E.Voiskunsky, I.Lukodyanov. The Crew Of The Mekong --------------------------------------------------------------- Translated from the Russian by Leonard Stoklitsky First published 1974 (c) English translation, Mir Publishers, 1974 OCR: http://home.freeuk.com/russica2 Ў http://home.freeuk.com/russica2 Original title: Экипаж "Меконга" Ў mekong.txt --------------------------------------------------------------- Being an account of the latest fantastic discoveries, happenings of the eighteenth century, mysteries of Matter, and adventures on land and at sea CONTENTS THE MERCURY HEART NAVAL LIEUTENANT FEDOR MATVEYEV A HALF-TWIST SPIRAL IPATY ISLAND I'll die if I don't see the Caspian. ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT 1 THE MERCURY HEART If you wish to subject an unknown substance to the action of an unknown force you must first study this substance. Honore de Balzac -LA PEAU DE CHAGRIN CHAPTER ONE IN WHICH A STRANGE OCCURRENCE TAKES PLACE ON BOARD THE M.S. UZBEKISTAN There is a great temptation to start a novel of adventure with a shipwreck. Something like this: "With a sickening crunch the three-masted bark Aretusa, sailing from the New Hebrides with a cargo of copra, listed heavily to starboard. The raging sea swept over-" But we did not yield to the temptation. This true story of ours will open without a shipwreck. Since we wish, however, to conform throughout to the dictates of good style, we solemnly promise to arrange one later on. So much for that. One fine summer day the m.s. Uzbekistan was approaching a large Caspian town. The time was shortly after lunch, and the promenade deck was deserted except for a man in a green check suit. He was taking his ease in a deck chair, sheltered from the broiling sun by an awning. Nikolai Opratin, a person destined to play no small role in this story, was a lean, dapper man in his late thirties. He had an energetic face, with a bony chin, thin lips and a high brow ending in a carefully concealed bald patch. His close-shaven cheeks and the aroma of his aftershave lotion created the impression that he had just stepped out of a barber's chair. Postprandial naps were a pernicious habit in which Nikolai Opratin did not indulge. He reclined in his deck chair, gazing at the ship's broad, foamy wake. On his right he could see the grayish-yellow strip of coastline rising out of the blue sea. The long hilly island at the entrance to the bay was already in sight. The island had been much smaller twenty years ago, Opratin reflected. Through the centuries the level of the ancient Caspian had often risen and fallen, sometimes by as much as eighty metres. In recent years it had dropped greatly. Man, no longer willing to be just a passive observer, had now set himself the difficult task of raising the level of the Caspian. One of the ideas suggested was to seal off, with a dam, the Bay of Kara-Bogaz-Gol, where the hot desert sun evaporates fourteen cubic kilometres of Caspian water annually. Another was to divert northern rivers into the Caspian. Under this bold scheme, the Kama, Vychegda and Pechora rivers were to be pumped across the watersheds and made to flow southwards into the Volga, which empties into the Caspian Sea. Even if Kara-Bogaz-Gol Bay were cut off from the sea, northern rivers diverted, and water from Central Asia's great Amu Darya river added, the level of the Caspian would not rise by the desired three metres before the year 2000. That was far too long to wait. Actually, the addition of only one thousand cubic kilometres of water to the Caspian in the course of one year would do the trick. But this was easier said than done. Several thousand giant pumps and a power station with a capacity of scores of millions of kilowatts would be required to shift that amount of water from the Black Sea, say, to the Caspian in one year. Nikolai Opratin, Candidate of Science (Tech.), had all these figures at his fingertips because he was the man in charge of the key aspect of a Caspian-level scheme at the Research Institute of Marine Physics. Although the level of the Caspian had dropped, the sea was still more than deep enough for the Uzbekistan. The town came into view, rising slowly out of the blue bay. Smokestacks and the delicate tracery of TV aerials could be seen with the naked eye. The decks now swarmed with passengers. Many were holiday-makers returning home from a cruise along the Volga. A trio of sailing enthusiasts leaned on the rail as they discussed the merits of a white sailboat that was overtaking the ship. Young men and women in blue jerseys with white numbers on their backs tirelessly took snapshots of one another. A husky, well-built man in a striped shirt worn over his trousers strolled along the deck with his plump wife on his arm. From time to time he paused to give a young photographer some pointers about which aperture to set and which shutter speed to use. "What a pity our holiday is coming to an end, Anatole," a woman somewhere behind Opratin remarked in a high-pitched voice. "Thank goodness it's over-that's what I say," a man's voice replied. "Just think of all the time lost." The voice struck Opratin as familiar. He turned round to see a slender young blonde in a red sun-dress, and a middle-aged man in a crumpled pongee suit. The man had a broad, large-featured face, puffy eyelids and an unruly shock of brown hair. The couple, deep in conversation, stopped by the rail not far from Opratin's deck chair. Opratin rose, straightened his jacket, and walked over to them. "Good afternoon, Benedictov," he said in a low voice. The man in the pongee suit stared at him coldly. "Ah, the expert who writes reviews," he remarked. He reeked of brandy. "I saw you in the restaurant during lunch but didn't venture to impose on you," said Opratin. He turned to Benedictov's companion with a slight bow. "My name is Nikolai Opratin." "How do you do," she replied. "I'm Rita Benedictov. I've heard about you." Opratin lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile. "I don't doubt it. Nothing very flattering, I'll wager." His tone was half-questioning, half-affirmative. The young woman merely shrugged. With the sun on her face, her brown eyes were warm and clear, but there was a hint of melancholy in them. "Were you on the Volga cruise too?" she asked. "No, I came aboard last night at Derbent. Business. By the way, a curious thing happened to me in Derbent-" A glance at Benedictov's face told Opratin that he couldn't care less about anything that had happened at Derbent. "Tut-tut, he still holds a grudge against me," Opratin thought. That spring a scientific journal had asked Nikolai Opratin to write a review of an article submitted for publication by a biophysicist named Anatole Benedictov. The article had impressed him. Benedictov began by analysing, in the light of modern physics, the phenomenon of ionophoresis, known since 1807 when Professor Reiss of Moscow discovered that drops of one liquid are capable of moving through another liquid. Further, Benedictov gave an account of his observations of fish having electric organs and cited interesting information about them. The electric ray, Torpedinidae, for example, generates 300 volts at eight amperes, and the electric eel, Electrophorus Electricus, as much as 600 volts. Benedictov maintained that such fish, Nature's largest living power generators, created an electric field the action of which makes water pass through their scales into their bodies. He had planted contacts in fish to measure differences in the action potential of the skin and the internal organs, and had concluded that under certain definite electrostatic conditions liquids penetrate through living tissue. Benedictov put forward the hypothesis that it would soon be possible to subject fish to special irradiation that would make them both penetrable and able to penetrate through solid matter when required. For example, fish would be able to pass freely through concrete dams on rivers. In his review Opratin had spoken highly of the fish experiments but had politely ridiculed the penetrability hypothesis. The editor of the journal had introduced him to Benedictov. Benedictov had disagreed with Opratin's conclusions, called the review "narrow-minded", and refused to let his article be published. All this had taken place about three and a half months earlier. Now the author and the reviewer were meeting for a second time. "There was no need to take offence, Benedictov," Opratin said mildly. "Your article had a lot of interesting points, as I noted in my review-" "I didn't take offence," Benedictov interrupted. "It's just that I don't think you- hm, well, that you know much about bioelectricity." Opratin took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "Let's not argue about it," he said quietly. "You know more about some things and I know more about others. Isn't that so?" "In that case, stick to what you know and don't go poking your nose-" "Anatole, please," the woman said, putting her hand on her husband's arm. "I shouldn't have spoken to him," Opratin thought. "He's all keyed up." Aloud he said: "I have no intention of interfering in your affairs. I hope you'll finally realize your hypothesis is groundless. Ionophoresis and reciprocal penetrability of bodies are immeasurably far apart. Goodbye." Opratin made a dignified turn but before he had taken two steps Benedictov called to him. "Look here", he said. "Want a demonstration of penetrability?" "Stop it, Anatole," said the woman. "Don't, I beg you." Benedictov waved her aside. "Look!" He thrust his hand inside his shirt and drew out a knife. Opratin took an involuntary step backwards. The husky man in the striped shirt strode over to Benedictov. "Hey, none of that! Put that knife away." Benedictov ignored him. "Here's penetrability for you!" he exclaimed. He pushed up his left sleeve and slashed his forearm with the knife. Someone gave a stifled scream. A crowd started to gather. "See that?" Now Benedictov plunged the knife into his arm. The narrow blade, on which a wavy pattern was engraved, passed straight through his arm without even leaving a scratch on it. The crowd was struck dumb. Benedictov laughed. As he was putting the knife away the husky man stepped towards him again. "Give it here," he said. "I'll teach you to frighten people." He made a grab for the knife but his hand closed over emptiness. "Keep out of this!" Benedictov shouted. But the man twisted Benedictov's arm, and the knife dropped to the deck, dangerously near the edge. Several hands reached for it. The next instant a slim figure in a sleeveless red dress pushed forward through the crowd, ducked under the railing and dived down towards the water, six metres below. "Man overboard!" someone shouted. Life preservers plopped into the sea and lifeboat tackle began to creak. The ship started on a circle that would bring it back to the spot where the passenger had fallen overboard. But this turned out to be unnecessary. The white sailboat, then about a hundred metres from the ship, made a wild turn into the wind. Listing heavily, the boat raced towards the head bobbing among the waves. As the crowd looked on, a tall, bronzed young man dived into the sea. A few minutes later the red sun-dress was to be seen on the deck of the sailboat. The Uzbekistan approached the sailboat from the lee side. "Any help needed?" the officer of the watch called out. A woman's voice floated up. "No, thanks. They'll take me ashore." The passengers excitedly discussed the rescue. Cameras were focussed on the sailboat. Anatole Benedictov, his face white as a sheet, stood apart from the crowd. He gripped the railing and stared down fixedly at the sea. When Nikolai Opratin raised his head after looking in vain for the knife on deck his eyes met the intent gaze of the husky man. "A tricky little knife," the man remarked. "A pity the fishes will get it." Opratin turned away. CHAPTER TWO IN WHICH THE READER IS INVITED TO GO SAILING TOGETHER WITH THE MAIN CHARACTERS Now let us turn back the clock a few hours and shift the scene to the bazaar in that large town on the Caspian Sea. It was Sunday, and the bazaar was so thickly packed with people that it could have been described as a dense substance, all the constituent elements of which were in constant motion. Motivated by the law of supply and demand, buyers and sellers were attracted to one another like bodies possessing different electric charges. They moved towards one another, overcoming an opposing force, namely, different ideas about prices. Two tall young men strode quickly towards the bazaar. The tow-headed, blue-eyed man, whose name was Yura Kostyukov and who wore a bright red short-sleeved shirt and sand-coloured trousers, glanced at his watch. "It's a quarter to nine already. Val is probably waiting for us at the yacht club." "Let her wait," his friend Nikolai Potapkin said. "The worst that can happen is she'll give you a tongue-lashing." Nikolai had a high forehead, prominent cheekbones and a shock of dark hair. His grey eyes were calm and somewhat quizzical. The rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt revealed a pair of hairy muscular forearms. The two friends passed through an arched gateway and came out near a display of paintings, some of them executed on cardboard, some on oilcloth and some on polythene film. They were the kind of paintings you will see only at bazaars. Most of them were crude copies of well-known canvases. The two young men stopped in front of one of them which depicted a plump nude with pinkish-purple skin reclining on the bright blue surface of a pond beside a dazzlingly white swan. "Just look at that," Yura remarked. "What a wealth of colour!" "It's Leda and the swan, from Greek mythology," said Nikolai. Yura laughed. "You mean that fat lady is Leda, the Spartan beauty? The mother of Helen of Troy and Clytemnestra? The mother-in-law of King Menelaus and King Agamemnon?" "But look at how she's lying on the water," Nikolai said. At that moment a man in his forties, wearing large, horn-rimmed eyeglasses, with greying hair, plump tanned cheeks and a small pot-belly, came up to them. "Fie," he said in a low voice. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves." The two young men turned round. "Why, it's Boris!" Yura exclaimed. "Fie," the plump man repeated. Boris Privalov was head of the department in which the two young men were employed as research engineers. "Staring at a nude!" "No- I'm intrigued by the way she's floating on top of the water," Nikolai said. "You might think she was lying on a sofa." Boris Privalov examined the pinkish-purple lady more closely. "H'm, yes, indeed. An extraordinary case of surface tension. But you didn't come here to buy a painting, did you?" "Of course not. We're looking for a pulley-block for our stay-sail halyard," Yura explained. "We were at the marina, giving the boat a onceover, and we saw a block had to be replaced. We couldn't find anything suitable in the store-room there. Dockmaster Mehti said we were getting to be as finicky as pampered lap dogs. He said that if we didn't like the block he offered us we could trot down to the bazaar for one. So that's that. Are you looking for anything in particular?" Before replying, Privalov glanced about. "No, just browsing, so to speak." "Do you suppose it would be possible to build up surface tension artificially?" Nikolai asked. "Build it up, you say?" "Yes." Nikolai put a finger on the blue surface of the water in the painting. "So that a person could stretch out on the water, the way she's doing." "But what for?" Nikolai lifted his shoulders. "I don't know. It simply occurred to me." "An interesting point," Privalov said after a pause, during which he glanced about again. "But first you would have to examine the question of just what a surface is in general." He looked first at Nikolai, then at Yura, then began to talk. He loved to discuss scientific problems, and when some point caught his fancy he could talk about it for hours. A cluster of people formed around them as first one passer-by stopped to listen, then a second, then a third. "Boris! Where've you disappeared to?" a woman's voice called. Privalov stopped short. "I'm here. Olga," he said to a round-faced, thick-set woman who was pushing her way towards him through the crowd. "I ran into a couple of my men-" "So I see." The woman glanced with distaste at the painting. "How could you stand here looking at that abomination?" "Good morning," said Yura, an earnest smile on his face. "You see, it's really our fault-" "How do you do," the woman replied. "Come, Boris. I've found a hand-chased copper jug for your collection-if someone hasn't snatched it up already." Privalov nodded to the two young men and followed his wife. But after a few steps he halted and squatted to examine a pile of metal junk. "Here's the block you're looking for, boys," he called. Nikolai came over to him, picked up the block and examined it. "It'll do," he said. "Boris!" Privalov's wife called. "Just a moment." Still squatting on his haunches, Privalov pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and studied a small bar of rusty iron that he had picked up. He tapped it with a forefinger. Nikolai paid for the block. With a wave of his hand the owner of the pile of junk threw in the bar of rusty iron for the same price. Privalov wrapped it in a page from a newspaper and put it in his pocket. "What do you want the piece of iron for?" Yura asked. "Oh, it just caught my eye. Well, so long, Siamese twins." "We're thinking of going out in the boat to take a look at the site," said Nikolai, lowering his voice. Privalov's face brightened. "That's a good idea, a wonderful idea, in fact. I was just- Wait a moment-" Ho stepped over to his wife and whispered something to her. "Of course not!" she exclaimed. "What talk can there be about the pipeline? Today's Sunday and everybody's off." "Sunday is a working day on the project because the power supply is better than on weekdays." "But you wanted to look for some old copper wares, Boris." "I'll get along meanwhile," Privalov said firmly. "Now don't fret, Olga. I'm sorry but I must go. I'll be back for dinner." With a sigh, Olga gazed reproachfully at her husband's back. Privalov and his young companions left the bazaar, took a trolleybus and in fifteen minutes reached the marina. A dark-haired girl in a white blouse and gay-coloured skirt was sitting on the edge of the pier dangling her tanned legs above the water and reading a book. When Yura caught sight of the girl he hastened out along the pier towards her. . "Hallo there, Val!" he called. The girl slammed her book shut and sprang to her feet. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" She snatched off her sunglasses to glare at Yura. "We made a date for eight o'clock and now it's going on for ten." "We had an urgent job to do for Mehti," Yura explained. "Val, I want you to meet Boris Privalov." Privalov held out his hand. "It's a pleasure," he said. "I've spoken with you on the phone. You're the girl who rings up Yura, aren't you?" Val smiled. "Why, yes. But maybe I'm not the only one." "Of course you're not," Nikolai put in. "Half of the girls in town ring him up." "Can I help it if I'm popular?" Yura asked plaintively. Val gave a giggle and pinched his arm. They went aboard a sailboat that was tied up at the pier. It had the name Mekong on its bows. Why was this Caspian boat named after that great river, 4,500 kilometres long, which flows through China, Burma, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam? Well, sailing enthusiasts prefer lyrical names like Orion and Sputnik to the old-fashioned Swift or Hurricane. The man formerly in charge of this white sailboat had taken a liking to the Greek word meconium, which conjured up some sort of mythological picture in his mind. But as soon as he painted this name on the bows he found himself the butt of curious jokes and innuendoes. Looking up the word, he learned that it was indeed Greek, but had nothing to do with mythology at all. He never showed up at the marina again. The boat was turned over to Nikolai and Yura. Instead of racking their brains for a totally new name they simply changed Meconium into Mekong. The stay-sail halyard block was quickly replaced by the new one. Soon after, the Mekong, heeling to starboard, was sweeping across the bay towards the sea. "Haul the sheets home!" commanded Nikolai, who was the skipper. Privalov had crewed for them for more than a year but he much preferred to spend his weekends at home on the sofa with a book. He did not turn up at the marina very often, although he liked sailing. After making fast the stay-sail sheet Privalov stretched out on the hot boards of the deck. How wonderful it was to lie there not thinking about anything, feeling the sun warm your bare back, watching the city with its hustle and bustle recede into the distance, and listen to the chatter and laughter of the two young men and the girl! How wonderful it would be not to think about anything! But the pipeline kept intruding. Quite some time had already passed since a bold project for laying an underwater pipeline between the mainland and the Neftianiye Reefs, a famous oilfield in the Caspian Sea, had been developed at Privalov's Oil Transportation Research Institute. It was an ingenious scheme that involved winding forty kilometres of pipes onto a gigantic wheel lying in the water just off the shore and then gradually unwinding the line and towing it to the Neftianiye Reefs. Meanwhile the oil extracted there was being shipped out in tankers. Privalov's plan had been approved, although many people thought it too risky. During the past week the pressure of affairs at the Institute had prevented Privalov from visiting the pipeline site. Running into Yura and Nikolai at the bazaar had been a piece of luck for him. A gentle northerly breeze carried the boat smoothly seawards. As he lay on his chest at the edge of the deck, Privalov reflectively observed the two resilient bow-waves formed by the boat. The Mekong seemed to be folding the water apart rather than cutting through it. The water was resisting. Surface tension. Privalov raised himself on his elbows and looked at Nikolai seated at the tiller. "Now listen," he said. "If strong enough, the surface tension of a liquid could replace a pipe." "I don't get it, Boris," said Nikolai. Yura, sitting on the other side with Val, moved his head, tightly bound in a red kerchief, from under the stay-sail and stared inquisitively at Privalov. "You don't get it?" Privalov reached over to his trousers, brought out his cigarette case and lit up. "Take an underwater pipeline. The oil is separated from the sea by the wall of the pipe. If we could make its surface tension strong enough, oil would flow in a separate stream, its own surface tension acting as a sort of film, or casing, and then you wouldn't need a pipe. See?" "That's fabulous!" Nikolai exclaimed. "A pipe-less pipeline! But how could you increase the tension?" Privalov lay back. "It's all out of this world," he said, screwing up his eyes against the sun. "Out of this world?" "Well, yes. Surfaces have specific properties that no one is able to control. Forget it. The whole thing's just a daydream." Privalov fell silent. He did not utter another word until their destination came into sight. The sailboat rounded the yellow tongue of the cape and headed for shore. They had to drop anchor about a hundred metres from the beach because the bay was too shallow for them to proceed any further. Privalov shaded his eyes with his hand and studied the structures on the beach. They were surrounded by barbed wire. "Might think we were in a desert," he muttered. "I had a feeling there's something wrong. Well, let's take a swim and go back home." It was mid-afternoon by the time they lifted anchor and set out on the return trip. Nikolai lay on the deck beside Privalov, his hand on the stay-sail sheet, watching a big white passenger ship overtake them. Yura was now at the tiller. Val was perched beside him. "Yura," she whispered. "Do you know if Nick has a girl friend?" "Why don't you ask him yourself?" Val laughed. "Oh, I couldn't. I'm afraid of him." After a pause she said, "You know my friend Zina, don't you? Let's introduce her to him." "Better riot," said Yura. "He's very choosy." Val frowned. "Humph!" she said with a pout. Yura struck up a song and Nikolai joined in. Sometimes they thought up their own words to popular songs, and sometimes they set poems to well-known tunes. Meanwhile, the ship had drawn abreast of the sailboat. "Look at the crowd on deck," Nikolai remarked. "Some sort of a brawl, judging by the way they're milling about." At that instant a slim figure in red plunged over the side of the ship. "Veer!" Nikolai shouted. Yura leaned on the tiller. The blocks creaked and the mainsail described a wide arc as it swung over to the other side. The boat, listing heavily to starboard, sped towards the ship. "Take it, Val! Brace yourself with your feet!" Nikolai gave the girl the stay-sail sheet and dived into the water. CHAPTER THREE IN WHICH OPRATIN TELLS PRIVALOV SOMETHING AND LEARNS SOMETHING IN PASSING Towards the end of the day Privalov's old friend Pavel Koltukhov, the Institute's chief engineer, dropped in to see him. "Looks like smooth sailing at last, Boris," he said, sitting down and stretching out his legs. "Work will be resumed at the site tomorrow." "Thank goodness!" Privalov flung himself back in his chair. "Those self-styled efficiency experts! To claim that it's cheaper to transport oil by tanker than by pipeline! But they forgot that tankers return empty. They close their eyes to the cost of taking on ballast water and then discharging it. To say nothing of the number of stormy days on the Caspian." Koltukhov nodded his bald head in agreement. Then he stuck a cigarette between his lips and gave Privalov a sharp glance from beneath beetling eyebrows. "You don't have to persuade me a pipeline is better," he said. He walked over to a big map of the Caspian hanging on the wall. "Forty kilometres of pipeline," he said. "Three more parallel pipelines will make it a total of 160 kilometres. A pipeline across the whole of the Caspian will add another 300 kilometres. We'll be paving the floor of the Caspian with steel." "We'll be paving it with millions of roubles too," Privalov added, joining Koltukhov in front of the map. "Here we are in the twentieth century and the only way we know of transporting liquids is through pipes, just like in the first century." Koltukhov chewed his lip. "Have you read Arshavin's latest article?" he asked. "About towing oil across the sea in containers made of thin polythene film? Yes, I've read it." "Not a bad idea," Koltukhov remarked. "It's been picked up abroad. So don't say we don't know how to transport liquid goods." "There's an idea that keeps preying on my mind." said Privalov. "It concerns the physics of surfaces. All surfaces possess energy, don't they? Suppose we found a way of using this energy to alter the properties of surface tension. I mean, building up surface tension to such a degree that a stream of oil would be contained in a 'skin' of its own surface." "Where'd you get that idea?" "At the bazaar." Privalov told Koltukhov the gist of his talk with the two young engineers. "Why, I see you're just an old day-dreamer." Koltukhov gave a short laugh. "You'll lead those young men of yours astray. I'd advise you not to read Jules Verne the last thing before going to sleep." "Oh, all right, all right." "You're too long in the tooth for that sort of thing, Boris." "What's age got to do with it? I read what I like, and I like Jules Verne. He's refreshing." The telephone rang. Privalov lifted the receiver. "Yes? How do you do. Certainly you may." He put down the receiver. "Opratin from Marine Physics is dropping in." "Oh, our old acquaintance. Do you see much of him?" "No, not really. I'm better acquainted with the surveyors from that outfit. They're helping us to lay out the route." Koltukhov glanced out of the window at the building of the Marine Physics Institute on the other side of the street. He watched a lean man in a straw hat step out of the front door and stride quickly across the street. "Our neighbour's in a hurry," he remarked. "They say he's efficient. I'll wager he hasn't read Jules Verne since he was a boy." A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. "Come in," Privalov said. Opratin opened the door and, removing his hat, stepped into the room. He smoothed down his thinning hair. "How have you been keeping?" he asked Koltukhov. "Haven't seen you for some time. How are things?" "Not so bad." When talking with visitors Koltukhov liked to give the impression that he was just a "plain, down-to-earth Voronezh peasant", as he put it. And he really did come from Voronezh peasant stock. "I spend my time making the rounds and giving advice." "Still dabbling in resins and plastics"? "We executives don't have much time for anything except organizational matters," Koltukhov said with an apologetic note. "But I do have a cubbyhole of my own, with mixers, thermostats and a press. Whenever I see a couple of young men engaged in idle conversation in the corridor I punish them by recruiting them to help me make a couple of plastic models. Besides, you know, those resins have an awful smell." After a slight pause he said, "I hear you had quite an adventure." Opratin chose to be noncommittal. "Really?" "Your director told me you fell into a pit in Derbent while on a business trip and had to prolong your stay there." A shadow flitted across Opratin's face. "Yes," he said, "I did run into a bit of unpleasantness." Koltukhov glanced at his watch. "Well, I'll leave you two together now. It's time I was off." He nodded to the two men and walked unhurriedly to the door. The name of the old Caspian town of Derbent means "Iron Gates". The town once guarded the narrowest place on a caravan route running between the mountains and the sea. Nikolai Opratin had been sent there to examine the ruins of fortress walls in order to obtain more precise information about the level of the Caspian in ancient times. On his last day in Derbent Opratin wandered into an old stone quarry on the deserted shore. While clambering about the quarry he caught his foot in a fissure. Suddenly the rocks gave way. His heart missed a heat as lie felt himself falling into nothingness. He landed with a splash in a pool of mud about a dozen feet below. He picked himself up and paused to catch his breath. Just a moment ago, a hot blue sky had stretched above him; now he was surrounded by musty semi-darkness. He took out his flashlight and swept its beam to right and left. He saw damp, moss-covered walls. This prompted the thought that he had probably fallen into the underground passage that had once connected the Naryn Kale Fortress with the sea. The passage was mentioned in legends but so far no one had been able to find it. The flashlight beam moved downwards. Opratin was a self-possessed man, but the sight of a human skeleton filled him with horror. He turned to flee and stumbled into a pool of cold water. This brought him to his senses. Besides, whom was he fleeing from? He returned to the skeleton, to which the remnants of clothing still clung. The poor devil must have fallen into the passage and been crushed by rocks. Opratin's flashlight picked out a half-rotten sack. He gave the sack a push with his shoe. A gun fell out of it. "It's a German pistol, a Luger," Opratin said to himself. "How odd!" Poking through the contents of the sack he found a portable radio transmitter, several sticks of dynamite and some cartridges covered with green mould. He turned his flashlight back on the skeleton. Something sparkled in the neck of the torn shirt. Bending down to take a closer look, he saw a shiny metal chain on which hung a small crucifix and a flat rectangle of iron with letters on it. Opratin wiped the iron rectangle with a corner of the sack and read: A M D G Below these were smaller letters. Only a Catholic would wear a crucifix round his neck, Opratin reflected. How long had the man lain there? Then suddenly he came out of his reverie. He certainly had no intention of becoming a corpse to keep the skeleton company. He picked up the pistol, saw that it was in working order, and fired at the spot of blue sky above his head. Minutes passed, minutes that seemed hours to Opratin. He fired again. The passage rumbled like an active volcano, but no sound came from above. Opratin fired again and again until all the cartridges were gone. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the damp wall. Despair swept over him. Suddenly he heard alarmed voices overhead. He shouted. Choking from the stench of the passage and the smell of gunpowder, he shouted until he was hoarse. The faint light from above was blotted out by a head that appeared in the opening. "Who fired those shots?" a voice demanded from above. A few minutes later a rope was lowered through the hole and Opratin was hauled out. Opratin had to postpone his departure while he answered questions put by the local authorities and set forth the whole matter in writing. That was a nuisance, for Opratin hated to waste time. Nikolai and Yura sat side by side at a desk, bent over a blueprint of the pipeline route. They were checking the figures indicating the depths. Valery Gorbachevsky, a young lab technician, glanced at his watch, then walked over to the mirror and smoothed down his black sideburns and moustache, meanwhile singing a song about a lad named Chico who came from Puerto Rico. "My dear Valery," said Yura, "do you know where Puerto Rico is?" The lab technician shrugged a shoulder. "Of course. You don't doubt it, do you?" "Not very far from Madagascar, isn't it?" "Well, yes, you could put it like that," Valery said hesitatingly. "Now you see, my friend, how disastrous it is-" Just then the telephone rang, and Yura broke off to pick up the receiver. "The chief wants you, Nikolai. With the route plan." Nikolai went up to the next floor, taking the steps two at a time, and entered Privalov's office. Privalov had a visitor, a man in a green suit, whom Nikolai had never seen before. The visitor gave Nikolai a keen glance, nodded and said, "My name's Nikolai Opratin." Nikolai introduced himself and sat down. "Nikolai Opratin comes from the Institute of Marine Physics across the street," Privalov said to Nikolai. "He has given me some interesting information which we will have to take into account. Yes, indeed." Here Privalov pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and bent over the plan of the pipeline route. "Now take this shoal that's to be deepened by blasting." Opratin crossed his legs. "That won't be necessary," he said with a glance at Nikolai. "I've just told your chief the level of the Caspian will rise in three years' time. That means there isn't any need to deepen the route." "Is your information reliable?" Opratin smiled. "The most reliable there is." Privalov leaned back in his chair. His glasses slid down to the tip of his hose. "Well, we'll just have to revise our calculations," he said, rubbing his forehead. "I'd like you to step over to the Institute of Marine Physics tomorrow, Nikolai. Will that be all right?" he asked, turning to Opratin. "Certainly. After lunch, preferably." "Fine. You can't imagine how much worry this pipeline is causing us. Doubting Thomases are holding up the work. We visited the site last Sunday and-oh, well, you understand." Opratin nodded sympathetically. "Yes, I do. By the way, I didn't know you went in for sailing." '"Indeed?" "I saw you in a sailboat last Sunday." "Where were you?" "Aboard the Uzbekistan." "Well, well. Why did you drop a lady overboard?" Opratin's thin lips spread in a faint smile. "It wasn't me who dropped her," he said. "There was some sort of row on deck. I don't know whether she was pushed overboard or just fell in. It seemed to me she was holding some metal object in her hand." "A metal object?" Privalov glanced at Nikolai. "Did you see anything like that when you fished her out of the sea?" "The only metal I saw was the buckles of her sandals." Opratin rose. "Anyway, there was something else about that particular spot besides the rescue of the lady. I saw bubbles rising to the surface. Could have been natural gas, couldn't it?" "It could. You ought to inform the gas experts." "How can I if I don't know the exact spot? It's not like on shore, where you have landmarks." "If I remember rightly, the TV tower was straight ahead of us at that moment," said Nikolai. "The refrigeration plant was at right angles to it. The No. 18 buoy in the channel was about a hundred metres to the north. Those points should be enough to find it, I think." "Thank you," said Opratin. "I'll be expecting you tomorrow." He said goodbye and left. CHAPTER FOUR ABOUT A DROP THAT WAS DROP-SHAPED They left the Institute together and walked down the street in the bright sunshine. "Why do you think she fell overboard, Yura?" Nikolai asked. Yura grinned. "Beware of women who fall overboard. I shouldn't rescue them if I were you." "Oh, shut up," Nikolai growled, and quickened his steps. The woman in the red sun-dress was not exactly preying on his mind, but there was something about her narrow, dark-eyed face, framed in fair hair, that vaguely disturbed him. He had a feeling he had seen that face somewhere before. She was, of course, an unusual woman. She had not shown a trace of fear in the sea. When he swam over to her she had said, "No need to rescue me. I'm a good swimmer." By that time the sailboat was beside them. Yura had heeled into the wind so sharply that the starboard side was level with the water and Nikolai did not even have to help the woman climb into the boat. She thanked them politely, her gaze on a point somewhere between Privalov and the mast, wrung out her dripping hair and then went down into the cabin. Val came out of the cabin with the red sun-dress and hung it up to dry in the sun. When the boat reached the marina the woman sprang gracefully onto the pier. "Please don't trouble yourselves," she said. "I'll get home all right without any help." Her red dress flashed among the trees on th