Alexei Turbin felt extremely disappointed and surprised. 'The devil. . . why didn't Karas tell me?' At that moment he was aware of Karas at his right shoulder and without looking at him he could sense that his friend was straining to convey him some unspoken message, but he had no idea what it was.

'Unfortunately,' Turbin suddenly blurted out, his cheek twitching, 'I am not a socialist but... a monarchist. In fact I can't even bear the very word "socialist". And of all socialists I most detest Alexander Kerensky.'

The colonel's little eyes flicked up for a moment, sparkling. He gestured as if politely to stop Turbin's mouth and said:

'That's a pity. H'mm ... a great pity . . . The achievements of the revolution, and so on ... I have orders from above to avoid recruiting monarchist elements in view of the mood of the people ... we shall be required, you see, to exercise restraint. Besides, the Hetman, with whom we are closely and directly linked, as you know is . . . regrettable, regrettable . . .'

As he said this the colonel's voice not only expressed no regret at all but on the contrary sounded delighted and the look in his eyes totally contradicted what he was saying.

'Aha, so that's how the land lies', Turbin thought to himself. 'Stupid of me . . . and this colonel's no fool. Probably a careerist to judge from his expression, but what the hell.'

'I don't quite know what to do in your case ... at the present

moment' - the colonel laid heavy stress on the word 'present' - 'as I say, at the present moment, our immediate task is the defence of the City and the Hetman against Petlyura's bands and, possibly, against the Bolsheviks too. After that we shall just have to see . . . May I ask, doctor, where you have served to date?'

'In 1915, when I graduated from university I served as an extern in a venereological clinic, then as a Junior Medical Officer in the Belgrade Hussars. After that I was a staff medical officer in a rail-borne mobile field hospital. At present I am demobilised and working in private practice.'

'Cadet!' exclaimed the colonel, 'ask the executive officer to come here, please.'

A head disappeared into the pit, followed by the appearance of a dark, keen-looking young officer. He wore a round lambskin fur hat with gold rank-stripes crosswise on its magenta top, a long gray coat like Myshlaevsky's tightly belted at the waist, and a revolver. His crumpled gold shoulder-straps indicated that he was a staff-captain.

'Captain Studzinsky,' the colonel said to him, 'please be kind enough to send a message to headquarters requesting the immediate transfer to my unit of Lieutenant . . . er . . .'

'Myshlaevsky,' said Myshlaevsky, saluting.

'. . . Lieutenant Myshlaevsky from the second infantry detachment, as he is a trained artillery officer. And another request to the effect that Doctor . . . er?'

Turbin.'

'. . . Doctor Turbin is urgently required to serve in my unit as regimental medical officer. Request their immediate appointment.'

'Very good, colonel', replied the officer, with a noticeable accent, and saluted. 'A Pole', thought Turbin.

'There is no need for you, lieutenant, to return to your infantry outfit' (to Myshlaevsky). 'The lieutenant will take command of Number 4 Battery' (to the staff-captain).

'Very good, sir.'

'Very good, sir.'

'And you, doctor, are on duty as of now. I suggest you go home and report in an hour's time at the parade ground in front of the Alexander I High School.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Issue the doctor with his uniform at once, please.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Mortar Regiment headquarters?' shouted a deep bass voice from the pit.

'Can you hear me? No, I said: no ... No, I said ...' came a voice from behind the screen.

Rrring . . . peep, came the bird-like trill from the pit.

'Can you hear me?'

#

' Voice of Liberty, Voice of Liberty! Daily paper - Voice of Liberty!' shouted the newsboys, muffled up past their ears in peasant women's headscarves. 'Defeat of Petlyura! Black troops land in Odessa! Voice of Liberty!'

Turbin was home within the hour. His silver shoulder-straps came out of the dark of the desk drawer in his little study, which led off the sitting-room. White drapes over the glass door on to the balcony, desk with books and ink-well, shelves of medicine bottles and instruments, a couch laid with a clean sheet. It was sparse and cramped, but comfortable.

'Lena my dear, if I'm late for some reason this evening and someone comes, tell them that I'm not seeing anyone today. I've no regular patients at the moment . . . Hurry, child.'

Hastily Elena opened the collar of his service tunic and sewed on the shoulder-straps . . . Then she sewed a second pair, field-service type, green with black stripes, on to his army greatcoat.

A few minutes later Alexei Turbin ran out of the front door and glanced at his white enamel plate:

Doctor A. V. Turbin

Specialist in venereal diseases

606-914

Consulting hours: 4 pm to 6 pm.

He stuck a piece of paper over it, altering the consulting hours to: '5 pm to 7 pm', and strode off up St Alexei's Hill.

'Voice of Liberty!'

Turbin stopped, bought a paper from a newsboy and unfolded it as he went:

THE VOICE OF LIBERTY.

A non-party, democratic newspaper.

Published daily.

December 13th 1918.

The problems of foreign trade and, in particular of trade with Germany, oblige us . . .

'Come on, hurry up! My hands are freezing.'

Our correspondent reports that in Odessa negotiations are in progress for the disembarkation of two divisions of black colonial troops - Consul Enno does not admit that Petlyura ...

'Dammit boy, give me my copy!'

Deserters who reached our headquarters at Post-Volynsk described the increasing breakdown in the ranks of Petlyura's bands. Three days ago a cavalry regiment in the Korosten region opened fire on an infantry regiment of nationalist riflemen. A strong urge for peace is now noticeable in Petlyura's bands. Petlyura's ridiculous enterprise is heading for collapse. According to the same deserter Colonel Bol-botun, who has rebelled against Petlyura, has set off in an unknown direction together with his regiment and four guns. Bolbotun is inclined to support the Hetmanite cause.

The peasants hate Petlyura for his requisitioning policy. The mobilisation, which he has decreed in the villages, is having no success. Masses of peasants are evading it by hiding in the woods.

'Let's suppose . . . damn thiscold . . . Sorry.'

'Hey, quit pushing. Why don't you read your paper at home . ..' 'Sorry.'

We have always stressed that Petlyura's bid for power . . .

'Petlyura - the scoundrel. They're all rogues . . .'

Every honest man and true Volunteers - what about you?

'What's the matter with you today, Ivan Ivanovich?'

'My wife's caught a dose of Petlyura. This morning she did a Bolbotun and left me . . .'

Turbin grimaced at this joke, furiously crumpled up his newspaper and threw it down on the sidewalk. Then he pricked up his ears.

Boo-oom, rumbled the guns, answered by a muffled roar from beyond the City that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth.

'What the hell?'

Alexei Turbin turned sharply on his heel, picked up his scrap of newspaper, smoothed it out and carefully re-read the report on the first page:

In the Irpen region there have been clashes between our patrols and groups of Petlyura's bandits . . .

All quiet in the Serebryansk sector.

No change in the Red Tavern district.

Near Boyarka a regiment of Hetmanite cossacks dispersed a fifteen-hundred strong band. Two men were taken prisoner.

Boo-oo-oom roared the gray winter sky far away to the south west. Suddenly Turbin opened his mouth and turned pale. Mechanically he stuffed the newspaper into his pocket. A crowd of people was slowly moving out of the boulevard and along Vladimirskaya Street. The roadway was full of people in black overcoats . . . Peasant women started filling the sidewalks. A horseman of the Hetman's State Guard rode ahead like an outrider. His large horse laid back its ears, glared wildly, walking sideways. The rider's expression was perplexed. Occasionally he would give a