mouthpiece. From the mouthpiece two goffered hoses led to the cylinders,
while a snorkel for ordinary breathing led upwards. Nikolai put on the mask,
which covered his nose and eyes. He tied a length of rope around his waist,
walked awkwardly down to the edge of the beach in his flippers, and entered
the water.
When he had waded in up to his chin he switched on the cylinders, dived
straight down and then swam along the shell-strewn bottom.
He rounded the steep headland and entered the cove. Using his air
supply sparingly, he slowly swam along the shore until he saw the dark
bottom of the motorboat. He swam under the boat, cautiously running his hand
along the slimy bottom. At the bow his fingers encountered the lifeline
hanging from the starboard side.
The motorboat rocked and settled deeply in the stern. The two men had
evidently climbed in.
"If only they don't notice the bubbles," Nikolai thought as he took a
firm grip on the life line.
Yura and Valery stood on the shore, silently watching the air bubbles
that marked Nikolai's movement under water.
The silence of the cove was broken by the roar of the outboard motor.
Yura gave a start, then turned and began to climb up the slope. Pebbles
rattled under his bare feet and sand trickled down.
From the slope of the big mud volcano Yura and Valery watched the
motorboat leave the cove and disappear round the headland. When it came into
sight again the motor was droning steadily. Its bow rising into the air, the
boat rapidly moved away from the island.
Through the binoculars Yura saw Bugrov and Opratin, both in the stern.
A head in a mask jutted out of the water at the bow.
"He's sitting pretty," Yura muttered.
"Boys! Where are you?" came Val's voice from the middle of the island.
Val and Rita appeared on the crest of the next slope. Yura rose and waved to
them. The girls climbed up the side of the mud volcano.
"We heard a noise," said Rita, breathing hard. "It sounded like a
motorboat."
Valery pointed towards the motorboat, now a dark streak against the
blue water.
"A boat?" Val asked in astonishment. "Is it coming in?"
"No, it's going out."
"Why didn't you signal?"
"Where's Nikolai?" Rita asked.
"I'll tell you all about it." Yura gave them a brief run-down of the
day's events on the island.
"You say Anatole's in there?" Rita sprang to her feet and raced to the
concrete dome. She jumped down into the depression in front of the entrance
to the pill-box, then paused to catch her breath. Her face was pale through
the suntan.
A lock with a lead seal dangling from it hung on the steel door.
The others came running up.
"It's locked," Valery said. "How could that be?"
"Anatole must have changed his mind and left with the others," said
Yura. "Actually, we didn't see them getting into the boat."
"No, we didn't see them getting in but-"
Yura interrupted him. "He was probably lying in the bottom of the boat
resting."
"But what if Opratin locked him in?" Rita pounded on the steel door
with her fists.
"Don't start inventing things," Yura said sternly. "They quarrelled, I
know, but to lock him in- That's nonsense."
"How did you ever manage to overhear their conversation?"
Yura gestured with his head. "We were on the other side."
They skirted the dome and came up to the ventilation shaft.
"Anatole!" Rita shouted through the grating into the black maw of the
shaft. "Anatole!"
The hollow echo was followed by silence.
"He went away, I tell you," Yura insisted. Meanwhile, his brain was
working feverishly. "He could have come out later than the others- while we
were outfitting Nikolai on the beach," he thought. "We didn't see him in the
boat, but he might have been lying in the bottom for all we know."
"I simply must get inside, Yura."
"You mustn't break the seal."
"I won't have any peace of mind until I see for myself." Rita's dark
eyes were filled with fear. Yura looked away. He put his hand on the rusty
ventilation grating.
"Oh, to hell with it!" he exclaimed after a pause. He looked round. His
eyes fell on an old, broken oar. He picked it up and thrust it between the
rods of the grating. After pushing the oar up and down a few times he heard
the grating creak and give. Valery helped him to pull one end of the
loosened rods out of the concrete and bend them upwards. The opening into
the shaft was now wide enough to crawl through.
"I'll go first," Valery volunteered.
"No, you stay here. Rita and I will crawl in," said Yura. "Rita, you
really oughtn't to, of course. You'll scratch your arms and shoulders badly.
But if you insist-"
"We'll all crawl in," said Val. "Valery and I also want to see what
it's all about."
"I'll swear everyone's off his rocker today!" Yura exclaimed. "Well, I
can't do anything about it. Hand me a rope, Valery."
He tied the rope to the concrete pipe and dropped the end into the
shaft.
"I'll signal who's to go when," he said. "You'll come down last,
Valery."
Yura wriggled through the opening, crawled into the cool darkness and
began to slide down the rope. Before he knew it he had scraped his shoulders
and elbows on the rough concrete. The camera banging round his neck
interfered with his movements. The shaft was no more than two and a half
metres deep, after which it levelled out into a horizontal passageway.
Pressing against the concrete, Yura moved forward, feet first. Soon his
feet reached empty space. Bending forward, gripping the rope tightly, he
lowered himself into a dark room. When his feet touched the floor he rose to
his full height and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.
After his eyes had adapted themselves to the darkness he saw shelves of
instruments in the faint light that entered the room through the ventilation
shaft. He took a cautious step forward but stubbed his bare toe against
something hard. He swore out loud. The hard object was a table leg. He ran
his hand over the top of the table, feeling papers, books and some kind of
blocks. At last, a table lamp! Yura pressed the button and light filled the
room. He glanced round curiously.
"Did you switch on a light?" Rita called from above. "May we come
down?"
"Yes, come 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 Ж 1764 was clearly written in the top circle. (The
sign Ж 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.
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.
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
while a snorkel for ordinary breathing led upwards. Nikolai put on the mask,
which covered his nose and eyes. He tied a length of rope around his waist,
walked awkwardly down to the edge of the beach in his flippers, and entered
the water.
When he had waded in up to his chin he switched on the cylinders, dived
straight down and then swam along the shell-strewn bottom.
He rounded the steep headland and entered the cove. Using his air
supply sparingly, he slowly swam along the shore until he saw the dark
bottom of the motorboat. He swam under the boat, cautiously running his hand
along the slimy bottom. At the bow his fingers encountered the lifeline
hanging from the starboard side.
The motorboat rocked and settled deeply in the stern. The two men had
evidently climbed in.
"If only they don't notice the bubbles," Nikolai thought as he took a
firm grip on the life line.
Yura and Valery stood on the shore, silently watching the air bubbles
that marked Nikolai's movement under water.
The silence of the cove was broken by the roar of the outboard motor.
Yura gave a start, then turned and began to climb up the slope. Pebbles
rattled under his bare feet and sand trickled down.
From the slope of the big mud volcano Yura and Valery watched the
motorboat leave the cove and disappear round the headland. When it came into
sight again the motor was droning steadily. Its bow rising into the air, the
boat rapidly moved away from the island.
Through the binoculars Yura saw Bugrov and Opratin, both in the stern.
A head in a mask jutted out of the water at the bow.
"He's sitting pretty," Yura muttered.
"Boys! Where are you?" came Val's voice from the middle of the island.
Val and Rita appeared on the crest of the next slope. Yura rose and waved to
them. The girls climbed up the side of the mud volcano.
"We heard a noise," said Rita, breathing hard. "It sounded like a
motorboat."
Valery pointed towards the motorboat, now a dark streak against the
blue water.
"A boat?" Val asked in astonishment. "Is it coming in?"
"No, it's going out."
"Why didn't you signal?"
"Where's Nikolai?" Rita asked.
"I'll tell you all about it." Yura gave them a brief run-down of the
day's events on the island.
"You say Anatole's in there?" Rita sprang to her feet and raced to the
concrete dome. She jumped down into the depression in front of the entrance
to the pill-box, then paused to catch her breath. Her face was pale through
the suntan.
A lock with a lead seal dangling from it hung on the steel door.
The others came running up.
"It's locked," Valery said. "How could that be?"
"Anatole must have changed his mind and left with the others," said
Yura. "Actually, we didn't see them getting into the boat."
"No, we didn't see them getting in but-"
Yura interrupted him. "He was probably lying in the bottom of the boat
resting."
"But what if Opratin locked him in?" Rita pounded on the steel door
with her fists.
"Don't start inventing things," Yura said sternly. "They quarrelled, I
know, but to lock him in- That's nonsense."
"How did you ever manage to overhear their conversation?"
Yura gestured with his head. "We were on the other side."
They skirted the dome and came up to the ventilation shaft.
"Anatole!" Rita shouted through the grating into the black maw of the
shaft. "Anatole!"
The hollow echo was followed by silence.
"He went away, I tell you," Yura insisted. Meanwhile, his brain was
working feverishly. "He could have come out later than the others- while we
were outfitting Nikolai on the beach," he thought. "We didn't see him in the
boat, but he might have been lying in the bottom for all we know."
"I simply must get inside, Yura."
"You mustn't break the seal."
"I won't have any peace of mind until I see for myself." Rita's dark
eyes were filled with fear. Yura looked away. He put his hand on the rusty
ventilation grating.
"Oh, to hell with it!" he exclaimed after a pause. He looked round. His
eyes fell on an old, broken oar. He picked it up and thrust it between the
rods of the grating. After pushing the oar up and down a few times he heard
the grating creak and give. Valery helped him to pull one end of the
loosened rods out of the concrete and bend them upwards. The opening into
the shaft was now wide enough to crawl through.
"I'll go first," Valery volunteered.
"No, you stay here. Rita and I will crawl in," said Yura. "Rita, you
really oughtn't to, of course. You'll scratch your arms and shoulders badly.
But if you insist-"
"We'll all crawl in," said Val. "Valery and I also want to see what
it's all about."
"I'll swear everyone's off his rocker today!" Yura exclaimed. "Well, I
can't do anything about it. Hand me a rope, Valery."
He tied the rope to the concrete pipe and dropped the end into the
shaft.
"I'll signal who's to go when," he said. "You'll come down last,
Valery."
Yura wriggled through the opening, crawled into the cool darkness and
began to slide down the rope. Before he knew it he had scraped his shoulders
and elbows on the rough concrete. The camera banging round his neck
interfered with his movements. The shaft was no more than two and a half
metres deep, after which it levelled out into a horizontal passageway.
Pressing against the concrete, Yura moved forward, feet first. Soon his
feet reached empty space. Bending forward, gripping the rope tightly, he
lowered himself into a dark room. When his feet touched the floor he rose to
his full height and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.
After his eyes had adapted themselves to the darkness he saw shelves of
instruments in the faint light that entered the room through the ventilation
shaft. He took a cautious step forward but stubbed his bare toe against
something hard. He swore out loud. The hard object was a table leg. He ran
his hand over the top of the table, feeling papers, books and some kind of
blocks. At last, a table lamp! Yura pressed the button and light filled the
room. He glanced round curiously.
"Did you switch on a light?" Rita called from above. "May we come
down?"
"Yes, come 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 Ж 1764 was clearly written in the top circle. (The
sign Ж 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.
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.
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