The Benumbed Waves
Everything Is Improving
I Am a Microbe
Please imagine that you stand at the seashore. The waves go rhythmically up， down， up Suddenly， when they have risen， they remain in that position， benumbed， torpid！ It was just as weird and unnatural when everything became confused and our regular walk， which is prescribed by the Tables， suddenly came to an end. The last time such a thing happened was one hundred and nineteen years ago， when according to our historians a meteorite fell hissing and fuming into the very midst of the marchers. We were walking yesterday as usual， that is like warriors on the Assyrian monuments， a thousand heads and two composite， integrated legs and two swinging， integrated arms. At the end of the avenue， where the Accumulating Tower was formidably resounding， a quadrangle appeared： on the sides， in front， and behind—guards； in the center—three Numbers. Their unifs were already stripped of the golden State badge； everything was painfully clear. The enormous dial on the top of the Tower looked like a face； it bent down from the clouds and， spitting down its seconds， it waited with indifference. It showed six minutes past thirteen exactly. There was some confusion in the quadrangle. I was very close， and I saw the most minute details. I clearly remember a thin， long neck and on the temple a confused net of small blue veins like rivers on the map of a small unfamiliar world， and that unknown world was apparently still a very young man. He evidently noticed someone in our ranks； he stopped， rose upon his tiptoes， and stretched his neck. One of the guards snapped his back with the bluish spark of the electric whip—he squealed in a thin voice like a puppy. The distinct snaps followed each other at intervals of approximately two seconds； a snap and a squeal， a snap and a squeal....We continued to walk as usual， rhythmically， in our Assyrian manner. I watched the graceful zigzags of the electric sparks and thought： "Human society is constantly improving， as it should. How ugly a tool was the ancient whip and how much beauty there is—"
At that moment， like a nut flying from a wheel revolving at full speed， a female Number， thin， flexible， and tense， tore herself from out rows， and with a cry， "Enough！ Don"t you dare！" she threw herself straight into the quadrangle. It was like the meteorite of one hundred and nineteen years ago； our march came to a standstill and our rows appeared like the gray crests of waves frozen by sudden cold. For a second I looked at that woman"s figure with the eye of a stranger， as all the others did. She was no Number any longer； she was only a human being， and she existed for us only as a substantiation of the insult which she cast upon the United State. But a motion of hers， her bending while twisting to the left upon her hips， revealed to me clearly who she was. I knew， I knew that body， flexible as a whip！ My eyes， my lips， my hands knew it； at that moment I was absolutely certain....Two of the guards dashed to catch her. One more moment， and that limpid， mirror-like point on the pavement would have become the point of meeting of their trajectories， and she would have been caught！ My heart fell， stopped. Without thinking whether it was permissible or not， whether it was reasonable or absurd， I threw myself straight to that point..
