e down,"  Yura  shouted  back.  He stepped over to the  shaft
opening that yawned in the low ceiling and explained how to crawl down.
     Rita was the first to appear. Yura helped her crawl out of the shaft.
     "Have you looked round?" she asked, letting her eyes run over the room.
     "No, not yet. Wait a while."
     Val crawled out of the  shaft, followed  by Valery. All four were badly
scratched. Their tanned arms and legs were covered with white streaks.
     They looked about. Electrical instruments, optical instruments, jars of
chemicals, panels of electronic dials  and a great deal  of other laboratory
equipment lay on the shelves that lined the walls. The  long table was piled
with books, white blocks and rolls of squared paper  covered with  charts. A
canvas folding chair completed the furnishings of the room.
     "We mustn't touch  anything," Yura  warned his companions. His face was
grave; a worried wrinkle  lay between  his eyes. It was clear he felt a deep
sense of responsibility.
     A narrow opening  in the wall led into darkness. Rita resolutely headed
towards the opening.
     "I'll  go first,"  Yura said,  putting  out  an  arm  to  stop  her. He
carefully moved through the  opening and descended a few steps.  His fingers
encountered a switch.  Strong lights  flared  up  beneath a vaulted ceiling,
evidently  the under-surface of the dome visible from outside. In the middle
of the circular  chamber stood an  internal combustion engine connected with
an electric generator.
     Yura leaned over to look at the trade-mark on the generator, and raised
his head in surprise. It had a capacity of six thousand volts!
     "He's not here," said Rita.
     Yura  recalled having heard  Anatole say:  "I'm going  downstairs."  He
glanced round. There it was, a hatch in the concrete floor. He gave a strong
tug at the ring, and  the lid came up.  Holding onto rungs in the wall, Yura
descended the steps in the direction of a light.
     "You can come down!" he shouted as he stopped to look round.
     Two white columns that were insulators stood on the other side of a low
partition. The tops  of the columns went  through the ceiling into a chamber
where they were crowned by large metal spheres. In a deep hole at  the  foot
of the columns there was  an electric motor with a roller across which ran a
wide band of silk.
     The motor was in operation. Yura heard the faint swish of the silk band
as it passed over the roller. A smell of ozone came up from the hole.
     "Is that a Van de Graaff generator?" Valery whispered.
     Yura  nodded. His mind  was on something else. He could  not understand
why everyone had gone away and left the generator running and the lights on.
Then his attention was caught by something else.
     A pile of thick discs about one metre  in diameter, apparently plastic,
lay  beside the Van de  Graaff generator  on a  support made of high-voltage
insulators. On the top disc lay a sheet of copper from which an unbelievably
thick cable ran to a white control panel.
     "Look  at  this!"  Yura held  out  his Durandal  screwdriver.  The neon
indicator bulb in  the handle shone a bright red. "Don't touch anything,  he
warned. "This seems to be a battery of electrets with a colossal charge from
the generator. Everything here is live."
     "Electrets?" Valery asked. "The things Koltukhov is investigating?"
     Yura did not reply. The situation worried him. "This is quite a voltage
and quite a setup," he said to himself. He walked over to the white panel of
instruments and levers. The face plates of cathode-ray tubes gleamed. Inside
a coil  beside  the  insulators hung  a  medium-sized knife  with a yellowed
handle.
     "My  knife!"  Rita  exclaimed,  moving   towards  the  coil,  her  hand
outstretched.
     "Get back!" Yura roared. "Are you mad? Look at this!"
     The bulb in the handle of the Durandal was blinking away for dear life.
     "This must  be the main  voltage  node," Yura thought. "I wonder  where
those wires go."
     Wires ran from the coil to  a  large cage of vertical copper tubes. The
cage was empty except for two rods, joined by a cross-piece, that jutted out
of the concrete floor. A piece of cloth that looked like tarpaulin or canvas
lay on the cross-piece.
     Yura brought his screwdriver up to one of  the tubes  out of  which the
cage was made. The indicator continued to light up.
     "What's that?" Val pointed  to a  half-open  cardboard box lying beside
the cage.
     Yura picked up the box. Glass ampoules  sparkled in it. Before Yura had
time  to read the Latin  name  on  the blue label Rita snatched the box from
him. She gave the box one glance and then flung it away.  Her lips quivered.
She turned aside. Completely mystified, Val and Valery stared at her.
     Yura alone noticed that  the  box  had fallen  on the floor inside  the
cage-and had vanished. It had sunk into the concrete floor without leaving a
trace.
     Yura stared dumbfounded at the spot where the box had fallen.  This was
penetrability!
     "I want that knife," he heard Rita say.
     He turned to her. "You mustn't touch anything."
     "But  it's mine!" Rita's voice rose.  "Besides, you said yourself  that
Anatole wanted to break with Opratin and take the knife with him."
     Yura shrugged. After all, it was her knife.
     "All right," he said. "But first I'll use my camera."
     He  took several  pictures of  the  mysterious  cage,  the wooden  rods
jutting  up out of the floor, and the  control panel with the knife  and the
coil.
     Then he carefully examined the apparatus. The wire  that ran  from  the
knife handle was plugged into a socket in the control panel. Yura pulled out
the plug. After reading what was written above the buttons, he pushed one of
them,  in  the middle of the panel. Cautiously he switched off the  magnetic
starter, then brought his  screwdriver up to the coil. Now the indicator did
not flicker.
     His  heart beating fast, he released  the coil that held the  knife  in
place and drew it out of the spiral.
     "Is that Fedor Matveyev's knife?"  Valery whispered, breathing down his
neck.
     So this was Fedor Matveyev's knife! It had an ivory handle  yellow with
age, and a wavy pattern  on the damask-steel blade, the blade that had slain
the Incorporeal Brahman in the temple of the goddess Kali.
     Yura placed the palm of his hand against the cutting edge of the blade.
His hand passed through the steel. Valery tried  to seize the blade  but his
hand closed over emptiness. His eyes shone with excitement.
     Yura held out the knife to Rita. "Here you are. See that you don't lose
it again. Are you satisfied now?"
     "I certainly am," Rita  replied. "Anatole was here  but he  left. Let's
go."
     "As soon  as we return to town give the  knife to Anatole," said  Yura.
"Otherwise you may land in all sorts of unpleasantness."
     "You're  quite  right."  Rita's thoughts turned  to  Nikolai. "Isn't it
awfully dangerous to hang in the water under a boat for such a long time?"
     "He'll hold out."
     They climbed the steps to the  top floor of the laboratory. Yura looked
at  the  table  again.  This  time  he  noticed a small  flat iron  box half
concealed by papers.  One of the  sides had been removed, so that the row of
tenons of the dovetail joints seemed to grin menacingly at them.
     "This is it!" Yura exclaimed, seizing the box. "This is 'The Key to the
Mystery'."
     Indeed, it was  the  last  of the  three boxes  which  Count Joseph  de
Maistre had sketched  on the  final page of Fedor Matveyev's manuscript, the
box  that had  been  stolen  from  the exhibition in  Moscow. There was  the
familiar engraving on the cover:
     AMDG
     JdM
     "It's  'The  Key to the Mystery'," Yura repeated, his voice solemn. "It
should contain an explanation of the riddle of Fedor Matveyev's knife."
     "Oh, Yura, let's look inside it," Val pleaded.
     "Well, here goes. You are witnesses." Yura, pale  with excitement, drew
out a thick yellowed sheet of paper folded several times.
     The sheet did not rustle.
     "It must be parchment."
     "Yes, it is." Val fingered the sheet. "Calfskin.
     354
     My,  how  thin it is!  Calfskin was  used  only  for the most important
documents."
     Yura unfolded the sheet.  His eyebrows, bleached white by the sun, rose
higher and higher.
     What he saw was a strange drawing of a seven-pointed star surrounded by
circles, with radial lines, ciphers and symbols.
     "The zodiac, eh?" Yura muttered.
     "Let  me  look."  Val  took  the  parchment  from  him.  "Why,  it's  a
horoscope!"
     Yura was astonished. "A horoscope?"
     "Yes, and evidently the horoscope of some important person."
     Yura began to laugh.
     "What's so funny?" Val asked.
     "A horoscope,"  Yura  groaned.  "So  that's  what we've been hunting so
long!" Laughter choked him. "That old scoundrel! He led us all up the garden
path."
     Valery burst  out laughing too,  although he  had only  a vague idea of
what it was all about.
     "Who's a scoundrel?" he asked, still laughing.
     "Count Joseph de Maistre." Yura had  calmed down  somewhat. "He was the
one who called a horoscope 'The Key to the Mystery'."
     Val did not  share their  merriment.  "Stop giggling,"  she said. "This
might be some kind of a code. There are Latin words at the bottom."
     The  text  under  the  horoscope started with  the  words  Anno  Domini
MDCCCXV.
     "That's the year 1815," Val explained. "In  the middle there's  another
date-MCMXV-the year 1915. A century between the two dates."
     "Look, there's  something  written on the back too," said Rita, who was
examining the parchment. "What's this? Why, it's my name!"
     The  other  side  of the  parchment  was  thickly  dotted  with circles
connected by lines.
     Theodor Matvejeff ö 1764  was clearly written  in the  top circle. (The
sign ö means "died". -Ed. It is used in genealogies')
     Marguerite Matvejeff was written in the circle at the bottom.
     "This is the genealogy of the Matveyev family," Yura said thoughtfully.
"Starting with that naval lieutenant and ending with you, Rita."
     Rita gave him a startled  glance. "Do you mean to say the Jesuits  have
been spying on our family all these years?"
     "We'll soon find out." Yura  took the parchment from her, folded it and
put it  back in  the iron box.  He closed  the box and fitted the cover into
place. "I'm taking this with me. It was stolen from a museum."
     He wound the chain attached to the  box round the  strap  of his camera
and looked about him once more.
     "Let's get out of here.  You go first, Valery." Valery seized the rope,
pulled  himself up  on  it, and vanished  into the  ventilation  shaft.  Val
followed  him.  When  Rita  went over to  the wall and grasped the rope  she
suddenly turned  to look at Yura. She was struck by the  strained expression
on his face. She followed his eyes but could see nothing except the  folding
chair. "What's the matter, Yura?" "Come, climb up," he said in  a low voice.
He  was  staring  fixedly  at the  folding  chair, at  the  two rods with  a
cross-piece over which canvas  was stretched. Down  below, inside  the cage,
the top of the same kind of folding  chair  was sticking out of the concrete
floor.
     The chair had sunk into the concrete  floor! In the same way as the box
of ampoules but not completely.
     Yura shuddered. He squeezed  his eyes tight and shook his head.  No, it
was impossible! It could not be!
     "Yura!" came Val's voice from the "shaft. "Yura, where are you?"
     Yura shook himself.  He turned out the light, walked slowly to the wall
and began to climb up the rope.
     The sun  now hung on  the very horizon. The slopes cast long shadows on
the sand.
     "Do you suppose Nikolai is there by now?" Rita asked.
     "He must be," Valery said.
     "Why did he risk it?"
     "He's an excellent swimmer. Besides, you know how strong he is."
     Rita gave Valery a grateful look.
     They reached the camp. Their dinner hour was long past; it was time for
supper. Suddenly Yura halted.
     "Where's Rex?" he asked. Putting  two fingers in his mouth, he  gave  a
long whistle. "Rex!" he called.
     The dog was nowhere in sight.
     "You go ahead and prepare  supper," said Yura. "Valery and I will  look
for Rex."
     They found him on the shore of the  southern  cove, sitting at the very
edge of the water.  He turned round  for an instant when Yura called to him,
shifted his paws restlessly, and turned back to stare into the water.
     Yura and Valery ran down the slope to  the beach and came to  an abrupt
halt. The cove was swarming with  water  snakes. Holding their  heads  above
water, they were swimming out to sea. From higher up the beach more and more
were slithering out  of  their holes  and heading  for the water. There were
hundreds of them, all  good swimmers. They were accustomed to migrating from
island to island in search of birds' eggs, but such a  mass-scale exodus was
extraordinary.
     "It's all  very  strange, their  deserting  this  island,"  said  Yura.
"Something is worrying Rex, too."
     He  lay down  on  the  beach  beside  Rex,  and  suddenly  felt  faint,
wide-spaced earth tremors. What a damned island!
     "Let's go up to the big crater!" he cried, springing to his feet. "Rex,
come with us!"
     Warm  grey  volcanic  mud usually  flowed  slowly  over the edge of the
crater. Now the flow had stopped, and the mud was hardening.
     "The crater  is  closed," said Yura. "What do you know about that?" "Is
it a bad sign?" Valery asked. "Yes, very."
     When the two young men returned to camp they found the girls busy round
the fire. Val was telling Rita something about  horoscopes, while Rita  kept
one eye on the fish stew.
     "No need to upset them," Yura thought. "It may all blow over. At least,
we won't tell them till  the  launch arrives.  It probably won't  come  this
evening. Most likely tomorrow morning. I wonder how Nikolai made out. What a
stubborn devil he is! And what a day this has been!"
     They ate the now unbearably tiresome fish stew in silence.
     Val  sighed.  "It  seems  impossible  to  believe we'll  really be home
tomorrow. Imagine-a hot shower, clean sheets, and food that doesn't taste of
fish."
     "Just  wait,  Val," said  Rita. She  sat up  straight, her body  tense,
listening. "I may  be  imagining things but  it  seems  to me  the earth  is
moving." For a  time  there was silence round the fire. "I may as well  tell
you,"   Yura  remarked  casually,  removing  a  fishbone   from  his  mouth.
"Something's   happening  inside  the   earth.   The  craters,   which   are
safety-valves for  gas  that  is compressed  by  tremendous  pressures,  are
blocked up.  Now  the gas  is bubbling deep down inside the earth, seeking a
way out-"
     "Where will it come out?" Val asked.
     "If we only knew!  Or  when- Perhaps  a hundred  years from now-or in a
minute.  On  the whole, that's  the situation." He  rose.  "Get your  things
together. We're moving out to the raft. We'll be safer there."
     It  took them only half an hour to  break camp. The population of Ipaty
Island, with all its possessions, migrated to the raft.
     Time passed slowly. The underground rumbling suddenly grew much louder.
Whimpering, Rex pressed himself against Yura's leg.
     All of a sudden the island rocked  as a white pillar of gas flew up out
of the moving ground. A shower of pebbles and chunks of clay drummed down on
the raft. Fierce  heat hit their faces. Fire flashed. A gigantic torch leapt
skywards with a roar.


        CHAPTER SIX

        WHICH TELLS OF FIRE AND WATER

     Nikolai waited a few seconds after the  stern of the motorboat  settled
into the water, then cautiously raised his head beside the bow, knowing that
he could not be seen from where the men were seated.
     The  boat had  cast off. Nikolai could hear the clink of metal.  Bugrov
must be putting the ignition distributor back in place.
     "You're  always in such a tearing hurry," Nikolai heard Bugrov grumble.
"I didn't even have a  chance to catch any fish.  There's lots of fish here.
See  all  those  bubbles  on top  of  the  water?"  "Stop  chattering," came
Opratin's  hard  voice. "They  don't suspect anything," Nikolai  thought. "I
mustn't  lose any time. I'd  better make  myself  comfortable here under the
bow."
     He quietly drew  one end of his rope through  the lifeline hanging over
the starboard side. He ran the other end of the rope through the lifeline on
the port side. Then he tied the two ends together under the water and thrust
his  arms through the loop so that the rope ran under his  armpits. Now  the
two aqualung cylinders pressed against the bottom of the boat, with the keel
beam between them.
     "Not bad at all," Nikolai  thought, gripping the rope, his arms bent at
the elbows. "It won't be so bumpy."
     The motor  began  to  drone evenly,  and the  boat  moved away from the
shore, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The headland swam into  view
and vanished.
     As the  boat  ploughed forward its  prow  rose  into  the air,  lifting
Nikolai's head and shoulders out of  the water. He now  breathed through the
snorkel to save the air in the cylinders.
     He calculated that the motorboat  should cover the fifty  miles to town
in  about  five hours. The cylinders of the aqualung held about 2,000 litres
of air. He had used up some two hundred litres swimming underwater to get to
the  motorboat.  The  aqualung  could  be  used  until the  pressure  in the
cylinders dropped  to thirty  atmospheres.  This meant the last four hundred
litres could  not  be used.  Near town he would have  to  drop off and  swim
underwater for  ten minutes or so. That gave him  1,000 litres for the trip,
in other  words, half an  hour's supply of air. It was  to be used in case a
head  sea prevented him from breathing through  the snorkel. He must try not
to make unnecessary  movements. Still, he  could not get along  on less than
thirty litres of air a minute.
     Everything  went well at first. Skimming above the smooth sea,  Nikolai
enjoyed the water that streamed round his body. His feet, supported by broad
flippers,  trailed behind.  The cylinders on his back pressed firmly against
the keel beam.
     But soon the boat encountered a head  sea. The prow  rose and fell, and
Nikolai had to adapt himself to  this by inhaling only when the prow was out
of the water. Even so,  water got into the snorkel now and then, and Nikolai
did not always have time to clear the tube.
     Once,  when the prow rose high out  of the  water, Nikolai saw,  on his
left,  the  sun shining brightly  on black  rocks surrounded by  foamy white
surf.
     He knew  these rocks. He felt as  though  he had been  under that keel,
lashed by the  waves, for an eternity. Yet they had only covered  about five
miles, one-tenth of the distance!
     Nikolai was getting used to meeting the waves head on, but his body was
growing chilled from the wind and the water. Evidently the oil he had rubbed
into his skin was being washed  off. He felt colder and colder.  The rope to
which he was clinging cut into the palms of his hands. A sharp  pain twisted
the big toe of  his left foot and quickly rose to his calf. With difficulty,
he turned on his right side. Bending his knee and then straightening out his
leg, he struggled desperately against the cramp.
     Suddenly he heard the motor slow down. The prow sank into the water. He
was now submerged. The boat came to a stop.
     Breathing at once grew easier. The motionless water seemed much warmer.
Nikolai cautiously thrust his head out of the water.
     "Why must you take a  dip now?" he heard Opratin's irritated voice ask.
"Why can't you wait?"
     "Why wait? It's  hot,"  said Bugrov.  "Just a  quick dip. There's  Bull
Island on the 'left. That means we're halfway."
     "Only halfway? We're going very slowly today."
     "You're right," Bugrov agreed. "I wonder why." Opratin spoke again. "By
the way, where did you pick up Anatole Benedictov in town?"
     "Where we agreed-at pier 16. Then we went to pier 24 to pick you up."
     "Was there anyone else on 16? Did anyone see you?"
     "I don't think so. Why?"
     "Oh, nothing. Hurry up and take your dip."
     The boat listed and there was a splash. Bugrov must have dived from the
stern. Nikolai  slipped out  of  the rope, turned  on  the  air valve,  and,
twisting his body so that he faced the bottom, dived.
     While Bugrov splashed about the stern, Nikolai waited to one side, at a
depth  of three metres. That  clown  was hot  and wanted to cool off, so he,
Nikolai, had to expend some of his precious air! True, this break gave him a
chance  to stretch his stiff arms and legs  and warm up. How thirsty he was!
He  had not had  anything to  eat or  drink since morning.  His  mouth  felt
horrible  from  swallowing salt  water. And  only  halfway  there-two  hours
more-an eternity. Oh, for  a  cup of hot tea! The strong tea Mehti brewed at
the marina.
     There  was  a   rattling  sound  in  the  boat.  Working  his  flippers
energetically,  Nikolai swam up to the bottom of the  boat, gripped the rope
again, and switched his breathing to the snorkel.
     The  motor came to life.  The waves that beat against him  kept sending
water into the tube. Before he  managed to  blow it through  he took another
gulp  of sea water. He  was growing steadily colder.  His  body did not have
time to compensate for the heat that the air and water were carrying off.
     A  transparent edge of water splashed in the plexiglass eyepiece of the
mask. Every now and then Nikolai lifted his head out of the water by raising
himself on the rope. The sea had grown darker, and so had the sky. A crimson
sun hung in the sky to the left, ready to sink into the sea.
     Something black suddenly flashed before his eyes, followed at once by a
painful blow on his left shoulder.
     It was  a heavy, watersoaked log which could easily have ripped a  hole
in the bottom of  the boat. But luckily it only hit the boat a slanting blow
on its port side after scraping Nikolai's shoulder.
     "A  close  shave,"  Nikolai thought,  unaware  that  his  shoulder  was
bleeding. He did not know which was worse-the constant cramps in his legs or
the  nausea  caused by  loss of blood, the cold, his  thirst and  the  large
amount of sea water he had swallowed.
     The nausea, the  cramps, the  tearing pain in his shoulder and the cold
water  sweeping over his tortured body  began to obscure  his consciousness.
"You told me  to think of a  way out. Well,  here it  is. It's all  for your
sake. Sitting  beside the fire with you was wonderful. Your hand  I dare not
touch. Your hand I dare not touch."
     The drone of  the motor intruded into his fading consciousness.  With a
great effort he lifted his head.
     Lights  ahead! The red and white lights of the channel  buoys winked in
the twilight.
     Lights had been switched on in the city too. He'd made it!
     Nikolai turned on  the cylinders and  climbed  out of the rope. Placing
his flippers against the bottom of the boat, he shoved off.
     How black the water was! Inhale-exhale- inhale-exhale-
     He came to  the surface and pulled out the  mouthpiece. The boat was no
longer in sight.
     To the left-he must swim to the left, in the direction of the marina.
     That evening dockmaster Mehti climbed  into  his  dinghy, as usual, and
set out to see if all the sailboats were properly tied up at their buoys.
     Old  Mehti was in  a  foul mood. Almost  two  weeks had  passed, and no
Mekong. Nikolai was an  experienced  sailor, but why hadn't  he informed him
about the  delay? He had  rung up  Lenkoran and talked  with the coastguards
there. They told him  the Mekong had not entered the mouth of the Kura. They
had promised to send a launch to search among the islands.
     His  job  at the marina was becoming altogether  impossible. He had  no
time to do  anything but take phone calls. From one woman in particular, who
said her daughter was aboard  the Mekong. She cried as she talked to him. He
could not understand why the men had taken  girls with  them.  When  you had
women aboard you had tears. That was a well-known fact.
     Mehti steered his dinghy up to buoy No. 2.  The Hurricane was well tied
up.  But why was there a man with  cylinders on his back and flippers on his
feet lying on the deck?
     "Hey, you, this isn't a hotel!" Mehti shouted angrily.
     The man did not  stir. Mehti climbed aboard  the sailboat. He bent over
the  man, who  was  lying  face  downwards,  a  mask  clasped  tight  in  an
outstretched hand, and turned him over.
     "Nikolai," he muttered in astonishment.
     It was all  of twenty  minutes  before Nikolai recovered consciousness.
His limbs jerked spasmodically.  The light hurt his  eyes. When  he tried to
throw off the blanket Mehti had laid over him his arm refused to move.
     Suddenly he realized that he was lying  in the dockmaster's quarters at
the marina. He saw Mehti's face bending over him. He heard Mehti's familiar,
grumbling voice.
     "Ipaty Island," he  said hoarsely, his tongue  moving  with difficulty.
"Send a launch-Ipaty Island-" Then he fainted again.
     The ambulance which the dockmaster had summoned sounded its horn.
     After  Nikolai was  driven away  to  hospital  Mehti rang  up the  port
authorities to notify them that he  was  putting  out to sea in a launch. He
could not understand  how Nikolai had reached the marina. It was nonsense to
suppose he  had swum  all the way from Ipaty Island. The days of miracles at
sea  were  over. But one  thing was certain: something  had  happened to the
Mekong. Mehti put a first-aid kit into the launch.  He was bending over  the
engine, tuning it  up for the trip,  when he noticed  a glow in the sky. The
rosy-hued reflections of a distant fire shone in the southern section of the
evening sky. Mehti climbed  back to the pier from the launch. He stood there
wondering what to do, his gnarled fingers moving impatiently. First, he must
find out where the fire was.  He stepped into his office but before he could
lift the receiver the telephone rang.
     "Mehti?  Port duty officer Seleznov here. You  just told us one of your
boats was stranded at Ipaty,  didn't you? Well, we're sending a torpedo boat
to that area to investigate the fire. Want to come along?"
     "Of course I do," Mehti replied.
     The  torpedo boat  slid up  alongside the pier soon  after. "Climb  in,
Mehti,  and  we're  off,"  the  tall,  helmeted  captain  shouted  from  the
deckhouse.
     Mehti sprang onto the deck. "How are you, Konstantin," he said, shaking
hands with the captain. "Haven't seen you for a long time."
     "Since last year's regatta. How have you been keeping, old man?"
     The  engines revved up, and the torpedo boat swung round and headed out
of the bay, leaving two long trails of white foam behind.
     Mehti  sat down  on the  low  deckhouse railing. Two  men  in  civilian
clothes were  standing  on  deck, and  several more were  below in the  tiny
cabin. Mehti guessed they were oil experts and oilfield firemen.
     When they were  well  out of  the  bay  the captain nodded to the petty
officer beside  him  and the officer  pressed the lever of the accelerators.
The engines roared deafeningly and the launch  leaped forward. The glasslike
bow-wave was motionless and pink in the glow of the fire.
     Mehti descended the narrow ladder to the cabin, where he sat down  on a
folding chair. It  was quieter  down below. The  oil experts were exchanging
brief  comments. Some  thought the  fire  might  be at  the oil well on High
Island, the well farthest out in the archipelago.
     The captain came down the ladder. "My radio operator says the situation
on High Island is normal. From there they can see the fire to the southeast.
A message from a fishing village  at  the mouth of the  Kura reports that  a
fire can be seen in the northeast."
     He spread a map on the table. "It must be somewhere in the Ipaty area,"
he said,
     Mehti went up on deck. The ominous red glow that filled the sky and the
sea was  growing brighter  by the minute.  Soon  a pillar of  fire came into
view. There was no longer any doubt about it. Ipaty Island was in flames.
     Mehti stared in silence at the giant torch erupting out of the sea.
     "Was this where your young  people were?"  the captain  shouted in  his
ear.
     The dockmaster did not reply. His face, lit up by the fire, was stony.
     Advancing from  the  weather side, the  torpedo  boat slowly approached
what  had  only recently been an island. The water  at the foot of  the  gas
torch seethed and raged.
     "Ipaty has gone to the bottom," someone said gloomily.
     "We must extinguish this fire," one of the oil experts  said, shielding
his face from the heat with his hand. "If the wind rises the fire may spread
to the rigs on Turtle Island-and there's gas there too."
     The torpedo boat circled around the  remains of the  island. It pitched
heavily, for the sea bottom was still shifting and the sea was turbulent.
     "May I take a look?" Mehti asked the captain. He trained the binoculars
on  the reef and  saw the  black skeleton of the sailboat. Tongues of  flame
were  still  licking  the  deck. Mehti  lowered  the glasses.  His  face was
expressionless. Big tears rolled down his bristly cheeks.
     A  call  was  sent  out  for fire-fighting  launches.  Several of these
manoeuvrable little boats with high superstructures arrived on the  scene an
hour  later.  Surrounding the pillar of fire, they trained powerful  jets of
water on its base.
     The fire put up furious resistance. First it retreated hesitantly, then
leaped  forward in  an attack on the launches.  The  paint  on  the launches
cracked and peeled off in curlicues. The fierce heat scorched the sailors in
their asbestos suits.
     Although the launches were tossed from  side to side by  the waves  the
firemen, most of them former navy gunners, firmly controlled the hoses. They
crossed their jets of  water at the  base of the pillar, to sweep the  flame
off the surface of the sea:
     It was impossible to tell whether it was night or day.
     Finally  the jets of water sliced off  the pillar of fire at its  base.
After a last burst of flame the fire died away.
     Darkness  fell instantly. It was not exactly  dark, though, for the sky
was just beginning to grow light in the east. Could it have taken an  entire
night to fight the fire?
     Dockmaster Mehti asked the captain to come  as close as possible to the
reef. He stared at the blackened framework of the sailboat for a long time.
     The  captain  touched   his  shoulder.  Mehti  silently  gave  him  the
binoculars. He  slowly went down  to the cabin, stretched  out on the little
sofa, and turned his face to the wall.
     Their engines  roaring,  the  torpedo boat and  the fire launches moved
away from the island that no longer existed.


        CHAPTER SEVEN

        IN WHICH AN INCORPOREAL MAN APPEARS ON THE SCENE AGAIN

     Nikolai Opratin sat  on  a  bench on  Seaside  Boulevard,  watching the
crowds  strolling past him. It was a hot summer evening, and the entire city
was streaming towards the sea.
     The clicking of  triggers came from  the shooting-gallery. The majestic
strains of Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto floated from the bandshell.
     There was  not a single vacant place on the benches. On  Opratin's left
some young people were  eating  ice-cream  and laughing. On his right others
were  joking  and  laughing.   "What  a  pack  of  fools!"  Opratin  thought
disdainfully. "Cackling like geese."
     He found he was unable to concentrate. This had never happened  before,
and it made him angry.
     He had returned from the island only two hours before. From the pier he
had taken a taxi home, where a cold shower  had failed to dispel his anxiety
and despair. A vein  under his left eye throbbed annoyingly. He examined his
face in the mirror  and pressed  the vein with a forefinger, but it  did not
stop throbbing.
     He  felt that he simply could not remain at home alone.  He  had to get
outdoors. A few minutes later he put on his straw hat and went out to sit on
a bench on the boulevard.
     How had  it all happened? After Anatole  went below,  Opratin  remained
alone for  a while, studying the  charts of the latest  experiments. He  was
upset by the talk he had  just had  with Anatole. That miserable dope fiend!
Wanting to  surrender the hard-won fruits of their labours! He certainly was
not going  to  let that happen.  First, he'd see to it  that Anatole and the
Institute  parted  company.  He  knew  he could convince  the  director that
Anatole had  to be dropped because he was  no longer  suitable for his post.
Then he would render Anatole helpless by confiscating all his papers and the
records of the experiments.  The knife, too. Actually, though, the knife was
not really needed any  longer. There were "charged"  pieces of  metal and  a
portable installation.
     Opratin gathered together the papers he needed and  went downstairs for
the portable installation.
     Anatole was dozing in the folding chair,  inside the cage. He must have
given himself  another shot in  the arm. Opratin kicked  the box of ampoules
that lay on the floor. He  stared down at Anatole, frowning. The puffy face,
the rumpled hair, the hoarse breathing. A living corpse, actually.
     As he  picked  up  the  black  attache  case  containing  the  portable
installation Opratin  became  aware  of  a faint  rustling and crackling. He
glanced at  the control panel and swore  under his breath. The Van de Graaff
generator  was switched  on. The  endless silk band  rustled  from pulley to
pulley, carrying a  flow of static charges  to the spherical  tips.  And the
tips were strongly charged as it was.
     Anatole  was  a  maniac!  He  must  have  again  tried  to  adjust  the
installation by  increasing the field intensity.  ;  Restructured matter was
not  supposed  to drop downwards; the  earth's gravitational field pushed it
up. Or, at any rate, this had been the case  in the beginning. But in recent
weeks the installation seemed  to have  gone mad. The  concrete floor of the
cage swallowed up everything thrown into the cage.
     Lately, the  cage seemed  to draw Anatole like a  magnet. He would fuss
with  it for hours, rearranging the pipes  and the  wiring. What is more, he
had  developed the dangerous habit of taking a siesta  in the cage. Time and
again Opratin  had warned Anatole  not to climb into the cage because he was
absentminded and might easily forget to switch off the installation.
     This  time  Anatole  must  have turned  off the installation  after his
latest experiment  but had  forgotten about the Van de  Graaff generator. As
Opratin was on  his way to the control panel  to switch off the generator  a
low  crackling  sound came from  above. He  stopped short. A dazzling  white
sphere the size  of  a  basketball came rolling  out of the generator column
with a swish. Globe lightning!
     Opratin stared dumbfounded at the glowing fire-ball. The scorching clot
of  energy was heading straight for his feet, giving oft sparks as it rolled
along. Opratin backed towards the steps which led to the hatch. The cover of
the hatch  was open;  a  breath of wind could send the fire-ball upwards and
out through the hatch. But what if it exploded down here instead?
     The fire-ball swayed gently  and  glided upwards, almost into Opratin's
face. Then it floated along in front of the control panel.
     Opratin felt behind  him for  the steps, then swung round and scrambled
upstairs.  But  before he could jump out of the hatch there was  a  flash of
dazzling light,  a short hiss,  and a sharp metallic click. A blast of  heat
struck his back.
     Forcing himself  to turn round, he saw that  the fire-ball was gone. It
had disintegrated without exploding.
     The cage  was  empty-except  for the upper part  of  the folding  chair
jutting up out of the floor.
     Opratin, horrified, closed his eyes. His heart beat violently.
     He stepped out of the laboratory and stood before the door for a moment
to  get  his  face  and  hands under control.  Only  after his hands stopped
trembling did he lock and seal the door.


     Dimly,  in the background of his  consciousness, he heard the ceaseless
scuffle of the feet of the animated and colourful summer throngs promenading
along the boulevard.
     What was he to do? How could he explain Anatole's disappearance? If  he
told the  truth, no one would  believe  him.  You only  had globe  lightning
during a thunderstorm. There had been no thunderstorm. No one had ever heard
of a  man-made  fire-ball. Who would believe that a  Van de Graaff generator
had produced one?
     Opratin shuddered at the  memory of the flash of light and the metallic
click. As the fire-ball floated past the control panel it had activated  the
magnetic starter of the installation.
     An accident during an experiment?  But then  there would be an inquiry,
and the  installation, which had  nothing to do with cloud condensation  and
the level  of  the Caspian, would be discovered.  People would want, to know
where Benedictov's body was. No, no-not that.
     What if he said that Benedictov had remained behind alone on the island
to finish a series  of experiments,  and had probably drowned while bathing?
His body had evidently been carried out to sea. But Bugrov knew that Anatole
hated sea bathing. Should he  talk to Bugrov? No, that scum of the earth had
been looking daggers at  him  lately. He would not hesitate to claim that he
had been forced to steal from a display case in a museum.
     Should he tell  the whole  truth? After all, he was in no  way to blame
for anything. He was on the verge of a major breakthrough in science. It was
not his fault that Benedictov had fallen victim to his own absentmindedness.
Yes, he'd make a full confession, and let come what may.
     Suddenly  he heard alarmed voices. Raising  his head, he saw a wavering
glow on the southern horizon. Something was burning far out at sea.
     Opratin pushed  his way through  the crowd and headed  for home. He did
not  sleep a wink all night. He  paced  the floor, he flung himself  into an
armchair, then sprang to his feet and paced the floor again-
     Early next morning his telephone rang.
     "A  big crater erupted on Ipaty last night," came the  excited voice of
the Institute director. "The Island no longer exists."
     Opratin  was  struck  dumb.  He passed the palm  of  his hand over  his
inflamed eyes.
     "That's terrible,"  he said into the phone at last. "Anatole Benedictov
was on the island-"
     Ipaty no longer existed.
     Opratin  took  a  shower,  shaved  himself  slowly and thoroughly,  and
dressed carefully. When he set out for the Institute he was his usual smart,
dapper self.


     Four  days  later  a  white  launch  chugged  up  to  the  marina. Four
fantastically-garbed young people stepped out onto the pier. One was a lanky
young man with a tawny beard, wearing only  shorts and, on his head, a faded
kerchief;  camera and  binoculars  straps ran  across  his chest in opposite
directions.  Another  was a round-faced, swarthy, black-haired youth in blue
swimming trunks with a fishing rod in one hand and a transistor radio in the
other. There  was a  fair-haired young woman in a  torn red  sun-dress,  the
tatters held together  with safety  pins.  The fourth was a  pretty brunette
with   big  black  eyes  who,  despite  the  hot  day,  was  wrapped   in  a
yellow-striped green blanket.  All  were  deeply sunburnt  and  barefoot.  A
tiger-striped yellow boxer brought up the rear.
     The  sailing  enthusiasts  at  the marina stared  in amazement  at  the
procession. When they realized  that  the man with the tawny beard was  Yura
Kostyukov  they  rushed  up  to shake his hand.  Dockmaster Mehti vigorously
pumped Yura's arm and then turned to shake hands with Yura's companions.
     The four had drifted on the becalmed sea for three days. On the morning
of the fourth they were picked up by a rescue  launch from Lenkoran that was
searching  for them in that area. "You can thank Nikolai Potapkin for saving
your lives," Mehti said to Yura. "He was the one who told us you had a raft.
If  we hadn't known that we wouldn't have outfitted search parties. We would
have thought you  all  perished on  the island." One of the  boating  people
offered to drive the four of them home and they left the marina in his car.
     "Well, we're back  home  again, old  man." Yura said to Rex as  the car
drew up in front of his house.  He thanked the driver and ran up the  stairs
to  the  fourth floor. Rex leaped and  danced in front  of the  door. No one
answered  Yura's ring. "They're not back  yet,"  he thought  thankfully. His
parents  had  left for a holiday in  the  Caucasian spa  of  Kislovodsk just
before the cruise.
     Yura picked up his key from the neighbour with whom he had left it, and
entered  his flat. First, a hot shower. Yura scrubbed his body energetically
with a stiff loofah.  The water that ran down the drain was black. He soaped
again and again. Finally, when his skin squeaked  under his hands, he heaved
a sign of relief. What a job it had been to remove all that dirt!
     After he had dressed, Yura glanced into the  kitchen. Rex was  drowsing
on his pad. When he saw Yura he rose and gave a long yawn.
     "You'll stay at home," Yura told him. "I'll run over to see how Nikolai
is getting along.  I'll bring you back something to eat. Would you like some
fish?"
     Rex barked his indignation. Yura had learned from dockmaster Mehti that
Nikolai  was  in  hospital-the  same  hospital  where  Nikolai's mother  was
employed  as a nurse. Arriving at  the hospital,  he asked for her. When she
came down into the lobby and saw Yura her face  lit up. She embraced him and
shed a  few tears. "Forgive me for weeping," she said. "It's so wonderful to
see you. I had been told-"
     "How is Nikolai?"
     "Much better.  He  has pneumonia, you know. Besides,  he lost  a lot of
blood from a deep  cut on  his shoulder  where  a log scraped it.  He  keeps
asking for you. I've been telling him you're in town, but that  he can't see
you yet because the doctors don't allow him any visitors."
     "I must see Nikolai at once."
     "I'm sorry, not today, dear. He's still weak. Come tomorrow."
     "May I send him a note? It's extremely important."'
     "Well, all right."
     Yura tore a page  out of his pad and quickly wrote: "Hi, old man. We're
all safe  and sound and dying to see  you. Meanwhile, just one question: was
Benedictov in the motorboat?"
     "All  he  has to answer is one word-yes or no," Yura said, handing  the
note to Nikolai's mother.
     "It's our last  hope," Yura thought as  he  restlessly paced the  lobby
waiting for Nikolai's mother to return. "If only  the answer is yes. Then we
can forget all  about that dreadful top  of  a folding chair sticking out of
the concrete. If only-"
     A few minutes later Nikolai's mother came down  the  stairs. She handed
Yura a sheet of paper on which the word NO was printed in block letters.


     When Rita entered her flat she could tell at once that Anatole had been
living at home. The bed was unmade, his pyjamas were tossed over the back of
a chair, and half  a glass of cold tea  and a sugar bowl stood on the table.
He must have left Opratin's place and  been living at home  all the time she
was away.
     She rang up the Institute of Marine Physics but it was  the  end of the
day and no one came to the phone.  She  stood lost  in thought  for a while,
then dialled Opratin's number. The phone rang and rang without an answer.
     Her mother was visiting relatives in Rostov. Whom else could she phone?
What a pity Nikolai could not be reached.
     Rita  took  a  bath, then called Opratin again. This  time he answered.
"Rita?"  he asked  in  astonishment. "Are  you in town?" "Obviously. Where's
Anatole?" "Excuse me-"  Opratin fell silent for a few moments. Then he said:
"You ask about Anatole's whereabouts. Don't you know what happened?" "What's
happened?" she cried, pressing her hand to her heart. "Tell me at once."
     "I  hate to  be the one to break the  news. Anatole was working in  our
island laboratory. He was killed when the island  suddenly blew up." "You're
lying. He wasn't in  the  laboratory."  "I  realize the  state you are  in,"
Opratin said gently and with sympathy. "Believe  me, I am quite sincere when
I say-"
     "It's a lie!" she  cried furiously. "He left the island  with you. What
have you done to him, you horrid creature?"
     "If you're going to carry on like this I must say goodbye."
     Rita heard a click, and  then the  line went dead. She slowly  replaced
the  receiver. For  a moment she  stood motionless, her  arms hanging by her
sides, in the deathly silence of the  empty flat. Then  she snatched up  the
receiver  and dialled Yura's number. No one came to  the phone. She waited a
few minutes, then tried again. Still no Yura.


     On leaving the hospital Yura  took a taxi straight home, locked himself
in the bathroom,  turned off  the  light, and set about  developing his last
roll of film.
     On  the  other side of  the  bathroom  door  hungry  .Rex  whined.  The
telephone rang  frantically.  Yura  was too busy to go out to answer it. "It
must be Val," he thought. "I'll call her back as soon as I'm free."
     Snatching the  wet film out  of the fixer, he switched on the light and
studied it frame by frame. The negatives of the pictures he had taken in the
island laboratory  did  look  odd.  There it  was-the cage, the  back of the
folding  chair jutting  up out  of the concrete floor, and  below it a vague
whitish  spot.  What  the  devil  was   that?  How  could  the  camera  have
photographed what was under concrete?
     Yura turned on the fan to dry the film more quickly.
     Now for the printing.  He ran  the roll  of film  through  the enlarger
until  he came  to the frame with the cage. He  printed an enlargement of it
and tossed the paper into the developing tray. In the red light the cage and
then  the  cross-piece  of  the  chair  showed  through  slowly,  as  though
unwillingly. He could  see the  hazy outlines of the chair itself and - Cold
shivers ran down his spine.
     Now the vague contours of  a human  body  were emerging.  The  body was
reclining in the  folding  chair  and had  been photographed from a  strange
angle-from almost directly overhead.
     Bugrov felt  terrible. The man sitting  on the  other side  of the desk
knew far too much about him.
     "Whom did you buy the drugs from?" "I don't  know his  surname," Bugrov
replied sullenly. "They called him Mahmud."
     "The  one who  used  to  stand on the corner of Ninth Street, near  the
filling station?" "Yes."
     "Well, Mahmud's been arrested." Bugrov scowled  at the investigator. "I
didn't buy the drugs for myself."
     "I know you didn't." The investigator's voice hardened. "But you bought
them, and you ruined a man."
     Bugrov leaped to his feet. "That's a lie!  He ruined himself. I  refuse
to be held responsible. He begged me to buy him the drugs. Do you think I-"
     "Calm down," the investigator said. "I'm not accusing you. He could not
get along without them, poor chap. Now tell me this. What were the relations
between Nikolai Opratin and Anatole Benedictov-"
     "They  squabbled all the time. They'd start quarrelling every  time  we
set out for the island and they'd keep it up all the way."
     "What about?"
     "How do I  know?  I don't know the science part of it. Opratin wouldn't
let me any farther than the motor compartment. 1 think there was  a hitch of
some kind."
     The  investigator asked  Bugrov to describe the last trip to the island
in the minutest detail.
     "So you left Benedictov in the  laboratory, did you?" he remarked after
Bugrov finished his story. "You sealed the door and left. Is that it?"
     Bugrov stared at him in astonishment.
     "Who'd seal a door if there was a living person inside?"
     "H'm, a living person,  you say?" The investigator stared intently into
Bugrov's eyes. "Did  you climb  up  to  the  pill-box  before  you left  the
island?"
     "No. I was busy tinkering with the engine."
     "What did you and Opratin talk about on the return trip?"
     "What did  we talk  about? I don't remember talking at all. He was like
an owl."
     "But you did talk all  the same.  When  you stopped the  boat to take a
dip."
     On hearing  this  Bugrov  was more astonished  than ever. "Why,  that's
right," he said. "We spoke of how slow the boat was going."
     "Anything else?"
     "He  asked me on what  pier  I had  picked  up Benedictov. And  whether
anyone had seen us."
     The  investigator nodded and wrote  something down. "Now we're  getting
somewhere."
     "He talks as if he was in  the boat with us,"  Bugrov  thought.  "Maybe
Opratin told him about it. But  no, that slick customer wouldn't go  talking
to the law."
     The investigator carefully took a small,  flat iron box  on a chain out
of his drawer and laid it on the desk in front of Bugrov.
     ''Ever seen this before?" he asked.
     Sweat broke out on Bugrov's forehead. "I'm sunk!" he thought, searching
in his pocket for a handkerchief.
     "As far as I'm  concerned," Bugrov said in  a bored voice, "this little
piece of iron  junk  is  the  last thing  I'd want. I took it for scientific
purposes."
     "You stole it."
     "Have it  your own way." Bugrov pushed away the chain disdainfully with
his little finger.  "I just  gave it a little  snip  with a  pair of pliers,
that's all. I didn't take it for myself."
     "You'll have to answer for this museum theft."
     Bugrov turned to look at  the  sky  outside the  window. He wouldn't be
able to wriggle out of this one.
     "It's a  pity.  The Institute gave you very good references.  Well, you
may go now. Just sign this statement promising not to leave town."
     Nikolai  Opratin drummed with  his fingers on the  black  attache  case
lying in his lap and said evenly, "You have no right  to level such a charge
against me. It's slander."
     The investigator placed a  folder on the desk. He had spent quite a few
days studying the papers inside  the  folder before he  summoned Opratin for
questioning.
     "Please answer  the question,"  he said shortly. "Why did you lock  and
seal the door before leaving the island?"
     "I  did  nothing  of  the  sort. I  left  the  key and  the  seal  with
Benedictov."
     The investigator gave Opratin a severe look. Opratin met it calmly.
     "What did you  ask Bugrov on the way back  when he stopped  the boat to
take a dip?"
     "I didn't ask him anything."
     The  investigator  pressed a button and  said to  the man who  entered:
"Show Bugrov in."
     When Bugrov entered the room a few seconds later Opratin did not glance
at him.
     "He asked if anyone had seen Benedictov get into the boat when I picked
him up that morning,"  Bugrov said in reply to the investigator's  question.
"They boarded the boat at different piers."
     "I never asked such a question," Opratin said quietly.
     "What do you mean?" Bugrov exclaimed. "You certainly did!"
     The investigator  stopped him with  a gesture. "We have a witness,"  he
said, pressing the button again.
     This  time Nikolai Potapkin entered the room. Opratin measured him with
an indifferent glance, then looked pointedly at his watch.
     Nikolai confirmed  that Opratin had talked with Bugrov on the trip back
from the island.
     Opratin shrugged.  "This  whole business is  absurd.  Assuming,  for  a
moment,  that we actually did talk, how could this young man have  heard it,
in the middle of the Caspian?"
     "This  young man travelled  from  Ipaty  Island to the mainland hanging
onto the  prow  of your  motorboat," said  the investigator.  "That has been
verified and is absolutely true. Now I want to ask you another question," he
said,  turning to  Nikolai.  "What did Opratin and Benedictov talk about  in
their underground laboratory before the latter vanished?"
     Nikolai   repeated   the   conversation.  Bugrov  stared   at  him   in
bewilderment, his mouth open.
     "Do you admit  that such a conversation  took place?"  the investigator
asked, turning  to  look squarely at Opratin.  "Do  you admit  that you  and
Benedictov had a bitter quarrel?"
     Opratin  did not reply at once. His  fingers drummed  nervously  on his
attache  case. It appeared those youngsters had been on the island.  He  had
never  suspected it. He had been vaguely  disturbed  ever since Benedictov's
wife had screamed into the phone that he was lying. He had hung  up at once.
He had thought she  was simply upset. But now it turned out that-  What else
could  they  have  seen?  But  they  could  not possibly  have  entered  the
laboratory- They did not have a  shred of evidence. The laboratory had blown
up, and Benedictov together with it.
     "Th-there was no such conversation," said Opratin in a hollow voice.
     "Was  there  no ventilation  shaft in  your  pillbox  either?"  Nikolai
shouted angrily.
     The  investigator  pressed  a button to  summon  Yura and  Valery,  who
confirmed Nikolai's words.
     All eyes were now turned  on Opratin. He slowly passed the palm  of his
hand over his damp, thin hair.
     "Very well," he said slowly, choosing his words. "Let us assume  that I
did  quarrel  with Benedictov." (Be calm, get  a grip on yourself.) "What of
that? We quarrelled, I left, and he  remained to complete the work on  hand.
On  that very  day  the  big crater erupted. The  laboratory  was destroyed,
Benedictov was killed."
     "You killed him!" Yura cried.
     "That's a lie!" Opratin turned a pale face to him. "That's a despicable
lie."
     Yura strode to the table. "You switched on the installation  and killed
him. Show him the photographs."
     "Don't  rush  things,  young  man," said the  investigator. Turning  to
Opratin  he said: "There was a setup in your laboratory  that had nothing to
do with cloud condensation. I have pictures of the equipment and a statement
by your director. Take a look."
     He spread several large photographs on the desk. Opratin  said nothing.
He  looked  at  them  indifferently, one by one,  until he  came to the last
picture. He stared dumbfounded at the picture of the cage inside which could
be seen the dim contours of a folding chair and the outlines of a human body
photographed from directly above.
     Opratin pressed the tips of his fingers to his eyes. Under his left eye
a vein throbbed. His cheeks paled.
     With a nod to the witnesses the investigator  indicated  that he wanted
them to leave the room.
     "Well?" he asked.
     Opratin was sitting  in a strange  manner, knees drawn  up so that  his
feet  were  not  touching the  floor.  He now had control  of  himself;  his
expression was solemn. His  fingers  drummed nervously on  the nickel-plated
clasp of the black attache case in his lap. The clasp gave a loud click.
     "Well?" the investigator repeated.
     Opratin said  nothing.  He sat  tensely  poised,  his gaze fixed on the
distance. His lips moved almost imperceptibly,  as though  counting  off the
seconds.
     "Has he gone round  the bend?" the investigator wondered. He  pressed a
button.
     "Lead  the prisoner away," he said  to the sergeant who had entered and
halted near the door.
     Opratin rose in an odd manner, almost as if he had jumped up.
     "You'll hear  more about me," he said in a remote voice, moving towards
the door.
     "You're under arrest. Detain him, sergeant."
     The sergeant took up  a position  in  front of the door  and raised his
hand. Opratin halted for an instant, then moved to the side, walked straight
through the wall beside the door, and vanished.
     The sergeant stared round-eyed at the investigator for an instant, then
rushed out into the corridor, followed by the investigator. They saw Opratin
walking down the  corridor. He was moving like a robot,  taking slow  steps,
woodenly placing  his feet flat on the ground, as though he were testing the
strength of the  floor. In his right  hand he still  held  the black attache
case.
     The sergeant caught up with him and stretched out his hand to seize him
by the arm. But his hand went  through  Opratin's arm as though through air.
All the sergeant felt was a light puff of warm air.
     "Follow him!" cried the investigator. "Hurry! Don't  take your eyes off
him!"
     Hearing the shouts on the  floor above  them, Nikolai, Yura and  Valery
halted in the lobby. Opratin  was descending the stairs  and coming straight
towards  them. They stood  shoulder to shoulder to bar his  way. Opratin did
not turn aside. He  walked straight through them, then through the astounded
man on duty at the door, who tried to stop him, and out into the street.
     His face white and tense, he walked  without stepping aside for anyone.
He paid no attention to the shouts of the investigator and  the sergeant who
were following him, or to the three young men who were on his heels.
     For the first  time in his  life Opratin was  displeased with  his  own
conduct. What in the world had he been thinking of? He  had made  one stupid
blunder after another. He should  have told  the  whole  story  at once.  He
should  have admitted  that  although  the laboratory  was  being  used  for
experiments that were not in the programme these experiments would lead to a
major breakthrough.
     He should have told  the truth, as  he had wanted to  at the beginning.
The  whole  truth  about the apparatus, about Benedictov's carelessness, and
about the fire-ball.  Who could have expected those damned youngsters to get
into the laboratory?
     And  in the first place, he  shouldn't  have gone to the investigator's
office when  he  received the summons. How could an investigator be expected
to understand  all  this? He would simply look  on it as a  crime. This case
should be examined by a committee of  scientists. He should have gone higher
up at once.  He should  have  said straight out: we've obtained a remarkable
scientific result.
     It  was  not too late now,  either. Within  half an hour he would be in
touch  with the right  people. He  would  tell them he  had kept quiet about
Benedictov's  death simply  because  he had panicked. They  would understand
that, and appoint a committee  of inquiry.  He would be allowed to carry his
experiments through to the end.
     On reaching the intersection Opratin stepped out into the heavy traffic
without a glance either to the right or to the left. A bus bore down on him.
The  driver, his  face distorted with fear, tried in vain to  brake in time.
Opratin felt a moment's terror but then-
     The  passengers  saw  a  clean-shaven, well-dressed man cut off  at the
knees by the floor of their bus, pass through them without touching a single
person, and disappear, leaving behind  a faint odour of eau  de Cologne.  It
was all over before they had time to exclaim in fright or astonishment.
     Meanwhile Opratin,  quite unharmed, had  reached  the other side of the
street and was walking on, swinging his attache case in time  to  his wooden
steps. He paid no attention either to people or to cars. One more  block and
he would be close-
     He was slowly crossing the street when a heavy lorry turned the corner.
Opratin did not even glance at it.
     There  was a piercing shriek. Tires squealed. Its engine giving a sharp
bang, the  lorry  came to such a  sudden stop that the  driver's  chest  was
pressed against the steering wheel and he lost consciousness.
     A crowd instantly gathered.
     The body of the ghost-man hung in an unnatural, twisted position on the
front of the  lorry,  his right  arm  plunged  into the  bonnet  up  to  the
shoulder.
     The black attache case had been thrown some  two metres  away from  the
lorry. It lay half buried in the roadway.
     Penetrability had suddenly ceased, and  Opratin's body had regained its
normal properties at the very moment  when his right arm had moved  into the
space occupied by the running engine. The  particles of Opratin's arm and of
the lorry  engine had  intermingled into an unbelievable mixture. The engine
had immediately gone dead.
     Nikolai and  Yura  pushed their  way through the crowd to the lorry and
stopped short, overwhelmed by what they saw.
     A siren sounded. The crowd parted to make way for an ambulance.


        CHAPTER EIGHT

     IN  WHICH  OPRATIN'S  INNOCENCE IS ESTABLISHED  IN A  SOMEWHAT  UNUSUAL
MANNER

     On  that particular Saturday evening  Boris Privalov lay on  the  sofa,
reading and smoking, enjoying the peace and quiet.
     But there is no such thing as  perfect peace and quiet, not  even for a
short interval.
     "Do you  intend to  lie there all evening, Boris?"  asked Olga from the
kitchen.
     Boris turned a page. "What if I do?"
     "Let's go to the pictures. Everyone's seen-"
     "I can't, my dear. I'm expecting Pavel Koltukhov."
     "Tonight again?"
     "We have things to talk over, Olga."
     News had  arrived from Moscow that  the experiment at the  Institute of
Surfaces had been successful. A stream of oil had flowed  through the  water
of a pool three metres long. In October operations were to be shifted to the
Caspian  Sea,  where  a  full-scale experiment  would  be  mounted.  The Oil
Transport Research Institute was  busy  assembling the necessary  equipment,
and the power engineers had an especially large amount of work to do,  under
the stern, faultfinding eye of Professor Bagbanly.
     Pavel  Koltukhov,  whose electret  scheme  was being  applied,  had now
become just about the most enthusiastic champion of a pipeless oil pipeline.
He spent days on end testing new samples of powerfully charged electrets.
     Besides all this, a suitable area in the sea had to be found. It had to
be remote enough to  conceal the experiment from curious eyes.  At the  same
time, it had to  have  a convenient power supply. Nikolai and  Yura had been
searching  for  just the right  place  along the neighbouring shore  of  the
Caspian for more than a week now.
     The doorbell rang. Her lips pressed tight, Olga went to open it.
     Pavel Koltukhov entered, unbuttoning his collar and yanking off his tie
on the  go. As  he  sat down he  put a cigarette into his mouth and launched
into an account of the furious argument he had just had with the head of the
pipeline building organization.
     "Would you like a cup of tea?" Olga asked coldly.
     "With pleasure," Pavel Koltukhov  replied from behind a thick  cloud of
tobacco smoke.  "Did you hear that, Boris? 'Don't try to confuse me with all
those  figures,' I told  him. 'I can  penetrate  right into  your thoughts.'
Well,  you should have seen the look he  gave me. He asked in  a  frightened
voice: 'Can you really?'" Pavel Koltukhov laughed boisterously.
     "After what  happened to  Opratin no  one can  talk of  anything except
penetrability," said Privalov.
     "I should think not," Olga chimed in as she poured the tea.  "The whole
town's talking about the ghost-man. Put aside that book, Boris,  and come to
the  table."  Then,  turning  to Pavel Koltukhov,  she  went  on:  "I  can't
understand how he made  himself incorporeal. Boris  says  Opratin built some
kind of a machine on the island. That's all very well but he didn't have any
machine in the investigator's office. Or did Opratin come from the island in
that-that incorporeal state?"
     "He carried  an attache case,"  Pavel  explained, looking  at  the cake
appreciatively. "A portable machine, evidently. It's  a pity the machine was
smashed when it went into the asphalt."
     "He  must have dropped the attache case when the  lorry hit him,"  said
Boris. "That's why the penetrability process stopped. How is Opratin, by the
way? Still unconscious?"
     "Yes.  He's still in a  state  of severe  shock," said Pavel Koltukhov.
"They had to amputate his whole arm, and several ribs are broken."
     "It's all so frightful," exclaimed Olga. "The way Benedictov died, too.
How could a photograph show his body if the body was buried in concrete?"
     "That's still a mystery,"  said her husband. "Professor Bagbanly thinks
that the  matter  restructured  according  to  their  method  produced  hard
radiation, which acted on the film."
     "It's just frightful," Olga  repeated.  "I  can't believe that  Opratin
would  kill anybody.  Besides, in  such a  brutal,  cold-blooded manner." "I
don't  believe  it  either,"  said  Pavel  Koltukhov, drawing  his  beetling
eyebrows  into  a  frown.  "I  don't believe murder  was  committed. I  know
Opratin. He's a reserved man, and extremely ambitious. Not easy to get along
with, perhaps, but commit a murder? No, I don't believe he did it."
     "Then  how  do you  explain Anatole  Benedictov's  death?" asked Boris.
"It's  been proved,  after all, that he died before the island  blew up." "I
don't know.  It must have been some sort of accident. A complicated machine,
restructured matter, and high voltage- With a combination like that anything
could happen. Take Valery's little finger, for example."
     "Benedictov couldn't have turned on the installation himself."
     Pavel Koltukhov said nothing. He took another puff at his cigarette.
     "Besides, look at  the way  Opratin  behaved when the investigator  was
questioning him. If he were innocent why did he lie?"
     "I'd like very much to  go over  to the hospital  and have a talk  with
Opratin," Koltukhov said after a pause.
     "You wouldn't be permitted to  see him." "No, we wouldn't be allowed to
see Opratin, of course. But I know a doctor at that hospital. We were in the
same  regiment during the war. I could talk to him about Opratin. Let's  pay
him a visit tomorrow, shall we?"
     Boris Privalov and Pavel Koltukhov were not allowed to  see Opratin for
two reasons. First, because Opratin was in deep shock and recognized no one.
Second, he was a murder suspect.
     They were told  all this by Pavel Koltukhov's old doctor  acquaintance,
an elderly,  good-natured man. His hands clasped behind his back, he  strode
up and down  his office  and talked, punctuating  his  words with thoughtful
pauses.
     "It's a  unique  case," he said. "I haven't  the faintest idea of  what
changes  occurred in the body when the bonds of matter  were altered. It's a
physiological mystery, my friends. We're studying it, of course. Clinically,
the  picture is  very involved. There have been drastic changes in the blood
formula. There are other curious  points. On  Opratin's back, for  instance,
there is a dark pigmentation of a most curious geometrical pattern. We can't
say whether Opratin will come out of this alive. We have managed to maintain
his heart activity so far, but as to the future-" The doctor spread his arms
wide. "I just don't know. He's had a fantastic shock."
     When he returned home Boris Privalov sat  down to work on the design of
underwater  radiators.  Nothing  seemed   to  be   going   right   with  his
calculations. Probably because his mind was really elsewhere.
     He could not stop thinking and wondering about that strange geometrical
pattern on Opratin's back.
     He  stepped out onto the balcony into the hot,  midday  sunshine. Then,
making up his mind, he went inside, strode  over to the telephone, looked up
the number of  the hospital, and asked for Pavel Koltukhov's doctor  friend.
When the doctor  came to the phone Boris asked him to describe the design on
Opratin's back in the greatest possible detail.
     "Well, it consists of spots about as dark as a good suntan," the doctor
said, somewhat puzzled at this request. "There are lines and zigzags against
a  background that looks,  as a matter of fact, something like a drawing  of
the rising sun."
     "Thank you," said Privalov. He put down the receiver and began to  pace
the room excitedly. Then he ran his eye across the  books on his shelves. He
pulled several down one after another and leafed through  them. Next he rang
up his wife at the library where she worked. "Are you coming home soon? When
you  do,  please bring  whatever books  you have there about lightning. Yes,
that's right, ordinary lightning."
     Early in the  evening he ran up the stairs of the house in which  Pavel
Koltukhov lived. Breathing heavily  from the climb, he pressed the doorbell.
Koltukhov was watering  the flowers on  his balcony. When he finally came to
the door and opened it he looked at his friend in surprise.
     "What's happened?" he asked with concern.
     "Did you ever hear, Pavel, about marks left by lightning on the body of
a person who's been struck by it?"
     In rare cases lightning does leave  characteristic marks on the wall of
a  house or the body of  the person  it  strikes. Usually the  marks  are  a
star-shaped figure with many rays; sometimes they  look like a photograph of
the  surrounding  place,  or are the  imprint of an  object in the  person's
pocket, such as a key or a coin.
     It  is  thought  that   the  stream  of  electrons  and  negative  ions
accompanying the lightning reflects objects in the vicinity in the  shape of
shadows.
     Koltukhov listened with a doubtful expression on his face. "As far as I
know," he remarked, "there has not been a single thunderstorm on the Caspian
this summer. Where'd the lightning come from?"
     "Remember Yura Kostyukov's photographs?"  said Privalov. "Remember  his
description  of that  laboratory? It had  a  Van  de Graaff generator, spark
gaps, and a battery of  electrets. The setup had  an extremely high voltage,
Pavel. The generator itself produced lightning-globe lightning."
     "Now that's really too much, Boris. I've never heard of man-made  globe
lightning."
     "Well, Pavel, we must see that pattern on Opratin's back for ourselves.
We  must obtain  permission, one  way or another,  to visit  him. Let's  see
whether Professor Bagbanly can help us."
     The  "geometrical pattern" on Opratin's back was carefully  examined in
the presence of the investigator in charge of the case and experts. The dark
patches and lines were compared with the photographs  and description of the
installation. The following facts emerged.
     The strange  imprint on  Opratin's back  proved to be an outline of the
cage  with  a  human figure inside it, half buried in  concrete. Moreover, a
faint shadow  of the coil of the "inductor of transformations" was detected,
as was the clear-cut silhouette, in profile, of the control panel.
     The  imprint  was  made  by  globe lightning  created,  probably,  by a
powerful self-discharge of the generator.
     Just before the  accident Anatole  Benedictov  was sitting  in  a chair
inside the cage.  The  cage was not switched on. Opratin was at the hatchway
with his back to the control panel, evidently  about  to leave the premises.
In the time between the moment when the cage was switched on and the  moment
when  Benedictov sank halfway into the concrete Opratin  could  not possibly
have  moved  from  the control  panel  to the  hatchway, since penetrability
occurred instantaneously.
     The conclusion, confirmed by the position of .the shadow  of the rotary
switch on the profile  of the control panel, was  that the magnetic  starter
had been  activated by the approach of  the  fire-ball, which at that moment
was between the panel and Opratin.
     On  the evening of the following day Pavel Koltukhov again sat drinking
tea at  the Privalovs. He was telling Olga what the committee of experts had
found.
     "If it had not been for the lucid mind of this old visionary," he said,
nodding towards Boris  Privalov, "Nikolai Opratin would still  be facing the
charge of a horrible murder."
     "Opratin lied to the investigator only because-"
     "He  was  afraid he  wouldn't be believed,"  said Koltukhov. "He had no
idea he was carrying the proof of his innocence on his own back."
     "Have you shown  Professor  Bagbanly  the  latest  calculations?" asked
Boris, switching the conversation to current matters.
     "Yes. It's  a  pity you didn't  go along with me today to see  him.  He
called a team of experts together to throw light on that horoscope."
     "What for?"
     "That's  just  what I said too.  'Why  are you  going  in for all  that
mumbo-jumbo?' I asked  him. 'It's interesting,' he said. 'We had a historian
here, and he gave an ingenious interpretation of the horoscope.'"
     "Indeed?"
     "Yes, and it turns out  the horoscope was drawn up  for a very specific
reason."

     The End of the Story of the Three Boxes

     As the sound of horse's hooves died away  Count Joseph de  Maistre fell
back into his armchair. His lean fingers  dug so deeply  into the  arm rests
that his hands began to  ache. He felt a sharp pain in his chest and, with a
groan, he closed  his eyes. When  the  pain subsided he summoned his servant
and ordered him to trim the candles and bring coffee.
     Should he send someone in pursuit? No, there was no sense in that.  The
arrogant Russian was by now far away. The Lord would punish him.
     He would write to faithful  servants of the Society of Jesus in Bussia.
They would keep an eye on Arseny Matveyev; that freethinker would not escape
retribution.
     The key to the mystery was the main thing, and it was in his hands. The
Count  picked up the parchment  from the table  and  glanced  at the drawing
showing the relative positions of the planets and  the signs of  the zodiac.
The fruit of  the astrologist's labours aroused his deepest respect. Exactly
one hundred years after the  magic knife fell into his, Joseph de Maistre's,
hands, a man would be born who would learn the secret of the knife and bring
new  glory  to the  Jesuits. The  power of the Society  would  become  truly
boundless and this, as God knew, was the Count's sole desire.
     The  old Count slowly folded the parchment and hid  it in the flat iron
box with the letters A M D G engraved on the lid.
     Count de  Maistre's  last  will  and  testament  was not forgotten. One
hundred years later Jesuit priests chose  a new-born child according to  the
signs  in the  horoscope,  and persuaded its parents to  entrust the child's
education to a Jesuit college.
     Vittorio da  Castiglione  developed into a clever but reserved boy. His
eyes  gazed out on the turbulent world beyond the college  walls with a cold
weariness that had nothing childish about it.
     When  Vittorio reached the age of twenty-one he was told, in the course
of  a  solemn ceremony  arranged  in sombre surroundings,  about  the  lofty
mission planned for him more than a century before. The young Jesuit learned
how the illustrious Count  de Maistre had concerned himself about the future
greatness of  the Society,  how a  free-thinking Russian had stolen a secret
manuscript  and  a magic knife  from him.  Now he, Vittorio,  must  find and
return to  the Society the source and evidence of the great mystery, so that
they could be  passed on  to the  finest minds  of  the  Catholic world,  ad
majorem Dei gloriam, for the greater glory of God.
     Vittorio was told all about the Matveyev family, all the details  which
the Society had so painstakingly collected and recorded on the other side of
the horoscope.  He hung  the small flat box, with the  parchment inside  it,
round his neck, along with his tiny gold crucifix, knelt, and vowed solemnly
that he would carry |out his mission.
     Vittorio da  Castiglione trained for  it diligently. He learned Russian
and studied navigation at a school for  submarine officers in  Livorno. When
Hitler's divisions, followed by those of Mussolini, moved against Russia the
young submarine officer  set  out for  the Russian battlefront  in the Tenth
Flotilla.
     At  the end of August  1942, after spending some time in Sevastopol and
Mariupol, Vittorio parachuted from a Junkers plane into the misty night of a
mountainous area near Derbent.  There,  on the  shore of the Caspian Sea, he
was to  select  a base for his flotilla. Afterwards he was to  make his  way
south,  to  a  large coastal town,  with an important subversive assignment.
According to his information, the descendants of Fedor Matveyev lived there.
Their names were firmly fixed in his memory.
     His hour of greatness was approaching.
     In the  deserted stone quarries near  Derbent, the  ancient city of the
Iron Gates, Vittorio sought a secluded spot where he could conceal his radio
transmitter, aqualung  and other paraphernalia for the time being.  Suddenly
the earth gave way beneath his feet and he fell  into a pit and was crushed,
and killed, by a heavy rock.
     And so Vittorio da Castiglione, twenty-seven years old, a minion of the
Jesuits, perished, to the greater glory of God.


     It was very early in the morning when Nikolai and Yura returned to town
by bus from their latest trip. They  agreed to meet at the Institute an hour
later, after a shower and breakfast.
     Cooper Lane was still asleep. The morning breeze whispered shyly in the
dusty branches of the acacias. The ringing of an alarm clock came through an
open window.
     Nikolai walked under the archway leading into the courtyard. Inside the
yard he saw Bugrov at his morning exercises. Holding large dumbbells, he was
doing slow knee-bends.  When he saw Nikolai he winked at him, then  gestured
for him to come closer.
     "There was a meeting at the Institute day before yesterday," he said in
a loud whisper. "The Institute is going to vouch for me. See?"
     "No, I don't."
     "You don't think quick, do you? I suppose  you didn't get  enough sleep
last  night. Anyway, remember that  small  piece of  iron I  pinched  from a
museum in Moscow?"
     Nikolai nodded.
     "Well, they wanted to put me on trial for it. But would that be fair? I
didn't take it for  myself. I need it like  a turkey needs a walking  stick.
Anyway,  a general meeting  at the Institute said it would help  me  out  by
vouching for me. The vote in favour was unanimous."
     "Congratulations," said Nikolai.
     "Thanks." Bugrov  tossed the  dumb-bells into  the air and caught them.
"Did you hear about Opratin? He's been cleared of the murder charge."
     "Is that so?"
     "That's right. You know who killed Anatole Benedictov? A fire-ball."
     "A fire-ball?"
     "That's what I'm telling you. A scientific phenomenon, see?"
     Nikolai  waved  his hand impatiently and ran up the steps to  his flat.
After  he had showered his mother told  him the current  domestic news while
she prepared his breakfast.
     All of a sudden  she  stopped short.  "Oh, I quite forgot to  tell you.
Rita dropped in last night."
     "Did she say why?" he asked quietly.
     "No, but  she asked  me to  tell you  to ring her up  as  soon  as  you
returned."
     Nikolai hurriedly finished dressing and dashed to the telephone.


     Although  the  term  had  not  yet  begun-it  was  only  the middle  of
August-Rita went to school  every day. She was re-equipping the  biology lab
and planned to enlarge the experiment plot on which the children gardened.
     All this activity was her salvation.
     Val  often  dropped in  to see her in the evening. Nikolai and Yura had
visited her  several times. Once the entire crew of  the Mekong gathered  at
her  flat in the evening. Valery Gorbachevsky was  the hero of the occasion.
He had brought a  copy of a scientific journal in  which  Professor Bagbanly
described the restructuring of  the  internal bonds of matter.  The  article
spoke  of the "Gorbachevsky effect", as  the professor  called the memorable
accident involving Valery's little finger.
     His  face  glowing,  Valery  showed  the  article  to Rita. She did not
understand  anything,  naturally,  since  the article  consisted  mostly  of
formulas and  charts, but  she congratulated Valery,  who did not understand
the article either.  Yura insisted that  a mould of Valery's finger, if  not
the  finger itself, would  soon  be on display at the  Economic Achievements
Exhibition in Moscow.
     But  when Rita was all by herself her grief prevented her from settling
down to anything. She would wander through the rooms  of the flat,  touching
and moving objects to no purpose. She would  stand for a long  time in front
of the bookcases,  leafing through  Anatole's books.  When she  came  across
marginal notes in  his  hand she studied them intently, trying to  guess the
meaning of the underlined words and symbols.
     One day Rita came upon a notebook with a blue oilcloth cover that stood
between two thick volumes. She looked through it.  Scattered among memoranda
were notes on how  experiments were going, formulas and diagrams. There were
other entries, too, the kind that are made only in diaries.
     Lying  curled  up in  a  corner of  the sofa, Rita read and reread  the
notebook. At last she could no longer contain herself and burst into tears.
     In the morning she telephoned  Yura and was  told that he had left town
on an assignment. She went to school and worked on the experiment plot until
evening. Then, in the hot, thronged streets, she suddenly realized  that she
simply could not go back to her empty flat.
     Rita  went to Cooper Lane.  She stopped in  the familiar  courtyard and
stared at it, her soul a tumult of anguished feeling.  How small and old  it
was, this courtyard of her childhood.
     Slowly,  as though in a dream, Rita climbed the  stairs  to the  second
floor. A middle-aged woman with a kind, familiar face opened the door.
     "How do you do?" said Rita. "Don't you remember me? I  used  to live in
this house. My name is Rita."
     "My  goodness, little Rita. I  would never have recognized you. Do come
in. What a pity Nikolai has left town for several days."
     "Has he left town too?"
     Nikolai's mother insisted that  Rita stay  for  a  cup of  tea. As Rita
drank her  tea  she kept glancing at a big photograph  on  the  wall,  of an
unsmiling lad with  a forelock,  in a white  shirt with sleeves rolled high.
This was the Nikolai she had known when they were children.
     Rita stayed  at Nikolai's  house until  late  in the  evening.  It  was
soothing to listen to his mother talk.
     "Thank you," she said in a low voice as she took her leave.
     "For what?" Nikolai's mother asked in surprise.
     The bell. Who could it be so early in the morning? Rita hurried  out of
the bathroom to the telephone.
     "Excuse  me  for ringing  so early,"  said  a familiar  voice, "I  just
arrived back in town and Mother told me-"
     "That's quite all right, Nikolai. I'm an early riser. I must see you."
     They met at the bus stop near Rita's school.
     "Has anything happened?" Nikolai asked anxiously, with a searching look
at Rita's face.
     "I  found  a  notebook  of Anatole's. His  notes  on what he was doing.
There's much of it I don't understand.  May be you could use the notes." She
drew the notebook in the blue cover out of  her bag. "Take  it, please,  and
read  it. You may  pass it on to Privalov, or  to  the Moscow Academician to
whom you sent the knife."
     "Very well, Rita. I'll read it today."
     "There's something else." Rita  lowered her  voice  and closed her eyes
for a second. "Nasty  rumours are being spread  about  Anatole. Nikolai, you
must help me to clear his name. Help me to make the truth known."
     "If  only  you had allowed me to  do that before," Nikolai thought. "If
only you had not made me promise, in the train-"
     "Very well, Rita, I'll do everything I can," he said.
     She pressed  his  hand. "Now go. But don't disappear for long. Ring  me
up."
     That afternoon Yura and Nikolai stepped aboard an Institute launch  and
set out for Bird Rock, a small island seven kilometres from shore.
     The island was as flat and round as a dinner plate. A black rock washed
smooth by the tide rose on the weather side. Seagulls nested  on  this rock,
and it was after them that the island had been named.
     Our  friends measured off an area  for future structures,  a job  which
took  them  until  evening. The launch was due  to  return for them only the
following  day. They pitched their tent,  lighted their  primus  stove,  and
prepared a meal. Then Nikolai pulled the notebook in the blue oilcloth cover
out  of his knapsack, and  he and Yura lay down side by side  on the sand to
read it.


        CHAPTER NINE

        IN WHICH THE BOOK ENDS, BUT WITH THE PROMISE OF NEW THINGS TO COME

     The full-scale experiment in pipeless oil delivery was  to  be  mounted
between the shore and Bird Rock, seven kilometres away.  The seabed  at both
terminals of  the route had been deepened. Steel  pylons had  been set up in
the water for the transmission and reception radiators.
     A conventional pipeline along the coast ran to the dispatching station.
Here, making a sharp dip, it dropped  straight down into the sea  along  the
pylon.  At  a depth of twenty metres it ended in a plastic elbow bend with a
wide funnel facing seawards. Two large, well-insulated Mobius bands had been
mounted,  one in front of  the other,  inside the funnel.  Behind the  elbow
bend,  in a  pressurized  chamber  stood  a  generator  of  original  design
connected with a circular screen aerial surrounding the funnel. Thick cables
ran from the Mobius bands and the generator to  panels of the shore station,
which had a complex array of electronic control equipment.
     Similar equipment had  been set up on Bird Rock.  The shore  funnel and
the Bird Rock funnel were situated exactly on the same axis. Setting up  the
two pipes  directly  in  line  with  each  other across a  stretch of  seven
kilometres  of  sea had  called for the greatest precision.  Geodesists  and
divers had had to work hard to attain the desired precision.
     The idea  of  the  project was as follows:  the  coastal pipeline would
carry the oil into the  sea, to a depth of twenty metres. As it  came out of
the  funnel  the stream  of oil would flow through the  field  of  the first
Mobius band and acquire  penetrability. The field of the second  Mobius band
would  compress the surface of  the stream and  give it an exact  shape. The
underwater circular aerial would create an energy beam between the shore and
Bird Rock. The static  field would  force the stream of  oil to flow through
the water-along this  beam. As it passed through the  field of the receiving
Mobius band  at  Bird  Rock  the stream  of  oil  would  regain  its  normal
properties. After entering  the  reception funnel  it  would  be pumped to a
storage tank.
     In  the  last stage of the preparations Yura and Nikolai, who  had been
put  in charge of the reception  station, with  Valery Gorbachevsky as their
assistant, spent several days and nights at Bird Rock.
     Finally  the apparatus was assembled and  the assemblymen departed from
Bird Rock for  the mainland,  leaving  behind only an engineer  and a  radio
operator.


     The cars  sped along the coastal highway, ran through a small community
buried in the  greenery of vineyards, then turned  off onto a dirt road that
took  them to the beach.  They came  to a stop  beside a board fence  in the
shade of a cluster of old mulberry trees.
     The members of  the experiment  team  were  gathered there, as  well as
quite a crowd of people  from the Oil Transport Research Institute and other
research institutions. Academician Georgi Markov was  there; he had flown in
from Moscow the day before especially for the occasion.
     Several launches were tying  up at the  pier.  One of them discharged a
thickset man with a head of curly greying hair. He was followed by a solemn,
dignified Vova Bugrov carrying a small suitcase.
     Academician Markov shook hands warmly -with the grey-haired man and led
him over to Boris Privalov.
     "Do you know each  other?" he asked. "Jafar Rustamov is director of the
Marine Physics Institute."
     "We've met before," smiled Boris Privalov. "Jafar's institute is across
the street from ours."
     "You two  can  look  forward  to  a great  deal of  joint  work,"  said
Academician Markov.
     Privalov gave him a questioning glance, but the  Academician had turned
to Professor Bagbanly.  Rustamov smiled to himself; he already knew what the
Academician from Moscow had in mind.
     Bugrov nodded loftily to Nikolai and Yura.
     "Hullo there, boys," he said. "I'm surprised to see you here."
     "We're surprised to see you here," said Nikolai.
     "I was  invited,"  Bugrov replied,  squinting against the  sun.  "I was
asked  to  come  together with  our director.  I'm in  charge of  underwater
affairs."
     Everyone went into the building that housed the chief control desk. The
desk was composed of  three panels: one  for the generator of penetrability,
which was connected with the Mobius  bands at the underwater funnel; one for
the pumps that drove the oil into the funnel, and one for the energy beam.
     Electricians  were working at  the  third  panel, ironing  out a hitch.
Although  the generators  hummed,  the needle  on the  field-intensity meter
stood at zero. Boris Privalov impatiently tapped the glass of the meter.
     "What's the matter?" Academician Markov asked sharply.
     "I  can't understand it," Privalov muttered.  "Everything was all right
yesterday."
     "Get in touch with Bird Rock."
     A few minutes  later the radio operator told  them: "Bird Rock  reports
that the indicating light is out."
     "Evidently the funnel was not attached tightly  enough, and the current
pushed it  out  of line,"  said Pavel Koltukhov. "The beam doesn't reach the
aerial on Bird Rock because the axis of the underwater funnels has shifted."
     "You should have done a  line-up from  the surface," Academician Markov
said. "Use your divers."
     "I  have  a  suggestion, Professor," said Jafar Rustamov. "I have a man
who  can do  the job.  I should also  like  him  to  film the  start  of the
operation, if you don't mind."
     "Where's your diver?" asked Academician Markov.
     Bugrov  stepped  forward,  coughing  modestly   behind  his  hand.  The
Academician looked him up and down.
     "He'll smash the installation," said Professor Bagbanly. "Just look  at
those huge fists."
     "Let me go down together with him," said Nikolai, coming forward. "I'll
show him the spot and help him to-"
     "What an idea-after a bout of pneumonia!" Yura exclaimed. "I'll  do the
diving."
     "Very well. Only be quick about it."
     Bugrov clapped Yura on the shoulder. "Let's go," he said.
     They changed  into their  swimming trunks  and went  out  to the little
steel bridge connecting the shore with the pylon down which the pipeline ran
into the sea.
     Nikolai  helped them to  put on the aqualungs.  A  wrench  was  tied to
Yura's wrist, and a signal  rope was looped  round his waist. He and Nikolai
agreed on the signals they would use.
     After pulling on his mask and switching on the cylinder, Yura slid into
the sea. Bugrov plopped into the water in his wake.
     They  descended slowly through  the  cold green semi-darkness alongside
the steel sections of the pylon.
     When  the pressure-gauge showed they were at  a  depth of twenty metres
Yura  saw an elbow with a wide funnel at  its end. It held the Mobius  bands
and the aerial of the radiator.
     Yura  waved to Bugrov and  crawled inside  the pylon.  He  loosened the
elbow with his wrench, and  then Bugrov cautiously turned the funnel  in the
stiff joint. This was  by no means easy to do. The current pressed Bugrov up
against the pylon; he moved his  flippers,  seeking a support for his  feet.
Yura gestured to indicate that  he should turn the funnel  a little more  to
the left, but less energetically.
     Suddenly  there were two vigorous tugs on the signal rope. Nikolai  was
telling Yura that the beam  had reached Bird Rock, which  meant  the axes of
the funnels were in line. Yura immediately gestured to Bugrov,  then started
locking the nuts one after another. After he finished Bugrov took the wrench
and gave the nuts  a  final twist. Watching Bugrov's  shoulder muscles bulge
Yura was certain no current would ever move the funnels out of line again.
     He tugged on his rope three times to say that everything was all right.
The Mobius bands could be fed and the pumps switched on. Then he wrapped his
arms and legs round the steel  crossbars of the pylon and waited. Bugrov did
the same nearby. He untied the cine camera from around his waist and trained
it on the funnel.
     A long  minute  passed before the pylon began  to vibrate. There  was a
vague  rumble overhead  as the pump was switched on and it started  to force
oil down the pipe, driving out the water.
     All of a sudden a dark stream  the thickness of a human body poured out
of the  funnel, as though an invisible man were slowly pulling a big log out
of the elbow of the pipe. The log grew longer and longer.
     A stream  of  oil fourteen  inches  in diameter was flowing through the
water. It flowed evenly and compactly with  a clearly defined  surface  that
was surrounded by a faint violet glow.
     A  stream  of oil  flowing  through the sea was no  longer  a dream, no
longer a remote vision! It was a man-made miracle!
     Yura felt like  shouting, turning  somersaults, laughing. He  waved  to
Bugrov, but Bugrov was busy filming the stream.
     With four tugs on the signal rope Yura let Nikolai know that the stream
of oil was flowing. An answer came at  once; his signal was understood. Yura
untied the rope  round his waist and pushed off from the pylon and  began to
swim alongside the stream of oil.
     It was easy to  keep up with  the stream, for  the installation was not
functioning at full capacity. The stream of oil was moving at a speed of  no
more  than one metre  per  second. When the transcaspian pipeline  went into
operation the speed  could be greatly increased, for the  stream cut through
the water easily, without meeting resistance.
     Yura, eager to rejoin the others on shore,  gestured to Bugrov. Working
their flippers slowly, the two men swam to the surface.
     Nikolai  waved to  them from the bridge and shouted something, his face
shining with excitement.


     The committee that  was to approve  the  pipeline travelled out to Bird
Rock  on a big white launch. There was  plenty of  time;  the stream of  oil
would reach the island only two and a half hours later.
     Alarmed seagulls circled  above the black rock,  human beings had given
them no peace for the past few weeks.
     The committee members stepped out of the launch onto the sandy shore of
the  island and unhurriedly inspected the open steel tank. They  did not all
believe the tank would be rilled with oil that had flowed, without a pipe to
contain  it,  through  seven  kilometres  of  sea. They listened  closely to
engineer  Yura Kostyukov, who told  them again and again how he  had  seen a
stream of oil emerging from the funnel.
     When  only a few minutes  were left to  the scheduled  time Academician
Markov  ordered the pump switched on. A stream  of foaming water rushed into
the tank. There was no oil as yet. The pump had to be turned off.
     Yura could not hold back  his impatience. Ho silently  stripped  to his
swimming trunks, heaved  the  aqualung cylinders on his back, pulled on  his
mask, and dived into the water. Bugrov also put on an aqualung and dived in.
     Yura saw the stream of oil  almost at once. It was  moving towards him,
with a dark, snub-nosed end that looked like a gun muzzle. As before, it was
surrounded by a faint violet glow.
     The strange  sight filled Yura with awe.  He pushed himself  upwards so
fast that his  eardrums began  to  ache, and he slowed his rate of  rise. He
broke the glassy surface of the sea to return to a world of bright sunshine.
Yanking out his mouthpiece, Yura shouted to the people on the shore:
     "It's here! Switch on the pump!"
     Hastily gripping  the mouthpiece  between his teeth again he  dived and
swam over to the pylon, where Bugrov sat with his camera.
     They saw the stream of oil pass through the Mobius band, after which it
was neatly drawn into the broad funnel.
     Members of the experiment team crowded about the platform at the top of
the  tank. So far, the  pump was bringing up foamy water. Suddenly the water
darkened.  Scattering  an  iridescent  spray,  a  dark-brown  stream of  oil
splashed into the bottom of the tank.
     Pavel Koltukhov, who stood closest to the stream, put a finger into it.
Yes, it  was  oil,  oil that had been  sent across  seven kilometres of  sea
without a pipe, in an "incorporeal", restructured state, easily piercing the
water. Now it was passing through the field of the receiving Mobius band and
again becoming tangible and "normal".
     Professor  Bagbanly drew Boris Privalov to him  and embraced  him.  "My
heartiest congratulations, Boris," he said.
     "I  congratulate  you too," said Boris Privalov, his voice hoarse  from
excitement and happiness.
     The committee went down to the launch and returned to the mainland. Now
the experiment was  repeated in reverse. This time  the stream of oil flowed
just as obediently from Bird Bock to the tank on shore.
     "The  experiment has been  very satisfactory," said Academician Markov.
"Be sure  to collect the tapes from all the recording instruments. This will
be enough for today."
     "Is that  all he could tell us-that this is enough for today?" Privalov
thought. "As  though it  weren't a day  of  a miracle?  But  I  suppose  big
scientists  think  along  different  lines than  the rest of us do. To  them
today's experiment is just one among a great many others."
     Meanwhile the group was beginning to disperse. Jafar Bustamov was about
lo leave too, but Academician Markov detained him. "Please don't hurry away,
Jafar," he said. "I want to talk to you."
     Academician   Markov,   Professor  Bagbanly,  Boris   Privalov,   Pavel
Koltukhov,  Jafar  Rustamov and Nikolai and Yura were now the only ones left
in  the  control-desk  building.  They sat  in  front of the  white  panels.
Outside, the leaves on the old mulberry trees rustled in the breeze.
     Every once in a while a yellow  leaf  drifted into the room through  an
open window and slowly sank to the floor.
     "Let's sum up,"  said the Academician. "We've ripped off the surface of
matter and restructured the internal  bonds of matter. The impenetrable  has
become penetrable.
     "The Mobius band, a generator built in Boris Privalov's laboratory, and
the  field frequency characteristics found at the Institute  of Surfaces all
contributed to the success of this experiment. A highly interesting question
still  has  to  be  investigated,   and  that  is  the  interaction  between
penetrability  and  the earth's  field  of  gravitation. Our laboratory  has
thoroughly analysed  the  band that was engulfed  by the block  of concrete.
From Benedictov's notebook we know that  their concrete floor 'swallowed up'
restructured   matter.  There   is  also  Benedictov's  tragic  death."  The
Academician spread his hands.
     No  one  said anything  for  a few moments.  Boris  Privalov broke  the
silence.  "How, Academician  Markov,  do  you explain the fact  that in some
cases the object which  acquires  penetrability remains above the surface of
the ground or the floor, and in other cases it drops through this surface?"
     "So far, I think it goes something like this. Restructured matter, like
ordinary matter, possesses mass  and hence gravitates towards  the centre of
the earth. But if an obstacle of ordinary matter,  say, a floor, the seat of
a  chair, or the surface of  the earth itself, appears in  the gravitational
path,  then  the  obstacle acts as  a  damper  of  gravity'. The property of
penetrability  manifests  itself  in  all  directions  except  the  strictly
vertical. But under certain conditions the 'field of transformation' and the
field of gravitation may  interact in such  a way  that the 'damper  effect'
shifts downwards vertically. Then we get the 'sinking'."
     "We must co-ordinate the parameters of the installation  with the force
of  gravity  in  the  given  geographical  area,"  said Professor  Bagbanly.
"Preliminary gravimetric measurements are essential."
     "I  agree with you, Professor. Incidentally,  allow  me to congratulate
you on your energy scheme. It stood the test splendidly."
     "I appreciate your  kind  words," Professor  Bagbanly said,  laying his
hand on his heart. "But a new scheme  will be needed for  a route across the
entire Caspian,  and for long distances in general.  Don't forget that we'll
have  to  bend the beam to make it conform to  the curvature of the earth. I
couldn't do that by myself even if I were to lean all my weight on the other
end of the beam."
     Academician  Markov gave Professor  Bagbanly  a  friendly  pat  on  the
shoulder.
     "We'll all lean on your beam together," he said with a laugh. "That way
we  may succeed in  bending  it.  Koltukhov's electrets are  of  fundamental
importance.  They provided  an  inexhaustible  source of  current  and  thus
prevented the possibility of a power failure."
     "Nikolai Opratin had a battery  of electrets on his  island,"  Yura put
in.
     "There it  was  being  used for  a different  purpose, to  transfer the
properties of the knife to other objects," said Professor Bagbanly.
     "You  mentioned  the  notebook  that   belonged  to  the  late  Anatole
Benedictov,  didn't  you?"  Privalov  asked,  turni