On his way to the Institute the next morning, Viktor imagined that everyone – from doctors to laboratory assistants – would be talking only of Chepyzhin. By the main entrance to the Institute stood a Zis limousine. The chauffeur, a middle-aged man in glasses, was reading a newspaper. On the staircase Viktor met the old caretaker. That summer they'd had tea together in the laboratory.

'The new director's just arrived,' the old man announced. Then he asked sadly: 'What will become of our Dmitry Petrovich?'

The laboratory assistants were discussing how to set up the equipment that had just arrived from Kazan. There were piles of large boxes in the main hall. The new apparatus from the Urals had also arrived. Nozdrin was standing beside a huge crate. Viktor thought he looked very arrogant.

Perepelitsyn was hopping around the crate on his one leg, holding his crutch under his armpit.

'Look, Viktor Pavlovich!' said Anna Stepanovna, pointing at the boxes.

'Even a blind man could see all this,' said Perepelitsyn.

Anna Stepanovna, however, hadn't really been referring to the crates.

'I see,' said Viktor. 'Of course I see.'

'The workers will be arriving in an hour's time,' said Nozdrin. 'Professor Markov and I have made the arrangements.' He spoke in the calm, slow voice of someone who knows he's the boss. This was his hour of glory.

Viktor went into his office. Markov and Savostyanov were sitting on the sofa, Sokolov was standing by the window, and Svechin, the head of the magnetic laboratory next door, was sitting at the desk and rolling a cigarette.

He stood up as Viktor came in.

' 'This is the boss's chair.'

'No, no, sit down,' said Viktor. 'What are we discussing at the conference?'

'The special stores,' said Markov. 'Apparently Academicians will be allowed to spend fifteen hundred roubles, while us lesser mortals will only be allowed five hundred roubles – the same as People's Artists and great poets like Lebedev-Kumach.'

'We're beginning to set up the equipment,' said Viktor, 'and Dmitry Petrovich is no longer here. The house is burning, but the clock still keeps time, as the saying goes.'

No one responded to this change of subject.

'My cousin passed by yesterday on his way back from hospital to the front,' said Savostyanov. 'We wanted to celebrate, so I bought a half-litre of vodka off a neighbour for 3 50 roubles!'

'That's amazing!' said Svechin.

'We're not just talking about making soap,' said Savostyanov brightly. He saw from his colleagues' faces that his joke had fallen flat.

'The new boss is here already,' said Viktor.

'A man of great energy,' said Svechin.

'We'll be all right with Aleksey Alekseyevich,' said Markov. 'He's had tea in comrade Zhdanov 's own house.'

Markov really was remarkable. He seemed to have very few friends and yet he always knew everything. He knew that Gabrichevskaya from the next-door laboratory was pregnant, that the husband of Lida the cleaning lady was in hospital again, that Smorodintsev's doctoral thesis had been rejected…

'That's right,' said Savostyanov. 'We may laugh at Shishakov's notorious "mistake", but, all in all, he's not such a bad type. By the way, do you know the difference between a good type and a bad type? A good type is someone who behaves swinishly in spite of himself!'

'Mistake or no mistake,' said Svechin, 'they don't make someone an Academician for nothing.'

Svechin was a member of the Party bureau of the Institute. He had only joined the Party in autumn 1941 and, like many new members, was unshakeably orthodox. He carried out any task entrusted to him by the Party with an almost religious earnestness.

'There's something I want to talk to you about, Viktor Pavlovich,' Svechin went on. 'The Party bureau wants you to speak at our next meeting on the subject of our new programme.'

'A failure of leadership? The errors of Chepyzhin? Is that what you want me to talk about?' Viktor was very annoyed. The conversation hadn't taken the direction he wanted. 'I don't know if I'm a good type or a bad type myself,' he went on, 'but I'm very reluctant to behave swinishly.'

Turning to his colleagues, he asked: 'What about you, comrades? Are you happy about Chepyzhin's resignation?'

He was counting on his colleagues' support and was quite taken aback when Savostyanov gave a non-committal shrug of the shoulders and said: 'He's getting old now.'

All Svechin said was: 'Chepyzhin refused to undertake any new projects. What else could we do? Anyway, he chose to resign. Everyone wanted him to stay.'

'So an Arakcheev has been uncovered at last,' said Viktor.

'Viktor Pavlovich,' said Markov in a hushed voice, 'I've heard that Rutherford once vowed never to work on neutrons. He was afraid it would lead to the development of a colossal explosive force. Very noble, I'm sure – but that kind of squeamishness is plain senseless. Apparently Dmitry Petrovich was equally holier-than-thou.'

'Heavens!' thought Viktor. 'How on earth does he know all this?'

'Pyotr Lavrentyevich,' he said, 'it seems we're in a minority.'

Sokolov shook his head. 'In my opinion, Viktor Pavlovich, this is no time for individualism and insubordination. We're at war. Chepyzhin was wrong to think only of himself and his personal interests when his superiors asked something of him.

'You too, Brutus!' joked Viktor, trying to mask his confusion.

Curiously, however, as well as feeling confused, Viktor was almost pleased. 'Of course,' he thought, 'just what I expected.' But why 'of course'? He hadn't expected Sokolov to respond like that. And even if he had, why should he be pleased?

'You really must speak,' said Svechin. 'There's no need whatsoever to criticize Chepyzhin. Just a few words about the potential of your research in the light of the decisions taken by the Central Committee.'

Before the war Viktor had met Svechin occasionally at orchestral concerts in the Conservatory. He had heard that in Svechin's youth, when he was a student at the Faculty of Maths and Physics, he had written futurist poetry and worn a chrysanthemum in his button-hole. Now, he spoke about the decisions of the Party bureau as though they were formulations of universal truths.

Sometimes Viktor wanted to dig Svechin in the ribs, wink and say: 'Come on now, let's be frank!' He knew, though, that there was no way of talking frankly with Svechin. Now, however, amazed by Sokolov's speech, Viktor did speak his mind.

'What about Chetverikov's arrest?' he asked. 'Is that linked with our new tasks? And is that why Vavilov was sent to prison? And if I allow myself to say that I consider Dmitry Petrovich a greater authority on physics than comrade Zhdanov, the head of the scientific section of the Central Committee, or even than…'

Everyone's eyes were on Viktor, expecting him to pronounce the name of Stalin. He made a dismissive gesture and said: 'All right. Enough of that. Let's go through to the lab.'

The boxes from the Urals had already been opened. The main part of the apparatus, three quarters of a ton in weight, had been carefully teased out from a mass of wood shavings, paper and rough pieces of board. Viktor laid his hand on the polished metal surface.

A stream of particles would gush forth from this metal belly – like the Volga by the small chapel on Lake Seliger.

There was something good about the look in everyone's eyes. Yes, it was good to know the world had room for such a wonderful machine. What more could one ask for?

At the end of the day Viktor and Sokolov were left alone in the laboratory.

'Why strut about like a cock, Viktor Pavlovich?' said Sokolov. 'You lack humility. I told Masha about your success at the meeting of the Academy – how you managed, in only half an hour, to get off on the wrong foot with both the new director and the young grandee from the scientific section. Masha was terribly upset; she couldn't sleep all night. You know the times we live in. And I saw your eyes as you looked at this. Why sacrifice everything just for a few words?'