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Ivan pensively stared somewhere at the acacia crowns.
- At night, - he repeated. - Yes, that is too late.
- I have to now spend the night at the hotel, - said Yura with a sigh.
- I will go and book a room.
Down the path approached, busily shuffling his shirt feet, a chubby man
dressed with chic wearing a colonial helmet. His face was swollen, with
distended eyes. Under his left eye a dark, thickly powdered abrasion was
protruding. Within ten meters of approaching Ivan, the man ripped the helmet
off his head, and bending his body almost in half, hurriedly sneaked into
the cafe. Ivan bowed back gallantly.
- What's with him? - said Yura in astonishment
- Come on, let's go, - said Ivan. - It's on the way.
- One minute, - said Yura. - I will just go and pay.
- I paid already, - said Ivan, - Let's go.
- No, what for, - said Yura with dignity. - I have money... We were
each handed money...
Ivan looked across the shoulder at the cafe.
- And this ass-licker, - said he, - is my good friend. Pride and joy of
the international cosmoport Mirza-Charlie. - Yura also looked back. The
"pride and joy of Mirza-Charlie" has already climbed onto the highest stool
at the bar. - The king of stinkers. An underground recruiter. The most
prosperous bastard in town. Two days ago he got drunk like a swine and was
stalking a girl in the street. That's when I gave him a few knocks. Now he
is very amicable with me.
They were leisurely walking down a shady green side street. It got
cooler. Disorderly engine hum was reaching them from the Friendship street.
- But whom does he recruit? - asked Yura.
- Workers, - replied Ivan. - By the way, who recommended you to work on
Rhea?
- Our plant has recommended us, - said Yura. - And who are this
workers? Do our own really enlist?
Ivan was surprised.
- Why would they be ours? The folk from the West. All kind of
unfortunate ones, who since childhood keep thinking about old age and dream
of becoming some kind of proprietors. There are plenty over there. Listen,
Yura, - said he, - and what if you won't get to Rhea? What then?
- Now, don't say that, - said Yura. - I will definitely get to Rhea. It
will be really unfair to all the guys if I won't make it. There were one
hundred and fifty volunteers and only eleven of us were chosen. How can I
not make it? I must get there.
They walked in silence for some time.
- Ok, so they get recruited, - said Yura. - And then where to?
- Then they get put on ships and sent to asteroids. The recruiters
receive commission per head placed in ship's hold. That's why, disguised as
sales agents, they hang around Mirza-Charlie. And other international
cosmodromes.
They came on to the Friendship walk and turned to the hotel. Ivan
stopped next to a large white building.
- That's where I have to go, - he said. - Good bye, Yura Borodin.
- Good bye, - said Yura. - Thanks so much. And I am sorry for talking
rubbish back there, in the cafe.
- It's nothing, - said Ivan. - The main thing is, you were earnest.
They shook hands.
- Listen, Yura, - said Ivan and paused.
- Yes? - said Yura.
- About Rhea, - said Ivan. He paused again, looking to the side. Yura
was waiting. - Yes, about Rhea. Why don't you, buddy, come in sometime
around nine o'clock tonight into hotel room three hundred and six.
- And what then? - asked Yura.
- What will come out of that, I don't know, - said Ivan. - In that
suite you will see a man who looks quite ferocious. Try to convince him that
you must really get to Rhea.
- And who is he? - asked Yura.
- Good bye, - said Ivan. - Don't forget: number three hundred and six,
after nine o'clock.
He turned and disappeared inside the white building. Above the entrance
to the building a black plastic board was hanging with white writing:
"The public order patrol headquarters. Mirza-Charlie".
- Number three hundred and six, - repeated Yura. - After nine.
Yura was killing time. In a few hours he covered almost the entire
city. He really enjoyed walking around unfamiliar cities and find out what
there is. In Mirza-Charlie there was EACS. No one was allowed under the
giant transparent dome but now Yura knew that EACS - is the Electronic
Administration and Control System, the electronic brain of the cosmodrome.
Walking north from EACS, you would get to a large park with an open sky
cinema, two shooting galleries, a big stadium, the ride "Man inside a
rocket", music cabins, swings, dancing areas and a great clear lake, around
which araucarias and pyramid poplars grew and in which Yura enjoyed a swim.
On the southern outskirts of the city Yura discovered a low red building,
immediately past which the desert began. Next to the building were parked a
few red squarish atomocars and a blue policeman was walking around with a
gun. The policeman announced to Yura that the red building is the prison and
that the Russian lad shouldn't go there. To the west of EACS lay the
residential suburbs. There were lots of small and large, pretty and not so
pretty houses. The streets were narrow, unsealed. Living there must have
been, as it looked, not bad at all - cool, shady and close to the centre.
Yura really liked the city library building but did not go inside. On the
western city border the administrative buildings were situated, and behind
them the industrial area began, a huge territory occupied by warehouses.
The warehouses were endlessly long, grey-coloured, made from corrugated
plastic, with giant white numbers painted on the walls. Here Yura discovered
such an abundance of trucks and cargo helicopters that he had never seen in
his life. His ears were becoming blocked from the continuous steady hum of
engines. Yura had barely walked ten paces, when behind him a siren wailed
nastily and he jumped to the side, to some wall, but then the wall opened
and through the gates, as wide as the Arch of Triumph, right towards Yura,
crawled a huge red and white beast on wheels the size of two human heights,
and from the two-storey height the driver wearing a beanie shouted at Yura.
The humongous truck slowly reversed in a narrow passage between the
warehouses and right behind it another one was crawling out already, and a
third one following the second. Yura carefully manoeuvred along the walls,
radiating heat, deafened by the roar, the rumbling and heavy clink of unseen
mechanisms.
Then he saw a low platform, onto which familiar cylindrical containers
with vacuum welding mix were being loaded. He walked closer, and smiling
cheerfully, stood next to the man conducting the loading with the help of a
remote control on his neck. He stood and watched for some time as the arms
of the crane accurately placed the packed container stacks on top of each
other. Then he said knowingly:
- No, this won't do.
- What won't do? - asked the man with interest and looked at Yura.
- This very container won't do.
- Why?
- You can see that. The valve is crooked.
The man wavered for a few seconds.
- It's nothing, - he said. - They will work it out there.
- Not quite, - disagreed Yura. - We won't be working it out over there.
Remove this stack.
The man took his hands off the remote and stared at Yura. The arm of
the crane stopped, the next stack, rocking quietly, hung in mid-air.
- It's a mere trifle, - said the man.
- It's a trifle here, - Yura rebutted again.
The man shrugged his shoulders and placed his hands on the remote
again. Yura incessantly watched the unloading of the defective container,
thanked the man politely and walked on. Very soon he discovered that he is
lost. The warehouse territory was like a whole city, with streets and
side-streets ending in the desert. At the end of such side-streets stood
huge signs with warnings: "Go back! Hazardous radiation zone!". It was
getting dark quickly and Yura followed some column of vehicles riding on
broad elastic tracks and without realising ended up on a highway.
Yura knew that the city is on his right, but to the left, where the
column had gone, multicoloured lights were flashing nearby, and Yura turned
left. Dessert lay on either side of the highway. There were no trees, no
irrigation ditches, just an even black horizon. The sun had set a long time
ago, but the air was still hot and dry.
The multicoloured lights were flashing above the crossing arms. On the
side of the crossing stood a small mushroom-like house. Next to the house,
beneath a street light a policeman was sitting, holding his blue helmet in
his lap. Another policeman was walking in front of the crossing. Upon seeing
Yura, he stopped and walked towards him. Yura's heart jumped. The policeman
came close and stretched out his hand.
- Papers, - he said in a barking voice.
I think I am stuck now, thought Yura. If I get detained... By the time
they will work it out... Why did I only walk here!.. He hastily reached into
his pocket. The policeman was waiting with his hand outstretched. The other
policeman put on his helmet and stood up.
- Weit a minut, - mumbled Yura. - Hang on. Right this minute... Damn,
oh no, just where could it be...
The policeman lowered his hand.
- Are you Russian? - he asked.
- Yes, - said Yura. - Hang on... You see, all I have is a workplace
reference... The steelworks plant in V'yazma... he finally produced the
reference.
- No need, - said the policeman suddenly in a kind tone.
The second policeman approached and asked:
- What's the matter? The chap hasn't got his papers?
- Nope, - said the first policeman. - He is Russian.
- Oh, - said the other one with indifference. He turned and walked back
to his bench.
- I just wanted to have a look at what's here, - said Yura.
- Here we have the cosmodrome, - the policeman explained readily. -
Over there, - he pointed beyond the crossing with his hand. - But you cannot
go there.
- No, no, - Yura said hastily. - Just to have a look.
- You can have a look, - said the policeman. He walked to the crossing.
Yura followed him. - This is the cosmodrome, - the policeman repeated.
Under the bright middle-eastern starts a flat, almost glaciered plateau
shimmered. Far ahead, where the highway was leading, clouded glares flashed
up and searchlight rays scurried, displacing gigantic hazy silhouettes from
the dark. From time to time a weak thundering blare rolled across the
plateau.
"Space ships", - Yura thought with pleasure. Of course, he knew, that
Mirza-Charlie, like all other cosmodromes on Earth, was used only for
intra-planetary communication, that real planetary vessels, the photon
rockets types such as "Cheous", "John Brown", "Yang-Tze" are too immense and
powerful to take off directly from Earth, but these dark contours over the
horizon also seemed quite formidable.
- Rockets, rockets, - the policeman spoke leisurely. - How many people
fly out there, - he raised a blue fluorescent baton to the dark sky. -
Everyone with their dreams. And how many of them return in sealed zinc
coffins! Right here, by this very crossing, we assemble the honorary guard.
Their determination takes your breath away. And nevertheless, over there
must be, - he raised the baton again, - there must be someone, who really
dislikes this determination...
The horizon suddenly lit up with a blinding flash, a long fiery stream
hit the sky and dispersed into a fountain of sparks. The bitumen under their
feet trembled. The policeman brought the watch to his eyes.
- Twelve past twenty, - he said. - The nightly lunar.
There was thunder in the sky. The booming peals weakened as they faded
away and finally died altogether.
- I got to go, - said Yura. - What's the quickest way to get into town?
- Keep walking, - replied the policeman. - At the turn to the warehouse
hail down any car.
When at ten-thirty Yura reached the hotel, he looked somewhat
dishevelled and bewildered. Mirza-Charlie at night was totally unlike
Mirza-Charlie during the day. Down the streets, bisected by sharp dark
shadows, the cars moved in a solid tide. The flashing billboards lit up the
crowds on the side walk. The doors of all cafes and bars were wide open.
Inside the music roared and the air was bluish with tobacco smoke. Drunk
foreigners were trudging down the street, hugging, in threes or fours,
bawling unfamiliar songs. Across every twenty-thirty steps the police stood
with stony faces under the helmets worn low. Through the pulsing crowd,
trios of solid young lads wearing red armbands moved calmly and leisurely.
Yura saw how one such patrol walked inside a bar, and immediately the
silence fell and even the music stopped playing. The patrolmen had bored and
squeamish faces. From another bar, much closer to the hotel, the two with
tiny moustaches threw out onto the street some unfortunate soul and began
kicking him. The poor fellow was screaming loudly in French: "Patrol! Help!
Murder!" Yura, clenching his teeth with loathing, already took aim for a
punch into the ear of a whiskered man, when he was unceremoniously shoved
aside and a long strapping arm with a red band grabbed one of the whiskered
men by the collar. The other whiskered fellow crouched and jumped into a
bar. The patrol negligently passed the catch into the arms of approaching
police, and they, twisting the men's arms behind his back, almost in a rush,
dragged him into the nearest side-street. Yura managed to notice, how one of
the policemen, looking around stealthily, hit the whiskered fellow hard on
the head with a fluorescent baton. Pity I didn't give it to him, thought
Yura. For a moment he even lost the desire to fly to Rhea. He wished he
could put on a red band and join these firm, confident young guys.
- Some customs you have here! - upon returning to the hotel, Yura told
the adminstratrix with agitation. - Some nest of bloodsuckers!..
- What are you on about? - asked the adminstratrix with fear. Yura came
to his senses.
- Well, you see, on the street, - he said, - such a dump!..
- An international port, we must put up with this for now, - said the
adminstratrix with a smile. - And how are things with you?
- Don't know yet, - said Yura. - Tell me please, how do I get to room
three hundred and six?
- Go up in a lift, third floor, turn right.
- Thanks, - said Yura and walked to the lift.
He came up to the third floor and found the door to three hundred and
six straight away. In front of the door he stopped and for the first time
thought how, what, and most importantly, to whom he will be talking. He
recalled what Ivan said about a fierce-looking man. He thoroughly combed his
hair and looked himself over. Then he knocked.
- Come in, - said a low husky voice behind the door. Yura walked in.
In the room, behind a round table covered with a white tablecloth, sat
two mature men. Yura was dumbfounded: he recognised them both, and this was
so unexpected that for a moment he imagined he must be in the wrong suite.
Ahead of him, staring directly in his face with small hostile eyes, sat the
well-known Bykov, the captain of the legendary "Takhmaseeb", sombre and
ruddy - the way he looked on a stereophoto above the desk of Yura's older
brother. The face of the other man, sprawled out in a light straw chair,
genteel, long, with a squeamish fold beside his full lips was also amazingly
familiar. Yura just couldn't remember his name, but was absolutely certain,
that he had seen him once or perhaps even a few times. On the table stood a
long dark bottle and one glass.
- What do you want? - Bykov asked in a muffled voice.
- Is this room three hundred and six? - Yura asked with hesitation.
- Ye-es, - the man with a genteel face answered in a velvety rolling
voice. - Who are you after, young man?
This must be Yurkovski, remembered Yura. The interplanetary explorer
from Venus. There was a film about them...
I... I don't know... - he spoke. - You see, I really must get to
Rhea... Today this one comrade...
- Surname? - said Bykov.
- Whose? - Yura couldn't understand.
- Your surname!
- Borodin... Yuri Mikhailovich Borodin.
- Occupation?
- Vacuum-welder.
- Documents.
For the second time that day (and in his entire life) Yura reached for
his documents. Bykov was staring at him, waiting. Yurkovski lazily held the
bottle and poured himself some wine.
- Here you are, please, - said Yura. He placed his reference on the
table and moved a few steps away.
Bykov produced from his shirt-pocket great old-fashioned glassed and,
holding them up to his eyes, very attentively and, as Yura decided, twice in
a row, read the document after which it was handed to Yurkovski.
- How did it happen, that you fell behind your group? - he asked
sharply.
- I... You see, it's a family matter...
- In more detail, young man, - thundered Yurkovski. He was reading the
professional reference, holding it in an outstretched hand and taking sips
from the glass.
- You see, my mum suddenly became ill, - said Yura. An appendicitis
attack. You see, there was no way I could leave. My brother is in an
expedition... Dad is at the North Pole at the moment... I couldn't...
- Does your mum know, that you volunteered to go into space? - asked
Bykov.
- Yes, of course.
- She agreed?
- Y-yes...
- Are you engaged?
Yura shook his head. Yurkovski carefully folded the recommendation and
laid it on the edge of the table.
- Tell me, young man, - he asked, - why weren't you... er... replaced?
Yura blushed.
- I really pleaded with them, - he said quietly. - And everyone thought
that I will catch up. I came just one day late...
Silence set in and one could here, how on Friendship walk the
'Varangian guests' yelled discordantly. Either drowning their sorrows or
sprucing up their fortune. Possibly, at Old Joyce's.
- Do you have... err... acquaintances at Mirza-Charlie? - Yurkovski
asked cautiously.
- No, - said Yura. - I only arrived today. I just met this one comrade
in a cafe. His name is Ivan and he...
- And where did you go for inquiries?
- To the duty officer at passenger communications and the hotel
administrator.
Bykov and Yurkovski swapped glances. It seemed to Yura, that Yurkovski
shook his head with slight negation.
- Well, this is not such a big deal, - grumbled Bykov.
Yurkovski suddenly spoke sharply:
- I really cannot understand, why we need a passenger.
Bykov was thinking.
- Honestly, I will not get in anyone's way, - said Yura with
conviction. - And I am ready to do anything.
- Even ready to die a beautiful death, - muttered Bykov.
Yura bit his lip. My chances are crap, he thought. God, how badly
stuffed I am. Oh, how badly...
- I really need to get to Rhea, - he said. He suddenly realised with
perfect lucidity, that this is his final chance and he cannot count on
tomorrows meeting with the director's deputy.
- Hmm? - said Bykov and looked at Yurkovski. Yurkovski shrugged his
shoulders and, lifting his glass, began staring at it through the light.
Then Bykov got up from the table - Yura even stepped back, for he seemed so
huge and bulky - and, dragging his feet in slippers, headed for the corner,
where on the back of a chair hung a worn leather jacket. From its pocket he
produced a flat shiny radiophone case. Yura, holding his breath, was
watching his back.
- Charles? - Bykov inquired in muffed voice. He was pressing a flexible
cord with a metallic ball to his ear. - This is Bykov. Do you still have the
"Takhmaseeb" log? Insert into the crew list for special voyage 17... Yes, I
am taking a probationer... Yes, the head of the mission does not object.
(Yurkovski grimaced strongly, but said nothing.) What? Hang on, - Bykov
turned to Yura, held out his hand and clicked his fingers impatiently. Yura
rushed to the table, grabbed the reference and placed it between the
fingers. - Now... Right... Signed by the collective of steelworks plant in
V'yazma... God, Charles, this is absolutely none of your business! After
all, this is a special voyage!.. Yes. Here: Borodin Yuri Mikhailovich...
Eighteen years of age. Yes, precisely eighteen. Vacuum-welder...
Probationer... Included under my order from yesterday's date. Please
Charles, prepare his documents immediately. No, he won't, I will get them
myself... Tomorrow morning. Good bye Charles, thanks.
Bykov slowly wound up the cord and shoved the radiophone back into the
jacket's pocket.
- This is illegal, Alexey, - Yurkovski said quietly. Bykov returned to
the table and sat down.
- If you only knew, Vladimir, - said he, - how many regulations I can
do without in space. And how many regulations we shall do without on this
flight. Probationer, you may sit, - he told Yura. Yura sat down hastily and
very uncomfortably. Bykov lifted the receiver. - Zhilin, come see me now. -
He hung up the phone. - Take your papers, probationer. You will answer
immediately to myself. The ship's engineer Zhilin, who will come shortly,
will outline your duties to you.
- Alexey, - Yurkovski said majestically. - Our... err... cadet still
does not know, who he is dealing with.
- Nope, I know, - said Yura. - I recognised you straight away.
- Oh! - Yurkovski was surprised. - We are still recognisable?
Yura had no time to answer. The door opened and on the threshold
appeared Ivan in that same chequered shirt.
- Here I am, Alexey Petrovich, - he announced cheerfully.
- Collect your god-son, - grouched Bykov. - This is our probationer. He
is now your responsibility. Make a note in the log. And now take him with
you and don't leave him out of sight until we take off tomorrow.
- Understood, - said Zhilin, took Yura off the chair and lead him into
the corridor. Yura was slowly realising what has happened.
- This is you - Zhilin? - he asked. - Ship's engineer?
- Zhilin did not answer. He placed Yura before him, stepped a foot back
and said in a menacing voice:
- Do you drink vodka?
- No, - Yura answered fearfully.
- Do you believe in God?
- No.
- A truly interplanetary soul! - Zhilin said with content. - When we
get on "Takhmaseeb", I will let you kiss the ignition key.
Matti, covering his eyes from the blinding sun, was looking at the
dunes. The crawler was nowhere to be seen. Above the dunes hung a large
cloud of reddish dust, a weak wind was slowly shifting it sideways. All was
quiet, only at the five meter height the anemometer propeller was rustling.
Then Matti heard the shots - "pok, pok, pok, pok" - four shots in a row.
- Missed, of course, - he said.
The observatory was standing on a tall flat hill. In summer the air was
always very clear and from the hilltop the white domes and parallelepipeds
of Warm Syrt five kilometres to the South and grey ruins of the Old Base on
an identical flat high hill three kilometres to the West could be clearly
seen. But right now the Old Base was hidden by a cloud of dust. "Pok, pok,
pok", - was heard again there.
- Sharp-shooters, - Matti lamented. He examined the watch post. - What
a rotten beast, - he said.
The wide-angle camera was overturned. The meteo-box was leaning on the
side. The wall of the telescopy pavilion was smothered with some yellow
crap. Above the pavilion door shone a fresh hole from an explosive bullet.
The light above the entrance was shattered.
- Sharp-shooters, - Matty reiterated.
He walked to the pavilion and palpated the edges of the tear with his
fingers in a fur-lined glove. He thought about what mess an explosive bullet
can invoke in a pavilion and he quivered. In the pavilion stood a very nice
telescope with a beautifully repaired lens, the scintillation recorder,
blink-autoshutters - all rare, capricious and complex apparatus.
Blink-autoshutters are harmed even by dust, and must be covered with a
hermetic core. But what can the core do against an explosive bullet?
Matti did not go into the pavilion. "They should see it themselves, he
thought. - They were the ones shooting, let them be the ones to see it".
Frankly speaking, he was simply too scared to go inside. He placed the
carabine on the sand and, with some effort, lifted the camera. One foot of
the tripod was bent and the camera was standing unevenly.
- Rotten scoundrel! - said Matti with hatred. He was conducting the
meteorite filming and the camera was his sole instrument. He walked across
the entire ground to the meteo-box. The dust over the ground was dug over.
Matti was stomping with disdain upon the characteristic rounded craters -
the traces of the "flying leech". "Why does she always barge in on the
observation ground? - he was thinking. - Fine, she could at least crawl
around the house. At least break into the garage. But no, she must climb
onto the ground. Does it smell of human flesh or something?"
The door of the meteo-box was bent and would not open. Matti hopelessly
waived his hand and returned to the camera. He swivelled the camera off the
base, removed it with an effort and laid it upon the outstretched tarpaulin,
groaning. Then he lifted the tripod and carried it into the house. He stood
the tripod in the workshop and peeked inside the dining hall. Natasha was
sitting by the radio.
- Reported it already? - asked Matti.
- You know, I get so discouraged by this, - she said grudgingly. -
Honestly, it would have been easier to run over there
- And what is it? - asked Matti.
Natasha abruptly turned the volume regulator. A low and weary voice
hummed inside the room: "Number seven, number seven, this is Syrt. Why is
there no summary? Hear me, number seven? Send the summary now!" Number seven
started muttering numbers.
- Syrt! - said Natasha. - Syrt! This is number one!
- Number one, don't interfere, - said the weary voice. - Have some
patience.
- Here you are, then, - said Natasha and turned the volume control the
other way.
- And what exactly are you going to tell them? - asked Matti.
- About what has happened, - Natasha replied. - This is an emergency.
- Can't call it an emergency, - disagreed Matti. - Every night we have
such an emergency.
Natasha pensively rested her cheek on a fist.
- You know, Matti, - she said, - indeed this is the first time the
leech came during the day.
Matti placed his entire hand over his face. It was true. Previously the
leeches came either late at night or right before dawn.
- Right, - he said. - R-r-right. This is how I see it: total insolence.
- That's how I see it as well, - Natasha remarked. - What's out there,
on the ground?
- You better see for yourself, - said Matti. - My camera was wrecked. I
won't be observing tonight.
- Are the guys there? - Natasha asked.
Matti stumbled.
- Yes, basically there, - said Matti and waived his hand vaguely.
He suddenly imagined, what Natasha would say, when she sees the bullet
hole above the pavilion door.
Natasha turned to the radio again and Matti closed the door quietly
behind him. He left the house and saw the crawler. The crawler was flying at
maximum speed, skipping boldly from dune to dune. Behind it, a solid wall of
dust shot up to the very stars and against this red and yellow background
the mighty figure of Pen'kov, standing at full height with a carabine
resting against his waist was outlined very effectively. Naturally, Sergey
was driving the crawler. He directed the vehicle right onto Matti and locked
the brakes at five feet. A thick dust cloud wrapped the observation ground.
- Centauri, - said Matti, cleaning his glasses. - An equine face on a
human torso.
- What of it? - said Sergey, jumping off. Behind him, Pen'kov descended
leisurely.
- Escaped, - he said.
- I think you got it, - said Sergey.
Pen'kov nodded pompously.
- I think so, too, - he said.
Matti approached him and strongly grabbed the right sleeve of his
fur-lined coat.
- Let's take a walk, - he said.
- Where to? - Pen'kov inquired, resisting him.
- Come on, come on, sniper, - said Matty. - I will show you, where you
definitely struck.
They approached the pavilion and stopped in front of the door.
- Holy cow, - said Pen'kov.
Sergey, saying nothing, rushed inside.
- Natashka saw all this? - Pen'kov asked quickly.
- Not yet, - said Matty.
Pen'kov was feeling the edges of the hole with a cogitative expression.
- This can't be readily sealed, - he said.
- Yep, there is no spare pavilion on Syrt, - Matti said venomously.
A month ago, Pen'kov, whilst shooting leeches at night, pierced the
meteo-box. At that time he headed to Syrt and found a spare one somewhere.
He hid the meteo-box he'd shot in the garage.
Sergey shouted from the pavilion:
- I think it's alright.
- Is there an exit opening? - asked Pen'kov.
- There is...
A soft hum was heard, the roof of the pavilion separated and sealed
again.
- I think, we are lucky, - Sergey announced and got out of the
pavilion.
- My tripod was also bent, - said Matti. - And the meteo-box was so
badly wrecked that we will need to get a new one.
Pen'kov quickly glanced at the box and continued looking at the gaping
hole. Sergey was standing beside him and was staring at it as well.
- I will fix the meteo-box, - Pen'kov said dolefully. - But what can be
done about this...
- Natasha is coming, - Matti warned quietly.
Pen'kov made a movement as though he was about to disappear somewhere,
but only pulled his head in between the shoulders. Sergey spoke quickly:
- This is a tiny gash, Natashen'ka, but this is not significant, we
will quickly patch it up today, and everything is safe inside...
Natasha came close to them, looked at the gash.
- Guys, you are swines, - she said quietly.
Now everyone felt like vanishing somewhere, even Matti, who wasn't
guilty of anything and was the last one to run out onto the flat when it was
all over. Natasha entered the pavilion and turned on the light. Through the
open door they could see how she is removing the covers from the
blink-autoshutters. Pen'kov sighed, melancholically and protractedly. Sergey
said quietly:
- I am going to park the car.
No one answered him, he climbed into the crawler and started the motor.
Matti silently returned to his camera and, bent in half, dragged it towards
the house. In front of the pavilion remained only Pen'kov's sombre, absurdly
cumbersome figure.
Matti pulled the camera inside the workshop, took off the oxygen mask,
the hood and fumbled for a long time with his loose parka. Then, not taking
of his snow steppers, he sat on the table next to the camera. Through the
window he could see, how unusually slowly, almost on toe-tips, the crawler
rolled inside the garage.
Natasha left the pavilion and shut the door tight behind her. Then she
walked across the ground, stopping in front of the devices. Pen'kov was
trudging behind her, and, judging by all signs, was sighing, melancholically
and protractedly. The dust clouds have already settled, the tiny reddish sun
was sitting above the black, as if gnawed at, ruins of the Old Base,
overgrown by the prickly Martian haloxylon. Matti looked at the low sun, at
the quickly darkening sky, realised that he is on duty tonight, and headed
for the kitchen.
During supper Sergey said:
- Our Natashen'ka is very serious tonight, - and gave her a peering
look.
- Shame on you, really, - said Natasha. She ate, not looking at anyone,
very upset and frowning.
- Our Natashen'ka is really cross, - said Sergey.
Pen'kov let out a melancholic and protracted sigh. Matti shook his head
sorrowfully.
- She doesn't like us tonight, our Natashen'ka, - Sergey added
tenderly.
- I mean, really, what is all this, - Natasha spoke. - Indeed we agreed
not to go on shooting at the observation ground. This isn't a shooting
gallery, after all. There are appliances... Had you smashed the blinks
tonight, where would you go? Where would we get them?
Pen'kov was looked at her with devout eyes.
- How can you, Natashen'ka, - said Sergey. - How can one shoot a blink
- We only shoot at streetlights, - Matti grumbled.
- And you have punctured the pavilion, - said Natasha.
- Natashen'ka! - Serezha shouted. - We shall bring another pavilion.
Pen'kov will run over to Syrt and bring one. He is so robust!
- Ah, forget you, - said Natasha. She was no longer angry.
Pen'kov livened up.
- Where can we shoot at her, other than on the observation ground?.. -
he began, but Matti stepped on his foot under the table, and he shut up.
- You, Volodya, are so cumbersome, it's scary, - said Natasha. - A huge
beast the size of a cupboard, and you keep missing it for a whole month.
- I am surprised, too, - frankly admitted Pen'kov and forcefully
scratched his head. - Perhaps, the cross-sight has been dislodged?
- Bending of the barrel, - Matti said venomously.
- Doesn't matter guys, all these games are now over. Everyone looked at
her. - I spoke to Syrt. Today the leeches attacked the group lead by
Azizbekov, the geologists, a new construction section and us here. All this
in broad daylight.
- And all this to the West of and North of Syrt, - said Sergey.
- Yes, indeed, - said Natasha. - I didn't even think of that. Well,
however it is, it has been decided we conduct a hunt.
- That's excellent, - said Pen'kov. - Finally.
- Tomorrow morning there will be a meeting, they are recalling the
heads of all groups. I shall go, and you will be in charge, Serezha. Yes,
and one more thing. We won't be conducting observations tonight. The
administration issued orders to postpone all night-time works.
Pen'kov quit eating and looked sadly at Natasha. Matti said:
- I don't care, my camera is stuffed. But for Pen'kov, his program will
be ruined, if he misses a couple of nights.
- I know, - said Natasha. - Everyone's program is being ruined.
- What if I do it somehow, very slowly, - said Pen'kov, - out of sight.
Natasha shook her head.
- Don't even want to hear it, - she said.
- And what if... - Pen'kov started saying, and Matti stepped on his
foot once more.
Pen'kov thought: "Indeed, why waste my breath. Everyone will be
observing anyway".
- What day is it today? - asked Sergey. He meant the day of the decade.
- The eighth, - said Matti. Natasha blushed and started looking into
everyone's eyes in succession.
- Somehow Rybkin has taken long to come, - said Sergey, pouring coffee
for himself.
- Yes, that's right, - Pen'kov stated profoundly.
- And the hour is a late one, - Matti added. - The night is drawing
close, yet Rybkin's missing still...
- Ah! - said Sergey and lifted his finger. The partition door clinked
in the lobby. - It's him! - Sergey announced in solemn whisper.
- You are silly, so silly, - said Natasha and laughed timidly.
- Leave Natashen'ka alone, - Sergey insisted. - Don't you dare laugh at
her.
- Just wait till he comes, he will be laughing himself, - said Pen'kov.
There was a knock on the door of the dining room. Sergey, Matti and
Pen'kov simultaneously placed their fingers on their lips and gave Natasha a
significant glance.
- Well, what is it with you? - Natasha whispered. - Please, somebody
respond...
Matti, Sergey and Pen'kov shook their heads in unison.
- Come in! - Natasha said in despair.
Rybkin walked in, accurately dressed and sharp as always, in clean
overalls, a snow-white shirt with a turn-down collar, shaven beyond
reproach. His face, like all Pathfinders, created a strange impression:
cheek-bones and forehead with pitch black sunburn, white spots around the
eyes and the lower portion of the face, where the skin was covered by the
goggles and the oxygen mask.
- May I? - he said in a low voice. He always spoke in a low voice.
- Sit down, Felix, - Natasha invited him.
- Will you have supper? - Matti asked.
- No, thank you, - said Rybkin. - Rather a cup of coffee.
- Somehow you were late today, - said the straightforward Pen'kov,
pouring him the coffee. Sergey pulled a ghastly face, and Matti kicked
Pen'kov under the table.
Rybkin calmly accepted the coffee.
- I came half an hour ago, - he said, - and took a stroll around the
house. I see, you have also been visited by the leech.
- Today we had a battle here, - said Natasha.
- Yes, - said Rybkin. - I saw the gash in the pavilion.
- Our carabines suffer from the bending of the barrel, - explained
Matti.
Rybkin laughed. He had small even white teeth.
- And have you ever had a chance to shoot at least one leech? - Sergey
asked.
- Most likely, no, - said Felix. - They are really hard to shoot.
- That much I know myself, - Pen'kov muttered.
Natasha, with her eyes to the table, was crumbing the bread.
- Today one was shot in Azizbekov's sector, - Rybkin said.
- You serious? - Pen'kov was amazed. - By whom?
Rybkin laughed again.
- No one, in fact, - he said. He quickly glanced at Natasha. - A funny
thing - the excavator's arm came loose and squashed it. Perhaps someone had
shot the cord.
- Now that is a shot, - said Sergey.
- We can do that too, - Matti said. - Whilst running, thirty paces away
straight into the light above the door.
- You know, guys, - Sergey said, - I get the impression that on Mars
all carabines suffer from the bending of the barrel.
- No, - Felix said. - Afterwards they discovered, that Azizbekov's
leech had taken six bullets.
- Indeed there will be a hunt soon, - Pen'kov said, - and then we'll
get them in the neck.
- And I am not the least happy about this hunt, - said Matti. - Since
the beginning of time we had it like that: bang-shoot-bang, destroy all
living creatures, and then start setting up sanctuaries.
- What are you on about? - said Sergey. - They are a nuisance.
- Indeed everything is a nuisance to us, - said Matti. - Lack of oxygen
is a nuisance, excess oxygen - a nuisance, too many forests - a nuisance,
cut it down... Who are we, after all, that everything is a nuisance to us?
- Was the salad that bad? - Pen'kov said pensively. - But you were the
one who made it...
- Now, now, don't get caught Pen'kov, - Sergey said. - He simply wants
to start a general conversation. To get Natasha talking.
Felix looked at Sergey with attention. He had large bright eyes and
seldom blinked. Matti laughed.
- What if, perhaps, they are not in our way, - he said, - but we are in
theirs.
- Huh? - Pen'kov grouched.
- I am offering a working hypothesis, - said Matti. - The flying
leeches are the indigenous intelligent inhabitants of Mars, regardless of
being at a low developmental stage still. We occupied the regions, where
water exists and they are inclined to expel us.
Pen'kov looked at him with astonishment.
- Well, then, - he said, - Possibly.
- Everything supports my hypothesis, - Matti went on. - They live in
underground cities. They always attack from the right - because it's their
taboo. And... umm... they always collect their wounded...
- Well, brother... - Pen'kov said with disappointment.
- Felix, - said Sergey, - demolish this elegant speculation.
Felix said:
- Such a hypothesis had already been advanced. (Matti raised his
eyebrows in astonishment). Long ago. Before the first leech had been killed.
Nowadays more fascinating hypotheses are being advanced.
- Well? - asked Pen'kov.
- To date, no one had explained, why leeches attack people. One cannot
exclude the possibility, that this is a very ancient habit. A thought
suggests itself, what if a race of erect bipeds, in fact, inhabits Mars.
- Inhabit it does, - said Sergey. - Inhabits it for thirty years
already.
Felix smiled politely.
- One can hope, that the leeches will direct us to that race.
For a while, everyone stayed quiet. Matti looked at Felix with envy. He
always envied people, who are faced with such tasks. To track the flying
leeches - a task captivating in itself, but when such a mission is added to
it...
...Matti examined, in his head, all interesting tasks he had to solve
by himself during the last five years. The most interesting one was the
construction of a discreet hunter-detective based on chemostaders. The
patrol camera would become a giant inquisitive eye, detecting the appearance
and movement of "extraneous" light spots in the night sky. Sergey was
running across the dunes, flashing his torch from time to time, and the
camera would, silently and creepily, reverse behind him, watching over his
every step... "Oh well, - Matti thought, - that was interesting, too."
Sergey suddenly said with disdain:
- How much do we not know still! (Pen'kov stopped sipping the coffee
noisily from his cup and looked at him.) And how strongly do resist the
endeavours to know! Day by day, decade after decade we walk, in dreary
trivialities up to our necks... Messing with electronics, plotting graphs,
writing petty articles, reports... Disgusting! - He grabbed his cheeks and
rubbed his face with force. - Right outside the perimeter, an absolutely
unfamiliar, foreign world has stretched for thousands of kilometres. And
it's so tempting to give this all up, and walk on, without direction, across
the desert, to look for real things... Shame on us, guys. This is a joke and
a shame, to sit on Mars and see nothing for twenty four hours each day,
except blink's registrogrammes and Pen'kov's sad physiognomy...
Pen'kov said mildly:
- Why don't you give it all up, Serega. And off you go. Ask the
builders to take you in. Or, even, join Felix. - He turned to Felix. - Will
you take him, no?
Felix shrugged his shoulders.
- Oh no, Pen'kov, mate, this won't help. - Sergey, tight-lipped, waved
his light fringe. - One must be able to do something. And what can I do? Fix
blinks... Count to two and integrate on minor computers. I can drive the
crawler, but not even professionally... What else am I good at?
- You can whine professionally, - said Matti. He felt awkward for
Sergey in front of Felix.
- I am not whining. I am angry. How self-satisfied and self-limited we
are! Just where does it come from? Why is it established, that to find a
spot for an observatory is more significant than to cross the planet down
the meridian, from pole to pole? Why is it more significant to search for
oil, than for mysteries? What - don't we have enough oil?
- What - don't you have enough mysteries? - said Matti. - I wish you'd
sit down and solve a constrained T-problem...
- But I don't want to solve it at all! It is boring to solve it, my
poor little Matti! Boring! I am a healthy, robust bloke, I bend iron nails
with my fingers... Why must I peer over paper?
He stopped talking. The silence was heavy, and Matti thought it'd help
to change the topic, but had no idea how.
Natasha said:
- I don't really agree with Serezhka, but this is true - we have become
somewhat bogged down in the routine. And it gets so frustrating sometimes...
Ok, let it not be us, let someone finally get to work on Mars as a new
territory. After all, this isn't an island, not even a continent - terra
incognita, - this is indeed a planet! And we sit here quietly for thirty
years and timidly cling to water and cosmodromes. And there are so few of
us, it's ridiculous. It is, indeed, annoying. Somewhere in the directorate a
grey-maned senior with a wartime past probably sits and keeps grumbling:
"Too early, too early".
Having heard the word "early", Pen'kov shivered and looked at his
watch.
- Oh, far out, - he muttered, standing up from the table. - I have
already sat through two stars here with you. - Here he looked at Natasha,
opened his mouth and hastily sat down again. His face was so amusing, that
everyone, even Sergey, laughed out loud.
Matti jumped up and went to the window.
- And what a night it is! - he said. - The image quality tonight will
probably astonish you. - He glanced at Natasha across the shoulder.
Felix livened up.
- Natasha, - he said. - If you want, I can stand guard whilst you will
be working.
- But how will you... Don't you need to go soon... - Natasha blushed. -
I meant to say, that usually you leave us around this time...
- What's the use of guarding us? - said Matti. - I can stand guard
myself. My camera has been wrecked anyway.
- I'll go get dressed then, - said Pen'kov.
- Alright then, - Natasha gave in. - As an amendment to my order from
seven pm tonight.
Pen'kov left already. Sergey also got up and without looking at anyone,
walked out. Matti started clearing the table.
- Let me help you, - Felix offered and accurately rolled up his
sleeves.
- What's there to help with, - objected Matti. - Five cups, five
plates...
He looked at Felix and stopped short.
- And what's that for? - he asked with surprise. On each of Felix's
right and left wrists were two sets of watches. Felix said seriously:
- At night, - he repeated. - Yes, that is too late.
- I have to now spend the night at the hotel, - said Yura with a sigh.
- I will go and book a room.
Down the path approached, busily shuffling his shirt feet, a chubby man
dressed with chic wearing a colonial helmet. His face was swollen, with
distended eyes. Under his left eye a dark, thickly powdered abrasion was
protruding. Within ten meters of approaching Ivan, the man ripped the helmet
off his head, and bending his body almost in half, hurriedly sneaked into
the cafe. Ivan bowed back gallantly.
- What's with him? - said Yura in astonishment
- Come on, let's go, - said Ivan. - It's on the way.
- One minute, - said Yura. - I will just go and pay.
- I paid already, - said Ivan, - Let's go.
- No, what for, - said Yura with dignity. - I have money... We were
each handed money...
Ivan looked across the shoulder at the cafe.
- And this ass-licker, - said he, - is my good friend. Pride and joy of
the international cosmoport Mirza-Charlie. - Yura also looked back. The
"pride and joy of Mirza-Charlie" has already climbed onto the highest stool
at the bar. - The king of stinkers. An underground recruiter. The most
prosperous bastard in town. Two days ago he got drunk like a swine and was
stalking a girl in the street. That's when I gave him a few knocks. Now he
is very amicable with me.
They were leisurely walking down a shady green side street. It got
cooler. Disorderly engine hum was reaching them from the Friendship street.
- But whom does he recruit? - asked Yura.
- Workers, - replied Ivan. - By the way, who recommended you to work on
Rhea?
- Our plant has recommended us, - said Yura. - And who are this
workers? Do our own really enlist?
Ivan was surprised.
- Why would they be ours? The folk from the West. All kind of
unfortunate ones, who since childhood keep thinking about old age and dream
of becoming some kind of proprietors. There are plenty over there. Listen,
Yura, - said he, - and what if you won't get to Rhea? What then?
- Now, don't say that, - said Yura. - I will definitely get to Rhea. It
will be really unfair to all the guys if I won't make it. There were one
hundred and fifty volunteers and only eleven of us were chosen. How can I
not make it? I must get there.
They walked in silence for some time.
- Ok, so they get recruited, - said Yura. - And then where to?
- Then they get put on ships and sent to asteroids. The recruiters
receive commission per head placed in ship's hold. That's why, disguised as
sales agents, they hang around Mirza-Charlie. And other international
cosmodromes.
They came on to the Friendship walk and turned to the hotel. Ivan
stopped next to a large white building.
- That's where I have to go, - he said. - Good bye, Yura Borodin.
- Good bye, - said Yura. - Thanks so much. And I am sorry for talking
rubbish back there, in the cafe.
- It's nothing, - said Ivan. - The main thing is, you were earnest.
They shook hands.
- Listen, Yura, - said Ivan and paused.
- Yes? - said Yura.
- About Rhea, - said Ivan. He paused again, looking to the side. Yura
was waiting. - Yes, about Rhea. Why don't you, buddy, come in sometime
around nine o'clock tonight into hotel room three hundred and six.
- And what then? - asked Yura.
- What will come out of that, I don't know, - said Ivan. - In that
suite you will see a man who looks quite ferocious. Try to convince him that
you must really get to Rhea.
- And who is he? - asked Yura.
- Good bye, - said Ivan. - Don't forget: number three hundred and six,
after nine o'clock.
He turned and disappeared inside the white building. Above the entrance
to the building a black plastic board was hanging with white writing:
"The public order patrol headquarters. Mirza-Charlie".
- Number three hundred and six, - repeated Yura. - After nine.
Yura was killing time. In a few hours he covered almost the entire
city. He really enjoyed walking around unfamiliar cities and find out what
there is. In Mirza-Charlie there was EACS. No one was allowed under the
giant transparent dome but now Yura knew that EACS - is the Electronic
Administration and Control System, the electronic brain of the cosmodrome.
Walking north from EACS, you would get to a large park with an open sky
cinema, two shooting galleries, a big stadium, the ride "Man inside a
rocket", music cabins, swings, dancing areas and a great clear lake, around
which araucarias and pyramid poplars grew and in which Yura enjoyed a swim.
On the southern outskirts of the city Yura discovered a low red building,
immediately past which the desert began. Next to the building were parked a
few red squarish atomocars and a blue policeman was walking around with a
gun. The policeman announced to Yura that the red building is the prison and
that the Russian lad shouldn't go there. To the west of EACS lay the
residential suburbs. There were lots of small and large, pretty and not so
pretty houses. The streets were narrow, unsealed. Living there must have
been, as it looked, not bad at all - cool, shady and close to the centre.
Yura really liked the city library building but did not go inside. On the
western city border the administrative buildings were situated, and behind
them the industrial area began, a huge territory occupied by warehouses.
The warehouses were endlessly long, grey-coloured, made from corrugated
plastic, with giant white numbers painted on the walls. Here Yura discovered
such an abundance of trucks and cargo helicopters that he had never seen in
his life. His ears were becoming blocked from the continuous steady hum of
engines. Yura had barely walked ten paces, when behind him a siren wailed
nastily and he jumped to the side, to some wall, but then the wall opened
and through the gates, as wide as the Arch of Triumph, right towards Yura,
crawled a huge red and white beast on wheels the size of two human heights,
and from the two-storey height the driver wearing a beanie shouted at Yura.
The humongous truck slowly reversed in a narrow passage between the
warehouses and right behind it another one was crawling out already, and a
third one following the second. Yura carefully manoeuvred along the walls,
radiating heat, deafened by the roar, the rumbling and heavy clink of unseen
mechanisms.
Then he saw a low platform, onto which familiar cylindrical containers
with vacuum welding mix were being loaded. He walked closer, and smiling
cheerfully, stood next to the man conducting the loading with the help of a
remote control on his neck. He stood and watched for some time as the arms
of the crane accurately placed the packed container stacks on top of each
other. Then he said knowingly:
- No, this won't do.
- What won't do? - asked the man with interest and looked at Yura.
- This very container won't do.
- Why?
- You can see that. The valve is crooked.
The man wavered for a few seconds.
- It's nothing, - he said. - They will work it out there.
- Not quite, - disagreed Yura. - We won't be working it out over there.
Remove this stack.
The man took his hands off the remote and stared at Yura. The arm of
the crane stopped, the next stack, rocking quietly, hung in mid-air.
- It's a mere trifle, - said the man.
- It's a trifle here, - Yura rebutted again.
The man shrugged his shoulders and placed his hands on the remote
again. Yura incessantly watched the unloading of the defective container,
thanked the man politely and walked on. Very soon he discovered that he is
lost. The warehouse territory was like a whole city, with streets and
side-streets ending in the desert. At the end of such side-streets stood
huge signs with warnings: "Go back! Hazardous radiation zone!". It was
getting dark quickly and Yura followed some column of vehicles riding on
broad elastic tracks and without realising ended up on a highway.
Yura knew that the city is on his right, but to the left, where the
column had gone, multicoloured lights were flashing nearby, and Yura turned
left. Dessert lay on either side of the highway. There were no trees, no
irrigation ditches, just an even black horizon. The sun had set a long time
ago, but the air was still hot and dry.
The multicoloured lights were flashing above the crossing arms. On the
side of the crossing stood a small mushroom-like house. Next to the house,
beneath a street light a policeman was sitting, holding his blue helmet in
his lap. Another policeman was walking in front of the crossing. Upon seeing
Yura, he stopped and walked towards him. Yura's heart jumped. The policeman
came close and stretched out his hand.
- Papers, - he said in a barking voice.
I think I am stuck now, thought Yura. If I get detained... By the time
they will work it out... Why did I only walk here!.. He hastily reached into
his pocket. The policeman was waiting with his hand outstretched. The other
policeman put on his helmet and stood up.
- Weit a minut, - mumbled Yura. - Hang on. Right this minute... Damn,
oh no, just where could it be...
The policeman lowered his hand.
- Are you Russian? - he asked.
- Yes, - said Yura. - Hang on... You see, all I have is a workplace
reference... The steelworks plant in V'yazma... he finally produced the
reference.
- No need, - said the policeman suddenly in a kind tone.
The second policeman approached and asked:
- What's the matter? The chap hasn't got his papers?
- Nope, - said the first policeman. - He is Russian.
- Oh, - said the other one with indifference. He turned and walked back
to his bench.
- I just wanted to have a look at what's here, - said Yura.
- Here we have the cosmodrome, - the policeman explained readily. -
Over there, - he pointed beyond the crossing with his hand. - But you cannot
go there.
- No, no, - Yura said hastily. - Just to have a look.
- You can have a look, - said the policeman. He walked to the crossing.
Yura followed him. - This is the cosmodrome, - the policeman repeated.
Under the bright middle-eastern starts a flat, almost glaciered plateau
shimmered. Far ahead, where the highway was leading, clouded glares flashed
up and searchlight rays scurried, displacing gigantic hazy silhouettes from
the dark. From time to time a weak thundering blare rolled across the
plateau.
"Space ships", - Yura thought with pleasure. Of course, he knew, that
Mirza-Charlie, like all other cosmodromes on Earth, was used only for
intra-planetary communication, that real planetary vessels, the photon
rockets types such as "Cheous", "John Brown", "Yang-Tze" are too immense and
powerful to take off directly from Earth, but these dark contours over the
horizon also seemed quite formidable.
- Rockets, rockets, - the policeman spoke leisurely. - How many people
fly out there, - he raised a blue fluorescent baton to the dark sky. -
Everyone with their dreams. And how many of them return in sealed zinc
coffins! Right here, by this very crossing, we assemble the honorary guard.
Their determination takes your breath away. And nevertheless, over there
must be, - he raised the baton again, - there must be someone, who really
dislikes this determination...
The horizon suddenly lit up with a blinding flash, a long fiery stream
hit the sky and dispersed into a fountain of sparks. The bitumen under their
feet trembled. The policeman brought the watch to his eyes.
- Twelve past twenty, - he said. - The nightly lunar.
There was thunder in the sky. The booming peals weakened as they faded
away and finally died altogether.
- I got to go, - said Yura. - What's the quickest way to get into town?
- Keep walking, - replied the policeman. - At the turn to the warehouse
hail down any car.
When at ten-thirty Yura reached the hotel, he looked somewhat
dishevelled and bewildered. Mirza-Charlie at night was totally unlike
Mirza-Charlie during the day. Down the streets, bisected by sharp dark
shadows, the cars moved in a solid tide. The flashing billboards lit up the
crowds on the side walk. The doors of all cafes and bars were wide open.
Inside the music roared and the air was bluish with tobacco smoke. Drunk
foreigners were trudging down the street, hugging, in threes or fours,
bawling unfamiliar songs. Across every twenty-thirty steps the police stood
with stony faces under the helmets worn low. Through the pulsing crowd,
trios of solid young lads wearing red armbands moved calmly and leisurely.
Yura saw how one such patrol walked inside a bar, and immediately the
silence fell and even the music stopped playing. The patrolmen had bored and
squeamish faces. From another bar, much closer to the hotel, the two with
tiny moustaches threw out onto the street some unfortunate soul and began
kicking him. The poor fellow was screaming loudly in French: "Patrol! Help!
Murder!" Yura, clenching his teeth with loathing, already took aim for a
punch into the ear of a whiskered man, when he was unceremoniously shoved
aside and a long strapping arm with a red band grabbed one of the whiskered
men by the collar. The other whiskered fellow crouched and jumped into a
bar. The patrol negligently passed the catch into the arms of approaching
police, and they, twisting the men's arms behind his back, almost in a rush,
dragged him into the nearest side-street. Yura managed to notice, how one of
the policemen, looking around stealthily, hit the whiskered fellow hard on
the head with a fluorescent baton. Pity I didn't give it to him, thought
Yura. For a moment he even lost the desire to fly to Rhea. He wished he
could put on a red band and join these firm, confident young guys.
- Some customs you have here! - upon returning to the hotel, Yura told
the adminstratrix with agitation. - Some nest of bloodsuckers!..
- What are you on about? - asked the adminstratrix with fear. Yura came
to his senses.
- Well, you see, on the street, - he said, - such a dump!..
- An international port, we must put up with this for now, - said the
adminstratrix with a smile. - And how are things with you?
- Don't know yet, - said Yura. - Tell me please, how do I get to room
three hundred and six?
- Go up in a lift, third floor, turn right.
- Thanks, - said Yura and walked to the lift.
He came up to the third floor and found the door to three hundred and
six straight away. In front of the door he stopped and for the first time
thought how, what, and most importantly, to whom he will be talking. He
recalled what Ivan said about a fierce-looking man. He thoroughly combed his
hair and looked himself over. Then he knocked.
- Come in, - said a low husky voice behind the door. Yura walked in.
In the room, behind a round table covered with a white tablecloth, sat
two mature men. Yura was dumbfounded: he recognised them both, and this was
so unexpected that for a moment he imagined he must be in the wrong suite.
Ahead of him, staring directly in his face with small hostile eyes, sat the
well-known Bykov, the captain of the legendary "Takhmaseeb", sombre and
ruddy - the way he looked on a stereophoto above the desk of Yura's older
brother. The face of the other man, sprawled out in a light straw chair,
genteel, long, with a squeamish fold beside his full lips was also amazingly
familiar. Yura just couldn't remember his name, but was absolutely certain,
that he had seen him once or perhaps even a few times. On the table stood a
long dark bottle and one glass.
- What do you want? - Bykov asked in a muffled voice.
- Is this room three hundred and six? - Yura asked with hesitation.
- Ye-es, - the man with a genteel face answered in a velvety rolling
voice. - Who are you after, young man?
This must be Yurkovski, remembered Yura. The interplanetary explorer
from Venus. There was a film about them...
I... I don't know... - he spoke. - You see, I really must get to
Rhea... Today this one comrade...
- Surname? - said Bykov.
- Whose? - Yura couldn't understand.
- Your surname!
- Borodin... Yuri Mikhailovich Borodin.
- Occupation?
- Vacuum-welder.
- Documents.
For the second time that day (and in his entire life) Yura reached for
his documents. Bykov was staring at him, waiting. Yurkovski lazily held the
bottle and poured himself some wine.
- Here you are, please, - said Yura. He placed his reference on the
table and moved a few steps away.
Bykov produced from his shirt-pocket great old-fashioned glassed and,
holding them up to his eyes, very attentively and, as Yura decided, twice in
a row, read the document after which it was handed to Yurkovski.
- How did it happen, that you fell behind your group? - he asked
sharply.
- I... You see, it's a family matter...
- In more detail, young man, - thundered Yurkovski. He was reading the
professional reference, holding it in an outstretched hand and taking sips
from the glass.
- You see, my mum suddenly became ill, - said Yura. An appendicitis
attack. You see, there was no way I could leave. My brother is in an
expedition... Dad is at the North Pole at the moment... I couldn't...
- Does your mum know, that you volunteered to go into space? - asked
Bykov.
- Yes, of course.
- She agreed?
- Y-yes...
- Are you engaged?
Yura shook his head. Yurkovski carefully folded the recommendation and
laid it on the edge of the table.
- Tell me, young man, - he asked, - why weren't you... er... replaced?
Yura blushed.
- I really pleaded with them, - he said quietly. - And everyone thought
that I will catch up. I came just one day late...
Silence set in and one could here, how on Friendship walk the
'Varangian guests' yelled discordantly. Either drowning their sorrows or
sprucing up their fortune. Possibly, at Old Joyce's.
- Do you have... err... acquaintances at Mirza-Charlie? - Yurkovski
asked cautiously.
- No, - said Yura. - I only arrived today. I just met this one comrade
in a cafe. His name is Ivan and he...
- And where did you go for inquiries?
- To the duty officer at passenger communications and the hotel
administrator.
Bykov and Yurkovski swapped glances. It seemed to Yura, that Yurkovski
shook his head with slight negation.
- Well, this is not such a big deal, - grumbled Bykov.
Yurkovski suddenly spoke sharply:
- I really cannot understand, why we need a passenger.
Bykov was thinking.
- Honestly, I will not get in anyone's way, - said Yura with
conviction. - And I am ready to do anything.
- Even ready to die a beautiful death, - muttered Bykov.
Yura bit his lip. My chances are crap, he thought. God, how badly
stuffed I am. Oh, how badly...
- I really need to get to Rhea, - he said. He suddenly realised with
perfect lucidity, that this is his final chance and he cannot count on
tomorrows meeting with the director's deputy.
- Hmm? - said Bykov and looked at Yurkovski. Yurkovski shrugged his
shoulders and, lifting his glass, began staring at it through the light.
Then Bykov got up from the table - Yura even stepped back, for he seemed so
huge and bulky - and, dragging his feet in slippers, headed for the corner,
where on the back of a chair hung a worn leather jacket. From its pocket he
produced a flat shiny radiophone case. Yura, holding his breath, was
watching his back.
- Charles? - Bykov inquired in muffed voice. He was pressing a flexible
cord with a metallic ball to his ear. - This is Bykov. Do you still have the
"Takhmaseeb" log? Insert into the crew list for special voyage 17... Yes, I
am taking a probationer... Yes, the head of the mission does not object.
(Yurkovski grimaced strongly, but said nothing.) What? Hang on, - Bykov
turned to Yura, held out his hand and clicked his fingers impatiently. Yura
rushed to the table, grabbed the reference and placed it between the
fingers. - Now... Right... Signed by the collective of steelworks plant in
V'yazma... God, Charles, this is absolutely none of your business! After
all, this is a special voyage!.. Yes. Here: Borodin Yuri Mikhailovich...
Eighteen years of age. Yes, precisely eighteen. Vacuum-welder...
Probationer... Included under my order from yesterday's date. Please
Charles, prepare his documents immediately. No, he won't, I will get them
myself... Tomorrow morning. Good bye Charles, thanks.
Bykov slowly wound up the cord and shoved the radiophone back into the
jacket's pocket.
- This is illegal, Alexey, - Yurkovski said quietly. Bykov returned to
the table and sat down.
- If you only knew, Vladimir, - said he, - how many regulations I can
do without in space. And how many regulations we shall do without on this
flight. Probationer, you may sit, - he told Yura. Yura sat down hastily and
very uncomfortably. Bykov lifted the receiver. - Zhilin, come see me now. -
He hung up the phone. - Take your papers, probationer. You will answer
immediately to myself. The ship's engineer Zhilin, who will come shortly,
will outline your duties to you.
- Alexey, - Yurkovski said majestically. - Our... err... cadet still
does not know, who he is dealing with.
- Nope, I know, - said Yura. - I recognised you straight away.
- Oh! - Yurkovski was surprised. - We are still recognisable?
Yura had no time to answer. The door opened and on the threshold
appeared Ivan in that same chequered shirt.
- Here I am, Alexey Petrovich, - he announced cheerfully.
- Collect your god-son, - grouched Bykov. - This is our probationer. He
is now your responsibility. Make a note in the log. And now take him with
you and don't leave him out of sight until we take off tomorrow.
- Understood, - said Zhilin, took Yura off the chair and lead him into
the corridor. Yura was slowly realising what has happened.
- This is you - Zhilin? - he asked. - Ship's engineer?
- Zhilin did not answer. He placed Yura before him, stepped a foot back
and said in a menacing voice:
- Do you drink vodka?
- No, - Yura answered fearfully.
- Do you believe in God?
- No.
- A truly interplanetary soul! - Zhilin said with content. - When we
get on "Takhmaseeb", I will let you kiss the ignition key.
Matti, covering his eyes from the blinding sun, was looking at the
dunes. The crawler was nowhere to be seen. Above the dunes hung a large
cloud of reddish dust, a weak wind was slowly shifting it sideways. All was
quiet, only at the five meter height the anemometer propeller was rustling.
Then Matti heard the shots - "pok, pok, pok, pok" - four shots in a row.
- Missed, of course, - he said.
The observatory was standing on a tall flat hill. In summer the air was
always very clear and from the hilltop the white domes and parallelepipeds
of Warm Syrt five kilometres to the South and grey ruins of the Old Base on
an identical flat high hill three kilometres to the West could be clearly
seen. But right now the Old Base was hidden by a cloud of dust. "Pok, pok,
pok", - was heard again there.
- Sharp-shooters, - Matti lamented. He examined the watch post. - What
a rotten beast, - he said.
The wide-angle camera was overturned. The meteo-box was leaning on the
side. The wall of the telescopy pavilion was smothered with some yellow
crap. Above the pavilion door shone a fresh hole from an explosive bullet.
The light above the entrance was shattered.
- Sharp-shooters, - Matty reiterated.
He walked to the pavilion and palpated the edges of the tear with his
fingers in a fur-lined glove. He thought about what mess an explosive bullet
can invoke in a pavilion and he quivered. In the pavilion stood a very nice
telescope with a beautifully repaired lens, the scintillation recorder,
blink-autoshutters - all rare, capricious and complex apparatus.
Blink-autoshutters are harmed even by dust, and must be covered with a
hermetic core. But what can the core do against an explosive bullet?
Matti did not go into the pavilion. "They should see it themselves, he
thought. - They were the ones shooting, let them be the ones to see it".
Frankly speaking, he was simply too scared to go inside. He placed the
carabine on the sand and, with some effort, lifted the camera. One foot of
the tripod was bent and the camera was standing unevenly.
- Rotten scoundrel! - said Matti with hatred. He was conducting the
meteorite filming and the camera was his sole instrument. He walked across
the entire ground to the meteo-box. The dust over the ground was dug over.
Matti was stomping with disdain upon the characteristic rounded craters -
the traces of the "flying leech". "Why does she always barge in on the
observation ground? - he was thinking. - Fine, she could at least crawl
around the house. At least break into the garage. But no, she must climb
onto the ground. Does it smell of human flesh or something?"
The door of the meteo-box was bent and would not open. Matti hopelessly
waived his hand and returned to the camera. He swivelled the camera off the
base, removed it with an effort and laid it upon the outstretched tarpaulin,
groaning. Then he lifted the tripod and carried it into the house. He stood
the tripod in the workshop and peeked inside the dining hall. Natasha was
sitting by the radio.
- Reported it already? - asked Matti.
- You know, I get so discouraged by this, - she said grudgingly. -
Honestly, it would have been easier to run over there
- And what is it? - asked Matti.
Natasha abruptly turned the volume regulator. A low and weary voice
hummed inside the room: "Number seven, number seven, this is Syrt. Why is
there no summary? Hear me, number seven? Send the summary now!" Number seven
started muttering numbers.
- Syrt! - said Natasha. - Syrt! This is number one!
- Number one, don't interfere, - said the weary voice. - Have some
patience.
- Here you are, then, - said Natasha and turned the volume control the
other way.
- And what exactly are you going to tell them? - asked Matti.
- About what has happened, - Natasha replied. - This is an emergency.
- Can't call it an emergency, - disagreed Matti. - Every night we have
such an emergency.
Natasha pensively rested her cheek on a fist.
- You know, Matti, - she said, - indeed this is the first time the
leech came during the day.
Matti placed his entire hand over his face. It was true. Previously the
leeches came either late at night or right before dawn.
- Right, - he said. - R-r-right. This is how I see it: total insolence.
- That's how I see it as well, - Natasha remarked. - What's out there,
on the ground?
- You better see for yourself, - said Matti. - My camera was wrecked. I
won't be observing tonight.
- Are the guys there? - Natasha asked.
Matti stumbled.
- Yes, basically there, - said Matti and waived his hand vaguely.
He suddenly imagined, what Natasha would say, when she sees the bullet
hole above the pavilion door.
Natasha turned to the radio again and Matti closed the door quietly
behind him. He left the house and saw the crawler. The crawler was flying at
maximum speed, skipping boldly from dune to dune. Behind it, a solid wall of
dust shot up to the very stars and against this red and yellow background
the mighty figure of Pen'kov, standing at full height with a carabine
resting against his waist was outlined very effectively. Naturally, Sergey
was driving the crawler. He directed the vehicle right onto Matti and locked
the brakes at five feet. A thick dust cloud wrapped the observation ground.
- Centauri, - said Matti, cleaning his glasses. - An equine face on a
human torso.
- What of it? - said Sergey, jumping off. Behind him, Pen'kov descended
leisurely.
- Escaped, - he said.
- I think you got it, - said Sergey.
Pen'kov nodded pompously.
- I think so, too, - he said.
Matti approached him and strongly grabbed the right sleeve of his
fur-lined coat.
- Let's take a walk, - he said.
- Where to? - Pen'kov inquired, resisting him.
- Come on, come on, sniper, - said Matty. - I will show you, where you
definitely struck.
They approached the pavilion and stopped in front of the door.
- Holy cow, - said Pen'kov.
Sergey, saying nothing, rushed inside.
- Natashka saw all this? - Pen'kov asked quickly.
- Not yet, - said Matty.
Pen'kov was feeling the edges of the hole with a cogitative expression.
- This can't be readily sealed, - he said.
- Yep, there is no spare pavilion on Syrt, - Matti said venomously.
A month ago, Pen'kov, whilst shooting leeches at night, pierced the
meteo-box. At that time he headed to Syrt and found a spare one somewhere.
He hid the meteo-box he'd shot in the garage.
Sergey shouted from the pavilion:
- I think it's alright.
- Is there an exit opening? - asked Pen'kov.
- There is...
A soft hum was heard, the roof of the pavilion separated and sealed
again.
- I think, we are lucky, - Sergey announced and got out of the
pavilion.
- My tripod was also bent, - said Matti. - And the meteo-box was so
badly wrecked that we will need to get a new one.
Pen'kov quickly glanced at the box and continued looking at the gaping
hole. Sergey was standing beside him and was staring at it as well.
- I will fix the meteo-box, - Pen'kov said dolefully. - But what can be
done about this...
- Natasha is coming, - Matti warned quietly.
Pen'kov made a movement as though he was about to disappear somewhere,
but only pulled his head in between the shoulders. Sergey spoke quickly:
- This is a tiny gash, Natashen'ka, but this is not significant, we
will quickly patch it up today, and everything is safe inside...
Natasha came close to them, looked at the gash.
- Guys, you are swines, - she said quietly.
Now everyone felt like vanishing somewhere, even Matti, who wasn't
guilty of anything and was the last one to run out onto the flat when it was
all over. Natasha entered the pavilion and turned on the light. Through the
open door they could see how she is removing the covers from the
blink-autoshutters. Pen'kov sighed, melancholically and protractedly. Sergey
said quietly:
- I am going to park the car.
No one answered him, he climbed into the crawler and started the motor.
Matti silently returned to his camera and, bent in half, dragged it towards
the house. In front of the pavilion remained only Pen'kov's sombre, absurdly
cumbersome figure.
Matti pulled the camera inside the workshop, took off the oxygen mask,
the hood and fumbled for a long time with his loose parka. Then, not taking
of his snow steppers, he sat on the table next to the camera. Through the
window he could see, how unusually slowly, almost on toe-tips, the crawler
rolled inside the garage.
Natasha left the pavilion and shut the door tight behind her. Then she
walked across the ground, stopping in front of the devices. Pen'kov was
trudging behind her, and, judging by all signs, was sighing, melancholically
and protractedly. The dust clouds have already settled, the tiny reddish sun
was sitting above the black, as if gnawed at, ruins of the Old Base,
overgrown by the prickly Martian haloxylon. Matti looked at the low sun, at
the quickly darkening sky, realised that he is on duty tonight, and headed
for the kitchen.
During supper Sergey said:
- Our Natashen'ka is very serious tonight, - and gave her a peering
look.
- Shame on you, really, - said Natasha. She ate, not looking at anyone,
very upset and frowning.
- Our Natashen'ka is really cross, - said Sergey.
Pen'kov let out a melancholic and protracted sigh. Matti shook his head
sorrowfully.
- She doesn't like us tonight, our Natashen'ka, - Sergey added
tenderly.
- I mean, really, what is all this, - Natasha spoke. - Indeed we agreed
not to go on shooting at the observation ground. This isn't a shooting
gallery, after all. There are appliances... Had you smashed the blinks
tonight, where would you go? Where would we get them?
Pen'kov was looked at her with devout eyes.
- How can you, Natashen'ka, - said Sergey. - How can one shoot a blink
- We only shoot at streetlights, - Matti grumbled.
- And you have punctured the pavilion, - said Natasha.
- Natashen'ka! - Serezha shouted. - We shall bring another pavilion.
Pen'kov will run over to Syrt and bring one. He is so robust!
- Ah, forget you, - said Natasha. She was no longer angry.
Pen'kov livened up.
- Where can we shoot at her, other than on the observation ground?.. -
he began, but Matti stepped on his foot under the table, and he shut up.
- You, Volodya, are so cumbersome, it's scary, - said Natasha. - A huge
beast the size of a cupboard, and you keep missing it for a whole month.
- I am surprised, too, - frankly admitted Pen'kov and forcefully
scratched his head. - Perhaps, the cross-sight has been dislodged?
- Bending of the barrel, - Matti said venomously.
- Doesn't matter guys, all these games are now over. Everyone looked at
her. - I spoke to Syrt. Today the leeches attacked the group lead by
Azizbekov, the geologists, a new construction section and us here. All this
in broad daylight.
- And all this to the West of and North of Syrt, - said Sergey.
- Yes, indeed, - said Natasha. - I didn't even think of that. Well,
however it is, it has been decided we conduct a hunt.
- That's excellent, - said Pen'kov. - Finally.
- Tomorrow morning there will be a meeting, they are recalling the
heads of all groups. I shall go, and you will be in charge, Serezha. Yes,
and one more thing. We won't be conducting observations tonight. The
administration issued orders to postpone all night-time works.
Pen'kov quit eating and looked sadly at Natasha. Matti said:
- I don't care, my camera is stuffed. But for Pen'kov, his program will
be ruined, if he misses a couple of nights.
- I know, - said Natasha. - Everyone's program is being ruined.
- What if I do it somehow, very slowly, - said Pen'kov, - out of sight.
Natasha shook her head.
- Don't even want to hear it, - she said.
- And what if... - Pen'kov started saying, and Matti stepped on his
foot once more.
Pen'kov thought: "Indeed, why waste my breath. Everyone will be
observing anyway".
- What day is it today? - asked Sergey. He meant the day of the decade.
- The eighth, - said Matti. Natasha blushed and started looking into
everyone's eyes in succession.
- Somehow Rybkin has taken long to come, - said Sergey, pouring coffee
for himself.
- Yes, that's right, - Pen'kov stated profoundly.
- And the hour is a late one, - Matti added. - The night is drawing
close, yet Rybkin's missing still...
- Ah! - said Sergey and lifted his finger. The partition door clinked
in the lobby. - It's him! - Sergey announced in solemn whisper.
- You are silly, so silly, - said Natasha and laughed timidly.
- Leave Natashen'ka alone, - Sergey insisted. - Don't you dare laugh at
her.
- Just wait till he comes, he will be laughing himself, - said Pen'kov.
There was a knock on the door of the dining room. Sergey, Matti and
Pen'kov simultaneously placed their fingers on their lips and gave Natasha a
significant glance.
- Well, what is it with you? - Natasha whispered. - Please, somebody
respond...
Matti, Sergey and Pen'kov shook their heads in unison.
- Come in! - Natasha said in despair.
Rybkin walked in, accurately dressed and sharp as always, in clean
overalls, a snow-white shirt with a turn-down collar, shaven beyond
reproach. His face, like all Pathfinders, created a strange impression:
cheek-bones and forehead with pitch black sunburn, white spots around the
eyes and the lower portion of the face, where the skin was covered by the
goggles and the oxygen mask.
- May I? - he said in a low voice. He always spoke in a low voice.
- Sit down, Felix, - Natasha invited him.
- Will you have supper? - Matti asked.
- No, thank you, - said Rybkin. - Rather a cup of coffee.
- Somehow you were late today, - said the straightforward Pen'kov,
pouring him the coffee. Sergey pulled a ghastly face, and Matti kicked
Pen'kov under the table.
Rybkin calmly accepted the coffee.
- I came half an hour ago, - he said, - and took a stroll around the
house. I see, you have also been visited by the leech.
- Today we had a battle here, - said Natasha.
- Yes, - said Rybkin. - I saw the gash in the pavilion.
- Our carabines suffer from the bending of the barrel, - explained
Matti.
Rybkin laughed. He had small even white teeth.
- And have you ever had a chance to shoot at least one leech? - Sergey
asked.
- Most likely, no, - said Felix. - They are really hard to shoot.
- That much I know myself, - Pen'kov muttered.
Natasha, with her eyes to the table, was crumbing the bread.
- Today one was shot in Azizbekov's sector, - Rybkin said.
- You serious? - Pen'kov was amazed. - By whom?
Rybkin laughed again.
- No one, in fact, - he said. He quickly glanced at Natasha. - A funny
thing - the excavator's arm came loose and squashed it. Perhaps someone had
shot the cord.
- Now that is a shot, - said Sergey.
- We can do that too, - Matti said. - Whilst running, thirty paces away
straight into the light above the door.
- You know, guys, - Sergey said, - I get the impression that on Mars
all carabines suffer from the bending of the barrel.
- No, - Felix said. - Afterwards they discovered, that Azizbekov's
leech had taken six bullets.
- Indeed there will be a hunt soon, - Pen'kov said, - and then we'll
get them in the neck.
- And I am not the least happy about this hunt, - said Matti. - Since
the beginning of time we had it like that: bang-shoot-bang, destroy all
living creatures, and then start setting up sanctuaries.
- What are you on about? - said Sergey. - They are a nuisance.
- Indeed everything is a nuisance to us, - said Matti. - Lack of oxygen
is a nuisance, excess oxygen - a nuisance, too many forests - a nuisance,
cut it down... Who are we, after all, that everything is a nuisance to us?
- Was the salad that bad? - Pen'kov said pensively. - But you were the
one who made it...
- Now, now, don't get caught Pen'kov, - Sergey said. - He simply wants
to start a general conversation. To get Natasha talking.
Felix looked at Sergey with attention. He had large bright eyes and
seldom blinked. Matti laughed.
- What if, perhaps, they are not in our way, - he said, - but we are in
theirs.
- Huh? - Pen'kov grouched.
- I am offering a working hypothesis, - said Matti. - The flying
leeches are the indigenous intelligent inhabitants of Mars, regardless of
being at a low developmental stage still. We occupied the regions, where
water exists and they are inclined to expel us.
Pen'kov looked at him with astonishment.
- Well, then, - he said, - Possibly.
- Everything supports my hypothesis, - Matti went on. - They live in
underground cities. They always attack from the right - because it's their
taboo. And... umm... they always collect their wounded...
- Well, brother... - Pen'kov said with disappointment.
- Felix, - said Sergey, - demolish this elegant speculation.
Felix said:
- Such a hypothesis had already been advanced. (Matti raised his
eyebrows in astonishment). Long ago. Before the first leech had been killed.
Nowadays more fascinating hypotheses are being advanced.
- Well? - asked Pen'kov.
- To date, no one had explained, why leeches attack people. One cannot
exclude the possibility, that this is a very ancient habit. A thought
suggests itself, what if a race of erect bipeds, in fact, inhabits Mars.
- Inhabit it does, - said Sergey. - Inhabits it for thirty years
already.
Felix smiled politely.
- One can hope, that the leeches will direct us to that race.
For a while, everyone stayed quiet. Matti looked at Felix with envy. He
always envied people, who are faced with such tasks. To track the flying
leeches - a task captivating in itself, but when such a mission is added to
it...
...Matti examined, in his head, all interesting tasks he had to solve
by himself during the last five years. The most interesting one was the
construction of a discreet hunter-detective based on chemostaders. The
patrol camera would become a giant inquisitive eye, detecting the appearance
and movement of "extraneous" light spots in the night sky. Sergey was
running across the dunes, flashing his torch from time to time, and the
camera would, silently and creepily, reverse behind him, watching over his
every step... "Oh well, - Matti thought, - that was interesting, too."
Sergey suddenly said with disdain:
- How much do we not know still! (Pen'kov stopped sipping the coffee
noisily from his cup and looked at him.) And how strongly do resist the
endeavours to know! Day by day, decade after decade we walk, in dreary
trivialities up to our necks... Messing with electronics, plotting graphs,
writing petty articles, reports... Disgusting! - He grabbed his cheeks and
rubbed his face with force. - Right outside the perimeter, an absolutely
unfamiliar, foreign world has stretched for thousands of kilometres. And
it's so tempting to give this all up, and walk on, without direction, across
the desert, to look for real things... Shame on us, guys. This is a joke and
a shame, to sit on Mars and see nothing for twenty four hours each day,
except blink's registrogrammes and Pen'kov's sad physiognomy...
Pen'kov said mildly:
- Why don't you give it all up, Serega. And off you go. Ask the
builders to take you in. Or, even, join Felix. - He turned to Felix. - Will
you take him, no?
Felix shrugged his shoulders.
- Oh no, Pen'kov, mate, this won't help. - Sergey, tight-lipped, waved
his light fringe. - One must be able to do something. And what can I do? Fix
blinks... Count to two and integrate on minor computers. I can drive the
crawler, but not even professionally... What else am I good at?
- You can whine professionally, - said Matti. He felt awkward for
Sergey in front of Felix.
- I am not whining. I am angry. How self-satisfied and self-limited we
are! Just where does it come from? Why is it established, that to find a
spot for an observatory is more significant than to cross the planet down
the meridian, from pole to pole? Why is it more significant to search for
oil, than for mysteries? What - don't we have enough oil?
- What - don't you have enough mysteries? - said Matti. - I wish you'd
sit down and solve a constrained T-problem...
- But I don't want to solve it at all! It is boring to solve it, my
poor little Matti! Boring! I am a healthy, robust bloke, I bend iron nails
with my fingers... Why must I peer over paper?
He stopped talking. The silence was heavy, and Matti thought it'd help
to change the topic, but had no idea how.
Natasha said:
- I don't really agree with Serezhka, but this is true - we have become
somewhat bogged down in the routine. And it gets so frustrating sometimes...
Ok, let it not be us, let someone finally get to work on Mars as a new
territory. After all, this isn't an island, not even a continent - terra
incognita, - this is indeed a planet! And we sit here quietly for thirty
years and timidly cling to water and cosmodromes. And there are so few of
us, it's ridiculous. It is, indeed, annoying. Somewhere in the directorate a
grey-maned senior with a wartime past probably sits and keeps grumbling:
"Too early, too early".
Having heard the word "early", Pen'kov shivered and looked at his
watch.
- Oh, far out, - he muttered, standing up from the table. - I have
already sat through two stars here with you. - Here he looked at Natasha,
opened his mouth and hastily sat down again. His face was so amusing, that
everyone, even Sergey, laughed out loud.
Matti jumped up and went to the window.
- And what a night it is! - he said. - The image quality tonight will
probably astonish you. - He glanced at Natasha across the shoulder.
Felix livened up.
- Natasha, - he said. - If you want, I can stand guard whilst you will
be working.
- But how will you... Don't you need to go soon... - Natasha blushed. -
I meant to say, that usually you leave us around this time...
- What's the use of guarding us? - said Matti. - I can stand guard
myself. My camera has been wrecked anyway.
- I'll go get dressed then, - said Pen'kov.
- Alright then, - Natasha gave in. - As an amendment to my order from
seven pm tonight.
Pen'kov left already. Sergey also got up and without looking at anyone,
walked out. Matti started clearing the table.
- Let me help you, - Felix offered and accurately rolled up his
sleeves.
- What's there to help with, - objected Matti. - Five cups, five
plates...
He looked at Felix and stopped short.
- And what's that for? - he asked with surprise. On each of Felix's
right and left wrists were two sets of watches. Felix said seriously:
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