ps, you would like an example - my pleasure! One such comrade has been sitting here with us since morning! I am talking about you, comrade! Puchko pointed at Felix Rybkin with his glasses. The office burst out laughing. Opanasenko said in an echoing bass voice: - Come on, Zakhar, this is our Rybkin. Felix shook his head, scratched it at the back and looked at Natasha askance. - And so what, that this is Rybkin? - Puchko shouted. - And how do I know, that he is Rybkin? That's what I am talking about, its necessary, that everyone be known... - he waived his hand and started climbing to his seat. The director stood up and loudly banged a pencil on the desk. - Enough now, enough, comrades, - he said sternly. - We had our fun and that's it. The discovery, which the Pathfinders have made, represents an enormous interest, but that's not why we have assembled. The plan of the Old Base is available now. We shall begin the round-up in three days. The order regarding the round-up will be issued this evening. I am informing you in advance, that the head of the round-up group is Opanasenko, with Livanov - as his deputy. And now I urge everyone, besides my deputies, to leave this office and proceed to your workplaces. There was only one door in the office and it emptied out slowly. A jam occurred in the doorway. - A radiogram for the director! - someone shouted. - Pass it along! A folded sheet floated above the heads. The director, arguing about something with Opanasenko, received it and spread it open. Natasha saw him grow pale, and then blush. - What happened? - Opanasenko said deeply. - This is insane, - the director said with despair. - Yurkovski is arriving here tomorrow. - Volodya? - Opanasenko said. - That's good! - Volodya to some, - the director said with quiet despair, - and a chief inspector of the International board of cosmic communications <IBCC> to others. The director read the radiogram once more and sighed. "Takhmaseeb". THE CHIEF inspector and others. A soft whistle of the alarm woke up Yura at exactly eight in the morning ship's time. Yura raised himself on an elbow and looked at the alarm angrily. The alarm waited a little and whistled again. Yura moaned and sat up on the bunk. No, I won't read at night any more, he thought. Why is it that at night one never feels sleepy, and in the morning one experiences such torment? It was cool, even cold inside a cabin. Yura clutched his bare shoulders and cluttered his teeth. Then he put his feet on the floor and walked out into the corridor. The corridor was even colder, but there stood Zhilin, mighty, muscular, wearing only briefs. Zhilin was exercising. For some time, Yura stood, clutching his shoulders, and watched how Zhilin did his exercises. In each hand Zhilin held a ten-kilogram dumbbell. Zhilin was conducting a fight with his shadow. His shadow was in trouble. A wind rustled around the corridor, stirred by awesome blows. - Good morning, Vanya, - Yura said. Zhilin turned immediately and soundlessly and with sliding steps moved towards Yura, rhythmically swaying his whole body. His face was serious and composed. Yura assumed a fighting stance. Then Zhilin lowered the dumbbells to the floor and jumped into the fight. Yura jumped at him, and grew hot in a few minutes. Zhilin was beating him with painful snaps of a semi-open palm. Yura hit him on the forehead three times, and every time a smile of content appeared on Zhilin's face. When Yura became soaked, Zhilin said "Break!" - and they stopped. - Good morning, probationer, - Zhilin said. - How did you sleep? - T-th... a-ank... you, - Yura said. - A-all... right. - In the shower! - Zhilin ordered. The shower room was small, fitted out for one person, and beside the door Yurkovski was already standing with a squeamish grin, in a superb red and gold robe, with a colossal fluffy towel across the shoulder. He was speaking through the door: - In any case... err... I remember very well, that Krayukhin refused to ratify that project back then... What? From behind the door, sounds of water streams, splashing and an undiscernible high tenor were barely audible. - I cannot hear anything, - Yurkovski said with indignation. He raised his voice. - I was saying, that Krayukhin sidelined this project, and if you are going to write, that this was a historical error, then you will be right... What? The shower room door unclosed and from within, still continuing to dry himself, came out the navigator of "Takhmaseeb", Michael Antonovich Krutikov, pink and energetic. - You were saying something just then, Voloden'ka, - he said kind-heartedly. - But I couldn't hear anything. The water is very noisy. Yurkovski looked at him with regret, walked into the shower and closed the door behind him. - Lads, he didn't get cross, did he? - Michael Antonovich inquired anxiously. - Somehow, it seemed to me that he became cross. Zhilin shrugged his shoulders, and Yura said hesitantly: - I reckon, it's nothing. Michael Antonovich suddenly yelled: - Oh, oh! The porridge will be boiled to pulp! - and ran quickly down the corridor to the galley. - I hear, we are arriving on Mars today? - Yura said. - Such a rumour had passed, - Zhilin said. - However, at thirty-three ahead on course a ship had been detected, flying a Gay Roger flag, but I suppose we will dodge them. - He suddenly stopped and listened attentively. Yura also listened in. The water was flowing abundantly in the shower cubicle. Zhilin's nostrils fluttered. - I sense it, - he said. Yura focused on the scent as well. - It's the porridge, no? - he asked, unsure. - No, - Zhilin said. - The unpaired phasal cyclotron is playing pranks. Awfully naughty, that unpaired phasal cyclotron. I sense, that I shall have to tune it today. Yura looked at him with doubt. It could be a joke, but could also be true. Zhilin possessed an amazing ability for sensing mechanical faults. Yurkovski vacated the shower room. He glanced majestically at Zhilin and even more majestically at Yura. - Er.. - he said, - cadet and lieutenant. And who is on galley duty today? - Michael Antonovich, - Yura said bashfully. - This means porridge, again, - Yurkovski said with a grand air and walked to his cabin. Yura followed him with a glance full of rapture. Yurkovski astounded his imagination. - Ah? - Zhilin said. - The thunderer! Zeus! Ah? Go on and wash. - No, - said Yura. - You first, Vanya. - Let's go together, then. What are you going to hang around here for, by yourself? We'll squeeze in somehow. After the shower they got dressed and appeared at the ward-room. Everyone was sitting at the table already, and Michael Antonovich was distributing the porridge on the plates. Upon seeing Yura, Bykov looked at his watch and then back at Yura. He did it each morning. Today no reprimand followed. - Sit down, - said Bykov. Yura sat at his place - next to Zhilin and across from the captain, - and Michael Antonovich, with a kind look, presented Yura with porridge. Yurkovski was eating porridge with visible distaste and was reading some thick bound typewritten report, having laid it on a bread basket in front of him. - Ivan, - Bykov said, - the unpaired phasal cyclotron is losing calibration. Take care of it. - Alexey Petrovich, I will take care of it, - Ivan said. - During the last few voyages all I do is taking care of it. Either the design must be changed or a duplicate cyclotron must be installed. - The design needs to be changed, Aleshen'ka, - Michael Antonovich said. - All this had become obsolete - the phasal cyclotrons, and vertical reaming, and tele-pacers... Now, I remember, we travelled to Uranus on "Khius-8"... in two thousand and one... - Not in two thousand and one, but in ninety-nine, - Yurkovski said, engrossed in the report. - Some memoirist... - And I think... - said Michael Antonovich and stopped to think. - Don't you listen to him, Michael, - Bykov said. - Whose business is it anyway, when this all happened? The main thing is - who navigated. What they navigated in. How they navigated. Yura stirred in his seat slightly. A traditional morning conversation was initiating. The warriors recalled the days of old. Michael Antonovich, in preparation for his retirement, was writing memoirs. - What do you mean? - Yurkovski said, lifting his eyes away from the typescript. - And the priority? - What priority, exactly? - My priority. - Why do you all of a sudden require priority? - I think, that it is very enjoyable to be ... err... the first one. - But what use being the first holds for you? - Bykov wondered. Yurkovski thought for a while. - Honestly, I do not know, - he said. - It's just a nice feeling for me. - Personally, I am totally indifferent to it. Yurkovski, smiling condescendingly, waived an index finger in the air. - Is that so, Alexey? - Perhaps it is not such a bad thing, to be the first one, - Bykov said, - but to bend over backwards to be the first one - is an immodest task. For scientists, at least. Zhilin winked at Yura. Yura interpreted it as follows: "Take a note of that". - I don't know, I don't know, - Yurkovski said, making a demonstrative return to his report. - In any event, Michael is bound to adhere to historical facts. In the year ninety-nine, an expeditionary group under Daugeh and Yurkovski for the first time in the history of science had discovered and explored with detonating probes a so called amorphous field at the northern pole of Uranus. The successive exploration of the field was conducted a year later. - By whom? - Zhilin asked with great interest. - I cannot recall, - Yurkovski said absent-mindedly. - Perhaps, it was Lecrois. Michael... can we perhaps... er... vacate the table? I need to work. The sacred hours when Yurkovski was working were about to begin. Yurkovski always worked in the ward-room. He was used to it. Michael Antonovich and Zhilin went to the command post. Yura wanted to follow them, it was fascinating to watch them tune the unpaired phasal cyclotron, - but Yurkovski stopped him. - Err... cadet, - he said, - I hope you won't find it too difficult - please bring me the organiser from my cabin. It's lying on the bunk. Yura went to get the organiser. When he returned, Yurkovski was typing something on a portable electronic typewriter, carelessly flinging the fingers of his left hand across the keys. Bykov was already sitting at the usual spot, in a large personal chair; next to him on a table heaved a large stack of newspapers and magazines. On Bykov's nose sat a pair of big old-fashioned glasses. At first, Yura was confounded when looking at Bykov. On board the ship everybody worked. Zhilin was fine-tuning the drive and control systems daily, Michael Antonovich was computing and recomputing the course, feeding additional commands into the cyberpilot, completing a comprehensive textbook and somehow managing to leave time for his memoirs. Yurkovski kept reading some kind of bulky reports, receiving and sending countless radiograms, deciphering and encoding something on an electronic typewriter, late into the night. And the captain of the ship, Alexey Petrovich Bykov was reading newspapers and magazines. Once a day, however, he kept a regular watch. But all the other time he would spend in his cabin, or in the ward-room. This shocked Yura. After three days he couldn't hold back and asked Zhilin, what is the captain needed for on their ship. "To preserve responsibility, - Zhilin said. - If, say, someone gets lost". Yura's face grew long. Zhilin laughed and said: "the captain answers for the entire organisation of the flight. Prior to the voyage he doesn't have a single spare minute. Have you noticed what he is reading? These newspapers and magazines date two months back". - "And during the flight?" - Yura asked. They were standing in the corridor and have not noticed how Yurkovski came to them. "During the flight the captain is only required when a catastrophe occurs, - said Yurkovski with a strange smirk. - And then he is needed more, than anyone else is". Yura, walking on tiptoes, laid the organiser beside Yurkovski. The organiser looked splendid, as did everything Yurkovski possessed. In the corner of the organiser a golden plaque reading "IV International Congress of Planetologists. 20.HII.02. Conakry." was inserted. - Thank you, cadet, - Yurkovski said, leaned back in his chair and looked reflectively at Yura. - Why don't you sit down and have a small chat with me, an old man, - he said softly. - Because in ten minutes they will bring radiograms and the daily carousel will begin. - Yura sat down. He was immeasurably happy. - Right before I talked about priority, and, I think, flew into passion a little. Indeed, what does one name mean in an ocean of human efforts, amongst the storms of human thought, in grand ebbs and lows of human intellect? Just think, Yura, hundreds of people in different corners of the universe collected the necessary information for us, the duty officer at Sat-five, weary, with eyes red from insomnia, received and encoded it, other assistants programmed the transmission equipment, and then someone else yet will push the start button, the giant reflectors will stir, searching for our vessel in space, and a powerful quantum, saturated with information, will leap off the tip of the antenna and head into space in our wake... Yura was listening, his gaze fixed. Yurkovski continued: - Captain Bykov is, undoubtedly, right. One's own name on a map should not mean a great deal to a genuine man. One must relish their success with modesty, when one is alone. And with friends one must share only the joy of exploration, the joy of a chase and a deadly struggle. You know, Yura, how many people there are on Earth? Four billion! And each one of them has a job. Or is chasing something. Or searching. Or fighting to death. Sometimes, I try to imagine these four billion all at once. Captain Fred Dolittle is piloting a passenger liner, and one hundred megametres before landing the main supply reactor fails, and Fred Dollittle's head turns grey in five minutes, but he puts on a big black beret, goes to the ward-room and laughs together with his passengers, the same passengers, who will never know any of this and shall depart from the cosmodrome the next day and will once and for all forget the very name of Fred Dolittle. Professor Kanayama devotes his entire life to the creation of stereosynthetics, and on one hot and humid morning he is found dead in a chair at the laboratory desk, and who out of the hundreds of millions, that shall wear the amazingly beautiful and durable clothes made from stereosynthetics of professor Kanayama, will remember his name. And Yuri Borodin, working in extremely tough conditions, will be erecting the residential domes on small rocky Rhea, and one can be sure, that none of the future occupants of these domes shall ever hear the name of Yuri Borodin. And you know what, Yura, it is really fair. Since Fred Dolittle has also forgotten the names of his passengers, whilst they are now preparing to for a deadly storm landing on an alien planet. And professor Kanayama has never seen those, who wear the clothes made with his fabrics, - but these people fed him and clothed him whilst he was working. And you, Yura, will probably never find out about the heroism of scientists, who will settle in the domes, that you shall build. Such is the world we are living in. A very fair world. Yurkovski finished talking and looked at Yura with such an expression, as if waiting for Yura to undergo a change for the best immediately. Yura stayed quiet. This was called "chatting with an old man". Both of them liked these chats. There wasn't anything new for Yura in these conversations, naturally, but he was always left with an impression of something enormous and bright. Probably, the source lay in the very image of the great planetologist - somehow he was all scarlet and gold. Zhilin walked into the ward-room, placed the radiogram reels in front of Yurkovski. - The morning mail, - he said. - Thanks, Vanya, - in a relaxed voice said Yurkovski. He picked a random reel, inserted it into the machine and switched on the decoder. The machine rapped feverishly. - Here we are, - Yurkovski said in the same relaxed voice, pulling a sheet of paper out of the machine. - The program on Ceres has not been completed again. Zhilin grabbed Yura firmly on the wrist and lead him to the command room. Behind them Yurkovski's voice was gaining amplification: - He must be removed, for hell's sake, and be given a position on Earth, let him become a museum tour guide... Yura was standing behind Zhilin's back and watched how the phasal cyclotron was being tuned. I cannot understand any of this, he thought with gloom. And I shall never understand. The phasal cyclotron was part of the combined reflector controls and served to measure the density of the radiation stream of the reflector's functional scope. The tuning of the phasal cyclotron was monitored via two displays. One each screen bluish sparks and curved lines flashed and slowly extinguished. Sometimes they merged into a single luminescent cloud, and Yura would think that all is lost and the tuning must be started from scratch, but Zhilin kept saying "Excellent. And now another half of a degree". Then everything really started again. Two steps behind Yura, Michael Antonovich was sitting on a stand, writing memoirs. Sweat poured in beads down his face. Yura knew already, that the archive section of the International Board of Cosmic Communications compelled Michael Antonovich to write his memoirs. Michael Antonovich diligently scraped the paper with a stylus, rolled his eyes, counted something on his fingers and, from time to time, launched into singing happy songs in a sad voice. Michael Antonovich was a kind soul, rare to find. On the very first day he gave Yura a bar of chocolate and asked him to read a part of the composed memoirs. He accepted the criticism of candid youth with great anguish, but ever since Yura was considered to be an undisputable authority in the sphere of memoirical literature. - Listen to this, Yurik, - he called out. - And you, Vanyusha, listen as well. Michael Antonovich coughed to clear his voice and began reading: "I met captain Stepan Afanasievich Varshavski on the sunny and azure shores of Tahiti for the first time. Bright stars shimmered above the great boundless, or pacific, ocean. He approached me and asked for a smoke, calling to witness the fact that he forgot his pipe at the hotel. Unfortunately, I did not smoke, but this had not prevented us from striking a conversation and find out more about each other. Stepan Afanasievich made the most delightful impression on me. This happened to be the nicest, most charming person. He was very kind, intelligent, with the broadest range of interests. I was amazed at the depth of his knowledge. His sympathetic treatment of people, to me seemed extraordinary at times..." - Not bad, - said Zhilin, when Michael Antonovich stopped and looked at them demurely. - I was only attempting to present a portrait of that superb person, - Michael Antonovich said. - Well, it isn't bad, - Zhilin repeated, watching the displays closely. - How does it go: "Above the sunny and azure shore stars were shimmering brightly". Very refreshing. - Where? Where? - Michael Antonovich asked hastily. - I mean, this is only a typing error, Vanya. Come on, don't joke like this. Yura was stressing his brains, thinking of something to pick on. He really wanted to uphold his reputation. - I have read your script before, Michael Antonovich, - he said finally. - Right now I won't touch upon the literary side of the matter. But why are they all so delightful and superb? I mean, they really must be nice folk, but it is impossible to discern them from one another. - That is quite right, - Zhilin said. - Out of all people, captain Varshavsky clearly stands out. How does he usually say it? "Dinosaurs, scoundrels, sad lazy asses". - No, I am sorry Vanyusha, - Michael Antonovich said with dignity, - he never said anything like this to me. A most polite and cultured person. - Tell me, Michael Antonovich, - Zhilin said, - what will be written about me? Michael Antonovich became confused. Zhilin turned his back to the controls and looked at him with great interest. - Vanyusha, I wasn't planning to... - Michael Antonovich suddenly livened up. - Hey, that's an idea, boys! Although, I will write one chapter. It shall be the conclusive chapter. I will call it accordingly: "The last voyage". And in it I will write, how we are flying together now, both Alesha, and Volodya and you, boys. Yes, that's a good idea - "The last voyage". And Michael Antonovich returned to his memoirs again. Having successfully finished another round of tuning the unpaired phasal cyclotron, Zhilin invited Yura to go down into the engine pit of the vessel - to the base of the photon reactor. The base turned out to be cold and uncomfortable. Zhilin unhurriedly began his daily check-up. Yura was walking slowly behind him, hands deep inside his pockets, trying not to touch the frosty surfaces. - This is so cool, - he said enviously. - What exactly? - Zhilin asked. He was throwing open and banging shut some clinking lids, shifted translucent covers, behind which a tangle of microchips was glittering cabalistically, activated tiny screens, on which bright impulse dots appeared, skipping across the web of coordinates, thrust his strong nimble fingers into something unimaginably complex, multicoloured, flashing, and did it all so casually and smoothly, without thinking, and so deliciously well, that Yura immediately wished he could change professions and govern the giant organism of this imagination-sweeping photon wonder, just as effortlessly. - It's mouth-watering, - Yura said. Zhilin laughed. - Seriously, - said Yura. I don't know, perhaps for you all this is, surely, routine and habitual, perhaps you are even sick of it, but it's cool anyway. I like it when there is a huge complex mechanism - and just one man next to it... The master. It's fantastic when man is master. Zhilin clicked something, and on the rugged wall six screens lit up in a rainbow. - Man is master for a long time already, - he said, looking closely at the screens. - You probably must be proud, that you are so... Zhilin deactivated the screens. Perhaps, - he said. - I am glad, proud and so on and so forth. - He proceeded further along the frosted control panels. - I, Yurochka, have been a master for ten years already, - he said in a somewhat strange tone. - And you are... - Yura wanted to say "sick of it", but kept quiet. Zhilin was unscrewing a heavy lid, immersed in thought. - The main thing! - he said all of a sudden. - In any life, like in any undertaking, the main element is - to determine the main element. - He looked at Yura. - Let's not talk about it today, ok? Yura nodded quietly. "Oh-oh-oh, - he thought. - Is Ivan really sick of it? It must probably be awfully hard, when you have been doing something that you love for ten years and then, suddenly, it turns out that you have lost the passion for it. It must feel so miserable, I guess. But somehow it doesn't look like Ivan is miserable..." He looked around and said, to change the topic: - There must be ghosts around this place... - Shhh! - said Zhilin fearfully and also looked around. - There are heaps of them. Right here, - he pointed at the dark passage between two panels, - I have found... just don't tell anyone... a little baby bonnet! Yura started laughing. - You ought to know, - Zhilin continued, - that our "Takhmaseeb" - is quite an old ship. It had been on many planets, and on each planet the local ghosts came on board. In droves. They hang around the ship, moan, groan, get stuck in the controls, and disturb the phasal cyclotron operation... You see, they are really annoyed by the spirits of bacteria, killed during disinfective sessions... And we have no way to get rid of them. - You should try holy water on them. - I've tried, - Zhilin waved his hand, opened a large cover and descended his lower body into it. - I have tried everything, - he said with an echo from inside the shaft. - Both the regular holy water, and deuterium, and tritium water. Doesn't impress them. But I have an idea how to do away with them. - He climbed out of the shaft, sealed the membrane and looked at Yura with serious eyes. - "Takhmaseeb" must jump through the Sun. Do you understand? There was never a case of a ghost that could withstand the temperature of a thermonuclear reaction. Jokes aside, haven't you seriously heard about my intersolar craft project? Yura shook his head. He could never determine the moment, when Zhilin quit joking and began talking seriously. - Come on, - said Zhilin, taking him by the hand. - Let's go upstairs, I will tell you in detail. At the top of the stairs, however, Bykov had caught Yura. - Probationer Borodin, - he said, - follow me. Yura sighed dolefully and looked at Zhilin. Zhilin made a slightly noticeable helpless gesture. Bykov lead Yura into the ward-room and sat him at the table opposite Yurkovski. The most unpleasant lay ahead: two hours of compulsory studies in metal physics. Bykov resolved that a probationer must use his flight time wisely and set Yura to study the theory of welding from day one. Frankly speaking, it was not altogether tedious, but Yura was besieged by the thought of himself, an experienced worker, being forced to study like a school novice. He did not dare protest, but studied with much lassitude. It was much more interesting to observe Yurkovski work. Bykov returned to his chair and for a few minutes watched, how Yura turns the pages without enthusiasm, and then opened another newspaper. Yurkovski suddenly stopped tapping on his electric typewriter and turned to Bykov. - Have you heard anything about the statistics on outrageous work practices? - What outrages? - I meant, the outrages... err.. in space. The number of disgraceful conduct and unlawful acts rises sharply when moving away from Earth, peaks around the asteroid belt and then declines at the outer limits of... err... the solar system. - It's not surprising, - Bykov grumbled, without lowering the paper. - You yourselves have permitted all kinds of cheapskates, such as "Space Pearl" to rummage around asteroids, so what exactly do you expect now? - We have permitted? - Yurkovski became irritated. - Not us, but these London dimwits. And now they don't know themselves, what is to be done... - You are the chief inspector, you are calling the shots, - Bykov said. Yurkovski peered silently over the papers for some time. - I am going to get these b-bastards! - he said suddenly and went on generating typewriter noises. Yura knew already, what the special voyage 17 was about. Around some parts of the giant network of outer space settlements, spanning the entire solar system, things were going astray, and the International Board of Cosmic Communications decided to end this at once and, where possible, once and for all. Yurkovski was the chief IBCC inspector and had seemingly unlimited authority. He had the right to demote, issue warnings, chastise, dismiss, make appointments, even use force, apparently, and judging by every sign, was inclined to do it all. From shreds of conversations and from that which Yurkovski read out loud, it followed, that the photon-powered spacecraft "Takhmaseeb", following a brief stop-over on Mars shall continue through the asteroid belt, stay in the Saturn system, fly over-sun to Jupiter, and travelling through the asteroid belt again, shall return to Earth. Exactly over which heavenly bodies the menacing shadow of the chief inspector was hanging, Yura still have not understood. Zhilin only told Yura, that "Takhmaseeb" will land Yura on Iapetus, and from there the local communication vessels will transport him, that is, Yura, onto Rhea. Yurkovski stopped making typewriter noises once again. - I am really concerned by the scientists around Saturn. - Uh-uh, - was heard from behind the newspaper. - Can you imagine, they still haven't managed to get going... err... and, at last, initiate their program. - Uh-uh. Yurkovski said angrily: - Please do not imagine, that I am concerned over this program because it is mine... - I am imagining nothing. - I think, I will have to give them a push-start, - Yurkovski announced. - Well then, we are off to a good start, - said Bykov and turned over a newspaper sheet. Yura felt, that this whole conversation - both Yurkovski's odd nervousness and Bykov's deliberate indifference - carries some double meaning. It seemed, that chief inspector's boundless authority still had limits somewhere. And that Bykov and Yurkovski knew these limits perfectly well. Yurkovski said: - I say, isn't it time for dinner? Cadet, could you possibly cook dinner using the vacuum method? Bykov said from behind the paper. - Stop interfering with our work. - But I want to eat! - Yurkovski said. - You will survive, - said Bykov. MARS. the chase. At four o'clock in the morning Felix Rybkin said: "It's time", and everyone started getting ready. Yura pulled two pairs of downy socks on his feet, lent to him by Natasha, heavy fur-lined pants, which Matti gave to him, clipped the battery belt above the pants and stepped into the high fur boots. Felix's Pathfinders, gloomy and sleepy, drank hot coffee in a hurry. Natasha was running to the kitchen and back, carrying sandwiches, hot coffee and thermal flasks. Someone asked for hot chicken soup - Natasha rushed to the kitchen and brought the soup. Rybkin and Zhilin were squatting in the corner of the room over a flat open case, from which the shiny tails of rocket grenades were protruding. The rocket launchers were brought to Mars by Yurkovski. Matti, for the final time, was checking the heating element inside a jacket intended for Yura. The Pathfinders drank their fill of coffee and silently proceeded to the exit, pulling the oxygen masks over their faces with habitual movements. Felix and Zhilin lifted the case with grenades and also headed out. - Yura, are you ready? - Zhilin asked. - Hang on, wait, - replied Yura. Matti helped Yura array himself into the jacket and personally connected the heating elements to the batteries. - Now run outside, - he said. - Or you will start sweating. Yura shoved his hands into mittens and ran after Zhilin. It was completely dark outside. Yura crossed the observation deck and went down to the tank. Here, in the dark, people were talking quietly, the clinking of metal against metal could be heard. Yura bumped into someone, From the darkness advice came to put his on the specs. Yura advised not to get in the way. - You are funny fellow, - he was told from the darkness. - Put on your heat sensor goggles. Yura remembered about the infrared goggles and pulled them over his eyes. It didn't improve things a great deal, but now Yura could vaguely distinguish the silhouettes of people and the wide stern of the tank, heated by the nuclear reactor. At first Yura was handing boxes over, but then he resolved, that there might not be enough space in the tank, and then he will be left at the observatory for sure. He quietly moved close to the tank and climbed onto the stern. There, two people in hoods pulled over their very noses were taking the boxes in. - Who the devil is this? - one of them asked kindly. - 'Tis me, - Yura responded. - Ah, the capital-city boy? - the other said. - Go in the back, start pushing the boxes under the seats. "The capital-city boy" was the name given to Yura by local welders, whom he helped last night to install the rocket launcher turrets in tanks and demonstrated the latest vacuum-welding methods in rarefied atmospheres. In the back of the tank the temperature remained at eighty-three degrees below zero, and the heat sensor goggles didn't help. Yura was enthusiastically dragging the boxes across the thudding floor and groped around to shove them under the seats. Then there was nothing to haul. The reticent Pathfinders started climbing over tall starboard and began settling down, clanking their carabines. Yura's feet were painfully stomped over a few times and somebody pulled the hood right over his eyes. From the front of the cabin shocking creaking was heard - it appeared, Felix was testing the turret. Then someone said: - Here they come. Yura peeked over the starboard with care. He saw the grey wall of the observatory and projector beams, gliding across the observation deck. These were the three approaching tanks of the central group. Felix's voice said softly: - Malinin! - Here, - called out the Pathfinder, sitting next to Yura. - Petrovsky! - Here. - Homeriki! Having finished the roll call (Yura's and Zhilin's surnames weren't called out for some reason), Felix said: - Let's go. The sand tank "Mimicrodont" grumbled its engine, clanked, and listing heavily, started to climb uphill maintaining its speed. Yura was looking up. The stars were invisible - shrouded by dust. There was absolutely nothing to look at. The tank was jolting mercilessly. Yura was being constantly thrown off his coarse seat, bumping against the same sharp rough parts. Finally, the Pathfinder sitting next to him asked: - Hey, why are you jumping around all the time? - How would I know? - Yura said grumpily. He grabbed onto some rod, sticking out of the wall, and things became a little easier. From time to time, amongst the clouds of dust hanging over the tank, the projector lights flashed, and then against the lit background Yura would see the black turret ring and a long barrel of the rocket launcher, craned up into the sky. The Pathfinders were conferring amongst themselves. - I visited those ruins yesterday. - And how was it? - I was disappointed, frankly speaking. - Yes, the architecture appears strange only at first glance, and then you get the feeling that you have already seen it somewhere. - Domes, parallelepipeds... - Exactly. Just like Warm Syrt. - Because it never occurred to anyone, that it isn't ours. - Not surprising... After the wonders of Phoebus and Demos... - Personally, I find this particular similarity quite odd. - Has the data been analysed? Yura felt uncomfortable, bumpy and somewhat isolated. Nobody paid attention to him. The people seemed alien, indifferent. A savage frost blistered his face. Into the tanks bottom below his feet fountains of sand from under the tracks were pounding with brutal force. Zhilin was somewhere close by, but he could neither be seen nor heard. Yura even felt some grudge against him. He wished the sun would rise sooner, and it would become bright and warm. And that the jarring would stop. Bykov let Yura off on Mars with great reluctance, and under Zhilin's personal supervision. Bykov himself stayed on the ship with Michael Antonovich and was now circling along with Phoebus at a distance of nine thousand kilometres above Mars. Where Yurkovski was at the moment, Yura had no idea. Perhaps, he was also taking part in the round-up. They could have at least given be a carabine, Yura thought with dejection. I have, in fact, welded the turrets for them. Everyone around him carried carabines, and probably felt so calm and relaxed because of that. Indeed, it's part of human nature to be thankless and indifferent, Yura thought bitterly. And more so with age. If only our fellows were here, everything would be the other way. I would have a carabine, I would know where we are going and why. And I would know what I need to do. The tank stopped completely. The projector lights, rushing across the clouds, lit everything up. Everyone became silent in the cabin, and Yura heard an unfamiliar voice: - Rybkin, proceed to the western slope. Kuzmin - to the eastern. Jefferson, stay on the southern. The tank started moving again. The projector beam fell into the cabin, and Yura saw Felix, standing at the turret with a radiophone in his hand. - Move into position with the starboard facing west, - Rybkin told the driver. The tank tilted heavily, and Yura spread his elbows, in order not to slide to the bottom. - Now, that's good, - Felix said. - Move her forward a bit. The ground is more even there. The tank stopped again. Rybkin spoke into the radiophone: - Rybkin is in position, comrade Livanov. - Good, - Livanov said. All Pathfinders were standing, looking over the sides. Yura looked also. Nothing could be seen, except thick dust clouds, descending gradually in the lights of the projectors. - Kuzmin is in position. However, there is some tower adjacent to us. - Go lower. - Understood. - Attention! - Livanov said. This time he spoke through a loudspeaker, and his voice rolled in a thunder across the desert. - The round up will begin in a few minutes. There is one hour before sunrise. The beaters will arrive here in half an hour. Turn on the howlers in thirty minutes. Shooting is permitted. I have finished. The Pathfinders stirred. The appalling grind of the turret was heard anew. The sides of the tank bristled up with carabines. The dust was receding, and people's silhouettes waned slowly, blending into the night darkness. The stars became visible again. - Yura! - Zhilin called softly. - What? - Yura said grumpily. - Where are you? - Here. - Come here, now, - Zhilin said sternly. - Where? - Yura asked and climbed towards the voice. - Here, to the turret. In the back lay a great abundance of boxes. Just where did they come from? - Yura thought. Zhilin's powerful hand gripped his shoulder and dragged him underneath the turret. - Sit here, - Zhilin said strictly. - You will be helping Felix. - But how? - Yura asked. He was still upset, but getting over it already. Felix Rybkin said quietly: - Here are the boxes with grenades, - he flashed his torch. - Lift the grenades one by one, remove the cap from the tail section and pass them to me. The Pathfinders were talking amongst themselves. - Can't see a thing. - It is very cold tonight, everything has cooled down. - Yes, the autumn is coming soon. The temperature is low each day... - I, for instance, can see some dome up there against the stars, and I am aiming at it. - What for? - It's the only thing that I can see. - Can we sleep also? Above Yura's head Felix said quietly: - Guys, I am watching the east side. Don't shoot just yet, I want to test the weapons.