The Early Ayn Rand

"I suppose you understand the bargain," said Commandant Kareyev. "It's your life in exchange for your woman."

"Supposing," Michael asked, "I don't accept the bargain?"

Joan stood facing him, her back to Kareyev. Her voice was calm, indifferent; but her eyes were trying silently, desperately to make Michael understand.

"There are things you don't understand, Michael. And some that you forget."

"The three of us," said Kareyev, "have an account to settle, Volkontzev. And we can settle it better on free ground. Are you afraid to go?"

Michael shrugged and put on the jacket slowly.

"But aren't you afraid of the settlement, Commandant?" he asked.

"Come on," said Joan. "We have no time to talk."

"You'd better take this," said Kareyev, slipping a gun into Michael's hand. "We may need it"

Michael looked at him for a second, in silent appreciation of his trust; then he took the gun.

The head of the guards was having a night inspection of his staff in the yard back of the monastery, according to Commandant Kareyev's orders. There were no red lanterns moving on the walls. Through the thunder of the waves, no one could hear the roar of the motorboat as it shot out into the darkness.

The waves rose high as swelling breasts heaving convulsively. The moon dropped long blotches of a cold, silver fire into the water and the sea tore it into glimmering rags. The stars drowned in the water, and knocking furiously against each other, the waves tried to throw them back in white, gleaming sprays.

The waves rose slowly and hung over the boat, motionless as walls of black, polished glass. Then a white foam burst on their crest, as if a cork had popped, and roared down the black side, throwing the boat up, out of the water, to land on the boiling crest of another mountain.

Commandant Kareyev bent over the wheel. His eyebrows made one straight line across his face and his eyes held one straight line ahead, into the darkness. He could feel every muscle of his body tensed to the will of his fingers that clutched the wheel like claws. The loops of his bent arms worked as the wings, as the nerves of the boat. He had lost his cap. His hair rose straight in the wind like a pennant.

"Volkontzev! Hold Joan!" he yelled once.

Joan looked back at the island. She saw it for the last time as a lonely black shadow, with a faint silver glow in its cupolas, that speeded away, disappearing behind the peaks of the waves.

At midnight, they saw red sparks gleaming faintly ahead. Kareyev swerved to the right, speeding away from the twinkling village. The boat crushed into the soft bottom and stopped. Kareyev carried Joan ashore.

A deserted beach ran into a forest of tall pines, silent, asleep, their branches heavy with snow. A mile to their left was the village; to their right, many miles down the white beach, the searchlight of a coast guard station revolved slowly, groping the sea.

A little lane wound itself on the outskirt of the forest. Snow had covered all tracks. Only two deep ruts left by peasants' wheels still remained like rails cut into the frozen ground.

Commandant Kareyev walked first; Joan followed. Michael came last, his hand on his gun.

They walked in silence. The wind had died. The moon beyond the forest threw long, black shadows of pine trees over the lane and far out across the beach. Farther, by the water, the snow gleamed, throwing up a hard, blue light.

A low branch bent under its white load, shuddered, powdering them with frozen dust. A white rabbit stuck its long ears from behind a shrub and darted into the forest, a leaping, soundless snowball.

They selected a lonely house on the outskirts of the village. Commandant Kareyev knocked at the door. A dog barked somewhere, choking in a long alarming howl.

A sleepy peasant opened the door fearfully, a sheepskin coat trembling on his shoulders, his eyes blinking over a candle.

"Who goes there?"

"Official business, comrade," said Kareyev. "We need two good horses and a sleigh."

"So help me God, Comrade Chief," the peasant whined, bowing, making the sign of the cross with a freckled hand, "we have no horses, so help me God. We're poor people, Comrade Chief."

One of Commandant Kareyev's hands crumpled significantly a wad of paper money; the other one closed over the butt of his gun.

"I said we needed two good horses and a sleigh," he repeated slowly. "And we need them quickly."

"Yes, Comrade Chief, yes, sir, as you wish."

Bowing, chewing nervously his long, reddish beard, the peasant led them to the stables behind his house, the candle dripping wax on his trembling hand.

Commandant Kareyev selected the horses. Michael gathered straw from the stable floor and filled the bottom of the sleigh around Joan's feet, wrapping them in an old fur blanket. Commandant Kareyev jumped to the driver's seat. He threw the wad of bills into the red beard. He warned:

"This is confidential official business, comrade. If you breathe a word about it — it's the Revolutionary Tribunal for you. Understand?"