Yura immediately picked up a grenade and took off the cap. A dead silence fell for a few minutes. - Natasha is a really great girl, don't you think? - someone whispered. Felix made a motion. The turret squeaked. - She shouldn't cut her hair that short, - someone responded from the western side. - What do you know... - She looks like my wife. Except her hair is shorter and lighter. - I wonder, why is Serezhka so slow? Such a dashing fellow, this isn't like him. - What Serezhka? - Serezhka Belyi, the astronomer. - Married, I guess. - No. - They all like her a lot. Just as friends. She is exceptionally nice. And smart. I know her from Earth a bit. - No wonder you made her run around to get you chicken soup. - And what's the big deal? - It simply wasn't nice. She worked the whole night, then cooked breakfast for us. And then, all of a sudden, it hits you to ask her for chicken soup... - Sh-h-h! In an instantly formed silence, Felix said quietly: - Yura, would you like to see a leech? Look! Yura stuck his head out immediately. At first he only saw the black jagged silhouettes of the ruins. Then something moved soundlessly over there. A long limber shadow rose above the towers and undulated slowly, covering and exposing the bright stars. The turret squeaked again and the shadow froze. Yura held his breath. Now, he thought. Now. The shadow coiled up, as if folding in, and at the same moment the rocket launcher fired. A long hissing sound was heard, sparks gushed, a fiery trail stretched to the hilltop, something burst with a boom, flashed radiantly, and the silence set in again. - Who made the shot? - the loudspeaker roared. - Rybkin, - Felix said. - Got it? - Yes. - Alright, good luck, - the loudspeaker boomed. - The grenade, - Felix said quietly. Yura hastily shoved a grenade in his hand. - This is cool, - one of the Pathfinders said with envy. - Right in half. - Yeah, this is no carabine. - Felix, and how come they didn't give them to all of us? Felix replied: - Yurkovski only brought twenty-five units. - Pity. It's a sound weapon. All of a sudden there was shooting on the eastern side. Yura was waving his head with excitement, but couldn't see anything. Above the ruins, hissed and burst a rocket, launched from some other tank. Felix fired one more time. - The grenade, - he said loudly. The cannonade, with short intervals, lasted about twenty minutes. Yura couldn't see anything. He was handing up one grenade after another. There was now shooting from each side of the tank. Felix was swinging the launcher on the turret with a horrible grinding noise. Then the howlers came on. A harsh dreary wail floated across the desert. Yura's teeth ached and heels itched. The shooting stopped, but it was impossible to talk. It was rapidly getting sunnier. Yura could now see the Pathfinders. Almost all of them were sitting; backs against the wall, ruffled up, with hoods pulled down tightly. On the bottom stood open plastic crates with shreds of torn colourful cellophane, discarded bullet shells and empty magazines lay in abundance. Before Yura, on a crate, Zhilin was sitting, holding a carabine between his knees. On his exposed cheeks a layer of frost silvered delicately. Yura stood up and looked at the Old Base. Grey corroded walls, prickly bushes, rocks. Yura was disappointed. He expected to see piles of smoking corpses. Only after looking more closely, he noticed a yellowish wrinkled body, stuck in a gorge amongst the burr, and also something shining wetly and obscenely on one of the domes. Yura turned and looked into the desert. The desert was grey under a dark purple sky, covered by grey ripples of dunes, dull and barren. But high above an even horizon Yura saw a bright yellow streak, tufted, jagged, stretching across the whole of the western edge of the sky. The streak was spreading rapidly, growing, turning brighter. - The beaters are coming! - someone yelled, barely audible in the wail of sirens. Yura realised, that the bright yellow streak above the horizon is a dust cloud, stirred by the chase. The sun was rising toward the beaters, red stains of light fell upon the desert, and then suddenly the massive red cloud cloaking the horizon lit up. - The beaters, the beaters! - Yura yelled out. All of the horizon - straight ahead, to the right, to the left - became covered with black dots. The dots were appearing and vanishing, and appearing again on crests of distant dunes. One could see already, that the tanks and crawlers were advancing at maximum speed and each was dragging a long puffing dust train. Along the entire horizon glared bright rapid flashes, and it was not clear - were they the gun shot flashes, grenade explosions, or just simply the sun sparkling off the windscreens. Yura was kicked in the side, and he sat down, stumbling, on top of the crates. Felix Rybkin was dashingly turning his long grenade launcher on the turret. A few Pathfinders rushed to the left plank. The beaters were approaching swiftly. Now they were just five-seven kilometres away, at most. The horizon became completely shrouded, and one could see, that in front of the beaters, a smoky line full of flashes is rolling down the desert. The loudspeaker roared, drowning the sirens wail: - Fire into the desert! All firepower into the desert! People began shooting from the tank. Yura watched, how Zhilin's broad shoulders shudder after each shot, watched the white flashes above the starboard, and still couldn't figure out, where they are shooting, and who they are shooting at. Felix smacked him on the hood, Yura quickly handed over a grenade and ripped the cap off the next one. The sirens wailed with stolid determination, the shots blasted, and everyone was very busy, and no one could be asked, what is going on. Then Yura saw, how a long red jet of fire, resembling a spit, leaped off one tank and plunged into the dusty streak in front of the beaters. Then he understood. Everyone was shooting at that dusty streak: the leeches were there. And the streak was approaching. From behind the hill, stern afront, Kuzmin's tank rolled out slowly. The tank has not yet stopped, when its hatch flew open, and a giant black tube drew out. The tube began tilting toward the sky, and when it froze at a forty-five degree angle, Kuzmin's Pathfinders scattered across the sides, like peas from a pod, and climbed under the tracks. Thick black fumes poured from the cabin, the pipe expelled a colossal tongue of flame with a drawn-out wheeze, after which clouds of dust enveloped the tank. The shooting stopped for a minute. On a dune crest, about three hundred metres away, not making great sense, billowed a bushy mushroom cloud of smoke and dust. Felix smacked Yura over the hood again. Yura handed up two grenades in straight succession and turned to look at Kuzmin's tank. Through the dust, he could see how the Pathfinders were straining to pull the pipe from the cabin. It even seemed to Yura, that he can hear muffled curses through the roar and cracking of the explosions. The smoky streak, inside which lights of explosions glared, advanced closer and closer. Then finally, Yura could see. Leeches resembled giant greyish-yellow tadpoles. Nimble, incredibly agile despite their size, and probably, ample weight, they rapidly leaped out of the dust cloud, soared a few tens of metres through the air, and disappeared into the dust again. Right behind them, almost on their tail, skipping across the dunes, charged square tanks and tiny crawlers, sparkling with flashes of explosions. Yura bent over for more grenades, and when he straightened out, the leeches were quite close already, flashes of volleys disappeared, the tanks slowed down, people were jumping out onto cabin roofs and waving their hands, and then from somewhere on the left, double passing Kuzmin's vehicle, a sand tank leaped out at an insane speed and shuffled through and through the thick pack of leeches. Its passenger bay was empty. Right down its path a second empty tank leaped out of the dust, a third one followed it, and then nothing could be made out in the yellow, impenetrably thick dust. - Stop the fire! - the loudspeaker roared. - Crush them! Crush them! - the loudspeakers echoed on the beaters' side. The dust obscured everything. Twilight fell. - Watch out! - Felix yelled and bent down. A long dark body flew over the tank. Felix straightened out and abruptly swung the rocket launcher in the direction of the Old Base. Suddenly the sirens went out, and immediately the rumbling of tens of engines, clanking of tracks and shouting became audible. Felix was not shooting any more. He was slowly shifting the launcher, first to the left, then to the right. From the dust appeared a small number of people with carabines. They ran to the tank, and hastily climbed aboard. - What happened? - Zhilin asked. - Our crawler flipped, - someone answered quickly. Another said, after a nervous laugh: - Slow and methodic movement. - Total mess, - the third one said. - We have no idea how to wage war. The rumbling of engines grew close, past them two tanks crawled, slowly and unsurely. Behind the tracks of the last one, something formless, covered with dust, was being dragged. An surprised voice suddenly said: - Fellows, the sirens have actually stopped! Everyone started laughing and talking amongst themselves. - Such horrible dust. - As if an autumn storm has begun. - What shall we do, Felix? Hey, commander! - We'll wait, - Felix said softly. - The dust will settle soon. - Did we really get rid of them? - Hey you, the beaters, have you shot down a few? - Plenty for one supper, - one of the beaters replied. - The scoundrels, they escaped into caverns. - Over here only one had passed. They are afraid of sirens. The dust was settling gradually. A dull circle of the sun became visible, the purple sky appeared. Then Yura saw a dead leech - probably, the same one which jumped over the cabin. It lay on the slope of the hill, straight like a stick, covered by coarse reddish bristles. From the tail towards the head, it distended like a funnel and Yura was looking at its maw, feeling a chill down his spine. The maw was completely round, half a metre in diameter, spiked with large flat triangular teeth. One got nauseous looking at it. Yura looked around him and saw that the dust has almost settled and there were lots of tanks and crawlers around. People were jumping overboard and were walking slowly up the slope to the ruins of the Old Base. The engine noise died. Over the hill hung a hubbub of voices and the haloxylon, inexplicably set on fire was crackling weakly. - Let's go, - Felix said. He lifted the launcher off the turret and climbed over the side. Yura was about to follow him, when Zhilin caught his sleeve. - Slow down, slow now, - he said. - You are coming with me, buddy. They got out of the tank and started climbing after Felix. Felix was heading towards a large group of people, crowding some five metres away from the ruins. The people stood around a cavern - a deep dark cave, descending steeply beneath the ruins. At the entrance, hands placed on his hips, stood a man with a carabine on his neck. - And did many... err... penetrate through, - he was asking. - Two leeches for sure, - replies came from the crowd. - Maybe even more. - Yurkovski! - Zhilin said. - How, then, did you fail to ... err... detain them? - Yurkovski asked with reproach. - Well, they did not... err... elect to be detained, - the crowd explained. Yurkovski said disdainfully: - You ought to have... err... detained them! - he took off the carabine. - I'll go have a look, - he said. No one managed to say a word, as he stooped and dived into the darkness with unexpected agility. Felix followed him like a shadow. Yura quit hesitating. He said: "Excuse me, comrade", - and seized a carabine from his neighbour. An astounded neighbour did not resist. - Where are you off to? - surprised Zhilin asked, looking back from the threshold of the cave. Yura moved decidedly towards the cavern. - No-no, - Zhilin pattered, - you can't go there. - Yura, head lowered, walked at him. - You can't, I said! - Zhilin growled and pushed into his chest. Yura flopped with all his might, raising plenty of dust. There was laughing in the crowd. Past him ran the Pathfinders, disappearing inside the cave one by one. Yura jumped up, he was enraged. - Let me through! - he yelled. He jumped forward and ran into Zhilin, as if he were a wall. Zhilin asked in a pleading tone: - Yurik, forgive me, but you really shouldn't go there. Yura was trying to burst through in silence. - Well, what are you pushing in for? You can see, I stayed behind as well. Hollow shooting sounds thudded in the cave. - See, they did fine without you and me. Yura clenched his teeth and stepped back. He shoved the carabine silently to a freshly recovered beater and stepped into the crowd dejectedly. He felt, that everybody was looking at him. What a shame, what horrible shame, he thought. Just short of getting his ears tweaked. Fair enough, had it been one on one - after all, Zhilin is - Zhilin. But not in front of everyone... He remembered, how ten years ago, he got into his older brother's room and coloured in his prints with crayons... He wanted but the best. And how his older brother lead him out onto the street by the ear, and what a disgrace it was! - Don't get flustered, Yurka, - Zhilin said. - I didn't mean to. I totally forgot, that gravity here is less. Yura kept obstinately quiet. - Come on, stop worrying, - Zhilin said kindly, fixing up his hood. - Nothing will happen to him. You know, Felix is there next to him, and Pathfinders... And I also rushed, thinking that the old fellow will perish, but then, thanks to you, I came to my senses... Zhilin was saying something else now, but Yura didn't hear another word. I wish he'd have tweaked my ears, he thought with desolation. Slapped me in public, instead. A kid, snotty-faced, a disgraceful egoist! Ivan acted rightly, when he smacked me. He should have smacked me harder still. Yura even hissed through his teeth, feeling utterly ashamed. Ivan cared about me and about Yurkovski, and he hasn't got any doubt, that I was also concerned about Yurkovski and about him... And I?.. When Yurkovski jumped into the cave, I merely took it as permission for heroic deeds. Not for a second did I think, that Yurkovski is under threat... Idiot, I was keen to combat the leeches and gain fame... Thankfully, Ivan doesn't know... - Wa-atch it! - someone yelled from behind. Yura stepped aside unconsciously. A crawler climbed through the crowd to the cave, dragging along a trailer with a huge silvery cistern. A metallic hose with a strange long tip extended from the cistern. A man sitting in the front seat held the tip. - Here? - the man inquired in a business-like manner, and without waiting for reply, directed the tip of the hose at the cave. - Bring her closer, - he said to the driver. - Come on guys, move off, - he spoke to the crowd. - Further, further, go further. Come on, move it, I am talking to you! - he yelled out to Yura. He aimed the tip of the hose at the dark crevasse of the cave, but then one of the Pathfinders appeared at the cave's threshold. - And what is this now? - he asked. The man with the hose plonked down. - Holy cow, - he said. - What are you doing there? - Hey guys, this is a flamethrower! - guessed somebody among the crowd. The bewildered flame thrower man scratched under his hood. - You shouldn't do this, - he said. - We must really be warned. There was such fierce shooting underground, that Yura thought he saw shreds flying out of the cave. - Why did you start all this? - the flamethrower officer asked. - It was Yurkovski, - an answer came from the crowd. - Which Yurkovski? - the officer asked. - Not the son, really? - No, peer [de France]. One after another three more Pathfinders walked out of the cave. One of them, upon seeing the flamethrower said: - This is good. The rest of us are coming out now and we shall really give it to them. People were walking out of the cave. The last to come out were Felix and Yurkovski. Yurkovski was talking, out of breath: - Ok then, this tower here above us must be something akin to... err... water tower. Quite... err... possible! You are a champion, Felix. - He saw the flamethrower and stopped. - A-ah, the flamethrower! Well, then... err... it's possible. Permission to work given. - He nodded benevolently at the flamethrower man. The flamethrower man livened up, jumped of his seat and walked to the threshold of the cave. The crowd drew back. Yurkovski was left standing alone next it to the flamethrower man, with his hands on the hips. - Isn't he the Thunderer, ey? - Zhilin said over Yura's ear. The flamethrower man took aim. Yurkovski suddenly seized his hand. - Hold on. Why actually... err... is all this necessary? The surviving leeches are long since... err... dead, and the dead ones... errr... will be needed by biologists. Isn't that so? - Zeus, - Zhilin said. Yura just moved his shoulder. He was embarrassed. Pen'kov downed his cup in one gulp, caught his breath and spoke with reflection: - Should I, perhaps, drink another cup of coffee? - Let me pour you one, - said Matti. - But I want Natasha to, - Pen'kov said. Natasha poured the coffee for him. Outside the window was a dark, crystal clear night, the kind that often occur in the end of summer, ahead of autumn storms. In the dining room corner fur jackets, battery belts, boots, carabines heaved in a disorderly pile. The electric clock above the workshop door clicked cosily. Matti said: - I still cannot understand, have we exterminated the leeches or not? Serezha tore himself away from a book. - The communique from headquarters, - he said. - On the battlefield remained sixteen leeches, one tank and three crawlers. According to unconfirmed facts, one more tank became stranded in the salt-marches in the very beginning of the pursuit, and at present could not be extracted. - That I know, - Matti announced. - What I am interested in, is whether I can now walk to Warm Syrt at night? - You can, - Pen'kov said, puffing out the air. - But a carabine must be taken, - he added, after some thought. - I see, - Matti said with unusual sarcasm. - And why, in fact, do you need to be at Warm Syrt at night? - Sergey asked. Matti looked at him. - This is why, - he said ingratiatingly. - For instance, the time comes for comrade Sergey Alexandrovich Belyi to go out for observation. It's three a.m. and comrade Belyi, as you understand, is not at the observatory. Then I walk over to Warm Syrt to the Central meteostation, go up to the second floor... - Laboratory Eight, - Pen'kov put in. - I get it, - Sergey said. - But how come I don't know anything? - Natasha asked grudgingly. - How come no one ever tells me anything? - Somehow Rybkin hasn't come for a while, - Sergey spoke pensively. - Yes, indeed, - Pen'kov said with a thoughtful air. - The night is drawing close, - Matti announced, - yet Rybkin's missing still. Natasha sighed. - I am so fed up with all of you, - she said. In the lobby the partition door clinked. - When he gets here now, he will laugh for us, - Pen'kov. There was knocking on the dining room door. - Come in, - said Natasha and looked angrily at the guys. Rybkin entered, accurate and sharp, wearing clean overalls, a snow-white shirt, impeccably shaven. - May I? - he asked in a low voice. - Come in, Felix, - Matti said and poured coffee into a cup he put out beforehand. - I came a little late today, - Felix said. - There was a meeting held by the director. Everyone looked anxiously at him. - They talked about the regeneration plant for most part. Yurkovski ordered to stop all scientific works for two months. All scientists shall be mobilised to the workshops and the construction sites. - Everyone? - Everyone. Even the Pathfinders. The order comes out tomorrow. - Stuffed is my program, - Pen'kov said gloomily. - Just why can't this administration of ours ever co-ordinate the work properly? Natasha remarked earnestly: - Be quiet, Volodya! You don't even know anything!.. - Yes, - Sergey spoke reflectively. - I heard, that we are not doing too well with water. So what else was there at the meeting? - Yurkovski gave a long speech. He said, that we became lost in daily routine. That we like living under a schedule too much, that we love our comfortable spots, and over thirty years we managed to erect... how did he put it... "boring and complex traditions". That our brain curves, responsible for curiosity, have smoothed out, which is the only way to explain the anecdote over the Old Base. In general, he talked about the same things, as you Sergey, remember, last decade? That mysteries are all around, and we are dawdling... A very heated speech - I think, impromptu. Then he complimented us for the round-up, said that he came to give us a push, and is very glad, that we have ventured to carry it out ourselves... And then Puchko made a speech, and demanded Livanov's head. He was yelling, that he will show to him, what it means "slowly and methodically"... - But what is the matter? - The tanks were damaged quite seriously. And in two months our group is being transferred to the Old Base, so we'll become neighbours. - And is Yurkovski leaving? - Matti asked. - Yes, tonight. - It's interesting, - Pen'kov said pensively, - why does he haul that welder around? - To weld the turrets, - Matti said. - People say, that he intends to carry out a few more round-ups - on asteroids. - With Yurkovski I had one incident, - Sergey said. - Back in the institute, still. I was once sitting an examination on theoretical planetology, and he kicked me out via really original means. "Give me, - he says, - comrade Belyi, your record book, and open the door, please". I walk over and open the door, with great amazement. Then he chucks my record-book out into the corridor and says: "Go and come back in a month". - Well? - said Pen'kov. - Well, so I went. - And why was he so rough? - Pen'kov asked with displeasure. - Well, I was young back then, - Sergey said. - Audacious. - You are quite refined now, still, - Natasha suggested. - So have we, in fact, killed the leeches or not? - Matti asked. Everyone looked at Felix. - Hard to say, - Felix said. - Sixteen were killed, and we never expected that there will be more than ten. Practically speaking, we probably killed them. - And did you come with a carabine? - Matti asked. Felix nodded. - Understandable, - Matti said. - And is it true, that Yurkovski was almost incinerated with a flamethrower? - Natasha asked. - And me along with him, - Felix said. - We descended into the cavern, and the flamethrowers did not know, that we are there. In two months we shall begin working from that cavern. There, I think, the remnants of the water main have been preserved. The water main is quite strange - the pipes are not round, but oval. - You are still hoping you will find erect bipeds? - Sergey asked. Felix shook his head. - No, we won't find them here, of course. - Where 'here'? - Around water. - I don't get it, - Pen'kov said. - On the contrary! If they are not here, here at the water, that means they don't exist at all. - No-no-no, - said Natasha. - I think, I understand. On our Earth, the Martians would be looking for people in the desert. It really is natural. Far away from poisonous greens, away from regions, shrouded by clouds. They would look somewhere in Gobi. Right, Felix? I mean, I also think so. - Then, we must look for Martians in deserts? - Pen'kov said. - Nice one! Then why do they need water-mains? - Perhaps these are not water-mains, - Felix said, - but water drains. Like our drainage ditches. - Well, you are going too far, I think, - Sergey said. - Rather they do, in fact, live in underground hollows. However, I don't know myself, why they rather would, but still - what you say, it is way too bold. Abnormally bold. - It cannot be done otherwise, - Felix said quietly. - Mother dear! - said Pen'kov and got up from the table. - I got to go already! He walked across the room to the pile of fur clothing. - Time for me to go as well, - Natasha said. - And me, - Sergey said. Matti started cleaning up the table. Felix accurately rolled up his sleeves and started helping him. - So why do you have so many watches? - Matti asked, looking askance at Felix's wrists. - Forgot to take them off, - Felix mumbled. - Now, it's probably useless. He was washing the dishes expertly. - And when were they useful? - I was testing one hypothesis, - Felix said quietly. - Why the leeches always attack from the right. There was only one case, when a leech attacked from the left - with Kreitzer, who was left-handed and wore a watch on his right hand. Matty stared at Felix with astonishment. - You think, the leeches are afraid of clocks ticking? - That's is what I wanted to determine. Personally, the leeches did not attack me once, and I was walking in really dangerous places. - Strange guy you are, Felix, - Matti said and started washing the dishes again. Natasha walked into the dining room and asked merrily: - Felix, are you coming? Let's go together. - I am coming, - said Felix and headed to the lobby, rolling down his sleeves as he walked. "Takhmaseeb". The Value of instructions. Zhilin was reading, seated behind the desk. His eyes skimmed across pages, glimmering wetly, from time to time, in the bluish light of the desk lamp. For a while, Yura watched Zhilin, and suddenly caught himself realising, that he is enjoying looking at him. Ivan had a heavy, brown face, clear-cut like an engraving. Such a truly manly face of a genuine person. A nice guy, Vanya Zhilin. You can come to him at any time and sit and chat, about whatever comes into your mind, and you will never bother him. Such people exist in the world, and it's great. Zhen'ka Segal, for instance. With him, one can go into any enterprise, take any risk, and know for sure, that he won't have to be hurried, for he can hurry anyone himself. Yura imagined Zhen'ka on Rhea, where he and the guys are welding fricative constructions in dark vacuum. White oxitian flame is flickering over the siliquet visor, and he is shouting songs all over the airways, holding up the mixer tank, which is hanging on his chest, and not on the back, as the instructions specify. It is easier for him, and there is no way to convince him of the opposite, until someone wearing the tank on their back overtakes him on a momentum seam, a longitudinal juncture or even on a simple oblique-angled strut without a hawser. That's when he will take notice, and possibly, will throw the tank over onto his back, but not even that is definite. "Instructions - it is for those, who do not yet know how". But musical hearing, this he doesn't have. His singing is just awful. And that is good, even, since what is the use of a person, who has no faults? A decent person must always have an aptitude gap, better even have a few, and then he becomes truly pleasant. Then you know for sure, that he isn't some kind of 'pearl'. Take Zhen'ka - once he starts singing, it's clear to all, that he is no 'pearl', but a nice guy. - Vanya, - said Yura, - do you have musical hearing? - Come on now, buddy, - said Zhilin, without lifting his head from the book. - Who do you take me for? - That's what I thought, - Yura said with contentment. - And what book do you have there? Zhilin lifted his head, looked at Yura for some time, then uttered slowly: "The rules of sanitary discipline for life-guards of Their Royal Highness". Yura snorted. It was, however, clear, that Ivan does not wish to say, what book it is. Well, there's nothing special in this... - Today, I have finally conquered the "Metal Physics", - said Yura. - What a bore. How can one write such books? Alexey Petrovich gave me a quick examination, - Yura pronounced the last word with great disgust, - and picked at things all the time. Why does he always pick on me, do you know, Vanya? Zhilin closed the book and put it away inside the desk. - It only seems this way to you, - he said. - Captain Bykov never looks for faults. He just demands that, which ought to be demanded. He is a very just person, our captain. For a few minutes Yura pondered, whether it would be fitting and fair to say, what he feels like saying. Telling this to Bykov's face, he could not risk it. Talking behind his back is wrong. But he really wants to say it... - Vanya, and what kind of people don't you like the most? Zhilin answered immediately: - People, who never ask questions. They exist - self-assured ones... He screwed up an eye, looked at Yura, grabbed a pencil and quickly drew his portrait. Probationer Borodin, rather like him, with such a nose, sitting, face twisted, peering over a corpulent "Metal Physics" textbook. - And I really dislike the boring ones, - Yura announced, looking over the drawing. - May I take it? Thanks... I personally, Vanya, really don't like the boring ones. They have such a boring, tedious life. At work they write up petty documents or calculate on computers, that they haven't invented, and to invent something themselves - they never even try. It never enters their head to invent something. They do everything "like others". Then they start reasoning: these boots are nice and strong, and these aren't, and they can never manufacture nice furniture in Vyaz'ma, now we have to order it from Moscow, and about this book, people say that it ought to be read, and how about we go mushrooming tomorrow, rumour has it that the mushrooms are really good this year... Holy cow, nobody in the world could ever make me go look for those mushrooms! Zhilin was listening, immersed in thought, assiduously depicting an enormous integral number from zero to infinity on paper. - They always have loads of free time, - Yura continued, - and they never know what to do with that time. Driving around in cars in huge ridiculous groups and its revolting to watch how they do it like idiots. First they go mushrooming, then they go to a cafe and eat - by mere idleness, then they start racing on highways, only on the finest and best-equipped ones, where, it appears, it's safe and the repair robots are at hand, and motels and whatever you want. Then the get together at some holiday house, and do nothing still, won't even talk to each other. Let's say, they sort through their miserable mushrooms and argue, which one's a brown-cap and which one's an` orange-cap boletus. And when they do come to having an argument about something worthwhile, then it's time to run for your life. How come, just imagine this, they are still not allowed into space. But go and ask, what use it is to them, - they cannot tell you anything sensible, just grumble something about their rights. They enjoy terribly talking about their rights. But the most detestable thing about them is that they always have loads of time, and they kill this time. Here on "Takhmaseeb" I don't know where to run from idleness, I can't wait to start working, but they would be here like fish in water... Yura lost the train of thought and lapsed into silence. Zhilin kept putting ornaments over his integral; his face became wistful for some reason. Then he said: - And what does this have to do with captain Bykov? Yura recalled where he had begun from. - Alexey Petrovich, - he mumbled unsure of himself, - he is... somewhat dullish... Zhilin nodded. - That's what I thought, - he said. - But you are making a mistake, buddy, if you are piling everything into one heap - both Bykov and the lovers of safe highways... - I meant something completely different... - I understand you. Well, then. Bykov loves his job - number one. Cannot see himself in any other capacity - number two. And then, you know, Alexey Petrovich keeps working even when he is reading magazines or snoozing in his chair. Have you ever given it any thought? - N-no... - You should have. Do you know, what Bykov's job consists of? Always being ready. It is a very complex task. Arduous, exhausting. One must be Bykov, to withstand all this. To adapt to constant strain, to a state of constant uninterrupted readiness. You don't follow? - Don't know... If it is really so... - But it is really so! He is a soldier of space. One can only be envious of him, Yurochka, since he found the paramount within himself and the world. He is needed, essential and difficult to replace. You understand? Yura nodded hesitantly. In front of him appeared the abominable picture - the glorified captain wearing slippers and striped socks in his favourite chair. - I know, Vladimir Sergeevich has won your heart. Well, that's understandable. On one hand there is Yurkovski, who reckons that life - is a fairly dull racket with rather dull affairs and one must seize every chance to unload in a magnificent burst. On the other hand, there's Bykov, who believes the true life exists within unrelenting strain, doesn't recognise any chances, since he is ready for any chance, and no chance will ever be a surprise to him... But then there is a third side. Imagine, Yura, - Zhilin laid his palms on the table and reclined in the chair, - a colossal building of human culture: everything that man had created himself, snatched from nature, re-evaluated and created anew in such a way, that nature could never have. Such a splendid building! Built by people, who know their job well and love their job greatly. For instance, Yurkovski, Bykov... So far, there are fewer of these people than there are others. Simply honest people, who perhaps, don't even know what they do and do not like. They do not know, had no chance to find out, what they can and cannot do. They simply work there, where life had placed them. And these people, by and large, support on their shoulders the palace of thought and spirit. From nine till three they support it, and then they go mushrooming... - Zhilin kept quiet for a moment. - Naturally, it's desirable for everyone to support and to build. But that takes time. And strength. This state of affairs must also be created, you know. Yura was thinking. There was something in Ivan's words. Something unwonted. This had to be thought over yet. Zhilin put his hands behind his head. - I keep remembering one story, - he spoke. He was looking straight at the light; his pupils became like dots. - I had a friend called Tolya. We went to school together. He was always so inconspicuous, always stuck to trivial things. Assembling some notebooks, gluing boxes together. He especially enjoyed binding old worn-out books. He was a real kind soul, so kind that would not understand hurtful jokes. Took them somehow strangely, and in our view at that time, quite outrageously. It happened, we would sometimes stick a triton in his bed, and he would pull it out, lay it on his palm and look it over for a long time. We are ogling all round him, because it is funny, and he'd say quietly: "Poor thing" - and would carry it to the pond. Then he grew up and became a statistician somewhere. Everyone knows, this job is quiet and unnoticeable, and we all thought, that this is what he deserves and that our Tolya isn't fit to do anything else. He worked honestly, without any interest, but earnestly. We would fly to Jupiter, uncover the permafrost, build new factories, whilst he sat in his institution and calculated on computers, which he did not invent himself. An exemplary little man. You could even cover him with cotton wool and place in a museum under a glass lid with a corresponding label: "A typical self-sufficing man around the end of the twentieth century". Then he died. Neglected an insignificant medical disorder, because he was afraid of the operation, and died. It happens to small people, though no one ever writes about it in newspapers. Zhilin became quiet, as if listening in to something. Yura waited. - This was in Karelia, on the banks of a forest lake. His bed stood on a glassed verandah, and I sat next to him, and saw at once both his dark unshaven face... dead face... and a huge blue cloud over the forest on the other side of the lake. The physician said: "He is dead". And straight away, thunder struck with force unseen, and the storm that broke out was such that are rare even in the southern seas. The wind was crushing trees and throwing them against wet crimson rocks, where they burst into splinters, but not even their crackle could be heard in the roaring of the wind. The lake was advancing in a wall onto the shore, and into this wall battered bright lightning bolts, so unusual for the North. Roofs were being torn from houses. Clocks had stopped everywhere - no one knows why. It was a fuirous, brutal storm, as if the entire still world pranced up. And he lay there, quiet, ordinary, and, as always, it did not concern him. - Zhilin listened in again. - Yurik, I am a man who is not timid, relaxed [even], but I was scared then. I suddenly thought: "So that's what you were like, our little boring Tolik. Quietly and inconspicuously, not suspecting a thing yourself, you held on your shoulders the equilibrium of the World. You died, the equilibrium crashed and the World pranced up". If, back then, someone yelled into my ear, that Earth ran off its orbit and headed for the Sun, I would only nod my head. And I also thought then... - Zhilin kept quiet for a moment. - I thought: why was he so small and so boring? You know, he was a very boring man, Yura. Very. If this storm happened before his eyes, he would most likely yell: "Oh! Slippers! My slippers are drying on the porch!" And he would run to rescue his slippers. But why, how did he turn that way? Zhilin fell silent, and looked at Yura strictly. - But it was his own fault... - Yura said bashfully. - Wrong. No one can ever be at fault entirely by themselves. People shape us into that, which we become. That's what it is. And we... How often do we fail to pay this debt... Almost always. Yet there is nothing more important than that. That's the main thing. Before, the chief priority was to give people their freedom, to become what one wishes to be. And now the main priority - is to show people, who they should become, in order to find regular human happiness. That alone is now the main thing, - Zhilin looked at Yura and asked suddenly: - Right? - Probably, - said Yura. It was all right, but somehow foreign to him. Somehow it didn't move him. The