manner that they will be completely neutral when they come into contact with
ordinary matter during the period of reciprocal penetration. The internal
bonds must be re-arranged! Then we'll achieve penetrability."
Koltukhov opened his mouth to make a caustic remark, but just then the
telephone rang.
Privalov picked up the receiver. "Hullo. Yes, this is me. Is that you,
Nikolai? Now take it easy-" He listened for a moment. "What?!" His face
changed. "I'll be there in a jiffy." He put down the receiver and glanced at
Professor Bagbanly. "We must all rush off at once!"
When the blue draperies were pulled across that section of the room
Valery realized that an uninvited guest had dropped in. He put down the
tuning-fork and, to keep himself busy, examined the connections. It was a
good thing he did, for he discovered that one of the weights which regulated
the frequency of the tuning-fork breaker was loosely attached, and that the
scales on which the mercury heart stood had shifted slightly.
"From the vibration, no doubt," Valery said to himself. Carefully, with
his little finger, he moved the scales inside the Mobius band while he
adjusted the weight with his other hand. At the same moment guitar chords
sounded on the other side of the blue draperies and Yura's voice burst into
song.
"An old-fashioned tune," Valery reflected as he continued to move the
scales with his finger. All of a sudden he felt a faint quiver in the little
finger.
"An electric shock?" he wondered. "No, I haven't touched any metal."
To be on the safe side, he thrust his little finger into his mouth. How
curious! The finger did not feel his mouth, and his mouth did not feel the
finger. He stared fearfully at his finger. It looked perfectly normal. He
put it into his mouth again. But again there was no sensation whatsoever. He
tried biting the tip of the finger. His teeth came together as though there
was nothing between them.
Remembering that there was a visitor in the house, Valery stifled a
scream. "It took an iron will to keep from shouting," he later said. But his
body gave a jerk that dislodged the mercury heart from the scales and
overturned the tuning-fork breaker.
Professor Bagbanly, Boris Privalov and Pavel Koltukhov hurried up the
stairs and burst breathlessly into Nikolai's flat.
"Where's Valery?" Privalov demanded.
Valery, his face pale and covered with sweat, came into the room.
Nikolai excitedly told what had happened.
Professor Bagbanly touched Valery's little finger. The tip and the
joint next to it were penetrable. The Professor's forefinger passed through
them easily and touched his thumb.
"Feel anything?" he asked.
"No," Valery whispered.
It was easy to establish where the penetrability ended.
"Light a match," said Professor Bagbanly. "Calm down, young man," he
added when he saw Nikolai nervously break a couple of matches as he tried to
light them. He turned to Valery. "I want you to put the tip of your finger
into the flame of Nikolai's match."
Everyone held his breath. Valery looked as though he were walking in
his sleep. He slowly put his little finger into the flame. It wavered but
its shape did not change. "Do you feel anything?"
"Yes," said Valery hoarsely, holding the tip of his finger in the
flame. "My fingertip feels warm."
The engineers were dumbstruck. They stared in a daze at Valery's little
finger.
"Thrust your finger into the table," the professor said.
Valery obeyed. Half of his finger went into the wood.
"Less goes in now," he said. "At first almost the whole finger went
in."
Professor Bagbanly exchanged glances with Privalov. Then he set about
examining the apparatus.
"A Mobius band?" he said. "Quite an idea. What did the instruments
register when it happened?"
"We weren't thinking about penetrability," Yura explained. "We wanted
to increase surface tension, using this mercury heart. Valery must have put
his hands inside the Mobius band a dozen times without anything happening.
But when he moved the weight-and I plucked the strings of my guitar at the
same time-something clicked. Valery was so scared he overturned everything,
and so we don't know the exact readings." "Automation experts, humph!"
Koltukhov remarked, looking the silent, frightened young men up and down.
"What's the idea of this clandestine laboratory? I shudder to think of the
damage you might have done!"
"Have you tuned your guitar since then?" Privalov asked.
"No," said Yura.
"Then play exactly what you played then. We'll record it," said
Professor Bagbanly. "You have a tape recorder here, don't you?"
Meanwhile, Valery's little finger was gradually returning to its normal
state. He kept testing it against the table. Finally only the very tip of
the finger went into the wood. Then, suddenly, he felt his fingertip being
pinched, and with a cry he pulled his hand away, leaving a bit of skin in
the wood. He immediately thrust his bleeding finger into his mouth. His face
broke into a broad smile. "It's ended!" he shouted.
The courtyard in Cooper Lane throbbed with music. Strains of music,
much of it in a plaintive Oriental key, poured forth through all the open
windows from radios, record players and tape recorders.
Nikolai had never contributed much to the musical life of the
courtyard, but now he aroused the hostility of all his neighbours. Evening
after evening there came from his windows the same tiresome strumming of a
guitar, accompanied by the thumping of a foot keeping time, and his friend
Yura's voice singing:
Powder in your pocket to poison me with,
A locomotive in your pocket to crush me with.
A detailed description of the installation had been sent to the Academy
of Sciences in Moscow, together with a long memorandum and the tapes. The
young engineers had been ordered to keep their mouths shut and to stop
experimenting at home.
"You've done enough mischief," said Koltukhov. "Probing the structure
of matter is not as simple as strumming a guitar."
Rita returned home from school earlier than usual that day. She let
herself in with her key, stepped into the entryway and took off her coat,
then paused to listen. Rustling and creaking sounds came from the bedroom.
The creaking was clearly the wardrobe door.
She knew that Anatole was never at home at this hour. Could a burglar
have broken in?
Rita tiptoed to the bedroom door. She held her breath and listened.
Yes, it was a burglar! What she had to do was lock the bedroom door and dash
to the phone.
Just then she heard a familiar cough.
"How you frightened me!" she exclaimed, flinging open the bedroom door.
Anatole Benedictov, in his brown house jacket, was standing in front of
the open wardrobe. He did not turn when Rita entered. Instead, he closed the
wardrobe and limped to the window.
"What's the matter?" she asked in alarm. "Why are you home so early?"
"I feel a bit under the weather."
"Why are you limping?"
"Oh, it's nothing," Benedictov said reluctantly. "I was looking for a
handkerchief. Could you get me one, please?"
Rita opened the wardrobe and took out a handkerchief.
"You don't look well, Anatole," she said. "Could you be running a
fever?"
He waved aside the suggestion and went into his study. Rita changed
into her house dress and went to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Two days ago she had noticed that the articles in the drawers of her
dressing table were disarranged. She had not attached any importance to it
at the time, but now she realized that Anatole was probably searching for
the knife. He did not believe her when she said the knife was at the bottom
of the sea.
She sliced the potatoes in thick rings and put them into the sizzling
frying pan. Anatole loved fried potatoes. He hardly talked to her at all any
more, she thought sadly and anxiously. He had grown terribly excited when
she told him about the two young men who had dropped in. "No one in his
right mind would have thrown out that box containing Fedor Matveyev's
manuscript!" he had shouted. But how could she have known that the rusty
little bar propping up the old wardrobe would contain an eighteenth-century
manuscript? Nor did she know anything about a third box the young men wanted
to lay hands on.
After that unpleasant conversation Anatole had grown more sullen than
ever. He no longer talked to her at all about his work.
Now Anatole was working on some project together with Opratin. Rita had
long since lost hope that Anatole would achieve some measure of success.
However, perhaps his collaboration with Opratin would prove fruitful. But
what if they really couldn't get along without the knife?
Another source of doubt and anxiety was the young engineer who had
rescued her at sea. Rita's thoughts kept returning to the two young men who
had called on her. What did they want those small iron boxes for?
The name Nikolai Potapkin did not mean anything to Rita, yet there was
something vaguely familiar about the young engineer's face and his way of
carrying himself. She had been conscious of this when he and his friend came
to inquire about the boxes. Now she was almost certain. Without knowing why,
she refused to acknowledge it.
When Rita called out to her husband to say that dinner was ready he
refused to come to the table. He lay on the couch in the study, his eyes
feverish and his face flushed and drenched in sweat.
"You're ill!" Rita exclaimed. "I'll call the doctor."
"No doctors. Just get me some penicillin from the medicine chest."
Only late at night, when he was running a high fever, did he allow Rita
to apply a cold compress to his leg. Then she accidentally discovered a big
abscess on his right hip.
Nikolai Opratin dropped in the next evening. He sat beside Anatole for
a while, discussing various matters. He was most polite to Rita.
He told her that the work was going along well, and praised Anatole's
erudition.
The next morning the burly, plump-cheeked man brought round a packet of
drugs for Anatole. "I was told to hand this over to him personally," he told
Rita in a hoarse bass voice. But Anatole was asleep and she refused to wake
him.
After she closed the door on her unpleasant visitor Rita opened the
packet. It contained ampoules of a drug which Rita recognized to be a
narcotic.
Suddenly the whole thing became clear to her. She sat beside her
husband's sickbed for a long time in a daze. She did not cry. She felt as
though she had shrivelled up inside.
When Anatole awoke she silently showed him the packet. He frowned and
began to snuffle.
An unpleasant conversation followed.
"Yes, yes, I understand," said Rita, clasping her hands, which were now
two lumps of ice. "You wanted to increase your working capacity and then
gradually started taking bigger and bigger doses."
"Oh, leave me alone," he said wearily.
"Give it up, Anatole," Rita pleaded. "Stop taking the drug. That boil
of yours comes from a dirty hypodermic syringe. You won't give yourself any
more injections, will you? You'll drop the habit, and then everything will
be fine again."
"That's enough!" Anatole shouted.
"I insist that you stop," Rita said resolutely. "I'll take you in hand
if you lack the will-power to do it yourself. As for that fat-faced fellow,
I'm going to have him arrested."
Benedictov raised himself on his elbow and swung his feet out over the
side of the bed. Rita rushed to prevent him from getting up. He pushed her
aside. Without uttering a single word he put on his clothes and walked to
the door, dishevelled, desperate-looking, and aloof. He slammed the door so
hard that a shower of plaster came down from the ceiling.
Rita stood beside the door for a long time, the palms of her hands
pressed to her cheeks. She did not cry. But something within her was broken.
Anatole did not return. Twenty-four hours later Vova Bugrov came to the
door bearing a note in which Anatole asked for his things. Rita picked up
the telephone.
"Not thinking of calling the law, were you?" Vova asked with a grin. "I
wouldn't if I were you. I didn't get those ampoules for myself but for him,
because he begged me to. If you report it you'll make things very hard for
him."
Vova was right, Rita realized. She silently packed a suitcase of her
husband's clothes. Vova went into the study and picked up several laboratory
instruments. As he prepared to leave he mumbled that Benedictov was now
staying with Nikolai Opratin.
When Anatole told Opratin that he had walked out of the house the
latter frowned. Fate had sent him a restless man for a partner.
"Well, what's there to be said now?" he remarked. "You may stay at my
place for the time being. There's plenty of room. For the sake of science
I'm willing to put up with a lodger as bad-tempered as you are."
Anatole moved into the spare room in Opratin's bachelor establishment.
There were Oriental rugs on the floor of the room and in two of the corners
stood cabinets with porcelain figurines.
"Are you a collector?" Anatole asked with a condescending smile.
"Porcelain'is a weakness of mine," Opratin said shortly. "How is your
boil?"
"It's healing."
"Look here, Anatole," said Opratin. "We've got to speed up our
experiments on the island. I've been told that Privalov and his assistants
are working along the same lines as we are. They've set up some sort of
installation and are getting promising results."
"How do you know all this?"
"It doesn't matter how I found out. From Vova Bugrov, if you want to
know. They've got in touch with the Academy of Sciences through Professor
Bagbanly. In other words, they are consulting with scientists in Moscow. How
do you like that?"
Anatole did not like it at all. "I'm going out to the island tomorrow
morning," he said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand. "I'll get
things humming. Don't forget, though, that if we don't lay hands on that
knife by the time we get the installation assembled we'll be on the rocks."
"You'll have the knife," Opratin said calmly. "And something else,
besides-something that may be even more important. I'll make a trip to
Moscow in January. With Bugrov."
"Who'll take me out to the island in the motor-boat?"
"I'll get someone at the Institute to do that. Only don't let him
anywhere near the laboratory. But you know that. We'll discuss the details
when the time comes."
There she was, alone in the flat, a deserted wife. She looked up
Opratin's number in the telephone directory. All she had to do was dial that
number and she would hear Anatole's voice. All she had to do was say, "Come
home, Anatole. Forgive me. I can't go on alone."
No, she couldn't say that. She hadn't done anything that called for
forgiveness. He should be the one to beg forgiveness.
But she was plagued by the thought that she had failed him, not kept
proper watch over him, not stopped him in time, and that therefore she was
to blame.
A friend in Moscow wrote inviting her to come for a visit during the
New Year school vacation. "A change will do you good. You can take in some
of the new plays," the friend said. Rita wondered whether perhaps that might
not be a good idea.
The ringing of the bell made her jump. She ran to open the door. Her
heart was beating furiously.
Nikolai Opratin stood at the door. He greeted her courteously and
smiled at her. Rita was unable to say a word. Her lips trembled.
Finally she pulled herself together and invited him to step in. She was
determined not to give Opratin the slightest indication that she wanted to
burst into tears.
What was he saying? "Anatole and I may soon have an important discovery
to announce to the world. We would be able to do so even sooner if we had
that knife of yours." He scrutinized her with cold, appraising eyes.
Rita said nothing.
"It is in your own interests too," he said. "Give us the knife".
"How can I!" she said in a steady voice. "You know as well as I do that
the knife fell overboard."
"It didn't fall overboard," Opratin said quietly. "But if you find the
subject distasteful let's drop it. However, its a pity, a great pity." He
rose. "What shall I tell Anatole?"
"Give him my very best regards. Tell him I'm going to Moscow."
"To Moscow?"
"Yes, to visit a friend of mine during the winter school vacation."
"When will that be?"
"At the very beginning of January."
"What a remarkable coincidence," said Opratin, smiling with his lips
only. "I'll be going to Moscow on business early in January. I hope to have
the pleasure of seeing you there."
SURFACES AND NIKOLAI GETS A BRAINWAVE
The blue bus with the transparent roof rolled along the snow-covered
highway, past birch groves and white-mantled farm fields. It went through a
small town, rumbled over a bridge across a frozen stream and dived into the
dark tunnel of a fir forest.
Nikolai kept his eyes glued to the bus window, gazing with interest at
the unfamiliar landscape. He had come to Moscow with Boris Privalov two days
before on matters connected with the trans-caspian oil pipeline project.
They had spent all of the previous day at the Ministry, talking with
engineers and officials. Now they were on their way to the Institute of
Surfaces, one of the newest research facilities of the Academy of Sciences.
When they turned off into a driveway the pale winter sun splashed its
rays through the windows, and it immediately grew cosier inside the bus.
Privalov folded his newspaper. "We've arrived," he said.
They stepped out of the bus into a frosty blue midday silence and the
fragrance of a fir grove. The frost pinched their nostrils. The snow
crunched underfoot.
They crossed a large cleared area on which the Institute housing estate
had been built, then walked through another grove and came to a broad avenue
of Institute laboratories and other buildings.
A path in the deep snow brought them to a two-storey building. Inside,
they walked down a green-carpeted corridor, passing a series of doors with
numbers on them. They stopped in front of a thickly padded door with a
lighted sign above it that said "Quiet, please". From the other side of the
door came the sound of a man's voice singing to the accompaniment of a
guitar. This seemed as incongruous in the businesslike Institute atmosphere
as the mooing of a cow in a symphony orchestra.
To the strumming of the guitar, with a foot energetically beating out
the time, a youthful voice sang:
Powder in your pocket to poison me with,
A locomotive in your pocket to crush me with.
Nikolai and Privalov exchanged glances. They had recognized Yura's
voice. This was their tape recording of the experiment.
Members of the Institute staff were expecting Privalov and Nikolai. The
visitors were led into a large, windowless room whose walls were covered
with consoles and control panels. Daylight streamed in through a broad oval
skylight.
A lean man in a dark suit, with high cheekbones, a hooked nose and
neatly parted hair rose from his desk to greet the visiting research
engineers. Nikolai cautiously pressed the hand that was held out to him and
stuttered as he gave his name. He was awed at meeting Academician Georgi
Markov a world-famous scientist.
"Please be seated," Academician Markov said, indicating armchairs with
a brief wave of his hand. "I'm glad to see you. In a few moments two of my
assistants will drop in and tell you what we are doing with your music."
Nikolai felt like sinking through the floor. How tired he was of Yura's
pranks! There were hundreds of pleasant songs, yet Yura had chosen to sing
one of the silliest ditties in the world. But what did it matter to Yura? He
did not have to sit here and watch the polite smile on the face of the
country's most distinguished physicist.
"I can tell you that if it were not for Professor Bagbanly's
confirmation that he had seen it with his own eyes we never would have
believed it." Academician Markov looked at Nikolai. "You're the one who
designed the installation, aren't you?"
"Actually, all I did was think of how to make use of the Mobius band."
"How did you get the idea?"
"Fedor Matveyev's manuscript prompted it. If you remember, he described
some sort of a coil."
"That's right. A half-twist spiral. It interested us too. Allow me to
congratulate you. It was an excellent idea."
Nikolai felt flattered. Before he was aware of it he was grinning from
ear to ear. Wiping off the grin, he said hurriedly: "Automation experts
helped us to design the installation on the basis of ideas suggested by my
colleague Yura Kostyukov. He's the man whose voice you hear singing that
unpardonably silly song which, of course-" "Think nothing of it," said
Academician Markov with a friendly smile. "At your age I liked that song
too."
A stocky young man, not much older than Nikolai, wearing a sports
jacket, and a rosy-cheeked girl in a grey suit entered the room.
The Academician asked Nikolai to describe the experiment he and Yura
had carried out in Cooper Lane. All listened to Nikolai's account in
attentive silence.
"We weren't interested in penetrability at all," Nikolai remarked in
conclusion. "All we wanted to do was build up the surface tension of
mercury."
"You've made the picture clearer," said Academician Markov. "Now we'll
hear what Vassily Fedorovich has to say."
The stocky young man in the sports jacket began by laying several
diagrams and photographs on the table. Then he launched into a description
of the installation he and his fellow-workers had built. Basically, it was a
duplicate of the one in Cooper Lane, but with precise recording apparatus
and a more efficient mechanism in place of the tuning-fork breaker.
Privalov and Nikolai were then invited to examine the installation.
Yes, this isn't Cooper Lane, Nikolai mused as he looked at the apparatus and
instruments. Actually, though, there wasn't any real difference. Here, as at
home, the Mobius band was the dominant element.
Two rods pressed together by powerful electromagnets had been set up
inside the band, and under the right conditions they were to penetrate each
other. But the right conditions had not yet been attained. The dials of the
instruments registered zero.
A tape recorder inside a soundproof room was playing back Yura's
rendition of that ill-fated song. The sound was converted into
electromagnetic oscillations that were recorded on tape for feeding into a
computer.
The Institute computer knew all the parameters of the set-up. All, that
is, except the crucial one. If Valery had not shifted the tuning-fork
breaker the weights would have remained in the same accidental position in
which penetrability had taken place. Now the installation had to be operated
to the accompaniment of all the frequencies that occurred in Yura's song.
The computer kept formulating and solving a series of equations. The
solutions were communicated to the installation in the form of electrical
commands.
"I wonder," said Boris Privalov, turning to Academician Markov, "if you
could tell us what you think of penetrability and its causes."
"It is really too early to say anything definite. However, it seems to
me that our friend Professor Bagbanly is fundamentally right. It is all a
matter of a reorganization of the internal bonds of matter. Something
special takes place in the Mobius band, with its one-sided surface. At a
definite frequency, of course."
Then, with the words "Let us proceed further," he led his visitors out
into a wide corridor. "A Mobius band in a high-frequency circuit is
certainly a most fortunate conjecture. It holds out great prospects,
prospects which perhaps you do not even suspect. But since we have a
definite goal in front of us-an underwater oil pipeline- we decided that in
the first stage we would apply our energies to this particular problem.
Actually, we face two problems. First, we need greater surface tension to
shape a stream of oil as desired. Second, we need penetrability in order to
reduce to a minimum, or else eliminate altogether, resistance to the
movement of the stream. Do you agree?"
"Yes, you're quite right," said Privalov.
"The second problem is still a matter of the future, but the first
one-well, take a look for yourselves."
He flung open a door.
A round concrete pool three and a half metres in diameter filled the
middle of the room. A large horizontal metal band attached to corrugated
insulators encircled it.
"A Mobius band?" Nikolai asked hesitantly, examining it. "It's a
giant!"
They followed their host up to a platform, from which they saw that the
pool was half full of a viscous black liquid having a greenish tinge.
"That's petroleum," said Academician Markov. "Ten tons of it. Now
watch."
He pressed a button on a panel.
The surface of the oil welled up in the middle and continued to^
expand. The edges began to draw away from the sides of the pool, exposing
its bottom. The process went ahead faster and faster. Some powerful force
was shaping the black liquid into an almost perfect sphere three metres in
diameter. Its surface grew shiny and iridescent. The figures standing on the
platform were reflected in it crookedly, as though in a distorting mirror.
"Oho!" Privalov exclaimed.
Nikolai gazed with glowing eyes at the black sphere lying in the pool.
His mind went back to the pulsating drop of mercury in Cooper Lane. But only
for a moment. Everything was swept away by the enormous black sphere. So
this was surface tension!
"The f-frequency-W-what's the f-frequency?" Nikolai asked, stuttering
in excitement.
"We'll give you all the details. But this force isn't strong enough to
take the place of the pipe wall made of steel."
The Academician switched off the current and the sphere immediately
collapsed, flowing back to fill the pool again. The oily black surface
heaved deeply and then became motionless.
"I think the Mobius band can give us a much greater degree of
intensification," said the scientist. "An interesting feature is the
reversible process, a law of physics. Within a very narrow range of
operational factors-which we still don't know completely-the set-up produced
a weakening of the bonds of matter. Strictly speaking, that business with
the finger in your laboratory, the penetrability, is a spin-off.
Incidentally, do you people realize what this amazing discovery means?"
Nikolai said nothing. He had long ago taken a pledge not to build
castles in the air. He would keep strictly to the oil pipeline.
"Not altogether, naturally," said Privalov.
"But we think there'll be a revolution in the cold working of
metals-cutting without resistance and the like."
Academician Markov nodded.
"Furthermore, penetrating tools will be used to sink coal mines and
drill oil wells," Privalov went on, his voice eager. "I even think-you
mustn't laugh, though-there might be a way of protecting spaceships against
meteorites."
"It's within the realm of possibility," the Academician said
thoughtfully. "But it won't be at all easy to work out the specific approach
required in each practical application. The surface of matter possesses
energy, and it looks as though we may lay our hands on it."
Privalov ran his fingers through his thick hair. "A new type of
energy?"
"No, a new source of energy," Academician Markov said. "A more
available source than nuclear energy."
All were silent for a moment.
"If only we could actually look at and feel a specimen of restructured
matter," the Academician went on. "Who can tell when our set-up yields the
first matter of this type? What a pity the effect produced on the finger of
your lab technician was so short-lived. Now if we could by some miracle
acquire Fedor Matveyev's knife-if such a knife actually exists, of course."
"What if the knife is just lying about somewhere at this very minute?"
The stocky young man in the sports jacket put in. "Fedor Matveyev did bring
it to Russia, didn't he?"
The words "lying about somewhere" conjured up in Nikolai's mind a
picture of a summer day flooded with hot sunshine, the boat races, Opratin's
zuotorboat and Vova Bugrov in the water beside it. When Nikolai swam up to
the boat he heard Bugrov say "All I want is the knife." Vova had an
aqualung. There was some kind of a scanning device in the motorboat. They
were searching the sea bottom at the spot where Rita had fallen overboard.
Before that, Opratin had come to their Institute and had questioned
them to learn just where she had fallen into the sea. Come to think of it,
he had asked-yes, he had-whether the woman had had anything metallic in her
hand. It was the knife, Fedor Matveyev's knife, that Opratin and Bugrov were
looking for.
If the little iron box containing Matveyev's manuscript had been taken
for a piece of ordinary junk and had been thrown out of Rita's house- and
Nikolai did not doubt that it had-it was possible she could have possessed
Matveyev's knife. It could have been in another box.
Nikolai recalled the sketches on the last page of the manuscript. The
box in which they had found the manuscript was named "The Source". There was
a sketch of another box, called "The Evidence". Evidence! What could be
better evidence than that knife?
Nikolai had finally woven all those scattered impressions into a single
picture. Fedor Matveyev's knife did exist. Rita knew about it. Opratin and
Bugrov were searching for it. Or perhaps had already found it.
Although Nikolai was eager to pour out the whole story he held his
tongue. This was neither the time nor the place. He brought his mind back to
what the others were saying.
"If Fedor Matveyev held the knife by the handle it means the handle was
made of ordinary material," the scientist stated. "There must have been a
transition zone in the blade.
"Should I send a wire to Yura?" Nikolai wondered. "Maybe he could pry
some information out of Bugrov or Bugrov's wife. We must lay hands on the
knife. We simply must."
Again he brought his mind back to the conversation.
"The bonds in matter are not stable. They are constantly changing-"
"Why didn't Yura and I think of it before?" Nikolai asked himself. "It
dawned on me only just now, when he said the knife might be lying about
somewhere."
"We may need some practical assistance from your Institute,"
Academician Markov was saying. "How would your director look upon that?"
"I don't know", Privalov confessed. "The pipeline across the Caspian
which we are designing is to consist of ordinary steel pipes. It's a
definite project, with a definite deadline, and we have to concentrate our
energies on it. The idea of a pipeline without pipes-well, that's merely a
vague conjecture so far."
"We'll arrange for permission from the Ministry, or rather, this girl
here will do it. She's a representative from the Ministry. She's so pretty
you might take her for an empty-headed little creature, but I can assure you
that she knows every nook, corner and path in the bureaucratic jungle."
"What a thing to say about me!" the girl protested, laughing.
Soon after, the two visitors made their farewells. Privalov settled his
tall caracul hat firmly on his head with a sigh, took Nikolai by the arm,
and they left the Institute of Surfaces.
The moment the men returned to Moscow Nikolai sent off a wire to Yura.
Am certain 0. and B. are seeking Fedor's knife. Investigate
immediately. Contact Bugrov's wife.
IN WHICH "THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY" DISAPPEARS AND FEDOR MATVEYEV'S KNIFE
REAPPEARS
Nikolai was flabbergasted by what he had seen and heard at the
Institute of Surfaces. The magnificent prospects which Academician Markov
had hinted at in passing were hard to take in all at once. They had to be
assimilated gradually.
He and Privalov spent several evenings in their hotel room talking
about those prospects.
As they were drinking tea in their room one morning there was a knock
on the door.
"Some letters for you," said the floor clerk. There were two letters,
one from Privalov's wife, the other for Nikolai from Yura. Nikolai slit open
the envelope and ran his eyes over the first few lines of Yura's letter. He
could not help laughing aloud. Yura was his usual self.
The letter began as follows:
"The Right Honourable Nicholas S. Potapkin, Esq.
"Dear Sir,
"First of all, allow me to inform you that when the mail coach at last
drew up to our gates, instead of the long awaited detailed letter all I
found in the pouch was a short and meagre message. Damn it all, sir. I am a
plain man, sir, arid I want to state in plain language that I looked upon
you as a gentleman. Nevertheless, I am writing to you, although I would
perhaps do better to exchange my pen for a pistol, which is the best thing
to use against damned coyotes like yourself. After reading your dispatch I
jumped into the saddle and galloped off like the wind. I hitched my mustang
to a chaparral bush, then strode through the gateway of your ranch-"
At this juncture Yura's patience with Wild West lingo ran out and he
continued more simply.
"I waited a long time under the archway before Bugrov's wife came out
of the house and into the yard. Then I humped into her, quite by chance, of
course, and gallantly bowed and scraped before her. I gave free rein to my
tongue as I brought her around to answering my main question: was it true
that Uncle Vova, using our scuba diving gear, had found an object which had
fallen into the sea from the deck of the Uzbekistan? 'How come you know
about that?' she asked, looking at me with suspicion. 'Were you on board the
ship too?' 'No,' I answered, 'but I was on board the sailboat that picked up
the lady in red.' At this she took me aside and told me the whole story."
Here Yura described in detail what had taken place on the deck of the
Uzbekistan.
When he finished reading this part of the letter Nikolai sprang to his
feet.
Privalov raised his head. "What's the matter?"
"Read this, Boris. Starting from here."
Privalov quickly scanned the page.
"Oho!" he exclaimed. "So Matveyev's knife really does exist! What
happened next?"
Next, Yura reported that Bugrov had left for Moscow together with
Opratin. Yura related how, after his talk with Claudia, he had gone upstairs
to see Nikolai's mother. Nikolai had authorized him to collect his pay
envelope and pass it on to her. While he and Nikolai's mother were chatting
about the cold weather in Moscow and wondering whether Nikolai wasn't too
lightly dressed for those severe frosts, there was a knock on the door. Yura
went to open it. A thick-set, unshaven, shaggy-haired, middle-aged man stood
there.
"I would like to see Nikolai Potapkin," he said.
"That's me," Yura said, making a sign behind his back to Nikolai's
mother.
"I'm Anatole Benedictov," the visitor said.
"Pleased to meet you. Won't you take off your coat and sit down?"
Benedictov refused to take off his coat, but he sat down at the table
and put his hat and gloves in his lap.
"This is a return visit," he said. "I'll get right down to the point.
My wife told me you were interested in some small iron boxes. Could you tell
me what it's all about?"
"You know the answer to that question better than I do," Yura replied.
"A little iron box that was thrown out of your house as a piece of junk was
found to contain a manuscript. We became interested in the manuscript and
began to search for the two other little boxes mentioned in it. One of the
boxes evidently contained Fedor Matveyev's knife. It's a great pity the
knife is lying at the bottom of the sea. Or have you found it by now?"
Benedictov's hands twitched nervously.
"Very well," he said, coughing to clear his throat. "Since you are so
thoroughly informed, could you tell me what's inside the third box?"
"I wish I knew."
Both were silent for a while. Then Benedictov said: "As far as I know,
you are working on the problem of penetrability. We're doing something along
those lines too. I've heard that you put together an original apparatus and
obtained interesting results. If it isn't a secret, could you-" He paused
and looked expectantly at Yura.
"It isn't a secret, of course," Yura said slowly, choosing his words.
We're designing an oil pipeline and while we were at it we became interested
in the diffusion of liquids. As for our experiments, I'm afraid I cannot
give you any details. I'm not authorized to do so. Why don't you approach
the director of our Institute through the regular channels?"
"Through the regular channels, you say?" Benedictov gave a wry grin.
"Thanks for the advice. It was a pleasure to meet you."
With those words Benedictov clapped his hat on his shaggy head.
"The feeling is mutual," Yura replied courteously. He picked up
Benedictov's gloves, which had fallen to the floor, and handed them to him.
"These are yours, I think. Did you get my address from the telephone book?"
he asked casually.
"No, from a member of our staff who lives in this house."
"Ah, yes, of course. By the way, it would be very interesting to have a
look at Fedor Matveyev's knife. If it isn't a secret."
"You yourself said it's at the bottom of (he sea," Benedictov muttered.
On his way to the door, accompanied by Yura, Benedictov paused for a
second to look at the blue draperies.
"Yes, you're right," Yura said in reply to Benedictov's unspoken
question. "This is where the experiment took place."
He pulled aside the draperies with a broad gesture. Benedictov
involuntarily stepped forward, but all he saw was a tape recorder of unusual
design and, under the table, several black boxes containing storage
batteries.
"We dismantled our set-up," Yura explained. "But you know what? If
you're doing work along the same lines, then why don't we co-operate? Why
not drop in at our Institute?"
Benedictov looked at Yura from under his heavy, swollen eyelids but did
not reply. He simply said goodbye and went out in a slow, shuffling gait.
Yura stood at the window watching him depart.
"Very curious news," Privalov remarked, pouring himself another cup of
tea.
"I had a feeling from the beginning that she hadn't simply fallen
overboard." Nikolai crumpled Yura's letter in his fist and began to pace the
floor. "She went over the rail because she was diving for the knife. That's
obvious. If she had found it she would have given it to her husband, of
course. But her husband is collaborating with Opratin, and he-Opratin, that
is-was searching for the knife at the spot where it fell into the sea. We
can assume that Rita didn't find the knife, and it is still lying at the
bottom of the sea, or else-"
"Or else what?" Privalov asked.
"Or else Opratin has found it."
"In that case we must speak to Opratin and ask him to lend us the knife
for a time so that we can study it," Privalov said quietly. "It would help
us enormously." He sipped his tea. "If Opratin is in Moscow we'll get in
touch with him. Sit down at the telephone and ring up the hotels. Start with
the Golden Wheat and the Yaroslavl."
With so many hotels the job of locating Opratin by telephone seemed
hopeless. Time and again Nikolai heard the words: "No one of that name
registered here", or else the clerk did not bother to listen to the question
but merely said, "Sorry, but we're full up." Finally, however, a voice said,
"Opratin? Just a moment. What's his first name? Yes, he's staying here.
Opratin and Bugrov. Room 130."
Nikolai laughed. "This is really one for the book. He's in a hotel
across the street from us." Nikolai dialled the number of Opratin's room but
no one answered.
"We'll try again in the evening," said Privalov. "I have to attend a
conference of oil industry construction experts. Meanwhile I want you to
straighten out a few questions at the Ministry."
Nikolai sighed. He did not like the Ministry. The endless corridors
there always had a depressing effect on him.
"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," said Privalov. "Get yourself a ticket for
Wednesday. I'll stay on a while longer."
When Boris Privalov entered the lobby of the underground his glasses
became clouded over from the warm air inside. He took them off to wipe them,
and when he put them on again the first person he saw was Nikolai Opratin,
who had just stepped off the escalator.
Opratin wore an elegant coat with a fur collar and a hat of young
reindeer skin. He hurried up and greeted Privalov with what struck him as
exaggerated affability.
"How pleasant to run into someone from home in the hustle and bustle of
Moscow!" he exclaimed, pumping Privalov's hand. "I'm really very glad to see
you."
"Why all this effusion?" Privalov wondered. "He's usually so
restrained. But, after all, it is indeed nice to meet someone from home."
After the exchange of small talk customary on such an occasion, Opratin
asked, in a casual tone, "What are they saying in the Academy about Fedor
Matveyev's manuscript?"
"They're still studying it. Incidentally, there is a supposition that
something else besides the manuscript has come down to our day."
"Really?" Opratin said, his voice now wary. "What's that?"
"Fedor Matveyev's knife."
"You don't put any stock in those Indian fairy tales, do you?"
Privalov did not like this. Why the subterfuge? He decided to take the
bull by the horns.
"But we know that one of the members of your staff, Benedictov, had
Fedor Matveyev's knife. We also know that you searched for it on the sea
floor at the spot where the woman fell overboard from the Uzbekistan. If you
found the knife, the Academy people would be interested in hearing a report
on it. You realize how important it would be for the advancement of
science-"
"You were misinformed," Opratin said in an icy tone. "I know nothing
whatsoever about the knife."
"But you were searching-"
"My 'searching', as you put it, was connected exclusively with the
problem of raising the level of the Caspian. As regards Benedictov, he is
working on a research project at our Institute, and I haven't the faintest
idea of what he does in his spare time."
This was a polite but firm rebuke. Privalov felt awkward. Indeed, what
grounds did he have for broaching this subject? Yura's letter? A remark made
by the talkative wife of a man called 'Uncle Vova'?
"I beg your pardon," he said. "It seems I was indeed misinformed."
"Yes, you were." Opratin glanced at his watch. "I must leave you now. I
have an appointment." He gave a thin smile and set off briskly towards the
exit.
Privalov followed him with a puzzled glance. If he only knew that at
this very moment Opratin, his hand in his pocket, was fingering the handle
of Fedor Matveyev's knife!
After several wearisome hours at the Ministry Nikolai went to Kursk
Station for a ticket.
There were queues at the booking office. Nikolai shook the snow off his
cap and took his place at the end of one of them.
"Who's last in the queue?" he asked.
A thickset man in a brown leather coat lifted his eyes from his
newspaper to glance at Nikolai disapprovingly.
"I'm next to the last," he said. "There's a lady behind me." He looked
round. "There she is, over there. You'll be after her."
Nikolai glanced fleetingly at the young woman in a black fur coat and
white fur hat. She was at a newsstand with her back to him.
The leather coat sniffed to clear his clogged nose and absorbed himself
in his newspaper. Bored, Nikolai took advantage of his superior height to
read the headlines over the man's shoulder. His eye was caught by a news
item about an exhibition of captured equipment used by spies and subversive
agents. The item described some of the displays: the wreckage of a foreign
ordinary matter during the period of reciprocal penetration. The internal
bonds must be re-arranged! Then we'll achieve penetrability."
Koltukhov opened his mouth to make a caustic remark, but just then the
telephone rang.
Privalov picked up the receiver. "Hullo. Yes, this is me. Is that you,
Nikolai? Now take it easy-" He listened for a moment. "What?!" His face
changed. "I'll be there in a jiffy." He put down the receiver and glanced at
Professor Bagbanly. "We must all rush off at once!"
When the blue draperies were pulled across that section of the room
Valery realized that an uninvited guest had dropped in. He put down the
tuning-fork and, to keep himself busy, examined the connections. It was a
good thing he did, for he discovered that one of the weights which regulated
the frequency of the tuning-fork breaker was loosely attached, and that the
scales on which the mercury heart stood had shifted slightly.
"From the vibration, no doubt," Valery said to himself. Carefully, with
his little finger, he moved the scales inside the Mobius band while he
adjusted the weight with his other hand. At the same moment guitar chords
sounded on the other side of the blue draperies and Yura's voice burst into
song.
"An old-fashioned tune," Valery reflected as he continued to move the
scales with his finger. All of a sudden he felt a faint quiver in the little
finger.
"An electric shock?" he wondered. "No, I haven't touched any metal."
To be on the safe side, he thrust his little finger into his mouth. How
curious! The finger did not feel his mouth, and his mouth did not feel the
finger. He stared fearfully at his finger. It looked perfectly normal. He
put it into his mouth again. But again there was no sensation whatsoever. He
tried biting the tip of the finger. His teeth came together as though there
was nothing between them.
Remembering that there was a visitor in the house, Valery stifled a
scream. "It took an iron will to keep from shouting," he later said. But his
body gave a jerk that dislodged the mercury heart from the scales and
overturned the tuning-fork breaker.
Professor Bagbanly, Boris Privalov and Pavel Koltukhov hurried up the
stairs and burst breathlessly into Nikolai's flat.
"Where's Valery?" Privalov demanded.
Valery, his face pale and covered with sweat, came into the room.
Nikolai excitedly told what had happened.
Professor Bagbanly touched Valery's little finger. The tip and the
joint next to it were penetrable. The Professor's forefinger passed through
them easily and touched his thumb.
"Feel anything?" he asked.
"No," Valery whispered.
It was easy to establish where the penetrability ended.
"Light a match," said Professor Bagbanly. "Calm down, young man," he
added when he saw Nikolai nervously break a couple of matches as he tried to
light them. He turned to Valery. "I want you to put the tip of your finger
into the flame of Nikolai's match."
Everyone held his breath. Valery looked as though he were walking in
his sleep. He slowly put his little finger into the flame. It wavered but
its shape did not change. "Do you feel anything?"
"Yes," said Valery hoarsely, holding the tip of his finger in the
flame. "My fingertip feels warm."
The engineers were dumbstruck. They stared in a daze at Valery's little
finger.
"Thrust your finger into the table," the professor said.
Valery obeyed. Half of his finger went into the wood.
"Less goes in now," he said. "At first almost the whole finger went
in."
Professor Bagbanly exchanged glances with Privalov. Then he set about
examining the apparatus.
"A Mobius band?" he said. "Quite an idea. What did the instruments
register when it happened?"
"We weren't thinking about penetrability," Yura explained. "We wanted
to increase surface tension, using this mercury heart. Valery must have put
his hands inside the Mobius band a dozen times without anything happening.
But when he moved the weight-and I plucked the strings of my guitar at the
same time-something clicked. Valery was so scared he overturned everything,
and so we don't know the exact readings." "Automation experts, humph!"
Koltukhov remarked, looking the silent, frightened young men up and down.
"What's the idea of this clandestine laboratory? I shudder to think of the
damage you might have done!"
"Have you tuned your guitar since then?" Privalov asked.
"No," said Yura.
"Then play exactly what you played then. We'll record it," said
Professor Bagbanly. "You have a tape recorder here, don't you?"
Meanwhile, Valery's little finger was gradually returning to its normal
state. He kept testing it against the table. Finally only the very tip of
the finger went into the wood. Then, suddenly, he felt his fingertip being
pinched, and with a cry he pulled his hand away, leaving a bit of skin in
the wood. He immediately thrust his bleeding finger into his mouth. His face
broke into a broad smile. "It's ended!" he shouted.
The courtyard in Cooper Lane throbbed with music. Strains of music,
much of it in a plaintive Oriental key, poured forth through all the open
windows from radios, record players and tape recorders.
Nikolai had never contributed much to the musical life of the
courtyard, but now he aroused the hostility of all his neighbours. Evening
after evening there came from his windows the same tiresome strumming of a
guitar, accompanied by the thumping of a foot keeping time, and his friend
Yura's voice singing:
Powder in your pocket to poison me with,
A locomotive in your pocket to crush me with.
A detailed description of the installation had been sent to the Academy
of Sciences in Moscow, together with a long memorandum and the tapes. The
young engineers had been ordered to keep their mouths shut and to stop
experimenting at home.
"You've done enough mischief," said Koltukhov. "Probing the structure
of matter is not as simple as strumming a guitar."
Rita returned home from school earlier than usual that day. She let
herself in with her key, stepped into the entryway and took off her coat,
then paused to listen. Rustling and creaking sounds came from the bedroom.
The creaking was clearly the wardrobe door.
She knew that Anatole was never at home at this hour. Could a burglar
have broken in?
Rita tiptoed to the bedroom door. She held her breath and listened.
Yes, it was a burglar! What she had to do was lock the bedroom door and dash
to the phone.
Just then she heard a familiar cough.
"How you frightened me!" she exclaimed, flinging open the bedroom door.
Anatole Benedictov, in his brown house jacket, was standing in front of
the open wardrobe. He did not turn when Rita entered. Instead, he closed the
wardrobe and limped to the window.
"What's the matter?" she asked in alarm. "Why are you home so early?"
"I feel a bit under the weather."
"Why are you limping?"
"Oh, it's nothing," Benedictov said reluctantly. "I was looking for a
handkerchief. Could you get me one, please?"
Rita opened the wardrobe and took out a handkerchief.
"You don't look well, Anatole," she said. "Could you be running a
fever?"
He waved aside the suggestion and went into his study. Rita changed
into her house dress and went to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Two days ago she had noticed that the articles in the drawers of her
dressing table were disarranged. She had not attached any importance to it
at the time, but now she realized that Anatole was probably searching for
the knife. He did not believe her when she said the knife was at the bottom
of the sea.
She sliced the potatoes in thick rings and put them into the sizzling
frying pan. Anatole loved fried potatoes. He hardly talked to her at all any
more, she thought sadly and anxiously. He had grown terribly excited when
she told him about the two young men who had dropped in. "No one in his
right mind would have thrown out that box containing Fedor Matveyev's
manuscript!" he had shouted. But how could she have known that the rusty
little bar propping up the old wardrobe would contain an eighteenth-century
manuscript? Nor did she know anything about a third box the young men wanted
to lay hands on.
After that unpleasant conversation Anatole had grown more sullen than
ever. He no longer talked to her at all about his work.
Now Anatole was working on some project together with Opratin. Rita had
long since lost hope that Anatole would achieve some measure of success.
However, perhaps his collaboration with Opratin would prove fruitful. But
what if they really couldn't get along without the knife?
Another source of doubt and anxiety was the young engineer who had
rescued her at sea. Rita's thoughts kept returning to the two young men who
had called on her. What did they want those small iron boxes for?
The name Nikolai Potapkin did not mean anything to Rita, yet there was
something vaguely familiar about the young engineer's face and his way of
carrying himself. She had been conscious of this when he and his friend came
to inquire about the boxes. Now she was almost certain. Without knowing why,
she refused to acknowledge it.
When Rita called out to her husband to say that dinner was ready he
refused to come to the table. He lay on the couch in the study, his eyes
feverish and his face flushed and drenched in sweat.
"You're ill!" Rita exclaimed. "I'll call the doctor."
"No doctors. Just get me some penicillin from the medicine chest."
Only late at night, when he was running a high fever, did he allow Rita
to apply a cold compress to his leg. Then she accidentally discovered a big
abscess on his right hip.
Nikolai Opratin dropped in the next evening. He sat beside Anatole for
a while, discussing various matters. He was most polite to Rita.
He told her that the work was going along well, and praised Anatole's
erudition.
The next morning the burly, plump-cheeked man brought round a packet of
drugs for Anatole. "I was told to hand this over to him personally," he told
Rita in a hoarse bass voice. But Anatole was asleep and she refused to wake
him.
After she closed the door on her unpleasant visitor Rita opened the
packet. It contained ampoules of a drug which Rita recognized to be a
narcotic.
Suddenly the whole thing became clear to her. She sat beside her
husband's sickbed for a long time in a daze. She did not cry. She felt as
though she had shrivelled up inside.
When Anatole awoke she silently showed him the packet. He frowned and
began to snuffle.
An unpleasant conversation followed.
"Yes, yes, I understand," said Rita, clasping her hands, which were now
two lumps of ice. "You wanted to increase your working capacity and then
gradually started taking bigger and bigger doses."
"Oh, leave me alone," he said wearily.
"Give it up, Anatole," Rita pleaded. "Stop taking the drug. That boil
of yours comes from a dirty hypodermic syringe. You won't give yourself any
more injections, will you? You'll drop the habit, and then everything will
be fine again."
"That's enough!" Anatole shouted.
"I insist that you stop," Rita said resolutely. "I'll take you in hand
if you lack the will-power to do it yourself. As for that fat-faced fellow,
I'm going to have him arrested."
Benedictov raised himself on his elbow and swung his feet out over the
side of the bed. Rita rushed to prevent him from getting up. He pushed her
aside. Without uttering a single word he put on his clothes and walked to
the door, dishevelled, desperate-looking, and aloof. He slammed the door so
hard that a shower of plaster came down from the ceiling.
Rita stood beside the door for a long time, the palms of her hands
pressed to her cheeks. She did not cry. But something within her was broken.
Anatole did not return. Twenty-four hours later Vova Bugrov came to the
door bearing a note in which Anatole asked for his things. Rita picked up
the telephone.
"Not thinking of calling the law, were you?" Vova asked with a grin. "I
wouldn't if I were you. I didn't get those ampoules for myself but for him,
because he begged me to. If you report it you'll make things very hard for
him."
Vova was right, Rita realized. She silently packed a suitcase of her
husband's clothes. Vova went into the study and picked up several laboratory
instruments. As he prepared to leave he mumbled that Benedictov was now
staying with Nikolai Opratin.
When Anatole told Opratin that he had walked out of the house the
latter frowned. Fate had sent him a restless man for a partner.
"Well, what's there to be said now?" he remarked. "You may stay at my
place for the time being. There's plenty of room. For the sake of science
I'm willing to put up with a lodger as bad-tempered as you are."
Anatole moved into the spare room in Opratin's bachelor establishment.
There were Oriental rugs on the floor of the room and in two of the corners
stood cabinets with porcelain figurines.
"Are you a collector?" Anatole asked with a condescending smile.
"Porcelain'is a weakness of mine," Opratin said shortly. "How is your
boil?"
"It's healing."
"Look here, Anatole," said Opratin. "We've got to speed up our
experiments on the island. I've been told that Privalov and his assistants
are working along the same lines as we are. They've set up some sort of
installation and are getting promising results."
"How do you know all this?"
"It doesn't matter how I found out. From Vova Bugrov, if you want to
know. They've got in touch with the Academy of Sciences through Professor
Bagbanly. In other words, they are consulting with scientists in Moscow. How
do you like that?"
Anatole did not like it at all. "I'm going out to the island tomorrow
morning," he said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand. "I'll get
things humming. Don't forget, though, that if we don't lay hands on that
knife by the time we get the installation assembled we'll be on the rocks."
"You'll have the knife," Opratin said calmly. "And something else,
besides-something that may be even more important. I'll make a trip to
Moscow in January. With Bugrov."
"Who'll take me out to the island in the motor-boat?"
"I'll get someone at the Institute to do that. Only don't let him
anywhere near the laboratory. But you know that. We'll discuss the details
when the time comes."
There she was, alone in the flat, a deserted wife. She looked up
Opratin's number in the telephone directory. All she had to do was dial that
number and she would hear Anatole's voice. All she had to do was say, "Come
home, Anatole. Forgive me. I can't go on alone."
No, she couldn't say that. She hadn't done anything that called for
forgiveness. He should be the one to beg forgiveness.
But she was plagued by the thought that she had failed him, not kept
proper watch over him, not stopped him in time, and that therefore she was
to blame.
A friend in Moscow wrote inviting her to come for a visit during the
New Year school vacation. "A change will do you good. You can take in some
of the new plays," the friend said. Rita wondered whether perhaps that might
not be a good idea.
The ringing of the bell made her jump. She ran to open the door. Her
heart was beating furiously.
Nikolai Opratin stood at the door. He greeted her courteously and
smiled at her. Rita was unable to say a word. Her lips trembled.
Finally she pulled herself together and invited him to step in. She was
determined not to give Opratin the slightest indication that she wanted to
burst into tears.
What was he saying? "Anatole and I may soon have an important discovery
to announce to the world. We would be able to do so even sooner if we had
that knife of yours." He scrutinized her with cold, appraising eyes.
Rita said nothing.
"It is in your own interests too," he said. "Give us the knife".
"How can I!" she said in a steady voice. "You know as well as I do that
the knife fell overboard."
"It didn't fall overboard," Opratin said quietly. "But if you find the
subject distasteful let's drop it. However, its a pity, a great pity." He
rose. "What shall I tell Anatole?"
"Give him my very best regards. Tell him I'm going to Moscow."
"To Moscow?"
"Yes, to visit a friend of mine during the winter school vacation."
"When will that be?"
"At the very beginning of January."
"What a remarkable coincidence," said Opratin, smiling with his lips
only. "I'll be going to Moscow on business early in January. I hope to have
the pleasure of seeing you there."
SURFACES AND NIKOLAI GETS A BRAINWAVE
The blue bus with the transparent roof rolled along the snow-covered
highway, past birch groves and white-mantled farm fields. It went through a
small town, rumbled over a bridge across a frozen stream and dived into the
dark tunnel of a fir forest.
Nikolai kept his eyes glued to the bus window, gazing with interest at
the unfamiliar landscape. He had come to Moscow with Boris Privalov two days
before on matters connected with the trans-caspian oil pipeline project.
They had spent all of the previous day at the Ministry, talking with
engineers and officials. Now they were on their way to the Institute of
Surfaces, one of the newest research facilities of the Academy of Sciences.
When they turned off into a driveway the pale winter sun splashed its
rays through the windows, and it immediately grew cosier inside the bus.
Privalov folded his newspaper. "We've arrived," he said.
They stepped out of the bus into a frosty blue midday silence and the
fragrance of a fir grove. The frost pinched their nostrils. The snow
crunched underfoot.
They crossed a large cleared area on which the Institute housing estate
had been built, then walked through another grove and came to a broad avenue
of Institute laboratories and other buildings.
A path in the deep snow brought them to a two-storey building. Inside,
they walked down a green-carpeted corridor, passing a series of doors with
numbers on them. They stopped in front of a thickly padded door with a
lighted sign above it that said "Quiet, please". From the other side of the
door came the sound of a man's voice singing to the accompaniment of a
guitar. This seemed as incongruous in the businesslike Institute atmosphere
as the mooing of a cow in a symphony orchestra.
To the strumming of the guitar, with a foot energetically beating out
the time, a youthful voice sang:
Powder in your pocket to poison me with,
A locomotive in your pocket to crush me with.
Nikolai and Privalov exchanged glances. They had recognized Yura's
voice. This was their tape recording of the experiment.
Members of the Institute staff were expecting Privalov and Nikolai. The
visitors were led into a large, windowless room whose walls were covered
with consoles and control panels. Daylight streamed in through a broad oval
skylight.
A lean man in a dark suit, with high cheekbones, a hooked nose and
neatly parted hair rose from his desk to greet the visiting research
engineers. Nikolai cautiously pressed the hand that was held out to him and
stuttered as he gave his name. He was awed at meeting Academician Georgi
Markov a world-famous scientist.
"Please be seated," Academician Markov said, indicating armchairs with
a brief wave of his hand. "I'm glad to see you. In a few moments two of my
assistants will drop in and tell you what we are doing with your music."
Nikolai felt like sinking through the floor. How tired he was of Yura's
pranks! There were hundreds of pleasant songs, yet Yura had chosen to sing
one of the silliest ditties in the world. But what did it matter to Yura? He
did not have to sit here and watch the polite smile on the face of the
country's most distinguished physicist.
"I can tell you that if it were not for Professor Bagbanly's
confirmation that he had seen it with his own eyes we never would have
believed it." Academician Markov looked at Nikolai. "You're the one who
designed the installation, aren't you?"
"Actually, all I did was think of how to make use of the Mobius band."
"How did you get the idea?"
"Fedor Matveyev's manuscript prompted it. If you remember, he described
some sort of a coil."
"That's right. A half-twist spiral. It interested us too. Allow me to
congratulate you. It was an excellent idea."
Nikolai felt flattered. Before he was aware of it he was grinning from
ear to ear. Wiping off the grin, he said hurriedly: "Automation experts
helped us to design the installation on the basis of ideas suggested by my
colleague Yura Kostyukov. He's the man whose voice you hear singing that
unpardonably silly song which, of course-" "Think nothing of it," said
Academician Markov with a friendly smile. "At your age I liked that song
too."
A stocky young man, not much older than Nikolai, wearing a sports
jacket, and a rosy-cheeked girl in a grey suit entered the room.
The Academician asked Nikolai to describe the experiment he and Yura
had carried out in Cooper Lane. All listened to Nikolai's account in
attentive silence.
"We weren't interested in penetrability at all," Nikolai remarked in
conclusion. "All we wanted to do was build up the surface tension of
mercury."
"You've made the picture clearer," said Academician Markov. "Now we'll
hear what Vassily Fedorovich has to say."
The stocky young man in the sports jacket began by laying several
diagrams and photographs on the table. Then he launched into a description
of the installation he and his fellow-workers had built. Basically, it was a
duplicate of the one in Cooper Lane, but with precise recording apparatus
and a more efficient mechanism in place of the tuning-fork breaker.
Privalov and Nikolai were then invited to examine the installation.
Yes, this isn't Cooper Lane, Nikolai mused as he looked at the apparatus and
instruments. Actually, though, there wasn't any real difference. Here, as at
home, the Mobius band was the dominant element.
Two rods pressed together by powerful electromagnets had been set up
inside the band, and under the right conditions they were to penetrate each
other. But the right conditions had not yet been attained. The dials of the
instruments registered zero.
A tape recorder inside a soundproof room was playing back Yura's
rendition of that ill-fated song. The sound was converted into
electromagnetic oscillations that were recorded on tape for feeding into a
computer.
The Institute computer knew all the parameters of the set-up. All, that
is, except the crucial one. If Valery had not shifted the tuning-fork
breaker the weights would have remained in the same accidental position in
which penetrability had taken place. Now the installation had to be operated
to the accompaniment of all the frequencies that occurred in Yura's song.
The computer kept formulating and solving a series of equations. The
solutions were communicated to the installation in the form of electrical
commands.
"I wonder," said Boris Privalov, turning to Academician Markov, "if you
could tell us what you think of penetrability and its causes."
"It is really too early to say anything definite. However, it seems to
me that our friend Professor Bagbanly is fundamentally right. It is all a
matter of a reorganization of the internal bonds of matter. Something
special takes place in the Mobius band, with its one-sided surface. At a
definite frequency, of course."
Then, with the words "Let us proceed further," he led his visitors out
into a wide corridor. "A Mobius band in a high-frequency circuit is
certainly a most fortunate conjecture. It holds out great prospects,
prospects which perhaps you do not even suspect. But since we have a
definite goal in front of us-an underwater oil pipeline- we decided that in
the first stage we would apply our energies to this particular problem.
Actually, we face two problems. First, we need greater surface tension to
shape a stream of oil as desired. Second, we need penetrability in order to
reduce to a minimum, or else eliminate altogether, resistance to the
movement of the stream. Do you agree?"
"Yes, you're quite right," said Privalov.
"The second problem is still a matter of the future, but the first
one-well, take a look for yourselves."
He flung open a door.
A round concrete pool three and a half metres in diameter filled the
middle of the room. A large horizontal metal band attached to corrugated
insulators encircled it.
"A Mobius band?" Nikolai asked hesitantly, examining it. "It's a
giant!"
They followed their host up to a platform, from which they saw that the
pool was half full of a viscous black liquid having a greenish tinge.
"That's petroleum," said Academician Markov. "Ten tons of it. Now
watch."
He pressed a button on a panel.
The surface of the oil welled up in the middle and continued to^
expand. The edges began to draw away from the sides of the pool, exposing
its bottom. The process went ahead faster and faster. Some powerful force
was shaping the black liquid into an almost perfect sphere three metres in
diameter. Its surface grew shiny and iridescent. The figures standing on the
platform were reflected in it crookedly, as though in a distorting mirror.
"Oho!" Privalov exclaimed.
Nikolai gazed with glowing eyes at the black sphere lying in the pool.
His mind went back to the pulsating drop of mercury in Cooper Lane. But only
for a moment. Everything was swept away by the enormous black sphere. So
this was surface tension!
"The f-frequency-W-what's the f-frequency?" Nikolai asked, stuttering
in excitement.
"We'll give you all the details. But this force isn't strong enough to
take the place of the pipe wall made of steel."
The Academician switched off the current and the sphere immediately
collapsed, flowing back to fill the pool again. The oily black surface
heaved deeply and then became motionless.
"I think the Mobius band can give us a much greater degree of
intensification," said the scientist. "An interesting feature is the
reversible process, a law of physics. Within a very narrow range of
operational factors-which we still don't know completely-the set-up produced
a weakening of the bonds of matter. Strictly speaking, that business with
the finger in your laboratory, the penetrability, is a spin-off.
Incidentally, do you people realize what this amazing discovery means?"
Nikolai said nothing. He had long ago taken a pledge not to build
castles in the air. He would keep strictly to the oil pipeline.
"Not altogether, naturally," said Privalov.
"But we think there'll be a revolution in the cold working of
metals-cutting without resistance and the like."
Academician Markov nodded.
"Furthermore, penetrating tools will be used to sink coal mines and
drill oil wells," Privalov went on, his voice eager. "I even think-you
mustn't laugh, though-there might be a way of protecting spaceships against
meteorites."
"It's within the realm of possibility," the Academician said
thoughtfully. "But it won't be at all easy to work out the specific approach
required in each practical application. The surface of matter possesses
energy, and it looks as though we may lay our hands on it."
Privalov ran his fingers through his thick hair. "A new type of
energy?"
"No, a new source of energy," Academician Markov said. "A more
available source than nuclear energy."
All were silent for a moment.
"If only we could actually look at and feel a specimen of restructured
matter," the Academician went on. "Who can tell when our set-up yields the
first matter of this type? What a pity the effect produced on the finger of
your lab technician was so short-lived. Now if we could by some miracle
acquire Fedor Matveyev's knife-if such a knife actually exists, of course."
"What if the knife is just lying about somewhere at this very minute?"
The stocky young man in the sports jacket put in. "Fedor Matveyev did bring
it to Russia, didn't he?"
The words "lying about somewhere" conjured up in Nikolai's mind a
picture of a summer day flooded with hot sunshine, the boat races, Opratin's
zuotorboat and Vova Bugrov in the water beside it. When Nikolai swam up to
the boat he heard Bugrov say "All I want is the knife." Vova had an
aqualung. There was some kind of a scanning device in the motorboat. They
were searching the sea bottom at the spot where Rita had fallen overboard.
Before that, Opratin had come to their Institute and had questioned
them to learn just where she had fallen into the sea. Come to think of it,
he had asked-yes, he had-whether the woman had had anything metallic in her
hand. It was the knife, Fedor Matveyev's knife, that Opratin and Bugrov were
looking for.
If the little iron box containing Matveyev's manuscript had been taken
for a piece of ordinary junk and had been thrown out of Rita's house- and
Nikolai did not doubt that it had-it was possible she could have possessed
Matveyev's knife. It could have been in another box.
Nikolai recalled the sketches on the last page of the manuscript. The
box in which they had found the manuscript was named "The Source". There was
a sketch of another box, called "The Evidence". Evidence! What could be
better evidence than that knife?
Nikolai had finally woven all those scattered impressions into a single
picture. Fedor Matveyev's knife did exist. Rita knew about it. Opratin and
Bugrov were searching for it. Or perhaps had already found it.
Although Nikolai was eager to pour out the whole story he held his
tongue. This was neither the time nor the place. He brought his mind back to
what the others were saying.
"If Fedor Matveyev held the knife by the handle it means the handle was
made of ordinary material," the scientist stated. "There must have been a
transition zone in the blade.
"Should I send a wire to Yura?" Nikolai wondered. "Maybe he could pry
some information out of Bugrov or Bugrov's wife. We must lay hands on the
knife. We simply must."
Again he brought his mind back to the conversation.
"The bonds in matter are not stable. They are constantly changing-"
"Why didn't Yura and I think of it before?" Nikolai asked himself. "It
dawned on me only just now, when he said the knife might be lying about
somewhere."
"We may need some practical assistance from your Institute,"
Academician Markov was saying. "How would your director look upon that?"
"I don't know", Privalov confessed. "The pipeline across the Caspian
which we are designing is to consist of ordinary steel pipes. It's a
definite project, with a definite deadline, and we have to concentrate our
energies on it. The idea of a pipeline without pipes-well, that's merely a
vague conjecture so far."
"We'll arrange for permission from the Ministry, or rather, this girl
here will do it. She's a representative from the Ministry. She's so pretty
you might take her for an empty-headed little creature, but I can assure you
that she knows every nook, corner and path in the bureaucratic jungle."
"What a thing to say about me!" the girl protested, laughing.
Soon after, the two visitors made their farewells. Privalov settled his
tall caracul hat firmly on his head with a sigh, took Nikolai by the arm,
and they left the Institute of Surfaces.
The moment the men returned to Moscow Nikolai sent off a wire to Yura.
Am certain 0. and B. are seeking Fedor's knife. Investigate
immediately. Contact Bugrov's wife.
IN WHICH "THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY" DISAPPEARS AND FEDOR MATVEYEV'S KNIFE
REAPPEARS
Nikolai was flabbergasted by what he had seen and heard at the
Institute of Surfaces. The magnificent prospects which Academician Markov
had hinted at in passing were hard to take in all at once. They had to be
assimilated gradually.
He and Privalov spent several evenings in their hotel room talking
about those prospects.
As they were drinking tea in their room one morning there was a knock
on the door.
"Some letters for you," said the floor clerk. There were two letters,
one from Privalov's wife, the other for Nikolai from Yura. Nikolai slit open
the envelope and ran his eyes over the first few lines of Yura's letter. He
could not help laughing aloud. Yura was his usual self.
The letter began as follows:
"The Right Honourable Nicholas S. Potapkin, Esq.
"Dear Sir,
"First of all, allow me to inform you that when the mail coach at last
drew up to our gates, instead of the long awaited detailed letter all I
found in the pouch was a short and meagre message. Damn it all, sir. I am a
plain man, sir, arid I want to state in plain language that I looked upon
you as a gentleman. Nevertheless, I am writing to you, although I would
perhaps do better to exchange my pen for a pistol, which is the best thing
to use against damned coyotes like yourself. After reading your dispatch I
jumped into the saddle and galloped off like the wind. I hitched my mustang
to a chaparral bush, then strode through the gateway of your ranch-"
At this juncture Yura's patience with Wild West lingo ran out and he
continued more simply.
"I waited a long time under the archway before Bugrov's wife came out
of the house and into the yard. Then I humped into her, quite by chance, of
course, and gallantly bowed and scraped before her. I gave free rein to my
tongue as I brought her around to answering my main question: was it true
that Uncle Vova, using our scuba diving gear, had found an object which had
fallen into the sea from the deck of the Uzbekistan? 'How come you know
about that?' she asked, looking at me with suspicion. 'Were you on board the
ship too?' 'No,' I answered, 'but I was on board the sailboat that picked up
the lady in red.' At this she took me aside and told me the whole story."
Here Yura described in detail what had taken place on the deck of the
Uzbekistan.
When he finished reading this part of the letter Nikolai sprang to his
feet.
Privalov raised his head. "What's the matter?"
"Read this, Boris. Starting from here."
Privalov quickly scanned the page.
"Oho!" he exclaimed. "So Matveyev's knife really does exist! What
happened next?"
Next, Yura reported that Bugrov had left for Moscow together with
Opratin. Yura related how, after his talk with Claudia, he had gone upstairs
to see Nikolai's mother. Nikolai had authorized him to collect his pay
envelope and pass it on to her. While he and Nikolai's mother were chatting
about the cold weather in Moscow and wondering whether Nikolai wasn't too
lightly dressed for those severe frosts, there was a knock on the door. Yura
went to open it. A thick-set, unshaven, shaggy-haired, middle-aged man stood
there.
"I would like to see Nikolai Potapkin," he said.
"That's me," Yura said, making a sign behind his back to Nikolai's
mother.
"I'm Anatole Benedictov," the visitor said.
"Pleased to meet you. Won't you take off your coat and sit down?"
Benedictov refused to take off his coat, but he sat down at the table
and put his hat and gloves in his lap.
"This is a return visit," he said. "I'll get right down to the point.
My wife told me you were interested in some small iron boxes. Could you tell
me what it's all about?"
"You know the answer to that question better than I do," Yura replied.
"A little iron box that was thrown out of your house as a piece of junk was
found to contain a manuscript. We became interested in the manuscript and
began to search for the two other little boxes mentioned in it. One of the
boxes evidently contained Fedor Matveyev's knife. It's a great pity the
knife is lying at the bottom of the sea. Or have you found it by now?"
Benedictov's hands twitched nervously.
"Very well," he said, coughing to clear his throat. "Since you are so
thoroughly informed, could you tell me what's inside the third box?"
"I wish I knew."
Both were silent for a while. Then Benedictov said: "As far as I know,
you are working on the problem of penetrability. We're doing something along
those lines too. I've heard that you put together an original apparatus and
obtained interesting results. If it isn't a secret, could you-" He paused
and looked expectantly at Yura.
"It isn't a secret, of course," Yura said slowly, choosing his words.
We're designing an oil pipeline and while we were at it we became interested
in the diffusion of liquids. As for our experiments, I'm afraid I cannot
give you any details. I'm not authorized to do so. Why don't you approach
the director of our Institute through the regular channels?"
"Through the regular channels, you say?" Benedictov gave a wry grin.
"Thanks for the advice. It was a pleasure to meet you."
With those words Benedictov clapped his hat on his shaggy head.
"The feeling is mutual," Yura replied courteously. He picked up
Benedictov's gloves, which had fallen to the floor, and handed them to him.
"These are yours, I think. Did you get my address from the telephone book?"
he asked casually.
"No, from a member of our staff who lives in this house."
"Ah, yes, of course. By the way, it would be very interesting to have a
look at Fedor Matveyev's knife. If it isn't a secret."
"You yourself said it's at the bottom of (he sea," Benedictov muttered.
On his way to the door, accompanied by Yura, Benedictov paused for a
second to look at the blue draperies.
"Yes, you're right," Yura said in reply to Benedictov's unspoken
question. "This is where the experiment took place."
He pulled aside the draperies with a broad gesture. Benedictov
involuntarily stepped forward, but all he saw was a tape recorder of unusual
design and, under the table, several black boxes containing storage
batteries.
"We dismantled our set-up," Yura explained. "But you know what? If
you're doing work along the same lines, then why don't we co-operate? Why
not drop in at our Institute?"
Benedictov looked at Yura from under his heavy, swollen eyelids but did
not reply. He simply said goodbye and went out in a slow, shuffling gait.
Yura stood at the window watching him depart.
"Very curious news," Privalov remarked, pouring himself another cup of
tea.
"I had a feeling from the beginning that she hadn't simply fallen
overboard." Nikolai crumpled Yura's letter in his fist and began to pace the
floor. "She went over the rail because she was diving for the knife. That's
obvious. If she had found it she would have given it to her husband, of
course. But her husband is collaborating with Opratin, and he-Opratin, that
is-was searching for the knife at the spot where it fell into the sea. We
can assume that Rita didn't find the knife, and it is still lying at the
bottom of the sea, or else-"
"Or else what?" Privalov asked.
"Or else Opratin has found it."
"In that case we must speak to Opratin and ask him to lend us the knife
for a time so that we can study it," Privalov said quietly. "It would help
us enormously." He sipped his tea. "If Opratin is in Moscow we'll get in
touch with him. Sit down at the telephone and ring up the hotels. Start with
the Golden Wheat and the Yaroslavl."
With so many hotels the job of locating Opratin by telephone seemed
hopeless. Time and again Nikolai heard the words: "No one of that name
registered here", or else the clerk did not bother to listen to the question
but merely said, "Sorry, but we're full up." Finally, however, a voice said,
"Opratin? Just a moment. What's his first name? Yes, he's staying here.
Opratin and Bugrov. Room 130."
Nikolai laughed. "This is really one for the book. He's in a hotel
across the street from us." Nikolai dialled the number of Opratin's room but
no one answered.
"We'll try again in the evening," said Privalov. "I have to attend a
conference of oil industry construction experts. Meanwhile I want you to
straighten out a few questions at the Ministry."
Nikolai sighed. He did not like the Ministry. The endless corridors
there always had a depressing effect on him.
"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," said Privalov. "Get yourself a ticket for
Wednesday. I'll stay on a while longer."
When Boris Privalov entered the lobby of the underground his glasses
became clouded over from the warm air inside. He took them off to wipe them,
and when he put them on again the first person he saw was Nikolai Opratin,
who had just stepped off the escalator.
Opratin wore an elegant coat with a fur collar and a hat of young
reindeer skin. He hurried up and greeted Privalov with what struck him as
exaggerated affability.
"How pleasant to run into someone from home in the hustle and bustle of
Moscow!" he exclaimed, pumping Privalov's hand. "I'm really very glad to see
you."
"Why all this effusion?" Privalov wondered. "He's usually so
restrained. But, after all, it is indeed nice to meet someone from home."
After the exchange of small talk customary on such an occasion, Opratin
asked, in a casual tone, "What are they saying in the Academy about Fedor
Matveyev's manuscript?"
"They're still studying it. Incidentally, there is a supposition that
something else besides the manuscript has come down to our day."
"Really?" Opratin said, his voice now wary. "What's that?"
"Fedor Matveyev's knife."
"You don't put any stock in those Indian fairy tales, do you?"
Privalov did not like this. Why the subterfuge? He decided to take the
bull by the horns.
"But we know that one of the members of your staff, Benedictov, had
Fedor Matveyev's knife. We also know that you searched for it on the sea
floor at the spot where the woman fell overboard from the Uzbekistan. If you
found the knife, the Academy people would be interested in hearing a report
on it. You realize how important it would be for the advancement of
science-"
"You were misinformed," Opratin said in an icy tone. "I know nothing
whatsoever about the knife."
"But you were searching-"
"My 'searching', as you put it, was connected exclusively with the
problem of raising the level of the Caspian. As regards Benedictov, he is
working on a research project at our Institute, and I haven't the faintest
idea of what he does in his spare time."
This was a polite but firm rebuke. Privalov felt awkward. Indeed, what
grounds did he have for broaching this subject? Yura's letter? A remark made
by the talkative wife of a man called 'Uncle Vova'?
"I beg your pardon," he said. "It seems I was indeed misinformed."
"Yes, you were." Opratin glanced at his watch. "I must leave you now. I
have an appointment." He gave a thin smile and set off briskly towards the
exit.
Privalov followed him with a puzzled glance. If he only knew that at
this very moment Opratin, his hand in his pocket, was fingering the handle
of Fedor Matveyev's knife!
After several wearisome hours at the Ministry Nikolai went to Kursk
Station for a ticket.
There were queues at the booking office. Nikolai shook the snow off his
cap and took his place at the end of one of them.
"Who's last in the queue?" he asked.
A thickset man in a brown leather coat lifted his eyes from his
newspaper to glance at Nikolai disapprovingly.
"I'm next to the last," he said. "There's a lady behind me." He looked
round. "There she is, over there. You'll be after her."
Nikolai glanced fleetingly at the young woman in a black fur coat and
white fur hat. She was at a newsstand with her back to him.
The leather coat sniffed to clear his clogged nose and absorbed himself
in his newspaper. Bored, Nikolai took advantage of his superior height to
read the headlines over the man's shoulder. His eye was caught by a news
item about an exhibition of captured equipment used by spies and subversive
agents. The item described some of the displays: the wreckage of a foreign