Now everything is clear to me. The peculiar feeling inside is a result of that very same square situation of which I spoke in the beginning. There is no X in me. There can be none. I am simply afraid lest some X will be left in you, my unknown readers. I believe you will understand that it is harder for me to write than it ever was for any author throughout human history. Some of them wrote for contemporaries, some for the future generations but none of them ever wrote for their ancestors, or beings like their primitive, distant ancestors. RECORD SIX An Accident The Cursed "It's Clear" Twenty-four Hours I must repeat, I made it my duty to write concealing nothing. Therefore I must point out now that sad as it may be, the process of hardening and crystallization of life has evidently not been completed even here in our State. A few steps remain to be made before we reach the ideal. The ideal (it's clear), is to be found where nothing _happens_, but here.... I will give you an example: in the State paper I read that in two days the holiday of Justice will be celebrated on the Plaza of the Cube. This means that again some Number has impeded the smooth run of the great State machine. Again something that was not foreseen, or forecalculated _happened_. Besides, something _happened_ to me. True, it occurred during the personal hour, that is during the time specifically assigned to unforeseen circumstances, yet.... At about sixteen (to be exact, ten minutes to sixteen), I was at home. Suddenly the telephone: "D-503?"--a woman's voice. "Yes." "Are you free?" "Yes." "It is I, I-330. I shall run over to you immediately. We shall go together to the Ancient House. Agreed?" I-330!... This I- irritates me, repels me. She almost frightens me; but just because of that I answered, "Yes." In five minutes we were in an aero. Blue sky of May. The light sun in its golden aero buzzed behind us without catching up and without lagging behind. Ahead of us a white cataract of a cloud. Yes, a white cataract of a cloud nonsensically fluffy like the cheeks of an ancient cupid. That cloud was disturbing. The front window was open; it was windy; lips were dry. Against one's will one passed the tongue constantly over them and thought about lips. Already we saw in the distance the hazy green spots on the other side of the Wall. Then a slight involuntary sinking of the heart, down--down--down, as if from a steep mountain, and we were at the Ancient House. That strange, delicate, blind establishment is covered all around with a glass shell, otherwise it would undoubtedly have fallen to pieces long ago. At the glass door we found an old woman all wrinkles, especially her mouth which was all made up of folds and pleats. Her lips had disappeared, having folded inward; her mouth seemed grown together. It seemed incredible that she should be able to talk and yet she did: "Well, dear, come again to see my little house?"