Nesace

Konstantin Yuon “New Planet”

The wandering star, turning on its four luminaries, as if on wheels, bent down, and Nesace, lying in the shallow estuary that had warmed up during the day, as if in a bath, slid down to the shore, where the water rushed, splashed onto the coastal bushes, then returned back, passing by a wave, having doused Nesace with splashes, swayed a little more and calmed down, leveling off at the banks. The four suns radiated their eternal music across the blue sky. Nesace soaked himself a little more, and then got up and went out to the sandy shore, where the plant smells were stronger. Drops streamed down Nesace's tanned body, running down the valley between his tight breasts, around his thin waist, falling from hardened nipples in a pink halo and from the bud-shaped elongated tip of a heated dick, and from his fingertips down to bright fragrant flowers. Slipping between the spreading shaggy bushes, Nesace found himself on the seaside, wet as after rain, lined with countless white shells. Living souls floated away, throwing off their dead shell, not worrying at all about its fate. Trampling death with his feet and crunching in his step, Nesace reached the surf. The star quickly straightened its path; the sea was no more agitated than yesterday and the day before, it made a pleasant noise and foam. The breeze quickly dried Nesace's skin as he walked thoughtfully along the sea under a clear sky. Clouds were gathering far on the horizon, which hotly outlined a green valley with gardens, vineyards, houses and a temple, and a green sea with ships.

Nesace's reflections on the personal and public

I may not be a child anymore. I am aware, of course, of the need for each of us to improve. Besides, it's good to improve. All this, I repeat, I know from our very social life. But when it comes to improvement not in an abstract sense, but with a specific person, I can’t find anything better than resorting to the spontaneity of a child. Perhaps you will tell me: “You may not be a poet, but you have to be a citizen.” And I may very well read the counting rhyme out loud to you. After all, how do we assign citizens to work? According to the need of society to perform this or that work. And this necessity, of course, is something serious. Our very society depends on getting work done. But for the person who does this work, seriousness does not always add joy. A joyful person is what we should put at the forefront of all our efforts. Therefore, as you wish, I am reading you a counting rhyme. Nesace left the surf, crossed a sparsely populated beach and followed a path between bushes and trees to his house. It was as if it had rained here, everything was so damp. All the leaves in the garden glistened with moisture. Ligeia was sitting on the bench. She stood up when she saw Nesace. “Good morning, Ligeia!” “Hello, Nesace!” Nesace suddenly became timid. According to the established order, today they entered into slavery for him, just as he himself regularly became a slave of citizens. But Ligeia was a well-known social activist, and Nesace could not find the words to give the necessary orders. He blushed and looked confused. Apparently, Ligeia was used to such cases, because she politely took the initiative: “I see your garden is quite beautiful. So poetic, just Gulistan. And the trees are tastefully chosen, straight, slender, flexible.” She ran her eyes over Nesace’s naked figure. “I love grapes very much, I’ll tell you a secret. So, perhaps, I have never seen such tight bunches as yours; Such round tempting fruits.” Ligeia glanced at Nesace's breasts and continued: “How is it usually with us? Fruits separately, a carrot separately. You manage to combine both beautifully. This is how you are walking through the garden, stroking the flowers with your hand, and suddenly you come across a powerful, gnarled trunk, whose twists of bark are mesmerizing, awakening your imagination, as if a red lighthouse is rising before you in the night.” Ligeia lowered her eyes, Nesace did the same and was convinced that his dick was erect and, rhythmically rubbing and stroking his belly, shining with its red head. He was completely confused. “Will you allow it?” Ligeia asked politely, touching his dick with her fingers. “Moo,” Nesace mooed, his whole body trembling sweetly. “Yes. Rather yes than no.” “Than a blowjob?” Ligeia repeated absently, squatting down in front of the trembling Nesace. “What could be better than a blowjob! Early in the morning in the poet's garden.” She herself, licking the dick, which was salty from the sea water, mooed with pleasure. She ordered Nesace to sit on the bench, hastily took off her work clothes and, bending over, sat on the dick with her wet cunt. After that, both, facing the rosary, inhaled the aroma of roses for a long time, breathing deeply in search of the best pairing and slowly going crazy from rolling blissful waves, to the ninth wave, until nature sent both into sweet oblivion, and they fell on a bench like shot sparrows. “Nesace, I didn't expect to get acquainted with your work so close.“ Ligeia was smiling. She pleasantly went over Nesace's black locks and asked him about the household. Immediately quickly found out what work could be done in the couple of hours that were allocated to slavery. Nesace was overjoyed to agree; he went to make breakfast. Ligeia refused, commanded robots, controversially leveling the overgrown grapes. It was noticeable that she liked working in the garden, maybe even more than working as a social activist. Nesace was glad that everything was so happily settled. He, wearing a dress and apron, nevertheless set the table in the garden, and Ligeia, indeed, after work, drank tea with him. The conversation did not last long: Ligeia was waiting for her usual public duties. Nesace walked her to the path, thanking her warmly. Ligeia walked down the alley; the tops of the trees closed in the high. The birds sang pleasantly. Ligeia was in a hurry to work in society, but suddenly, listening to her heart, waving her hand, turned onto the side road and quickly reached the monument, walked around it and, finding a shadow, dropped into a chair. The not by hands built monument grew out of a quiet inconspicuous melody, barely audible against the background of the constant music of four suns. The melodic key beat quietly, barely oscillating the mirror surface, but it already reflected watergirls in bright clothes, and their maiden voices were already heard. It was a Russian chant. Jump - and laughing elegant young men hit the ringing dance, bending over from above, grabbing the girls, attracting them to themselves. The sweat with the pheromones sprang up cheerfully. Chant overtook them, rushing into heaven, becoming louder, capturing new songs of different peoples; they swirled motley, waving their hands, curling and parting, pregnant and giving birth, attracting plants and animals, fish and minerals, hydrocarbons and birds. This bright pillar, twisting, proudly went up, covered with ornaments of glory, honor and measure, surrounded by a cloud of pleasant aromas, mists and nebulae. It shook rhythmically, like a dick, touched others, giving its warm, blood-saturated, velvety flesh. This monument for the society was erected by Nesace. Ligeia sighed and stood up. It was obvious to her that the monument was very important for society, and yet she would have imagined its author a little differently. More mature; more responsible and confident. More courageous. Well! after all, she can't deal with all areas equally well. Let Nesace's work be partly a mystery to her. She smiled and resorted to acceleration. After a certain period, Ligeia noticed among her usual course of life that a citizen began to follow her, he was silent and looked confidently at her. She realized, accepted him, taking care of him. It was time, and the silent man came out into the world. He turned out to be a dreamer who could make his dreams come true. They spent time with the whole family constantly, Angelo, Ligeia and Nesace, when Nesace returned from travel. He became a traveler on that very day of swaying roses. After seeing Ligeia off, Nesace walked around the garden. He really liked that his slave understood his tastes and equalized the garden in the way he himself would have done. Nesace was still in the garden when the letter came to him. He turned around and immediately smelled sealing wax. On the envelope it was written that the letter came from the city. Nesace opened the envelope, smelled the ink and the paper itself. The chief's voice sounded, affable, but the words themselves excited Nesace. He peered at the head's face, then saw the route of the star, which recently made a turn at the star cluster. Before him there were messages received from there. They were strange stories. The fruit of a completely sound, albeit fiery mind, they did not fit into the usual rules, did not recognize the circumstances, did not flatter the hearing. Nesace preoccupied with changing into a road tights with high necklines reaching up to the waist, and quickly went to the temple. The service in the temple was in full swing. There were citizens everywhere. Priests on the heights and in the most prominent places solemnly flashed their golden robes. The music of the four suns intensified in the temple building. Nesace decisively stepped into the middle of the aisle. The whole society looked at him, as men, women, and thirdmen. The chief priest called Nesace to him, he climbed the steps, and both, opening the door in the partition, disappeared into the altar. "You know what awaits you, don’t you?" the priest asked. "You're a thirdman, aren’t you? Not everyone is coming back from there.“ "I am ready to benefit society.“ "Go, comrade.“ The priest hung a device around Nesace's neck, led Nesace to the altar and turned on the transition. The altar flared up, then went out without Nesace. Nesace, finding himself on the planet of messages, saw a deserted road in front of him. Grass made its way into the cracks. Trees grew, but there was not a soul. It was noon, but behind the light clouds you could not see how many suns. Nesace walked down the road. No self-propelled wagons. The grass on the sidelines looked very bright and very detailed. As if each blade of grass came before the soul in anticipation of recognition of its beauty. Nesace listened to his feelings. He was not scared, rather, he owned curiosity. But at the same time he felt sadness; this sadness seemed to replace the lack of familiar music emitted by the luminaries. Nesace decided that he would not defend himself, but would perceive this world with all its details. It was pleasant to walk on the road; occasionally stops met, and Nesace thought that, maybe, also buildings will appear. Wind rustled in foliage. The grief tested Nesace in this place was light. The grief was connected with time, with change of time. Nesace suddenly understood that time means to local places much. Time changes here, and together with time the person changes, and these changes also cause grief. At last the house seemed. It looked quite unusually, made of concrete slabs, white, very high, nine floors, and all inhabited. But windows were empty. Nobody entered a door and left though it also wasn't locked. Nesace sat down on a bench. The touch of his naked buttocks to warm wooden levels became the first touch to this world, except for soles and heels of his road boots. The bench was surrounded by bushes, they blossomed and smelled sweet as if trying to improve an impression about the house as if the house, unsociable for the any reasons, didn't wish to upset people around, and therefore used the Arab spirits. Nesace wanted to hear a sound of steps, at least own, and he rose, having gone to a door. He serially cleaned the soles, driving them back and forth on the scraper making a bottom side in a metal frame digged at an entrance. The wooden door with glass windows deafly killed. It was pleasant to Nesace to hear the sounds expressing similarity of habitability, and he climbed narrow solid concrete stairs on the second floor. Doors of apartments were closed. Through windows the stairs were lit with pleasant bright light squares. On the ninth floor it was possible to get on the attic. On the attic the ceiling was low, Nesace had to bend down. The ruffled-up pigeons sat. They cooed, splashed wings and edified then one, that other orange eye. Nesace rose by a roof. From this island the worrying sea of foliage from which the three-storyed and four-storeyed plastered rocks with a duo-pitch roof made the way, white nine-story islands opened, the obligatory triangular cape of the power was seen, kinder gardens and fruit gardens brightly foamed, on the horizon continents of the glazed factories and the plants with the high snow-white mountain of combined heat and power plant and a hilly ridge of an elevator towered. Nesace dived on the stairs again, having decided that he will explore the unfamiliar city one after another, creating itself idea of each type of buildings. The lovely asphalt path, along which wild rose bushes grew, smelled sweet. Nesace rounded the house and saw that in the quarter formed by houses there is a garden. He comfortably settled down in the middle of the big yard. Behind a fence, made of wooden levels in the form of the alternating rhombuses leaning on tetrahedral columns from a white brick, apple-trees blossomed, and levels were recently painted with green oil paint because exuded a smell too. From this nest children's voices were distributed. They like birds filled air, were pleasantly carried on the deserted yard. The iron gate tinkled; before Nesace, between gazebos, a swing and sandboxes, and pink clouds of a wild rose there was a two-storeyed building. The wooden frame on the second floor was turned on the axis. The smell of the cooking vegetables and the fried fish streamed. The tin roof sparkled. Nesace raised the head — in this world only one sun shone. Nesace went outside again. No person, strange world of the misanthrope. Or, maybe, he isn't a misanthrope, and just an absent-minded man from the Pooling Road, 10? Doesn't notice people, is plunged into own deep reflections. Behind the next five-story house, which formed by itself the street, there was a fence behind which bushes grew at equal ranks and trees blossomed in a row too. There were even beds with tiny sprouts, and in the depth of a garden the greenhouse sparkled all the small windows. Gate were open, and Nesace entered the school yard. In front the school building was decorated with a mosaic. Multi-colored smalt sparkled and shone, representing peasants, workers, engineers and the astronaut flying over them with a red tag on a sleeve. Suddenly the call rang out. Nesace didn't wait that now from doors the crowd of children will jump, and therefore sat down on a bench at a wild rose to think what experiments to make for a research of this world. He leaned back on wooden sitting, crossed the legs and covered eyes. We will assume, I will start time on the device, he argued. Having installed the device with time in any given quarter, or in several quarters at the same time, I will begin to perform inspection of the area at regular intervals to reveal changes in space. Something has to change in this world. But what I will achieve? Let’s pretend the availability of changes. And! Here that! It is possible to determine the frequency of these changes. There is a probability that this world is only repetition of the same literary work of that author whose signals we also received in this constellation. And if I calculate the beginning and the end of this work, then… Steps entered his thoughts. Nesace opened eyes not at once as didn't trust in a possibility of a meeting in the city inhabited by ghosts only. In an aperture of gate the slim boyish silhouette flashed. The swarty teenager with a black hairstyle dressed in a short blue jacket and the orange fitting trousers which were coming to an end on a third of a hip went quickly along the street, clinking high heels of shoes, with the face directed somewhere to its end. Nesace jumped up and ran to gate. The street was empty, the breeze moved with leaves on trees, on Nesace's shoulder pink fragrant petals landed. “Hey! Human!“ he shouted, rounded quickly the fence and looked round. Anywhere not a soul. Nesace postponed the conceived time experiments and just bypassed the yards, next to school, in search of the teenager seen by him. Circulations were vain, Nesace was tired and got hungry. Having seen the sign "Restaurant", he opened a transparent door and passed to the empty hall filled with tables and chairs. It is advisable to go on kitchen at once and to watch what here it is possible to cook for himself for lunch, the thought flashed by him. Suddenly behind the bluff crack with hoarseness was distributed: “What will you order?“ Nesace turned around surprised. The waitress in black tights and a black not especially long dress held a notebook and a pencil in hand. On her there was a white apron with lace. He was silent, inspecting her then from top to down, then from below up. It is necessary to pull yourself together, Nesace solved. Perhaps, it is right that teenager whom I look for. He may turned to restaurant, changed clothes and now he works at his workplace. And where are then the others? And where are the cooks? Well. “You know, I am an ordinary person. I eat usual food, I don't like to complicate fellow citizens. Vegetables whether you know.“ “Then take a complex lunch,“ the waitress said. She seemed to be making an effort to look more serious and more senior; she even spoke a deep voice. Nesace nodded and sat down at a window. The waitress left. Nesace absent-mindedly has a look in the device, then teased a bumblebee, having knocked with a nail on his side of a glass. The bumblebee slowly turned round and round and flew away. And what if this work is just still being written? Nesace jumped up for horror, quickly walked to the end of the hall and back. He turned pale, armpits became wet, the stomach froze, and the prostate sweet clenched for fear. This is a trap! Nobody knows what will occur during the next moment of this artful world! How it is possible to exist in such conditions? No confidence in tomorrow. Quickly back on the sky! Nesace feverishly seized the device. “Where your order shall be served?“ the recent voice was distributed suddenly. Nesace turned back, having shuddered. The waitress held a red plate in intense hands. And why the teenager isn't afraid, Nesace thought, pretending that he left table to warm up, on industrial gymnastics. He made couple of inclinations in the parties, having put hands on a belt, then spoke, deeply breathing: “Ah, the lunch is already ready? Let’s do it here.“ The adolescent bent and put borsch on a table. Nesace took a heavy spoon and began to eat. Transition of beet from a plate in his mouth made on him the calming action. Soon Nesace got drunk, in a stomach it became warm and pleasant from satiety. When the adolescent in a dress of the waitress took out the second course, he was surprised how the guest's eyes changed: they became oil, were narrowed with happiness, their burning addressed inside. It added to the teenager of courage. Though the stranger was in appearance about five-six years older, but behaved strange, and the boy preferred to hide when he on the street was called recently by an unearthly voice. Now that, having slumped at the table as if he was accustomed, became closer. The waitress suddenly reddened: "That’s because of me! It’s I who feed and tame him!" Nesace cut the chop fried with a yolk and thought that it is not bad to live in this world, in fact. The boy waitress brought him a glass with compote. In pink fragrant liquid fruits floated invitingly. “Wait a minute“, happy Nesace told. “What is your name?“ “Angela“, the adolescent answered. Far on a star Ligeia shuddered and turned back. “Angelochka, I’d like dessert.“ “Ah, well, it’s in a cafeteria below. We have only lunch dishes." Nesace silently looked at angular knees of the teenager. Suddenly his look began to sparkle and he began a joke which Angela rather picked up, enjoying the established intimacy and ease but regretted soon that she stucked so deeply. “Well! It can't be helped! Since there is no dessert, kid, you should go to me to sweet.“ “In what else sense?“ Angela began to imagine read in her recent childhood fairy tales about the baba-yaga putting children in the furnace. “Be not afraid, I have no intention at all!“ Nesace burst out laughing and removed plates. “Climb up on a table.“ The boy puzzly looked then at a table, then on Nesace and suddenly noticed that under that frivolous feminine outfit a dick inevitably increases and moves. This circumstance reconciled Angela with the developed situation, and she, having bypassed a table, climbed and knelt on it, looking from above on Nesace. He extanded overjoyed his hand under her hem and stroked interface of legs to a body. Red Angela understood that her winkie strained too. “Ah, how sweet,“ Nesace kept saying and stroke and stroke, lifting up a uniform dress. As if wind lifted and overturned foliage inside out on a thin tree. Angela trembled with shame, knelt in the middle of a dining table with the lifted-up dress and tights lowered to knees. Nesace meanwhile ordered to the boy to hold a hem, and pulled down his panties and admired the filigree weenie which opened to his look ticking rhythmic on a white stomach. “So," tipsy Nesace told. “Now turn and bend down. But closer to me. It is time to start to my meal.“ Terribly confused Angela turned to Nesace by her bottom and laid down a breast on a cloth. She had not to do such things before men yet. Nesace grasped both charming rotundities in his palms at once, began to kiss velvety skin. Angela felt languor, her hole trembled and began to be preparing for a meeting. She felt hot breath right in the middle of her layout which she so liked to offer the courageous friends. Suddenly the tip something hot and slippery touched her treasured ringlet. She squealed and bent over. “Is this your tongue you’re touching me?“ Angela moaned. Sweet sliding stopped, and Angela regretted that she is so curious not in time. “Yes sir“, answered, smiling, Nesace. “I taste my dessert. Very tasty, baby!“ He peeled his pinkie off and carefully and slowly, catching a rhythm, unbent it back, began to suck. Angela felt that she got on the hill and rushed on the sledge down. She closed eyes and seized snow-white cloth with her fingers not to fall. Nesace slowly settled accounts with his new dish, helping himself by hands. He then licked to the boy a bottom, jerking off his wet winkie gently, then sucked winkie inserting into a bottom serially one or two fingers. If the adolescent exhausted absolutely, Nesace sucked round a scrotum and kissed all the dessert he got, expecting when Angelka recovers and will be able to sustain the main sucking and licking again. The adolescent endured painful and sweet waves, patiently perceiving the torture arranged to him with Nesace who indulged the boy without allowing him to cum. Then Nesace began to overcome drowsiness, he got drunk absolutely and could not restrain yet himself as clapped too sweet with his tongue on sweet boyish peeled off winkiehead and pressed too deeply with fingers a prostate in his bottom. Rubicon was overcome, return is impossible. Angela, who for a long time put out tongue from sweet exhaustion and who dripped saliva all cloth, moaned especially loudly a thin voice and began to cum, splashing as an obedient cow calf. Nesace quickly held up a mouth and drank the long-awaited dessert, examining squinting the last year's carved leaf which stuck to a sole of the left Angelka’s shoe. He pulled together Angela from a table, put to himself on knees. Angela drowsily embraced him for a neck, nestled, having kissed on a cheek, and both of them dozed off. “Hey, angel! Wake up! Wake up, well please,“ boyish whisper directly in an ear woke Nesace. Nesace opened eyes: all hall of restaurant was filled by noisy crowd. All ate, drank, talked loudly and laughed. Angela already jumped and collected ware from the table. Nesace looked back, being surprised where on this planet so many people did come from. Angela with plates escaped, she darted glances on Nesace and turned pink. Then she grandly left and went between tables, writing down orders together with other waitresses. Nesace looked at everything through pink glasses; the world turned pink from Angela. Nesace after all rose and went to kitchen, thinking to talk to the sweet boy or to agree with such conversation. The door in a wash was open, in a huge sink there were high piles of plates, and the mountain of forks and spoons. Waitresses continually brought after-lunch ware. Nobody was in the wash. Nesace entered, found an apron, dressed it, turned on water and began to wash plates. He happily whistled, shook up foam, but as a quickly he worked, he did not manage to exempt a sink from ware completely, because girls flew to him with all new and new devices from the hall. There passed much more time which was usually allowed for slavery in Nesace's world. It darkened in a window. In the night sky, stars appeared. Nesace tinkled the last tea spoon, washed his face and turned off water. In silence Angela entered: “Here you are! Let’s go better home! I carried out your order according to the internal price list, you don’t have to pay.“ She had on tight short orange trousers again. It was stuffy and still warm outside. Nesace felt in his body pleasant fatigue, and in his soul he felt satisfaction from socially useful work. There, it turns out, there are money by them here. After his communism it was unusual. Lamps didn't light the street completely, besides bushes towered everywhere. Everywhere there was a shadow, and Angela couldn't be made out. She quickly told about her planet and about her life. It turns out, at restaurant not Angela, but her elder sister usually works, but to the sister there arrived her guy from army, he has a very short holiday, and the sister persuaded Angela to replace her few times. “Is he local, the soldier?“ Nesace put in chattering of an orange little daw. “From the neighboring yard. They sit there almost all day,“ Angela answered. “And for the night whether they come home to you?“ “Well!“ Angela waved a hand. “We have parents. The sister with the guy go in the field; or in the forest plantation.“ “Ah, it because parents forbid them to fuck?“ Nesace guessed. Angela knocked him and pushed. Nesace understood that he guessed rules in this city. He got out of a bush back on asphalt: “How will you and I now go to your parents, if it’s common by you so strictly with it? Let’s take a walk to the field too!“ Angela was silent and thought, then said with conviction: “No really, I don't want in the field, otherwise we will meet the sister suddenly there. Let’s bathe in career! Then I need just to call parents.“ “They don't sleep unless?“ “No; they wait for me.“ Nesace’s face became lost and stunned. No, city customs nevertheless didn't give in to full understanding. Angela, having got a two-kopeck coin, remembered anxiously where is the next street phone. “We have to turn and then go through the square to Lenin Street.“ “Well, let's report on such way“, Nesace adjusted his device, and after flash there was an image of some housing from within; directly in air the room interior shook. Angela squealed, having recognized her apartment. “How do you do that?“ The door to the room began to be opened, and Nesace saw the person of mature age, in an autumn shirt which kept the eyes glued on a notebook, thumbing through it with concentration on the run. “Dad!“ Angela exclaimed. The man raised his head, but before views of all trio met together, Angelka rushed to Nesace and slapped a palm on his device. The image disappeared. “No, better we call,“ Angela reproachfully said and dictated her home phone number. “Hallo, dad! It’s me! Dad, they keep me at work till the morning so now I won't come home yet. No, not in the square, at work! I don't know. No, not any girl in white with me, only waitresses. And why you ask? No, I’m not in the square, I’m in our shift, peeling potatoes.“ Angela moved away from the device. She was excited and kind of confused with presence of the witness of her relations with parents. “Do you know a joke?“ she told Nesace, trying to be as possible more roughly and worse. “The man calls by telephone and asks: "Is there laundry?" And they answered on that end of a wire: "Shmaundry-dickaundry! Here’s institute of culture!" Before they got to the end of the street where houses came to an end and lamps came to an end, Nesace managed to tell Angela as he bathed in the estuary and as the estuary shook at collision of the worlds. “What worlds?“ Angela told. They went on a footpath, on the waste ground on which the scattered stones were lying, very big. The moon shone brightly. Nesace showed on stars. “That's what I knew,“ Angela drawled. “Otherwise you are both as woman, and as man!“ “And you!“ Nesace smiled. “Pose as your sister!“ They climbed stones up, and Nesace saw that the footpath goes down in a pit, quite big and deep further. A water smell blew softly, at last it became more cool. Angela heatedly explained that it’s like a game at her. Nesace politely nodded only. The moon was reflected in the water surface now. Angela admitted that she very much likes to be in career, but at night here she is for the first time. From all directions ledges of dark walls rose up, baring clay and stones. The black circle from above was filled with stars, they could be considered very in detail. From below the moon path shone. Angela, jumping on one leg, pulled down shorts. Nesace took off boots and the tights. Having appeared without clothes, Angela didn't withstand a stare of Nesace and ran to water. She plunged at once and swam on lunar water. Nesace, having stepped in cool water, gasped, cheered up, came more deeply and dived. He swam, slowly with pleasure catching up with Angela. They swam along the coast, and splash from their hands and legs was carried on all pit. Angela showed to Nesace a stone on which boys usually sit, reaching it and climbing up its flat top side. They got out of water and sat down nearby, poured by a moonlight, dripping ringing drops, combing each other wet mermaid hair with fingers. Both breathed deeply. Angela suddenly turned out from a gentle hand of Nesace and put her palms on his breast. She looked in Nesace's eyes interrogatively and whispered: “When I saw the same ones at the sister, I always wanted to touch them. May I?“ Nesace attracted Angela and kissed her forehead. She at once began to stroke breasts, to palp the risen nipples. “Ouch, not so strongly“, Nesace moaned though such way it was pleasant to him too. “You just slightly squeeze in front and pull slightly.“ The stars seemed to be getting closer, looking in a pit, and the moon seemed to give its silver juice even more. Nesace's fingers ran on Angelka shoulders, drawing on them a far melody of approaching star. Both touched tongues, scooping on saliva as with oars, tacking and spinning, twisting around each other. So they drank each other on a lonely night stone table in the heart of earth over waters until Nesace felt, getting to know Angela's body: "now!" He spread his legs and let Angela in, who was noisily breathing, sniffing. Angela got very excited and with force thrust and thrust her hard long winkie into Nesace whose own dick shivered from strong tension. They came the same way, pearl-silverly, lay backwards, holding pinkies, looked at stars. Then they slowly slid off back in water and as the calmed fishes swam to the coast. “How do you live there?“ Angela asked. “The same way. You build communism, don’t you?“ Angela nodded. “We too. You understand, the most important is an education of the new person. It is possible to force, it is possible to limit, but all this is not in a communistic way. That the person himself wanted to be improved, here is how it is necessary to live. It is difficult, I’ll tell you, comrade. When you just received position in society, just got used to direct on one place, and at once the laziness unnoticed comes. You kind of idle begin to serve society, you repeat yesterday's speeches. Without saying that you are left without fruit. And outwardly you seem to others true communist. And inside yourself you begin already to hate communism and to wish to get profit, exploiting slaves. I have a girlfriend, not the girlfriend, however, but the familiar comrade, a social activist. Here she is the true communist. I follow an example of her, I admit to you. I am sometimes too selfish. Thirdmen in general are in fact egoists, I sometimes even regret that I’m a thirdman. Would be better if I was either the woman, or the man.“ Angela objected: “You aren't an egoist. And what is your name?.. Nesace? What is it?“ “Island.“ Angela was silent in surprise from the fact that just occurred lunar island got the charm, being uttered, then she asked again: “And what are you doing on a star?“ “Poetry.“ “Actually I write verses too.“ Nesace touched the device and told: “Read aloud. Do you remember by heart?“ Angela hesitated, wrapped her bare knees with her bare arms and, looking at the moon, drawlingly read about summer travel in fields, then about a rowan in snow at the Palace of pioneers, then about strong boyish love. Nesace shook her hand: “I like it very much.“ They moved closer and caressed again. Nesace felt that Angela likes to be in charge, and he was happy, giving in to her, lying under her, holding on himself her cheerful weight. At the same time he reflected, what could it mean that his device just showed: verses by Angela don't correspond to the messages received from this planet. In the morning Nesace and Angela got dressed and returned to the city on almost deserted streets. Angela brought him to her home, hoping that parents left for work. She inserted a key into a door with numbers 284, both entered inside and instantly appeared in the circle of home conversation because in the kitchen located next to the entrance the recent man from vision sat, that is, Angela's father, and the woman, his contemporary, that is, most likely, mother because she clasped her hands and said joyfully: “Son! Let's have breakfast!“ “Mom, I don't want to eat! Here the teacher wanted to meet you“, Angela began to chatter, changing the shoes from city shoes to home shoes and handing Nesace slippers. Nesace just shook his head, but took off boots and entered the wide kitchen. “Welcome. And I am mom of your school student, Marina Sergeyevna.“ The woman friendly smiled, standing at a stove with pots. “What subject are you a teacher?“ Angelka’s father asked rising from a table. “It’s like we don’t know each other yet. We go to school, and to parent-teacher meetings, and to a communist cleanup event in the spring... Nikolay Mikhaylovich!“ Nesace didn't manage to think up to himself a normal human name as Marina Sergeyevna jokingly hit her husband on the chest with a towel: “Here you stuck to the teacher! No need to invite to the table! Will you have breakfast, Miss...?“ “In general, I usually at the buffet...“ Nesace said, understanding where Angela gets her ability to lead, and sat down at the table. The dishes turned out to be so delicious that Nesace just ate in silence. However, he felt the tension at the table, looked up and saw that the spouses were watching him intently. “Ah yes! I wanted to talk to you. You know, I'm happy with your child. In terms of literature, quite a worthy development.“ Parents sighed with relief, and Marina Sergeyevna intently prepared supplements from saucepans for Nesace. "He took after his father in literature," she said, putting a plate in front of Nesace and escorting just entered Angela from the kitchen, handing her a glass of baked yogurt and a cake on a saucer. Nesace turned excitedly to Nikolai Mikhailovich. He said: "I'm doing poetry. Without interruption from production, of course. If you subscribe to a "Red Ball Bearing," you could meet my poems there.“ “Yes, recently I read the works of one author, and I can say, I have a task to find out both authorship, and the life itself, which turned out to be more interesting than the society that we all build.“ Marina Sergeevna noted with concern: "Do you mean an interest in organs?" "What?“ Nesace asked, involuntarily crossing his legs over his bulging dick. “In competent ones“, she added. "I've never been an anti-Soviet," Nikolai Mikhailovich said calmly. Nesace quickly oriented himself and put his feet straight. "Yes, and I would not be able to advise anyone not to use ball bearings if the equipment is at this stage of development. But we must also look forward, working for the benefit of communism. However, we do not yet know the author, and we can only assume, observe and study the life arranged on such amazing principles. We communists should support more diversity in the education of a new person, since consciousness cannot be unified, but everyone brings up his own soul himself. If literature is involved in education, then the author could show more consistency in the image of a world in which emptiness is replaced by crowds so unexpectedly that the stars shake.“ "That's what I'm proposing," Nikolai Mikhailovich replied seriously. “Let's go to the living room, I will introduce you to my works. Marinushka, and you just feed our son.“ Angela in trousers even shorter than the previous ones ran into the kitchen, and Nesace went along the corridor after Nikolai Mikhailovich to the already familiar room, setting up the device on the go. “Did you meet Angela?“ he heard Marina Sergeevna's receding question. “No, mom; I met the teacher,“ sounded in the distance the answer of the boy, whom Nesace all this time called the name of his older sister. Nesace sat on the sofa. Nikolai Mikhailovich leaned on the window frame with ash trees and began. It was him. The device lit up, Nesace shook, the room disappeared again, an altar appeared. Fellow citizens cheerfully and joyfully welcomed the return of barefoot Nesace. The everlasting melody of the four suns filled his nature again. He saw Ligeia.