Gradually now, over the weakening radio, came back the sounds which were to be the last pleasure of Pyotr Diavilev's life. Rage first, and a vast incoherence, and then Krylov began to change in an ugly, despairing, dirty way, whimpering, and all Diavilev could understand was: "... my idea, it was my idea!"
But now Diavilev could not listen, because the moon was falling and there was very little time. An end in fire, the little man thought, a blessed quick end as I hit the air. He shouted, trying to make himself heard.
"We are both dying, army man. Soldier boy, my captain, do you know where the moon will fall?"
Krylov knew. He went mad.
"Watch me go!" and now Diavilev was laughing, "take your seat of honor and watch me all the way. Here I go, Krylov, watch me! Watch your world!"
He stopped, out of breath, to hang on, while the moon fell away beneath him, faster, faster, and the stars began to whirl, and a poetic end, he thought, a lovely end, let there be an end. And eventually the end came and Diavilev was dust, and his dust mingled evenly with the fire-blasted soil of Russia.