I closed my eyes to picture another reality. There — a grenade thuds down right in front of my nose. If I’d been quick-witted and brave, things would have turned out differently! Now I understand: the gentleman in the tailcoat was helping me. I, a hero of heroes, the spitting image of Corporal Svyatkin, could have seized the moment and hurled the grenade at the tank crew. Then commandeered the tank for a dashing raid. To wage war properly, I’d need to gather a squad of daredevils…
Impossible, though… the grenade is still in my trouser pocket, but it’s worthless — nothing but an inconvenience.
There’s no beating the enemy, because according to Anton, the foe killed today turns up alive again by morning — start over. So I’m doomed to fight forever and ever. Being master of your fate at the front, a wise father-commander — that’s fine and good. But me?
No.
I’m a hundred times better off in the rear than a general on the battlefield. Besides, I’m no good at throwing grenades on target. Anton, left with a single grenade, could give an entire enemy company a hiding. Whereas I, armed to the teeth, am good for exactly one thing — squandering the weaponry for nothing. Sad, but true.
Why be shy about it? I’m an outsider in any struggle for a better lot. If Darwin’s theories worked here, I’d have died long ago.
Hm. Nonsense.
I’ve been a hair’s breadth from death many times, but I got lucky. Damn it, I’ve had fantastic luck this whole time I’ve been here! Not by chance. Definitely not by chance.
Something was behind it! I had to do something!
I ruffled my hair and, not even sure why, headed toward the girl. A vague urge to talk, to exchange a few words, just to look into her eyes, pushed me her way.
The instant I crossed the line on the floor, the girl lifted her head, sprang up, and a yard-long whip appeared in her hand. Before I could say «Hi,» she’d jumped off the couch, drawn herself up to full height, and cracked the whip through the air: Get out of here!
I cleared out, glancing back.
The little beast tossed the whip aside and went back to her spot, smiling.
I sat down on the couch and tried to work out what it meant. Apparently I wasn’t allowed on her half.
What?
Did she think I’d come on to her? As if I needed her, the stubborn old nag. I looked her over, head to toe and back. Heh, some Miss Giant White Ball of the Desert she was, two meters of deadwood. The girl gave me a strange look, stuck out her tongue, and turned away.
«What kind of kindergarten is this? Did she get offended?» I wondered, baffled.
A minute later it dawned on me: she was definitely reading my thoughts. What a lanky little witch.
A patterned ottoman flew from her half of the room and smacked me on the head. Exactly! She was reading my mind.
I stood up, took aim, and hurled the ottoman back, fiercely hoping to be just as accurate and catch that cat-like face. The attempt failed, but a second chance came along. The girl picked up the ottoman that had landed beside her and flung it my way, followed by a pillow, two slippers, and something else I didn’t catch. I dodged the incoming projectiles and fired back as best I could.
Before long she calmed down and, thoroughly offended, lay back down on the couch, offering me a fine view of her backside, which I took full advantage of. So what? Was I supposed to apologize for unruly thoughts? As they say, we don’t stock any other kind, and the offended can go carry water.
And what a backside! I’d give my life for one like that!
