e meaningless casualties. You sit here, and I will go. How did I not think of it before! He hurriedly walked along the shore, slipping on the stones, and the suddenly shouted from a distance: - Please forgive me, if something happens to you! You know, it all depends on me! He was walking further and further away and soon turned into a small dark figure against the background of barely phosphorescent waves. It appeared to me that he took a swing and threw something white into the waves. Perhaps it was the sandal. That is how we parted. Unfortunately, I could never recognise him in a crowd. Unless some miracle would happen then. I never heard anything more about him, and I think, nothing special happened at the seaside that summer. Perhaps his girl did, in fact, catch onto some tree branch, and they got married afterwards. Because he always had the most serious intentions. All I know is this. If at any time, when I am shaking a hand of a new acquaintance, I suddenly feel, that I am becoming a source of a powerful magnetic field and would also notice that my new friend smokes a lot, keeps coughing repeatedly, just like - ahem, ahem, that means that he is a phenomenon, you see, a convergence of miracles, a giant fluctuation. Zhilin concluded his story and looked victoriously at his audience. Yura liked the story, but as always, he still did not understand, whether Zhilin had made it all up or told the truth. Just in case, he kept smiling sceptically throughout the whole story. - Marvellous, - said Yurkovski. - But most of all I liked the moral. - So what is this moral? - said Bykov. - The moral is such, - Yurkovski explained. - Nothing is impossible, only the improbable exists. - And besides that, - Zhilin said, - the world is full of wonderful things - first of all. And secondly. What do we know of probability? - Don't try to get round me, - said Bykov and stood up. - I see that you, Ivan, are made uneasy by Michael Antonovich's literary laurels. You can include this story into your own memoirs. - I will definitely include it, - said Zhilin. - A good story, wasn't it? - Thank you, Vanyusha, - said Yurkovski. - You have dispersed my mood perfectly. I am curious, how he could have acquired an electro-magnetic field. - Magnetic, - Zhilin corrected him. - He told me about the magnetic one. - Mm-yes, - said Yurkovski and became engrossed in thought. After dinner the three of them stayed in the ward-room. Michael Antonovich, who had just come off his watch, climbed into Bykov's chair with enjoyment to read "The Tale of Prince Genji" before bedtime, and Yura and Zhilin settled in front of the magnetivisor screen to watch something light. The lights were dimmed in the ward-room and only the ghastly jungle played with gloomy colours, along which the pioneers walked, and the navigator's shiny bald spot gleamed under the bracket lamp. And it was totally quiet. Zhilin had seen "The Pioneers" already, it was much more interesting for him to observe Yura and the navigator. Yura was looking at the screen, without shifting his eyes, and would only adjust the thin photodemonstrator band on his head occasionally. He really liked the pioneers, and Zhilin was chuckling to himself and was thinking, how absurd and primitive this film is, especially if you are not watching it for the first time and you are well past thirty. These exploits, resembling enraptured self-torture, absurd from beginning to end, and this commander Sanders, who ought to be removed immediately, given a dressing down and sent back to Earth as an archivist, to stop him from becoming insane and destroying innocent people without a right of contradicting him. And in the first place, finish off that hysterical Praskovina, I think that's her name, - send her alone into the jungle, if she is so dead bent on going. What a crew did they assemble! Sheer suicides with infantile intellect. The doctor wasn't too bad, but the author finished him off at the very start, seemingly so that no one would counter the idiotic plot of an insane commander. The most amusing part is that Yura obviously cannot refuse to notice any of this, but just try pulling him away from the screen now and sit him down with, let's say, the same old prince Genji!.. Long since this has been the way and perhaps it will remain forever, that every normal youngster before a certain age will prefer the drama of chasing, pursuit, selfless destruction of one's self to the drama of the human soul, to the most delicate emotions, when nothing more complex, fascinating and tragical exists in the world... Oh, of course he will concede that Lev Tolstoi is great as a testimony to the human soul, that Galsworthy is monumental and outstanding as a sociologist, and Dimitry Stroganov knows no equal in the exploration of the inner world of the new man. But all these would be words, derived from without. The time will, of course, come, when he will be stunned, upon seeing count Andrew, alive among the living, when his breath will be taken away with horror and compassion, having understood Sommes to the end, when he will experience enormous pride, upon perceiving the dazzling sun, that shines within the soul of Strogov's Tokmakov... But this will happen later, after he will acquire experience in the workings of his own soul. Another story - is Michael Antonovich. At this moment he had lifted his head and began staring into the darkness of the room, and in front of him right now is, of course, a distant handsome man wearing odd clothes and an odd hairdo, with a useless sword behind his sash, a delicate and sarcastic sinner, Japanese Don Juan - just the way he was when he leaped from under the quill of a brilliant Japanese woman inside a lavish and filthy Hejan palace and went off to wander the world invisible, until equally brilliant translators were found for him, too. And Michael Antonovich perceives him now in such a way as though the nine centuries and one and a half billion kilometres don't lay between them, and only he alone sees him, and Yura is not capable of it yet, and will only become capable in about five years, when into Yura's life will enter both Tokmakov, and the Forsyths, Katya and Dasha, and many, many others... The last pioneer died beneath a hoisted flag and the screen went blank. Yura pulled the photodemonstrator off his head and spoke reflectively: - Yeah, the movie is superbly produced. - Delightful, - Zhilin replied seriously. - Such people, hey? - Yura tugged a tuft of hair at the top of his head. - Like a steel blade... Heroes till their last step. Only Praskovina is somewhat artificial. - Mm-yes, perhaps... - But then Sanders! How much does he resemble Vladimir Sergeevich! - To me they all resemble Vladimir Sergeevich, - said Zhilin. - Oh, come on now! - Yura turned to look, saw Michael Antonovich and switched to a whisper: - Of course, they are all genuine, pure, but... - Why don't we go to my quarters instead, - Zhilin suggested. Yura was saying: - They are all good, I am not arguing against that, but Vladimir Sergeevich - that, of course, is something totally different, he is somehow more powerful than they are, more significant... They walked into the room. Zhilin sat down and started looking at Yura. Yura was saying: - And what a swamp! How amazingly it was all done - brown slush with gigantic white flowers, and someone's shiny slippery skin covered with mire... And the cries of the jungle... He became silent. - Vanya, - he said cautiously, - I see, you found the movie not too..? - No, what are you on about! - Zhilin said. - I have simply seen it already, plus I am also a bit old for all these swamps, Yurik. I had wandered across them and I know, what there, in fact, is... Yura shrugged his shoulders. He wasn't pleased. - Come on now, buddy, this is not about swamps. - Zhilin leaned on the back of his chair and assumed his favourite pose: tilted his head back, locked his fingers under it and spread his elbows wide. - And please don't think, that I am hinting at the difference between our age. No. You know, it is not true that there are kids and there are adults. In real life everything is much more complicated. There are adults and there are adults. For instance, you, me and Michael Antonovich. Would you now, being of sound mind and clear memory read "The Tale of Genji"? I read the answer on your face. And Michael Antonovich is re-reading "Genji" for almost the fifth time, whilst I had fully perceived his charm only this year... - Zhilin stayed quiet awhile and explained: - The book's charm, naturally. I had perceived Michael Antonovich's charm much earlier. Yura was looking at him with hesitation. - Of course, I know, that it's a classic and all that, - he declared. - But I would not be reading "Genji" five times. In it everything is intertwined, complicated... Whilst life is, essentially, simple, much more simple than it portrayed in such books. - And life is, essentially, complicated, - said Zhilin. - Much more complicated than described by movies such as "The Pioneers". If you wish, let's try and look into it. Here is commander Sanders. He has a wife and a son. He has friends. And yet, how easily does he go off to his death. He has a conscience. How easily does he lead his people towards death... - He had forgotten about all of that, because... - All of that, Yurik, is never forgotten. And most important in the film should not be the part where Sanders had died a hero, but the part how he managed to make himself forget. Because his death was indeed imminent, buddy. That is not in the film, and so everything seems simple. And if it were there, you would find the film boring... Yura was silent. - W-Well? - said Zhilin. - It may be so, - Yura uttered reluctantly. - But I still think, that one must treat life more simply. - It will pass, - Zhilin promised. They stayed quiet. Zhilin, was looking at the light, squinting. Yura said: - There is cowardice, there are exploits, there is work - interesting and uninteresting. Must it all be confused and then pass cowardice for a heroic feat and vice versa? - And who is confusing it, who is that bastard? - Zhilin cried out. Yura began laughing. - I have just pictured schematically, how it can be in some books. They will take some character, drool all over him and then you get what is called "an elegant paradox" or "a contradictory figure". And he is a character's character. Same as Genji. - We are all horses a bit, - Zhilin said with heartfelt sincerity. - Each one of us is a horse in our own way. Its life that mixes it all up. Her majesty life. That blessed scamp. Life compels proud Yurkovski to beg implacable Bykov. Life compels Bykov to refuse his best friend. So which one of them is a horse, that is, a character? Life forces Zhilin, who is entirely in agreement with Bykov's iron policy, to conjure up a fairy tale about a giant fluctuation, so that he can somehow express his protest against the very immutability of this policy. Zhilin is also a character. All drool and no firm convictions. And the famous vacuum-welder Borodin? Did he not perceive the meaning of life in laying his life at a suitable altar? And who made him doubt it - not with logic, but simply with a facial expression? A rotting tavernkeeper from the Wild West. He made you doubt things, ey? - W-well... in some sort of sense... - Now, isn't that Borodin a character? Now1, isn't life simple? You have chosen a principle for yourself - and off you go. But the only good in principles is that they grow obsolete. They become obsolete faster than people do, and people are only left with the ones dictated by history alone. For instance, in our age history had bluntly announced to all Yurkovski's: enough! No discoveries are worth a single human life. Risking one's life is only allowed for the sake of life. People didn't make this up. History dictated this, and people only made this history. But there, where general principles clash with individual principles - there simple life ends and a complex one begins. Such is life. - Yes, - said Yura. - Perhaps. They became quiet, and again Zhilin experience an agonising sense of split personality, that wouldn't leave him for a few years already. As though each time, when he leaves on a voyage, on Earth remains some incredibly important business, a thing most important to all people, incredibly important, more important than the rest of the Universe, more important than the most wonderful creations at the hands of the humanity. Back on Earth remained people, youngsters, kids. There remained millions and millions of these Yurik's, and Zhilin felt that he can really help them. No matter where. In a boarding school. Or in a community club. Or in a Youth centre. Help them enter life, help them find themselves, determine their place in the world, teach them a desire for many things at once, teach them to want to work without obstacles. Teach them not to bow down to authority, but to study it and compare its teachings with life. Teach them to treat the experience of wise people with caution, because life changes remarkably quickly. Teach them to despise the wisdom of petty bourgeois. Teach them, that to love and to cry because of love is not shameful. Teach them, that scepticism and cynicism in life both cost cheap, that this is much easier and much more boring than to wonder at and find joy in life. Teach them to trust the movements of the soul of those closest to them. Teach them, that it's better to be disappointed twenty times in one person, than to treat everyone with suspicion. Teach them, that the point is not in what influence others may have on you, but in how you influence other people. And teach them, that one person is worth nothing alone. Yura sighed and said: - Vanya, let's play a game of chess. Let's, - said Zhilin. DIONA. ON ALL FOURS. Yurkovski had known the observatory director on Diona for a long time, back when the director was still a post-graduate student in the Institute of planetology. Vladislav Kimovich Shershen was then attending Yurkovski's special course "Giant planets". Yurkovski remembered him and admired his audacious intellect and exceptional sense of purpose. Shershen walked out to meet his old former mentor at the caisson. - Really now, didn't expect seeing you here, - he was saying, leading Vladimir Sergeevich under the arm to his office. Shershen was no longer the same. There no longer existed a tall dark-haired lad, always tanned and a little melancholic. Shershen had turned pale; he became bold, obese and kept smiling all the time. - Really I didn't expect you! - he kept saying with delight. - How is it that you have decided to visit us, Vladimir Sergeevich? And no one ever informed us... In the office he sat Yurkovski behind his desk, moving aside a spring press with a pile of photocorrections, and sat himself at the low chair opposite him. Yurkovski was gazing around, nodding favourably. The office was small and bare. A true scientist's work post at an interplanetary station. And Vladislav himself matched the place well. He was wearing worn-out, but well-pressed overalls with rolled sleeves, his full face was thoroughly shaven, and a limp semi-grey tuft on top of his head was well combed. - Indeed you have aged, Vladislav, - Yurkovski said with regret. - And... er... your form is not the same. I remember you were an athlete, Vladislav. - Six years here, almost without leave, Vladimir Sergeevich, - Shershen said. - Gravity pull here is fifty times less than on the planet, exhausting myself with expanders, like our youngsters do, I cannot afford to for lack of time, plus my heart is playing up also, so I grow fat. And what use would I have for slenderness, Vladimir Sergeevich? My wife doesn't care what I look like, and to lose weight for the sake of girls - I don't have the same temperament, and my position precludes me, as well... They laughed together. - But you, Vladimir Sergeevich, have changed little. - Yes, - said Yurkovski. - Less hair, more sense. - What's new at the institute? - Shershen asked. - How is Gabdul Kadyrovich doing? - Gabdul is stuck, - said Yurkovski. - Waiting keenly for your results, Vladislav. In fact, the entire Saturn planetology rests on you. You have spoiled them, Vladislav... er... really spoiled. - Well, then, - said Shershen, - we won't hold things up. Next year we will begin deep launches... I only wish you would boost me up with people, Vladimir Sergeevich, with specialists. Experienced, solid specialists... - Specialists, - Yurkovski said, chuckling. - Everybody needs specialists. Only that, incidentally, is your task, Vladislav, to prepare specialists. You, you must supply them to the institute, not the institute to you. And I have heard that Muller had left you to go to Tefia. Even what we had given you, you have squandered. Shershen shook his head. - Dear Vladimir Sergeevich, - he said, - I need to work here, not to raise specialists. Big deal, Muller. Ok, he is an all right atmosphericist, with two tens of O.K. papers. But then we have to carry out the program on Diona, not go around chasing crafty-minded Mullers. And let the institute keep people like this Muller to itself. Nobody will fall for them. And here we need young, disciplined people... Who is now running the coordination department? Is it still Barkan? - Yes, - said Yurkovski. - That's what it looks like. - Come on, now, Vladislav, Barkan is a good worker. But right now five new observatories have opened in Space. And they all need people. - Well, come on then, comrades! - said Shershen. - One must use sense when planning! We have extra observatories, and no additional specialists? This can't go on! - Alright, - said Yurkovski cheerfully, - your... err... displeasure, Vladislav, I will most certainly pass onto Barkan. And in general, Vladislav, get your complaints and objections ready. About people, about equipment. Seize the moment, Vladislav, since for the time being I am invested with power to sanction and to arrest, under the highest authority, Vladislav. - Shershen raised his eyebrows in wonder. - Yes, Vladislav, you are talking to IBCC's chief inspector. Shershen jerked his head up. - Oh... so that's how it is? - he said slowly. - I really didn't expect! - He suddenly started smiling again. - And I am twisting my brains, like an idiot: how did it happen, that the head of global planetology had so suddenly, without warning... I am interested, what aspersions have cost our little Diona the honour of the chief's visit? They laughed again. - Look... err... Vladislav, - said Yurkovski. - We are happy with the observatory's work, you know that. I am really pleased with you, Vladislav. You work... err... with distinction. And I was not at all going to trouble you in my, how shall I put it... err... official capacity. But then there is that same question over people. You see, Vladislav, a certain - I would even call it legitimate - doubt is raised by the fact that you have... err... say, here you have finished twenty projects during the last year. Good projects. Some of them simply superb. For instance... err... this one, about the determination of exospheric sections depth according to the configuration of ring shadows. Yes. Good works. But there's not a single independent one among them. Shershen and Shatrova... A question crops up: where do you have just Averin and Shatrova? Where is simply Svirski? That is, one gets the impression, that you are leading your youngsters on a pair of braces. Naturally, results are most important, nobody judges the victors... err... but with all your workload you have no right to neglect the training of specialists. Because, sooner or later, they will have to work independently. And, in turn, teach other people. How does it work with you? - It's a legitimate question, Vladimir Sergeevich, - said Shershen, after a moment of silence. - But how do I answer it - I can't imagine. And it looks suspicious. I would even say, nasty. You know, I have tried to refuse co-authorship a number of times already, simply to save face. And can you imagine, the guys won't let me. And I understand them! Take Tolya Kravetz. - He tapped his hand on photocorrections. - A superb observer. A master of precision measurement. A wonderful engineer. But... - he made a helpless gesture, - he doesn't have enough practical experience, or something, I don't know... Enormous, most fascinating observations' material - and a virtually complete lack of ability to conduct a quality analysis of the results. You see, Vladimir Sergeevich, I am a scientist, it hurts me to see this material going to waste, and to publish it in raw form, to let Gabdul Kadyrovich draw the conclusions, is also, not the best idea, you know. I can't help it, I sit down and begin interpreting it personally. And then... the boy also has his pride... That's how you get Shershen and Kravetz. - Mm-yeah, - said Yurkovski. - It happens. Don't you worry, Vladislav, no one is contemplating anything grave... We know you perfectly well. Yes, Anatoly Kravetz. I think I do... err... remember him. Such a solid fellow. Very well mannered. Yes-yes, I remember. He was a really hard-working student, as I recall. Somehow I imagined he is on Earth, at Abastumaine... Er... yeah. You know what, Vladislav, tell me about your staff, please. I have already forgotten all of them. - Well, - said Shershen. - That is not difficult. There are only eight of us here on entire Diona. Now, we can exclude Ditz and Oleneva, they are control engineers. Great, talented guys, not one accident in three years. We also won't talk about me, so in we are left with only five in total, astronomers, in fact. Now, there is Averin. An astrophysicist. I anticipate he will become a really valuable contributor, but he still squanders a lot of his efforts. Personally I've never appreciated that in others. That's why it never worked out between Muller and me. Right. Svirski, Vitaly. Also an astrophysicist. - Hold on, hold on, - said Yurkovski, his face brightening. - Averin and Svirski! Yes, how can I... They were a wonderful pair! I recall, once I was in a cranky mood and failed Averin, and Svirski refused to be examined by me. It was a really touching rebellion, I recall... Yes, they were great friends. - Now things have cooled down between them, - Shershen said ruefully. - But what... err... had happened? - A girl, - Shershen said crossly. - They both fell head over heels for Zina Shatrova... - I remember! - Yurkovski exclaimed. - This tiny one, lively, eyes blue like... err... forget-me-nots. Everyone courted her and she would keep dismissing it with jokes. A really cheery girl, that one. - Now she no longer cheery, - Shershen said. - I am lost in all these matters of the heart, Vladimir Sergeevich. No, it is your call. I have always spoken out against you on this matter, and will keep speaking out. There is no place for young girls on remote bases, Vladimir Sergeevich. - Leave it, Vladislav, - said Yurkovski, frowning. - That's not the point, after all. Though I also expected a great deal from this pair - Averin and Svirski. But they requested unconnected research subjects. Now their old theme is being developed by Averin and myself, and Svirski is working on his own. So, about Svirski. Calm, composed, though a little phlegmatic. I intend to leave him as my deputy when I go on leave. Not fully confident yet, must be assisted. Now, I have told you about Tolya Kravetz. Zina Shatrova... - Shershen became quiet and scratched the back of his head vigorously - A girl! - he said. - Knowledgeable, of course, but... She has this, you know, vagueness over everything. Emotions. However, I don't have any specific issues with her work. I guess she justifies her being on Diona. And, finally, Bazanov. Shershen fell silent and became absorbed in thought. Yurkovski threw a quick glance at the photocorrections, then he couldn't resist and moved the lid off the press, covering the title page. "Shershen and Kravetz, - he read. - The dust composite of Saturn's bands". He sighed and began staring at Shershen . - So what is it then? - he asked. - What about... err... Bazanov? - Bazanov - is a great worker, - Shershen said decisively. - A little impulsive, but has an able, clear mind. Though, it is somewhat hard to deal with him. - Bazanov... Somehow I can't recall... What does he do? - An atmosphericist. You know, Vladimir Sergeevich, he is so punctilious. The project is ready, Muller was helping him as well, and it's time to publish it - but no! He is still unhappy with something, something seems unfounded to him... You know, there are such... Really self-critical people. Self-critical and stubborn. We have been using his findings for a long time already... It becomes a silly situation, we have no opportunity to make references. But, frankly speaking, I am not worried too much. And he is also awfully stubborn and irritable. - Yes, - said Yurkovski. - Such a... err... really independent student he was. Yes... really. - He stretched his hand out to the photocorrections, as if by accident, and began shuffling through them, as though his mind was absent. - Yes... err... interesting. And this particular project I have not yet seen, Vladislav, - he said. - This is my latest one, - Shershen said with a smile. - I will, most likely, deliver the corrections to Earth myself, when I take my leave. Paradoxical results have been obtained, Vladimir Sergeevich. Simply marvellous! Just look here... Shershen rounded the table and bent down to Yurkovski. There was a knock on the door. - Excuse me, Vladimir Sergeevich, - said Shershen and stood up straight. - Come in! A pale bony fellow, bent in two, crouched through a low oval-shaped hatch. Yurkovski recognised him - this was Petya Bazanov, good-natured, very even-handed boy, smart and kind. Yurkovski already began smiling favourably, but Bazanov only gave him a cold nod, walked to the table and laid the folder before Shershen. - The calculations, - he said. - Coefficients of absorption. Yurkovski said calmly: - What is it Peter... err... forgot your patronymic, you don't even wish to say good day to me? Bazanov slowly turned his lean face towards him and, squinting his eyes, looked in his direction. - I beg your pardon, Vladimir Sergeevich, - he said. - How are you? I am afraid, I was a bit out of line. - I am afraid, you have really stepped a little out of line, Bazanov, - Shershen said in a low voice. Bazanov shrugged his shoulders and walked out, slamming the hatch behind him. Yurkovski stood up sharply, and he was carried up from behind the desk. Shershen caught him by the hand. - Magnetic boots here are supposed to be kept on the floor, comrade chief inspector, - he said, laughing. - This isn't your "Takhmaseeb". Yurkovski was looking at the closed hatch. Is this really Bazanov, he thought with amazement. Shershen's look became serious. - Don't be amazed by Bazanov's behaviour, - he said. - We have had a squabble with him over this coefficients of absorption. He finds it below his dignity to calculate these coefficients and has been terrorising the observatory for two days now. Yurkovski narrowed his eyebrows, trying to remember. Then he waved his hand. - Let's forget it, - he said. - Alright, Vladislav, show us your paradoxes. From "Takhmaseeb's" reactor coil a thin cord was stretched across the rocky plain to the cylindrical elevator tower. Yura was moving gradually and cautiously along the line, feeling content, that his weightlessness training did not go to waste. Ahead of him, about fifty paces ahead, Michael Antonovich's space suit was gleaming in Saturn's yellow light. The giant crescent of Saturn peeked from behind his shoulder. Ahead of them, above the near horizon a greenish waning moon shone brightly - this was Titan, the largest satellite of Saturn and the biggest in the entire solar system. Yura turned to look at Saturn. The rings could not be seen from Diona, Yura only saw a thin silvery ray, dissecting the crescent in half. The unlit part of Saturn's disk was weakly shimmering with green light. Somewhere behind Saturn Rhea was moving now. Michael Antonovich waited for Yura, and together they pushed through the low semi-circular trap door. The observatory was located underground, on the surface remained only the meshed interferometer towers and antennae parabolas, which resembled colossal saucers. In the caisson, whilst getting out of the space suit, Michael Antonovich said: - Yurik, I'll to the library, and you might want to go for a wander, see things around here, the crew here are all young, you will make friends quickly... And then I will meet you in about two hours... Or you can go straight back to ship... He patted Yura on the shoulder and clanking his magnetic bootcaps walked down the corridor to the left. The corridor was spherical, lined with matted plastic, with just a narrow steel pathway under his feet, scratched by bootcaps everywhere. Pipes stretched along the corridor, something was bubbling and gurgling in them. The air smelled of pine forest and heated metal. Yura walked past an open hatch. There was nobody inside, only multi-coloured lights flashed on control panels. So quiet, thought Yura. Nobody to be seen or heard. He turned into an adjacent corridor and heard music. Somewhere, someone was playing a guitar, drawing out a sad melody, confidently and unhurriedly. Is it like this on Rhea as well? - Yura thought all of a sudden. He liked when it was noisy, when everyone stayed together, and laughed, and made jokes, and sang. He felt blue. Then he thought, that everyone here is, probably, working but still could not manage to shrug off the impression that people cannot avoid being bored inside empty round corridors - whether here or on other distant planets. Most likely, it was the guitar's fault. Then right above his ear someone said in a spiteful voice: "Now this has nothing to do with you any more! Do you understand? Nothing whatsoever!" Yura stopped. The corridor was still empty. Another voice, gentle and pleading, said: - I did not mean any harm, Vitaly. You know, no one needs this, neither you, nor her, nor Vladislav Kimovich. Nobody at all. I just wanted to tell you... A spiteful voice interrupted him: - I have heard it before and I am sick of it! Just leave me alone, you and your Averin, don't poke into my affairs! I am only asking one thing: let me finish my three years - and you can all go to hell... On Yura's left a hatch flipped open and a light-haired fellow jumped into the corridor. His pale hair was messed up, his flushed face in a twist. He shut the hatch noisily with satisfaction and stopped in front of Yura. They were looking at each other for about a minute. - Who are you? - the light-haired fellow asked. - I am... - said Yura, - I am from "Takhmaseeb". - Oh, - said the light-haired fellow with disgust. - Another favourite pet! He walked around Yura and started fast down the corridor, repeatedly flying up to the ceiling and mumbling: "Why don't you all go to hell! To hell, all of you..." Yura followed him with a cold: "Have you jammed your finger or something, young man?" The light-haired one did not even turn. Well, well, thought Yura. This place is not so boring, after all. He turned to the hatch and discovered another person standing before him, most likely the one who talked in a pleading voice. He was solidly built, broad-shouldered and dressed not without elegance. He had a nice haircut and a sad pink-cheeked face. - Are you from the "Takhmaseeb"? - he asked quietly, nodding amicably. - Yes, - said Yura. - With Vladimir Sergeevich Yurkovski? How are you, - the man stretched out his hand. - My name is Kravetz. Anatoly. Will you be working with us? - No, - said Yura. - I am just passing through. - Oh, just passing? - said Kravetz. He was still holding Yura's hand. His hand was dry and cool. - Yuri Borodin, - said Yura. - Nice to meet you, - said Kravetz and released Yura's hand. - So you are passing through. Tell me, Yura, has Vladimir Sergeevich really come here for an inspection? - Don't know, - said Yura. Kravetz's pink face became totally dismal. - Yes, well of course, you wouldn't know... Over here, you see, this obscure rumour has spread... How long have you known Vladimir Sergeevich? - A month, - Yura said with reluctance. He already understood, that he doesn't like Kravetz. Perhaps, because he talked to the light-haired fellow in a pleading voice. Or maybe, because he kept asking questions all the time. - Well, I know him better, - said Kravetz. - I studied under him. - He suddenly realised something. - Why are we standing here? Come on in! Yura stepped into the hatch. This seemed to be the computer laboratory. Transparent sections of computer processors stretched along the walls. In the centre was a matted white control panel and a large desk piled with documents and diagrams. On the desk stood a few smaller electric machines for manual calculations. - This is our brain, - said Kravetz. - Have a seat. Yura remained standing. The silence became protracted. - We have the same machine on "Takhmaseeb", - Yura informed him. - Right now everyone is on observations, - said Kravetz. - You see, no one is here. We, generally, do a lot of observation work. Doing really long hours. Time just flies by without anyone noticing. Sometimes we have such fights over our work... - he waved his hand and laughed. - Our astrophysicists have had a total falling out. Each one has his own idea, and each one considers the other to be a fool. They communicate through me. And, in turn, I must cope with the flak. Kravetz stopped talking and looked at Yura with anticipation. - Oh well, - said Yura, looking down. - It happens. Of course, he thought, no one wants to wash others dirty linen. - There are only a few of us here, - said Kravetz, - we are all really busy, our director, Vladislav Kimovich, is a really nice person, but he is also busy. So at first it might seem, that everything is really boring around here. But the truth is, we all sit here with our work around the clock. He looked at Yura with anticipation once more. Yura said politely: - Yes, of course, what else would one do here. Cosmos is really for work, and not for amusements. Though it is really somewhat empty around here. Just one guitar playing somewhere. - Ah, - said Kravetz, with a smile, - this is our Ditz immersed in thought. The hatch opened and a small girl with a great pile of papers pushed awkwardly into the laboratory. She closed the hatch with her shoulder and looked at Yura. Perhaps she had just woken up - her eyes were a little swollen. - Good day, - said Yura. The girl moved her lips soundlessly and quietly walked to the table. Kravetz said: - This is Zina Shatrova. And this, Zinochka, is Yuri Borodin, he arrived together with Vladimir Sergeevich Yurkovski. The girl nodded, without lifting her eyes. Yura was trying to grasp, are all of those people who had come with Yurkovski on "Takhmaseeb" being treated so oddly. He looked at Kravetz. Kravetz was looking at Zina and, it seemed, was calculating something. Zina was quietly going through the papers. When she moved an electric calculator towards her and began clicking loudly on the number keys, Kravetz turned to Yura and said: - Well, Yura, would you like to... The soft singing of a radiophone call interrupted him. He excused himself and hastily pulled a radiophone from his pocket. - Anatoly? - a dense voice asked. - Yes, this is me, Vladislav Kimovich. - Anatoly, please go and visit Bazanov. He is in the library. Kravetz looked at Yura. - I have here... - he began saying. The voice in the radiophone suddenly grew distant. - Welcome, Vladimir Sergeevich... Yes-yes, I have prepared the schematic diagrams... Rapid busy signals came through. Kravetz shoved the telephone into his pocket and looked hesitantly at Zina and at Yura. - I must leave, - he said. - The director has asked me to help our atmosphericist... Zina, be so kind, show the observatory to our guest. Don't forget, he is Vladimir Sergeevich's good friend, we must accommodate him as well as we can. Zina made no reply. It seemed she did not hear Kravetz and only lowered her face closer to the machine. Kravetz grinned a sad smile at Yura, raised his eyebrows, lifted his hands slightly and left. Yura walked to the control panel and looked furtively at the girl. She had a pretty and somewhat hopelessly weary face. What does it all mean: "has Vladimir Sergeevich really come here for an inspection?" "Don't forget, he is Vladimir Sergeevich's good friend". "Go to hell, all of you!" Yura sensed, that all this means something nasty. He felt a pressing urge to get involved in something. It was decidedly impossible to go away and leave everything the way it was. He looked at Zina again. The girl was diligently doing her work. Never before did he see such a pretty girl being so sad and quiet. Surely someone must have hurt her, he thought suddenly. It's clear as day, that someone had hurt her. A person is hurt before your eyes - and it is your fault, - he remembered unconsciously. Alright, then... - What's this? - Yura asked in a loud voice and poked his finger at random at one of the blinking lamps. Zina shuddered and lifted her head. - That? - she said. She lifted her eyes to him for the first time. Here eyes were incredibly blue and big. Yura said bravely: - Exactly, that one. Zina was still looking at him. - Tell me, - she asked, - will you be working here with us? - No, - said Yura and walked close to the table. - I am not going to work here with you. I am just passing. And I am no friend of Vladimir Sergeevich, we are only slightly acquainted. And I am no favourite pet. I am a vacuum-welder. She brushed her hand over her face. - Hold on, - she mumbled. - A vacuum-welder? Why a vacuum-welder? - And why not? - said Yura. He sensed, that in some inconceivable way this is of outmost importance, and for this pretty sad girl it is really good, that he is precisely a vacuum-welder, and not someone different. Never before had he been so glad that he is a vacuum-welder. - I am sorry, - said the girl. - I confused you with someone else. - With whom? - Don't know. I was thinking... I don't know. It doesn't matter. Yura walked around the table and stood at her side, looking at her from above. - Tell me, please, - he demanded. - What? - Everything. Everything that goes on here. And suddenly Yura saw, how quick droplets began falling onto the shiny polished desktop. He felt a lump at his thr