“The station master told us … He said not to let anyone out.”
“Do you take me for some kind of idiot? Anyone—who’s that? Who is this anyone?”
“I have my orders! For the protection of the station … Against the radiation. I have my orders. Got that?”
“Sukhoi gave you the order? My stepfather gave you the order? Come on, open up.”
“I’ll get it in the neck on account of you, Artyom …”
“Then I’ll do it myself, if you can’t.”
“Hello … Sanseich … Yes to the sentry post … Artyom’s here … Your Artyom. But what am I supposed to do with him? All right. We’re waiting.”
“Snitched, have you? Good for you, Nikitska. You’ve snitched. Now push off! I’ll open up anyway. I’m going out anyway!”
But another two men darted out of the watch room, squeezed in between Artyom and the door, and started pityingly pushing him away gently. Artyom, tired in advance, with dark rings under his eyes—he still hadn’t recovered from his sortie to the surface the previous day—couldn’t resist the sentries, even though no one had any intention of fighting with him. Curious onlookers started sidling up: grimy little boys with hair as transparent as glass, pasty-faced women with hands blue and steely from constantly washing laundry in icy-cold water, weary farmers from the right-hand tunnel ready to gape mindlessly at anything. They whispered to each other. They were looking at Artyom, but somehow it seemed as if they weren’t; and just what kind of expression was that on their faces?
