e pile was rather worn, most probably due to moths. On the whole, however, it was wonderfully preserved and the fringes were as good as new. Volka thought he had seen exactly the same kind of carpet before, but he could not recall whether it was in Zhenya's house or in the Teachers' Room at school. They took off from the river bank without a single witness to their departure. Hottabych took Volka's hand and stood him in the middle of the carpet beside himself; he then yanked three hairs from his beard, blew on them, and whispered something, rolling his eyes skyward. The carpet trembled. One after the other, all four tassled corners rose. Then the edges buckled and rose, but the middle remained on the grass, weighted down by the two heavy passengers. After fluttering a bit, the carpet became motionless. The old man bustled about in confusion. "Excuse me, 0 kind Volka. There's been a mistake somewheres. I'll fix everything in a minute." Hottabych was quiet as he did some complex figuring on his fingers. He apparently got the right answer, because he beamed. Then he yanked six more hairs from his beard, tore off half of one hair and threw it away, and then blew on the others, saying the magic words and rolling his eyes skyward. Now the carpet ' straightened out and became as flat and as hard as a staircase landing. It soared upwards, carrying off a smiling Hottabych and Volka, who was dizzy from exhilaration, or the height, or from both together. The carpet rose over the highest trees, over the highest houses, over the highest factory stacks and sailed over the city that was blinking with a million lights below. They could hear muffled voices, automobile horns, people singing in row boats on the river and the far-off music of a band. The city was plunged in twilight, but here, high up in the air, they could still see the crimson ball of the sun sinking slowly beyond the horizon. "I wonder how high up we are now?" Volka said thoughtfully. "About 600 or 700 elbows," Hottabych answered, still figuring out something on his fingers. Meanwhile, the carpet settled on its course, though still gaining height. Hottabych sat down majestically, crossing his legs and holding on to his hat. Volka tried to sit down cross-legged, as Hottabych had, but found neither pleasure nor satisfaction from this position. He shut his eyes tight to overcome his awful dizziness and sat down on the edge of the carpet, dangling his legs over the side. Though this was more comfortable, the wind tore at his legs mercilessly; it blew them off to a side and they were constantly at a sharp angle to his body. He soon became convinced that this method was no good either, and finally settled down with his legs stretched out before him on the carpet. In no time, he felt chilled to the bone. He thought sadly of his warm jacket that was so far below in his closet at home, hundreds of miles away. As a last resort, he decided to warm up the way cabbies used to do in the olden days, long before he was born. His father once showed him how it was done when they were out ice skating. Volka began to slap his shoulders and sides in sweeping motions, and in the twinkling of an eye he slipped off the carpet and into nothingness. Needless to say, if he had not grabbed on to the fringes, our story would have ended with this unusual air accident. Hottabych did not even notice what had happened to his young friend. He was sitting with his back to Volka, his legs tucked under him in Eastern fashion and lost in thought. He was trying to recall how to break spells he himself had cast. "Hottabych!" Volka howled, feeling that he wouldn't last long, as he hung on to the fringes. "Help, Hottabych!" "0 woe is me!" the old man cried, seeing that Volka was flying through the air. "Shame on my old grey head! I would have killed myself if you had perished!" Muttering and calling himself all kinds of names for being so careless, he dragged a petrified Volka back up on the carpet, sat him down and put his arm around the boy, firmly resolved not to let go of him until they landed. "It would be g-g-good t-t-to h-h-have s-s-something w-w-warm to wear!" Volka said wistfully through chattering teeth. "S-s-sure, 0 gracious Volka ibn Alyosha!" Hottabych answered and covered him with a quilted robe that appeared from nowhere. It became dark. Now it was especially uncomfortable on the magic carpet. Volka suggested that they rise another 500 elbows or so. "Then we'll see the sun again." Hottabych greatly doubted that they could see the sun before morning, since it had already set, but he didn't argue. You can imagine how surprised he was and how his esteem for Volka grew, when, as they rose higher, they really saw the sun again! For a second time its crimson edge was barely touching the black line of the far horizon. "Oh, Volka, if only I had not promised myself faithfully to obey your modest request, nothing would prevent me from calling you the greatest dope in the world," Hottabych cried ecstatically. However, when he saw how displeased Volka was, he quickly added, "but since you forbade it, I shall limit myself to expressing my amazement at the unusual maturity of your mind. I "promised never to call you a dope and I won't." "And don't call anyone else by that name, either." "All right, 0 Volka," Hottabych agreed obediently. "Do you swear?" "Yes, I do!" "Now don't forget," Volka said in a tone of satisfaction that puzzled Hottabych. Far below them forests and fields, rivers and lakes, villages and cities sailed by, adorned in softly glowing pearly strings of electric lights. A sea of clouds with hard round edges appeared; they darkened and disappeared in the blackness below, but the carpet kept on flying farther and farther away to the south-east, closer and closer to the strange land where the young prisoner Zhenya Bogorad was probably already suffering at the hands of fierce and terrible slave traders. "To think that poor Zhenya's breaking his back at hard labour," Volka said bitterly after a long silence. A guilty Hottabych only grunted in reply. "He's all alone in a strange land, without any friends or relatives. The poor fellow's probably groaning," Volka continued sadly. Hottabych again said nothing. If only our travellers could have heard what was happening that very minute, thousands of miles away to the East! Far away in the East, Zhenya Bogorad was really groaning. "Oh no, I can't!" Zhenya moaned, "Oh no, no more!" In order to describe the circumstances under which he uttered these heart-rending words, we shall have to part with our travellers for a while and relate the experiences of Zhenya Bogorad, a pioneer group leader of 6B (7B, as of the day before) of Moscow Secondary School No. 245. ZHENYA BOGORAD'S ADVENTURES FAR AWAY IN THE EAST As soon as Zhenya Bogorad, seated in the first row of the Saturn Theatre, turned around to catch a glimpse of the bearded boy before the movie began, everything suddenly went dark, he heard an ear-splitting whistle, and instead of the hard floor beneath his feet, he felt he was standing in tall grass. When his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he was greatly amazed to discover that he was in a dense forest filled with the aroma of strange flowers. Lianas hung from huge trees, the likes of which he had never seen before. Yes, these were definitely lianas. It was hot and humid, much hotter than it had been in the projection room. Holding his arms out, Zhenya took several cautious steps and nearly trod on a ... snake! The snake hissed like a broken bicycle pump, flashed its small green eyes and disappeared in the bushes. "Golly! Where am I?!" Zhenya wondered, not daring to move. "It's just like the jungles. It's just like a dream. Why, sure," he thought happily, "sure, this is all a dream! I'm sleeping and this is a dream." At one time or another everyone has had a dream in which he knows quite clearly that he is dreaming. It's fun to have such a dream: no dangers frighten you, and you always succeed in the most hazardous feats. Most important, you know the time will come when you'll awake safe and sound in your own bed. However, when Zhenya attempted to make his way through the prickly bushes, he really got scratched. Since it's most unpleasant to be hurt, even though you are quite positive everything is just a dream, Zhenya decided to doze off till morning. When he awoke, he saw the hot, pale blue sky shining brightly through the openings in the crowns of the trees. Zhenya was overjoyed to find his wonderful dream still continuing! The first thing he saw when he found his way to the edge of the forest were four elephants carrying huge logs in their trunks. A thin, dark-skinned man, naked to the waist and wearing a white turban, was riding the lead elephant. In the distance, smoke curled from the rooftops of a small village. Now Zhenya knew what he was dreaming about. He was dreaming about India! This was really wonderful. Yet, still more wonderful things awaited him. "Who are you?" the man on the elephant asked Zhenya dryly. "An Englishman? A Portuguese? An American?" "No," Zhenya answered in broken English. "I Russian, Rusi." Just to make sure, he pointed to himself and said, "Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai." At this, the man on the elephant beamed and nodded so vigorously that it was a wonder his turban didn't fall off his head. Then he made his elephant kneel and he took Zhenya up beside him. The whole cavalcade, swaying majestically, continued towards the village. On the way they met several children. The man shouted something to them; they gaped and stared at the real-life Soviet boy. Then they dashed back to the village, shouting and skipping. By the time Zhenya Bogorad, a 7B pupil of Moscow Secondary School No. 245, arrived in the village riding the head elephant, its entire population had poured out into the narrow single street. What a welcome it was! Zhenya was helped down respectfully, he was led into a room and offered food, which was more than welcome, since he found that even in his sleep he was hungry. Imagine, what a real dream he was having! Then people approached him and shook his hand, then everybody sang a long and plaintive Indian song. Zhenya sang along with them as best he could and everyone was terribly pleased. Then Zhenya sang the democratic youth song and some boys and girls joined in, while the rest sang along as best they could. Then everyone began coaxing a young Hindu youth and he finally gave in and began another song, which Zhenya recognized as "Katyusha." He joined in enthusiastically, while everyone else clapped in rhythm to the song. Then they shook his hand again and everyone shouted Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai! When things settled down a bit, the whole village began a conversation with Zhenya. However, since neither he nor the villagers knew very much English, it took a long time for them to discover whether Zhenya was in a hurry to get to Delhi and the Soviet Embassy. But Zhenya was in no special rush. Why should a person hurry when he's having such an interesting and pleasant dream? In no time, delegates from a neighbouring village arrived to lead the honoured guest to their village. In this village and in the three others he visited during that wonderful day the scene which had taken place in the first village was repeated again and again. He spent the night in the fourth village. At day-break delegates from a fifth village were awaiting him. This was when Zhenya began to moan a bit. Just try not to moan when hundreds of friendly arms toss you up to the accompaniment of: Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai and overflowing emotions make them toss you as high as the clouds. Luckily for him, they soon heard the rumbling of a small truck which was going past the closest railway station and which was to take Zhenya along. Smiling villagers surrounded the perspiring boy, they shook his hands and embraced him. Two girls came running up with a large wreath of flowers and put it around his neck. The young guest blushed. Three boys and their schoolteacher brought him a gift of a large bunch of bananas. On behalf of all the villagers, the teacher wished Zhenya a happy journey. The children asked him to say hello to the children of Moscow from the children of India and they also asked for his autograph, just as if he had been a famous person. Naturally, he could not refuse. Clutching the bunch of bananas with both hands and bowing to all sides, Zhenya was being helped onto the running board when suddenly he ... disappeared. He simply vanished! This in itself was worthy of great amazement, but more amazing still was the fact that not a single villager was surprised at this. They were not surprised, because they immediately and completely forgot all about Zhenya. But we, dear reader, should by no means be surprised that they forgot about him so quickly. TRA-LA-LA, 0 IBN ALYOSHA! There is nothing more dangerous than falling asleep on a magic carpet without having first taken the necessary precautions. Tired from all their experiences and lulled to sleep by the complete quiet that surrounded them, Hottabych and Volka did not notice how they dozed off under the warm quilted robes that had appeared from nowheres. Volka had curled up cosily and slept a dreamless sleep, but Hottabych, who had fallen asleep sitting up uncomfortably, with his chest pressed against his sharp old knees, had a terrible dream. He dreamt that the servants of Sulayman, son of David, led by the Vizier Asaf ibn Barakhiya, were once again about to imprison him in a clay vessel and that they had stuffed him halfway in already, but that he was struggling desperately, pressing his chest against the mouth of the bottle. He dreamt that his wonderful young friend and saviour was about to be stuffed into another vessel and then neither of them would ever be rescued, while poor Zhenya would have to suffer the slave's lot to the end of his days, with no one to save him. Worst of all, someone had a firm hold on Hottabych's arms so that he was unable to yank a single hair from his beard and therefore was unable to use his magic powers to save himself and Volka. Realizing that it would be too late to do anything in a few more moments, Hottabych exerted all his energy. In great despair he plunged sideways, forcefully enough to fall completely out of the vessel. Before really waking up, he slipped off the carpet into the cold black void below. Fortunately, his shout awakened Volka. The boy was just able to grab his left arm. Now it was Hottabych's turn to fly in tow behind the carpet. However, the tow was not very firm: the old man was too heavy for Volka. They would probably have plunged downwards from this great height to the unseen Earth below, if Hottabych had not managed to yank a whole batch of hair from his beard with his free hand and rattle off the necessary magic words. Suddenly, Volka found he could pull the old man up quite easily. Our young fellow's happiness would have been complete, had not Hottabych been bellowing, "Aha, 0 Volka! Everything's in top shape, 0 my precious one!" and trying to sing something and laughing with such wild glee all the while Volka was pulling him up that he really became worried: what if the old man had lost his mind from fright? True, once Hottabych found himself on the carpet, he stopped singing. Yet, he could think of nothing better to do than begin a jig. And this in the middle of the night! On a shabby, threadbare old magic carpet! "Tra-la-la, 0 Volka! Tra-la-la, 0 ibn Alyosha!" Hottabych yelled in the darkness, raising his long skinny legs high and constantly running the danger of falling off the carpet again. Finally, he gave in to Volka's pleas and stopped dancing. Instead, he began to sing again. At first he sang "When Your Far-off Friend is Singing," terribly off-key and then went on to mutilate an old Gypsy love song called "Open the Garden Gate," which he had heard goodness knows where. All at once, he stopped singing, crouched, and yanked several hairs from his beard. Volka guessed what he was doing by the slight crystal tinkling. In a word, if you ever forget something very important and just can't recall it, there's no better remedy than to fall off a magic carpet, if even for a second. Such a fall really clears one's memory. At least it helped Hottabych recall how to break spells he himself had cast. Now there was no need to continue the difficult and dangerous flight to rescue the unfortunate Zhenya Bogorad from slavery. Indeed, the sound of crystal tinkling was still in the air when Zhenya fell out of the darkness and onto the magic carpet, clutching a twenty-pound bunch of bananas. "Zhenya!" Volka shouted happily. The magic carpet could not withstand the extra weight and plunged downward with a whistling sound. Suddenly, it became damp and chilly. The stars shining overhead disappeared. They had entered a cloud bank. "Hottabych!" Volka shouted. "We have to get out of here, up over the clouds!" But Hottabych did not answer. Through the heavy fog they could barely make out the shrivelled figure with his collar turned up. The old man was hurriedly yanking one hair after another from his beard. There was a sound like plink, like a tightly stretched string on a home-made children's balalaika. With a moan of despair, Hottabych would throw out the hair and yank out another. Once again they'd hear the plink, once again the moan of despair, and the despondent mumbling of the old Genie. "Hey, Volka," Zhenya said, "What's this we're flying on? It looks like a magic carpet." "That's exactly what it is. Hottabych, what's taking you so long?" "There's no such thing as a magic carpet," Zhenya said. "Help!" The carpet had dipped sharply. Volka had no time to argue with Zhenya. "Hottabych, what's the matter?" he said, tugging at the old man's damp coat sleeve. "0 woe is me!" came the hollow, sobbing voice of a faintly visible Hottabych through the whistling of the falling carpet. "0 woe is all of us! I'm soaked from head to toe!" "We're all drenched!" Volka shouted back angrily. "What selfishness!" "My beard! Alas, my beard is wet!" "Ha, what a thing to worry about!" Zhenya smirked. "My beard is wet!" Hottabych repeated in terrible grief. "I'm as helpless as a babe. You need dry hair for magic, the very driest kind of hair!" "We'll go smack against the ground!" Volka said in a wooden voice. "There'll just be a little wet spot left from all of us." "Wait! Wait a minute!" Zhenya panted. "The main thing is not to get panicky! What do people in balloons do in such a case? In such a case, people flying in balloons throw their extra ballast overboard. Farewell, my dear Indian bananas!" With these words he tossed the heavy bunch of bananas into the darkness. They began to fall more slowly. Then they stopped falling altogether. The carpet swerved upwards and was caught in an air current which carried them to the right of their previous course. Zhenya was dying to know what this was all about, and so he asked Volka in a whisper: "Volka, Volka! Who's the old man?" "Later," Volka whispered back. "I'll tell you later, when we get back on the ground. Understand?" All Zhenya understood was that for some very important reason or other all his questions would have to wait till later. Volka shared his robe with Zhenya and gradually all three dozed off. MEET MY FRIEND Volka awoke from a pleasant ringing sound, like the tinkling of crystal chandelier pendants. Still half asleep, he thought it was Hottabych yanking magic hairs. But no, the old man was snoring softly, sleeping like a babe. The tinkling sound was coming from the icicles on his beard and the frozen carpet fringes flying in the fresh morning wind. In the East, the blinding sun was rising. It kept getting warmer and warmer. The icicles on Hottabych's beard and on the fringes melted; the icy crust that had covered the rest of the carpet also melted. Hottabych turned over on his side, yawned and began to snore with a whistle, as if there really was a pipe in his nose. Zhenya woke up from the dampness and the warmth. Leaning towards Volka's chilled ear he whispered: "Do tell me who the old man is?" "Come clean," Volka whispered back, keeping a wary eye on Hottabych. "Did you want to talk to the fellows about me behind my back?" "What of it?" "Just that he doesn't like it." "What doesn't he like?" "He doesn't like people to go blabbering about me!" "Humph!" "Humph yourself! Presto! And you're in a desert. It's all very-simple." Zhenya wasn't convinced. Volka cast another wary glance at Hottabych and moved closer to his friend's ear. "Do you think I'm crazy?" "What a silly question!" "Not even a bit?" "Of course not." "Well, believe it or not, but this old man is a Genie, a real live Genie from the Arabian Nights!" "Boloney!" "And he was the one who got everything messed up during the exam. He prompted me and I had to repeat everything like a parrot." "Him?!" "But don't say a word about my having failed. He swore to kill all the teachers if they failed me. And now I'm knocking myself out to save Varvara Stepanovna from his magic. I have to keep distracting him all the time. Understand?" "Not really." "Well, be quiet anyway!" "Don't worry, I will," Zhenya whispered thoughtfully. "Then he was the one who tossed me into India?" "Sure he was. And he got you back from India, too. If you want to know, he sent you there so they could sell you into slavery." Zhenya giggled. "Me, a slave? Ha-ha-ha!" "Ssh! You'll wake him up." But Volka's warning came too late. Hottabych opened his eyes and yawned. "Good morning, 0 Volka. Am I correct in assuming that this young man is none other than your friend Zhenya?" "Yes, I'd like you to meet him," Volka said, introducing his recovered friend to Hottabych as if all this was taking place in the most ordinary of circumstances and not on a magic carpet high above the Earth. "Pleased to meet you," Zhenya said solemnly. Hottabych was silent for a moment, looking at the boy closely to decide whether or not he was worth a kind word. He apparently became convinced that Volka had not made a mistake in choosing his friend and so smiled his most amiable smile. "There is no end to my happiness at meeting you. Any friend of my young master is my best friend." "Master?" Zhenya asked. "Master and saviour." "Saviour?!" Zhenya repeated and giggled. "There's no need to laugh," Volka stopped him sternly. "There's nothing to laugh about." In as few words as possible, he told Zhenya everything our attentive readers already know. HAVE MERCY ON US, 0 MIGHTY RULER! Twice that day the magic carpet passed through heavy cloud banks, and each time Hottabych's nearly dry beard would again become so damp it was no use thinking about even the simplest kind of magic-something that would get them some food, for instance. They were beginning to feel hungry. Even Zhenya's description of his adventures of the previous day could not take their minds away from food. But, most important, there was no end to their flight in sight. They were hungry, bored, and extremely uncomfortable. The carpet seemed to be stuck in mid-air, so slowly did it fly and so monotonous was the steppe stretching far below them. At times, cities or little blue ribbons of rivers would drift by slowly, and then once again they saw nothing but steppe and endless fields of ripening wheat. Zhenya was right in saying they were flying over the southern part of the country. Then, suddenly, ahead and to the right of them, as far as the eye could see, there was blue water below. To the left was the ragged line of distant mountains. "It's the Black Sea!" the boys shouted in unison. "0 woe is us," Hottabych cried. "We're going straight out to sea!" Fortunately, a capricious air current turned the carpet a bit to the left and tossed it into another cloud bank at top speed. Thus, it was carried along the Caucasian coastline. Through an opening in the clouds, Zhenya noticed the city of Tuapse far below, its boats on anchor at the long, jutting pier. Then everything was lost in a thick fog again. Our travellers' clothing once again-for the hundredth time!-became wet. The carpet was so water-logged and heavy that it began to fall sharply with a whistling sound. In a few short seconds the clouds were left far above. Soon, the famous resort city of Sochi flashed by below in the blinding rays of the setting sun. As it descended lower and lower, the carpet passed over the broad white band of the Sochi-Matsesta Highway. The three passengers, horror-stricken in expectation of their near and terrible end, thought that the highway, studded on both sides by former palaces which were now rest homes, was dashing towards them at a mad speed. They had a momentary glimpse of a beautiful bridge thrown over a deep, narrow valley. Then they were grazing the tree-tops. It seemed as if they could touch them if they leaned over. Then they flew over a sanatorium with a high escalator which took the bathers up from the beach in a pretty little car. Several minutes later, amidst a shower of spray, the carpet plunged into the swimming pool of another sanatorium. The place was quiet and deserted, as it was supper time and all the vacationers were in the dining room. Shedding water and puffing, our ill-fated travellers climbed out of the pool. "It could have been worse," Volka said, looking around curiously. "Sure," Zhenya agreed. "We could have crashed into a building just as easy as pie. Or into a mountain." It was a good thing there was no one close by. The travellers sat down on beach chairs placed near the pool. They undressed, wrung out their wet clothes, pulled them on again, shivering and groaning with cold, and then left the swimming enclosure. "If only I could dry my beard, everything would be just lovely," Hottabych said with concern and touched it, just to make sure. "Ah, me! It's quite damp!" "Let's look for the kitchen," Zhenya suggested. "Maybe they'll let you dry it near the stove. Boy, what wouldn't I give for a big chunk of bread and some sausage!" "Or some fried potatoes," Volka added. "You're breaking my heart, 0 my young friends," Hottabych cried woefully. "It's all my fault that you...." . "No, it's not your fault at all," Volka consoled him. "Let's go look for the kitchen." They passed the deserted tennis court, went down a paved path under a high arch and found themselves before the majestic, snow-white columns of a miners' sanatorium. A circular fountain with a pool as big as a dance floor shot up foaming sprays of water, right to the third-storey windows. All the windows of the main building were brightly lit. "Our end has come!" Hottabych gasped. "We're in the palace of a most wealthy and mighty potentate. His guards will be on us any minute and chop off our heads, and I'm the only one to blame! 0 woe! Oh, such terrible shame on my old grey head!" Zhenya giggled. Volka nudged him, to make him still and not tease the old man. "What guards? Which heads?" Volka asked with annoyance. "It's a very ordinary sanatorium. What I mean is, not very ordinary, but very nice. Though I think they're all the same here in Sochi." "I was an expert on palaces, 0 Volka, when your great-great-great-grandfather wasn't even born, and I, for one, certainly know that guards will come running any minute and.... 0 woe is us! Here they come!" The boys also heard the sounds of running feet on the staircase of the main building. "Jafar!" someone hanging over the banister shouted from above. "We'll look for them together after supper! They can't disappear this late at night! Jafar!" "Did you hear him?" Hottabych cried, grabbing the boys' hands. He dragged them off to a side path as fast as he could and from there into the nearest bushes. "Did you hear him? That was the Sergeant of the Guard shouting. They'll go looking for us after supper, and they'll certainly find us. But my beard has soaked up as much water as a sponge, and I'm as helpless as a babe!" Just then he happened to glance at two towels hanging over the back of a park bench. "Allah be praised!" he cried excitedly, running towards the towels. "These will help me dry my beard! Then we won't have to fear any guards in the world." He picked up first one and then the other towel and groaned: "0 Allah! They are quite damp! And the guards are so close!" Nevertheless, he hurriedly began to dry his beard. It was while he was drying it that an Azerbaijanian of tremendous height, dressed in a dark red robe, came upon them. He appeared from behind the pink bushes as unexpectedly as a Jack-in-the-box. "Aha!" he said rather calmly. "Here they are. Tell me, my dear man, is this your towel?" "Spare us, 0 mighty ruler!" Hottabych cried, falling to his knees. "You can chop off my head, but these youths are in no way guilty. Let them go free! They have lived but such a short while!" "Hottabych, get up and don't make a fool of yourself!" Volka said in great embarrassment. "What kind of a ruler are you talking about? He's just a very ordinary man here on a holiday." "I won't get up until this wonderful and merciful sultan promises to spare your lives, 0 my young friends!" The Azerbaijanian shrugged his mighty shoulders and said, "My dear citizen, why are you insulting me? What kind of a sultan am I? I'm an ordinary Soviet citizen." He puffed out his chest and added, "I'm Jafar Alt Muhammedov, a drilling foreman. Do you know where Baku is?" Hottabych shook his head. "Do you know where Bibi-Aibat is?" Hottabych shook his head again. "Don't you read the papers? Now, what are you kneeling for? That's shameful. Oh, how very shameful and embarrassing, my dear man!" Muhammedov pulled the old man to his feet. "Wait a minute!" Volka whispered like a conspirator, taking Muhammedov off to a side. "Don't pay any attention to the old man. He's off his rocker. And the worst part of it is, we're so wet." "Ah! Did you get caught in the rain in the mountains too? I came back as wet as a mouse. Vai, vai! The old man may catch cold. Dear man," he said, catching Hottabych under the arms as he was about to fall to his knees again. "You look very familiar. Are you from Gandji? You look like my father, except that he's older. My father's going on eighty-three." "Then know ye, 0 mighty ruler, that I am going on three thousand seven hundred and thirty-three!" Hottabych replied hotly. It was only to Muhammedov's credit that he didn't bat an eyelid upon hearing these words. He merely nodded understandingly to Volka, who was winking hard from behind Hottabych's back. Pressing his right hand to his heart, the drilling foreman answered Hottabych politely, "Of course, my good man, of course. But you're so well preserved. Let's go and warm up. We'll have something to eat and rest or else you might catch cold. Va, how you remind me of my father!" - "I don't dare disobey, 0 mighty ruler," Hottabych answered fawningly, touching his beard ever so often. Alas! It was still very, very damp. Oh, how restless his soul was! All his many years' experience rose up against the fact that the owner of the palace should invite a strange old man and two young boys-all dressed in a far from elaborate fashion-to share his meal. That meant there was some mischief to be expected. Perhaps this Jafar Alt ibn Mohammed was trying to coax them into his palace in order to play a joke on them and then, having had his fill of torturing them, would order his servants to chop off their heads, or throw them into cages with wild beasts. Oh, how cautious he had to be! So thought Hottabych as he and his young friends ascended the broad stairway to the first block of dormitories. They encountered no one, either on the stairs or in the hall, and this but served to confirm Hottabych's suspicions. Muhammedov took them to his room, induced the old man to change into a pair of pyjamas, and left, telling them to make themselves at home. "I'll be back soon, after I give a few orders. I'll be right back." "Aha! We know to whom you'll give those orders and what they'll be about, you crafty, two-faced ruler!" Hottabych thought. "You have a heart of stone, one that is immune to mercy. To chop off such noble boys' heads!" Meanwhile, the noble boys were looking round the comfortable room. "Look, d'you see this?" Volka cried happily. He picked up a small table fan, a thing Hottabych had never seen. "It's a fan," Volka explained. "We'll dry your beard in a flash!" True enough, in two minutes' time Hottabych's beard was ready for use. "We'll test it," the sly old man mumbled innocently. He yanked out two hairs. Before the crystal tinkling sound had died down, our friends suddenly found themselves about three miles away, on the warm sandy beach. At their feet, the blue-black waves of the rising tide softly lapped against the shore. "This is much better," Hottabych said contentedly. Before the boys could utter a sound, he yanked three more hairs from his beard. That very instant a large tray of steaming roast lamb and a second, smaller tray of fruit and biscuits appeared on the sand. Hottabych snapped his fingers and two strange-looking bronze pitchers with sherbet appeared. "Golly!" Zhenya cried. "But what about our clothes?" "Alas, I am becoming forgetful before my time," Hottabych said critically and yanked out another hair. Their clothes and shoes became dry the same instant. Moreover, their things appeared freshly pressed and their shoes shined brightly and even smelling of the most expensive shoe polish. "And may this treacherous ruler, Jafar Alt ibn Muhammed, call for as many guards as he wishes!" the old man said with satisfaction, pouring himself a cup of icy, fragrant sherbet. "The birds have flown out from under the knife!" "Why, he's no ruler!" Volka said indignantly. "He's a real nice man. And if you want to know, he didn't go off to call any guards, he went to get us something to eat." "You're too young to teach me, 0 Volka!" Hottabych snapped, for he was really displeased that his young companions were not in the least thankful for having been saved from death's jaws. "Who but I should know what rulers look like and how they behave! Know ye, that there are no more treacherous men than sultans." "But he's no sultan, he's a foreman. D'you understand, a drilling foreman!" "Let's not argue, 0 Volka," the old man answered glumly. "Don't you think it's time we sat down to eat?" "What about your pyjamas?" Zhenya said, seeing that they could not out-talk the old man this time. "You've carried off someone else's pyjamas!" "Oh, Allah! I've never yet degraded myself by stealing," Hottabych cried unhappily. If all the people at the sanatorium were not then in the dining hall, they probably would have seen a pair of striped pyjamas appear suddenly in the dark sky, coming from the direction of Matsesta, flying at the height of the third-storey windows. The pyjamas flew into Muhammedov's room through the open balcony doors and draped themselves neatly over the back of the chair, from which the kind drilling foreman had so recently picked them up and handed them to a shivering Hottabych. Muhammedov, however, forgot all about the old man and the boys before he even reached the dining hall. "I found them," he said to his room-mate. "I found both towels. We left them on the bench when we sat down to rest." Then he joined the others at the table and applied himself to his supper. IT'S SO EMBARRASSING TO BE AN ILLITERATE GENIE! Before Muhammedov had a chance to start on his dessert, the clouds that our travellers had left somewhere between Tuapse and Sochi finally reached the spa and burst forth in a loud, torrential, sub-tropical storm. In a moment the streets, parks and beaches became deserted. Soon the storm reached the spot where, by Hottabych's grace, the small crew of the drowned magic carpet were to spend the night on the shore of the Black Sea. Luckily, they noticed the approaching storm in time; the prospect of getting drenched to the bone again did not appeal to them in the least. However, the most important thing to keep dry was the old man's beard. The simplest thing to do would have been to fly somewhere farther south, but in the pitch darkness of the southern night they might easily crash into a mountain. For the time being, they took refuge under some bushes and considered where to go. '"I've got it!" Zhenya cried, jumping to his feet. "Golly, what an idea! We should smear his beard with oil!" "And then what?" the old man shrugged. "Then it won't even get wet in another Flood, that's what!" "Zhenya's right," Volka agreed, feeling a bit peeved that it was not he who had thought of such a wonderful, scientifically sound idea. "Hottabych, go into action!" Hottabych yanked out several hairs, tore one of them in two, and his beard became covered with a thin layer of excellent palm oil. Then he tore a second hair in two and they all found themselves in a comfortable, marble-faced cave that suddenly appeared on the steep bank. And while a warm June storm was booming loudly over the Caucasian coast, they sat on thick carpets, had a plentiful dinner and then fell asleep soundly till morning. They were awakened by the soft whispering of the crystal-clear waves. The sun had long since risen. Stretching and yawning, they went out onto the deserted beach, bathed in the slanting rays of the morning sun. Immediately, as if it had never existed, the cave that had sheltered them for the night disappeared. The boys were splashing delightedly in the cool waves when they heard the far-off hum of an airplane motor coming from the direction of Adler Airport. A large passenger plane with glistening silver wings was flying over the sea. "Ah-h!" Zhenya sighed dreamily. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could go to Moscow in that plane?" "That's not a bad idea at all," Volka agreed. Thereupon Hottabych drew something very thin and white from his pocket. It resembled a delicate silver thread. He tore it into several pieces and suddenly all three of them found themselves in comfortable reclining seats inside the airplane. The most surprising thing was that none of the passengers paid the slightest attention to them, as if they had been aboard the plane right from the start. "Hottabych," Zhenya whispered. "What was it you tore that looked just like a silver thread?" "Just a little hair from my beard," Hottabych replied, though he seemed strangely embarrassed. "But you took it from your pocket." "I tore it out of my beard beforehand and hid it in my pocket, just ... in case.... Forgive me, bu