the well-known, or well-connected, subordinate-but Yuri Yurievich would have none of it. He welcomed his son's superior as an anxious-if celebrated-father, interested only in furthering his son's position. Nikolai could not help but be amused; his father was so obvious. Vodka was delivered with the fruit juice and coffee, and Nikolai kept a sharp eye out for dangling cigarettes.
The surprise and delight was the colonel's friend from Moscow, a man named Brunov, a high-ranking party functionary in Military-Industrial Planning. Not only did Brunov and Nikolai's father have mutual friends, it was soon apparent that they shared an irreverent attitude toward much of Moscow's bureaucracy-which encompassed, naturally, many of those mutual friends. The laughter was not long coming, each rebel trying to outdo the other with biting comments about this commissar-with- an-echo-chamber-for-a-head and that economist-who- could-not-keep-a-ruble-in-his-pocket.
"We are wicked, Brunov!" roared Nikolai's father, his eyes alive with laughter.
"Too true, Yurievich!" agreed the man from Moscow. "It's a pity we're so accurate." "But be careful, we're with soldiers. They'll report ust" "Then I shall withhold their payrolls and you'll design a backfiring bomb." Dimitri Yurievich's laughter subsided for a brief moment. "I wish there were no need for the functioning kind." "And I that such large payrolls were not demanded." "Enough," said Yurievich. "The groundskeepers say the hunting here is superb. My son has promised to look out
for me, and I promised to shoot the biggest game. Come now, whatever you lack we have here. Boots, furs vodka." "Not while firing, father." "By God, you have taught him something," said Yurievich, smiling at the colonel. "'Incidentally, gentlemen, I won't hear of you leaving today.
You'll stay the night, of course. Moscow is generous; there are roasts and fresh vegetables from Lenin-knows-where.
"And flasks of vodka, I trust." "Not flasks, Brunov. Casks! I see it in your eyes. WeT both be on holiday. You'll stay." "I'll stay," said the man from Moscow.
Gunshots rang through the forest, vibrating in the ears. Nor were they lost on the winter birds; screeches and the snapping of wings formed a rolling coda to the echoes. Nikolai could hear excited voices as well, but they were too far away to be understandable. He turned to his father.
"We should hear the whistle within sixty seconds if they hit something," he said, his rifle angled down at the snow.
"It's an outrage!" replied Yurievich in mock anger. "The groundskeepers swore to me-on the side, mind youthat all the game was in this section of the woods. Near the lake. There was nothing over there! It's why I insisted they go there..." "You're an old scoundrel," said the son, studying his father's weapon.
"Your safety's released. Why?" "I thought I heard a rustle back there. I wanted to be ready." "With respect, my father, please put it back on. Wait until your sight matches the sound you hear before you release it." "With respect, my soldier, then there'd be too much to do at once." Yurievich saw the concern in his son's eyes. "On second thought, you're probably right. I'd faU and cause a detonation. That's something I know about." "Thank you," said the lieutenant, suddenly turning. His father was right; there was something rustling behind them. A crack of a limb, the snap of a branch. He released the safety on his weapon.
"What is it?" asked Dimitri Yurievich, excitement in his eyes.
"Shh," whispered Nikolai. peering into the shaggy corridors of white surrounding them.
He saw nothing. He snapped the safety into its locked position.
"You heard it, too, then?" asked Dimitri. "It wasn't just this pair of fifty-five-year-old ears." "The snow's heavy," suggested his son. "Branches break under its weight.
That's what we heard." "Well, one thing we didn't hear," said Yurievich, "was a whistle. They didn't hit a damn thing!" Three more distant gun shots rang out.
"They've seen something," said the lieutenant. "Perhaps now we'll hear their whistle...." Suddenly they heard it. A sound. But it was not a whistle. It was, instead, a panicked, elongated scream, faint but distinct. Distinctly a terrible scream. It was followed by another, more hysterical.
"My God, what happened?" Yurievich grabbed his son's arm.
"I don't --- ' The reply was cut off by a third scream, searing and terrible.
"Stay here!" yelled the lieutenant to his father. "I'll go to them." "I'll follow," said Yurievich. "Go quickly, but be careful!" Nikolai raced through the snow toward the source of the screams. They filled the woods now, less shrill, but more painful for the loss of power. The soldier used his rifle to crash