clatter of an opening door.

Hands flying to his chest, Nekabov gasped: 'Oh, my! Medvelov, you frightened me!'

'Why should there be uneasiness?' repeated the poet.

'We're concerned about The Major's imbroglio,' Iliosovy said, all grave-like and squinty-eyed.

'Comrade author, are you concerned?' Medvelov asked as he sauntered next to me.

I handed the ladle to Zupricka and said, 'Not in the least.'

'Nonsense!' Iliosovy exclaimed. 'Our comrade author confessed an inability to concentrate on writing.'

'No, I remarked the darning of ideas has waylaid me,' said meself. 'It be the unfortunate writer's block, Comrade Medvelov. No doubt you can testify.'

Medvelov nodded his head and then said, 'Aye, I'm mired in a stretch. And not a word, Nekabov. You'll get poems when I have poems to send.'

Replied the editor: 'Not a word? Sir, I'll speakstated, all jovial-like.

I entertained a piercing, stomach-churning thought-

( _The Major wouldn't listen to reason, thus Medvelov ended the stubborn old solider!_ )

-yet nodded my head as if pulled by a string.

Behold: the shrewd poet knew I wouldn't voice trepidation; he knew I'd acquiesce with a weary smile; he knew many things...

He knew my eyes focused on Nekabov's glass of wine; he knew I wanted nothing more than a teeny sip because I felt a mite uneasy...

Medvelov knew...

'What can go awry?' hisself posed in the same cheerful voice. 'Besides, I wouldn't risk my neck if success appeared nil.'

'Your neck isn't the only neck at risk,' Nekabov said.

The poet released me and grabbed the bottle of port from the table. 'Nekabov, if you don't feel comfortable, there is another way