Gurdweill washed the upper half of his body, laid out his smoking gear on a chair, together with a candle, ‘just in case’, and went to turn off the lamp. It was already half past two, and he breathed a sigh of relief: the danger had passed! In another hour it would be dawn. Just to be on the safe side, he opened both windows wide to let in whatever coolness the night afforded, and got into bed as cautiously as if he were afraid of waking someone up. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to examine the sheet. Resolutely he got out of bed again, lit the candle, and scrutinised the sheet without discovering anything suspicious. Then he lay down, his fears at rest, and blew out the candle. He felt as dazed as if he had been drinking, and looked forward confidently to a long, pleasant sleep. But he forced himself to stay awake a little while longer, and lay there alertly, holding his breath like a hunter in an ambush. No! Not a sign of them! He had got the better of them this time, he gloated. He began to lose consciousness; the last vestiges of his thoughts floated vaguely into the distance, like wasps smoked out of a hive — when suddenly he felt a sharp sting in the region of his right foot, which shot through his sluggish body like an electric shock; and then another one, on the ankle of the same foot; and then a third, on the other foot this time. Gurdweill shuddered convulsively. He began kicking his feet about under the blanket. Wide awake now, he was filled with a terrible, undirected rage. The figure of the old landlady immediately took shape before him and his fury attached itself to her, as if she were the one biting him. He stretched out his legs again and lay waiting. Now he felt nothing. Perhaps his nerves had deceived him, he thought, slipping back into sleep, that was probably it. Because the time of danger had already passed! He was just about to fall asleep again when something dropped onto the tip of his nose, as softly and quietly as a crumb. So faint was its touch that it might have been a slight shrinking of the skin, an inner twitch without any external cause. But immediately afterwards Gurdweill felt something crawling down the side of his cheek, as lightly as a hair tickling, and a bad smell — a penetrating, revolting smell, with which he was only too familiar. God, one of them had parachuted straight from the ceiling onto his nose! That was just like them! For a moment he lay motionless, intending to take it by surprise. The bug was crawling down his neck, his shoulder, hurrying as if it were running away. Very carefully, Gurdweill began to raise his hand, and at the same moment he felt several bites in different places on his body — on his chest, his thighs, his back, his calves — as if the parachutist himself had commanded his troops to attack the enemy on all fronts! Gurdweill leaped out of bed like a madman, utterly routed. He lit the candle and began searching frantically all over the sheet, throwing the pillow aside and looking underneath it — no, nothing here! He spread the blanket over the couch and began again, the candle in his hand. And then he saw a big one lying at the foot of the couch without moving, pretending to be dead. But Gurdweill was not deceived. He set the candle carefully on the chair, took a match, and was just about to give it a poke when it began running frantically down the sheet hanging over the side of the couch. ‘Aha!’ said Gurdweill aloud. ‘This time you won’t get away! I’ve got you now!’ And with the match he squashed it vindictively, overwhelmed by revulsion. His rage abated somewhat. He took off his nightshirt and shook it out of the window. Then he did the same with the sheet and blanket and made up his bed again. But he hesitated before lying down. His watch said ten past three. He lit a cigarette and paced up and down the room naked for five minutes or so. In the end he grew tired. Things couldn’t go on like this! He lay down again and concentrated on falling asleep. Everything seemed quiet enough — they must have declared a truce. He felt a faint bite on one of his raised knees, but he decided to take no notice. He would ignore the pain and make an effort to fall asleep, and then he would have some peace at last. But all his good intentions were in vain. The pain grew sharper, unbearable. And it was immediately followed by a concerted attack, all over his body at once, as if every inch of him were swarming with the loathsome creatures. Gurdweill jumped out of bed again and ran straight to the window. He was in despair. He suddenly felt a strange need to shout at the top of his voice, to wake up everyone in the house and summon them to his aid. This time he did not bother to light the candle. What good would it do? He stood at the window, worn out and trembling slightly from the faint chill in the air and from his own agitation, afraid of the couch on the other side of the room, afraid of thinking about it, overcome with disgust. For a moment he considered making up a bed on the floor, next to the window, but he dismissed the idea immediately. Who was to say they wouldn’t go there too? No, there was nothing for it. He would have to stand here the whole night long. And tomorrow — God help her if she didn’t clean the couch!