Then he thought, a little confusedly, about Burtsev, Passport, even about Gills. Then, remembering how pitiful Gills had become, how stupid with his stitched-up fish-face, he laughed aloud.
But his own laughter made him sick — that unnecessary and now-impossible smile on his face forced him to return to that which needed to be understood: “They’re going to make me an informant. Or they’ll kill me in the brigade. How am I going to get out of this? How? Maybe everything will work out again?”
But to himself, he answered, “Tonight, the gangsters will cut you into little pieces. Yep, it’ll all work out…”
His weak human judgment offered him a solution: go back to Galina, sign everything and ask to be immediately moved into a different brigade.
With one half of his mind, Artiom tried to convi
