I must confess I had that thought. But remembering how many times he had proved my real Guardian Angel and how often he had saved me， I stepped toward him and with courage and warm assurance I stretched out my hand and tore off the sheet. S- turned around. The little drills sank quickly into me to the bottom and found something there. Then he lifted his left brow， and winked toward the wall where "Mephi" had been hanging a minute ago. The tail of his little smile even twinkled with a certain pleasure， which greatly surprised me. But why should I be surprised？ A doctor always prefers a temperature of 40°C. and a rash to the slow， languid rise of the temperature during the incubation period of a disease； it enables him to determine the character of the disease. Today "Mephi" broke out on the walls like a rash. I understood his smile.
In the passage to the underground railway， under our feet on the clean glass of the steps， again a white sheet： "Mephi." And also on the walls of the tunnel， and on the benches， and on the mirror of the car （apparently pasted on in haste as some were hanging on a slant）. Everywhere， the same white， gruesome rash.
I must confess that the exact meaning of that smile became clear to me only after many days which were overfilled with the strangest and most unexpected events.
The roaring of the wheels， distinct in the general silence， seemed to be the noise of infected streams of blood. Some Number was inadvertently touched on the shoulder， and he started so that a package of papers fell out of his hands. To my left another Number was reading a paper， his eyes fixed always on the same line； the paper perceptibly trembled in his hands. I felt that everywhere， in the wheels， in the hands， in the newspapers， even in the eyelashes， the pulse was becoming more and more rapid， and I thought it probable that today when I-330 and I found ourselves there， the temperature would rise to 39°C.， 40°， perhaps 41°and...
At the docks—the same silence filled with the buzzing of an invisible propeller. The lathes were silent as if brooding. Only the cranes were moving almost inaudibly as if on tiptoe， gliding， bending over， picking up with their tentacles the lumps of frozen air and loading the tanks of the Integral. We are already preparing the Integral for a trial flight.
"Well， shall we have her up in a week？" This was my question addressed to the Second Builder. His face is like porcelain， painted with sweet blue and tender little pink flowers （eyes and lips）， but today those little flowers looked faded and washed out. We were counting aloud when suddenly I broke off in the midst of a word and stopped， my mouth wide open； above the cupola， above the blue lump lifted by the crane， there was a scarcely noticeable small white square. I felt my whole body trembling—perhaps with laughter. Yes！ I myself heard my own laughter. （Did you ever hear your own laughter？）
"No， listen，" I said. "Imagine you are in an ancient air-plane. The altimeter shows 5，000 meters. A wing breaks； you are dashing down like ...And on the way you calculate： "Tomorrow from twelve to two ... from two to six ...and dinner at five！" Would it not be absurd？"
The little blue flowers began to move and bulge out. What if I were made of glass and he could have seen what was going on within me at that moment？ If he knew that some three or four hours later...