Then he put the roof back on the little dog-house, knocked the pins back into position, stood erect, and surveyed his work with satisfaction. If Irina's father, old Dekanosov, was right, the people of the Atomnii Gorod should have plenty on their minds by summertime. The Atomic City would be busy trying to survive instead of thinking up weapons to drop on a lot of poor harmless Aleuts and Irishmen, not to mention Americans in general.
Time was getting mighty short. What should he do with the tools?
"The model Socialist worker," said Dugan to himself in Russian, "always takes good care of his tools. He realizes that the Supreme Genius, Stalin, expects the monkey wrenches to be kept out of the pigsty and the electric drills to be removed from the latrine."
He climbed back down to the entrance of Number Eighteen. He felt like a bosomy matriarch with the papers inside the shirt, the groceries between shirt and jacket, the pistol in jacket pocket, and the tools in his arms on front of all the rest. But he put the tools back in the locker where they belonged.
He stood in the doorway, wondering where to go next. He was tempted to follow Number Eighteen tunnel as far as it went. Perhaps he could come out on the other side of the mountain — or perhaps he could raise a little Cain. But, more likely, he would run into a control point and be sent back to his Verwendungskammer, 'Utilization Chamber'. The name was a deterrent. He came out of the tunnel and started climbing up the slope.
A voice hailed him from below, "Who goes there? Stop, or I'll shoot!"
And Dugan heard the sound, more expressive than any Esperanto, of a rifle bolt being shot back into position.
XIV. THE REVOLT OF THE MATERIAL
"Sasha, comrade," said Major Dugan, "just Sasha, splicing another damned wire."
"Sasha who?"