UNDERGROUND

117

Dasha squealed, watching how the horse's face of Sister Feofaniya's face wrinkled in an attempt to outshout her, how it twisted in pain under the onslaught of the auditory cannon, and how, finally, retreating, it merges with the rest of the dullness. Dasha stopped screaming and lay down on the bed. If everyone is insane, why shouldn't she be insane too? Katya lay head to her on the next bed.

“Let's stick together,” she said.

“You were right,” Dasha said softly, looking at the glass wall – up there, some important people in dressing gowns walked along the thin iron bridge and looked down at them. Like a delegation on a livestock farm.

- What are the rights?

We died and went to hell.

Dasha noticed that one of the members of the delegation - a stout, short man in a suit that looked like a dictatorial jacket or a Japanese kimono - stopped and, clutching the railing, looked straight at her through the dirty glass.

Looking closer, Dasha realized that he was looking not at her, but a little