We

by Yevgeny Zamyatin

“Well, then, will we finish loading within the week?” This was me to the Second Builder. His face was porcelain, painted with sweet blue and tender pink little flowers (eyes, lips), but today they were somehow off-color, washed out. We consider this question aloud, but I suddenly cut off in mid-word and stand, mouth agape: high up, under the cupola, on the light blue block raised by the crane, was a barely noticeable, little white square— a glued scrap of paper. And I was shaking all over—maybe, from laughter—yes, I could hear myself laughing (have you ever done that, heard yourself laughing?). “No, okay, listen . . .” I say. “Imagine that you are in an ancient airplane, the altimeter shows five thousand meters and the wing breaks off, you’re like a tumbler pigeon falling, and on your way down you are calculating: ‘Tomorrow . . . from twelve to two I will . . . from two to six . . . six o’clock is dinnertime . . .’ Well, isn’t that funny? And, can you see, that’s exactly what we’re doing?!”