t  during the lunch break.  It's probably  news from  Moscow.  Listen,
can't you tear yourself away from  your  slide rule? What's  the matter with
you, anyway?"
     Nikolai  said   nothing.  He   studied  his  unfinished   drawing  with
exaggerated  attention.  The curve he had  just plotted  reminded him  of  a
wind-filled sail. This association brought back a picture of the high  white
side of  the Uzbekistan, and a slender figure in a red sun-dress diving into
the sea. Also, a picture of melancholy dark eyes.
     Nikolai drew his hand across his forehead.
     Rita had once been simply a stranger, gradually to be forgotten, driven
from  his mind. But now- now  everything was all  confused. No matter how he
tried  he could not forget her. She was no longer a stranger. She was Yellow
Lynx, a childhood playmate.
     Nikolai  had hardly seen her since  their return from Moscow.  She  had
phoned him several times at work. He had  asked her,  in a wooden voice, how
life was treating her. She had  told him that Anatole had returned home  and
had promised her to  go into hospital for treatment  as soon as he  finished
the job. Anatole's work was going along  well. Rita spoke about it in a gay,
animated voice. Nikolai was glad for her sake. But every time she rang up he
experienced pain.
     One day Rita invited Nikolai and Yura to drop in for tea. She wanted to
introduce them, her childhood friends, to her husband.
     Nikolai had never  seen  Anatole  before. He was  struck  by  Anatole's
unhealthy colouring, the bags under his eyes, and his dull glance.
     Anatole picked languidly at the cake on  his plate. He  took no part in
the conversation. Nikolai was dying to ask him about Fedor Matveyev's knife,
but that  question  and many  others on the  tip of his tongue could  not be
asked because of the promise he had given Rita.
     Anatole  turned his lacklustre eyes  on  Nikolai.  "Has  your apparatus
produced any sort of long-term penetrability?" he asked.
     Nikolai almost choked  in  surprise.  He hurriedly chewed the  piece of
cake in his mouth. "I don't  really know," he replied. "We turned everything
over to the Academy of Sciences."
     "How   are   your  experiments  coming  along?"  Yura  politely   asked
Benedictov. "When will we be able to offer you our congratulations?"
     "How can we compete with the Academy?" Anatole asked glumly.
     Yura twitched  his  blond eyebrows. "Why compete? Join us.  The days of
ivory-tower scholars are over. Modern scientific problems are so-"
     Anatole interrupted him. "You're too young, far  too young, in fact, to
tell me which  days  are  over and which aren't."  He  frowned. No one  said
anything.  Rita  hurriedly  changed  the  topic.  "You  boys  are  going  to
tomorrow's concert at Philharmony Hall, aren't you?"
     But this  did not help.  The afternoon  was ruined. Soon after, Anatole
rose, complaining of a headache, and left the room.
     Yura could see what was troubling  Nikolai,  but for the first time  in
their  many years  together he could think of no  way to help his friend. He
even  went so  far as to  ask Val's advice, but she viewed the matter rather
disdainfully. She  did  not seem to  like this newly-found playmate of their
childhood.
     The envelope that  had come  from the  Institute of Surfaces in  Moscow
really did contain interesting news.  The  frequencies which had  influenced
the Cooper Lane  installation  had been ascertained. What  had  been vaguely
hinted at in  the clumsy experiment mounted  by the young engineers had been
translated  into the language of formulas  and  figures. The  workers at the
Moscow  Institute  had  obtained  their  initial  result: the  rods  pressed
together in the field of the Mobius band had penetrated each other, although
not   deeply.  They  felt  that  their  southern   colleagues  could   begin
experimenting with liquids.
     The cautious Koltukhov surrendered. He  gave Privalov the  go-ahead  to
set up an experiment.
     Preparations took all  of May and  half of June. An apparatus  having a
glass coil mounted inside the stator of  an electrical machine was installed
in  one of the  rooms of Privalov's laboratory. A Mobius band  of  yellowish
metal, a metre and a half long, was  placed  beside  the  stator. Behind the
band there was an aluminium disc, a condenser screen linked up to a powerful
electrostatic generator.
     The glass coil was filled with water and  connected to  a small drum of
oil.
     The idea was that penetrability-in this  case, permeability, to be more
precise-would arise in the field of the  Mobius band, that is, the oil would
flow through the water in the coil.  This would be  the model  of a pipeless
oil  pipeline,  a  model of complete diffusion  of liquids with  reorganized
internal bonds. The particles of oil would pass freely through the particles
of water.
     The Institute of Surfaces believed there ought to  be  a certain amount
of  external excitation  of  the  field  when  the  installation  went  into
operation. A  hard gamma beam would  be suitable, Academician  Georgi Markov
thought. And so, a lead container with an ampoule of a radioactive substance
inside it had been suspended beside the Mobius band.
     Chief  engineer  Koltukhov   had   the   control  panel  and  measuring
instruments moved  into an adjoining room. He himself locked and sealed  the
door of the room in which the installation stood.
     During the first few days different  types of operating conditions were
tried out, but with no results. The oil that was pumped into the coil simply
pushed the water out of it.
     The  eventful day  started  just  like the others.  The men took  their
places  at   the  control  panel,  and  Yura   switched  on  the  television
transmitter. The Mobius band and the glass coil appeared on the screen.
     "Attention. All sec. Let's start," said Privalov. "The container."
     The  electrician pressed  a button. In  the next  room an electromagnet
removed  the lid of  the lead container and a  flux of  gamma  rays streamed
towards  the border  area  of  the  oil  and  water.  The  ruby eye  of  the
radioactivity indicator began to glow.
     "Now the static charge!"  A switch  clicked,  and the  generator on the
other side of the wall  began  to whine.  A green  zigzag  appeared  on  the
rounded  bottom of  the  cathode-ray tube  of  the oscillograph in  front of
Nikolai and crept to the right, along the scale. Nikolai turned the knob  to
hold the zigzag in place.
     "Let's have frequency 230, Nikolai," said Privalov.
     Moving  from  one frequency  to the next, Privalov  patiently proceeded
through the programme planned for that day.
     Suddenly Yura leaned forward to the  screen. The borderline between the
dark oil and the transparent water had become smudged.
     "It's begun!" he whispered tensely.
     All eyes  turned  to the screen.  It did look as though the oil was  no
longer pressing  against  the  water,  pushing  it ahead of  itself, but was
passing through it.
     Privalov kept  his eyes  fixed  on the  pressure-gauge. Resistance  was
dropping. There was  no doubt about  it. One hundred and twenty  grammes per
square  centimetre.... Seventy.... Fifty-two....  Glancing at the TV screen,
he saw that the glass coil was cloudy.
     Yura laughed jubilantly. "It's permeability, Boris!"
     The water's resistance was rapidly dropping towards the desired zero.
     Thirty-five.... thirty.... Suddenly the  needle quivered,  then stopped
at twenty-seven.
     Privalov  impatiently  tapped  the glass  of the  pressure-gauge with a
fingernail. The needle was  motionless, as though it had come  up against an
impassable barrier.
     "Add five-tenths, Nikolai," he said in a low voice.
     Nikolai gave the field intensity  knob a  slight turn. The green zigzag
on the oscillograph screen climbed, but the pressure-gauge needle refused to
budge.
     "Some   sort   of  threshold,"  Privalov  said.  "Let's  have   another
five-tenths."
     "Look!" exclaimed the electrician. "Just look at this."
     They turned  to  glance at  the electric meter.  Electricity was  being
consumed at a much  greater rate than usual. The meter was whirling  so fast
that the right-hand figures were a blur.
     Privalov  glanced  at the ammeter. The needle  was almost  on  zero, as
though the installation  had  been switched off. But the electric meter  was
spinning  faster  and faster.  The electricity from the  mains  seemed to be
vanishing into a bottomless pit.
     Koltukhov came up.
     "It's simply being swallowed up," he said. "What's happening?"
     The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver.
     "Yes,  this  is  me, Koltukhov.  No,  we  haven't  switched on any  new
machines. What? Yes, we'll have to. I'll call you back in five minutes."
     He  put down the receiver and  turned  to Privalov. "They're worried at
the substation. Voltage  in  the district  is  falling. They've  switched on
their  reserve but  it  doesn't help. The power loss is  appalling and quite
incomprehensible. Shall we stop the whole thing?"
     The  zigzag  on  the  oscillograph  kept  climbing,  although operating
conditions had not changed.
     "No!"  Privalov kept  his  eyes glued to the zigzag.  "Give  us another
one-hundredth."
     The green zigzag  jumped to  the top  of the  frame.  The meter was now
screaming like a siren. The  figures blurred into grey streaks. Suddenly the
glass  shattered and the meter flew to pieces.  The electrician  barely  had
time to cover his eyes with his hand.
     A  bright  light  flooded  the  TV screen.  Yura  involuntarily  sprang
backwards.
     Privalov dashed to  the main switch  to turn off the  installation  but
before he could  reach  it there  was an  explosion on the other side of the
wall. Plaster rained down on their heads.  The floor  shook. Privalov jerked
the switch down and looked round. As he pushed back his hair with his sleeve
he smeared  his face  with plaster dust.  No one seemed to be hurt, or  even
particularly frightened, for that matter. It had all happened too suddenly.
     "Turn on the TV receiver," Privalov said hoarsely. "Just the TV."
     The screen lit up with lustreless horizontal bands. There was no image.
Yura fiddled with the knobs.
     "It  looks as though the  transmitter was knocked out," he said softly.
"Along with everything else in that room."
     "Close the container," said Koltukhov.
     The electrician pressed a button, but the red bulb continued to glow.
     "It   doesn't   close,"   he   said.   "Something's   wrong   with  the
electromagnet."
     "Something's wrong with  the  whole  thing,"  Koltukhov  put  in. Then,
raising his voice, he said: "Everyone leave the room, please."
     The corridor buzzed with alarmed voices. The director of  the Institute
came hurrying down the stairs.
     "What happened?" he asked.
     Leading him aside, Koltukhov and Privalov  told  him briefly  about the
explosion and what had preceded it.
     "There's an open  container inside that room,"  Koltukhov  added.  "The
blast may have ejected the ampoule and  smashed it. The walls are thick, but
after all, that's 1,500 milligrams of radioactive matter-"
     "Seal  the  laboratory  and  summon  the  emergency  squad,"  said  the
director.


     The  damage done by the blast was relatively insignificant. Part of the
floor was charred,  plaster had fallen from  the ceiling and walls, and  the
installation  was  wrecked. The copper cartridge  with the ampoule inside it
had flown  out  of its lead container, just as Koltukhov had said it  might,
and  the  radioactive  matter had dispersed.  That room,  the  two adjoining
rooms, and the  three  second-floor rooms above them could not be used until
everything had been rendered quite harmless.
     Privalov's entire laboratory was closed down for the time being.
     And so, Valery Gorbachevsky found himself taking a  vacation before  he
had time to return to work eleven minutes late.
     For a while he had thought Yura  Kostyukov  was pulling his leg, and he
decided to  go upstairs and see for himself. Before  he had put  his foot on
the first step he saw Privalov coming down,  carrying a small suitcase, with
a raincoat over his arm.
     "Goodbye," he  said, offering Valery his hand. Then he shook hands with
Yura and moved towards the outer door.
     "For heaven's sake, tell me what happened," Valery begged Yura.
     "Privalov's taking a plane to Moscow."
     "What for?"
     Yura did not  know. He  knew only that Privalov and Koltukhov,  wearing
protective clothing, had  entered the  room  and found  something there that
prompted them to go to Moscow at once. He also knew that a steel-bound crate
had been shipped off to Moscow.


        CHAPTER TWO

        IN WHICH THE AUTHORS REMEMBER THEIR PROMISE TO ARRANGE A SHIPWRECK

     At five o'clock in the morning the city on the horseshoe-shaped bay was
still  asleep. A mist hovered above the  grey water  of the harbour and  the
black hulks of the barges in the roadstead.  But the red and gold fires of a
new day were beginning to blaze in the east.
     -Carrying  small  suitcases,  Nikolai  and  Yura,  accompanied  by Rex,
approached the entrance to the marina. Valery Gorbachevsky, outfitted with a
transistor radio and fishing gear, was already waiting for them.
     At  the far  end of  the pier,  dockmaster Mehti sat leaning against an
overturned boat. His  tanned, large-featured face  looked like old bronze. A
grey  halo  fringed  his  round, mahogany-coloured bald  spot.  His  striped
jersey, ring in one ear, intricate  tattooing on  his arms, and the knife in
his  hand made  him  look  as though  he had just stepped out of  a story by
Robert Louis Stevenson.
     A  large sun-cured fish and a tin filled with small lumps of sugar were
neatly set out in front of him on a clean white cloth. Strong tea steamed in
a mug.  The dockmaster  was cutting a loaf of  fresh  unleavened  bread into
thick slices.
     "The terror  of the seas is taking his morning grog," Yura whispered to
his companions. Aloud he said:
     "Good-morning, Mehti."
     The dockmaster turned a bright black eye on the newcomers and nodded.
     "We  made  the boat ready yesterday," Nikolai  told  him. "Everything's
shipshape."
     "That's what you think," Mehti said sternly. "I'll take a look and see.
Have a snack with me."
     The young men sat down beside him and were each handed a mug of tea.
     "Taking music along with  you,  I see," Mehti remarked, glancing at the
transistor set.
     "Yes," Yura replied.  "Besides  listening to music we'll keep in  touch
with the world while we're out at sea."
     Mehti said nothing. He put q sizable piece of cheese into his mouth and
chewed it thoughtfully.
     After breakfast they set out to inspect the boat.
     The  Mekong lay  at  anchor some two hundred metres from  the pier. The
dockmaster  walked over to  the  edge of the pier with his rolling gait  and
stepped into a dinghy. The young men followed him.
     Mehti  had  paid  no attention to Rex up until then. Now he said, "That
dog will have to get out."
     "But why?" Yura protested. "Rex is a fine dog."
     "Fine dogs stay at home. They don't go to sea."
     "He'd die of a broken heart if we left him at home, Mehti."
     "He didn't die whenever you went sailing without him before, did he?"
     "Oh, Mehti, please let us take Rex. Rex is really a nautical dog."
     "The next thing I  know you'll bring a donkey and try  to tell me  it's
nautical too," Mehti retorted. "Put that dog ashore at once."
     This was done. Valery, who was quietly enjoying the  scene, then untied
the  painter at the bow.  Energetic strokes of the oars carried  them out to
the sailboat.
     Mehti  painstakingly  checked every  knot and every lanyard. Finally he
pronounced the boat ready to sail.
     Nikolai  and  Yura left Valery aboard  the  Mekong and returned  to the
clubhouse, where Mehti put on his spectacles and opened his register.
     "Here," he said to Nikolai, poking a fingernail at a clean page, "write
down the number of  people aboard, list their names,  and state where you're
sailing to  and for  how long. Then sign that you  have permission  from the
port authorities, that you were given a copy of the latest weather forecast,
and that you have the necessary maps and charts."
     Now that they were  so unexpectedly on  holiday our friends had decided
to make a  voyage  along the  coast, to  the mouth of the river Kura. If the
wind was right  they  would continue farther south,  as far as Lenkoran, and
visit the botanical gardens there. En route they intended to stop at some of
the islands in the archipelago.
     Valery,  a  newcomer on the  Mekong,  was  terribly  excited  about the
cruise. He had practically memorized Yura's sailing manual.
     Val had also expressed her delight at being invited to come along.
     One evening, two  days before they were  to sail, when the men were  at
Yura's house checking  their route and their lists  of gear  and provisions,
Nikolai suddenly pushed the map aside and reached for a cigarette.
     "Let's invite another passenger," he said, lighting his cigarette.
     "Okay," said Yura, who guessed at once  whom Nikolai had in mind. "Ring
her up."
     "It would be better if you did. You're more persuasive."
     Rita picked up the receiver at the first ring. "It's really nice of you
to think of me," she said after Yura had invited her to  come along  on  the
cruise. "But I can't be away from town for any length of time."
     "It's just for a week, Rita. The school vacation has begun, hasn't it?"
     "Oh, Yura, I'm so sorry, but I simply can't. Thanks for the invitation,
though. And remember me to Nikolai."
     She  put down the receiver, settled herself in her  favourite corner of
the  sofa, her legs under her, and opened her  book. Her eyes  ran  down the
lines but the meaning of the words did not sink in.
     She  was alone again. Anatole had not been home for two weeks now. They
hadn't quarrelled, it  wasn't that. She looked after him  to the best of her
ability and did not ask him any  questions. She realized that he was ashamed
to take the  drug in  front of her but could  not get  along without  it. He
often  made  long  trips  to some  sort of special  laboratory. A hitch  had
cropped up in his work again.  He spent  the nights at  Opratin's,  where he
never heard any reproaches.
     The next morning Rita went to  the Institute of Marine Physics. Anatole
was not at his  desk, and she had to wait  in the lobby  a fairly long  time
before someone found him and he came downstairs.
     "How clever of you to drop in," he said. He took her hand in his sweaty
palm. His eyes were tender.
     They stepped out into the garden and sat down on a bench at the edge of
the lawn.
     "Are you coming home tonight?"
     His face darkened. "This is just our busiest time, Rita. We've done the
main part of it.  Now we have to make sure there are  no flaws. It will take
another few weeks-"
     "Very well," Rita said sadly. "I'll wait."
     "I'll be going out to the laboratory again in a few days. If it doesn't
work- Then  I'll collect  all the  material  that's  out  there and try it a
different way."
     "I went  to see  Dr.  Khalilov. He's  willing to  take you  in whenever
you're ready. The sooner you start, Anatole, the better-"
     "I know, I know. Just wait a little." Anatole took her hand again. "Has
the school vacation started already?"
     "Yes."  The instant Rita said  this  she remembered the  previous day's
telephone call. "I've been invited to  go  sailing, Anatole. Do  you think I
should?"
     "Who invited you? Those childhood friends of yours?"
     "Yes. It's a seven-day cruise along  the coast." "Go  by all means. The
change will do you good. Remember our cruise of last year?"
     After a few more minutes of desultory conversation Rita said goodbye to
Anatole and left. At the gate she looked  back. Anatole was  standing at the
edge of the sunflooded lawn, gazing after her. His arms hung by his sides.
     On returning home Rita rang up Yura and told him she would  be  glad to
join them.


     As Nikolai  finished writing his  entry in the  register and signed his
name with a flourish they heard  rapid footsteps. '"That's Val", said  Yura.
"Here  we are, Val." "Hullo, there." Val ran up, panting for  breath. "I was
sure I'd be late.  How do you  do, Mehti." Mehti acknowledged  the  greeting
with a nod, picked up the register, and disappeared with it into his office.
     "What a  glorious day," Val exclaimed.  "I  was  worried I'd  be  late.
Nikolai warned  me so sternly yesterday about coming on time. Well, what are
we waiting for? It's seven already, isn't it? Time to start."
     "Let's wait a  bit longer," Nikolai  muttered. He walked to the edge of
the pier, where he could look down deserted Seaside Boulevard.
     "I see.  That friend  of your childhood, is it?" Val pulled a wry  face
and looked at Yura. "So you did invite that nut."
     Yura spread  his  hands reproachfully. "There she is," Nikolai cried as
he caught a glimpse of a red sun-dress far down the boulevard.
     Rita came up smiling,  her face relaxed. She shook hands with everybody
and patted Rex.
     "You're a bit late," Val could not resist saying.
     "It doesn't matter in the least," Nikolai put in hastily.
     They walked to the end  of  the pier. Mehti was  not in sight, so  Yura
pushed Rex into the dinghy and ordered him to lie down.
     "Couldn't we do without Rex?" Val asked.
     "Dogs need a change of scenery too," Yura explained.
     As they approached the sailboat Rita read the name on its bow. "Mekong"
she said. "Is it the same one?"
     "The  very  same."  Nikolai replied  gaily as he helped her to climb on
board. Then he snapped: "Make sail."
     As they hauled the sheets  home Yura and Nikolai pretended it was  hard
work and struck up an old sailors'  chantey they had  heard Mehti sing  many
times:

     Sail to have a fast clipper.
     Pull, boys, pull, boys!

     With each "pull" they gave a tug in unison and the sail rose higher and
higher.

     Will you tell me who is skipper?
     Pull, boys, pull, boys, pull!

     "Regular pirates, they are," Val remarked.
     "They do everything very neatly," Rita said approvingly.
     "Of course they do. Sailing is their hobby."
     The lines were belayed and the sail swelled tautly. The Mekong, listing
slightly, glided off.
     Nikolai sat at  the tiller.  Yura  rose, planted his feet wide apart on
the deck, thrust an arm forward and declaimed:

     An unforgettable moment. .
     The breeze freshens,
     We round the lighthouse,
     You are so near, so dear,
     Yet your hand I dare not touch.
     In the water Cassiopeia's lights
     Glitter like gold, and clouds sail by.

     Valery gazed  admiringly at Yura. Rita  listened with a smile. Speeding
before  the wind into  the  sparkling  blue morning gave her a deep sense of
contentment.
     "I'll be the taskmaster," Yura said. "Courageous Commodore Nikolai will
sail our ship over the bounding main." He made  Nikolai a deep bow. "I'm his
first mate. And with  your  kind permission I'm also his fearless navigator.
Valery will be our  deck boy and vigilant  lookout. Carnivorous Rex will, in
case of mutiny, bite the lower limbs of the mutineers."
     Hearing his name, Rex put out his tongue and licked Yura's bare foot.
     "What  about us?" Val asked.  "How dare  you rank us below  Rex in your
silly hierarchy?"
     "But I don't. You and Rita will provide the crew with nourishing meals.
In your spare time  you can protect the delicate skin of your noses from the
scorching rays of the tropical sun by pasting a strip of paper on them."
     The boat sped out of the bay into the blue sea, its sail billowing. The
city behind them disappeared into a bluish haze.
     Yura lay down on the deck beside Nikolai.
     "This is the very same place. Do you suppose that knife is still on the
seabed?"
     Nikolai did not answer. He was busy setting a new course.
     "You're not bored, Rita, are you?" he asked.
     She smiled at him. "Not at all. It's terribly interesting. Everything's
fine. You promised to teach me to steer the boat."
     Nikolai handed her the tiller and showed her how to steer  a course  by
compass.
     "It's not easy," Rita  said after a  few minutes. "The boat won't  obey
me."
     "Don't jerk the tiller, move it gently. Now  turn it to port, that  is,
to the left. That's right."
     "Grip the rudder tight," Yura advised.
     Rita did not raise her eyes from the compass. "Why?"
     "All sea stories say so."
     Nikolai grinned. "Don't listen to him. You'd have a hard time  gripping
the  rudder because  the  rudder  is under the  boat. What you're holding is
called the tiller."
     After  several days at  sea  the two girls were able to walk a  sloping
deck and to light the primus-stove that swung in a hanger.  They had finally
come to  believe  that the boat was  rocking and the primus-stove was almost
motionless. Dinners were prepared according to Yura's recipe: a tin of  meat
was  poured into a mixture  of  millet  grits  and  potato cubes and  cooked
together. The crew of the Mekong ate this stew with great gusto.
     The  weather was perfect. No one aboard the Mekong wore  anything  more
than the briefest bathing costume and sun-glasses. Before long they were all
a deep bronze from the sun.
     "Darwin was right,"  Nikolai remarked one afternoon. "He  says,  in his
Voyage of the  Beagle, that a  white  man bathing beside a Tahitian does not
look at all impressive. A dark skin is more natural than a white skin."
     Val  lifted her  head from  her  book.  She opened  her  mouth  to  say
something  but after a glance  at Nikolai's dark brown shoulders she changed
her mind.
     Gradually the coolness between the two young women faded. Prompted by a
feeling of feminine solidarity, Rita often took  Val's side  in the frequent
debates aboard the Mekong. Sometimes the two of them went off by themselves,
to the  extent that  this was possible  on such a small  boat, and held long
conversations. Or rather,  Val talked about herself  and  the thesis she was
writing, and how  annoying and  unfeeling Yura  was at  times. Rita listened
with an understanding smile.
     The sun, the sea and the fresh air all had their effect. Rita developed
a beautiful tan, she grew  more relaxed. Her appetite began to  horrify her.
The anxieties and disappointments of the past few  months  were being pushed
out of her thoughts by the sea and the sky.
     One evening when the velvety black sky was strewn with diamonds and the
Mekong was gliding across a smooth, dark sea, leaving behind a silvery wake,
Rita sat in the stern, hugging her knees, while Nikolai half-reclined beside
her. His watch was coming to an end but he was in no  hurry to waken Valery,
asleep in the  cabin.  In the silence, broken  only  by  the wash whispering
softly alongside  the hull, the words "Your hand I  dare not  touch" flashed
through Nikolai's mind. He closed his eyes.
     "I've been recalling our childhood,"  Rita  said.  "Calm, starry nights
like this belong only to childhood."
     Her voice seemed to float towards him from afar.
     "What a  strange  power the sea  has," Rita went on  slowly.  "You  can
actually feel it cleansing your soul."
     "Your hand I dare not touch," Nikolai repeated soundlessly.
     "Are you listening?"
     Nikolai opened his eyes. "Yes."
     "Now I am beginning to understand why there  have been  so many sailors
in our family."
     Val and Yura sat out of sight in the bow, behind the stay-sail. Val had
her dark head on Yura's shoulder as she gazed enthralled at  the sea and the
stars.
     "Look how bright it is," she whispered: pointing to a golden star.
     "That's Venus,"  said Yura. "Did you know that the Greeks thought Venus
was  two stars?  They  called the evening  star in the west Vesper, and  the
morning star in the east Phosphor."
     "Oh dear, you always have something to say about  everything. Why can't
you just sit quietly and drink in the beauties of Nature?"
     Suddenly she turned her head and  peeped out from behind the stay-sail.
"I  wonder  what  they're talking  about," she whispered.  "Do  you  suppose
they're on intimate terms with each other?"
     "I haven't the faintest idea."
     "Oh, Yura, do tell me."
     "But  I  really don't know. " Yura was  compelled  to add:  "You  women
always want everything  pigeon-holed neatly.  In such cases it's best not to
meddle."


     The cluster of islands lay baking in the sunshine.
     The Mekong glided past Duvanny Island,  where Stepan Razin and his  men
divided  the  booty of the Persian campaign. They visited Bull Island to see
the vast  number of birds that nested there, and then  dropped anchor on Los
Island,  where  hot mud bubbled constantly in craters,  some all  of  twenty
metres in diameter. In places the mud tipped over the edge of its crater and
flowed down to the sea in a brown rivulet.
     "I  had no idea all this rather  frightening wilderness was so close to
us!" Rita exclaimed.
     It  was noon. The wind  had dropped, and the sun was blazing. The sails
hung limp. Yura tossed a match into the  smooth  green water. It  floated on
the surface without drifting away from the boat.
     Heat waves shimmered in the motionless air. The horizon had vanished in
a haze; land could not be seen anywhere.
     "What do you do if there is no wind for a long time?" Val asked.
     "Haven't you read any sea stories?" Yura asked. "We eat up all our food
and then draw lots to see who is the first to be divided up for dinner." The
talk turned to how long a person could live without food  or water, and they
recalled well-known cases of men who had survived many days alone at sea.
     "I wouldn't be able  to  eat  raw fish the  way Dr. Alain Bombard did,"
said Val.
     "If you  had nothing else you'd eat it and like it," Yura retorted. "As
for water, we have some miracles we can work if we have to." "What kind?"
     "A resin that turns  sea water into fresh water through  ion  exchange.
But there's no need to worry-it won't come to that."
     "I'm not worrying."
     There was still no wind.  The sky was  a milky  white, as though it had
been drained of colour. A fog crept towards them from the north.
     "I don't like this  dead calm," Yura  said to Nikolai in  a  low voice.
"Let's drop anchor. By evening there may be a current that will carry us off
to where we don't want to go."
     The water,  as  smooth and colourless as the sky, swallowed  the anchor
without a splash.
     The storm broke without warning. Squalls  of a raging  north wind  tore
the fog to shreds and whistled menacingly in the rigging.
     The entire  weight of his body  on  the tiller, Nikolai  held  the boat
against the wind. Yura and Valery took down the jib and ran up the hurricane
sail. Then, bracing themselves on the pitching deck, they reefed in the taut
mainsail  with great difficulty.  Valery was almost  swept overboard  at one
point. The stays and shrouds moaned as the wind tore at them.
     The  Mekong, her mainsail tightly reefed, was  driven southward.  Waves
swept over her and crested on her deck; the foam hissed and dissolved.
     Rita and Val sat silent in the cockpit, pressed close together, staring
at the wild sea.
     On the water-swept foredeck Valery helped Yura  to  fashion a  floating
anchor from boathooks and oars which they wrapped in a staysail.
     To  be carried forward into the unknown, into the roaring night, across
a sea strewn with  reefs and submerged rocks, was terrifying. Holding to the
tiller with difficulty.  Nikolai tacked back and forth.  As she  tacked, the
boat lay on  her side, her  reefed mainsail  dipping into the waves. Nikolai
knew the keel  was heavy and was confident they would not be upset. "Hold on
tight," he shouted. "Don't be scared! We'll soon right ourselves!"
     Each tack  demanded  tremendous exertion. Nikolai's muscles ached,  his
forehead was beaded with sweat.
     He  bore down on  the tiller with all his might, overcoming the furious
resistance of the waves.
     "Hurry up there!" he shouted to Yura above the howling of the wind.
     Suddenly a  shudder went through the boat. There was a  grinding  sound
under  the keel; boards snapped  in two, the  mast came crashing  down.  All
these sounds almost drowned out a short cry-but Nikolai  heard it. He dashed
forward along the listing deck, pushed Valery  aside and jumped overboard. A
breaker washed over him, the undertow tugging at his legs. But he managed to
touch  bottom  with one foot. Looking up, he  caught  a glimpse of a beach a
short distance ahead.
     The wave rolled Nikolai back beside the Mekong. He dived and felt along
the pebbly  bottom. In another moment his head was out  of the  water and he
had Yura in his arms. But, unable to keep on his  feet, he sank to his knees
in  the  water.   He  rose  again,  now  standing  chest-deep,  and  shouted
breathlessly: "All ashore! It's shallow here! Rope yourselves together!"
     Carrying the unconscious body of his  friend  over his shoulder, he was
knocked  off his feet again and  again  by the  waves as he stumbled along a
sandbar towards the shore.
     The  Mekong lay on its side. The three on board clung to  whatever they
could lay hands on.  Rex, pushed up  against the  cabin  handrail, whimpered
softly.
     At the sound of Nikolai's voice Valery recovered  from  his fright. Now
he was the senior crew member aboard the boat.
     "Listen,  you  girls!" he  shouted. "Everything's  all right! We'll  go
ashore."
     He tied the end  of  a sail sheet round  his waist, then roped Rita and
Val to it and ran the other end  through Rex's collar. He jumped out  of the
boat and  helped the girls to  do  the same.  The  three of  them  staggered
towards shore, Rita carrying Rex.
     Finally they  came ashore. Still roped  together, they  climbed a  clay
slope. On the other side of the hillock they took shelter from the wind in a
hollow. The sand in the hollow was surprisingly warm underfoot.
     Here they saw Yura lying on  the sand. Nikolai was energetically giving
him artificial respiration.
     Val dashed forward. "Yura!" she cried wildly.


        CHAPTER THREE

        IN WHICH THE MOBIUS BAND THAT SANK INTO CONCRETE IS EXAMINED

     To  save the 'reader unnecessary anxiety, we announce here and now that
Yura survived the ordeal.
     Meanwhile,  the action shifts  to  Moscow. Boris Privalov and Professor
Bagbanly arrived in  the  capital  by  plane several  days before  the heavy
steel-bound crate.
     From the  airport they drove  straight to the  research centre in which
the Institute of Surfaces was situated. Rooms  had been reserved for them in
the hotel there.
     "What do you say  now?" Privalov asked Academician Markov  after he had
looked through the records of the experiment.
     But the Academician refused  to be  hurried. "We'll examine your latest
miracle first." Turning  to Professor Bagbanly, he remarked, "I haven't seen
you in Moscow for quite a time, have I?"
     A few  days  later, in the  middle of the afternoon, a lorry drove into
the yard of  the Institute  workshop and a crane lifted a heavy crate out of
it. What the Institute employees saw after the crate had been opened up  was
a block of concrete. It had been the  support on which the Mobius band stood
during the experiments. Now  a yellowish metal arc about  the size and shape
of  a pail handle  jutted up from it.  The remainder of the  Mobius band had
sunk into the concrete.
     Academician Markov slowly ran his hand along the arc.  His hand  passed
through  the metal. All he felt  was something like a  warm, gentle  puff of
air. The  sensation was not unfamiliar to him. The Institute experiments had
already produced several models of restructured matter.
     When they cut the block in two they found that the section  of the band
which had sunk into the concrete was impenetrable. Analysis showed, however,
that all the elements found in concrete were present in the area occupied by
the  band.  The  atomic-molecular  systems   of   concrete  had  filled  the
interatomic spaces in the metal. This was penetrability.
     "It's a fantastic, unprecedented mixture," the Academician remarked the
next morning  as  he looked  through the analysis report.  "Yet  it actually
exists."
     "The Mobius band came into the zone  of its own action," said Professor
Bagbanly, "and therefore it sank into the concrete."
     "Yes, you could say that the band devoured itself."
     "But why did it get  stuck?"  asked  Privalov.  "Why  didn't  it go  in
deeper, through  the floor and then through the earth  too, for that matter?
How did gravity act on it?"
     "Gravity?  How little we know about gravity! We may suppose, of course,
that the band  descended  until  it  reached some sort  of  limit,  where it
encountered repulsive forces."
     "The energy limits of penetrability," Professor Bagbanly suggested.
     "Yes,  the  energy limits." Academician Markov took a sheet of  squared
paper from a  folder  and placed  it in  front of his visitors. "I asked our
power experts to make a chart of the phases of  your  experiment. This curve
is power consumption," he said,  pointing  to  it with his pencil.  "You can
clearly see the moment when consumption skyrocketed."
     There was silence for a while as all three studied the chart.
     "The moment  when  matter  absorbed  energy,  to  be more  exact,"  the
Academician went on. "An energy abyss, if you wish.  You simply did not have
enough energy to fill it."
     "What if there had been enough?" Privalov asked quickly.
     "Then I believe the experiment would have continued calmly to the end."
The Academician pointed a long finger at Privalov. "You did not complete the
process of restructuring the internal  bonds of matter. The process exploded
backwards, returning the energy-not only what had been expended but also the
energy of the surface."
     "That means we-"
     "Yes,  Boris. What you called  an  explosion was the surface energy. Do
you recall, last  winter,  my  mentioning a  new  power  source?  Well,  you
obtained it."
     Professor Bagbanly tapped the chart with a fingernail. "This section of
the curve must be reduced to a dot."
     "Yes, but  if we are to reduce the time factor the process must have an
independent and sufficiently large power supply."
     "What kind of supply?" Privalov asked.
     "I don't know yet."
     -That evening Academician Markov rang up the hotel and invited Bagbanly
and Privalov to visit him  at home. He  met them in  the front garden of his
attractive little cottage and led them into a simply furnished sitting room.
Tea was served.
     Over the tea and cakes the Academician said: "I should like to tell you
a rather curious story. Or would you prefer to watch telesivion?"
     "I vote for the story," said Professor Bagbanly, setting down his empty
cup and preparing to listen.
     "Well,  here  it is. While I was rummaging through my collection of old
manuscripts the other day I came across a strange  Chinese tale. Excuse me a
moment." The  Academician left the room,  returning  a  minute later  with a
folder.  "I do  not possess  the original manuscript, unfortunately. It is a
rare collector's item;  the characters are  embroidered  on silk. This is  a
photographic reproduction I brought back from India a few years ago."
     The guests examined the copy of the manuscript with interest.
     "Here is the translation." The  Academician  produced a sheaf of papers
from the folder. "Let me read it to you."

     The Story of Liu Ching-chen, Seeker of Complete Knowledge

     Liu  Ching-chen  dedicated his  life to seeking Truth and Knowledge. He
mastered all the sciences and  all the natural elements:  metal, wood, fire,
water  and  earth.  He knew there existed three worlds: Desire,  Colour, and
Colourlessness.
     He often gazed at the moon. On clear nights he saw, in the moon, a jade
hare pounding a drug in a mortar. Liu Ching-chen knew  that anyone who  took
this drug would gain immortality. But  the moon was far  away. The wisdom of
complete knowledge was still farther away.
     Liu  Ching-chen  read  and  reread  the  Buddhist  secret  books  which
Hsuan-tsang had brought from India. But Hsuan-tsang had not brought  all the
wisdom of Buddha.
     To the west, beyond the high  mountains,  in distant India,  stood  the
mysterious  temple  of  Peals of  Thunder,  where books about  the  heavens,
treatises about the earth, and sutras about evil demons were preserved.
     So Liu Ching-chen turned his face to the west  and set out for India on
foot, knowing  this  would please  the  gods. He experienced  thirst in  the
desert,  fear  in the  forests, and hunger on the barren plains. He  crossed
high rocky mountains, where on stormy nights evil  spirits  sharpened  their
bronze  swords  against  the rough boulders. Finally, after making  his  way
across the last eight mountain passes and through the last nine ravines, Liu
Ching-chen reached India. This was in the year of Metal and the Tiger.
     Liu Ching-chen  came to the Temple of  Incarnation, where special cells
were set  aside  for meditation. Here he was told of a Hindu sage living  in
the mountains who, through frugality, silence and immobility, had attained a
state of mystical awareness that was the Third Degree of Holiness.
     Liu Ching-chen set out for the terrifying  mountains  in search of  the
cave  where  this  India  sage  sat  contemplating  his inner  self,  having
renounced a world that was merely the semblance of reality.
     The sage did not turn Liu Ching-chen away. He told him about the system
of philosophy known as  Sankhya, the eight aspects of the Unknown, the eight
aspects  of Delusion,  and  the eighteen  aspects of Absolute  Darkness.  He
taught  Liu Ching-chen the Four Modes  of Breathing and all else that  gives
man power over his own body. He taught Liu  Ching-chen  the  science of  the
power of the spirit over the world around him.
     Liu Ching-chen  moved into  a cave not far from the Indian sage. He did
not disturb the  sage; he did not see him  in the flesh, but he communicated
with him by the force of his spirit.
     He learned to renounce all that was  earthly. He was indifferent to the
changing of the seasons, to inclement weather, to wind and snow.
     One day, the sky  grew dark. Hot air streamed down the mountain slopes,
driving before it masses of snow that melted instantly. Frightful heat swept
over  Liu Ching-chen; he felt the mountain tremble beneath him. Then  he saw
one of the Five Beasts, the Unicorn, descend from the heavens.
     The Unicorn was more than 300 chi, or 100 metres, long, and at least 80
chi, or  25 metres, around. Its body was covered with golden scales. It  lay
without  moving. Then it expelled a breath, and  the hissing of the air that
came out of  its nostrils was so loud and so terrifying that Liu  Ching-chen
could  no  longer bear  to be alone. He fled  to join his Hindu mentor. They
huddled  together,  trembling  with fear  as they  gazed  at this  sign from
heaven, and they prayed to Buddha.
     Then the jaws  of the Unicorn opened and a man stepped out. Although he
was more than seven chi tall and his  naked body  had a transparent covering
through  which gleamed copper-coloured  skin,  he was a  two-legged creature
with nine orifices, and therefore a human being.
     The   copper-coloured  man   looked  round.  He  carried  a  weapon,  a
three-pronged  spear,  which he  thrust  into  the  rocks without  leaving a
scratch on them.  Then  six  more like  him  stepped  out  from between  the
Unicorn's jaws.  They strode along, plunging their three-pronged spears into
the rocks, producing streaks of green lightning  with which they  splintered
the rocks.
     After a large  number  of  rocks  had  been splintered into rubble  the
copper-coloured men drew a  scroll out of the Unicorn's mouth, unrolled  it,
and turned it into a path that ran of itself but remained in the same place.
They tried to feed broken  stone to the Unicorn,  but every time they picked
them up  the stones fell through the palms of their hands like water through
a sieve.
     They collected  switches of gold and silver, wove  a cage  out of them,
and placed the cage on top of the pile of rubble. They drew red tendons from
the body of the Unicorn and  tied them to the cage.  Liu Ching-chen  and his
companion  heard the Unicorn give a long  scream. They saw  a radiance about
the  cage,  and they  sensed, in  the  air,  the  freshness that  follows  a
thunderstorm.  The copper-skinned  men could  now pick up  the stones, which
they  flung on the running path. The path carried  the stones into the mouth
of  the Unicorn, and the  Unicorn swallowed them. After this the men stepped
into the mouth of the Unicorn, carrying away all the switches from the cage,
and the Unicorn roared with pleasure as it swallowed the stones.
     Finally  the  Unicorn  belched up  the stones it  had not been able  to
digest. These were black and scorched from being in his belly, and the smoke
they gave off was green. Together with the black stones the Unicorn threw up
iron crowns that looked like flowers with many  petals, after which its jaws
snapped  shut.  The Unicorn  rose  on its  tail, erupting fire,  and  soared
upwards. It hovered over the mountain for a long time, resting on the fire.
     Liu Ching-chen  and  his  mentor fell flat on  the  ground, for the air
round them was hot and heavy, and it scorched and oppressed  them. When they
dared to lift their heads the Unicorn was gone.
     At the  bottom  of the  ravine lay  smoking stones, the remains  of its
meal.
     The two men sat there for a long time in a  state of silent meditation,
attempting to comprehend what had taken place.
     Then the Hindu sage rose and walked over to the stones. He bent down to
pick up  the remains of  the Unicorn's  meal, but his fingers passed through
the stones. He was unable to hold them in his hands.
     They  meditated three more days. On the morning of  the  fourth day the
Hindu sage said:  "We are wrong to regard  the world  about us  as Maya, the
world of illusion. Take  those stones. We could  see them and we  could feel
them, but  the celestial beings could only  see them;  they  could not  feel
them. Yet  they had  knowledge. Applying their  knowledge, they  changed the
essence of the stones so that they could feel them.
     "Woe is me!  How many years I have lost seeking knowledge  in the wrong
place! Man does  have power  over material things. Man smelts ore  to obtain
iron.  He  fells trees and  makes  resin.  There is no Maya;  there are only
things and man's power over them."
     The Hindu departed.  But Liu  Ching-chen did not lose  faith. He  wrote
down  what  he  had  seen, and having thus  freed  his  mind  he resumed his
meditation. He was now at peace again. But this peace was disturbed when the
Hindu sage returned to the ravine.
     The Hindu  was richly  outfitted  and was accompanied by many servants.
They placed a black wheel with golden discs before the Hindu and whirled  it
for a long time, like a  prayer wheel, until sparks flew and the air took on
a fresh smell.
     Imitating the  copper-coloured men, the  Hindu placed a golden cage  on
top of the  stones and the iron,  the food of the Unicorn, and repeated what
the copper-coloured men had  done. The stones obeyed him, and he was able to
pick them up.
     "Liu  Ching-chen," he called. "A nobleman has  given me  these servants
and the food and the vessels. I shall  live in his house and seek Power over
Things. You were my disciple before; be my disciple now."
     However,  Liu Ching-chen refused to yield to  temptation. He knew  that
the Hindu, the servants,  the mountains and everything  else  were Maya, the
world of illusion.
     After the Hindu departed, carrying away the stones and the iron  of the
copper-coloured  men, Liu Ching-chen remained in the mountains a long  time.
Then he  went down  to the  valley, to  the Temple of Incarnation. There the
mantle  of holiness  descended  on him. He now returned  home to  teach  his
fellow-men meekness  and humility, inasmuch  as  the world of the senses  is
merely Maya, the seeming, non-existent world.
     The Hindu,  so it  was rumoured,  learned  something mysterious when he
entered into the affairs of earthly rulers and was therefore done away with.
His  soul  went  through  a  bad  reincarnation, descending  the  Ladder  of
Perfection.  Thus,  too,  will  it  be  with  all  who  attempt  to  give  a
materialistic  interpretation  to  heavenly  miracles  and  signs.  Such  an
interpretation is an insult to the  gods, for the world  of things is merely
Maya, illusion.
     Academician  Markov  fell silent. He neatly  folded the  pages  of  the
photographic reproduction and put them back into the folder. Then he removed
his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief.
     The afterglow  of the setting sun slowly faded  outside the  window.  A
bird cried somewhere in the pine woods. The blue silence of twilight settled
over the Moscow countryside.
     The  Academician's guests,  spellbound  by  the story  he had just read
them, sat in silence. Professor Bagbanly was the first to speak.
     "The Hindu  in this  story  reminds me  of the  ancient  sage  in Fedor
Matveyev's manuscript," he remarked, rising. He began to pace the floor. "To
what century does your story relate?"
     "The  sixth,  according  to  the  European  system  of  chronology. Not
earlier.  The  hero read  books which  Hsuan-tsang  brought  from India, and
Hsuan-tsang lived in the sixth century."
     "But wasn't some kind of year mentioned in the tale?"
     "Yes. Liu Ching-chen came to India in the year of Metal  and the Tiger.
According to the old Chinese system, that  was the twenty-seventh year  of a
cycle. There were  sixty years in a cycle. The first year of a cycle was the
year of Wood and the Mouse."
     "How does that fit in with our calendar?"
     "Well,  in the current cycle the year of Metal and  the Tiger was 1951.
If we go back sixty years from that  we get 1891, then 1831, then 1771, then
1711-"
     "The  year  1711?"  Privalov  interrupted.  "That  tallies  with  Fedor
Matveyev's manuscript. Liu  Ching-chen could have come into contact with the
same Hindu sage who several  years later gave Matveyev's  knife the property
of penetrability.
     "Why can't we assume," he went on,  "that a spaceship from some distant
world was forced to land somewhere in  the  Himalayas?  The ship came from a
world where the bonds connecting matter  are different.  The spacemen had to
replenish their supply of nuclear fuel. The rock they found in the Himalayas
proved  to  be  active  enough  for  their  needs.  They  split  it  by  the
electro-spark method."
     "Not the  Lazarenko  method,  by any chance?"  Professor Bagbanly asked
joshingly.
     "At any rate, they probably had a similar method.  But a  hitch  arose:
they  found matter  on earth to be penetrable. They then assembled some sort
of  apparatus  and  changed  the  properties  of  the  stones,  making  them
impenetrable, and loaded them  into the  spaceship on a belt  conveyor. Next
they  repaired the ship, putting  in some new gears and discarding  the used
ones-those  were  the  'iron  flowers'-and flew  off to  wherever they  were
bound."
     Professor Bagbanly laughed. "You'd make  a good science-fiction writer,
Boris."
     Academician Markov was sketching the head of an  old man  with  a beard
and a hooked nose on his writing pad.  He appeared to be completely absorbed
in  what  he  was  doing, but suddenly  he  raised his  head and  looked  at
Professor Bagbanly. "Why not?" he  said. "Anything's possible in this world.
The wildest fantasies do not surprise science any longer."
     "True enough. But a spaceship in the Himalayas-"
     "The Hindu happened to be  in the mountains," the Academician  went  on
quietly.  "He  watched those creatures  from  outer space.  He had  probably
dabbled in  physics  before this. Later  he may  have  used the restructured
stones as  a  force  for  passing  on their  properties to  other  objects."
Privalov  sprang to his feet. "Passing on their properties to other objects?
What an odd idea!"  "Not  at  all," the  Academician  insisted.  "If  we had
something made  out  of  a substance  with changed  bonds-for example,  that
legendary  knife of  Fedor  Matveyev's-we'd immediately  look  for a way  of
transferring its properties." Privalov seemed  upset to hear  this.  "Do you
mean we  aren't on the right track? Does  that mean  the 'half-twist spiral'
which Fedor Matveyev mentioned was  not  a Mobius band  at all but something
else?"
     "No, we're on  the right track, Boris.  About  that band of Matveyev's,
it's hard to tell-  It  may have  been simply a  part of the  apparatus. The
important  thing  is that  the word suggested  a  magnificent idea  to  your
Nikolai Potapkin."  The  Academician paused,  then  went on,  "However, it's
still merely an  assumption. Only one thing is obvious. At the beginning  of
the eighteenth century India had a great scientist,  a man whose name we  do
not know. He greatly enriched his age, but his own life was a tragedy."
     Boris  Privalov sat lost in thought. His mind was on Liu Ching-chen and
the  Hindu  sage.  In  his  imagination  he saw the towering  peaks  of  the
Himalayas, and  exhausted  men  bringing down  some sort of resins  from the
mountains.  Fedor Matveyev  mentioned  those resins,  leading  Koltukhov  to
conceive the idea of powerfully charged electrets.
     After a time he said: "What if we tried to fill in the power abyss with
electrets?"
     "With electrets?" The  Academician  looked  at  him  in  surprise. "But
they're a very weak source, even though, I admit, inexhaustible."
     "Weak, you  say?  But  listen to  this!"  Privalov  retold  the episode
described  in  Fedor Matveyev's  manuscript and  then  spoke  of Koltukhov's
supposition that Lal Chandra's men had charged the resin with cosmic rays.
     "Yes, now I remember," said  the Academician.  "But it never entered my
head- Well, well, do go on."
     Privalov excitedly gave a  detailed  account of Koltukhov's experiments
with electret coatings for pipelines.
     "By Allah, that's not  a bad idea at all!" Professor Bagbanly exclaimed
when Privalov had finished. "The Academy has the most powerful electrostatic
generators  in  the  world.  Let's  use them to  charge  resin according  to
Koltukhov's method."
     "A  powerful, inexhaustible battery of  electrets," Academician  Markov
murmured thoughtfully. "Very well, let's try it." He paused, then said, "The
frequency situation  is clear.  Now we'll tackle the power situation.  Let's
build a model of your pipeless oil pipeline, but in a small pool and without
glass tubes."
     "Like Lal Chandra's?" Privalov asked.
     "Something like it. But without  any theatrical effects such as burning
water.  Lal  Chandra  must  have  broken  down  the  water  in the  pool  by
electrolysis and ignited the hydrogen with a spark.
     That's no use to  us,  of  course. But  pumping  oil  through water  is
something  we want  to do. We'll set  up a  Mobius band  in the pool, both a
reception band  and  a  transmission  band. Also a  power beam installation.
We'll test the electrets.
     "We'll try to drive  a stream  of oil through water. We'll see  how the
restructured  matter  behaves  within the framework  of  intensified surface
tension. If  we  get  results that  look promising  we'll try  to shift  our
experiment to your place on the Caspian. We'll choose a suitable area of the
sea and do  the experiment under natural  conditions. By the way, I must  go
down to the  Caspian for  something  else  besides  this  pipeline business.
There's another problem that is just as important."


        CHAPTER FOUR

        IN WHICH THE CREW OF THE MEKONG LEARNS TO LIVE ON A DESERT ISLAND

     Kneeling behind  Yura's head, Nikolai energetically brought Yura's arms
up over  his  head  and  then back to his sides. He worked steadily, up  and
down, up and down. Val stood beside him. She was shaking all over.  Suddenly
Yura gave a faint groan. Sobbing, Val fell to her knees beside him.
     "Go away!" Nikolai shouted angrily, moving Yura's arms up and down more
vigorously than  ever. Yura's body jerked. He opened his eyes, sighed,  then
turned his head and vomited.
     Meanwhile, the storm continued to  rage.  The wind howled  savagely and
the surf thundered as it crashed against  the rocks. Sand began  to fill the
hollow. It grated between their teeth and sifted into their ears.
     "He'll live," said Nikolai as he threw himself onto  the sand  in utter
exhaustion.
     "My head aches," Yura muttered, looking up at the  dark figures  around
him. "One,  two, three-" he  counted. "Where's  Rex?  Ah,  there he is."  He
closed his eyes. Val held his hand tightly in hers. "I hit my head on a bitt
when the stay-sheet swung past me," he whispered a little later.
     "Nikolai pulled you out of the water," said Val. Big tears were rolling
down her cheeks. Yura muttered something that sounded like "He did the right
thing".
     When it started to grow light the crew of the Mekong climbed the slope.
Below  they saw a strip of beach. Stiff tufts of  tall brown grass thrust up
out of the sand. The Mekong lay on its side on  a reef.  Without its mast it
looked headless. Waves were washing over it.  The  sea,  an angry dark grey,
was covered with whitecaps.
     "Let's take a  look  at the boat,"  said Nikolai, running down  to  the
beach.
     Yura was  about  to follow but stopped  when Nikolai  turned round  and
shouted: "Stay where you are! Valery and I will go."
     The  two young  men slowly  waded along  the reef,  pushing  their  way
through the cold, heavy waves. Large chunks of sandstone were scattered over
the bottom.
     The boat's rudder was  firmly wedged between  two submerged rocks.  The
broken  mast,  still attached to the  deck, was  being pounded  by the waves
against the side of the boat.
     Nikolai and Valery scrambled up onto the deck and made their way to the
cabin, which was half full of  water and  in a  complete mess. The portholes
had been smashed in; a lady's slipper, several ring-shaped bread rolls and a
bunch of onions floated on the water. On the starboard side there was a hole
four  planks wide below the  waterline. Nikolai discovered this when he  put
his foot through it.
     "Looks like we're stuck on this island," he muttered.
     He dived,  ran his hands round the  corner of the cabin that  was under
the water, and brought up a canvas sack of tools.
     "Now I feel better," he told Valery, snorting and blowing out water.
     "Here's the fishing gear!" Valery shouted joyfully. During the night he
had  been silent and a bit frightened. Now he was his old self again. "We'll
catch fish and live like Robinson Crusoe."
     They dragged up to the  deck  everything  the water had not swept  away
through  the hole. Then they  fashioned a  small  raft out of boards, loaded
what  they had salvaged  onto it, lashed the things all  down securely  with
ropes, and dragged the  raft to  shore. Immediately afterwards, they made  a
second trip, returning  bowed down under  the weight of the wet sails. Also,
they dragged the mast to the beach.
     When they had rested up a bit they spread the sails out to dry, placing
rocks  on the corners to prevent them from being  carried away by  the wind.
They likewise spread out  the  salvaged food and  clothing on the pebbles to
dry.
     The high wind drove low, ragged  clouds over the little island and sent
huge waves sweeping across the reef. The five young people  and the dog were
stranded on an inhospitable patch of land.
     Setting her bare feet down gingerly on the pebbles, Rita walked over to
Nikolai.
     "What are we going to do, Commodore?" she asked.
     "We're going to have some breakfast first, and then we'll see."
     They  went back to  the hollow, where they  were sheltered  against the
wind. Yura opened three tins of meat with his knife.
     "Couldn't we heat them up?" Val asked.
     "Certainly. If we had kerosene and matches."
     "No matches at all? How will we get along without fire?"
     "Oh, we'll  have fire," Yura promised. "After all, this isn't the Stone
Age."
     They ate  in  silence, using two  knives, two  screwdrivers and  Yura's
trusty Durandal screwdriver.
     Nikolai reviewed their situation. "The  boat's  smashed,"  he said, "so
we'll have to  forget  about, any further sailing for the time  being. We'll
have  to live on this  island for a while. Fishing, vessels and ships of the
Caspian oil prospecting service sail among these islands all the time, so we
needn't worry about not being rescued. We'll  keep a signal fire burning all
night long."
     "Let's  take stock of our food," Yura  suggested.  "Any self-respecting
Robinson Crusoe always starts with that."
     The  castaways found they had nine tins of meat, four  tins of sardines
and a  tin of hardtack. They also  had three packets of dehydrated pea  soup
that  were  splitting  open, twenty-seven  potatoes,  six packages  of soggy
biscuits, a  bundle  of onions, and  two  bottles  of  vegetable oil.  Their
supplies of flour, sugar, millet grits and butter had vanished for good.
     "What about water?" Rita asked.
     "I  think there's enough." Nikolai indicated a wooden cask. "There must
be thirty litres here. It'll last us a good ten  days. Then we can  use this
resin to turn sea water into at least  twenty  litres of drinking water. But
we don't have enough food."
     "We'll catch fish," said Valery.
     "Yes, of course.  Fish will be our mainstay. We'll save the tinned meat
for an emergency. I'm sure we'll manage."
     The other items  salvaged were: Rita's  sundress, one  sandal of  Val's
(the right foot) and one sandal of Valery's  (the left foot),  the blankets,
the  primus  stove,  the transistor  radio,  the aqualung, the  camera,  the
fishing rod, the binoculars and the compass. Printed matter included sailing
directions, Kaverin's novel  Fulfillment of Desire, whose pages the wind was
indifferently ruffling, and  a map,  now spread out to dry on the  beach and
held down by stones along the edges.
     A mess-tin, a saucepan and a canvas pail were the only vessels they now
had. In  the  tool  case they found,  besides  the  two  knives  and the two
screwdrivers,  a  hatchet,  pliers,  a  chisel,  a  hacksaw,  nails,  a  tin
containing sail thread  and needles, and a tin of  polish with which to keep
the brass on  the boat bright. The label said the  polish could  be used  to
clean  jewels,  dentures,  lavatory  pans, samovars,  wind  instruments  and
trolleybuses.
     "The funny thing is that  it's all true," said Nikolai, turning the tin
about in  his hands. "What a pity we don't have any trolleybuses or precious
stones!"
     They all wore watches, but only Rita's and Valery's  still  kept  time.
Nikolai's watch ticked only  when he shook it,  while  Yura's waterproof and
shockproof model did not react to shaking or to anything else.
     "Well, the  warranty that  came  with my watch said the  wearer  should
guard it against shock and water," Yura remarked.
     He was  studying  the map,  running  his  finger  over the  still  damp
surface.
     "Where are we?" Nikolai asked, squatting on his haunches beside Yura.
     "This must be Ipaty Island," Yura said. "We were driven southwards  and
the gale  struck  right here.  Yes, Ipaty  Island."  He leafed  through  the
sailing directions. "The island emerged from the sea about a  century  and a
half ago. Before that there was a shoal here known as Devil's Site."
     Towards noon the wind  died  down and it grew warmer. The castaways set
about building themselves  a shelter. They placed the  mast on the ground in
such a way  that it jutted all  of three metres over the hollow. Next,  they
heaped stones  on the end of  the mast to  make it secure, and supported the
jutting end  with crossed  boat-hooks.  They  draped the spinnaker over this
frame  and tied the edges to stakes driven into the ground. The  storm  sail
was arranged to curtain off part of the tent for the ladies. They turned the
folded mainsail into a springy floor and the jib into a door.
     Yura  clicked his tongue. "A tiptop wigwam. I've dreamed of living in a
cosy wigwam like this since I was a kid."
     "Our next job," said Nikolai, "is fire. The sky seems to be clearing up
a  bit. As soon as the sun comes out we'll make fire. Meanwhile,  let's  get
some firewood."
     "You  sound  as  though  someone  had  laid  in  a supply  of  firewood
especially for us," Val remarked sarcastically.
     "That's  exactly  what  the   sea   has  done.   North  of  us  lies  a
densely-populated coast. The north wind is the  prevailing wind here. And to
top it all, our camp is  situated on the north side of this island. So there
must be firewood somewhere close by."
     Valery was  told  to  find a  calm  cove  and  try his  luck  with  the
fishing-rod. The others wandered off along the shore.
     "Here's the first piece of wood!" Nikolai exclaimed, picking up an old,
cracked slat from a dinghy.  After that  they  found boards from  crates and
pieces of square beams and fishing-net frames.
     When, loaded with firewood, they  returned to the camp, a patch of blue
was visible through the clouds.  The  sun peeped out timidly but immediately
dived back into a cloud.
     Valery had caught a few little bullheads and one good-sized carp, which
he handed over to the girls to clean. The cloud slid away from the sun. Yura
unscrewed the lens of  the camera and  used it  as a magnifying glass to set
fire  to several  strands  of rope. After energetic blowing, a  few chips of
wood  caught fire. It was not long before a fire  was blazing merrily in the
hollow.
     "We'll never have to worry as long as you boys are here," Val remarked,
smiling.
     The  men sharpened  the knives on  a  flat  stone  and  carved,  out of
driftwood, five objects more or less resembling spoons.
     They set to dinner with a healthy appetite.
     "I never tasted a  better  fish stew  in my life," Rita confessed. "I'm
ashamed of myself but I can't seem to stop eating-"
     After lunch  they grew drowsy,  for none  of them had  slept  much  the
previous night.
     "Crawl into the wigwam and take a nap," Nikolai said. "I'll stand watch
for a while."
     He  sat alone for a long time, tossing pieces of driftwood on the fire.
Rex dozed  by  his  side.  He was glad the girls showed  no  signs of  being
worried  but were  content  to  leave everything to  Yura and  himself. But,
facing the facts squarely,  he had to admit it was  unlikely that they would
be rescued.  They could not bank on anyone calling at the island. He'd  have
to think of a way cut-in the primeval silence the surf pounded with a sullen
roar. The  sky had cleared in the west, and it  now glowed red and gold from
the setting sun.
     He'd have to think of a way out-
     He  dozed  off,  but before long a rustling sound caused him to jerk up
his  head.  Rita had emerged from the tent. She  yawned and sat  down beside
him.
     "Are  we  going  to be here  long, Nikolai?" she asked,  picking  up  a
handful of sand and letting it run through  her fingers. "It's important for
me to know."
     "I'm  afraid I can't tell you. We'll think of  a way out. Are you sorry
you came along?"
     "No, not a bit. But I'd like to return to town as soon as possible."
     "We'll think  of  a way  out," he repeated. "There's no such thing as a
hopeless situation."
     Rita smiled at him. "Be sure to find a way out," she said softly.
     That evening they sang  songs in chorus. They  were in high spirits  as
they learned the  words of a Papuan song that Nikolai had found in a book by
the  explorer Miklukho-Maklay.  The rather  repetitious  Papuan song,  which
fitted in with their present situation, spoke of how to make the pith of the
sago  palm edible.  Yura conducted, while the others danced  round the fire,
hands linked, and sang:

     Bom, bom, marare;
     Marare, tamole.
     Mara, mara, marare,
     Bom, bom, marare.

     Rex howled conscientiously, his muzzle pointed skywards.
     When they finished singing they  decided in what order they would stand
night watches of two hours each. The man on duty would keep  a fire going on
top of the hillock as a signal to any ship that might pass by.
     Yura was  the first to go on duty. Val sat beside  him. Reflections  of
the fire flickered across their faces.
     "Does your head ache badly?" Val asked,
     "No, it's much better."
     "Just think of it-if it  hadn't  been for Nikolai-" She  did not finish
the sentence but moved closer to him. He put his arm round her shoulders and
said in a voice she did not recognize, "Know what, Val? Let's get married."
     He did not see Val's face light  up because just then the fire gave off
a shower of sparks and he leaned forward to toss on a piece of wood.
     Val  laughed softly. "First we'll have to get off  this island-" "Well,
what  do you say?" Val kissed him quickly and rose to her feet. "Good night,
Yura,"  she  whispered, and crawled into  the tent,  smiling  happily in the
darkness.
     The morning dawned on a blue sea without a  single ripple.  Wispy white
clouds floated in the sky.
     Yura and Nikolai waded along the reef until they  reached the Mekong. A
careful examination  convinced them that they would not be able  to patch up
the  hole  or get the boat  off the reef. Two pontoons and a launch would be
needed to tow their sailboat back to the marina.
     On their return  to shore Nikolai  slowly  swept the horizon  with  his
binoculars. Then he handed them to Yura. "Look over there."
     What Yura saw through the glasses  was a lacy  network of lines  in the
sky  that looked as though they  had been drawn  in  India ink on blue silk.
This was the top of an oil rig.
     Yura ran  into the tent  for the map  and  compass. He studied the  map
carefully and then declared  that what they saw was an offshore  exploratory
rig near Turtle Island.
     "Yes, that confirms it,"  he said. "We're on  Ipaty.  (Turtle Island is
about fifteen nautical miles from here. The rig can  be our reference point.
Shall we try to swim there?"
     "No, it's too  far. Besides, the current  will be against  us.  What we
must do is build a raft."
     "A raft?"
     "That's right. With a sail and  a  sliding  rudder. Like the  Kon-Tiki.
We'll choose a  day with a south wind-with a north wind we wouldn't  make it
on a raft-and it  shouldn't  take us more than  eight hours to  reach Turtle
Island. If we find geologists there they'll have a transmitter.  We'll radio
to town and Mehti will send a motor-boat for us."
     "Suppose there aren't any geologists working there?"
     "Then we'll continue on to the next island. We'll go island-hopping."
     "So be it. We'll start building a raft at once."
     After breakfast the castaways  set out to explore  their new domain and
to search for building material for a raft.
     The  north shore of the  island was strewn with driftwood.  There  were
also  logs  that  storms  had  torn  loose  from timber rafts, with  staples
sticking  out of them.  They selected logs  they  could use for the raft and
rolled them higher up on shore.
     Some five hundred metres farther on the sloping shore turned southwards
and  grew  steeper. There the  water  was  a bluish-grey. Large gas  bubbles
seethed in it and burst on reaching the surface.
     "Another volcano!" Yura exclaimed.
     "And  here's  his  land brother,"  said  Nikolai.  Ten metres from  the
water's edge  there was a little mound topped by  a small crater  from which
warm, watery mud was slowly flowing down to the sea.
     Nikolai climbed to the top of the crater, pulled off his  shirt, spread
it out on the ground, and heaped thick grey clay from the crater on it.
     "What's that for, Nikolai?" Valery asked.
     "A stove."
     "But you'll ruin your shirt," said Rita.
     "Quite the contrary. This clay is a fine cleansing agent."
     The south shore proved to be steep. It was edged with a narrow strip of
pebbles and boulders, and there was no sand.
     "An  easy place to approach  from the sea," Nikolai remarked  when they
came to a  cove. "Look,  the water here is deep very close to the shore; you
could come close in a boat."
     "That's just what somebody has been doing," said Valery, pointing to  a
piece of pipe half buried in the pebbles on the beach. It had obviously been
used as a bollard.
     The  young engineers examined the  pipe. They discovered the trade-mark
of  the Southern Pipe Mill and also a series of numbers indicating  the size
of the pipe, the number of the melt, the grade of steel, and the year it was
made.
     "Why, it's last year's date!" Yura exclaimed.
     "That  means geologists come here." Nikolai looked at Rita. "I told you
we wouldn't be stuck here."
     The tour of  the island did  not  take long.  The total  length  of the
shoreline could not have been more than three kilometres.
     "Now, my friends, let's  get to work," said Nikolai after they returned
to camp. "Valery, cast your fishing-line  again.  Yura and I will  drag some
logs."
     With the help from the  girls  Yura and Nikolai rolled the logs on  the
north side  of the island down to the water, roped them together, and pulled
them round to  the camp. On the way Nikolai picked up a stump that was  half
rotten and covered with a thick coating of salt.
     "What are you going to do with that horrid thing?" Val asked.
     "You'll see."
     After a dip in the sea  Yura and Nikolai built a stove out of chunks of
sandstone and coated it with volcanic clay.
     "Campfires may be  more  romantic  but they don't produce much heat and
they eat up a lot of wood," said Yura. "We're not savages, after all."
     Valery  returned  with his catch, followed by Rex, rapturously sniffing
at the fishtails trailing over the pebbles.
     Meanwhile, Nikolai set fire to the rotten  slump. When  it  had  burned
away he collected the ashes in a tin, tasted them, nodded with satisfaction,
and dropped a pinch into the pot in which the fish were cooking.
     "What are you doing?" Val exclaimed in horror. "Are you mad?"
     Nikolai held the tin out to her. "You try it."
     "Not for the world!"
     Rita stuck a dampened finger into the tin and licked it.
     "Why, it's salt!" she exclaimed.
     "Miklukho-Maklay  is  helping us again," Nikolai  explained. "He  wrote
that the tribes of New Guinea  eat the ashes of a tree that has lain in salt
water for a long time."
     Rita laughed. "I've read Miklukho-Maklay too but I don't remember that.
There certainly is nothing to worry about when you boys are around."
     After lunch they boiled some water  and rationed it out. Although water
was poured into a tin for Rex as usual, he refused to drink it.  Instead, he
stretched out in the shade of the tent and  placed  his  tongue on his front
paws. Yura  and  Nikolai exchanged  glances. "What's wrong  with  him?" Yura
asked. "He hasn't touched water since morning."
     "Could he be going mad?" Val suggested worriedly.
     Rita called to Rex, took his head between her  hands, looked closely at
his eyes and nose, then opened his jaws and examined them.
     "I've  never seen a healthier dog in my  life," she said, pushing Rex's
nose into the tin of water. "Please drink, Rex."
     But Rex squirmed 'out of her grip and ran off.
     "I don't like that,"  said  Yura. "I wonder where he's off to. I intend
to find out."
     He set off after the dog, in the direction of the middle of the island.
The others followed. At the top of the rise they saw another mud volcano, at
the  foot  of which grew tufts  of brown grass. Nearby, between two parallel
slopes, there lay  several pools  of water. Rex was wandering  from pool  to
pool.
     "There's  the  answer,"  said Yura.  "The  water  from  the cask  isn't
fresh-and he must  have found fresh  water here this morning. Fine explorers
we  are! We investigated  the  edge of the island but  didn't think of going
into the middle. Rex did our thinking for us."
     Skirting the  mud volcano, they reached  a rise beyond which they could
see the blue water of the cove  where they had  found the mooring pipe. From
above  they  saw a reinforced  concrete dome  rising out of the  grey clayey
soil. Beside it protruded a  concrete ventilation pipe covered with  an iron
grating. On the other side of the dome a pipe covered with  a flaky  film of
oxide jutted out of the ground.
     Nikolai ran his hands over the  rough surface of the pipe.  "Looks like
the exhaust pipe of an engine," he said.
     On the slope there was a depression that led to a massive steel door. A
large  lock wrapped in  a piece of  oily cloth hung on the door. A lead seal
dangled from the lock.
     "I should  certainly like to know what it all means," Yura remarked  at
sight of the seal.
     "Look!" Rita exclaimed. "What's the matter with Rex?"
     The dog was sniffing the sand near the door and whining. Then he ran to
one side and started digging into the pebbles.
     "This looks like an old pillbox," Nikolai said thoughtfully. "There may
have been an antiaircraft gun here during  the war. Now the pillbox is being
used for something else. Perhaps a storehouse."
     "Let's  forget  about it," said  Yura.  "This must  be  something  very
hush-hush. It's no business of ours."
     "What's that dog growling about? Rex, come here," Rita called. "Take it
easy, old boy. We're going home now."


     A week  passed. A cloudless sky stretched above Ipaty Island. The  sea,
alas, was deserted. Neither a wisp of smoke nor a glimpse of a sail appeared
on the horizon.
     Making  a raft out of different-sized logs was a  slow process for  the
inexperienced  builders. After  much effort and many arguments the logs were
selected and neatly tied together. The sliding keel,  made out of pieces  of
board, required just as much effort.
     The spanker boom from the boat, fastened down with shrouds and a  stay,
was the mast. A steering oar made of two long poles and the seat of a chair,
all gifts of the sea, wore attached to the stern.
     All day  long an axe tapped,  a  hack-saw whined, and songs rang out on
the reef where work was in progress on the raft.
     The fish  were biting well. Just in  case, the girls strung the fish on
cords and hung it up to dry in the sun and the wind, the oldest way there is
of curing fish.
     It was not  long,  though,  before all of  them were  sick and tired of
their fish diet.
     "But  it's  good  for you," Rita  scolded  when  she  saw  Yura  toss a
half-eaten piece over his shoulder. "Fish has  lots of  phosphorus; it's the
best brain food."
     "There's nothing  I'd like  better right  now than some sausage,"  Yura
said with a sigh.
     Rex was also tired of fish. He ran about the island hunting lizards and
water  snakes,  partly for  the fun  of it. Sometimes  he  sniffed about the
reinforced concrete dome and  threw up pebbles  with his  paws-always at one
and  the  same  spot. Nikolai  and Yura were  intrigued  by  the  dog's  odd
behaviour. They deepened the hole Rex had  dug,  and about a metre below the
surface  of  the clayey soil  they found the  body  of  a  dog.  Yura gave a
whistle. "This dog was dissected!" he exclaimed.
     "A desert island and experiments on dogs!" Nikolai said. "I'd certainly
like to know what's going on here."
     Widening the hole, they found  that several other  dogs had been buried
there.  Rex alternately growled and  whined  piteously,  pressing  close  to
Yura's  leg. They filled in the  hole and stamped on the earth when they had
finished.
     When Nikolai returned  to camp and  told  the  others about their queer
find a shadow fell across Rita's face.
     "Experiments on dogs?" she repeated.
     She said nothing more for the  rest of the day. In the  evening,  alone
with  Nikolai beside  the  signal campfire, she said, "I  can't stand it any
longer. I simply must return to town."
     "The raft's ready," said Nikolai. "As soon as we get a south wind-"
     "Suppose we don't for another week?"
     Nikolai did not  reply. What  could  he say? There had been a dead calm
for days. Even the flames in the campfire hardly flickered at all.
     In the red glow from the fire Nikolai looked remote and estranged. Rita
turned  her head  to  glance about  forlornly  at the  night;  the  familiar
pounding of the surf rang in her ears.
     "He also experimented on dogs," she said in a low voice.
     "He did?" Nikolai looked at Rita,  then  turned  his eyes away. An  odd
thought had occurred to him. What if-
     Rita was thinking the same thing. Anatole often went away to some  sort
of secret laboratory for long periods of time. He had never told Rita  where
the laboratory was.
     "You made  me promise, Rita, so I'm not saying anything. But  we're not
doing the right thing. The whole matter should be brought out into the open.
Those two ought to be drawn into our joint project. Or, at least, Anatole-"
     Rita remained  silent. Finally  she  said: "I think  he'll realize that
himself.  Anyway, I can't stay here  any longer.  You promised to think of a
way out. Well, keep your promise."
     Nikolai was on the point  of saying that he couldn't conjure up a south
wind, but he refrained.
     Towards the end  of the  eleventh day, after supper, when it had  grown
somewhat cooler, Val suddenly burst into laughter.
     "What a sight you are!" she said, running her eyes over the three young
men. "You're unshaven and dirty-faced. You look  like savages."  She put her
hand  out to touch Yura's soft reddish beard.  He jerked his head  away  and
clicked his teeth.  She drew back her hand. "You really have  turned into  a
savage," she said.
     "You  know, Val,  you and  I don't look any better," Rita remarked, her
glance falling on her scratched and bruised arms and her broken fingernails.
     "You're right," Val  agreed  mournfully. "How grand it would be to wash
my hair in fresh, hot-water and to put on a little perfume-"
     "You know what?  Let's  drive  the  men away tomorrow and heat  up some
water. We'll have a glorious bath."
     "You're wonderful, Rita!" Val cried. "And let's do the laundry too."
     This conversation took place on the eve of their  twelfth  day on Ipaty
Island, a day of important events.
     Next morning Nikolai, Yura and Valery brought armfuls of seaweed to the
campfire  and burned it for  ashes. They carried fresh water  from the pools
near  the mud volcanoes and filled all the vessels. Then they departed. Rita
and Val  scrubbed the clothes, using  ashes and volcanic clay for soap,  and
had a good wash themselves. Meanwhile, the three young men went swimming off
the southern  tip  of the  island, diving and  fishing with their spear gun.
Afterwards they stretched out to rest on the beach of the cove. Rex went  up
the slope in pursuit of a lizard.
     "I  swam to the other side of that headland," said Nikolai.  "The water
there  is  agitated; there  must  be  a  strong  discharge of  gas  at  that
particular spot."
     "Yes, we're living on  top of a  volcano," Yura stated. He was lying on
his  back,  his  face covered with  his  faded red  kerchief. "How hot it is
today! Feels like there's going to be a change in the weather."
     They lay motionless, exhausted by  the  heat and their long stay in the
water. Suddenly they heard a faint sound in the dead silence of high noon.
     Nikolai sat up and cocked his head. "What's that? An engine?"
     The sound was repeated a moment later and then stopped short.
     Nikolai scooped up the binoculars and ran to the top of the slope. Yura
and Valery followed close behind him.
     A boat  was coming towards  the  island from the  west. Although it was
still far  away  they could make out three  figures  in  it. One of them was
steadily bending forward and then backward.
     "It sounded like a motorboat. Why should they be rowing?"
     "Let's  have a look." Yura took the  binoculars from  Nikolai. "They're
coming this  way. And I'll be damned if that  isn't Uncle Vova Bugrov at the
oars!"
     Nikolai snatched the binoculars away from him.
     Yes, it was Bugrov. He sat with his back to the shore, but he turned to
look at the island two or three times and Nikolai recognized him. Bugrov was
propelling the motorboat towards the island with strong strokes of his oars.
Now Nikolai could  make out the two passengers. One of them was Opratin.  He
sat in the stern, in a short-sleeved green shirt and a straw hat.  The third
person, a thickset, shaggy man, sat hunched  over in the  bow. Nikolai could
see  only  his back,  across  which a  white shirt stretched  tight, but  he
immediately knew the man was Anatole.
     "How do  you like that?" Nikolai asked, handing the binoculars  to Yura
again.
     "They've certainly chosen a secluded spot for  their experiments," said
Yura. "Shall we let them know we're here?"
     Nikolai did not answer at once. "Should I tell Rita?" he wondered. From
their hollow on  the  north-eastern shore the  girls  would  not see  a boat
approaching from the west.  Best not to hurry. He and Yura and  Valery would
watch a while longer.
     "Wait a bit," he said. "Let's see what they're up to."
     Yura nodded.  "Right  you are. There must  be some important reason why
they've  hidden themselves away  on this  island. Let's go over  to the  big
crater. The grass is high there and we'll have a good view."
     They whistled  for Rex to come  back to  them and then stretched out on
the slope  of  the crater. The  sun blazed down on  their backs; the  stiff,
prickly grass scratched their bare  skin. But they had a perfect observation
post. The cove lay spread out below them.
     The nose of the boat touched the shore. Bugrov sprang out into the deep
water and tied the painter to a ring on the mooring post.
     Next, Opratin and  Anatole stepped  out  of  the boat.  Anatole at once
started up the slope, panting and halting at frequent intervals to catch his
breath. Opratin remained behind to talk with Bugrov.
     "Good  thing  we were close to the island when the engine  died on us,"
they  heard  Bugrov  say  in  his booming  voice. "I'll  have to  check  the
ignition."
     Opratin  said something  and then turned away to  follow Anatole in the
direction of the reinforced concrete dome. They vanished from view when they
descended into the  hollow in front of  the pillbox  door. The bolt clanked,
then the massive door creaked and slammed shut.
     Bugrov got down to work on the beach. He took the ignition  distributor
out of the engine and laid it on a piece of canvas spread on the ground.
     Yura, Nikolai and Valery  continued  to  lie in  hiding  for some time,
watching him work.
     "I'm fed up with this cat-and-mouse stuff," Yura finally whispered. "We
ought to come out into the open and let them know we're here."
     "Wait a bit," Nikolai insisted.
     "Then let's move into the shade. My brains are sizzling."
     Bending low, they noiselessly skirted the mud volcano and came into the
shade  near the concrete outlet of the ventilation shaft.  The heat was less
oppressive  here. Cool air  from the underground chamber  was wafted to them
through  the  dark  grating covering  the shaft.  They could  hear  a  faint
rustling.
     Suddenly Anatole's voice came to them-so clearly that they gave a start
and involuntarily bent lower.
     "You'll have to get  along without me,"  Anatole  was saying.  "I'll do
what I have to do."
     "Contact Bagbanly? Privalov?" Opratin's voice was so muffled they could
barely make it out. They leaned closer to the grating, their bodies tense.
     "Yes, I will. I'll give them the material and we'll all work together."
     Opratin's  voice  was calm. "You have  no  right to do  that without my
consent."
     "Do  you  have the  right to use the Institute laboratory,  which isn't
yours, and to buy  expensive equipment  for this project  on the Institute's
money?"
     There was a short pause.
     "So that's how you  view the matter," said Opratin. "Very nice of  you.
Why  have you considered  it possible  to  work here up until now? Why  this
crisis of conscience all of a sudden?"
     Anatole muttered something and gave a cough.
     "The result is what counts," Opratin went on. "No  one's going to blame
us after we announce a major breakthrough. Winners are never blamed."
     "We haven't anything to announce. There isn't any breakthrough."
     "Yes there is. Penetrability is in our hands."
     "It's  like a grenade in the hands  of a child. No stability. We  don't
know the essence of the phenomenon."
     "In another month or two we'll achieve stability."
     "You're deceiving yourself!" Anatole shouted.
     Rex  growled  softly  in  reply  and  received  a  slap  from  Nikolai.
Fortunately, the men below had not heard the dog.
     "We've  reached  an impasse,"  said  Anatole.  "We're  not  making  any
headway. We must climb out of this damned cellar and write to the Academy of
Sciences. I realized that long ago, but I was just being obstinate-"
     "You have no right to do that," Opratin said in a  harsh voice. "We did
the work together."
     "Very well. I won't say anything about the circuit  you  developed. You
can choke on it for all I care. But the idea of the 'transmission effect' is
mine. I'm taking the knife and I'll write up a paper on my own work."
     Yura's eyes were round as he nudged Nikolai with his elbow. The knife!
     "You forget, my  dear man, that I was the one who obtained  the knife,"
Opratin remarked coldly.
     "She gave  you the  knife  only because  of me, and not because she was
smitten with you. Ah,  if  only I had listened to  her! Oh well- But why are
you being so stubborn?" Anatole asked after a pause. "We've done an enormous
amount of work. Let's declare honestly that we can't go any  farther without
help. Fame and honours won't slip through our fingers-"
     "That's enough!" Opratin  shouted.  "I'm sick and tired of fussing over
you. You're nothing but a miserable dope addict!"
     "But  who made me an addict? You're  a scoundrel, that's  what you are!
Who procured the drugs for me?  You did-because you wanted to hold me in the
palm of your  hand.  But I'm not a finished man yet.  I'll go into  hospital
and- And you can go to the devil! You may take 'The Key to the Mystery' with
you for all I care!"
     "Get out of here! We're returning to town at once."
     "I should say not. I'm going to  finish  my  latest experiment. I'll go
down below now, rest a while where it's cool, and then-"
     The voices  fell  silent. The two men  must  have moved to  a different
room.
     "Did   you  hear  that?"  Yura  whispered  eagerly.  "They  have  Fedor
Matveyev's knife and 'The Key to the  Mystery'. We were right. They were the
ones who stole 'The Key to the Mystery' from the Moscow museum."
     "Keep quiet!"
     They waited, listening intently.
     "Look  here, Nikolai. We must come out into the open. There's something
very fishy about the whole thing."
     "It doesn't smell fishy to me. It smells of ozone."
     "Ozone?" Yura sniffed. The air coming up through  the ventilation shaft
had a fresh smell as if before a thunderstorm. "High voltage-" he muttered.
     The door on the other side of the pillbox squeaked as it was opened and
then slammed shut.
     Bending  low,  Nikolai  ran  to the mud volcano, with  Yura  and Valery
behind him. They returned to their first hiding place.
     They  saw  Opratin descend the  slope  to  the  beach, carrying a black
attache case. He walked over to where Bugrov was working.
     "Why all of a sudden?" they heard Bugrov  growl. "We were going to stay
three days."
     Opratin said something that they could not hear.
     "Is he staying behind?" Bugrov asked.
     "Yes."
     "Wait a bit, until I put the engine together again."
     "Be quick about it." Opratin began  to stride nervously up and down the
beach.
     "What are we  going to do, Nikolai?" Yura whispered.  "Are  we going to
wait till they return for Anatole?"
     "The devil only knows when they'll come back. We can't wait."
     "Then  let's  go down to them now. At least one  of us could return  to
town with them."
     "I don't want Opratin to know we're here," said Nikolai. "He'll get the
wind up if he sees us here and he'll play some dirty trick on Anatole."
     "But why couldn't  Valery go down  to them and say he  was shipwrecked?
Opratin doesn't know Valery."
     "No, we'll do it differently. He'll never suspect anything."
     Yura stared at his friend, blinking in puzzlement.
     "Valery, be  a  pal and run down to the camp for  the scuba gear," said
Nikolai.  "Bring  some vegetable  oil  too.  We'll  be waiting for  you over
there."
     "What are you planning?" Yura asked. "Are you going to-"
     Nikolai nodded. "Yes, I'll hide underneath the boat and-"
     "You're mad!"
     "Run  along, Valery,  and be quick about  it. Not  a word to the girls,
mind you!"
     Valery gulped in bewilderment.  "No, of course not." He raced round the
mud volcano,  clambered down the slope to the east shore and ran towards the
camp.
     "Don't be an idiot," Yura hissed. "It's fifty miles to town."
     "I  know that,"  Nikolai replied calmly. "The cylinders are practically
full. I'll  tie  myself  under the bow of the  boat  and breathe through the
snorkel."
     "You'll freeze before you're halfway there."
     "I'll cover my body with vegetable oil."
     Yura raised himself on his elbow. "I won't  let  you do it. I'll tackle
Opratin. To hell with him-"
     Nikolai pushed him down hard. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I'll be
all right. After we  leave, you go in to Anatole and talk  to him.  Tell him
Rita  is here. I'll get  Mehti  to  send  a launch for you this  evening. Or
tomorrow morning, at the latest. Okay?"
     Yura knew it was useless to argue.
     They crawled over to the opposite  slope of the big crater, from  which
streams of warm  mud  were flowing, and  descended to the beach on the  east
coast.
     Valery came running up. Nikolai took the bottle, poured some of the oil
into the palm of his hand, and began to  rub it into his skin. His body soon
became shiny and slippery.  He looked at the pressure  gauge on the aqualung
and found that it stood  at 140 atmospheres, which meant it was almost full.
Yura helped him to strap the cylinders to his back.
     "Well, here we go." Nikolai squeezed Yura's hand, then shook hands with
Valery. "See you soon, boys."
     "Be careful, Nicky."  Yura could say nothing more. He looked miserable.
Nikolai clapped him on the shoulder and grinned.
     He  moistened  the mask  in  the sea  and  clamped  his  teeth  on  the
mouthpiece. From  the  mouthpiece  two goffered hoses  led to the cylinders,
while a snorkel for ordinary breathing led upwards. Nikolai put on the mask,
which  covered his nose and eyes. He tied a length of rope around his waist,
walked awkwardly down to the edge of the beach in his flippers, and  entered
the water.
     When he had waded in up to his chin he switched on the cylinders, dived
straight down and then swam along the shell-strewn bottom.
     He  rounded the  steep  headland and entered the  cove.  Using  his air
supply  sparingly,  he slowly swam along the shore  until  he  saw the  dark
bottom of the motorboat. He swam under the boat, cautiously running his hand
along the slimy bottom. At the  bow his  fingers  encountered  the  lifeline
hanging from the starboard side.
     The motorboat rocked and settled  deeply in the stern. The two  men had
evidently climbed in.
     "If only they don't  notice the bubbles," Nikolai  thought as he took a
firm grip on the life line.


        CHAPTER FIVE

        IN WHICH IMPORTANT EVENTS TAKE PLACE ON IPATY ISLAND

     Yura and  Valery stood on  the shore, silently watching the air bubbles
that marked Nikolai's movement under water.
     The silence of the cove was broken by the roar of the outboard motor.
     Yura gave a start, then turned and began to climb up the slope. Pebbles
rattled under his bare feet and sand trickled down.
     From the  slope of  the big  mud volcano  Yura  and Valery watched  the
motorboat leave the cove and disappear round the headland. When it came into
sight again the motor was droning steadily. Its bow rising into the air, the
boat rapidly moved away from the island.
     Through the binoculars Yura saw Bugrov  and Opratin, both in the stern.
A head in a mask jutted out of the water at the bow.
     "He's sitting pretty," Yura muttered.
     "Boys! Where are you?" came Val's voice from  the middle of the island.
Val and Rita appeared on the crest of the next slope. Yura rose and waved to
them. The girls climbed up the side of the mud volcano.
     "We heard  a noise,"  said Rita,  breathing  hard.  "It sounded like  a
motorboat."
     Valery  pointed towards  the  motorboat, now a dark  streak against the
blue water.
     "A boat?" Val asked in astonishment. "Is it coming in?"
     "No, it's going out."
     "Why didn't you signal?"
     "Where's Nikolai?" Rita asked.
     "I'll tell you  all about it." Yura  gave them a brief run-down  of the
day's events on the island.
     "You say Anatole's in there?" Rita  sprang to her feet and raced to the
concrete dome. She jumped down  into the depression in front of the entrance
to the pill-box, then  paused to catch her breath. Her face was pale through
the suntan.
     A lock with a lead seal dangling from it hung on the steel door.
     The others came running up.
     "It's locked," Valery said. "How could that be?"
     "Anatole must have changed  his mind  and  left  with the others," said
Yura. "Actually, we didn't see them getting into the boat."
     "No, we didn't see them getting in but-"
     Yura interrupted him. "He was probably lying in  the bottom of the boat
resting."
     "But  what if Opratin locked  him in?"  Rita  pounded on the steel door
with her fists.
     "Don't start inventing things," Yura said  sternly. "They quarrelled, I
know, but to lock him in- That's nonsense."
     "How did you ever manage to overhear their conversation?"
     Yura gestured with his head. "We were on the other side."
     They skirted the dome and came up to the ventilation shaft.
     "Anatole!" Rita shouted through the grating  into the black maw  of the
shaft. "Anatole!"
     The hollow echo was followed by silence.
     "He went away,  I  tell you," Yura insisted.  Meanwhile,  his brain was
working feverishly. "He could have come out later  than the others- while we
were outfitting Nikolai on the beach," he thought. "We didn't see him in the
boat, but he might have been lying in the bottom for all we know."
     "I simply must get inside, Yura."
     "You mustn't break the seal."
     "I won't have any  peace of  mind until I see  for myself." Rita's dark
eyes were filled with fear. Yura looked  away. He put his hand on the  rusty
ventilation grating.
     "Oh, to hell with it!" he exclaimed after a pause. He looked round. His
eyes fell on an  old, broken oar.  He picked it up and thrust it between the
rods of the grating. After pushing the oar up and down a few times he  heard
the  grating creak and give.  Valery  helped  him  to  pull one  end of  the
loosened rods out of  the concrete  and bend them  upwards. The opening into
the shaft was now wide enough to crawl through.
     "I'll go first," Valery volunteered.
     "No, you stay here. Rita and  I will crawl  in,"  said Yura. "Rita, you
really oughtn't to, of course. You'll scratch your arms and shoulders badly.
But if you insist-"
     "We'll all crawl in,"  said  Val.  "Valery and I also want to  see what
it's all about."
     "I'll swear  everyone's off his rocker today!" Yura exclaimed. "Well, I
can't do anything about it. Hand me a rope, Valery."
     He tied  the rope to  the concrete pipe and  dropped the end  into  the
shaft.
     "I'll  signal  who's  to  go when,"  he  said. "You'll  come down last,
Valery."
     Yura wriggled through  the  opening, crawled into the cool darkness and
began to slide down the rope. Before he knew it he had scraped his shoulders
and  elbows  on  the  rough  concrete.  The  camera  banging round  his neck
interfered with  his movements. The  shaft  was no more than two and a  half
metres deep, after which it levelled out into a horizontal passageway.
     Pressing against the concrete, Yura moved forward, feet first. Soon his
feet reached  empty space. Bending forward,  gripping  the  rope tightly, he
lowered himself into a dark room. When his feet touched the floor he rose to
his full height and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.
     After his eyes had adapted themselves to the darkness he saw shelves of
instruments in the faint light that entered the room through the ventilation
shaft.  He took  a  cautious  step forward but stubbed his bare  toe against
something hard.  He swore out loud. The hard object was a  table leg. He ran
his hand over the top  of the table, feeling papers,  books and some kind of
blocks. At last,  a table lamp! Yura pressed the button and light filled the
room. He glanced round curiously.
     "Did  you  switch on a  light?" Rita  called from above. "May  we  come
down?"
     "Yes,  com