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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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