. Bugrov must have dived from the stern. Nikolai slipped out of the rope, turned on the air valve, and, twisting his body so that he faced the bottom, dived. While Bugrov splashed about the stern, Nikolai waited to one side, at a depth of three metres. That clown was hot and wanted to cool off, so he, Nikolai, had to expend some of his precious air! True, this break gave him a chance to stretch his stiff arms and legs and warm up. How thirsty he was! He had not had anything to eat or drink since morning. His mouth felt horrible from swallowing salt water. And only halfway there-two hours more-an eternity. Oh, for a cup of hot tea! The strong tea Mehti brewed at the marina. There was a rattling sound in the boat. Working his flippers energetically, Nikolai swam up to the bottom of the boat, gripped the rope again, and switched his breathing to the snorkel. The motor came to life. The waves that beat against him kept sending water into the tube. Before he managed to blow it through he took another gulp of sea water. He was growing steadily colder. His body did not have time to compensate for the heat that the air and water were carrying off. A transparent edge of water splashed in the plexiglass eyepiece of the mask. Every now and then Nikolai lifted his head out of the water by raising himself on the rope. The sea had grown darker, and so had the sky. A crimson sun hung in the sky to the left, ready to sink into the sea. Something black suddenly flashed before his eyes, followed at once by a painful blow on his left shoulder. It was a heavy, watersoaked log which could easily have ripped a hole in the bottom of the boat. But luckily it only hit the boat a slanting blow on its port side after scraping Nikolai's shoulder. "A close shave," Nikolai thought, unaware that his shoulder was bleeding. He did not know which was worse-the constant cramps in his legs or the nausea caused by loss of blood, the cold, his thirst and the large amount of sea water he had swallowed. The nausea, the cramps, the tearing pain in his shoulder and the cold water sweeping over his tortured body began to obscure his consciousness. "You told me to think of a way out. Well, here it is. It's all for your sake. Sitting beside the fire with you was wonderful. Your hand I dare not touch. Your hand I dare not touch." The drone of the motor intruded into his fading consciousness. With a great effort he lifted his head. Lights ahead! The red and white lights of the channel buoys winked in the twilight. Lights had been switched on in the city too. He'd made it! Nikolai turned on the cylinders and climbed out of the rope. Placing his flippers against the bottom of the boat, he shoved off. How black the water was! Inhale-exhale- inhale-exhale- He came to the surface and pulled out the mouthpiece. The boat was no longer in sight. To the left-he must swim to the left, in the direction of the marina. That evening dockmaster Mehti climbed into his dinghy, as usual, and set out to see if all the sailboats were properly tied up at their buoys. Old Mehti was in a foul mood. Almost two weeks had passed, and no Mekong. Nikolai was an experienced sailor, but why hadn't he informed him about the delay? He had rung up Lenkoran and talked with the coastguards there. They told him the Mekong had not entered the mouth of the Kura. They had promised to send a launch to search among the islands. His job at the marina was becoming altogether impossible. He had no time to do anything but take phone calls. From one woman in particular, who said her daughter was aboard the Mekong. She cried as she talked to him. He could not understand why the men had taken girls with them. When you had women aboard you had tears. That was a well-known fact. Mehti steered his dinghy up to buoy No. 2. The Hurricane was well tied up. But why was there a man with cylinders on his back and flippers on his feet lying on the deck? "Hey, you, this isn't a hotel!" Mehti shouted angrily. The man did not stir. Mehti climbed aboard the sailboat. He bent over the man, who was lying face downwards, a mask clasped tight in an outstretched hand, and turned him over. "Nikolai," he muttered in astonishment. It was all of twenty minutes before Nikolai recovered consciousness. His limbs jerked spasmodically. The light hurt his eyes. When he tried to throw off the blanket Mehti had laid over him his arm refused to move. Suddenly he realized that he was lying in the dockmaster's quarters at the marina. He saw Mehti's face bending over him. He heard Mehti's familiar, grumbling voice. "Ipaty Island," he said hoarsely, his tongue moving with difficulty. "Send a launch-Ipaty Island-" Then he fainted again. The ambulance which the dockmaster had summoned sounded its horn. After Nikolai was driven away to hospital Mehti rang up the port authorities to notify them that he was putting out to sea in a launch. He could not understand how Nikolai had reached the marina. It was nonsense to suppose he had swum all the way from Ipaty Island. The days of miracles at sea were over. But one thing was certain: something had happened to the Mekong. Mehti put a first-aid kit into the launch. He was bending over the engine, tuning it up for the trip, when he noticed a glow in the sky. The rosy-hued reflections of a distant fire shone in the southern section of the evening sky. Mehti climbed back to the pier from the launch. He stood there wondering what to do, his gnarled fingers moving impatiently. First, he must find out where the fire was. He stepped into his office but before he could lift the receiver the telephone rang. "Mehti? Port duty officer Seleznov here. You just told us one of your boats was stranded at Ipaty, didn't you? Well, we're sending a torpedo boat to that area to investigate the fire. Want to come along?" "Of course I do," Mehti replied. The torpedo boat slid up alongside the pier soon after. "Climb in, Mehti, and we're off," the tall, helmeted captain shouted from the deckhouse. Mehti sprang onto the deck. "How are you, Konstantin," he said, shaking hands with the captain. "Haven't seen you for a long time." "Since last year's regatta. How have you been keeping, old man?" The engines revved up, and the torpedo boat swung round and headed out of the bay, leaving two long trails of white foam behind. Mehti sat down on the low deckhouse railing. Two men in civilian clothes were standing on deck, and several more were below in the tiny cabin. Mehti guessed they were oil experts and oilfield firemen. When they were well out of the bay the captain nodded to the petty officer beside him and the officer pressed the lever of the accelerators. The engines roared deafeningly and the launch leaped forward. The glasslike bow-wave was motionless and pink in the glow of the fire. Mehti descended the narrow ladder to the cabin, where he sat down on a folding chair. It was quieter down below. The oil experts were exchanging brief comments. Some thought the fire might be at the oil well on High Island, the well farthest out in the archipelago. The captain came down the ladder. "My radio operator says the situation on High Island is normal. From there they can see the fire to the southeast. A message from a fishing village at the mouth of the Kura reports that a fire can be seen in the northeast." He spread a map on the table. "It must be somewhere in the Ipaty area," he said, Mehti went up on deck. The ominous red glow that filled the sky and the sea was growing brighter by the minute. Soon a pillar of fire came into view. There was no longer any doubt about it. Ipaty Island was in flames. Mehti stared in silence at the giant torch erupting out of the sea. "Was this where your young people were?" the captain shouted in his ear. The dockmaster did not reply. His face, lit up by the fire, was stony. Advancing from the weather side, the torpedo boat slowly approached what had only recently been an island. The water at the foot of the gas torch seethed and raged. "Ipaty has gone to the bottom," someone said gloomily. "We must extinguish this fire," one of the oil experts said, shielding his face from the heat with his hand. "If the wind rises the fire may spread to the rigs on Turtle Island-and there's gas there too." The torpedo boat circled around the remains of the island. It pitched heavily, for the sea bottom was still shifting and the sea was turbulent. "May I take a look?" Mehti asked the captain. He trained the binoculars on the reef and saw the black skeleton of the sailboat. Tongues of flame were still licking the deck. Mehti lowered the glasses. His face was expressionless. Big tears rolled down his bristly cheeks. A call was sent out for fire-fighting launches. Several of these manoeuvrable little boats with high superstructures arrived on the scene an hour later. Surrounding the pillar of fire, they trained powerful jets of water on its base. The fire put up furious resistance. First it retreated hesitantly, then leaped forward in an attack on the launches. The paint on the launches cracked and peeled off in curlicues. The fierce heat scorched the sailors in their asbestos suits. Although the launches were tossed from side to side by the waves the firemen, most of them former navy gunners, firmly controlled the hoses. They crossed their jets of water at the base of the pillar, to sweep the flame off the surface of the sea: It was impossible to tell whether it was night or day. Finally the jets of water sliced off the pillar of fire at its base. After a last burst of flame the fire died away. Darkness fell instantly. It was not exactly dark, though, for the sky was just beginning to grow light in the east. Could it have taken an entire night to fight the fire? Dockmaster Mehti asked the captain to come as close as possible to the reef. He stared at the blackened framework of the sailboat for a long time. The captain touched his shoulder. Mehti silently gave him the binoculars. He slowly went down to the cabin, stretched out on the little sofa, and turned his face to the wall. Their engines roaring, the torpedo boat and the fire launches moved away from the island that no longer existed. CHAPTER SEVEN IN WHICH AN INCORPOREAL MAN APPEARS ON THE SCENE AGAIN Nikolai Opratin sat on a bench on Seaside Boulevard, watching the crowds strolling past him. It was a hot summer evening, and the entire city was streaming towards the sea. The clicking of triggers came from the shooting-gallery. The majestic strains of Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto floated from the bandshell. There was not a single vacant place on the benches. On Opratin's left some young people were eating ice-cream and laughing. On his right others were joking and laughing. "What a pack of fools!" Opratin thought disdainfully. "Cackling like geese." He found he was unable to concentrate. This had never happened before, and it made him angry. He had returned from the island only two hours before. From the pier he had taken a taxi home, where a cold shower had failed to dispel his anxiety and despair. A vein under his left eye throbbed annoyingly. He examined his face in the mirror and pressed the vein with a forefinger, but it did not stop throbbing. He felt that he simply could not remain at home alone. He had to get outdoors. A few minutes later he put on his straw hat and went out to sit on a bench on the boulevard. How had it all happened? After Anatole went below, Opratin remained alone for a while, studying the charts of the latest experiments. He was upset by the talk he had just had with Anatole. That miserable dope fiend! Wanting to surrender the hard-won fruits of their labours! He certainly was not going to let that happen. First, he'd see to it that Anatole and the Institute parted company. He knew he could convince the director that Anatole had to be dropped because he was no longer suitable for his post. Then he would render Anatole helpless by confiscating all his papers and the records of the experiments. The knife, too. Actually, though, the knife was not really needed any longer. There were "charged" pieces of metal and a portable installation. Opratin gathered together the papers he needed and went downstairs for the portable installation. Anatole was dozing in the folding chair, inside the cage. He must have given himself another shot in the arm. Opratin kicked the box of ampoules that lay on the floor. He stared down at Anatole, frowning. The puffy face, the rumpled hair, the hoarse breathing. A living corpse, actually. As he picked up the black attache case containing the portable installation Opratin became aware of a faint rustling and crackling. He glanced at the control panel and swore under his breath. The Van de Graaff generator was switched on. The endless silk band rustled from pulley to pulley, carrying a flow of static charges to the spherical tips. And the tips were strongly charged as it was. Anatole was a maniac! He must have again tried to adjust the installation by increasing the field intensity. ; Restructured matter was not supposed to drop downwards; the earth's gravitational field pushed it up. Or, at any rate, this had been the case in the beginning. But in recent weeks the installation seemed to have gone mad. The concrete floor of the cage swallowed up everything thrown into the cage. Lately, the cage seemed to draw Anatole like a magnet. He would fuss with it for hours, rearranging the pipes and the wiring. What is more, he had developed the dangerous habit of taking a siesta in the cage. Time and again Opratin had warned Anatole not to climb into the cage because he was absentminded and might easily forget to switch off the installation. This time Anatole must have turned off the installation after his latest experiment but had forgotten about the Van de Graaff generator. As Opratin was on his way to the control panel to switch off the generator a low crackling sound came from above. He stopped short. A dazzling white sphere the size of a basketball came rolling out of the generator column with a swish. Globe lightning! Opratin stared dumbfounded at the glowing fire-ball. The scorching clot of energy was heading straight for his feet, giving oft sparks as it rolled along. Opratin backed towards the steps which led to the hatch. The cover of the hatch was open; a breath of wind could send the fire-ball upwards and out through the hatch. But what if it exploded down here instead? The fire-ball swayed gently and glided upwards, almost into Opratin's face. Then it floated along in front of the control panel. Opratin felt behind him for the steps, then swung round and scrambled upstairs. But before he could jump out of the hatch there was a flash of dazzling light, a short hiss, and a sharp metallic click. A blast of heat struck his back. Forcing himself to turn round, he saw that the fire-ball was gone. It had disintegrated without exploding. The cage was empty-except for the upper part of the folding chair jutting up out of the floor. Opratin, horrified, closed his eyes. His heart beat violently. He stepped out of the laboratory and stood before the door for a moment to get his face and hands under control. Only after his hands stopped trembling did he lock and seal the door. Dimly, in the background of his consciousness, he heard the ceaseless scuffle of the feet of the animated and colourful summer throngs promenading along the boulevard. What was he to do? How could he explain Anatole's disappearance? If he told the truth, no one would believe him. You only had globe lightning during a thunderstorm. There had been no thunderstorm. No one had ever heard of a man-made fire-ball. Who would believe that a Van de Graaff generator had produced one? Opratin shuddered at the memory of the flash of light and the metallic click. As the fire-ball floated past the control panel it had activated the magnetic starter of the installation. An accident during an experiment? But then there would be an inquiry, and the installation, which had nothing to do with cloud condensation and the level of the Caspian, would be discovered. People would want, to know where Benedictov's body was. No, no-not that. What if he said that Benedictov had remained behind alone on the island to finish a series of experiments, and had probably drowned while bathing? His body had evidently been carried out to sea. But Bugrov knew that Anatole hated sea bathing. Should he talk to Bugrov? No, that scum of the earth had been looking daggers at him lately. He would not hesitate to claim that he had been forced to steal from a display case in a museum. Should he tell the whole truth? After all, he was in no way to blame for anything. He was on the verge of a major breakthrough in science. It was not his fault that Benedictov had fallen victim to his own absentmindedness. Yes, he'd make a full confession, and let come what may. Suddenly he heard alarmed voices. Raising his head, he saw a wavering glow on the southern horizon. Something was burning far out at sea. Opratin pushed his way through the crowd and headed for home. He did not sleep a wink all night. He paced the floor, he flung himself into an armchair, then sprang to his feet and paced the floor again- Early next morning his telephone rang. "A big crater erupted on Ipaty last night," came the excited voice of the Institute director. "The Island no longer exists." Opratin was struck dumb. He passed the palm of his hand over his inflamed eyes. "That's terrible," he said into the phone at last. "Anatole Benedictov was on the island-" Ipaty no longer existed. Opratin took a shower, shaved himself slowly and thoroughly, and dressed carefully. When he set out for the Institute he was his usual smart, dapper self. Four days later a white launch chugged up to the marina. Four fantastically-garbed young people stepped out onto the pier. One was a lanky young man with a tawny beard, wearing only shorts and, on his head, a faded kerchief; camera and binoculars straps ran across his chest in opposite directions. Another was a round-faced, swarthy, black-haired youth in blue swimming trunks with a fishing rod in one hand and a transistor radio in the other. There was a fair-haired young woman in a torn red sun-dress, the tatters held together with safety pins. The fourth was a pretty brunette with big black eyes who, despite the hot day, was wrapped in a yellow-striped green blanket. All were deeply sunburnt and barefoot. A tiger-striped yellow boxer brought up the rear. The sailing enthusiasts at the marina stared in amazement at the procession. When they realized that the man with the tawny beard was Yura Kostyukov they rushed up to shake his hand. Dockmaster Mehti vigorously pumped Yura's arm and then turned to shake hands with Yura's companions. The four had drifted on the becalmed sea for three days. On the morning of the fourth they were picked up by a rescue launch from Lenkoran that was searching for them in that area. "You can thank Nikolai Potapkin for saving your lives," Mehti said to Yura. "He was the one who told us you had a raft. If we hadn't known that we wouldn't have outfitted search parties. We would have thought you all perished on the island." One of the boating people offered to drive the four of them home and they left the marina in his car. "Well, we're back home again, old man." Yura said to Rex as the car drew up in front of his house. He thanked the driver and ran up the stairs to the fourth floor. Rex leaped and danced in front of the door. No one answered Yura's ring. "They're not back yet," he thought thankfully. His parents had left for a holiday in the Caucasian spa of Kislovodsk just before the cruise. Yura picked up his key from the neighbour with whom he had left it, and entered his flat. First, a hot shower. Yura scrubbed his body energetically with a stiff loofah. The water that ran down the drain was black. He soaped again and again. Finally, when his skin squeaked under his hands, he heaved a sign of relief. What a job it had been to remove all that dirt! After he had dressed, Yura glanced into the kitchen. Rex was drowsing on his pad. When he saw Yura he rose and gave a long yawn. "You'll stay at home," Yura told him. "I'll run over to see how Nikolai is getting along. I'll bring you back something to eat. Would you like some fish?" Rex barked his indignation. Yura had learned from dockmaster Mehti that Nikolai was in hospital-the same hospital where Nikolai's mother was employed as a nurse. Arriving at the hospital, he asked for her. When she came down into the lobby and saw Yura her face lit up. She embraced him and shed a few tears. "Forgive me for weeping," she said. "It's so wonderful to see you. I had been told-" "How is Nikolai?" "Much better. He has pneumonia, you know. Besides, he lost a lot of blood from a deep cut on his shoulder where a log scraped it. He keeps asking for you. I've been telling him you're in town, but that he can't see you yet because the doctors don't allow him any visitors." "I must see Nikolai at once." "I'm sorry, not today, dear. He's still weak. Come tomorrow." "May I send him a note? It's extremely important."' "Well, all right." Yura tore a page out of his pad and quickly wrote: "Hi, old man. We're all safe and sound and dying to see you. Meanwhile, just one question: was Benedictov in the motorboat?" "All he has to answer is one word-yes or no," Yura said, handing the note to Nikolai's mother. "It's our last hope," Yura thought as he restlessly paced the lobby waiting for Nikolai's mother to return. "If only the answer is yes. Then we can forget all about that dreadful top of a folding chair sticking out of the concrete. If only-" A few minutes later Nikolai's mother came down the stairs. She handed Yura a sheet of paper on which the word NO was printed in block letters. When Rita entered her flat she could tell at once that Anatole had been living at home. The bed was unmade, his pyjamas were tossed over the back of a chair, and half a glass of cold tea and a sugar bowl stood on the table. He must have left Opratin's place and been living at home all the time she was away. She rang up the Institute of Marine Physics but it was the end of the day and no one came to the phone. She stood lost in thought for a while, then dialled Opratin's number. The phone rang and rang without an answer. Her mother was visiting relatives in Rostov. Whom else could she phone? What a pity Nikolai could not be reached. Rita took a bath, then called Opratin again. This time he answered. "Rita?" he asked in astonishment. "Are you in town?" "Obviously. Where's Anatole?" "Excuse me-" Opratin fell silent for a few moments. Then he said: "You ask about Anatole's whereabouts. Don't you know what happened?" "What's happened?" she cried, pressing her hand to her heart. "Tell me at once." "I hate to be the one to break the news. Anatole was working in our island laboratory. He was killed when the island suddenly blew up." "You're lying. He wasn't in the laboratory." "I realize the state you are in," Opratin said gently and with sympathy. "Believe me, I am quite sincere when I say-" "It's a lie!" she cried furiously. "He left the island with you. What have you done to him, you horrid creature?" "If you're going to carry on like this I must say goodbye." Rita heard a click, and then the line went dead. She slowly replaced the receiver. For a moment she stood motionless, her arms hanging by her sides, in the deathly silence of the empty flat. Then she snatched up the receiver and dialled Yura's number. No one came to the phone. She waited a few minutes, then tried again. Still no Yura. On leaving the hospital Yura took a taxi straight home, locked himself in the bathroom, turned off the light, and set about developing his last roll of film. On the other side of the bathroom door hungry .Rex whined. The telephone rang frantically. Yura was too busy to go out to answer it. "It must be Val," he thought. "I'll call her back as soon as I'm free." Snatching the wet film out of the fixer, he switched on the light and studied it frame by frame. The negatives of the pictures he had taken in the island laboratory did look odd. There it was-the cage, the back of the folding chair jutting up out of the concrete floor, and below it a vague whitish spot. What the devil was that? How could the camera have photographed what was under concrete? Yura turned on the fan to dry the film more quickly. Now for the printing. He ran the roll of film through the enlarger until he came to the frame with the cage. He printed an enlargement of it and tossed the paper into the developing tray. In the red light the cage and then the cross-piece of the chair showed through slowly, as though unwillingly. He could see the hazy outlines of the chair itself and - Cold shivers ran down his spine. Now the vague contours of a human body were emerging. The body was reclining in the folding chair and had been photographed from a strange angle-from almost directly overhead. Bugrov felt terrible. The man sitting on the other side of the desk knew far too much about him. "Whom did you buy the drugs from?" "I don't know his surname," Bugrov replied sullenly. "They called him Mahmud." "The one who used to stand on the corner of Ninth Street, near the filling station?" "Yes." "Well, Mahmud's been arrested." Bugrov scowled at the investigator. "I didn't buy the drugs for myself." "I know you didn't." The investigator's voice hardened. "But you bought them, and you ruined a man." Bugrov leaped to his feet. "That's a lie! He ruined himself. I refuse to be held responsible. He begged me to buy him the drugs. Do you think I-" "Calm down," the investigator said. "I'm not accusing you. He could not get along without them, poor chap. Now tell me this. What were the relations between Nikolai Opratin and Anatole Benedictov-" "They squabbled all the time. They'd start quarrelling every time we set out for the island and they'd keep it up all the way." "What about?" "How do I know? I don't know the science part of it. Opratin wouldn't let me any farther than the motor compartment. 1 think there was a hitch of some kind." The investigator asked Bugrov to describe the last trip to the island in the minutest detail. "So you left Benedictov in the laboratory, did you?" he remarked after Bugrov finished his story. "You sealed the door and left. Is that it?" Bugrov stared at him in astonishment. "Who'd seal a door if there was a living person inside?" "H'm, a living person, you say?" The investigator stared intently into Bugrov's eyes. "Did you climb up to the pill-box before you left the island?" "No. I was busy tinkering with the engine." "What did you and Opratin talk about on the return trip?" "What did we talk about? I don't remember talking at all. He was like an owl." "But you did talk all the same. When you stopped the boat to take a dip." On hearing this Bugrov was more astonished than ever. "Why, that's right," he said. "We spoke of how slow the boat was going." "Anything else?" "He asked me on what pier I had picked up Benedictov. And whether anyone had seen us." The investigator nodded and wrote something down. "Now we're getting somewhere." "He talks as if he was in the boat with us," Bugrov thought. "Maybe Opratin told him about it. But no, that slick customer wouldn't go talking to the law." The investigator carefully took a small, flat iron box on a chain out of his drawer and laid it on the desk in front of Bugrov. ''Ever seen this before?" he asked. Sweat broke out on Bugrov's forehead. "I'm sunk!" he thought, searching in his pocket for a handkerchief. "As far as I'm concerned," Bugrov said in a bored voice, "this little piece of iron junk is the last thing I'd want. I took it for scientific purposes." "You stole it." "Have it your own way." Bugrov pushed away the chain disdainfully with his little finger. "I just gave it a little snip with a pair of pliers, that's all. I didn't take it for myself." "You'll have to answer for this museum theft." Bugrov turned to look at the sky outside the window. He wouldn't be able to wriggle out of this one. "It's a pity. The Institute gave you very good references. Well, you may go now. Just sign this statement promising not to leave town." Nikolai Opratin drummed with his fingers on the black attache case lying in his lap and said evenly, "You have no right to level such a charge against me. It's slander." The investigator placed a folder on the desk. He had spent quite a few days studying the papers inside the folder before he summoned Opratin for questioning. "Please answer the question," he said shortly. "Why did you lock and seal the door before leaving the island?" "I did nothing of the sort. I left the key and the seal with Benedictov." The investigator gave Opratin a severe look. Opratin met it calmly. "What did you ask Bugrov on the way back when he stopped the boat to take a dip?" "I didn't ask him anything." The investigator pressed a button and said to the man who entered: "Show Bugrov in." When Bugrov entered the room a few seconds later Opratin did not glance at him. "He asked if anyone had seen Benedictov get into the boat when I picked him up that morning," Bugrov said in reply to the investigator's question. "They boarded the boat at different piers." "I never asked such a question," Opratin said quietly. "What do you mean?" Bugrov exclaimed. "You certainly did!" The investigator stopped him with a gesture. "We have a witness," he said, pressing the button again. This time Nikolai Potapkin entered the room. Opratin measured him with an indifferent glance, then looked pointedly at his watch. Nikolai confirmed that Opratin had talked with Bugrov on the trip back from the island. Opratin shrugged. "This whole business is absurd. Assuming, for a moment, that we actually did talk, how could this young man have heard it, in the middle of the Caspian?" "This young man travelled from Ipaty Island to the mainland hanging onto the prow of your motorboat," said the investigator. "That has been verified and is absolutely true. Now I want to ask you another question," he said, turning to Nikolai. "What did Opratin and Benedictov talk about in their underground laboratory before the latter vanished?" Nikolai repeated the conversation. Bugrov stared at him in bewilderment, his mouth open. "Do you admit that such a conversation took place?" the investigator asked, turning to look squarely at Opratin. "Do you admit that you and Benedictov had a bitter quarrel?" Opratin did not reply at once. His fingers drummed nervously on his attache case. It appeared those youngsters had been on the island. He had never suspected it. He had been vaguely disturbed ever since Benedictov's wife had screamed into the phone that he was lying. He had hung up at once. He had thought she was simply upset. But now it turned out that- What else could they have seen? But they could not possibly have entered the laboratory- They did not have a shred of evidence. The laboratory had blown up, and Benedictov together with it. "Th-there was no such conversation," said Opratin in a hollow voice. "Was there no ventilation shaft in your pillbox either?" Nikolai shouted angrily. The investigator pressed a button to summon Yura and Valery, who confirmed Nikolai's words. All eyes were now turned on Opratin. He slowly passed the palm of his hand over his damp, thin hair. "Very well," he said slowly, choosing his words. "Let us assume that I did quarrel with Benedictov." (Be calm, get a grip on yourself.) "What of that? We quarrelled, I left, and he remained to complete the work on hand. On that very day the big crater erupted. The laboratory was destroyed, Benedictov was killed." "You killed him!" Yura cried. "That's a lie!" Opratin turned a pale face to him. "That's a despicable lie." Yura strode to the table. "You switched on the installation and killed him. Show him the photographs." "Don't rush things, young man," said the investigator. Turning to Opratin he said: "There was a setup in your laboratory that had nothing to do with cloud condensation. I have pictures of the equipment and a statement by your director. Take a look." He spread several large photographs on the desk. Opratin said nothing. He looked at them indifferently, one by one, until he came to the last picture. He stared dumbfounded at the picture of the cage inside which could be seen the dim contours of a folding chair and the outlines of a human body photographed from directly above. Opratin pressed the tips of his fingers to his eyes. Under his left eye a vein throbbed. His cheeks paled. With a nod to the witnesses the investigator indicated that he wanted them to leave the room. "Well?" he asked. Opratin was sitting in a strange manner, knees drawn up so that his feet were not touching the floor. He now had control of himself; his expression was solemn. His fingers drummed nervously on the nickel-plated clasp of the black attache case in his lap. The clasp gave a loud click. "Well?" the investigator repeated. Opratin said nothing. He sat tensely poised, his gaze fixed on the distance. His lips moved almost imperceptibly, as though counting off the seconds. "Has he gone round the bend?" the investigator wondered. He pressed a button. "Lead the prisoner away," he said to the sergeant who had entered and halted near the door. Opratin rose in an odd manner, almost as if he had jumped up. "You'll hear more about me," he said in a remote voice, moving towards the door. "You're under arrest. Detain him, sergeant." The sergeant took up a position in front of the door and raised his hand. Opratin halted for an instant, then moved to the side, walked straight through the wall beside the door, and vanished. The sergeant stared round-eyed at the investigator for an instant, then rushed out into the corridor, followed by the investigator. They saw Opratin walking down the corridor. He was moving like a robot, taking slow steps, woodenly placing his feet flat on the ground, as though he were testing the strength of the floor. In his right hand he still held the black attache case. The sergeant caught up with him and stretched out his hand to seize him by the arm. But his hand went through Opratin's arm as though through air. All the sergeant felt was a light puff of warm air. "Follow him!" cried the investigator. "Hurry! Don't take your eyes off him!" Hearing the shouts on the floor above them, Nikolai, Yura and Valery halted in the lobby. Opratin was descending the stairs and coming straight towards them. They stood shoulder to shoulder to bar his way. Opratin did not turn aside. He walked straight through them, then through the astounded man on duty at the door, who tried to stop him, and out into the street. His face white and tense, he walked without stepping aside for anyone. He paid no attention to the shouts of the investigator and the sergeant who were following him, or to the three young men who were on his heels. For the first time in his life Opratin was displeased with his own conduct. What in the world had he been thinking of? He had made one stupid blunder after another. He should have told the whole story at once. He should have admitted that although the laboratory was being used for experiments that were not in the programme these experiments would lead to a major breakthrough. He should have told the truth, as he had wanted to at the beginning. The whole truth about the apparatus, about Benedictov's carelessness, and about the fire-ball. Who could have expected those damned youngsters to get into the laboratory? And in the first place, he shouldn't have gone to the investigator's office when he received the summons. How could an investigator be expected to understand all this? He would simply look on it as a crime. This case should be examined by a committee of scientists. He should have gone higher up at once. He should have said straight out: we've obtained a remarkable scientific result. It was not too late now, either. Within half an hour he would be in touch with the right people. He would tell them he had kept quiet about Benedictov's death simply because he had panicked. They would understand that, and appoint a committee of inquiry. He would be allowed to carry his experiments through to the end. On reaching the intersection Opratin stepped out into the heavy traffic without a glance either to the right or to the left. A bus bore down on him. The driver, his face distorted with fear, tried in vain to brake in time. Opratin felt a moment's terror but then- The passengers saw a clean-shaven, well-dressed man cut off at the knees by the floor of their bus, pass through them without touching a single person, and disappear, leaving behind a faint odour of eau de Cologne. It was all over before they had time to exclaim in fright or astonishment. Meanwhile Opratin, quite unharmed, had reached the other side of the street and was walking on, swinging his attache case in time to his wooden steps. He paid no attention either to people or to cars. One more block and he would be close- He was slowly crossing the street when a heavy lorry turned the corner. Opratin did not even glance at it. There was a piercing shriek. Tires squealed. Its engine giving a sharp bang, the lorry came to such a sudden stop that the driver's chest was pressed against the steering wheel and he lost consciousness. A crowd instantly gathered. The body of the ghost-man hung in an unnatural, twisted position on the front of the lorry, his right arm plunged into the bonnet up to the shoulder. The black attache case had been thrown some two metres away from the lorry. It lay half buried in the roadway. Penetrability had suddenly ceased, and Opratin's body had regained its normal properties at the very moment when his right arm had moved into the space occupied by the running engine. The particles of Opratin's arm and of the lorry engine had intermingled into an unbelievable mixture. The engine had immediately gone dead. Nikolai and Yura pushed their way through the crowd to the lorry and stopped short, overwhelmed by what they saw. A siren sounded. The crowd parted to make way for an ambulance. CHAPTER EIGHT IN WHICH OPRATIN'S INNOCENCE IS ESTABLISHED IN A SOMEWHAT UNUSUAL MANNER On that particular Saturday evening Boris Privalov lay on the sofa, reading and smoking, enjoying the peace and quiet. But there is no such thing as perfect peace and quiet, not even for a short interval. "Do you intend to lie there all evening,