The Early Ayn Rand

Comrade Fedossitch was signaling his message to the mainland. He crouched by the spotlight, on his knees, pressing it feverishly to his chest, as a precious child which he had to shield from the wind, which he could not let go, clasping it with fingers stiff as pliers. He clawed his chest, trying to warm his fingers, tearing his shirt, without feeling the wind on his naked throat. He laughed. His laughter rolled a long howl of moans and coughs and triumph into the wind, following the streaks of light that flashed as darts shooting straight into the breast of an unseen enemy far away in the darkness.

Makar stood, paralyzed, but for one hand that made quickly, fearfully, the sign of the cross.

The soldiers at the coast guard station knew the code. The white streaks beyond the sea panted slowly, letter by letter:

"C-O-M-M-A-N-D-A-N-T C-O-N-V-I-C-T W-I-F-E E-S-C-A-P-E."

From under eight hoofs eight spurts of snow dust flew up like coils of steam; out of the horses' nostrils steam flew up like spurts of snow dust. The whip in Commandant Kareyev's hand whirled over their heads and sank into the horses' heaving ribs.

Under them the white earth rolled backwards as if streaming like a waterfall down into a precipice under the sleigh. By their side snow and tree stumps melted into a long white belt. Above them huge pines slowly swam past, carried immobile on a speeding ground.

The horses bent into arcs; their fore and hind legs met under their bodies; then they sprang into straight lines, flying over the ground, their legs stretched out, immobile.

Joan's eyes were fixed on the whip that whistled as if in the hand of the executioner on Strastnoy Island; as if beating the darkness ahead. She could feel the speed with her lips, the wind pounding against her teeth. Michael's arm held her tightly, his fingers sinking into her coat.

Through miles of forest, where the pines seemed to close, meeting across the road ahead, and the road, like a white knife cut them apart in its flight; through clearings and plains where the black sky swallowed the white snow into one ball of darkness and the road seemed a gray cloud carrying them over an abyss; over ruts, and snow heaps, and fallen logs they flew through the night, every mile and every hour a victory.

"Are you cold, Joan?"

"Button your collar, Frances. It's open."

When the lights of a village sparkled ahead through the fog of snow dust, Commandant Kareyev turned abruptly and sent the sleigh bumping through narrow side roads. As they flew past they could see, at a distance, the gleaming cross of the church over the low roofs, and the dark flag — red in the daytime — over the house of the village Soviet. Commandant Kareyev did not look at the flag; only his whip bit ferociously into the horses' ribs.

Down the dark village streets, dots of lanterns were hurrying, gathering in twinkling groups, rushing away. A bell was ringing, as a long, tremulous, alarming call.

"Hold on to Joan, Volkontzev! Sharp turn!"

The moon had set and clouds, like a black fog, swam slowly up, swallowing the stars. A light down of snow fluttered lazily.

“Look at that snow, Frances," said Michael. "We won't see any for a long, long time. This is our farewell to Russia."

"This is a farewell," said Kareyev, "for two of us."

"Yes," said Michael, "for two of us."

Ahead of them, a faint white thread, whiter than the snow, cut the sky from the darkness of the earth.

"Tomorrow, at dawn, we'll be far away at sea," said Kareyev, "and the boat will be flying towards a new country for Joan."

"... where she can forget all about Strastnoy Island."

"... and all that brought her to it."

"No matter what the future," said Joan, "I'll never forget some of the past. One of us will need this. I want him to remember it."

"One of us," said Kareyev, "will not need it. The other one may not want it."

Joan's head dropped back. The snow down caught on her eyelashes.

She started with a cry; she jumped up, but the speed of the sleigh threw her down again.

"There... there... look!"

They turned. The snow plain stretched like a gray fog behind them. Through the fog, far down the road they had passed, a black spot rolled toward them. It looked like a beetle with two long legs clawing the snow. But it moved too fast for a beetle.

Commandant Kareyev's whip rose straight up in the air, and the sleigh jerked as it fell.

"That's nothing," he said. "Some peasant going to town."

"He's going pretty fast for a peasant," said Michael.

Kareyev's eyes met his over Joan's head, and Michael understood.

"Nothing to worry about," said Kareyev.

The horses were exhausted. But the reins tensed like wires in Kareyev's hands. They flew faster.

As they flew, two things grew slowly, ominously, running a silent race: the white line ahead and the black spot behind them.

"Don't look at it, Joan!" The whip swished down in Kareyev's hand. "You're making yourself nervous." The whip swished down. "It's nothing. We're faster than they are." The whip swished down. "They can't..."