hen he came up
close, his red face contorted into a sickeningly sweet smile and he said:
     "Oh, my goodness! How pleasant and unexpected meetings!"
     As he approaches  our friends to shake their hands enthusiastically, we
shall explain why he has again appeared in our story.
     It so happened that  Mrs. Moneybags was in a black temper that day, and
that is why she tossed the ring out of  the window so hastily. After she had
tossed it out,  she remained standing at the  window to calm her nerves.  It
was then that she noticed with interest an old man picking the  ring up from
the gutter and dashing off as fast as he could.
     "Did you  see that?" she said to her crestfallen husband. "What a funny
old  man! He grabbed up that cheap ring  as if it  had an emerald in  it and
scampered off."
     "Oh, that was  a very bothersome  old man!"  her  husband answered in a
more lively tone. "He came up to me back in the second-hand shop and hung on
to me right to our  doorstep, and just imagine, my dear, he  kept falling to
his  knees  before  me and  shouting, 'I  am your slave,  because  you  have
Sulayman's  ring!' and I said, 'Sir, you  are greatly mistaken.  I have just
bought this ring and it belongs  to no one but me.' But he was stubborn as a
mule and kept on saying, 'No, it's Sulayman's ring! It's a magic ring!'  And
I  said, 'No, it's not a magic ring, its a  platinum one!' And he said, 'No,
my master, it's not platinum, it's a magic ring!' and he pretended he wanted
to kiss the flap of my jacket."
     His wife  gazed  at him  with loathing  and then, apparently unable  to
stand his  smug  expression,  she looked away. Her  eyes came upon a copy of
Arabian Nights lying  on the couch. Suddenly she was struck by an idea. Mrs.
Moneybags collapsed into the nearest armchair and whispered bitterly:
     "My God!  How  unlucky I  am  to be obliged to  live with  such a  man!
Someone  with  your  imagination,  Sir,  should  be  an  undertaker,  not  a
businessman. A lizard has more brains than you!"
     "What's the matter, my dear?" her husband asked anxiously.
     "Gentlemen," Mrs. Moneybags wailed  tragically, though there was no one
save themselves in the room. "Gentlemen, this man  wants to  know what's the
matter! Sir,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  catch  up  with  the old  man
immediately and get the ring back before it's too late!"
     "But  what  do  we want it for? It's a  cheap little silver ring, and a
home-made one at that."
     "This man  will surely drive me to  my grave! He  keeps asking me why I
want King  Solomon's  magic ring! Gentlemen, he wants to know why I  need  a
ring  that can fulfil one's any wish, that can make one the richest and most
powerful man in the world!"
     "But, my dove, where have you ever seen a magic ring before?"
     "And  where have you ever seen anyone in this country fall on his knees
before another and try to kiss his hand?"
     "Not my hand, my sweet, my jacket!"
     "All the more so! Will you  please be so kind as  to catch up  with the
old man immediately and take back the ring! And I don't envy you if you come
back without it!"
     Such were the events which caused the red-faced husband of the terrible
Mrs. Moneybags to appear so suddenly before Hottabych and his friends.
     Had  Mr.  Moneybags  been  in Hottabych's  place,  he would  never have
returned the ring, even  if it were an ordinary one, and especially so if it
were a magic one. That is why he decided to begin from afar.
     "Oh, my goodness! How happy and unexpected surprise!" he cried  with so
sweet a  smile that one would think  he had dreamed of becoming their friend
all his life. "What a wonderful weather! How you feel?"
     Hottabych bowed silently.
     "Oh!"  Mr.  Moneybags exclaimed with  feigned  surprise. "I see on your
finger one silver ring. You give me look at this silver ring?"
     "With the utmost of pleasure,"  Hottabych  answered, extending his hand
with the ring on it.
     Instead of  admiring  the ring, Mr. Moneybags  suddenly snatched it off
Hottabych's finger and squeezed it onto his own fleshy finger.
     "I  thanking  you! I thanking you!" he wheezed  and his already  purple
face became still redder, so that Hottabych feared  Mr. Moneybags might even
have a stroke.
     "You have buy this ring someplace?"
     He expected the old man to lie, or at least to try every means possible
to get back the almighty ring. Mr. Moneybags sized up the skinny old man and
the two  boys and decided he would be more than a match for  them  if things
took a bad turn.
     However,  to his great surprise the  old man  did not lie. Instead,  he
said quite calmly:
     "I did not buy the  ring, I picked it up in the gutter near your house.
It is your ring, 0 grey-haired foreigner!"
     "Oh!" Mr. Moneybags exclaimed happily.  "You  are very honest  old man!
You will be my favourite servant!"
     At these words  the boys winced, but said nothing. They were interested
to know what would follow.
     "You  have very  good explained to me before that  this  ring is  magic
ring.  I can  actually have fulfil any wish?"  Hottabych  nodded.  The  boys
giggled. They  decided  that  Hottabych was about  to play  a  trick on this
unpleasant man and were ready to have a good laugh.
     "Oh, thank you, thank you!" Mr. Moneybags said. "You will be explaining
how I use magic ring."
     "With  the greatest of  pleasure, 0  most  ruddy-faced of  foreigners!"
Hottabych  answered,  bowing low.  "You take the magic  ring,  put it on the
index finger of your left hand, turn it and say your wish."
     "And it has to by all means come true?"
     "Exactly."
     "Most different various kind of wish?"
     "Any wish at all."
     "Ah,  so?"  Mr. Moneybags said with satisfaction and  his face at  once
became cold and  arrogant.  He turned the ring around quickly and shouted to
Hottabych, "Hey,  you foolish  old  man! Coming  here!  You  be  packing  my
moneys!"
     His insolent tone  enraged Volka and Zhenya. They moved  a step forward
and were  about to open their  mouths to reprimand  him, but Hottabych waved
them away angrily and approached Mr. Moneybags.
     "Begging your pardon, sir," the old man said humbly. "I don't know what
kind of money you mean. Show me some, so I know what it looks like."
     "Cultured man must know how moneys look," Mr. Moneybags muttered.
     And  taking  a foreign  bill from his pocket, he waved  it in  front of
Hottabych and then put it back.
     Hottabych bowed.
     "And now. Now is time to begin  business," said Mr. Moneybags. "Let  me
have now one hundred bags of moneys!"
     "You have  a  long wait coming!" Volka  snickered and winked at Zhenya.
"That Mr. Moneybags has  got his teeth into the magic ring. 'Wear it, Katya,
and remember me.' "
     "Let  me have  immediately coming  one  thousand  bags  of moneys," Mr.
Moneybags repeated.
     He  was disappointed: the  money did not appear.  The boys  watched him
with open malice.
     "I  can't see moneys!  Where is my  one  thousand bags of moneys?"  Mr.
Moneybags bellowed and immediately fell senseless to the ground, having been
struck by a huge sack which dropped out of the blue.
     While Hottabych was bringing him back to  his  senses,  the boys opened
the sack.
     One hundred carefully tied bags of money were stuffed in side. Each bag
contained one hundred bills.
     "What a funny  ring!" Zhenya muttered unhappily. "It won' even  give  a
decent person a bike, but this character gets hundred bags of money just for
nothing! That sure is some 'Wear it, Katya, and remember me,' for you!"
     "It sure is strange," Volka shrugged.
     Mr.  Moneybags opened his eyes,  saw the  bags of money;  jumped to his
feet, counted the bags and saw  that there were exactly one hundred of them.
However, his happy smile soon vanished. No sooner had his shaking hands tied
the valuable sack than his eyes once again began to glitter greedily.
     He pressed the sack to his fat  chest, turned the ring around again and
shouted heatedly:
     "One hundred bags is little! I want immediately one million! Right away
now!"
     He barely had time to jump aside when a huge sack weighing at least ten
tons crashed to the ground. The force of the crash split the canvas sack and
a  million bags  of  money  spilled  out on the  grass. Each bag contained a
hundred bills.
     These bills in no  way differed from  real money,  except  for the fact
that they  all had the same serial number. This was the number Hottabych had
seen on the bill the greedy owner of the magic ring had shown him.
     Mr. Moneybags would certainly have  been grieved  to discover this, for
any bank-teller would have noticed that all  the numbers were the same,  and
that would mean it was counterfeit money. However, Mr. Moneybags had no time
to check the serial numbers  just now. Pale from excitement,  he  climbed to
the top  of the precious  pile  and  stood  up to  his  full  height  like a
monument,  like a  living  embodiment  of greed.  Mr.  Moneybag's  hair  was
dishevelled,  his  eyes burned with insane fire, his hands trembled and  his
heart thundered in his breast.
     "And now ... and now... and now I want ten thousand gold watches strewn
with diamonds,  twenty thousand gold cigarette cases, thirty  . .. no, fifty
thousand  strings of  pearls, fifteen thousand  antique  China services!" he
shouted darting back and forth in order to dodge the great treasures falling
from all sides.
     "0 red-faced  foreigner, don't  you think what  you  have  received  is
enough?" Hottabych asked sternly.
     "Silence!" Mr. Moneybags yelled and stamped his feet in rage. "When the
boss do business, the servant must silence! Ring, do as my wish is! Fast!"
     "Go back where you came from, you  old grabber!" Volka shouted. "Out of
our country! We'll propel you out of here!"
     "May it be so," Hottabych agreed and yanked four hairs from his beard.
     That very  moment the sacks of money, the crates  of china, watches and
necklaces,  everything   the  silver  ring  had  brought-  disappeared.  Mr.
Moneybags  himself  rolled down the grass  and along the  path very quickly,
heading in the direction from which he  had recently come so full of  hopes.
In no time he was gone with just a little puff of dust to show where he  had
been.
     After the boys had regained their composure and calmed down, Volka said
in a thoughtful tone, "I can't understand what sort of a  ring it is-a plain
one or a magic one?"
     "Why, a plain one, of course," Hottabych answered kindly.
     "Then why did it fulfil that robber's wishes?"
     "It was I who fulfilled them, not the ring."
     "You? Why?"
     "It was just  a matter of politeness, 0 curious youth. I felt  indebted
to  the man, because I bothered him in  the  shop and annoyed him on the way
home,  right up to his very doorstep.  1  felt  it  wouldn't be fair  not to
fulfil  a few of his  wishes,  but his  greed and  his  black soul turned my
stomach."
     "That's right!"
     When they  left the river bank  and walked along the  street, Hottabych
stepped on a small round object. It was the ring with the inscription: "Wear
it, Katya, and remember me," which Mr. Moneybags must have lost as he rolled
away.
     The  old  man  picked  it  up,  wiped  it  with  his huge,  bright-blue
handkerchief, and put it on his right small finger.
     The boys and the old  man  came home, went to bed and woke up  the next
morning,  but Mr. Moneybags was still rolling and rolling away home to where
he had come from.

        EXTRA TICKETS

     On a bright and sunny summer day our friends set out  to see a football
game. During the soccer season  the entire  population  of Moscow is divided
into two alien  camps.  In the one are the football  fans; in the other  are
those queer people who are entirely indifferent to this fascinating sport.
     Long before the beginning of the game, these  first stream  towards the
high entrance gates of the Central Stadium from all parts of the city.
     They  look upon those who are heading in  the opposite direction with a
feeling of superiority.
     In  turn,  these  other  Muscovites shrug in  amazement when  they  see
hundreds of crowded buses  and trolley-buses and thousands  of cars crawling
through the turbulent sea of pedestrian fans.
     But  the  army  of  fans  which  appears  so unified  to an onlooker is
actually torn into two camps. This is unnoticeable while the fans are making
their way to the stadium. However, as they approach the gates, this division
appears  in  all its ugliness. It suddenly becomes  evident that some people
have tickets,  while others do  not. The possessors  of tickets pass through
the gates  confidently; the others dart back and forth excitedly, rushing at
new arrivals with the same plaintive plea: "D'you  have an extra ticket?" or
"You don't have an extra ticket, do you?"
     As a rule, there are so few extra tickets and so many people in need of
them, that if  not for Hottabych, Volka and Zhenya would have certainly been
left outside the gates.
     "With the greatest of pleasure," Hottabych murmured in reply to Volka's
request. "You'll have as many as you need in a minute."
     No sooner were  these words  out of  his  mouth, than the boy  saw  him
holding  a whole  sheaf  of blue, green  and yellow  tickets. "Will  this be
enough, 0  wonderful Volka?  If not,  I'll...." He  waved the tickets.  This
gesture  nearly cost him his  life. "Look, extra  tickets!" a  man  shouted,
making a dash for him. A few seconds  later no less than a hundred and fifty
excited people were pressing  Hottabych's  back against the  concrete fence.
The old man would have been as good  as dead if not for Volka.  He ran  to a
side and shouted at the top of his voice:
     "Over here! Who needs an extra ticket? Who needs some extra tickets?"
     At these magic words the people who had been closing in on a distraught
Hottabych  rushed towards  Volka,  but  the boy darted  into  the crowd  and
disappeared. A moment later he and  his two  friends handed  the gate-keeper
three  tickets  and passed through  the North Gate to  the  stadium, leaving
thousands of inconsolable fans behind.

        ICE-CREAM AGAIN

     No sooner  had the  friends found their seats, than  a  girl in a white
apron carrying a white lacquered box approached them.
     "Would  you like  some ice-cream?" she asked  and  shrieked. We must be
fair.  Anyone else in her place would have been just as frightened, for what
answer could an ice-cream vendor expect?
     In the best of cases:  "Yes, thank you. Two,  please." In the  worst of
cases: "No, thank you."
     Now, just imagine that upon hearing the young lady's polite question, a
little  old man in a straw boater turned  as red as a beet,  his eyes became
bloodshot and he bristled all over. He leaned over to her and whispered in a
fierce voice:
     "A-a-ah! You want to kill me with your foul ice-cream! Well, you won't,
despicable thing! The forty-six ice-creams  which I, old fool that I am, ate
in the circus nearly sent me to my grave.
     They have been enough to last me the  rest of my life. Tremble, wretch,
for I'll turn you into a hideous toad!"
     At  this, he rose and  raised  his  dry wrinkled  arms over  his  head.
Suddenly a boy with sun-bleached eyebrows on his freckled face hung onto the
old man's arms and shouted in a frightened voice, "She's not to blame if you
were greedy and stuffed yourself  with ice-cream! Please sit down, and don't
be silly!"
     "I hear and  I obey," the old man answered obediently.  He let down his
arms  and resumed  his seat. Then he addressed the  frightened young lady as
follows, "You  can go now. I forgive  you. Live in peace and be grateful  to
this youth till the end of your days, for he has saved your life."
     The young  lady did not appear in their section again for the remainder
of the afternoon.

        HOW MANY FOOTBALLS DO YOU NEED?

     Meanwhile, the stadium was full of that very special festive atmosphere
which pervades it during decisive  football matches. Loud-speakers blared. A
hundred thousand people were heatedly discussing the possible outcome of the
game, thus giving rise  to  a hum of human  voices  incomparable to anything
else. Everyone was impatiently awaiting the umpire's whistle.
     Finally, the  umpire  and  the  linesmen appeared on  the emerald-green
field.  The  umpire was carrying a ball which  was  to  be  kicked back  and
forth-thus covering quite a few miles on land  and in the  air-and, finally,
having landed in one goal more times than  in the other, was to decide which
team  was the  winner  that day. He put the ball down  in the  centre of the
field. The two teams appeared  from their locker rooms and lined up opposite
each other. The captains shook hands  and drew lots to see which team was to
play against the  sun. The unfortunate lot fell to the Zubilo  team, to  the
great satisfaction of the Shaiba team 4 and a portion of the fans.
     "Will you, 0  Volka, consider it  possible to explain  to your unworthy
servant what these twenty-two pleasant  young men are  going  to do with the
ball?" Hottabych asked respectfully.
     Volka  waved his hand impatiently and said, "You'll see for yourself in
a minute."
     At  that  very moment a  Zubilo player kicked  the ball smartly and the
game was on.
     "Do you  mean that these twenty-two  nice  young men  will have  to run
about such a great field, get tired, fall and shove each other, only to have
a chance to kick  this plain-looking leather ball around for  a few seconds?
And all  because  they gave them just  this one ball  for all twenty-two  of
them?" Hottabych asked in a very displeased voice a few minutes later.
     Volka was completely engrossed in the  game and did not reply. He could
not be bothered with  Hottabych at a time when the Shaiba's forwards had got
possession of the ball and were approaching the Zubilo goal.
     "You  know what, Volka?"  Zhenya whispered. "It's real  luck  Hottabych
doesn't know a thing about football, because he'd surely stick his finger in
the pie!"
     "I know," Volka agreed. Suddenly, he gasped and jumped to his feet.
     At that very  moment, the other hundred  thousand  fans also jumped  to
their feet and began to shout. The umpire's whistle pierced the air, but the
players had already come to a standstill.
     Something unheard-of in the history of football had happened, something
that  could  not  be  explained by  any  law of nature: twenty-two  brightly
coloured balls dropped  from somewhere  above in the sky and rolled down the
field. They were all made of top-grain morocco leather.
     "Outrageous! Hooliganism! Who did this?" the fans shouted.
     The culprit should have certainly been taken away and even handed  over
to the  militia, but no one could discover who he  was. Only three people of
the  hundred  thousand-Hottabych and  his  two young  friends-knew  who  was
responsible.
     "See what you've gone and done?"  Volka whispered.  "You've stopped the
game and prevented the Shaiba team from making a sure point!"
     However, Volka was  not especially displeased at the team's misfortune,
for he was a Zubilo fan.
     "I wanted to improve things," Hottabych whispered guiltily.  "I thought
it  would be much better if each player could play with his own ball as much
as he wanted to, instead of shoving  and  chasing around like  mad on such a
great big field."
     "Golly!  I don't know  what to do with you!" Volka cried in despair and
pulled the old man down. He hurriedly  explained the basic rules of football
to him. "It's a shame that the Zubilo team has to play opposite the sun now,
because after they change places in the second half it  won't be in anyone's
eyes any more. This  way, the Shaiba players  have a terrific advantage, and
for no  good reason  at all," he  concluded  emphatically, hoping  Hottabych
would bear his words in mind.
     "Yes, it really is  unfair,"  the old  man  agreed. Whereupon  the  sun
immediately disappeared behind a little cloud and stayed  there till the end
of the game.
     Meanwhile,  the extra balls had been  taken  off  the field, the umpire
totalled up the time wasted, and the game was resumed.
     After Volka's explanation, Hottabych began to  follow the course of the
match with ever-increasing interest. The Shaiba players, who had lost a sure
point because of the twenty-two balls, were nervous and were  playing badly.
The old man felt guilty and was conscience-stricken.

        HOTTABYCH ENTERS THE GAME

     Thus,  the  sympathies of  Volka Kostylkov  and Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn
Hottab were fatally  divided. When the first  beamed with pleasure (and this
happened every time a Shaiba player missed the other  team's goal),  the old
man became darker than a cloud. However, when the Zubilo forwards missed the
Shaiba  goal,  the reaction was reversed. Hottabych would burst out in happy
laughter and Volka would become terribly angry.
     "I don't see what's so funny about it, Hottabych. Why, they nearly made
a point!"
     "'Nearly' doesn't count, my dear boy," Hottabych would answer.
     Hottabych, who was witnessing a football game for the first time in his
life, did  not know there was such a thing as a fan. He had regarded Volka's
concern about  the sun  being in the  Zubilo's eyes as the boy's desire  for
fair play. Neither he nor Volka suspected that he had suddenly become a fan,
too.  Volka was so engrossed in what was happening on the field that he paid
not the slightest attention to  anything else-and  this forgetfulness of his
caused all the unusual events which took place at the stadium that day.
     It  all began during a very tense moment, when the Zubilo forwards were
approaching  the  Shaiba  goal  and Volka  bent  over  to  Hottabych's  ear,
whispering hotly:
     "Hottabych, dear,  please make the Shaiba goal  a little wider when the
Zubilo men kick the ball." The old man frowned.
     "Of what good will this be to the Shaiba team?"
     "Why should you worry about them? It's good for the Zubilo team."
     The  old man said nothing. Once again the Zubilo players missed. Two or
three minutes later  a happy  Shaiba player kicked the  ball into the Zubilo
goal, to the approving yells of the Shaiba fans.
     "Yegor, please don't laugh, but I'm  ready  to swear the goal post's on
the Shaiba's side," the Zubilo goalie said to one of  the spare players when
the game had passed over to the far end of the field.
     "Wha-a-at?"
     "You see, when they  kicked the  ball, the right  goal post.. . upon my
sacred word of  honour ... the right goal post... moved  about a half a yard
away and let the ball pass. I saw it with my own eyes!"
     "Have you taken your temperature?" the spare player asked,
     "Why?"
     "You sure must have a high fever!"
     "Humph!" the goalie spat and stood tensely in the goal.
     The  Shaiba  players  were out-manoeuvring  the defence  and were  fast
approaching the Zubilo goal.
     Barn! The second goal in three minutes! And  it had not been the Zubilo
goalie's fault either time. He was  fighting like a tiger. But what could he
do? At  the moment  the ball was hit, the cross-bar rose of its own  accord,
just high enough to let it pass through, brushing the tips of his fingers.
     Whom could he complain to? Who would ever believe him? The goalie  felt
scared  and forlorn, just like a  little boy who finds himself in the middle
of a forest at night.
     "See that?" he asked Yegor in a hopeless voice. "I th-th-th-ink I did,"
the spare player stuttered. "But you c-c-c-an't tell anyone, n-n-no one will
ever  b-b-believe you." "That's just it, no  one'll believe me," the  goalie
agreed  sadly. Just then,  a  quiet  scandal  was taking place in the  North
Section.  A  moment  before  the  second goal,  Volka  noticed  the old  man
furtively yank a hair from his beard.
     "What  did he do  that for?" he wondered uneasily, still unaware of the
storm gathering over the field. However, even this thought did  not  come to
Volka immediately.
     The game was going so badly for the  Zubilo team that he had no time to
think of the old man.
     But soon everything became perfectly clear.
     The first  half of the game was nearing an end, and it seemed that Luck
had finally turned its face towards the Zubilo team, The ball was now on the
Shaiba side of the field. The Zubilo men were ploughing up the earth, as the
saying  goes, and soon their best forward  kicked the ball  with  tremendous
force into the top corner of the Shaiba goal.
     All one hundred thousand fans  jumped to their feet. This sure goal was
to give the team its first point. Volka  and Zhenya, two ardent Zubilo fans,
winked happily to  each other, but immediately groaned  with disappointment:
it was  a sure  goal, but the ball smacked against  the cross-bar so  loudly
that the sound echoed all over the stadium.
     This sound was echoed by a loud wail from the Shaiba goalie:
     the lowered cross-bar had fouled a goal, but it had knocked him smartly
on the head.
     Now Volka understood all and was terrified.
     "Hassan  Abdurrakhman  ibn Hottab," he said in a shaking voice. "What's
this  I see? You know both Zhenya and  I are  Zubilo fans, and here you are,
against us! You're a Shaiba fan!"
     "Alas, 0 blessed one, it is so!" the old man replied unhappily.
     "Didn't  I  save  you  from imprisonment  in  the  clay vessel?"  Volka
continued bitterly.
     "This is  as true as  the fact that  it  is now day and that there is a
great future ahead of you," Hottabych replied in a barely audible voice.
     "Then why are you helping the Shaiba team instead of the Zubilo team?"
     "Alas,  I have no power over my actions,"  Hottabych answered sadly, as
large  tears  streamed down his  wrinkled  face. "I want  the Shaiba team to
win."

        THE SITUATION BECOMES MORE TENSE

     "Just wait, nothing good will come of it!" Volka threatened.
     "Be that as it may."
     That very moment the Zubilo goalie slipped on an extremely dry spot and
let the third ball into the goal.
     "Oh, so  that's how  it is!  You won't listen to  reason, will you? All
right then!" Volka jumped onto the bench and shouted, pointing to Hottabych:
     "Listen; everyone! He's been helping the Shaiba team all the time!"
     "Who's  helping  them? The umpire?  What do you mean?"  people began to
shout.
     "No, not the umpire! What has  he to do with it? It's this old man here
who's helping them.... Leave me alone!"
     These last  words  were addressed  to Zhenya, who  was  tugging at  his
sleeve nervously. Zhenya realized that no good would come of Volka's quarrel
with  Hottabych.  But  Volka  would  not stop, though no  one took his words
seriously.
     "So  you say the old man is shifting the goal  posts from over here, in
the North  Section?"  People roared with laughter. "Ha, ha, ha!  He probably
has  a  special gimmick in his pocket to regulate the goals at  a  distance.
Maybe he even tossed all those balls into the field?"
     "Sure, it was him,"  Volka agreed readily,  calling forth a new wave of
laughter.
     "I  bet he was also responsible for the  earthquake in Chile! Ho-ho-ho!
Ha-ha-ha!"
     "No,  he  wasn't  responsible for  that." Volka was  an honest boy. "An
earthquake is the  result of a catastrophic shifting  of soil. Especially in
Chile. And he was just recently released from a vessel."
     A middle-aged man sitting behind Volka entered the  conversation. Volka
knew him, since they lived  in  the same house. He was the one who had named
his cat Homych in honour of the famous goalie.
     "Keep your shirt on,  and don't make a fool of yourself,"  the man said
kindly,  when the laughter had died  down a bit.  "Stop talking nonsense and
bothering us.  The  way things are now, it's bad enough without  you  adding
your bit." (He was also a Zubilo fan.)
     And true enough, there were still eleven long minutes left till the end
of the first time, but the  score was already  14:0  in favour of the Shaiba
team.
     Strange things  kept  happening to the Zubilo players.  They seemed  to
have forgotten how to  play: their tackling was amazingly feeble and stupid.
The men kept falling; it was as if they had just learned how to walk.
     And  then the  defence began  to  act queerly. Those old football lions
began to shy away in fright as soon as they saw the  ball approaching, as if
it were a bomb about to explode.
     Oh,  how  miserable  our  young  friends  were! Just  think:  they  had
explained  the rules  of soccer to  Hottabych  to their own misfortune! What
were  they  to  do? How were they to help the unfortunate Zubilo players see
justice restored? And what should they do with Hottabych? Even a scandal had
proved useless. How could they at least  distract the  old Genie's attention
from the field on which this unique sports tragedy was unfolding?
     Zhenya  found  the  answer.  He  stuck  a  copy  of  Soviet Sports into
Hottabych's hand,  saying, "Here,  read  the paper and  see what a wonderful
team you're  disgracing in the  eyes  of the nation!" He pointed towards the
heading: "An Up-and-Coming Team." Hottabych read aloud:
     "The Zubilo  team  has improved considerably during the current season.
In  their last  game  in  Kuibyshev against the local 'Krylya Sovetov'- team
they  demonstrated  their... . That's interesting!"  he  said and buried his
nose in the paper.
     The boys grinned at each other. No sooner had Hottabych begun to  read,
than the Zubilo men came to life. Their forwards immediately proved that the
article in Soviet Sports had all the facts  straight.  A  great  roar coming
from tens of thousands of excited  throats accompanied nearly every kick. In
a  few  seconds the  game was  on the Shaiba half  of  the  field.  One kick
followed another in quick succession. Those Zubilo players were really good!
     A few more moments, and they would finally be able to score.
     "Aha!"  Volka's neighbour  shouted behind his  back. "See?! What did  I
say! They'll show those Shaiba imbeciles a thing or two...."
     Ah, how much better it would  have been for all  concerned  if  he  had
curbed his joy. He should not have nudged Hottabych in  the side with such a
triumphant look on his face, as if every man on  the Zubilo team was his own
favourite son, or at least his favourite pupil!
     Hottabych  started, tore his eyes from the paper, and took in the field
at a glance. He sized up the situation like an expert  and handed the  paper
back to Zhenya, who accepted it with a long face.
     "I'll finish reading it later," the old man said. He hurriedly yanked a
hair from  his beard, and  the  Zubilo team's unexplainable  and disgraceful
sufferings began anew.

        15:0! 16:0! 18:0! 23:0!

     The  ball  flew into  the Zubilo goal  on an average of  once every  40
seconds.


     But what had happened to the goalie? Why did he clutch at the side-post
and  wail "Mamma!" every time the ball was kicked into the goal? Why did  he
suddenly walk to the  side with  a thoughtful expression on his face-and for
no apparent reason at all-and this at  a most decisive moment, in the middle
of a heated tangle right in front of the goal?
     "Shame! It's outrageous! What's the matter with  you!" the fans shouted
from all  sides.  But  he,  the  famous  goalie, the pride  of  his country,
staggered out of the goal and  off  to  a side every time the opposite  team
closed in.
     "What's  the  matter with you? Have you gone  crazy?" the spare  player
croaked.
     And the goalie moaned in reply:
     "I sure have. Someone seems to be  pulling me. I try to hold my ground,
but something keeps pushing me out of the goal.
     When I want  to  turn towards the ball, that same  something presses me
toward the goal-post so hard that I can't tear myself away."
     "Things are really bad!"
     "Couldn't be worse!"
     The situation was so extraordinary that  there was not a person present
at  the  stadium,  including the  ticket  collectors, militia  men and  food
vendors, who was not taking the strange events
     to heart and discussing them loudly.
     There was only one fan among the thousands who, though
     suffering  keenly,  was   remarkably  silent.  This  was  an  amazingly
uncommunicative man of about fifty-five, grey-haired, tall and lanky, with a
long, yellowish stony face. His face was equally stony during an unimportant
game and during  the finals, when a successful kick decides the  champion of
the year. He was always equally dour, straightlaced and immobile.
     This  day  he  was  in his  usual seat,  which was  right in  front  of
Hottabych. As  he was a Zubilo fan, one  can well imagine the anguish in his
sunken, bony  chest.  However, only the shifting of his  eyes and the barely
discernible movements of his head indicated that he was far from indifferent
to the events taking place on the field. He apparently had a bad  heart, and
had to take  good  care  of  himself, for  any amount of emotion might  have
produced  grave results. However, even as  he felt around  with a  practised
gesture for  his box  of  sugar and his  bottle of medicine and dropped  the
medicine onto a bit of sugar, without ever tearing  his  eyes from the game,
his face remained as immobile as if he were staring into space.
     When the  score became 23:0 it  nearly finished him. He opened his thin
pale lips and squeaked in a wooden voice:
     "They could at least sell mineral water here!"
     Hottabych, whose soul was singing joyfully at the unheard-of success of
the Shaiba team, was more willing than ever to do people favours.
     Upon  hearing the  words of his  phlegmatic  neighbour,  he snapped his
fingers softly. The man suddenly saw that he was holding a glass of ice-cold
mineral water which had appeared from nowhere.
     Anyone else in  his place would  have been astounded, or, at any  rate,
would have looked around at the people sitting to all sides of him. But this
man  merely  raised  the  frosted glass  to  his lips  with  the  same stony
expression. However,  he did  not even  take a sip: the  poor Zubilo players
were  about to get  the twenty-fourth ball  kicked into  their goal.  He sat
frozen  to  the  spot  with  his  glass raised  and  Zhenya, who  was  still
frantically  searching  for  a way to save the  disgraced team, snatched the
mineral water from him and dashed it onto Hottabych's beard.
     "What treachery! What vile treachery!" the  old Genie gasped and  began
feverishly yanking out one  hair after another. Instead of the clear crystal
tinkling, the boys were happy  to hear  a dull sound like  that of a tightly
pulled piece of string.
     "And  isn't  it  treachery  to  help  the Shaiba players?" Volka  asked
acidly. "You'd better keep mum."
     Meanwhile, just  as had happened after the fourteenth goal, the revived
Zubilo players once again tore through  the forward and defence lines of the
Shaiba team and raced the ball towards their goal.
     The Shaiba defence  had become  unkeyed from their  long  idleness  and
could not collect their wits quickly to  ward  off  the  unexpected  danger.
Their goalie was  really something  to look at. There he sat on  the  grass,
shelling melon seeds.
     Choking,  he jumped to  his feet,  but the Zubilo players  had  already
kicked the ball straight towards the centre of the unprotected goal.
     Just  then,  to the  great  torment of our young  friends, they heard a
clear  crystal tinkling.  Yes, Hottabych had finally been able to find a dry
hair in his beard.
     Oh,  Zhenya, Zhenya! Where was your keen eye and sure hand?  Why didn't
you take good aim? The Zubilo team was as good as dead now!
     "Hottabych!  Dear,  sweet Hottabych!  Let the Zubilo  players score  at
least once!" Volka wailed.
     But  Hottabych pretended to hear  nothing.  The  ball, which was flying
straight at  the centre  of the  goal,  suddenly swerved to the left and hit
against the  post with such force that it flew back across the  whole field,
careful to avoid the Zubilo players in its way, as though it was alive. Then
it rolled softly into the long-suffering Zubilo goal!
     "24:0!"
     This was an amazing score, considering that the teams were equal.
     Volka lost his temper completely.
     "I demand-no, I order you to stop this mockery immediately!" he hissed.
"Otherwise, I'll never be  friends with you again! You have your choice: the
Shaiba team or me!"
     "Why,  you're  a  football   fan  yourself.  Can't  you  understand  my
feelings?"  the old man  pleaded, but he sensed from Volka's expression that
this time their friendship might really end. And so, he  whispered back,  "I
await your further orders."
     "The Zubilo team isn't to blame that  you're  a Shaiba fan. You've made
them the laughing-stock of the country.  Make it so that everyone should see
they're not to blame for losing."
     "I hear and I obey, 0 young goalie of my soul!"
     No sooner had the umpire's whistle died down, announcing the end of the
first time, than the entire Zubilo team began to sneeze and cough for all it
was worth.
     Forming  a semblance of a formation, they dragged their feet listlessly
to their locker room, sneezing and coughing loudly.
     A  moment  later a  doctor was summoned, since all eleven  players were
feeling ill. The doctor felt each one's pulse in turn, he asked them to take
off their  shirts,  then  looked  in  their mouths and  finally summoned the
umpire. "I'm afraid you'll have to call off the game."
     "Why? What do you mean?"
     "Because the Zubilo team  can't play for at least  seven more days. The
whole team is sick," the doctor answered dazedly.
     "Sick! What's the matter?"
     "It's a very  strange case. All these  eleven grown men  have come down
with the measles. I would never have believed it if I  had not given them  a
thorough check-up just now."
     Thus ended  the only football match  in history in which  a fan  had an
opportunity to influence the game. As you see, it did not come to any good.
     The   unusual  instance   of   eleven  adult   athletes  simultaneously
contracting the measles for the second time in their lives and waking up the
following morning in the pink of health was described in great detail  in an
article by the famous Professor  Hooping Cough  and published in the medical
journal Measles and  Sneezles.  The article  was entitled "That's a Nice How
D'You Do!" and is still so popular  that  one  can never get  a copy of  the
magazine  in the  libraries, as  they are always  on loan. That is why, dear
readers,  you might  as well not look  for it, since you'll  only waste your
time for nothing.

        RECONCILIATION

     The little cloud that was covering the sun floated off and disappeared,
as  it was no  longer needed. Once again it became hot.  A  hundred thousand
fans were slowly leaving the stadium through the narrow concrete passages.
     No one  was in a hurry.  Everyone wanted  to voice an opinion about the
amazing game which had ended so strangely.
     These opinions were each more involved than  the previous one. However,
not  even the  most vivid  imaginations could think  of an explanation  that
would so much as resemble the true reason for all the  queer things they had
witnessed.
     Only three  people took no part  in these  discussions. They  left  the
North Section in deep silence. They entered a crowded trolley-bus in silence
and alighted in silence at Okhotny Ryad, where they separated.
     "Football  is an excellent  game," Hottabych  finally mustered  up  the
courage to say.
     "Mm-m-m," Volka replied.
     "I can just imagine how sweet the moment is when you kick the ball into
the  enemy's goal!" Hottabych continued  in a crestfallen voice. "Isn't that
so, 0 Volka?"
     "Mm-m-m."
     "Are  you still angry with me, 0  goalie  of my heart? I'll  die if you
don't answer me!"
     He scurried  along beside his  angry friend,  sighing sadly and cursing
the hour he had agreed to go to the game.
     "What do you think!"  Volka snapped,  but then  continued  in a  softer
tone, "Boy, what a mess! I'll never forget it as long as I live. Have a look
at this new-found fan! No sir, we'll never take
     you to a football game again! And we don't need your tickets, either."
     "Your every  word  is  my  command," Hottabych hurried to  assure  him,
pleased  to  have  got  off  so  easily.  "I'll  be  quite  content  if  you
occasionally find the time to tell me of the football matches."
     So they continued on as good friends as ever.

        WHERE SHOULD THEY LOOK FOR OMAR?

     To look at Hottabych's hea