When he stood erect and turned around, the gun was closer. "You're a brave man," said the Cossack.
Dugan smiled, "You mean, putting Hundeshausen to bed? Anyone could have done it."
"You are not Russian," said the Cossack.
"No, of course not," said Dugan simply.
The Cossack looked him up and down. "You go first, gospodin," he said, using the old Czarist word for sir. "We'll talk in my room. And then we'll telephone from there. I think."
Dugan obeyed. When he reached the door, the Cossack said, "Left."
Dugan went to the left down the corridor. He was thinking that he did not even know that the man was a Cossack. He had just labeled him that at first glance. It was mighty little to go on — a towel around his middle, a strange tunnel in Atomsk, and the most precious military information in the world tucked away inside his head. It was a matter of duty, as well as pleasure, to get that head back to Tokyo now. He wanted to start talking with the Cossack; talking would get him out of anything — almost. But the man behind did not even commit the elementary mistake of putting his gun muzzle against Dugan's back, so that Dugan could estimate his position. All he did was to march along very quietly.
Pale dim-red bulbs illuminated each thirty-odd feet of the corridor. So far as Dugan could see, the corridor extended indefinitely forward in a very slight curve. He began trying to make up a sketch map of the dormitory corridor in relation to the hill outside, but again he found weariness creeping up on him. He swayed against the corridor wall and had to put out a hand to right himself.
"Easy now," said the pursuer. "Nothing suspicious or you get it in the back."
"Yes, comrade," said Dugan, "but I—"