At the Organizing Committee, it all began with shouting. A shriveled old official of the Komsomol, with a clammy bald head, dressed in a suit with bulging pockets, methodically tore into their three days of happiness. "It's not just us you're dragging through the mire," he yelled. "You bring shame on the whole country. What are they going to think of the USSR in the West now? Well, what do you suppose? That all the Communist Youth are prostitutes, like you? Is that it? Don't interrupt. And the daughter of a Hero of the Soviet Union, what's more! Your father gave his blood… And what if this incident reached the ears of the Central Committee? Have you thought of that? The daughter of a Hero of the Soviet Union! Coming from such stock, to soil yourself like that! Well, we have no intention of covering up for you. Make no mistake about that. They'll kick you out of the Institute and the Komsomol. As they say among your young friends: 'Pleasure has to be paid for.' There's no point in crying now. You should have thought of it before."

After this tirade he removed the stopper from a carafe with a dry creak, poured out a glassful of tepid, yellowish water and drank it with a grimace of disgust. He went over to the window and drummed on the grayish windowsill, waiting for Olya to stop crying. The heat in the office was stifling. A red butter-fly with tattered, tarnished wings struggled inside the double glazing. Nauseated, he studied the dusty glass, the dark poplars outside the window. He turned back to Olya, who was screwing up a little damp handkerchief. "That's ah. You can go. I have nothing else to say to you. What happens to you is up to the competent authorities. Report to the third floor, Room Twenty-seven. They'll deal with you there."