A Letter
A Membrane
Hairy I
Yesterday was for me ，like the filter paper that chemists use for filtering their solutions （all suspended and superfluous particles remain on the paper）. This morning I went downstairs all purified and distilled， transparent.
Downstairs in the hall the controller sat at a small table， constantly looking at her watch and recording the Numbers who were leaving. Her name is U—....well， I prefer not to give her Number， for I fear I may not write kindly about her—although， as a matter of fact， she is a very respectable， mature woman. The only thing I do not like in her is that her cheeks fold down a little like the gills of a fish （although I don"t see anything wrong in this appearance）. She， scratched with her pen and I saw on page "D-503" —and suddenly， splash！ an ink blot. No sooner did I open my mouth to call her attention to that than she raised her head and blotted me with an inky smile. "There is a letter for you. You will receive it， dear. Yes， yes， you will."
I knew a letter， after she had read it， must go through the Bureau of Guardians （I think it is unnecessary to explain in detail this natural order of things）； I would receive it not later than twelve o"clock. But that tiny smile confused me； the drop of ink clouded the transparency of the distilled solution. At the Integral"s dock I could not concentrate； I even made a mistake in my calculations， something that had never happened to me before.
At twelve o"clock， again the rosy-brown fish gills" smile， and at last the letter was in my hands. I cannot say why I did not read it right there； instead， I put it in my pocket and ran into my room. I opened it， scanned it quickly， and...sat down. It was an official notice to the effect that Number I-330 had had me assigned to her， and that today at twenty-one o"clock I was to go to her. Her address was given.
No！ After all that had happened！ After I had shown her frankly my attitude toward her！ Besides， how could she know that I did not go to the Bureau of Guardians？ She had no way of knowing that I have been ill and could not....And despite all this..."
A dynamo was whirling and buzzing in my head. Buddha....yellow....lilies of the valley...rosy crescent....Besides-besides， O- wanted to come to see me today！ I was sure she would not believe （how could one believe？） that I had absolutely nothing to do with the matter， that... I was also sure that we （O- and I） would have a difficult， foolish， and absolutely illogical conversation. No， anything but that！ Let the situation solve itself mechanically； I would send her a copy of the official communication.
While I was hastily putting the paper in my pocket， I noticed my terrible ape-like hand. I remembered how that day， during our walk， she had taken my hand and looked at it. Is it possible that she really...that she...
A quarter to twenty-one. A white northern night. Everything was glass， greenish. But it was a different kind of glass， not like ours， not genuine but very breakable， a thin glass shell， and within that shell things were flying， whirling， buzzing. I wouldn"t have been surprised if suddenly the cupola of the auditorium had risen in slow， rolling clouds of smoke； or if the ripe moon had sent an inky smile， like that one at the little table this morning； or if in every house suddenly all the curtains had been lowered， and behind the curtains...
I felt something peculiar； my ribs were like iron bars that interfered， decidedly interfered， with my heart， giving it too little space. I stood at a glass door on which were the golden letters I-330. I-330 sat at the table with her back to me； she was writing something. I stepped in.
"Here"—I held out the pink check—"I received the notice this noon and here I am！"
"How punctual you are！ Just a minute， please， may I？ Sit down. I shall finish in a minute."
She lowered her eyes to the letter. What had she there， behind her lowered curtains？ What would she say？ What would she do in a second？ How to learn it？ How to calculate it， since she comes from beyond， from the wild， ancient land of dreams？ I looked at her in silence. My ribs were iron bars. The space for the heart was too small....When she speaks， her face is like a swiftly revolving， glittering wheel； you cannot see the separate bars. But at that moment the wheel was motionless. I saw a strange combination： dark eyebrows running fight to the temples—a sharp， mocking ********； and still another dark ******** with its apex upward—two deep wrinkles from the nose to the angles of the mouth. And these two triangles somehow contradicted each other. They gave the whole face that disagreeable， irritating X， or cross—a face marked obliquely by a cross.
The wheel started to turn； its bars blurred.
"So you did not go to the Bureau of Guardians， after all？"
"I did... I did not feel well...I could not."
"Yes？ I thought so； something must have prevented you， it matters little what"—sharp teeth—a smile. "But now you are in my hands. You remember： "Any Number who within forty-eight hours fails to report to the Bureau is considered...""
My heart banged so forcibly that the iron bars bent. If I were not sitting...like a little boy， how stupid！ I was caught like a little boy， and stupidly I kept silent. I felt I was in a net； neither my legs nor my arms...
She stood up and stretched herself lazily. She pressed the button， and the curtains on all four walls fell with a slight rustle. I was cut off from the rest of the world， alone with her.
She was somewhere behind me， near the closet door. The unif was rustling， falling. I was listening， all listening. I remembered—no， it glistened in my mind for one hundredth of a second—I once had to calculate the curve of a new type of street membrane. （These membranes are handsomely decorated and are placed over all the avenues， registering all street conversations for the Bureau of Guardians.） I remembered a rosy， concave， trembling membrane， a strange being consisting of one organ only， an ear. I was at that moment such a membrane.
Now the "click" of the snap at her collar， at her breast， and...lower. The glassy silk rustled over her shoulders and knees， over the floor. I heard—and it was clearer than actually seeing—I heard how one foot stepped out of the grayish-blue heap of silk， then the other....Soon I"d hear the creak of the bed， and...
