'It isn't right,' said Sokolov, 'for us Russians, at such a difficult time, to criticize our own country.'

Again Viktor wanted to ask: 'Pyotr Lavrentyevich, this is something very serious. Are you sure Madyarov's not an informer?' Instead he said: 'Excuse me, but things have just taken a turn for the better. Stalingrad is the beginning of spring. We've already drawn up lists of personnel to return to Moscow. Do you remember what we were thinking two months ago? The Urals, Kazakhstan, the taiga?'

'In that case,' said Sokolov, 'there's even less reason for you to carp and croak.'

'Croak?'

'That's what I said.'

'For heaven's sake, Pyotr Lavrentyevich!'

When he said goodbye to Sokolov, Viktor was feeling depressed and bewildered. Above all, he felt an unbearable loneliness. All day he had been longing to talk to Sokolov. He had thought this meeting would be very special. But almost every word of Sokolov's had seemed trivial and insincere.

And he had been equally insincere himself. That made it even worse.

He went out onto the street. By the outer door a woman's voice quietly called out his name. Viktor knew who it was.

Marya Ivanovna's face was lit up by the street-lamp; her cheeks and forehead were shining with rain. In her old coat, with a woollen scarf round her neck, the professor's wife seemed to embody the poverty of the wartime evacuee.

'She looks like a conductor on one of the trams,' thought Viktor.

'How's Lyudmila Nikolaevna?' she asked, looking questioningly into his eyes.

'The same as usual,' said Viktor, shrugging his shoulders.

'I'll come round earlier tomorrow.'

'You're her guardian angel as it is,' said Viktor. 'It's a good thing Pyotr Lavrentyevich doesn't mind. You spend so much time with Lyudmila. And he's just a child – he can hardly get by without you for even an hour.'

She was still looking at him thoughtfully. She seemed to be listening without really hearing. Then she said: 'Viktor Pavlovich, your face looks quite different today. Has something good happened?'

'What makes you think that?'

'Your eyes have changed,' she said. 'It must be your work. Your work's going well at last. There you are now – and you used to say you were no longer good for anything after all the unhappiness you've been through.'

'Lyudmila must have told her,' thought Viktor. 'Women are such chatterboxes!' At the same time, trying to hide his irritation, he asked with a smile: 'What do you see in my eyes then?'

Marya Ivanovna remained silent for a moment. When she did speak, it was in a serious tone of voice, quite unlike Viktor's.

'Your eyes are always full of suffering – but not today.'

Suddenly Viktor opened up.

'Marya Ivanovna, I don't understand it. I feel that I've done the most important thing of my life. Science is bread, bread for the soul… And this has happened at such a sad, difficult time. How strangely tangled our lives are. How I wish I could… No, there's no use in saying…'

Marya Ivanovna listened, still gazing into Viktor's eyes. Then she said very quietly: 'How I wish I could drive the sorrow out of your home.'

'Thank you, dear Marya Ivanovna,' said Viktor as they parted. He felt suddenly calm – as though it really were her he had come to see and he had now said what he wanted to say.

A minute later, walking down the dark street, Viktor had forgotten the Sokolovs. A cold draught blew from each of the dark entrances; when he came to a crossroads the wind lifted up the tail of his coat. Viktor shrugged his shoulders and frowned. Would his mother never know, would she never know what her son had just achieved?

7

Viktor called a meeting of all the laboratory staff – Markov and Savostyanov the two physicists, Anna Naumovna Weisspapier, Nozdrin the technician, and Perepelitsyn the electrician – and said that the doubts they had all had about the apparatus were quite unfounded. In fact it was the accuracy of their measurements that had led to such uniform results, despite variations in the experimental conditions.

Viktor and Sokolov were both theoreticians; it was Markov who was in charge of the experimental work in the laboratory. He had an astonishing talent for solving difficult problems and could always unerringly determine the principles of any new piece of equipment.

Viktor admired the confidence with which Markov would walk up to some new apparatus and be able, after only a few minutes and without looking at any instructions, to grasp both its essential principles and the tiniest details of its mechanism. He seemed to regard a complex apparatus as a living body; it was as though he were looking at a cat, glancing at its eyes and tail, its ears and claws, feeling its heartbeat, understanding what every part of its body was for.

As for Nozdrin, the haughty technician – he really came into his own when some new apparatus was being assembled in the laboratory. Savostyanov used to joke about Nozdrin, saying, 'When Stepan Stepanovich dies, his hands will be taken to the Brain Institute to be studied.'

Nozdrin didn't like these jokes. He tended to look down on the scientists, knowing that without his strong hands not one of them would be able to do anything at all.

The laboratory favourite was Savostyanov. He was at home in both practical and theoretical matters. Everything he did, he did quickly and effortlessly, almost light-heartedly. Even on the gloomiest of days, his bright corn-coloured hair seemed to be full of sunlight. Viktor would gaze at him admiringly, thinking that his hair reflected the brightness and clarity of his mind. Sokolov thought equally highly of him.

'Yes, he's not like us Talmudists,' Viktor once said to Sokolov. 'He's a match for you and me and Markov put together.'

As for Anna Naumovna – she had an almost superhuman patience and capacity for work; once she had spent eighteen hours on end studying photographs under the microscope.

Many of the other heads of department considered Viktor extremely lucky to have such a brilliant staff. In answer to their comments Viktor replied jokingly: 'Every head of department has the staff he deserves.'

'We have all been through a period of depression and anxiety,' he began. 'Now we can all rejoice. Professor Markov has conducted the experiments faultlessly. The credit for this, of course, also belongs to the laboratory assistants and technicians responsible for so many observations and calculations.'

Markov gave a little cough and said: 'Viktor Pavlovich, we should like you to expound your theory in as much detail as possible.' Lowering his voice, he added: 'I've heard that Kochkurov's research in a similar area holds out great practical possibilities. Apparently Moscow has been asking about his results.'

Markov usually knew all the ins and outs of everything under the sun. When the Institute was being evacuated from Moscow, he had appeared in the railway carriage with all kinds of information – about hold-ups on the line, engine changes, stops where they could get something to eat…

Savostyanov, who hadn't yet shaved that morning, said thoughtfully: 'I'll have to drink all the laboratory alcohol to celebrate.' And Anna Naumovna, who was politically very active, sighed: 'Thank God for that! At Party meetings we've already been accused of all kinds of mortal sins.'

Nozdrin remained silent, rubbing his hand over his hollow cheeks. As for Perepelitsyn, the young one-legged electrician, he just turned bright red and let his crutch fall to the floor with a bang.

It had been a good day for Viktor. Pimenov, the young director of the Institute, had telephoned him that morning and showered him with compliments. He was about to fly to Moscow; final preparations were under way for the return of almost the entire Institute.