There is something in this January Siberian landscape that overpowers, oppresses, stuns. Above all, it is its enormity, its boundlessness, its oceanic limitlessness. The earth has no end here; the world has no end. Man is no created for such measureless. For him a comfortable, palpable, serviceable measure is the measure of his village, his field, street, house. At sea, the size of the ship's deck will be such a measure. Man is created for the kind of space that he can traverse at one try, with a single effort.

The White Hand did not fry all the brain. He fried somefrom the right hemisphere and some from the left. Theremaining brain, The White Hand wrapped in tin foil,carefully. Tomorrow is, after all, another day, and food should be keptin storage so it won’t go bad.