Gradually now, over the weakening radio, came back the sounds which were to be the last pleasure of Pyotr Diavilev's life. Rage first, and a vast incoherence, and then Krylov began to change in an ugly, despairing, dirty way, whimpering, and all Diavilev could understand was: "... _my idea, it was my idea!_" But now Diavilev could not listen, because the moon was falling and there was very little time. An end in fire, the little man thought, a blessed quick end as I hit the air. He shouted, trying to make himself heard. "We are both dying, army man. Soldier boy, my captain, _do you know where the moon will fall_?" Krylov knew. He went mad. "Watch me go!" and now Diavilev was laughing, "take your seat of honor and watch me all the way. Here I go, Krylov, watch me! Watch your world!" He stopped, out of breath, to hang on, while the moon fell away beneath him, faster, faster, and the stars began to whirl, and a poetic end, he thought, a lovely end, let there be an end. And eventually the end came and Diavilev was dust, and his dust mingled evenly with the fire-blasted soil of Russia.