The thundering thing came nearer, taunting the discredited pilot on the bench. “You, there,” it roared, “you can never fly again.”
Vladimir rose unsteadily to his feet. No—he could never fly again.
Suddenly he buried his head in his coat, and cried. An old derelict shuffling up looked at him anxiously.
“Are you sick?” the stranger quavered at Vladimir.
Vladimir looked back quickly.
“No, no,” he coughed, clearing his throat. “I am not sick. Not sick.”
No—he could never fly again. “Are you sick?” the stranger quavered.
The derelict hurried on. The metal bird had faded in the gray sky. One could hear only a thin, persistent thrumming. Vladimir put his hands to his ears.
He walked out of the park, through the rectangular streets that seemed to squeeze him like a giant maw. He paused at a dim Weinstube, hesitated and then entered. The plump barmaid brought him a vodka. He looked at it, and then at her. She edged away. His eyes frightened her.