"Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs ("Роковые яйца")" - читать интересную книгу автора

Instead of replying Feight shielded himself with his hands again, his
eyes radiating horror.
"Alright then," decided Shukin. "You're really not in a fit state... I
can see that. There's an express train leaving shortly, you can go on it."
While the station watchman helped Alexander Semyonovich, whose teeth
were chattering on the battered blue mug, to have a drink of water, Shukin
and Polaitis conferred together. Polaitis took the view that nothing had
happened. But that Feight was mentally ill and it had all been a terrible,
hallucination. Shukin, however, was inclined to believe that a boa
constrictor had escaped from the circus on tour in the town of Grachevka.
The sound of their doubting whispers made Feight rise to his feet. He had
recovered somewhat and said, raising his hands like an Old Testament
prophet:
"Listen to me. Listen. Why don't you believe me? I saw it. Where is my
wife?"
Shukin went silent and serious and immediately sent off a telegram to
Grachevka. On Shukin's instructions, a third agent began to stick closely to
Alexander Semyonovich and was to accompany him to Moscow. Shukin and
Polaitis got ready for the journey. They only had one electric revolver, but
it was good protection. A 1927 model, the pride of French technology for
shooting at close range, could kill at a mere hundred paces, but had a range
of two metres in diameter and within this range any living thing was
exterminated outright. It was very hard to miss. Shukin put on this shiny
electric toy, while Polaitis armed himself with an ordinary light
machine-gun, then they took some ammunition and raced off on the motorbike
along the main road through the early morning dew and chill to the state
farm. The motorbike covered the twelve miles between the station and the
farm in a quarter of an hour (Feight had walked all night, occasionally
hiding in the grass by the wayside in spasms of mortal terror), and when the
sun began to get hot, the sugar palace with columns appeared amid the trees
on the hill overlooking the winding River Top. There was a deathly silence
all around. At the beginning of the turning up to the state farm the agents
overtook a peasant on a cart. He was riding along at a leisurely pace with a
load of sacks, and was soon left far behind. The motorbike drove over the
bridge, and Polaitis sounded the horn to announce their arrival. But this
elicited no response whatsoever, except from some distant frenzied dogs in
Kontsovka. The motorbike slowed down as it approached the gates with
verdigris lions. Covered with dust, the agents in yellow gaiters dismounted,
padlocked their motorbike to the iron railings and went into the yard. The
silence was eery.
"Hey, anybody around?" shouted Shukin loudly.
But no one answered his deep voice. The agents walked round the yard,
growing more and more mystified. Polaitis was scowling. Shukin began to
search seriously, his fair eyebrows knit in a frown. They looked through an
open window into the kitchen and saw that it was empty, but the floor was
covered with broken bits of white china.
"Something really has happened to them, you know. I can see it now.
Some catastrophe," Polaitis said.
"Anybody there? Hey!" shouted Shukin, but the only reply was an echo
from the kitchen vaults. "The devil only knows! It couldn't have gobbled