“I should.”
“That’s good,” said the old man, delighted. “S‑s‑s‑s‑s—ma—la, hop!” He opened his hand and the little mouse nimbly ran along his sleeve up to his shoulder, sniffed delicately at his hairy ear and hid in his collar.
“He’s a beauty,” breathed Prokop.
The old man’s face glowed with pleasure. “Wait and see what he can do,” and he ran to the cart, rooted about in it, and returned with a box full of tickets arranged in series. He gave the box a shake, gazing with his shining eyes into the distance. “Show him, mouse, show him his love.” He whistled between his teeth like a bat. The mouse sprang up, ran along his arm, and jumped on to the box. Holding his breath, Prokop watched its rosy little paws searching among the tickets. Finally it took one in its little teeth and tried to pull it out. Somehow or other it succeeded, shook its head and at once seized the next one, pulling that out also. Then it sat up on its hind legs, gnawing at its tiny paws.
“This is your love,” whispered the old man, elated. “Out with it.”
Prokop took hold of the ticket and bent over the light. It was the photograph of a girl … the one whose hair was all loose; her lovely breast was bare, and the eyes were the same, passionate and deep—Prokop recognized her. “Grandfather, that’s not the one!”
“Show me,” said the old man with surprise, taking the picture out of his hand. “Ah, that’s a pity,” he croaked regretfully. “Such a beauty! Lala, Lilitko, that isn’t the one, nanana ks ks ma—la!” He put the photograph back in the box and again softly whistled. The little mouse looked about with its red eyes, again took the same ticket in its teeth and tugged with its head. But the ticket would not come out; instead it pulled out the next.
Prokop took up the picture; it was Annie, a photograph taken in the village; she did not know what to do with her arms, had her Sunday clothes on and stood there silly and beautiful—“That’s not her,” whispered Prokop. The old man took the picture from him, smoothed it and appeared to be saying something to it. He looked at Prokop uneasily and sadly and again gave a faint whistle.
“Are you angry?” asked Prokop shyly.
The old man said nothing and looked musingly at the mouse. Again the little creature tried to pull out the same ticket; but no, it was impossible and it extracted the next one instead. This was a picture of the Princess. Prokop moaned and let it fall on to the ground. The old man silently bent down and picked it up.
“Let me try myself,” cried Prokop hoarsely, and thrust his hand into the box. But the old man stopped him: “That’s not allowed!”
“But she … she’s there,” said Prokop through his teeth. “The right one’s there!”
“Everybody’s there,” said the old man, caressing the box. “Now you shall have your planet.” He whistled quietly, and the mouse ran along his arm and drew out a green slip of paper. A moment later it was back again; evidently Prokop frightened it. “Read it to yourself,” said the old man, carefully putting the box away. “I’ll be fetching some wood—and don’t be worried.”
He stroked the horse’s side, stowed the box away in the bottom of the cart and set off for the thicket. His light-coloured coat disappeared in the darkness. The horse watched him for a moment and then jerked his head and followed him. “Ihaha,” the old man could be heard saying, “so you want to come with me? Ah! Hoty, hotyhot, ma‑ly!”
They disappeared in the fog and Prokop remembered the green ticket. “Your planet,” he read by the flickering light. “You are an honourable man, with a good heart and more learned than others in your profession. You will have to suffer a lot of opposition, but if you avoid impetuousness and arrogance you will obtain the respect of your neighbours and an exalted position. You will lose much but you will later be rewarded. Your unlucky days are Tuesdays and Fridays. Saturn Conj. b. b. Martis. Deo gratias.”
The old man loomed out of the darkness with his arms full of sticks. Behind him appeared the white head of the horse. “Well,” he whispered tensely and with a certain amount of the shyness of an author, “did you read it? Is it a good planet?”
“It is, grandfather.”
“There you are,” said the old man, relieved, “everything will turn out all right, praise be to God.” He put down the armful of brushwood and, muttering happily, lit a fire in front of the hut. Then he again rummaged in the cart, produced a kettle and stumped off for some water. “In a minute, in a minute,” he murmured. “Boil, boil, we have a guest.” He ran about like an agitated hostess. In a moment he had come back again with some bread and bacon, at which he sniffed with delight. “And salt, salt,” he cried, slapping himself on the forehead. He ran back to the cart. At last he had settled down by the fire. He gave Prokop the larger portion and himself slowly munched every mouthful. Prokop was suffering from smoke in the eyes or something of the sort; tears ran down his face as he ate. The old man gave every other mouthful to the horse, whose head was bent over his shoulder. And suddenly, through a veil of tears, Prokop recognized him: it was the old, wrinkled face which he had always seen on the wooden ceiling of his laboratory! How often had he not looked at it when going off to sleep! And in the morning when he woke up it was completely different—nothing but knots,
