ose to  sixty, with  a wrinkled,
weather-beaten face  and dry,  sinewy  arms. "We'll  pay our taxes,  cure my
cursed rheumatism, and buy you a coat, a hat and a pair  of shoes, Giovanni.
After all, you're a young man and you should be dressed well. As a matter of
fact, some new clothes won't harm any of us, will they?"
     "New clothes!" Giovanni mimicked  angrily. "When there's so much sorrow
and  poverty  everywhere! First of  all, we'll have to help Giacomo's widow,
you  know, the one who drowned last year and left three children and an  old
mother."
     "You're right,  Giovanni,"  Pietro agreed.  "We should  help  Giacomo's
widow. He was a good and true friend."
     Then the  third fisherman entered  the  conversation. He  was a man  of
thirty, and his name was Cristoforo.
     "What  about  Luigi?  We should  give  him some  money,  too.  The poor
fellow's dying of tuberculosis."
     "That's right," Giovanni said. "And Sybilla Capelli.  Her son's been in
prison for over a year now for organizing the strike."
     "Just  think how many people we can help," Giovanni said excitedly. And
the three  kind fishermen sat late into the night, discussing whom else they
could help, now that they had the wonderful suitcases. These were honest and
kind-hearted  toilers,  and the  idea  never  entered  their  minds  to  use
Hottabych's present in order to get rich and be wealthy fishmongers.
     I am happy to tell this  to  my readers,  so they'll know the old man's
present fell into good hands, and I'm  certain that  none of  them,  if they
were in the fishermen's place, would have acted otherwise.

        THE VESSEL FROM THE PILLARS OF HERCULES

     This time Hottabych was true to  his word. He had promised he'd be back
in two or three hours.  At about a quarter to nine his beaming face shot out
of the  water.  The old  man  was  excited. He scrambled up  on  the  beach,
carrying a large seaweed-covered metal object over his head.
     "I found him, my friends!" he yelled.  "I found the vessel in which  my
unfortunate  brother  Omar Asaf ibn  Hottab has  been  imprisoned these many
centuries-may the sun always shine over him! I scanned the whole  sea bottom
and was beginning to despair when  I noticed this magic  vessel in the green
vastness near the Pillars of Hercules."
     "What are you waiting for? Hurry up and open it!" Zhenya cried, running
up to the exultant old man.
     "I dare not  open it, for it is sealed  with Sulayman's Seal. Let Volka
ibn Alyosha,  who  freed me,  also free my  long-suffering  little  brother.
Here's the  vessel which  I have spent  so  many  sleepless nights  dreaming
about!" Hottabych continued, waving his find overhead.
     "Here, 0 Volka, open it, to the joy of my brother Omar and myself!"
     Pressing his ear  to the side of  the vessel, he laughed happily, "Oho,
my friends! Omar is signalling to me from within!"
     There was  envy in Zhenya's eyes  as he  watched the  old  man  hand  a
nattered Volka the vessel, or, rather, lay it at Volka's feet, since it  was
so heavy.
     "But didn't you  say that Omar was imprisoned in a  copper vessel? This
one's  made of iron. Oh well, no  matter.... Where's the  seal? Aha, here it
is!" Volka said, inspecting the vessel carefully from all sides.
     Suddenly he turned pale and shouted:
     "Quick, lie down! Zhenya, lie down! Hottabych, throw it right back into
the water and lie down!"
     "You're mad!" Hottabych said indignantly. "I've dreamed  of our meeting
for so many years, and now, after finding him, you want me to throw him back
to the waves."
     "Throw it  as far out  as you  can! Your Omar  isn't inside!  Hurry, or
we'll all  be  dead!" Volka pleaded. Since the old  man still hesitated,  he
yelled at the top of his voice, "It is an order! Do you hear?!"
     Shrugging in dismay, Hottabych raised the heavy object, heaved  it  and
tossed it at least 200 yards from the shore.
     Before he  had  a chance to turn for an  explanation towards Volka, who
was  standing  beside him, there  was a terrible  explosion at  the spot the
vessel hit the  water. A huge pillar of water rose over the calm surface  of
the lagoon and fell apart with a loud crash. Thousands of stunned and killed
fish floated bellies up on the waves.
     People were already running towards them, attracted by the sound of the
explosion.
     "Let's run!" Volka commanded.
     They hurried to the highway and headed towards the city.
     A grieved Hottabych lagged behind and kept turning round constantly. He
was still not convinced that he had done right by obeying Volka.
     "What  did  you see on the thing?" Zhenya  asked when  he had caught up
with Volka, who was way ahead of him and Hottabych.
     " 'Made in USA,' that's what!"
     "So it was a bomb."
     "No, it  was a  mine.  There's  a big difference! It  was an underwater
mine."
     Hottabych sighed sadly.
     When Hottabych  saw that Omar was  not to be found in the Mediterranean
Sea, he suggested that they set out to the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. The
suggestion in itself was extremely tempting. However, Volka was unexpectedly
against it.  He said that he had  to be in Moscow the  following day without
fail.  But he would  not  tell them the reason, he  just  said it  was  very
important.  And so, with  a heavy  heart, Hottabych temporarily put  off the
search for Omar Asaf.
     The "VK-1" magic-carpet-seaplane  with Hassan  Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab,
Volka  Kostylkov  and  Zhenya  Bogorad  aboard,  soared  into  the  air  and
disappeared beyond the far-off mountains.
     Some ten hours later it landed safely on the sloping bank of the Moskva
River.


        THE SHORTEST CHAPTER OF ALL

     On a hot July noon, the ice-breaker "Ladoga," carrying a large group of
excursionists, left the Red Pier of the port of Arkhangelsk. The band on the
pier was playing marches. People  waved their handkerchiefs and shouted "Bon
voyage!" Trailing white puffs of steam, the ship sailed  cautiously out into
the middle of the Severnaya Dvina, past the many Soviet and foreign ships at
anchor  there,  and  headed for the mouth of  the river and the  White  Sea.
Endless  cutters,  motor-boats, schooners,  trawlers,  gigs,  and cumbersome
rafts ploughed the calm surface of the great northern river.
     The excursionists,  who were now gathered on the top deck, were leaving
Arkhangelsk and the mainland for a whole month.
     "Volka!" one of  the  passengers shouted to another, who  was anxiously
darting about near the captain's bridge, "Where's Hottabych?"
     The perceptive reader will gather from these words that our old friends
were among the passengers.

        DREAMING OF THE "LADOGA"

     Here we should like to pause for a moment and tell our readers how  our
three friends came to be aboard the "Ladoga" in the first place.
     Naturally, everyone recalls that Volka failed his geography examination
disgracefully, which was largely his own fault (he should never have  relied
on  prompting). It is  difficult to  forget such an  event.  Volka certainly
remembered it and was  studying  intently  for  his  re-examination.  He had
decided to do his utmost to get an "A."
     Despite his sincere desire to  prepare for the examination,  it was not
as easy as it seemed. Hottabych was  in the way. Volka had never mustered up
enough  courage to tell  the old man of the true consequences  of  his fatal
prompting.  That is why he could  never  tell him  he needed time to  study,
since he  feared that Hottabych might  decide to  punish  his teachers,  and
Varvara Stepanovna in particular, for having failed him.
     Hottabych made himself particularly troublesome the day of the  unusual
football match between the Shaiba and Zubilo teams.
     Feeling terribly  contrite for all the  anguish he had caused Volka  at
the stadium, Hottabych fairly shadowed him; he tried to regain his favour by
scattering  compliments  and proposing the most  tempting adventures. It was
not until eleven o'clock at night that Volka had a chance to get down to his
studies.
     "With  your  permission,  0  Volka,  I shall  go  to sleep,  for I feel
somewhat drowsy," Hottabych finally said, as he yawned and crawled under the
bed.
     "Good night, Hottabych! Sweet dreams!" Volka answered, settling back in
his chair  and gazing at his bed longingly. He was also tired and, as he put
it,  was quite ready to doze off for some 500 or 600 minutes.  But he had to
study, and so reluctantly put his mind to his work.
     Alas! The rustling of the pages attracted the sleepy Genie's attention.
He stuck  his head and dishevelled beard from  under  the bed and  said in a
foggy voice:
     "Why aren't you in bed yet, 0 stadium of my soul?"
     "I'm not sleepy. I have insomnia," Volka lied.
     "My, my, my!" Hottabych said compassionately.  "That's really too  bad.
Insomnia  is extremely  harmful  at  your delicate  age. But  don't despair,
there's nothing I can't do."
     He  yanked  several  hairs  from his  beard,  blew  on them,  whispered
something,  and  Volka, who  had no  time  to object  to this  untimely  and
unnecessary aid,  fell asleep  immediately,  with  his head resting  on  the
table.
     "Praised be Allah! All is well," Hottabych mumbled,  crawling  out from
under  the bed. "May you  remain in  the embraces of sleep  until  breakfast
time!"
     He lifted the sleeping boy lightly and carefully lay him to rest in his
bed, pulling  the  blanket  over  him.  Then,  clucking  and  mumbling  with
satisfaction, he crawled back under the bed.
     All night  long the table lamp cast its useless  light on the geography
text-book, forlornly opened at page 11.
     You can well imagine  how cunning Volka  had to  be to prepare for  his
re-examination in such difficult circumstances. This  was the very important
reason why Volka (and, therefore, Hottabych and Zhenya) had to  fly  home to
Moscow  from Genoa instead of continuing  on to the  shores  of the Atlantic
Ocean.
     However, Volka  soon found  out  that preparing for the examination was
only half the job done. He had yet to think of a way to get rid of Hottabych
while  he  was  in school taking  the  exam, to find a way  of  leaving  the
apartment unnoticed.
     The telephone  rang.  Volka  went to the foyer  to  answer  it. It  was
Zhenya.
     "Hello!" Volka said.  "Yes,  today. At noon.... He's still sleeping....
What?. . . Sure,  he's well.  He's a very healthy old man.... What?... No, I
haven't thought of anything yet.... You're crazy! He'll be terribly hurt and
he'll do such mischief we won't be able to undo it in  a  hundred  years....
Then you'll be here at ten-thirty? Fine!"
     Hottabych  stuck   his   head  out  of   Volka's  room.  He   whispered
reproachfully, "Volka,  why are  you talking to our best friend  Zhenya  ibn
Kolya in  the hall? That's not  polite.  Wouldn't it be nicer if you invited
him in?"
     "How can he come in if he's at home?"
     Hottabych was offended.
     "I can't understand  why you want  to play  tricks  on your old devoted
Genie.  My  ears  have  never yet deceived me. I just heard  you talking  to
Zhenya."
     "I was talking to  him  on the telephone. Don't you understand-te-le-ph
one? I sure  do have a lot of  trouble with you! What a thing to get mad at!
Come here, I'll show you what I mean!"
     Hottabych  joined  him. Volka  removed  the  receiver  and  dialled the
familiar number.
     "Will you please call Zhenya to the phone?" he said.
     Then he handed the receiver to Hottabych.
     "Here, you can talk to him now."
     Hottabych pressed the receiver to his ear cautiously and his face broke
into a puzzled smile.
     "Is that really you, 0 blessed Zhenya  ibn Kolya? Where are you now?...
At home?... And  I thought you  were sitting in  this black little thing I'm
holding to my ear.... Yes, that's right, it's me, your devoted friend Hassan
Abdurrakhman ibn Hot-tab.... You'll be  here soon? If that's the  case,  may
your trip be blessed!"
     Beaming with pleasure,  he handed the receiver back to  Volka, who  was
looking very superior.
     "It's amazing!" Hottabych  exclaimed. "Without once  raising my voice I
spoke to a boy who is two hours' walking distance away!"
     Returning to Volka's room, the old man turned round  slyly, snapped the
fingers  of his left hand, and there appeared  on the wall over the aquarium
an exact copy of the telephone hanging in the hall.
     "Now you can talk  to your friends as much as  you like without leaving
your own room."
     "Golly, thanks a lot!"  Volka said gratefully. He removed the receiver,
pressed it to his ear and listened.
     There was no dial tone.
     "Hello!  Hello!"  he shouted. He shook the receiver and then blew  into
it. Still, there was no dial tone.
     "The  phone's  broken," he explained  to  Hottabych.  "FU  unscrew  the
receiver and see what's wrong."
     However, despite all his efforts, he could not unscrew it.
     "It's made of the finest black marble," Hottabych boasted.
     "Then there's nothing inside?" Volka asked disappointedly.
     "Why, is there supposed to be  something inside this, too? Just like in
a watch?"
     "Now  I  know  why  it  doesn't  work.  You've  only made  a model of a
telephone, without anything that's supposed to go inside it. But the insides
are the most important part."
     "What's supposed to be inside? A special kind of filling? The kind that
was in  the watch, with  all kinds  of wheels? You just explain it, and I'll
make it exactly as it should be."
     "It's not like a watch;  it's  entirely different. And it's not so easy
to explain. You have to study all about electricity first," Volka said  with
an air of importance.
     "Then teach me about what you call electricity."
     "To  begin with,  you  have  to  study  arithmetic, algebra,  geometry,
trigonometry, mechanical drawing and all kinds of other subjects."
     "Then teach me these other subjects, too."
     "Uh ... well... I don't know all of them myself, yet," Volka confessed.
     "Then teach me what you already know."
     "It'll take an awfully long time."
     "That  doesn't matter.  I  am willing, nonetheless.  Don't  keep me  in
suspense:  will  you  teach  me  these  subjects, which give a  person  such
wonderful powers?"
     "On condition that  you  do your homework  well," Volka  said  sternly.
"Here, read  the paper while  I go to see a friend of mine about something."
He handed Hottabych a copy of Pionerskaya Pravda and set out for school.
     The light-grey school building was unusually deserted and quiet. In the
office  on  the  first  floor  the principal  and  Varvara  Stepanovna  were
discussing school problems, and on the third floor the loud, cheerful voices
of  the painters and plasterers echoed through the  halls. It was summer and
the school was being renovated.
     "Well,  my dear  Varvara Stepanovna, what shall  I say?" the  principal
said  with a smile. "One can only envy such a vacation. How long will you be
gone?" "I believe for a month or so."
     Volka was  glad to hear that Varvara Stepanovna  would not be in danger
of encountering Hottabych for at least a  month. If only she would leave  as
quickly as possible!
     "Aha, the crystal cupola of the  heavens!" the principal teased  as  he
greeted  Volka.  "Well,  are you feeling better now?" "Yes, I'm  quite well,
thank you."
     "Excellent! Have you prepared for your examination?" "Yes, I have."
     "Well, then, let's have a little talk."
     The little talk embraced almost the whole of sixth-grade geography.  If
Volka had  thought of looking at the time, he would have  been  surprised to
note that their little talk lasted nearly twenty minutes. But he couldn't be
bothered  with  the  time.  He  thought the  principal was  not  asking  the
questions  in great enough detail. He felt he could speak  on each topic for
five or ten minutes. He was experiencing the tormenting and at once pleasant
feeling of a pupil who knows  his subject inside-out and is most worried  by
the thought that this fact might go unnoticed by his examiners. But one look
at  Varvara Stepanovna convinced him that she was pleased  with his answers.
Nevertheless, when  the  principal said, "Good for you! Now  I can see  that
your teacher hasn't wasted her time on you," Volka felt a pleasant chill run
down  his spine. His freckled face spread into  such  a broad smile that the
principal and Varvara Stepanovna smiled, too.
     "Yes, Kostylkov has  obviously put in a lot  of studying,"  his teacher
said.
     Ah, if they only  knew of the terribly difficult conditions under which
Volka had to prepare for his exam! What stratagems he had had  to resort to,
how he had had to  hide  from Hottabych in order to have a chance  to  study
quietly;  what colossal barriers the unsuspecting  Hottabych had put in  his
way! How much more his teachers would  have  respected his achievements, had
they only known!
     For a moment, Volka was on the point of boasting of his  own success as
a  teacher (not everyone can proudly say he has taught  a  Genie to read and
write!), but he checked himself in time.
     "Well,  Kostylkov, congratulations on  passing to the 7th grade! Have a
good rest until September. Get strong and healthy! Goodbye for now!"
     "Thank you," Volka replied  as discreetly as  a 7th-grade pupil should.
"Good-bye."
     When  he  arrived at  the  river bank,  Hottabych, who had made himself
comfortable in  the shade of a mighty oak,  was reading the  paper aloud  to
Zhenya.
     "I passed!  I  got  an 'A'!" Volka  whispered  to his  friend.  Then he
stretched  out  beside  Hottabych,  experiencing  at  least  three  pleasant
feelings at once: the first was that he was lying in the  shade; the second,
that he had passed his exam so well; and the last, but by no means least-the
pride of a teacher enjoying the achievements of his pupil.
     Meanwhile, Hottabych had reached  the section entitled  "Sports  News."
The very first article made the friends sigh with envy.
     "In the middle  of July, the  ice-breaker 'Ladoga,'  chartered  by  the
Central Excursion Bureau, will leave Arkhangelsk for the Arctic. Sixty-eight
persons,  the best  workers  of  Moscow  and  Leningrad,  will  spend  their
vacations aboard it. This promises to be a very interesting cruise." "What a
trip! I'd give anything to go along," Volka said dreamily.
     "You need only  express your wish, 0 my most excellent friends, and you
shall go wherever you please!" Hottabych promised, for he yearned to somehow
repay his young teachers. Volka merely sighed again. Zhenya explained sadly:
     "No, Hottabych, there's no question of it. Only famous people  can  get
aboard the 'Ladoga.' "


        A COMMOTION AT THE CENTRAL EXCURSION BUREAU

     That very same  day  an  old man  dressed  in a  white suit and a straw
boater and  wearing  queer pink embroidered  slippers  with  turned-up  toes
entered  the  offices of the Central Excursion Bureau. He politely  inquired
whether he had the good fortune of being in the chambers of that high-placed
establishment  which  granted  people  the  fragrant   joy  of  travel.  The
secretary, surprised by such a flowery question, replied in the affirmative.
Then the  old man inquired in the same  florid  language  where the wise man
worthy of the greatest respect sat, he, who was in charge of booking passage
on the ice-breaker "Ladoga."
     He was directed to a  plump, bald man seated at a large desk piled high
with letters.
     "But  please  bear  in  mind  that  there  are  no cabins left  on  the
'Ladoga'," the secretary warned.
     The old man did not reply. He thanked her with a nod and approached the
plump man silently. In silence he made a low bow, in silence and with  great
dignity he handed him a roll of paper wrapped in a newspaper; then  he bowed
again,  turned  in  silence and left, with  the puzzled eyes of  all who had
witnessed this curious scene following him out.
     The  bald  man unwrapped the newspaper.  There,  on  his desk, was  the
strangest letter the Central Excursion Bureau had ever received-or, for that
matter, the strangest  letter ever received by any Soviet  office. It  was a
yellow parchment scroll. A large green wax seal  dangled from  a golden silk
cord attached to it.
     "Did you ever see anything like it?" the plump man asked loudly and ran
off to show it to his chief, in charge of long-range cruises.
     When they  had read it, his chief dropped  his work and the two of them
dashed off to the director.
     "What's the matter? Can't you see I'm busy?" the director said.
     The section chief silently unrolled the parchment scroll.
     "What's that? Is it from a museum?"
     "No, it's from 'Incoming mail'."
     "Incoming  mail?!  What's  in  it?" After  reading  the  contents,  the
director  said,  "Well, I've seen  quite a  lot  in  my day, but  I've never
received such a letter. It must have been written by a maniac."
     "Even if  he is a  maniac, he's a  collector of antiques,"  the section
chief answered. "You try to get some genuine parchment nowadays."
     "Just listen to what  he's written," the director continued, forgetting
that his subordinates had already read the message. "It's typical raving!
     "  'To the greatly respected Chief of  Pleasures, the incorruptible and
enlightened Chief of the Long-Range Cruise Section, may his name be renowned
among the most honourable ' and respected Section Chiefs!' "
     The director read this  and winked at the section chief. "He means you,
I guess!" The section chief coughed in embarrassment.
     " 'I, Hassan Abdurrakhman, the mighty Genie, the great Genie, known for
my  power and  might in Baghdad and Damascus, in Babylon  and Sumer, son  of
Hottab, the great King of Evil Spirits, a part of the Eternal Kingdom, whose
dynasty is pleasing to Sulayman, the Son of David (on the twain  be peace!),
whose reign  is pleasing  to their hearts. Allah was overjoyed at my blessed
doings and blessed  me, Hassan Abdurrakhman, a Genie who worshipped him. All
the kings reigning  in  the palaces of the Four Parts of the World, from the
Upper Sea to the Lower Sea, and the kings of the West who live in  tents-all
have brought their homage to me and kissed my feet in Baghdad.
     "  'It has become known to me, 0 most noble of Section Chiefs,  that  a
ship which navigates without sails  and  is named the "Ladoga" will soon set
out on a pleasure cruise from  the city of Arkhangelsk with famous people of
various  cities  aboard. It  is my wish  that my  two young  friends,  whose
virtues are so many that even a short enumeration  of them will not fit into
this scroll, should also be among them.
     " 'Alas, I have not been informed of  how great a person's fame must be
in order that he be eligible for this magnificent  trip. However,  no matter
how great the  requirements,  my friends will meet  them-nay, more than meet
them, for it is in my power to make them princes or sheiks, tsars or  kings,
the most famous of the famous, the richest of the rich, the mightiest of the
mighty.
     " 'I kiss your feet seven times and seven times and send you greetings,
0 wise Section Chief, and request you to ' inform me when I and my two young
companions  should appear on  board the above-mentioned ship, may storms and
ill-fortune by-pass it on its distant and dangerous journey!
     "  'Signed  by the hand of Hassan Abdurrakhman  ibn Hottab,  the Mighty
Genie.' "
     At the very bottom was Volka's address, enclosed for a reply.
     "'Ravings!" the director said, rolling up the scroll. "The ravings of a
madman. Stick it away in the file and be done with it."
     "I  think we'd better answer him, or the crazy old man will be dropping
in  five  times a day to find out  about  the outcome of his  application. I
assure you, it'll be  quite impossible  to work in  the office," the section
chief objected. A few minutes later he dictated an answer to his secretary.

        WHO IS MOST FAMOUS?

     Hottabych had acted unwisely in giving Volka's address for a  reply. It
was only by the merest chance that Volka met the postman on the stairs. What
if this  lucky meeting  had  not taken place?  The letter  from  the Central
Excursion Bureau would  have  been delivered  to  his parents; all sorts  of
questions would have followed, resulting in such a mess, that he didn't even
care to think of it.
     The younger Kostylkov did not  often receive  mail  addressed  to  him,
personally. In fact, not more than three or four times in all his life. That
is  why, when the postman said he  had  a letter  for him, Volka was greatly
surprised. When he saw the return address of the Central Excursion Bureau he
was stunned.  He examined the envelope carefully and even smelled it, but it
only  smelled  of the paste on the flap. With trembling fingers he opened it
and read  the section chief's  short but polite  reply  several  times  over
without understanding a thing:

     "Dear Citizen H. Abdurrakhmanov,
     "We regret to inform you that we received your  request too late. There
are no cabins left on the 'Ladoga.'
     "My best regards to your princes and sheiks.
     "Sincerely yours,
     I. Domosedov, Section Chief of Long-Range Cruises."

     "Can  it be that the old man tried  to  get  us on  the  'Ladoga'?"  it
suddenly occurred to Volka.  He was deeply touched.  "What a  wonderful  old
man!  But I  don't  understand which  princes and  sheiks this Domosedov  is
sending his regards to. I'll find out right away, though."
     "Hottabych! Hey, Hottabych!" he shouted when he reached the river bank.
"Come here for a minute, will  you?" The  old man was dozing in the shade of
the great oak. When he heard Volka calling, he started, jumped  to his feet,
and shuffled over to the boy.
     "Here I am, 0 goalie of my soul," he panted. "I await your orders."
     "Come clean now. Did you write to the Central Excursion Bureau?"
     "Yes, but  I wanted  it  to be  a surprise. Did  you receive an  answer
already?"
     "Sure, here it is," Volka said, showing the old man the letter.
     Hottabych snatched the paper from him. After reading the tactful answer
slowly,  syllable  by syllable,  he turned purple  and began to tremble  all
over.  His  eyes  became  bloodshot.  In a  great  rage  he ripped  open his
embroidered collar.
     "I beg your pardon," he wheezed,  "I beg your pardon! I must  leave you
for a few minutes to take care of that most despicable Domosedov. Oh, I know
what  I'll do to  him! I'll annihilate him!  No, that's  no good! He doesn't
deserve  such merciful punishment. Better still, I'll turn him into a filthy
rag,  and on rainy  days people will wipe  their dirty  shoes on him  before
entering  a  house.  No!  That's  not enough  to repay him for  his insolent
refusal!"
     With these words the old man  zoomed  into  the air.  But Volka shouted
sternly:
     "Come back! Come back this minute!"
     The  old man  returned obediently.  His  heavy grey  brows  were  drawn
together gloomily.
     "Really  now!"  Volka  shouted, truly alarmed on  the  section  chief's
account. "What's the matter! Are you crazy? Is it his fault there's  no more
room on the ship? After all, it's  not made of rubber, it can't stretch. And
will you please tell me who the sheiks and princes he refers to are?"
     "You, 0  Volka ibn Alyosha, you and our friend Zhenya  ibn  Kolya,  may
Allah grant you both a long life. I wrote and told this most degraded of all
section chiefs that  he  need not worry about your  not being famous enough,
for no matter how famous the other passengers aboard the 'Ladoga' are, I can
make  you,  my  friends,  more famous  still.  I  wrote  this  small-brained
Domosedov-may Allah  forget  him completely-that he may regard you as sheiks
or princes or tsars without even having seen you."
     Despite the tenseness of the  situation, Volka could not help laughing.
He laughed so loudly, that several very serious-minded jackdaws rose noisily
from the nearest tree and flew off indignantly.
     "Help! That means I'm a  prince!"  Volka choked the  words out  through
peals of laughter.
     "I must  admit,  I  cannot understand the  reason for  your  laughter,"
Hottabych said  in a wounded tone. "But if  we are to  discuss  the question
seriously,  I had planned on making Zhenya a prince. I  think you deserve to
be a sultan."
     "Honestly, you'll  be  the  death  of me  yet!  Then Zhenya would  be a
prince, while  I'd be a  sultan?  What political backwardness!" Volka gasped
when  he had  finally stopped  laughing.  "What's so glorious about being  a
prince or a king?  Why,  they're  the most  good-for-nothing  people in  the
world!"
     "I'm afraid you've gone  out  of your  mind,"  Hottabych  said, looking
anxiously  at his young companion. "As I  understand it, even sultans aren't
good enough for  you.  Whom then do you  consider  to be  famous? Name me at
least one such person."
     "Why, Chutkikh, or Lunin, or Kozhedub, or Pasha Angelina."
     "Who is this Chutkikh, a sultan?"
     "Much higher than that! He's one of the best textile specialists in the
country!"
     "And Lunin?"
     "Lunin is the best engine driver!"
     "And Kozhedub?"
     "He's one of the very, very best pilots!"
     "And  whose  wife is Pasha Angelina for you to consider her more famous
than a sheik or a king?"
     "She's famous in her own right. It has nothing at all  to  do  with her
husband. She's a famous tractor driver."
     "0 precious Volka, how can you  play such tricks on an old man like me!
Do you want to convince me that  a  plain weaver or a locomotive  driver  is
more famous than a tsar?"
     "In  the first place,  Chutkikh isn't a  plain  weaver.  He's  a famous
innovator,  known  to  the entire  textile industry;  and Lunin  is a famous
engineer. And in the second place,  the  most ordinary worker in our country
is more respected than the  tsar of tsars.  Don't you believe me? Here, read
this."
     Volka handed Hottabych  the paper and there, with his own eyes, he read
the following heading: "Famous People  of Our  Country," beneath which  were
over  a  dozen  photographs  of  fitters,  agronomists,  pilots,  collective
farmers, weavers, teachers and carpenters.
     "I would never have believed you," Hottabych said with a sigh. "I would
never have believed you if your words had not been corroborated on the pages
of this newspaper I  so respect. I beg you,  0 Volka, explain why everything
is so different in this wonderful country of yours?"
     "With pleasure," Volka answered. And sitting down on the river bank, he
spoke  at length and with great pride,  explaining the essence of the Soviet
system to Hottabych.
     There is no use repeating their long conversation.
     "All  you have  said is as wise as  it is noble.  And to anyone who  is
honest  and just  all  this gives  plenty to  think  about,"  Hottabych said
candidly when  his first lesson  in current events was  over. After  a short
pause he added:
     "That is all  the more reason why I want you and your friend to sail on
the 'Ladoga.' Believe me, I will see that it is arranged."
     "But please, no rough stuff," Volka warned.  "And  no  monkey-business.
That  means no  fakery.  For instance, don't think of  making me out to be a
straight 'A' pupil. I have 'B's in three subjects."
     "Your every wish is my command," Hottabych replied and bowed low.
     The old  man  was  as  good as his word.  He did not lay  a finger on a
single employee of the Central Excursion Bureau.
     He  just arranged  matters so, that  when our three friends boarded the
"Ladoga,"  they were met very warmly and were given an excellent  cabin; and
no  one  ever inquired  why  in the  world  they had been  included  in  the
passenger list-it simply did not occur to anyone to ask such a question.
     To the captain's great surprise, twenty  minutes before sailing  time a
hundred and fifty crates of oranges, as many crates of excellent grapes, two
hundred  crates  of  dates and a  ton  and  a half  of  the  finest  Eastern
delicacies were delivered to the ship. The  following message was stencilled
on each and every crate:
     "For  the  passengers and  the  members  of the  fearless  crew  of the
'Ladoga,' from a citizen who wishes to remain anonymous."
     One  does  not  have to be especially  clever to guess  that these were
Hottabych's gifts: he did not want the  three of them  to  take  part in the
expedition at someone else's expense.
     And if you  ask  any  of  the former passengers, they still cherish the
kindest feelings for the "citizen who wished to remain anonymous." His gifts
were well liked by all.
     Now, having made it sufficiently clear  to the readers  how our friends
found themselves aboard the "Ladoga," we can continue our story with a clear
conscience.

        THE UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER

     If  you  recall,  dear  readers,  it  was  a  hot  July noon  when  the
ice-breaker "Ladoga" sailed from  the Red  Pier in  the port of  Arkhangelsk
with a large group of excursionists on board. Our three  friends, Hottabych,
Volka  and Zhenya, were among the passengers. Hottabych was sitting on deck,
conversing  solemnly  with  a  middle-aged  fitter  from  Sverdlovsk on  the
advantages of cloth shoes  as compared to leather  ones,  pointing  out  the
comfort people suffering from old corns found in cloth shoes.
     Volka and Zhenya were leaning on the railing of the top deck. They were
as happy as only boys can be who are aboard a real ice-breaker for the first
time in their lives, and, to top it all, are sailing away for a whole month,
not to just any old place, but to the Arctic.
     After  exchanging  opinions  on   boats,  diesel  ships,  ice-breakers,
tug-boats, schooners,  trawlers, cutters, and other types of craft  skimming
over the surface of the Northern  Dvina,  the boys fell silent, enchanted by
the beauty of the great river.
     "Isn't that something!" Volka said  in a voice that seemed to imply  he
was responsible for all this beauty.
     "Uh-huh."
     "Nobody'd believe it if you told them."
     "Uh-huh!"
     "I'm really glad that we. .." Volka began after a long pause and looked
around cautiously to see if Hottabych was anywhere  nearby. Just in case, he
continued in a whisper, "... that we've taken the old  man away from Varvara
Stepanovna for at least a month."
     "Sure," Zhenya agreed.
     "There's  the  Mate  in  charge  of the  passengers," Volka  whispered,
nodding towards a young sailor with a freckled face.
     They looked with awe at the man who carried his high and romantic title
so nonchalantly.  His glance  slid over the  young passengers unseeingly and
came to rest on a sailor who was leaning on the railing nearby.
     "What's the matter, are you feeling homesick?"
     "Well,  here  we  are,  off  again  for  a whole month  to  the  end of
nowheres."
     The boys were amazed to discover that someone might  not  want to go to
the Arctic! What a strange fellow!
     "A real sailor is a  guest on  shore and at home at sea!" the Passenger
Mate said weightily. "Did you ever hear that saying?"
     "Well, I can't say I'm a real sailor, since I'm only a waiter."
     "Then get one dinner in the  galley and take it  to Cabin 14, to a lady
named Koltsova."
     "That's  the same last name as Varvara  Stepanovna has," Volka remarked
to Zhenya.
     "Uh-huh."
     "She's  a middle-aged lady and  she caught cold on the  way here,"  the
Mate  explained. "It's nothing  very serious," he said,  as  if to  calm the
waiter, though the latter did not appear  in  any  way alarmed at the lady's
state  of health. "She  only  ought  to stay in  her  cabin a day or two and
she'll  be all  right. And  please be  especially  nice. She's  an  Honoured
Teacher of the Republic."
     "An  Honoured  Teacher!   And  her  last  name  is  Koltsova.   What  a
coincidence!" Volka whispered.
     "Well, it's a very common last name, just like Ivanov," Zhenya objected
in a voice that was suddenly hoarse.
     "Her name and patronymic are Varvara Stepanovna," the Mate went on.
     The boys saw spots before their eyes.
     "It's no  matter that she's Varvara Stepanovna,  too. That doesn't mean
she's our Varvara  Stepanovna," Zhenya said in an effort to reassure himself
and his friend.
     At this point, however, Volka  recalled the conversation that had taken
place in the principal's  office when he  was there  to  take his  geography
examination. He merely shrugged hopelessly.
     "It's  she  all  right. That's exactly who it  is.  I'm scared to think
what'll happen to her. Why couldn't she go some place else!"
     "We'll save her anyway,  we just have to think of a way,"  Zhenya  said
darkly after a short but painful silence.
     They sat down on a bench, thought a while, and complained of their  bad
luck: such a  journey was really something wonderful for anyone else, but it
would be nothing but a headache  for them from now on.  Yet, since this  was
the way things had turned out,  they must  save their teacher. But how? Why,
it was all quite simple: by distracting Hottabych.
     They had no need to worry today, for she would certainly be confined to
her cabin till  the  morrow. Then they would plan their strategy as follows:
one would go strolling with Varvara Stepanovna, or sit on a bench talking to
her, while the other would be distracting Hottabych. For instance, Volka and
Hottabych might play a game of  chess,  while Zhenya and  Varvara Stepanovna
took  a stroll  down  the deck. Volka and Hottabych could  be on deck, while
Zhenya and Varvara Stepanovna were talking somewhere far away, in a cabin or
someplace.  The only points  remaining to be cleared up were  what they were
supposed to  do when everyone  went ashore together or gathered for meals in
the mess hall.
     "What if we disguise her?" Volka suggested.
     "What  do  you  want  to do-stick  a  beard  on her?"  Zhenya  snapped.
"Nonsense. Make-up won't save her. We'll have to think it over carefully."
     "Ahoy, my young friends! Where are you?" Hottabych shouted from below.
     "We're here, we're coming right down."
     They went down to the promenade deck.
     "I and my honourable friend here are having an argument about the Union
of South Africa," Hottabych said, introducing them to his companion.
     Things were going from bad  to worse. If the old  man began advertising
his knowledge of  geography,  the passengers would surely laugh at  him;  he
might very well become offended,  and  what  might  happen then did not bear
thinking about.
     "Who's right, my young friends? Isn't Pretoria the capital of the Union
of South Africa?"
     "Sure it is," the boys agreed.
     They were amazed. How had the old man come by this correct information?
Maybe from the papers? Naturally. That was the only answer.
     "My  honourable  friend  here insists  it's  Cape Town,  not Pretoria,"
Hottabych  said triumphantly.  "We  also argued  about how far above  us the
stratosphere is. I said that one could not draw a  definite line between the
troposphere and the  stratosphere, since  it is higher or  lower in  various
parts of the world. And also that the line of the horizon, which, as one can
ascertain from the science  of geography,  is no more  than a figment of our
imagination...." .
     "Hottabych,  I  want  a word with you  in private,"  Volka  interrupted
sternly. They  walked off  to a side. "Tell  me  the truth,  was it you  who
filched my geography book?"
     "May  I be permitted to know what  you mean by that strange "  word? If
you mean, 0 Volka, that I.... What's the matter  now,  0 anchor of my heart?
You're as pale as a ghost."
     Volka's jaw dropped. His gaze became fixed  on something behind the old
Genie's back.
     Hottabych was about to turn round to see what it was, but Volka wailed:
     "Don't  turn around! Please, don't  turn  around! Hottabych, my  sweet,
dear Hottabych!"
     Nevertheless, the old man did turn around.
     Coming towards them, arm  in arm with another elderly lady, was Varvara
Stepanovna Koltsova, an  Honoured Teacher of the Republic, the 6B  geography
teacher of Moscow Secondary School No. 245.
     Hottabych  approached her slowly. With a practised gesture he  yanked a
hair from his beard, and then another.
     "Don't!" Volka yelled in horror, as he grabbed Hottabych's hand. "She's
not to blame! You've no right to!"
     Zhenya silently tackled Hottabych  from the rear  and  gripped  him  as
firmly as he could.
     The  old  man's  companion  looked  at  this  strange  scene  in  utter
amazement.
     "Boys!" Varvara Stepanovna commanded,  apparently not at all  surprised
at meeting her pupils on the ice-b