The Early Ayn Rand

As per your request, we are sending to you the bearer of this, Comrade Joan Harding. We vouch for her political trustworthiness. Her past reputation will guarantee that she will satisfy the purpose of your request and lighten the burden of your difficult duty on the far outpost of our great proletarian Republic.

With Communistic greetings, Ivan Veriohoff,

Political Commissar

Commandant Kareyev's bed had a coarse gray blanket, like those on the prisoners' cots. His cell of damp gray stone looked emptier than theirs; there was a bed, a table, two chairs. A tall glass door, long and narrow like a cathedral window, led to an open gallery outside. The room looked as if a human being had been flung there in a hurry for a short moment: there were rows of old nails on the bare stone walls bearing clothes and arms, wrinkled shirts hanging by one sleeve, old leather jackets, rifles, trousers turned inside out, cartridge belts; there were cigarette butts and ashes on the bare stone floor. The human being had lived there for five years.

There was not a single picture, not a book, not an ashtray. There was a bed because the human being had to sleep; and clothes, because he had to dress; he needed nothing else.

But there was one single object which he did not need, his single answer to any questions people could ask looking at his room, although no one had ever asked them: in a niche where ikons had been now hung, on a rusty nail, Commandant Kareyev's old Red Army cap.

The unpainted wooden table had been pulled to the center of the room. On the table stood heavy tin dishes and tin cups without saucers; a candle in an old bottle; and no tablecloth.

Commandant Kareyev and Joan Harding were finishing their first dinner together.

She raised a tin jug of cold tea, with a smile that should have accompanied a glass of champagne, and said:

"Your health, Comrade Kareyev."

He answered brusquely:

"If it's a hint — you're wasting your time. No drinks here. Not allowed. And no exceptions."

"No exceptions and no hints, Comrade Kareyev. But still — your health."

"Cut the nonsense. You don't have to drink my health. You don't have to smile. And you don't have to lie. You'll hate me — and you know it. And I know it. But you may not know that I don't care — so you're warned in advance."

"I didn't know I'll hate you."

"You know it now, don't you?"

"Less than ever."

"Listen, forget the pretty speeches. That's not part of your job. If you expect any compliments — you might as well be disappointed right now."

"I wasn't expecting any compliments when I took the boat for Strastnoy Island."

"And I hope you weren't expecting any sentiment. This is a business deal. That's all."

"That's all, Comrade Kareyev."

"Did you expect a companion like me?"

"I've heard about you."

"Have you heard what I'm called?"

"The Beast."

"You may find I deserve the name."

"You may find I like it."

"No use telling me about it — if you do. I don't care what you think of me."

"Then why warn me about it?"

"Because the boat's still here. It goes back at dawn. There's no other for three months."

She had lighted a cigarette. She held it in two straight fingers, looking at him.

"Were you in the civil war, Comrade Kareyev?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Did you acquire the habit of retreating?"

"No."

"Neither have I."

He leaned toward her, his crossed elbows on the table, watching her in the trembling glow of the candle, his eyes narrow, mocking. He said:

"I've seen some soldiers overestimate their strength." She smiled, and reached over and flicked the ashes off her cigarette into his empty plate.

"Good ones," she answered, "take chances."

"Listen," he said impatiently, "you don't like questions, so I won't bother you, because I don't like to talk either. But there's just one thing I'm going to ask you. That letter from the GPU said you were all right politically, but you don't look as... as you should look at all."

She blew at the smoke and did not answer. Then she looked at him and shrugged lightly.

"The letter told you about my present. The past is dead. If I'm not thinking of it, why should you?"

"No reason," he agreed. "Makes no difference."

A convict, waiting on the Commandant's table, had removed the dishes, sliding silently out of the room. Joan rose.

"Show me the island," she said. "I want to get acquainted. I'm staying here for a long time — I hope."

"I hope you'll repeat that," he answered, rising, "three months from today."