nd I pity him. Well, what does a person live for? He will eventually save money and return home. And then what? - Joyce! - bellowed Ivan. - We have one more question for you! - Coming! - shouted the barman. He appeared from behind the bar stand and placed before Yura the plate with a shnitzel and a misty bottle of grape juice. - On the house, - said he, pointing to bottle, and sat down. Yura said: - Thank you, you shouldn't have. - Listen, Joyce, - said Ivan. - The Russian boy is asking, what will you do when you become rich? Joyce watched Yura closely for some time. - Fair enough, - said he. - I know what answer the boy is waiting for. Therefore I will ask. The boy will grow up and become a mature man. All his life he will engage in... how do you say it... interesting work. But one day, he will become old and won't be able to work any more. What will he do then, this boy? Ivan leaned on the back of the chair and looked at the barman with pleasure. His face read: "What a tough nut, this one, hey!" Yura felt how his ears became hot. He lowered the fork and said in confusion: - I... I don't know, somehow I never thought about it... - he grew silent. The barman was looking at Yura seriously and sombrely. The awful moments dragged slowly. Yura said with despair: - I will try to die before I will cease being useful... - The barman's eyebrows rose to his forehead, he looked at Ivan with apprehension. Totally dumbfounded, Yura announced: - Anyway, I believe that its most important in life for a man to die a beautiful death! The barman silently stood up, patted Yura on the back with his broad hand and retreated behind the bar. Ivan said: - Well, buddy, thanks a lot. What a help you were. This way you will collapse all my ideological work. - Come on now - mumbled Yura. - Old age... Stop working... A person must struggle all their life. Isn't that true? - It is all true, - said the barman. - I, for instance, struggle to avoid taxes all my life. - Yeah, but that's not what I meant, - said Yura, waived his hand and buried his face in the plate. Ivan took a sip of the grape juice that was on the house and leisurely said: - By the way, Joyce. One very interesting detail. Although my ally said nothing intelligent, given his tender age, take notice, he prefers to die rather than to live in the old age like you. It simply never entered his head, what he will do when he turns old. And you, Joyce, have been thinking about it all your life. And all your life you are preparing for old age. That's how it is, Joyce buddy. The barman scratched his bald patch in reflection. - Possibly, - said he. - That's what the difference is, - said Ivan. - And the difference, I think, is not in your favour. The barman thought about it for a while, scratched his bald spot again, and, without saying a word, disappeared through the door behind the bar. - Well then, - said Ivan with satisfaction. - Today I got the better of him. By the way, where are you from, fair child? - From Vyaz'ma, - Yura said melancholically. He was acutely feeling the unsoundness of his life experience. - And what for? - I need to get to Rhea. - He looked at Ivan and clarified: - Rhea - it's one of Saturn's satellites. - Oh, that's what it is, - said Ivan. - Fascinating. And what did you miss on Rhea? - There is a new construction, and I am a vacuum-welder. There were eleven of us and I fell behind the group, because I... Well, basically, for family reasons. Now I don't know how to get there. I shall go and see the cosmodrome director at six. - To see Maikov? - N-no, - said Yura. - That is, I don't know his name. To see the cosmodrome director, in general. Ivan watched him with interest. - What is your name? - Yura... Yura Borodin. - Well then, Yura Borodin, - said Ivan and sorrowfully shook his head. - I am afraid, you will have to die a beautiful death. Trouble is, that the cosmodrome director comrade Maikov, as I am personally informed, has flown out to Moscow... - he looked at his watch, - twelve minutes ago. This was a terrifying blow. Yura's heart sunk instantly. - How so... - he mumbled. - But I was told... - Come on now, - said Ivan. - Cheer up a little. Your old age hasn't yet arrived. Every director, when going to Moscow, leaves a deputy behind. - That's right! - said Yura and exalted. - Please forgive me: I got to make a phone call immediately. - Go and make the call, - said Ivan. - The payphone is right around the corner. Yura jumped up and ran to the phone booth. When Yura returned, Ivan was standing on the path in front of the cafe. - Well? - he asked. - No luck, - Yura said mournfully. - The director has really left whilst his deputy can only see me after seven tomorrow night. - Tomorrow night? - Ivan asked again. - Yes, after seven tomorrow night. Ivan pensively stared somewhere at the acacia crowns. - At night, - he repeated. - Yes, that is too late. - I have to now spend the night at the hotel, - said Yura with a sigh. - I will go and book a room. Down the path approached, busily shuffling his shirt feet, a chubby man dressed with chic wearing a colonial helmet. His face was swollen, with distended eyes. Under his left eye a dark, thickly powdered abrasion was protruding. Within ten meters of approaching Ivan, the man ripped the helmet off his head, and bending his body almost in half, hurriedly sneaked into the cafe. Ivan bowed back gallantly. - What's with him? - said Yura in astonishment - Come on, let's go, - said Ivan. - It's on the way. - One minute, - said Yura. - I will just go and pay. - I paid already, - said Ivan, - Let's go. - No, what for, - said Yura with dignity. - I have money... We were each handed money... Ivan looked across the shoulder at the cafe. - And this ass-licker, - said he, - is my good friend. Pride and joy of the international cosmoport Mirza-Charlie. - Yura also looked back. The "pride and joy of Mirza-Charlie" has already climbed onto the highest stool at the bar. - The king of stinkers. An underground recruiter. The most prosperous bastard in town. Two days ago he got drunk like a swine and was stalking a girl in the street. That's when I gave him a few knocks. Now he is very amicable with me. They were leisurely walking down a shady green side street. It got cooler. Disorderly engine hum was reaching them from the Friendship street. - But whom does he recruit? - asked Yura. - Workers, - replied Ivan. - By the way, who recommended you to work on Rhea? - Our plant has recommended us, - said Yura. - And who are this workers? Do our own really enlist? Ivan was surprised. - Why would they be ours? The folk from the West. All kind of unfortunate ones, who since childhood keep thinking about old age and dream of becoming some kind of proprietors. There are plenty over there. Listen, Yura, - said he, - and what if you won't get to Rhea? What then? - Now, don't say that, - said Yura. - I will definitely get to Rhea. It will be really unfair to all the guys if I won't make it. There were one hundred and fifty volunteers and only eleven of us were chosen. How can I not make it? I must get there. They walked in silence for some time. - Ok, so they get recruited, - said Yura. - And then where to? - Then they get put on ships and sent to asteroids. The recruiters receive commission per head placed in ship's hold. That's why, disguised as sales agents, they hang around Mirza-Charlie. And other international cosmodromes. They came on to the Friendship walk and turned to the hotel. Ivan stopped next to a large white building. - That's where I have to go, - he said. - Good bye, Yura Borodin. - Good bye, - said Yura. - Thanks so much. And I am sorry for talking rubbish back there, in the cafe. - It's nothing, - said Ivan. - The main thing is, you were earnest. They shook hands. - Listen, Yura, - said Ivan and paused. - Yes? - said Yura. - About Rhea, - said Ivan. He paused again, looking to the side. Yura was waiting. - Yes, about Rhea. Why don't you, buddy, come in sometime around nine o'clock tonight into hotel room three hundred and six. - And what then? - asked Yura. - What will come out of that, I don't know, - said Ivan. - In that suite you will see a man who looks quite ferocious. Try to convince him that you must really get to Rhea. - And who is he? - asked Yura. - Good bye, - said Ivan. - Don't forget: number three hundred and six, after nine o'clock. He turned and disappeared inside the white building. Above the entrance to the building a black plastic board was hanging with white writing: "The public order patrol headquarters. Mirza-Charlie". - Number three hundred and six, - repeated Yura. - After nine. Mirza-Charlie. The hotel, suite three hundred and six. Yura was killing time. In a few hours he covered almost the entire city. He really enjoyed walking around unfamiliar cities and find out what there is. In Mirza-Charlie there was EACS. No one was allowed under the giant transparent dome but now Yura knew that EACS - is the Electronic Administration and Control System, the electronic brain of the cosmodrome. Walking north from EACS, you would get to a large park with an open sky cinema, two shooting galleries, a big stadium, the ride "Man inside a rocket", music cabins, swings, dancing areas and a great clear lake, around which araucarias and pyramid poplars grew and in which Yura enjoyed a swim. On the southern outskirts of the city Yura discovered a low red building, immediately past which the desert began. Next to the building were parked a few red squarish atomocars and a blue policeman was walking around with a gun. The policeman announced to Yura that the red building is the prison and that the Russian lad shouldn't go there. To the west of EACS lay the residential suburbs. There were lots of small and large, pretty and not so pretty houses. The streets were narrow, unsealed. Living there must have been, as it looked, not bad at all - cool, shady and close to the centre. Yura really liked the city library building but did not go inside. On the western city border the administrative buildings were situated, and behind them the industrial area began, a huge territory occupied by warehouses. The warehouses were endlessly long, grey-coloured, made from corrugated plastic, with giant white numbers painted on the walls. Here Yura discovered such an abundance of trucks and cargo helicopters that he had never seen in his life. His ears were becoming blocked from the continuous steady hum of engines. Yura had barely walked ten paces, when behind him a siren wailed nastily and he jumped to the side, to some wall, but then the wall opened and through the gates, as wide as the Arch of Triumph, right towards Yura, crawled a huge red and white beast on wheels the size of two human heights, and from the two-storey height the driver wearing a beanie shouted at Yura. The humongous truck slowly reversed in a narrow passage between the warehouses and right behind it another one was crawling out already, and a third one following the second. Yura carefully manoeuvred along the walls, radiating heat, deafened by the roar, the rumbling and heavy clink of unseen mechanisms. Then he saw a low platform, onto which familiar cylindrical containers with vacuum welding mix were being loaded. He walked closer, and smiling cheerfully, stood next to the man conducting the loading with the help of a remote control on his neck. He stood and watched for some time as the arms of the crane accurately placed the packed container stacks on top of each other. Then he said knowingly: - No, this won't do. - What won't do? - asked the man with interest and looked at Yura. - This very container won't do. - Why? - You can see that. The valve is crooked. The man wavered for a few seconds. - It's nothing, - he said. - They will work it out there. - Not quite, - disagreed Yura. - We won't be working it out over there. Remove this stack. The man took his hands off the remote and stared at Yura. The arm of the crane stopped, the next stack, rocking quietly, hung in mid-air. - It's a mere trifle, - said the man. - It's a trifle here, - Yura rebutted again. The man shrugged his shoulders and placed his hands on the remote again. Yura incessantly watched the unloading of the defective container, thanked the man politely and walked on. Very soon he discovered that he is lost. The warehouse territory was like a whole city, with streets and side-streets ending in the desert. At the end of such side-streets stood huge signs with warnings: "Go back! Hazardous radiation zone!". It was getting dark quickly and Yura followed some column of vehicles riding on broad elastic tracks and without realising ended up on a highway. Yura knew that the city is on his right, but to the left, where the column had gone, multicoloured lights were flashing nearby, and Yura turned left. Dessert lay on either side of the highway. There were no trees, no irrigation ditches, just an even black horizon. The sun had set a long time ago, but the air was still hot and dry. The multicoloured lights were flashing above the crossing arms. On the side of the crossing stood a small mushroom-like house. Next to the house, beneath a street light a policeman was sitting, holding his blue helmet in his lap. Another policeman was walking in front of the crossing. Upon seeing Yura, he stopped and walked towards him. Yura's heart jumped. The policeman came close and stretched out his hand. - Papers, - he said in a barking voice. I think I am stuck now, thought Yura. If I get detained... By the time they will work it out... Why did I only walk here!.. He hastily reached into his pocket. The policeman was waiting with his hand outstretched. The other policeman put on his helmet and stood up. - Weit a minut, - mumbled Yura. - Hang on. Right this minute... Damn, oh no, just where could it be... The policeman lowered his hand. - Are you Russian? - he asked. - Yes, - said Yura. - Hang on... You see, all I have is a workplace reference... The steelworks plant in V'yazma... he finally produced the reference. - No need, - said the policeman suddenly in a kind tone. The second policeman approached and asked: - What's the matter? The chap hasn't got his papers? - Nope, - said the first policeman. - He is Russian. - Oh, - said the other one with indifference. He turned and walked back to his bench. - I just wanted to have a look at what's here, - said Yura. - Here we have the cosmodrome, - the policeman explained readily. - Over there, - he pointed beyond the crossing with his hand. - But you cannot go there. - No, no, - Yura said hastily. - Just to have a look. - You can have a look, - said the policeman. He walked to the crossing. Yura followed him. - This is the cosmodrome, - the policeman repeated. Under the bright middle-eastern starts a flat, almost glaciered plateau shimmered. Far ahead, where the highway was leading, clouded glares flashed up and searchlight rays scurried, displacing gigantic hazy silhouettes from the dark. From time to time a weak thundering blare rolled across the plateau. "Space ships", - Yura thought with pleasure. Of course, he knew, that Mirza-Charlie, like all other cosmodromes on Earth, was used only for intra-planetary communication, that real planetary vessels, the photon rockets types such as "Cheous", "John Brown", "Yang-Tze" are too immense and powerful to take off directly from Earth, but these dark contours over the horizon also seemed quite formidable. - Rockets, rockets, - the policeman spoke leisurely. - How many people fly out there, - he raised a blue fluorescent baton to the dark sky. - Everyone with their dreams. And how many of them return in sealed zinc coffins! Right here, by this very crossing, we assemble the honorary guard. Their determination takes your breath away. And nevertheless, over there must be, - he raised the baton again, - there must be someone, who really dislikes this determination... The horizon suddenly lit up with a blinding flash, a long fiery stream hit the sky and dispersed into a fountain of sparks. The bitumen under their feet trembled. The policeman brought the watch to his eyes. - Twelve past twenty, - he said. - The nightly lunar. There was thunder in the sky. The booming peals weakened as they faded away and finally died altogether. - I got to go, - said Yura. - What's the quickest way to get into town? - Keep walking, - replied the policeman. - At the turn to the warehouse hail down any car. When at ten-thirty Yura reached the hotel, he looked somewhat dishevelled and bewildered. Mirza-Charlie at night was totally unlike Mirza-Charlie during the day. Down the streets, bisected by sharp dark shadows, the cars moved in a solid tide. The flashing billboards lit up the crowds on the side walk. The doors of all cafes and bars were wide open. Inside the music roared and the air was bluish with tobacco smoke. Drunk foreigners were trudging down the street, hugging, in threes or fours, bawling unfamiliar songs. Across every twenty-thirty steps the police stood with stony faces under the helmets worn low. Through the pulsing crowd, trios of solid young lads wearing red armbands moved calmly and leisurely. Yura saw how one such patrol walked inside a bar, and immediately the silence fell and even the music stopped playing. The patrolmen had bored and squeamish faces. From another bar, much closer to the hotel, the two with tiny moustaches threw out onto the street some unfortunate soul and began kicking him. The poor fellow was screaming loudly in French: "Patrol! Help! Murder!" Yura, clenching his teeth with loathing, already took aim for a punch into the ear of a whiskered man, when he was unceremoniously shoved aside and a long strapping arm with a red band grabbed one of the whiskered men by the collar. The other whiskered fellow crouched and jumped into a bar. The patrol negligently passed the catch into the arms of approaching police, and they, twisting the men's arms behind his back, almost in a rush, dragged him into the nearest side-street. Yura managed to notice, how one of the policemen, looking around stealthily, hit the whiskered fellow hard on the head with a fluorescent baton. Pity I didn't give it to him, thought Yura. For a moment he even lost the desire to fly to Rhea. He wished he could put on a red band and join these firm, confident young guys. - Some customs you have here! - upon returning to the hotel, Yura told the adminstratrix with agitation. - Some nest of bloodsuckers!.. - What are you on about? - asked the adminstratrix with fear. Yura came to his senses. - Well, you see, on the street, - he said, - such a dump!.. - An international port, we must put up with this for now, - said the adminstratrix with a smile. - And how are things with you? - Don't know yet, - said Yura. - Tell me please, how do I get to room three hundred and six? - Go up in a lift, third floor, turn right. - Thanks, - said Yura and walked to the lift. He came up to the third floor and found the door to three hundred and six straight away. In front of the door he stopped and for the first time thought how, what, and most importantly, to whom he will be talking. He recalled what Ivan said about a fierce-looking man. He thoroughly combed his hair and looked himself over. Then he knocked. - Come in, - said a low husky voice behind the door. Yura walked in. In the room, behind a round table covered with a white tablecloth, sat two mature men. Yura was dumbfounded: he recognised them both, and this was so unexpected that for a moment he imagined he must be in the wrong suite. Ahead of him, staring directly in his face with small hostile eyes, sat the well-known Bykov, the captain of the legendary "Takhmaseeb", sombre and ruddy - the way he looked on a stereophoto above the desk of Yura's older brother. The face of the other man, sprawled out in a light straw chair, genteel, long, with a squeamish fold beside his full lips was also amazingly familiar. Yura just couldn't remember his name, but was absolutely certain, that he had seen him once or perhaps even a few times. On the table stood a long dark bottle and one glass. - What do you want? - Bykov asked in a muffled voice. - Is this room three hundred and six? - Yura asked with hesitation. - Ye-es, - the man with a genteel face answered in a velvety rolling voice. - Who are you after, young man? This must be Yurkovski, remembered Yura. The interplanetary explorer from Venus. There was a film about them... I... I don't know... - he spoke. - You see, I really must get to Rhea... Today this one comrade... - Surname? - said Bykov. - Whose? - Yura couldn't understand. - Your surname! - Borodin... Yuri Mikhailovich Borodin. - Occupation? - Vacuum-welder. - Documents. For the second time that day (and in his entire life) Yura reached for his documents. Bykov was staring at him, waiting. Yurkovski lazily held the bottle and poured himself some wine. - Here you are, please, - said Yura. He placed his reference on the table and moved a few steps away. Bykov produced from his shirt-pocket great old-fashioned glassed and, holding them up to his eyes, very attentively and, as Yura decided, twice in a row, read the document after which it was handed to Yurkovski. - How did it happen, that you fell behind your group? - he asked sharply. - I... You see, it's a family matter... - In more detail, young man, - thundered Yurkovski. He was reading the professional reference, holding it in an outstretched hand and taking sips from the glass. - You see, my mum suddenly became ill, - said Yura. An appendicitis attack. You see, there was no way I could leave. My brother is in an expedition... Dad is at the North Pole at the moment... I couldn't... - Does your mum know, that you volunteered to go into space? - asked Bykov. - Yes, of course. - She agreed? - Y-yes... - Are you engaged? Yura shook his head. Yurkovski carefully folded the recommendation and laid it on the edge of the table. - Tell me, young man, - he asked, - why weren't you... er... replaced? Yura blushed. - I really pleaded with them, - he said quietly. - And everyone thought that I will catch up. I came just one day late... Silence set in and one could here, how on Friendship walk the 'Varangian guests' yelled discordantly. Either drowning their sorrows or sprucing up their fortune. Possibly, at Old Joyce's. - Do you have... err... acquaintances at Mirza-Charlie? - Yurkovski asked cautiously. - No, - said Yura. - I only arrived today. I just met this one comrade in a cafe. His name is Ivan and he... - And where did you go for inquiries? - To the duty officer at passenger communications and the hotel administrator. Bykov and Yurkovski swapped glances. It seemed to Yura, that Yurkovski shook his head with slight negation. - Well, this is not such a big deal, - grumbled Bykov. Yurkovski suddenly spoke sharply: - I really cannot understand, why we need a passenger. Bykov was thinking. - Honestly, I will not get in anyone's way, - said Yura with conviction. - And I am ready to do anything. - Even ready to die a beautiful death, - muttered Bykov. Yura bit his lip. My chances are crap, he thought. God, how badly stuffed I am. Oh, how badly... - I really need to get to Rhea, - he said. He suddenly realised with perfect lucidity, that this is his final chance and he cannot count on tomorrows meeting with the director's deputy. - Hmm? - said Bykov and looked at Yurkovski. Yurkovski shrugged his shoulders and, lifting his glass, began staring at it through the light. Then Bykov got up from the table - Yura even stepped back, for he seemed so huge and bulky - and, dragging his feet in slippers, headed for the corner, where on the back of a chair hung a worn leather jacket. From its pocket he produced a flat shiny radiophone case. Yura, holding his breath, was watching his back. - Charles? - Bykov inquired in muffed voice. He was pressing a flexible cord with a metallic ball to his ear. - This is Bykov. Do you still have the "Takhmaseeb" log? Insert into the crew list for special voyage 17... Yes, I am taking a probationer... Yes, the head of the mission does not object. (Yurkovski grimaced strongly, but said nothing.) What? Hang on, - Bykov turned to Yura, held out his hand and clicked his fingers impatiently. Yura rushed to the table, grabbed the reference and placed it between the fingers. - Now... Right... Signed by the collective of steelworks plant in V'yazma... God, Charles, this is absolutely none of your business! After all, this is a special voyage!.. Yes. Here: Borodin Yuri Mikhailovich... Eighteen years of age. Yes, precisely eighteen. Vacuum-welder... Probationer... Included under my order from yesterday's date. Please Charles, prepare his documents immediately. No, he won't, I will get them myself... Tomorrow morning. Good bye Charles, thanks. Bykov slowly wound up the cord and shoved the radiophone back into the jacket's pocket. - This is illegal, Alexey, - Yurkovski said quietly. Bykov returned to the table and sat down. - If you only knew, Vladimir, - said he, - how many regulations I can do without in space. And how many regulations we shall do without on this flight. Probationer, you may sit, - he told Yura. Yura sat down hastily and very uncomfortably. Bykov lifted the receiver. - Zhilin, come see me now. - He hung up the phone. - Take your papers, probationer. You will answer immediately to myself. The ship's engineer Zhilin, who will come shortly, will outline your duties to you. - Alexey, - Yurkovski said majestically. - Our... err... cadet still does not know, who he is dealing with. - Nope, I know, - said Yura. - I recognised you straight away. - Oh! - Yurkovski was surprised. - We are still recognisable? Yura had no time to answer. The door opened and on the threshold appeared Ivan in that same chequered shirt. - Here I am, Alexey Petrovich, - he announced cheerfully. - Collect your god-son, - grouched Bykov. - This is our probationer. He is now your responsibility. Make a note in the log. And now take him with you and don't leave him out of sight until we take off tomorrow. - Understood, - said Zhilin, took Yura off the chair and lead him into the corridor. Yura was slowly realising what has happened. - This is you - Zhilin? - he asked. - Ship's engineer? - Zhilin did not answer. He placed Yura before him, stepped a foot back and said in a menacing voice: - Do you drink vodka? - No, - Yura answered fearfully. - Do you believe in God? - No. - A truly interplanetary soul! - Zhilin said with content. - When we get on "Takhmaseeb", I will let you kiss the ignition key. Mars. Astronomers. Matti, covering his eyes from the blinding sun, was looking at the dunes. The crawler was nowhere to be seen. Above the dunes hung a large cloud of reddish dust, a weak wind was slowly shifting it sideways. All was quiet, only at the five meter height the anemometer propeller was rustling. Then Matti heard the shots - "pok, pok, pok, pok" - four shots in a row. - Missed, of course, - he said. The observatory was standing on a tall flat hill. In summer the air was always very clear and from the hilltop the white domes and parallelepipeds of Warm Syrt five kilometres to the South and grey ruins of the Old Base on an identical flat high hill three kilometres to the West could be clearly seen. But right now the Old Base was hidden by a cloud of dust. "Pok, pok, pok", - was heard again there. - Sharp-shooters, - Matti lamented. He examined the watch post. - What a rotten beast, - he said. The wide-angle camera was overturned. The meteo-box was leaning on the side. The wall of the telescopy pavilion was smothered with some yellow crap. Above the pavilion door shone a fresh hole from an explosive bullet. The light above the entrance was shattered. - Sharp-shooters, - Matty reiterated. He walked to the pavilion and palpated the edges of the tear with his fingers in a fur-lined glove. He thought about what mess an explosive bullet can invoke in a pavilion and he quivered. In the pavilion stood a very nice telescope with a beautifully repaired lens, the scintillation recorder, blink-autoshutters - all rare, capricious and complex apparatus. Blink-autoshutters are harmed even by dust, and must be covered with a hermetic core. But what can the core do against an explosive bullet? Matti did not go into the pavilion. "They should see it themselves, he thought. - They were the ones shooting, let them be the ones to see it". Frankly speaking, he was simply too scared to go inside. He placed the carabine on the sand and, with some effort, lifted the camera. One foot of the tripod was bent and the camera was standing unevenly. - Rotten scoundrel! - said Matti with hatred. He was conducting the meteorite filming and the camera was his sole instrument. He walked across the entire ground to the meteo-box. The dust over the ground was dug over. Matti was stomping with disdain upon the characteristic rounded craters - the traces of the "flying leech". "Why does she always barge in on the observation ground? - he was thinking. - Fine, she could at least crawl around the house. At least break into the garage. But no, she must climb onto the ground. Does it smell of human flesh or something?" The door of the meteo-box was bent and would not open. Matti hopelessly waived his hand and returned to the camera. He swivelled the camera off the base, removed it with an effort and laid it upon the outstretched tarpaulin, groaning. Then he lifted the tripod and carried it into the house. He stood the tripod in the workshop and peeked inside the dining hall. Natasha was sitting by the radio. - Reported it already? - asked Matti. - You know, I get so discouraged by this, - she said grudgingly. - Honestly, it would have been easier to run over there - And what is it? - asked Matti. Natasha abruptly turned the volume regulator. A low and weary voice hummed inside the room: "Number seven, number seven, this is Syrt. Why is there no summary? Hear me, number seven? Send the summary now!" Number seven started muttering numbers. - Syrt! - said Natasha. - Syrt! This is number one! - Number one, don't interfere, - said the weary voice. - Have some patience. - Here you are, then, - said Natasha and turned the volume control the other way. - And what exactly are you going to tell them? - asked Matti. - About what has happened, - Natasha replied. - This is an emergency. - Can't call it an emergency, - disagreed Matti. - Every night we have such an emergency. Natasha pensively rested her cheek on a fist. - You know, Matti, - she said, - indeed this is the first time the leech came during the day. Matti placed his entire hand over his face. It was true. Previously the leeches came either late at night or right before dawn. - Right, - he said. - R-r-right. This is how I see it: total insolence. - That's how I see it as well, - Natasha remarked. - What's out there, on the ground? - You better see for yourself, - said Matti. - My camera was wrecked. I won't be observing tonight. - Are the guys there? - Natasha asked. Matti stumbled. - Yes, basically there, - said Matti and waived his hand vaguely. He suddenly imagined, what Natasha would say, when she sees the bullet hole above the pavilion door. Natasha turned to the radio again and Matti closed the door quietly behind him. He left the house and saw the crawler. The crawler was flying at maximum speed, skipping boldly from dune to dune. Behind it, a solid wall of dust shot up to the very stars and against this red and yellow background the mighty figure of Pen'kov, standing at full height with a carabine resting against his waist was outlined very effectively. Naturally, Sergey was driving the crawler. He directed the vehicle right onto Matti and locked the brakes at five feet. A thick dust cloud wrapped the observation ground. - Centauri, - said Matti, cleaning his glasses. - An equine face on a human torso. - What of it? - said Sergey, jumping off. Behind him, Pen'kov descended leisurely. - Escaped, - he said. - I think you got it, - said Sergey. Pen'kov nodded pompously. - I think so, too, - he said. Matti approached him and strongly grabbed the right sleeve of his fur-lined coat. - Let's take a walk, - he said. - Where to? - Pen'kov inquired, resisting him. - Come on, come on, sniper, - said Matty. - I will show you, where you definitely struck. They approached the pavilion and stopped in front of the door. - Holy cow, - said Pen'kov. Sergey, saying nothing, rushed inside. - Natashka saw all this? - Pen'kov asked quickly. - Not yet, - said Matty. Pen'kov was feeling the edges of the hole with a cogitative expression. - This can't be readily sealed, - he said. - Yep, there is no spare pavilion on Syrt, - Matti said venomously. A month ago, Pen'kov, whilst shooting leeches at night, pierced the meteo-box. At that time he headed to Syrt and found a spare one somewhere. He hid the meteo-box he'd shot in the garage. Sergey shouted from the pavilion: - I think it's alright. - Is there an exit opening? - asked Pen'kov. - There is... A soft hum was heard, the roof of the pavilion separated and sealed again. - I think, we are lucky, - Sergey announced and got out of the pavilion. - My tripod was also bent, - said Matti. - And the meteo-box was so badly wrecked that we will need to get a new one. Pen'kov quickly glanced at the box and continued looking at the gaping hole. Sergey was standing beside him and was staring at it as well. - I will fix the meteo-box, - Pen'kov said dolefully. - But what can be done about this... - Natasha is coming, - Matti warned quietly. Pen'kov made a movement as though he was about to disappear somewhere, but only pulled his head in between the shoulders. Sergey spoke quickly: - This is a tiny gash, Natashen'ka, but this is not significant, we will quickly patch it up today, and everything is safe inside... Natasha came close to them, looked at the gash. - Guys, you are swines, - she said quietly. Now everyone felt like vanishing somewhere, even Matti, who wasn't guilty of anything and was the last one to run out onto the flat when it was all over. Natasha entered the pavilion and turned on the light. Through the open door they could see how she is removing the covers from the blink-autoshutters. Pen'kov sighed, melancholically and protractedly. Sergey said quietly: - I am going to park the car. No one answered him, he climbed into the crawler and started the motor. Matti silently returned to his camera and, bent in half, dragged it towards the house. In front of the pavilion remained only Pen'kov's sombre, absurdly cumbersome figure. Matti pulled the camera inside the workshop, took off the oxygen mask, the hood and fumbled for a long time with his loose parka. Then, not taking of his snow steppers, he sat on the table next to the camera. Through the window he could see, how unusually slowly, almost on toe-tips, the crawler rolled inside the garage. Natasha left the pavilion and shut the door tight behind her. Then she walked across the ground, stopping in front of the devices. Pen'kov was trudging behind her, and, judging by all signs, was sighing, melancholically and protractedly. The dust clouds have already settled, the tiny reddish sun was sitting above the black, as if gnawed at, ruins of the Old Base, overgrown by the prickly Martian haloxylon. Matti looked at the low sun, at the quickly darkening sky, realised that he is on duty tonight, and headed for the kitchen. During supper Sergey said: - Our Natashen'ka is very serious tonight, - and gave her a peering look. - Shame on you, really, - said Natasha. She ate, not looking at anyone, very upset and frowning. - Our Natashen'ka is really cross, - said Sergey. Pen'kov let out a melancholic and protracted sigh. Matti shook his head sorrowfully. - She doesn't like us tonight, our Natashen'ka, - Sergey added tenderly. - I mean, really, what is all this, - Natasha spoke. - Indeed we agreed not to go on shooting at the observation ground. This isn't a shooting gallery, after all. There are appliances... Had you smashed the blinks tonight, where would you go? Where would we get them? Pen'kov was looked at her with devout eyes. - How can you, Natashen'ka, - said Sergey. - How can one shoot a blink - We only shoot at streetlights, - Matti grumbled. - And you have punctured the pavilion, - said Natasha. - Natashen'ka! - Serezha shouted. - We shall bring another pavilion. Pen'kov will run over to Syrt and bring one. He is so robust! - Ah, forget you, - said Natasha. She was no longer angry. Pen'kov livened up. - Where can we shoot at her, other than on the observation ground?.. - he began, but Matti stepped on his foot under the table, and he shut up. - You, Volodya, are so cumbersome, it's scary, - said Natasha. - A huge beast the size of a cupboard, and you keep missing it for a whole month. - I am surprised, too, - frankly admitted Pen'kov and forcefully scratched his head. - Perhaps, the cross-sight has been dislodged? - Bending of the barrel, - Matti said venomously. - Doesn't matter guys, all these games are now over. Everyone looked at her. - I spoke to Syrt. Today the leeches attacked the group lead by Azizbekov, the geologists, a new construction section and us here. All this in broad daylight. - And all this to the West of and North of Syrt, - said Sergey. - Yes, indeed, - said Natasha. - I didn't even think of that. Well, however it is, it has been decided we conduct a hunt. - That's excellent, - said Pen'kov. - Finally. - Tomorrow morning there will be a meeting, they are recalling the heads of all groups. I shall go, and you will be in charge, Serezha. Yes, and one more thing. We won't be conducting observations tonight. The administration issued orders to postpone all night-time works. Pen'kov quit eating and looked sadly at Natasha. Matti said: - I don't care, my camera is stuffed. But for Pen'kov, his program will be ruined, if he misses a couple of nights. - I know, - said Natasha. - Everyone's program is being ruined. - What if I do it somehow, very slowly, - said Pen'kov, - out of sight. Natasha shook her head. - Don't even want to hear it, - she said. - And what if... - Pen'kov started saying, and Matti stepped on his foot once more. Pen'kov thought: "Indeed, why waste my breath. Everyone will be observing anyway". - What day is it today? - asked Sergey