaving any trace of path, was smooth, and smooth it felt to the touch, too. I ran my palm over the hardened surface of tropical calm in the motionless sea, with a bottle-green tint in the glassy depths. Not a single pebble, not a speck of dust to be found…
I'd like to come across a stone here, so that I’ll have what with to become the first to throw it at any dummy who dare say that lying with nothing to put your head upon would pass for rest.
“A mole mound! Half kingdom for a mole mound!” This poetic line brimming with sage experience proves, that the author knew life not from school primers and pirated PDF’s.
I had to use brute force to have 40 winks…
The forty-first never showed up and for quite a time I kept turning from side to side in a vast and albeit clean yet overly flat bed.
In view of the nearing dawn, I alerted the Built-in Body Clock to wake me up in sharp an hour, and not a second sooner.
[–]
BBC is a built-in gizmo wired by Nature into the subconscious of any man. It became a corporate gadget in the milieu of special services around the world because handling of the implement requires special training.
[–]
After each turnover in the too hard ‘bed’ I added a sheep to the flock drawn for that particular purpose by my imagination. When there collected 1024 sheep, I had another 40 winks until BBC woke me up.
By my accurate eye trained for sniping, I discovered no changes in the dimensions nor in the intensity of luminosity of the darn dawn streak on the horizon.
What the heck? My BBC swore on health of its mom and other sacred things that it kept time okay. The limitless flock of sheep in my imagination baaed in favor of BBC too. But my accurate eye? Who am I supposed to believe, damn it?!
Following the advice of an ancient proverb, I took the initiative into my own hands and moved toward the retarded dawn.
My eye somehow adjusted to the scarce pre-dawn twilight and noted a certain strangeness in the surrounding expances: not a single horizon kept straight, being slightly arched. Each and every one!
Yet, sternly continued I my way, wondering to the sounds and rhythm of the march being played in my brains: what the phuck is going on here anyway?
Under the like sort of conditions, it's a hard sort of task not to feel yourself an ant on the very top of a hot air balloon. But we, hardworking ants, were never spoiled by having too much of a choice in our actions. The only hint at the right direction remained the lingering dawn, illuminating from the level of dress train the canopy of fuzzy stars, midst which – for all you know – there wasn't a single Load Star.
I walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked… At times, just for a change and healthy recreation, I paced and paced and paced and so on…
The dawn kept growing, but too leisurely. “What a lazy dawn!” thought I and swapped pacing for walking. And then – instantly! – it dawned on me! Hey, dude! It’s not the dawn rising from behind the curved horizon, but I myself am submerging into it, and disappear beyond the irregular horizon!
The rather unusual discovery introduced a knotty dilemma (hi! Nice to meet you! – O! I pray< the pleasure is mine!): stay lying in the semi-darkness on the hard sheet glass of an enticing bottle-green shimmer in its depths, or, despite the growing fatigue, keep going where it is light and – betcha! – clean.
After all, in the entire still life drawing around me, ominously silent and sterile, even a willing ant wouldn't possibly find a fleck of dust to trip over.
And it's not easy to imagine that the doctor (who, by the by, is also an ant), would give him a sick note together with a signed prescription for a codeine pill. Now, just compare the ant's mass to that of the pill in question and scale, proportionally to the average mass of a special agent, then, with so ample amount of codeine I would… eh… What was I about?
At that point I had to tighten my grip on the reins of my thought-steeds, too eager to gallop clattering their hoofs over the beer-bottle green terrain echoing their joyful neighs…
Good heavens! Is there really not a single living soul mid all this sterility? Am I so utterly alone, putting aside the vaguely luring fantasies of insect life and the innumerate baaing sheep left behind over the horizon?
Whether it’s scary is the wrong question. I'm not supposed to be afraid. ‘Cause I'm a legend: 0-7th, inofficial nom-de-guerre "Turret Lost Tank" And the Center always knew that. They value me for my weight in gold, even though sentenced to four prison terms. Not at once. Sequentially. And, in fact, for nothing, just for my being me in wrong surroundings.
After all, I'm the one they send where there's a complete snafu and no chance to come back. They throw me into firing embrasures. Drop into active volcan craters on an expired rope.
And clearly, from the mission you’re coming back one bundle of raw nerves, like, ‘I don't give a damn about all of you…’ Then, in a state of weakened adaptation to peaceful life, you splash a glass of vodka into some idiot's mug. But there are stars in the idiot's shoulder straps – wow! – each one the size of three figs put together. Then, of course, there's another special closed trial, followed by one more special vacation.
Each hitch ends samely – early amnesty. They know well that where Vasiok is, there is victory and mission completion 122 % clear. Countless safes cracked, sheikhs blown up, worlds saved, top-secret technologies stolen! Any world, from the first to the third, bears marks of the sign known to all: "Vasya was here!" My hand is steady, my funk ruthless, revenge spicy, and risk in the name of the mother-phucking-land is sacred by default.
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