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✦ 331 ✦ 29 The Little Hen and the Pacific Rooster persitsky, the reporter, was busily preparing for the bicentennial celebration of the great mathematician Isaac Newton. “I’ll take Newton myself. Just give me the space,” he announced. “Now you look here, Persitsky,” the editor in chief warned. “Do him up right, treat him like a human being.” “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” “Don’t let the same thing happen as with Lomonosov. The Red Doctor had Lomonosov’s great-great-granddaughter, the Pioneer, but what did we have . . .” “I had nothing to do with that. You just had to go and entrust redheaded Ivanov with such an important thing! You have only yourself to blame.” “But what are you going to bring in?” “What do you mean, what? An article from the Central Science Administration—I’ve got some good connections there, not like Ivanov. We’ll take the biography from Brockhaus. But the portrait will be outstanding. Everyone else is going to grab that same portrait out of Brockhaus, but I’ll have something a little more original. I found a swell little engraving in The International Book. All I need’s an advance! Well, I’m off to Newton’s then!” “Aren’t we going to take a picture of Newton?” asked the photographer, who’d shown up in time for the end of the conversation. Persitsky made a warning sign which meant, “Easy now, everybody , just watch.” The entire editor in chief’s office pricked up its ears. “What? You still haven’t taken Newton’s picture?” said Persitsky , pouncing on the photographer. The photographer started talking his way out of it, just in case. “Why don’t you try catching him, then,” he said haughtily. “A good photographer would’ve caught him!” Persitsky shouted. “So what is it, then? Do I need to take his picture or not?” “Of course you do! Hurry! Fellows from all the other papers are probably already there!” The photographer heaved his camera and clattering tripod onto his shoulder. “He’s in the State Sewing Machine Factory now. Don’t forget: Newton, Isaac, I don’t remember his patronymic. Take his anniversary picture. And please, don’t get him at work. You always have everyone sitting behind a desk going through papers. Get him walking around. Or in the bosom of the family.” “I’ll shoot him walking around as soon as I get some foreign plates. Well, I’m off.” “Hurry up! It’s already after five!” The photographer went off to take pictures of the great mathematician for his bicentennial. The room flooded with the other newspapermen’s laughter. Styopa from “Science and You” came in at the height of the merriment. A corpulent citizeness toiled along behind him. “Listen, Persitsky,” Styopa said. “This citizeness here’s come to see you about something. Come over here, citizeness, this comrade’s going to explain it all to you.” Styopa ran away laughing. “Well?” Persitsky asked. “What’s the story?” Madame Gritsatsueva (for it was she) turned her languid eyes on the reporter and silently handed him a piece of paper. 332 ✦ in moscow “All right,” Persitsky said. “Run over by a horse . . . suffered a mild scare . . . So what’s the problem?” “His address,” the widow pleaded. “Might I possibly get his address?” “Whose address?” “O. Bender’s.” “How should I know?” “But the comrade there was saying that you know.” “I don’t know anything. Ask at the directory desk.” “But maybe you’ll remember, comrade? He was in yellow shoes.” “I’m in yellow shoes myself. Two hundred thousand people in Moscow are walking around in yellow shoes. Maybe you need their addresses too? By all means. I’ll quit whatever I’m doing and get busy on this. In six months you’ll know everything . I’m busy, citizeness.” But the widow, who felt a great deal of respect for Persitsky, followed him down the hallway, repeating her pleas, banging around with her starched petticoat. “Styopa’s a swine,” Persitsky thought. “Never mind, though, I’ll sic that perpetual motion inventor on him. That’ll make him hop.” “Now what am I supposed to do?” the annoyed Persitsky asked, coming to a halt before the widow. “How am I supposed to know the address of citizen O. Bender? Who am I, the horse that ran into him? Or the cabbie I saw him wallop in the back with my very own eyes?” The widow replied with...

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