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"Captured last month and new in the camp," Müller explained, indicating the man, nearly two metres tall and broad to match, with narrow slanting eyes set in a broad Slavic face, stainless steel crowns glinting in his mouth. "So he hasn’t deteriorated as much as some of the others. Besides which, he’s a fine specimen, isn’t he?"

"May I ask, Müller," Dr Schmidt asked, "exactly what you mean to prove by your experiment here tonight?"

"You’ll find out, you’ll find out." Müller – I noticed – was sweating slightly under the chatter. Suddenly I realised he was nervous. "If I’m right…" he began muttering under his breath as he checked the instruments I’d set up. "If I’m right…"

All through, the big Russian stood in the corner, looking on uncomprehendingly. It must have seemed very bizarre to him. I glanced at him and saw him watching me. Our eyes held. I seemed to see a lot of things in those eyes – the dreams of some home in some little derevnya in the steppes, where the sky met the earth at a horizon so far away it seemed as if one might see one’s entire world standing in one place and turning slowly around. I could see his entire life story, as it were – life as a peasant in some kolkhoz, maybe barely literate, but aspiring to something, perhaps. Maybe there was a blond devushka, some Natalia or Tatiana, who waited for him in the long summer evenings. Maybe they had had plans for the future.

And then the war came, and he was conscripted at eighteen like everyone else, and sent to the front, into a war of which he hadn’t the slightest understanding – and only just in time to be captured, still uncomprehending. I could see his bewilderment as he stood, watching the instruments far beyond what he, whose horizons probably had never encompassed anything more complicated than a tractor engine, had ever witnessed.  

And he – what did he see in my eyes, as I stood watching him? What was I to him, in that moment? Did he see me as his executioner, or as an ally? I wonder – I still wonder, all these years later, what it was that he saw. I wonder, and with excellent reason.

We stood looking at each other until I realised that Müller was speaking.

"…and," Müller was explaining. "We shall recreate the conditions present in life. Or, to be more precise, we shall recreate the conditions we find in the state of being alive rather than try and reverse the death process itself. That way, I’m convinced, lies success." I looked round to see him grinning fiercely. "And with this fine specimen here, I’m sure, we’ll have success – so sure that I’m not even trying a practice run. This is my first full attempt, and you gentlemen shall be my witnesses…"

"Foolishness," said Schmidt.

"Perhaps. But isn’t almost anything that’s really worth doing foolishness, when you get right down to it? What has ever been invented that wasn’t called foolishness at first? I’m sure the first man to sit down and spend time inventing the wheel was called foolish by his fellows." Müller turned and pointed to the couch he had installed a few days ago on one side of the laboratory. "In time to come, that shall be in a hall of fame."

Schmidt sighed. "I’ve had a long day," he said. "And I’ve to be on duty at half past five tomorrow morning, so…"

"All right," Müller snapped. "Come here, you." He beckoned to the Russian. "Sit down here," he said, pointing to a stool. "Sit...down...there." Slowly, half-understanding, the Russian sat.

"Take notes." Müller called out the man’s blood pressure, temperature, pulse, and tested his reflexes. He drew off samples of blood, shone lights in his eyes, and made him breathe into a rubber mask. Then he ordered him to strip. Slowly, watching us all the while, the prisoner did. He looked somehow even more intimidating naked, with the muscles bulging and rippling under his skin.

"Since this research is in its infancy," Müller explained, "we have to measure the specifics in this particular specimen’s case before we begin working on him. Of course, when we have this down to a routine, we’ll have worked out tables according to which we can calculate the parameters by which we can restore just about any corpse to life, assuming it’s not too badly damaged or decomposed, of course." He pointed. "Lie down, you."

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