“Listen, stop that,” Artiom asked with a smile, feeling, to his surprise, that he was blushing. “I didn’t do it on purpose…”
“Very well, very well,” quickly agreed Mezernitskii and searched with his eyes, looking for someone else to use as an example — Vladychka John didn’t really fit. Grakov — not him either. Vasilii Petrovich… alas.
The example appeared, as though they had ordered him off a menu.
Artiom immediately remembered who he was and his name — Shlabukovskii, an actor. The one who had been lying in the infirmary with a fever and who had explained to Artiom that for days they had been giving Artiom a thermometer with someone else’s readings. Or rather, with Shlabukovskii’s readings…
But he was a different man now! First of all, he was in black gloves with white piping. Secondly
