The Early Ayn Rand

"... silver, carpets, wine... that's what bourgeois luxuries lead to. I never approved of the idea of bringing the bitch here. I knew she was a White."

Commandant Kareyev passed, without entering.

Comrade Fedossitch followed him.

"The Comrade Commandant inspected the motorboat today," he remarked. "Anything wrong with it?"

"No. But it's going to be used."

"Ah... when?"

"Tomorrow. Citizen Volkontzeva is under arrest. She'll be sent to the GPU in the morning. "Alone?"

"No. With a trusted escort. Maybe — you."

He turned to go.

"If Citizen Volkontzeva is under arrest" — Comrade Fedossitch hunched his shoulders more ingratiatingly than ever — "will you want me to put a guard at her door?"

"If I were you, I'd be careful, Comrade Fedossitch. Someone else here might find himself with a guard at his door."

When it had grown dark, Commandant Kareyev approached the steps of the tower that guarded the wireless. There were no candles on the stairway. There was no glass in the windows. Snow gathered on the steps, blown in by the wind. He could distinguish the windows by the twinkling stars; the walls of the tower were black as the sky.

He went up slowly, carefully, trying to muffle the sound of snow creaking under his feet.

On the first landing he saw a shadow against the stars. The shadow coughed hoarsely, heaving its shallow chest.

"Good evening, Comrade Fedossitch," said the Commandant. "What are you doing here?"

"Just taking a stroll, Comrade Commandant. Like yourself."

"Have a cigarette?"

Kareyev struck a match. Their eyes met for a second over the quivering little flame. The wind blew it out. The two red lighted dots remained in the darkness.

"There's a strong wind tonight," said Comrade Fedossitch, "and the sea is rough. Dangerous for sailing."

"The cold isn't good for your lungs, Comrade Fedossitch. You should be careful of things that aren't good for you."

"I never mind it in the line of my duty. Good Communists don't let anything stand in the way of their duty. Good Communists like you and me."

"It's a pretty late hour for any duty you may have to perform."

"True, Comrade Commandant. I don't have as many responsibilities as you have. And, speaking of responsibilities, did it ever occur to you that it's a bit careless the way we leave our wireless in a lonely tower where anyone can reach it?"

Commandant Kareyev made a step forward and ordered slowly:

"Go back to your room. And stay there."

Comrade Fedossitch barred the stairs with his body, his outstretched arms touching the walls.

"You won't go up!" he hissed.

"Get out of my way!" Commandant Kareyev whispered.

"You won't get that wireless, you traitor!"

Commandant Kareyev's hand seized the long sinewy throat; his other hand pulled the gun out of Comrade Fedossitch's belt. He kicked him, and the comrade tumbled down several steps. When he straightened himself he felt Commandant Kareyev's gun in his back.

"Go down, rat. If you open your mouth — I shoot."

Comrade Fedossitch did not make a sound. Commandant Kareyev led him down to the yard. He blew his whistle.

"Citizen Fedossitch is under arrest," he said to the guards calmly, "for insubordination. Take him into the pit."

Comrade Fedossitch did not say a word. He choked, coughing, his shoulders heaving convulsively. The guards led him away, and Commandant Kareyev followed.

In a dark, clammy, low-vaulted room, the guards opened a heavy stone trapdoor with an old brass ring. They tied a rope around Comrade Fedossitch's waist. In the light of a smoked lantern, its flame swaying in a draft, his face was the color of a shell with damp, greenish pearls on his forehead. The guards unrolled the rope, lowering him into the pit. They heard his cough growing fainter as he went down. Commandant Kareyev stood watching.

The wireless room was high up in the tower. No one could hear, in the yard below, when the wireless set cracked, breaking in Commandant Kareyev's strong hands. He made sure the parts were crushed beyond repair. He had to hold them up to the starlight to see. He did not strike a match. The wind blew the hair from his wet forehead.

Commandant Kareyev opened Joan's door soundlessly, without knocking.

"Come on," he whispered. "All's ready."

She had been waiting, wrapped in a warm coat, a fur collar tight under her chin, a fur cap over her blond curls.

"Don't make any noise," he ordered. "We'll go down and get Volkontzev."

She raised her smiling lips for a kiss. He kissed them calmly, tenderly. There was no hesitation in his movements, no doubt in his eyes. He was the Communist Kareyev who had fought in the civil war.

Michael was sitting on his cot when the door of his cell was thrown open. He jumped up. Joan entered first. Commandant Kareyev followed. Michael stood, his dark eyes a silent question. Kareyev threw to him a fur-lined leather jacket.

"Put this on," he ordered. "And don't make any noise. And follow."

"Where?" Michael asked.

"You're escaping. And so am I. The three of us."

Michael's wide eyes did not leave Joan.