“Yes-yes! Exactly!!” – Grigory Petrovich leapt from his seat, disbelief turning into rising enthusiasm. “There’s a team of deactivators on the cargo ship… I’ll start immediately!”

“Perfect!” – the osobist smiled. “We hope this will be within your capabilities.” And the screen went dark.

“Sergey, listen to me carefully.” – Grigory chattered, tripping over words, utterly losing his composure. “In fifteen minutes, deactivators will be there. This is our chance! If we manage, we might receive leniency…”

“Understood,” Sergey Petrovich nodded. “Go on.” They had long since switched to informal speech, breaking all rules of subordination.

“Fifteen minutes… Deactivators… They arrive, clean up, send in the cleaning crew. Everything’s put in order and you get new workers.”

“And the deadlines? We’re already behind!” – objected Sergey Petrovich.

“Not your concern!” – the curator snapped. “Do as you are told. We need this incident to stay buried…”

“Understood. Waiting.”

Fifteen minutes later, a shuttle docked at the base of the dome. The airlock opened, admitting a team of tall, identical-looking figures – clearly cyborgs like those they had just arrived with, carrying bulky backpacks connected by long hoses.

“Sergey Petrovich?” – greeted the team leader. “How many personnel do you have?”

“Twenty-five,” – Petrovich replied, then corrected himself. “Excuse me, twenty-four… When working under secrecy for so long, you start counting both cyborgs and yourself by head…”

“Understood! Then we begin.” – the leader nodded, never introducing himself.

The procedure took barely ten minutes. To avoid panic and resistance among the personnel working on the now-ruined site, workers were called individually to the project leader’s office. When they appeared, certain they were going to receive instructions, the team acted. One barely visible flash from the decontamination nozzle, and all artificial neural connections in the cyborg’s brain turned into a paste-like mass, unusable for anything.

The team worked flawlessly. The body hadn’t even swayed on its feet before two pairs of strong hands lifted it and packed it into black, ultra-durable bags. The bag disappeared into an adjacent room – the project leader’s shower room – and the next “visitor” stepped into the office…

“Excellent.” – the decontamination team leader, never once smiling, shook the project leader’s hand. “All twenty-four bodies accounted for?”

“Yes, all.” – Sergey Petrovich exhaled with relief, watching in surprise as the twenty-fifth bag was being prepared. “And that one?”

“Pleasure doing business with you!” – the leader’s lips finally curved into a faint smile. “You are last on our list.” A slight flash illuminated the office once again.

“Outstanding work!” – the osobist clapped Grigory Petrovich on the shoulder, smiling. “I told you we would meet again and have the chance to shake hands. Truly excellent…”

“And the project? The global attention?” – the curator asked, watching a small photon rocket separate from the cargo ship, erasing all traces of the failed project in an invisible “black” explosion.

“Trivial.” – the osobist smirked. “Do you really think that when such undertakings were conceived, our people and Party didn’t plan for this outcome? At present, three similar projects are deployed and, thanks to heroic effort, are progressing successfully to varying degrees. For obvious reasons, few know of this, so one or two – maybe three – failures will not diminish the demonstration of power, advanced technology, or the progressiveness of Soviet ideology before the remnants of long-defeated imperialism and some yet-unaligned Third World nations…”

“Really?!” – Grigory Petrovich exclaimed.

“Exactly. A pity about the wasted resources and unfulfilled hopes, but with the second failed attempt, we can implement precautionary measures in other projects, improve technology, optimize personnel, and cultivate more reliable, productive, and efficient management… So rest assured, your labor was not in vain.”

“Thank you.” – Grigory Petrovich breathed a sigh of relief. “I was beginning to think…”

“No need.” – the osobist smiled. “No need… It’s just a pity you won’t be able to enjoy it.”

“How so?” – the same flash that had helped eliminate the catastrophe an hour ago illuminated the office walls. There was no one to support the weakened curator, and he sank to the floor like a leaf in still weather.

Two figures entered the office, carrying the familiar black bag.

“A pity, of course, to waste such talent.” – the osobist slipped his portable device into his pocket. “But, alas, they say this model is currently too problematic…”

“Why’s that?” – asked one of the newcomers, a spitting image of the crew from the decontamination team on the cargo ship.

“They’ve reached the limits of their competence, and further upgrades seem impractical… or impossible. So we clean them up as they stumble.” – he moved toward the door. “Finish this without me.” And he left the office.

“The one we’ve been bagging all week,” – snorted one of the decontaminators. “Keeps messing things up… And who knows, from the same batch, maybe tomorrow it’ll be him in a bag…”

“Shut your mouth and work.” – the second interrupted. “Not our concern.”

“I’m quiet, I’m quiet.” – the first agreed, hoisting the bag onto his shoulder.

A banal story. Or just one day in the life of an ordinary grocery worker

– Is there any sausage? – the shop visitor asked hesitantly.

– No! – snapped the saleswoman, a stout, round woman in a well-worn apron tied tightly across her broad back.

– When will there be some? – persisted the bespectacled man.

– Yesterday! – the saleswoman turned away, showing her disdain for the hapless customer.

– I came yesterday too, – the persistent customer said, surprisingly oblivious to the insult. – You told me it would be arriving any minute.

– That was yesterday…

– So, did it arrive?

– It did. – the conversation felt like talking to a wall. The saleswoman, named Maria Vasilievna, once a beauty, now fattened and softened by the hard path of working in a supermarket, made it clear she didn’t want to converse.

“They’re all the same!” she thought, nudging a box of sausages toward the freezer with her foot. *"Always want something! And here…” * But she didn’t finish her thought because the persistent bespectacled man with his shabby jacket and mesh shopping bag interrupted:

– Then give me one and a half kilos at 2.10 per kilo!

– What don’t you understand, sir?! – Maria Vasilievna turned to him with undisguised rudeness. – There is no sausage.

– But it arrived…

– You amaze me! – she pressed her hands to her chest. – Don’t you understand? If they bring little, it’s gone in a flash…

– But I sat by the window all day yesterday! – the unlucky customer waved his hands. – There was no sausage for sale! I saw everything!

– Saw he did! – Maria Vasilievna snorted. – What could he have seen through those glasses? You wouldn’t even see your own wife unless she shoved you while passing by. Now go away, pest. No sausage. And there won’t be any for you. – And with a sense of indescribable majesty, she left the counter for the back room.

In the back room, Klavdiya and Alevtina were already sitting, sipping freshly brewed tea and enjoying sandwiches with sausage and caviar. There was very little caviar, so the caviar sandwiches were laid out separately, symbolizing their privileged status.

– Sit down, have some tea, Mashenka, – Alevtina offered. – Help yourself to the sandwiches. Freshly cut.

– Oh, thank you, friends. Just a minute.

The rich mixed tea, reportedly 50/50 Indian and Georgian black tea, filled the glass.

– Oh, yesterday I tore such tights, – Klavdiya boasted, showing her plump leg in nude-colored nylon.

– From Lenka at the haberdashery? – the women perked up, envious of their friend like a shop clerk denied fresh beef. – How much did you pay?

– No, not from her, – the privileged caste immediately split, elevating the owner of the new tights above the rest. – From Valeria at the department store. Imported, Bulgarian.

– Well, well, – Maria Vasilievna touched her friend’s leg, admiringly. – And you didn’t tell me? I ran into her yesterday in the stairwell. Rushed to her taxi driver hubby, painted-up minx. And that with her husband alive!!

– Really?! – the tights topic was immediately forgotten, leaving slight annoyance and tension for Maria Vasilievna and Alevtina.

– Shurik lives with us – a womanizer and drunk. Works as a taxi driver and brings girls home after work. Lately, Valerka’s been coming by often. You can’t mistake that dyed hair, – Maria Vasilievna took over the story. – Goes there, comes back home in the evening, to her husband. Lipstick smeared, eyeshadow running, skirt wrinkled. I don’t know… if you visit a man, at least hide the traces of sin afterwards, that’s how I was in my youth… – she stopped herself.

– What are you saying? – Alevtina grabbed the slip of the saleswoman. – Did something happen with this Sasha?

– With who?! Sasha?! – Maria Vasilievna protested, munching on her third sandwich with boiled sausage. – Where is he? Some taxi driver! And me?? You know yourselves, friends.

Her friends knew that Masha’s husband was an engineer, making either bombs or rockets, suffering from insomnia and nearsightedness, and without his wife in the grocery store, he’d have long dried up on his 200 rubles with overtime. “But he’s cultured! — Masha explained, trying to hide her disappointment. – He starts talking, and I don’t even understand what he’s saying. But oh, how he talks! You could listen for hours.”

– So what about Sasha? – her friend pressed on.

– Why are you pestering me? What about Sasha? – Maria Vasilievna waved her hand, adding with a full mouth: – What happened, happened. I’m a decent married woman. Not like some Valerka, the minx from the haberdashery.

– Alright, alright, friend, – Alevtina winked. – Better try the caviar sandwich. It just arrived yesterday. They came from the executive committee and took almost everything. What we managed to hide – enjoy. Who knows when we’ll see caviar again?!

“You talk!” – Maria Vasilievna smiled as she ate, internally scolding Alevtina. – Your fat old porker on the party rations has eaten well. Feeling great! And chicken, and sausage, and probably some caviar now and then. You have no right to complain!”

– Thanks, friend, – Masha smiled, finishing her sandwich. – It’s nice here. And no one’s been at the counter for half an hour. We should go.

– There’s nothing on the counter anyway! – the friends giggled. – Whoever comes, let them manage. Let them go to the bread aisle or spoil the juice and soda. We’re fine. Did you hide the sausage?

– Yes, it’s there. Under the counter.

– What?! – both women jumped up at once. – The manager will see it and take half right away. Oh, Masha, you fool!! Let’s go quickly.

All three almost ran to the now-empty sales spot.

But the very sales spot was no longer empty. Right on Masha’s place stood the store manager, who also doubled as the senior saleswoman – technically against the rules, but very common. And she wasn’t just standing there; she was talking to that same shabby jacketed man with his glasses wrapped in insulating tape.

– I fully understand your indignation, – the Store Manager sweetly addressed them from her “podium.” – Naturally, this is unacceptable, and the guilty will be punished in the strictest manner. Rudeness in our establishment is not tolerated! Your complaint is very important to us and… – she faltered, apparently running out of official phrases. Now she could either repeat herself in circles or switch to the manager’s colorful, expletive-filled language, which she knew well, to put her unruly staff in place.

– But what about the sausage?! – the customer asked pleadingly.

– Please, try to see things from our perspective, – she carefully moved a box of sausages aside and continued. – We are expecting a delivery any day now. Unfortunately, due to the complicated situation in livestock farming, there are currently disruptions in the supply of sausages…

– And milk, and meat, and cheese are gone too, and the cigarettes disappeared somewhere… – muttered the bespectacled man. – Will it at least arrive today?

– We expect it, but cannot promise anything, – the hydra-like manager smiled condescendingly.

– So should I wait here?! – the customer pointed toward the radiators near the window.

– Of course, of course, – she reassured him. – As soon as the sausages arrive, you’ll be the first to see them.

– Then I’ll be first in line.

– Naturally!! – the manager beamed. – What is there to argue about!

– And still, the complaints book…

– Oh, why do you need it? – the manager bristled, her voluminous chemically-lightened hair shaking with her. A previous entry from some hysterical woman had cost them a considerable sum and caused weeks of tension during an inspection by the KRU.

– To write a note of gratitude! – the customer replied simply, and his expression made it clear he was determined to write exactly that.

“Ah, typical type,” the manager mused, once a woman with a name, now simply “The Manager” with a capital M. “You yell at them, insult them, stomp your feet, and they only grovelingly lick your shoes in return. Where do they come from?! And why are there so many of them?! Probably because they have no access to material goods!”

– Of course! If you wish, we can even draft the text for you. A note of thanks from grateful customers is a measure of our efforts to provide them with all the goods.

– I’ll write it myself, – the customer smiled ingratiatingly. – After all, thirty years of teaching experience.

– Very well, as you wish, – the manager eyed him warily. – Alevtina will bring you the book. And you girls, follow me. – she commanded authoritatively.

The manager’s office was a normal room with a personal air conditioner, a small fridge, and a leather couch for visitors. She did not invite the girls to sit, leaving them standing opposite their “throned” boss.

– Masha, you country hen! – the soft opening didn’t bode well. – You’ve long been a goat… Do you want to lose your job?! And where will you go then? Selling pies at the station? They won’t even take you there. You’ll be sweeping streets, picking up dog poop, chasing drunks from stairwells! Do you hear me, my dear donkey?

– Yes, comrade…

– One more stunt like this and you won’t be our comrade anymore, you wide-eyed heifer with an unmilked udder! – the manager even stood up in indignation. – What do you think you’re doing? Who are you deceiving, ungrateful wretch? Who are you setting up? Who are you spying on?

– I… – Maria Vasilievna, instantly turned into a foolish plump girl from one of the non-asphalted villages of the Non-Black-Earth region, who came to the city seeking a better life.

– What am I? My dear, – the manager hissed. – Maybe you want to write a resignation right now? Settle for everything we won’t find, or worse, will find? And leave properly, clean and tidy?

– No, I… – the fear of losing such a “bread-and-butter” job paralyzed Masha. – I…

– You forgot, you fence-post fool, where did we find you? Who sheltered you? Who saved you from the KRU?

– I remember, comrade Manager. I only…

– Then why are you stealing from me? What’s this sausage under the counter? Where did it come from?

– There’s just a little left…

– Ah, just a little? – the manager jumped up. – This morning there was none, and now suddenly it appeared from somewhere? So.

– I…

– You’re a complete fool, dear. Everything left there, bring it here immediately, Mashenka. And henceforth, even once… God forbid you don’t bring the surplus, don’t share the extra, or even whisper on the street about how you eat caviar in the backroom!! You’ll be fired instantly, according to the labor code! Do you understand me, you dumb beast?!

– Yes, comrade Manager. It won’t happen again, – the consequences of her close acquaintance with the local military colonel, who had a mighty body, an iron will, an army of conscripted slaves, and a passion for voluptuous women, suddenly surfaced.

– Then one foot here, the other there. – the manager waved Masha off.

– I’ll…

– Yes, and also don’t forget this – Mikhailych, our loader, is drinking again, so today a truck with milk, sausage, and cheese will arrive – unload it. You’re used to it. You’re free. And you, Klavdiya, stay, please.

Maria Vasilievna, no longer a girl, plummeted from the third floor as if on wings. And just as quickly, she soared back up with a crate in her hands. The scene she witnessed left her in shock.

A tangle of women’s bodies rolled across the floor, alternately flinging arms up, trying to grab hair, scratch faces, or just swing wildly at anything within reach. Screeching and cursing each other, the grocery store employees worked out their grievances:

– I’ll pull every hair out of your head for my Vasiliy! – hissed Klavdiya, kicking the Manager who was struggling to get free from her enraged subordinate.

– We’ll see about that! – replied the Manager, lashing back at her attacker.

– I don’t care that you’re the boss here. I’ll rip out those envious eyes of yours, and you’ll be stumbling with a stick and falling off ladders, you unsatisfied little witch.

– From a frigid one, I hear.

– Frigid?! You dare?! – Klavdiya yelled, and the tangle rolled toward the couch. – I’ll show you frigid. I’ll show you right now… You think that because you can bully and humiliate us, our men are also under your power…

– Frigid-frigid, – teased the Manager. – He told me just the other night. Always comparing us. And never in your favor, you immobile log.

– Immobile log?! I’ll…

Maria Vasilievna carefully set the crate of sausages at the entrance and quietly left the room, closing the door behind her. The Manager’s love for other people’s men was legendary, but in truth, she sinned no more than the others; it was just that, constantly in view, she attracted more attention.

“That was close,” Maria Vasilievna exhaled.

– Where are you going? – caught her by the arm the driver of the freshly arrived truck. – Mashenka, come help. I’ll unload, you just drive it away.

Lyona had arrived, driver of the meat processing plant that could not keep up with producing enough sausages to satisfy the growing demands of the working class. For certain individuals outside the glorified working class, there was enough product – but never enough for everyone.

– Let’s go, Mashenka… – Lyona tried to coax her aside.

– What are you doing?! – the slap echoed through the corridor – I told you already, I’m a married woman. Those days are over.

– Come on now, – the driver persisted.

– I don’t have time for you now. The Manager is furious, threatened to fire me today. Let’s unload your sausage.

Sighing heavily, Lyona stayed silent the rest of the time, obediently unloading, handing over papers, waiting for items to be weighed, stamped, and cleared so he could leave. As soon as he drove off, Maria Vasilievna, once again feeling like little Mashenka, exhaled and watched him go.

The sausage arrived. Word spread immediately through the store. A queue of employees formed at the stacks of crates. Even the loader who had gone on a bender hobbled over, hoping to grab his share. By tradition, insiders could pick better products, stash some “under the counter” for themselves, or trade with colleagues who had access to other material goods, like jewelry or cosmetics.

– Is anyone left in the hall? – the Manager’s voice boomed as she appeared suddenly in the corridor. Crumpled skirt, crooked blouse, thick layer of rouge – otherwise, business as usual. – Mashenka, come see me later.

– As always?

– Of course! – the Manager was all sweetness.

Everything happened quickly and efficiently. So professional, as only retail workers can be when handling other retail workers. Atomic scales were even brought from the backroom – the only scales measuring exact weight in the store. All other scales weren’t exactly inaccurate; they were simply set identically. Even checking purchases against the control scales, customers noticed no difference. Occasionally, an angry customer, noticeably overcharged, would raise a fuss, but either no one paid attention, or the culprit turned out to be the technician who miscalibrated the scales, or the tired saleswoman who made a mistake. Conflicts were sometimes resolved in the Manager’s office, depending on the customer’s rank. Punishment? Never heard of it. Corporate ethics and mutual complicity kept the team in line, occasionally erupting in minor and major disputes, but outwardly, the staff appeared as an impregnable monolith. Violating corporate ethics was the ultimate sin, never forgiven; such workers were dismissed, and the most stubborn sometimes faced documented theft or other unpleasant consequences.

– I won’t give much! – Maria Vasilievna warned immediately. – Yesterday the whole batch was gone; nothing reached the counter. Today a scandal broke over it.

Murmurs of agreement – yesterday it had all been taken. Within twenty minutes, over half of the new sausage shipment had disappeared into backrooms and locker rooms and made its way to the Manager’s office. What remained was placed by Maria Vasilievna, with a sense of benevolence, on the sales floor.

By tradition, the empty hall, nearly devoid of people at empty counters, suddenly filled with bustling shoppers the moment even a single crate of sausage crossed into the sales area.

What was remarkable wasn’t just that everyone immediately crowded the counters, jostling, forming lines, trying to hand over their hard-earned money for sausages at 2.10 rubles per kilo. The real surprise was that in the middle of a workday, when the entire workforce was supposed to be burning at their jobs, a large portion suddenly stormed the store, clearing everything within reach, buying in bulk, yet participating in the communal frenzy of consumption and access to material goods.

– I’ve been standing here… – waved his arms the worn jacket, pushed away from the counter. – Saleswoman! Comrade! Tell them! I’ve been here since morning! I was standing… – his shout disappeared into the periphery, shoved aside by every eager participant in the scramble, most of them women no less robust than the saleswomen themselves, experienced veterans of such situations.

Maria Vasilievna did not bother with such trifles as restoring “justice,” especially since this sausage lover and truth-seeker earned her nothing more than a crate of select products and a scolding from the Manager. Revenge was the sweetest dish, and she indulged in it with great pleasure.

– When will you start giving it out? – fumed the old lady, wrapped in a scarf, as spry as any robust woman. – It’s time to start…

– We’ll start soon, – Maria Vasilievna replied calmly, savoring her brief, absolute authority over the crowd. – The papers need to be filled out first.

– What papers?! – protested the milling shoppers at the counter. – Lunch is soon. Start handing it out.

But Masha was in no hurry to give. “Give” – the eternal word! Not sell, not buy, but give and take – a Soviet citizen raised in the spirit of socialism could think in no other way. Sometimes, sausages and other foodstuffs were “thrown” onto the counter, or handed out by the kilo in a single hand, causing queues with children, grandmothers, and grandfathers to spill out beyond the store.

“Indeed, lunch is soon!” Mar’ya Vasilyevna noticed, glancing at the clock. She didn’t really feel like working, but the desire to set aside something for herself was irresistible.

– We won’t give anything before lunch! – she cut off the customers, not looking up from her papers. – Some of the paperwork isn’t in order… And the display must be arranged first.

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