whole affair seemed hopeless. Or boring...
     Zhilin sat, listening in wakefully. His eyes stopped moving altogether.
     - What happened? - Yura asked.
     -  Quiet! - Zhilin got  up. -  This  is strange,  - he  said.  He  kept
listening to something. Yura suddenly  felt  the floor shudder quietly under
his  feet, and at  that same moment a siren wailed piercingly. He  jumped up
and rushed to the door. Zhilin caught him by the shoulder.
     - Easy, - he said. - You know your post according to the schedule?
     - Yes! - said Yura and choked.
     - Your responsibilities also? - Zhilin let him go. - March!
     Yura rushed into the corridor.
     He  was  running  down the circular corridor  into  the vacuum-chamber,
where his place was under the emergency schedule, running quickly, but still
holding  his composure, so as not to rush with all his speed.  A probationer
ought to be "calm, composed and constantly prepared", however, when a dreary
ominous wail sweeps across the  ship, when the ship trembles in convulsions,
like a man hurt, when his wound is being touched by clumsy fingers, when you
don't understand too  well, what  you must do, and don't understand at  all,
what is happening... At the end of  the corridor the red lamps flashed. Yura
couldn't help it and ran at full speed.
     Leaning with all his weight, he rolled open a heavy  door and flew into
a grey room,  where  along the walls the dark screens  of vacuum-suit  boxes
were visible. He had to raise all screens, check the complete set up of each
suit, pressure in the tanks, energy supply, shift the fastening of each suit
into the emergency position and do  something else... Then  he had to put on
his suit with the visor open and await further instructions.
     Yura  carried  all of  this  out quite fast,  and as  it seemed to him,
sensibly, though  his fingers shook greatly and he  felt a strain throughout
his entire body, strong and  unpleasant, resembling a  prolonged  spasm. The
siren became quiet, an inauspicious silence fell. Yura finished off the last
space suit and  looked around.  Inside  boxes with  raised  screens shone  a
strong  blue  light, the  huge suits with  outstretched arms were  gleaming,
resembling ugly  decapitated statues. Yura  pulled his  suit out and climbed
into  it.  The  suit  was  a  little to  large  for  him,  it felt rough and
uncomfortable inside, nothing  like the welder's suit, snug, flexible, cosy.
And  this  one  made  him hot  straight away.  Yura  switched  on  the sweat
detector,  then, heavily shuffling his feet, clinking  steel against  steel,
walked to the door.
     The ship kept  shuddering, everything was quiet, along the corridor red
emergency  signals were  shining under  the  ceiling.  Yura leaned his  back
against one side of the doorframe and rested his body against the other. (It
was  odd reading this part of the instructions, where it prescribed to guard
the vacuum-chamber  during periods of  emergency.  Guard against  whom? What
for?)  Entry into the chamber during the alert was  permitted only  to those
persons - crewmembers  or  passengers  -  in  relation  to whom the  captain
personally  announced "Let them through." For that  purpose a radiophone was
installed into the  doorframe, always  tuned to the  wavelength of captain's
radiophone. Yura looked at  the radiophone and  remembered  what he  has not
done yet. He poked his wiry finger into the call button.
     - I  am  listening,  -  Bykov's  voice said. The voice was, as  always,
rasping and nonchalant.
     - Probationer Borodin has secured the post according to schedule.
     - Very well, - said Bykov and switched off the connection immediately.
     Yura  looked  at the radiophone angrily and spoke  in  a rasping voice:
"Very well". "Wood plank", - he thought and pulled a  face,  poking  out his
tongue. The  spaceship shook and he almost bit  his tongue. He looked around
with  embarrassment,  and  then  a thought came  into  his head: what if the
omniscient and all-foreseeing Bykov shook their  vessel on purpose, to pinch
the  tongue of an audacious probationer.  It was easy to imagine Bykov doing
just that.  "Probably,  his  life  wasn't  an  easy  one, -  Yura thought. -
Probably, life scoured him and ground him  until  it ripped off  the husk of
every  emotion,  which  aren't,  generally speaking, that  necessary, but in
their absence a man is no longer a man but a wooden plank. Zhilin once said,
that  over  the years people change in only one  respect  - they become more
tolerant. To Bykov, this possibly doesn't apply..."
     The spaceship shuddered  again and Yura  set himself more  securely. It
was unclear, what was  going on. Doesn't look like a  meteorite attack, even
less like a collision of some kind. Misha Ushakov said that  danger in space
is like  a rapier  strike,  it  either causes  you to  die straight away  or
never... This was announced by Mishka Ushakov, who was in space  only during
the construction  welding practice  and makes  judgements  about space using
terminology of musketeer novels.
     Yura's calf became cramped and he changed  to the other foot. Along the
corridor red lights  were  shining.  Yura kept trying  to  recall,  what  it
resembles to him, and could not, but there was some unpleasant recollection,
he knew that  definitely. Wish someone would  come, he thought. Wish I could
ask, what happened,  what I  must  wait for. Perhaps I should speak to Bykov
directly:  "Comrade  the captain, please explain  to  me my mission..." Then
Yura suddenly  imagined, how many probationers before him stood  over  here,
sweaty from stress, foot set against  the frame;  worried awfully, trying to
understand, what is going  on, and kept guessing: "Will I have time to close
the visor or won't I?" These were first-rate guys, with whom  one can play a
splendid game of back-up-stay or have a yack about the meaning of life.  Now
they are all  experienced  and sagacious, now they  are all at command-posts
and their ships roam across the space... and sometimes they also tremble and
shudder... From these thoughts, out of the  blue,  he imagined Bykov's face,
flooded  with sweat and blood, expressing  positively human anxiety, looking
with motionless eyes at  something, that  could not have been accounted for,
and which is now looming with absolute inevitability...
     Everything  floated  in  Yura's  eyes; he  lost  his balance and  found
himself on the floor. There was clanking and rumbling under the low ceiling.
Yura, hastily scraping  his  boots against the metallic floor, flipped  onto
his stomach, stood up and rushed in the door. He stood in  his old  position
and set himself against the sides of the doorframe, as firmly as he could.
     Now  the  "Takhmaseeb"  was vibrating constantly,  as if it,  too, were
afraid. Yura  tensed up, trying to contain the shiver. I wish somebody would
come,  I  wish I'd  understand what is going on, wish that Bykov would order
something  to be done... Mum would grieve terribly - how will they tell her?
Who could be found to  tell her? She  can die,  even, she was  operated upon
just recently, her heart,  its no good at all,  she cannot  be told  any  of
this...  Yura bit  his lip  and clenched his teeth tightly. It hurt, but the
jitters would not  stop. Well,  what is this,  really... No, I must go there
immediately and have a look. Stick my head inside the deck chamber and fling
a casual remark: "Well, how  much longer?"  - and leave... And what  if they
have all been killed? Yura looked into the corridor, terrified, waiting that
any moment now  Zhilin will crawl from around the corner, take a look at him
with extinguished eyes and drop his head onto stiff hands...
     Yura lowered  his  head, pushed  away from the  frame  and  made  a few
hesitant  steps along the corridor. Down the quivering  floor, past the  red
lights, towards the lift, towards the one, who is crawling... He stopped and
returned  to the door.  "Stay  calm,  - he said  and coughed,  to  stop  the
croaking in his throat. Imagination  likes  to play jokes, but it plays them
meanly and unfairly. Not one's friend -  imagination." He set himself firmly
against the doorframe once more. So that's what it  is like, he  thought all
of a  sudden. That's what it's like  - to wait and always  be ready, wearing
slippers and striped little socks, with yesteryear's  paper, so that  no one
would ever notice and never think... To know nothing definitely,  and always
stay ready...
     Vibrations amplified and  faded and increased again. Yura envisaged the
"Takhmaseeb",  a  kilometre  construction of titanium  alloys, resembling  a
giant wineglass. Right now, across the ships entire body, from the cargo bay
to the  edge of the  reflector, vibration spasms are travelling in one wave.
Intensifying one moment, dropping off at another... Here one doesn't have to
be extra sensitive, to figure out, what  is  going on. If, let's say, it was
the  oxitian sensor  vibrating  like this,  everything would be clear -  the
compressor  needs tuning or, at  least, the extinguisher must be replaced...
Yura  distinctly  felt  how the ship  is  sloping on its  side -  it  became
noticeable through the pressure against his foot. With  every jerk  his head
would shake, and  everything within it, too... What  is this, Yura pondered,
pushing against  the  doorframe with  all his might. What's  going  on  over
there, with all  of them,  eh?..  And  then in the  terrifying  dull silence
someone's steps sounded. Unhurried, confident, unfamiliar steps,  or perhaps
Yura simply failed to recognise them.  He was looking down the corridor, and
the steps were drawing nearer  all the  time, and then from  behind the turn
Zhilin appeared, wearing industrial overalls, with  the  flat tester box  on
his chest.  His face was serious, and, seemingly, displeased, a light fringe
hanged  over his  eyes. Zhilin came up  close, and patting Yura on the knee,
said quietly:
     - Come on...
     He  wanted  to enter  the  vacuum-chamber.  Yura opened and closed  his
mouth, but  did not remove  his foot.  This was  Zhilin,  dear,  swell  guy,
long-awaited Zhilin, but Yura did not take his foot away, and asked instead:
     - What have you got there?
     He wanted to  say it casually, but at the last  syllable he  swallowed,
and the impression was ruined.
     - Ah, what  can we have there... - Zhilin said reluctantly.  - Come on,
let me through, - he said. - I need to get something there...
     Yura's  head was muddled,  and  in  this muddle  out of Yura's personal
principles and notions only the instructions remained intact.
     - Hold on, Vanya, - he mumbled and pressed the call button.
     The captain wouldn't answer.
     - Yurka,  - Zhilin said, - just  what is it with you, brother? Come on,
let me through, inside the space suit I've left...
     - I cannot, - said Yura and licked his lips. - How can I?.. The captain
will respond now...
     Zhilin was looking at him intently.
     - And what if he won't respond?
     - Why wouldn't he  respond? - Yura stared at Zhilin with round eyes and
then suddenly grabbed him by the sleeve. - What happened?
     - Ah, nothing happened. - Zhilin suddenly began smiling. - So you won't
let me through?
     Yura shook his head in desperation.
     -  You know I can't, Vanya...  You  must  understand  this!  - he  even
addressed  him as "You" from  excessive emotion, he really felt like crying,
and at the same time good and calm for no reason, and he knew, that he would
not  allow Zhilin to pass, no  matter  what. - You were  a probationer  once
yourself.
     - R-right... - Zhilin drawled  vaguely, examining him. - Complying with
the letter and spirit of the instructions?
     - I don't know...  - mumbled Yura. He was really embarrassed and at the
same time he  knew,  that he wouldn't lower his foot. "If you really need to
enter, then don't stand like this, - he was calling out mentally  to Zhilin.
- Punch me in the jaw and take what you need here..."
     - Captain Bykov speaking, - came from the radiophone.
     Yura was still unable to gather his thoughts.
     - Alexey  Petrovich, - Zhilin  spoke into the radiophone - I want to go
into the vacuum-chamber, but the probationer wouldn't let me pass.
     - Why do you need to go into the vacuum-chamber? - Bykov inquired.
     -  I left behind  a "sirius" there the  last time...  left it  inside a
space suit.
     - Right, - said Bykov. - Probationer Borodin, allow the ship's engineer
Zhilin to pass.
     Bykov disconnected. Yura removed his foot  with enormous  relief.  Only
now he noticed,  that the  ship is no longer vibrating. Zhilin looked at him
kindly and patted him on the shoulder.
     - Vanya, please don't be angry... - Yura mumbled.
     -  On  the  contrary! - said  Zhilin. - Watching you was  exceptionally
interesting.
     - I have such a muddle in my head...
     - Exactly right...  - Zhilin stopped in front  of his space suit. - For
this one instance instructions are being written. It's a good idea, right?
     -  Don't know. Now, I somewhat  can't understand, what's going on. What
has, in fact, happened?
     Zhilin grew dull again.
     - What can happen to  us? - he said through gritted teeth. - Artificial
nutrition.  Pills instead of thrills. A practice drill, probationer Borodin,
that's all. A routine exercise,  no less than once or twice during a voyage.
Aimed at auditing knowledge of instructions. A  grand matter - instructions!
- He pulled a white cylinder as thick as a thumb out of the space  suit  and
banged the screen shut with anger.  - Time for  me to escape from here Yura.
To run as fast as I can, before I am sick of it.
     Yura sighed deeply and looked inside the corridor. The  red lights were
no  longer  on. The floor  did  not vibrate any more. Yura saw how Yurkovski
came out  of a  cabin,  looked at Yura,  nodded majestically and disappeared
behind a corner in no hurry.
     Zhilin grumbled:
     - A  fish seeks deeper water, and a man -  where life's  worse. Did you
understand, Yurka? Here,  everything's  well. All drills are practices,  all
accidents are pretend ones. But in some  places - it's  a tad  worse. That's
where one must go, and not wait, until he's taken there... Are you listening
to me, probationer? According to the instructions, you must listen to me...
     - Vanya, wait, - Yura said, knitting his brow. - I feel, that I haven't
yet recovered...

        EUNOMIA. DEATH-PLANETers.

     - Probationer Borodin, - said Bykov, folding  up  the newspaper, - time
to  go  to  sleep  probationer.  Yura  stood up, closed the book, and  after
faltering for a bit, put it  into the book cabinet. I won't read tonight, he
thought. I must, finally, get some sleep.
     - Good night, - he said.
     - Good night, - replied Bykov, and opened another newspaper.
     Yurkovski,  without  looking  up  from  his  papers,  waved   his  hand
nonchalantly. When Yura walked out, Yurkovski asked:
     - What do you think, Alexey, what else must he like?
     - Who?
     - Our cadet. I  know that he  enjoys and is  capable  of  welding  in a
vacuum. I have seen it on Mars. But what else does he like?
     - Girls, - said Bykov.
     - Not girls, but a girl. He has a photo of a girl.
     - I didn't know.
     - One  could guess. Twenty years of age, leaving on  a distant mission,
everyone takes  with them  photographs, and then they don't know what  to do
with  them. In books it is written, that  one must look at these photographs
stealthily, and that your eyes must be full of tears at that instance, or at
the  very least, grow dimmed.  But  there is never enough time  for that. Or
never enough of something else, that's more significant. But let's return to
our probationer.
     Bykov set the paper aside, removed his glasses and looked at Yurkovski.
     - Have you finished work for today? - he asked.
     - No, - said  Yurkovski with annoyance. -  Haven't finished,  and don't
wish to talk about it. All this idiotic red tape makes my head swell. I wish
to unwind. Can you answer my question?
     - The best person to answer this question for you, would be Ivan - said
Bykov. - He spends every spare moment time with him.
     -  But since Ivan  isn't here, I am asking you. It  seems very clear to
me.
     -  Don't  worry  so  much,  Volodya,  or  your  liver  will  hurt.  Our
probationer is still just a boy.  Skilled hands, but as far as liking  goes,
he  doesn't like  anything in particular, since  he doesn't  know  anything.
Alexey Tolstoy he likes. And Wells. But Galsworthy  is  boring for him,  and
the "Road of  all roads" is boring.  Also  he likes Zhilin and does not like
one barman from Mirza-Charlie. He's still a boy. A sprout.
     - At his age, - Yurkovski said,  - I really enjoyed composing  poems. I
dreamed of  becoming a  writer.  And then  I  read  somewhere,  that writers
somehow resemble the deceased: they  like when people talk positively  about
them, or say nothing at all... Yep. Why am I talking about it?
     -  Don't  know, - said Bykov. - I  think, you  are just  shirking  your
duties.
     - No-no, I  beg yours... Yes! I am interested in the inner world of our
probationer.
     - A probationer's a probationer, - said Bykov.
     - No two  probationers  are  alike, - Yurkovski  argued.  -  You are  a
probationer too, and I am a probationer. We are all probationer  in future's
service.  Old  probationers  and  young  probationers.  We  spend our entire
lifetime on probation, each in our own way. And when we die, our descendants
appraise our work and hand out a diploma of eternal existence.
     -  Or  don't hand  out  one, -  said  Bykov  pensively, looking  at the
ceiling. - As a rule, unfortunately, they don't hand one out.
     - Well then, it's our fault, and not our misfortune. By the way, do you
know whom the diploma always goes to?
     - Yes?
     - To  those,  who bring up  a  successive  generation.  The  ones  like
Krayuhin.
     - Perhaps, - said Bykov. - And what is interesting: these people, as an
exception  to  great many  others, are  not  in  the  least concerned  about
diplomas.
     - And incorrectly so. For  instance, a question has  always  interested
me: are  we really  becoming better from one generation to the next?  That's
why I began talking about the cadet. Old people always say: "Such youngsters
we have nowadays! And how we used to be!"
     - That's what very  silly oldsters say,  Vladimir. Krayuhin never spoke
like this.
     - Krayuhin simply didn't like theory. He took the  young  ones, chucked
them into a furnace and watched, what'd come out of it. If they  didn't burn
out, he'd recognise them as equals.
     - And if they did burn?
     - As a rule, we never burned.
     - Well then, you have just answered your own question, - said Bykov and
grabbed the  newspaper again. - Probationer Borodin is now on his way to the
furnace, in the furnace he is unlikely to burn out, ten years down the track
you shall meet him, he  will  call you  an old  sandpit,  and you,  being an
honest man, shall agree with him.
     - Hold on, - Yurkovski objected, - but some responsibility also lies on
our shoulders. The boy must be taught something!
     Into the lounge walked Michael Antonovich, wearing pyjamas, slippers on
bare feet, with a big thermal flask in his hand.
     - Good evening, boys, - he said. - I just felt like having some tea.
     - Tea - that's not bad, - Bykov livened up.
     - Tea it is, - Yurkovski said and started gathering his papers.
     The  captain and the  navigator  set  up the  table, Michael Antonovich
poured the jam into rosettes, and Bykov poured tea for everyone.
     - And where is Yurik? - Michael Antonovich asked.
     - Sleeping, - replied Bykov.
     - And Vanyusha?
     - On duty, - Bykov answered patiently.
     - Very well then, - said Michael Antonovich. He gulped some tea, closed
his eyes and added: -  Boys, never  agree to write  memoirs. Such a  tedious
chore, so tedious!
     - Why don't you fantasise a bit more, - Bykov offered.
     - How is that?
     -  Like in novels.  "A young Martian  girl closed her eyes and  reached
towards me with semi-opened lips. I embraced her passionately lengthwise."
     - "Entirely", - Yurkovski added.
     Michael Antonovich blushed.
     - How'd you  like  that, ya old fogey, -  Yurkovski said. - Been there,
Misha?
     Bykov laughed loudly and choked on his tea.
     -  Fie! - said Michael Antonovich. - Shame  on you! - He  pondered  and
announced suddenly: - You know what, boys? Stuff those memoirs. I mean, what
can they do to me?
     - You better explain this to us, - said  Bykov. - How can we positively
influence Yura?
     Michael Antonovich became startled.
     - But what has happened? Has he done some mischief or something?
     - Not yet. But Vladimir here thinks, that he must be influenced.
     - I think, we are having an influence on him as it  is. He never leaves
Vanyusha's side, and he simply worships you, Voloden'ka. He had spoken about
twenty times, how you went after the leeches inside the cave.
     Bykov raised his head.
     - After what leeches exactly? - he asked.
     Michael Antonovich squirmed compunctiously.
     - Ah, these are legends, - Yurkovski said, without batting an eyelid. -
That  was still back... err... a long time ago. So this is the question: how
do  we effect a  positive  influence upon Yura? The boy received a  one of a
kind  chance to witness  the world  of  better  people. To us that would  be
simply... err...
     - Voloden'ka, you see, - said Michael  Antonovich.  - Yura  is a really
great boy. He was very well cultured at school. Into him have been placed...
How can I put it... The foundations of a decent  person.  Try to understand,
Voloden'ka, Yura will never more confound good with bad...
     -  A  genuine  person,  -  Yurkovski  spoke  with   authority,   -   is
distinguished by a broad range of interests.
     - That's right, Voloden'ka, - said Michael Antonovich. - Yurik, too...
     - A genuine person  is moulded only by genuine people, workers and only
by a real life, accomplished and hard.
     - But our Yurik also...
     - We  must  seize the  chance and  show Yura the real people leading  a
real, uneasy life.
     - That's right, Voloden'ka, and I am certain, that Yurik...
     - I  am sorry  Michael, but  am  have  not finished yet. Tomorrow,  for
instance, we  will  pass ridiculously  close  to Eunomia.  Do you know, what
Eunomia is?
     - How wouldn't  we?  - said  Michael Antonovich. - An asteroid, greater
semi-axis - two and sixty four astronomical units, eccentricity...
     - I am not talking about that, - Yurkovski said impetuously. - Are  you
aware, that for three years now, a physics  gravitational  research station,
the only one in the world, has been functioning on Eunomia?
     - How wouldn't we, - said Michael Antonovich, - that's where...
     - People are working in exceptionally difficult conditions, - Yurkovski
continued with  enthusiasm. Bykov  eyed him intently. - twenty-five  people,
tough as diamonds, smart, courageous, I'd even say - awfully courageous! The
pick of humanity!  Now that's  a  perfect opportunity  to acquaint Yura with
real life!
     Bykov remained silent. Michael Antonovich kept quiet, too.
     -  To  see  real people in the  process  of authentic  work, isn't that
marvellous?
     Bykov remained silent.
     -  I think, it would be  very beneficial  for  our  probationer, - said
Yurkovski and added in a lower voice: - Even I wouldn't mind to have a look.
I have been interested in the death-planeters working conditions for  a long
time.
     Finally, Bykov spoke:
     - Well then, - he said. - Indeed, not altogether without interest.
     -  I assure you, Alexey! - Yurkovski exclaimed. - I think, we will make
a stop there, won't we?
     - Hmm-ok, - Bykov muttered ambiguously.
     - Well, that's  perfect then,  - said Yurkovski. He looked at Bykov and
asked: - Is something bothering you, Alexey?
     - This is what's bothering me,  - said Bykov.  - On my course  map Mars
exists. On the course  map is Bamberga with these wretched mines.  There are
some Saturn satellites. There is the Jupiter system. And a few other things.
One thing's not there. Eunomia is not there.
     -  W-well, how shall I put it... -  Yurkovski said, having  lowered his
eyes and tapping on the table. - Let's presume, that this is an oversight by
the board, Alesha.
     - You will have to visit Eunomia on another occasion, Vladimir.
     -  Hold on,  hold  on, Alesha...  err...  After  all, I  am  the  chief
inspector, I could give an order,  proclaim... err... for the  alteration of
the course...
     - Well, you should have given it straight away. Instead he is polluting
my head with pedagogical objectives.
     - W-well, pedagogical issues also, naturally... yeah.
     - Navigator,  - said  Bykov, - the general inspector is ordering  us to
change course. Plot a course to Eunomia.
     - Understood, - said  Michael  Antonovich and looked at  Yurkovski with
concern.  - You know,  Voloden'ka, we  have little fuel.  Eunomia -  it's  a
loop... We'll have  to decelerate twice, you know. And accelerate once. Wish
you'd have told us about this a week ago.
     Yurkovski drew himself up proudly.
     - Err... ok then, Michael. Are there autofuellers nearby?
     - There are, how could there not be, - said Michael Antonovich.
     - We will have fuel, - Yurkovski said.
     -  We  will have fuel - we will have Eunomia, - Bykov said, got up  and
walked to his chair. - Well, Michael and  I have  set up the table, and you,
chief inspector, can tidy it up.
     - Voltairians, - said Yurkovski and began cleaning up the table. He was
very pleased with his little victory.  Bykov could have refused to obey. The
captain  of the  ship carrying  the chief inspector had very broad powers as
well.


     The physics observatory "Eunomia" moved around the sun in approximately
the same place, where the asteroid Eunomia once used to exist. A giant rock,
some two hundred kilometres  in  diameter had been, in  the last few  years,
almost fully annihilated in the process of experiments. All that remained of
the  asteroid was  just a  meagre swarm  of relatively small fragments and a
seven hundred  kilometre long cloud of  cosmic dust, a great silvery sphere,
already stretched slightly by the tide force. The  actual physics laboratory
differed slightly from  the  heavy artificial  Earth  satellites:  it  was a
system  of torus's,  cylinders  and  spheres,  connected  by  shiny  cables,
rotating  around  a  common  axis.  In  the laboratory  worked  twenty-seven
physicists and  astrophysicists,  "tough as diamonds, smart, courageous" and
often "awfully courageous". The youngest of them was twenty-five  years old,
the oldest - thirty-four.
     The crew  of  "Eunomia"  was engaged  in  the research of cosmic  rays,
experimental   analysis  of  unitary  field   theories,   vacuum,  ultra-low
temperatures,  and  experimental  cosmogony. All  minor asteroids  within  a
twenty-megametre radius of "Eunomia" have  been declared death-planets: they
had  either  been destroyed  or  subject  to  destruction.  In  general, the
cosmogonists and relativists. The eradication of  small planets  was carried
out  in different ways. They  were  transformed  into a swarm of shale, or a
cloud  of  dust,  or  a  burst  of  light. They  were destroyed  in  natural
conditions and  in  a  powerful  magnetic  field, instantly  and  gradually,
stretching the process to decades or months. This was the only  cosmogonical
ground in  the solar  system, and  now  when  the  near-earth  observatories
discovered a newly flared  up  star  with  odd  spectral lines, the question
would initially  arise: where "Eunomia" was at that moment and  had  the new
star flared  up in  "Eunomia's"  region?  The International board  of cosmic
communications had declared  the area around  "Eunomia"  restricted  to  all
regular-route spacecraft.
     "Takhmaseeb"  slowed down near "Eunomia"  two hours prior  a  scheduled
experiment.  The  relativists  were  going to convert to  radiation  a  rock
fragment the size of Everest and  with a mass, calculated to the nearest few
grams. Another death-planet was moving on the  periphery of the ground. Over
there  ten cosmoscaphes with  observers and apparatus had already been sent,
and at the observatory only two people  remained - the head  of the  station
and a duty control officer.
     The control officer  met Yurkovski  and Yura at  the caisson. He  was a
lanky, very pale, freckled man. His eyes were pale-blue and indifferent.
     -  Err...  hello,  - said Yurkovski.  - I'm  Yurkovski, the IBCC  chief
inspector.
     By the look of things, the  blue-eyed man had met chief inspectors more
than once. Gradually, without hurrying, he looked Yurkovski over and said:
     - Well then, come in.
     The blue-eyed man calmly turned his back to  Yurkovski and,  clattering
his magnetic soles, walked down the corridor.
     -  Hold  on!  -  Yurkovski  yelled  out.  -  Where  is  your...  err...
supervisor?
     The blue-eyed man said, without turning:
     - I am taking you there.
     Yurkovski and Yura hurried after him. Yurkovski kept saying:
     - Such odd... er... customs. Astonishing...
     The blue-eyed  man opened a round hatch at  the end of the corridor and
climbed into it. Yurkovski and Yura then heard:
     - Kostya, you have visitors...
     One could hear, how somebody was shouting in a clear cheerful voice:
     - Number  six! Sashka! Where are  you going, nutcase?  Don't  you  feel
sorry  for  your kids?! Move  one  hundred kilometres  back,  it's dangerous
there, you know! Number three! Number three! I am talking in Russian to you!
Stay in alignment with me! Number  six, stop grumbling at your command! Your
command has shown concern, and you are bored already!...
     Yurkovski and Yura  climbed  into  a  small  room,  tightly lined  with
equipment. In front of a concave screen sat a  lean, very swarthy lad, about
thirty, wearing blue trousers with creases and  a  white shirt with a  black
tie.
     - Kostya, - called out the blue-eyed man and became silent.
     Kostya turned a cheerful good-looking face with an aquiline nose to the
newly arrived,  examined them for a few minutes, greeted them daintily,  and
then turned back to the screen. On the screen a few multi-coloured dots were
transiting slowly along the lines of the coordinates grid.
     - Number nine, why have you stopped? Have you lost the enthusiasm? Come
on, take a walk  a bit further ahead... Number six, you are making progress.
I  have  a headache  already  from you. Are  you  flying back  to  Earth, or
something?
     Yurkovski coughed significantly. The  cheerful  Kostya  pulled  a shiny
ball out of his right ear and, turning to Yurkovski, asked:
     - Guests, who are you?
     - I am Yurkovski, - Yurkovski said with much authority.
     - What Yurkovski?  -  Kostya asked cheerfully and impatiently. - I knew
one, he was called Vladimir Sergeevich.
     - That is I, - said Yurkovski.
     Kostya rejoiced tremendously.
     - How appropriate! - he exclaimed. - Then go and stand at that console.
You will be  turning the fourth regulator - it  has an Arabic "four" written
on it, - so that a star over there would not leave that little circle...
     - But hold on, now...
     - Just don't tell me that  you did not understand!  - Kostya shouted. -
Or I will become disappointed in you.
     - The blue-eyed man floated over to him and began whispering something.
Kostya heard him out, and plugged his ear with a shiny ball.
     - So let  him  feel good about it,  - he  said  and yelled in a chiming
voice:  - Observers,  listen  to  me, I  am  commanding  again!  Everyone is
positioned well now, like the Zaporozhian Cossacks on Repin's painting! Just
don't  touch your controls any more!  Over  and  out for two  minutes!  - He
pulled  the shiny  ball out again. -  So you have  become a chief inspector,
Vladimir Sergeevich? - he asked.
     - Yes, I have, - said Yurkovski. - And I...
     - And who is this young man? Is he a chief  inspector also?  Ezra, - he
turned to the blue-eyed man, - let Vladimir Sergeevich hold the axis, whilst
the boy can have a practical play with something. Best of all, put  him next
to your screen and let him watch...
     -  Perhaps  I  will  be allowed to say a couple of  words, after all? -
Yurkovski asked into space.
     -  Of course, speak, -  said Kostya. - You  still have  a whole  ninety
seconds.
     - I wanted to...  err... get onto one of the cosmoscaphes, -  Yurkovski
said.
     - Whoa! -  said  Kostya. - Why didn't you ask for a trolley  bus  wheel
instead? Or even better,  if you would like to rotate regulator number four.
Even I cannot  go  on the cosmoscaphes. It's all packed there, like  at  the
Bloomberg's  concert.  And by turning the regulator with precision, you will
improve the precision of the experiment by one and a half percent.
     Yurkovski shrugged his shoulders majestically.
     -  W-well, all right, - he  said. - I see, that I shall have to...  But
why... err... isn't it automated here?
     Kostya was  already putting the shiny ball in his  ear. The lanky  Ezra
hooted, as if into a keg:
     - Equipment. Crap. Obsolete.
     He switched on a large screen and motioned Yura  to come over  with his
finger.  Yura  came  up  to  the screen and  turned  to look  at  Yurkovski.
Yurkovski,  with  sorrowfully  distorted  eyebrows,  was  holding  onto  the
regulator  and looking  at the  screen, in front of which Yura was standing.
Yura  started looking at  the screen as well.  On  the screen glowed  a  few
bright circular spots, resembling either inkblots or burdock. Ezra poked his
bony finger at one of the spots.
     - A cosmoscaphe, - he said.
     Kostya began giving orders again:
     - Observers, you  haven't fallen asleep yet? What is moving slowly? Oh,
the time is? Shame and shame on you, Sasha, you know that only three minutes
are  left.  Washtub?  Oh,  the  photon-powered  washtub?  That's  the  chief
inspector,  which  had arrived. Attention,  I  am  all serious  now.  Thirty
remaining... twenty nine... twenty eight... twenty seven...
     Ezra poked his finger into the centre of the screen.
     - Over here, - he said.
     -  ...fifteen...  fourteen...  Vladimir  Sergeevich,  hold the  axis...
ten... nine...
     Yura  was watching  with  wide-open  eyes.  Ezra  was also  rotating  a
regulator, he must have been holding some axis, too.
     - ...three... two... one... Zero!
     In the centre of the screen a bright white dot flared. Then  the screen
turned  white,  then  became  blinding  and  then dark. Somewhere above  the
ceiling shrill alarms chirped briefly.  Red lights  flashed  and went out on
the console beside the screen. And again, circular dots  resembling  burdock
appeared on the screen.
     - That's it, - said Ezra and switched off the screen.
     Kostya descended to the floor skilfully.
     - The axis doesn't need to be held  any more, - he said. -  You can get
undressed, I am starting with the treatment.
     - What is? - Yurkovski asked.
     Kostya produced a box of pills from under the console.
     - Feel free to take, - he said. - This, of course, is no chocolate, but
much more wholesome.
     Ezra came over  and took two pills in silence.  One he handed  to Yura.
Yura looked at Yurkovski with hesitation.
     - I am asking, what is it? - Yurkovski repeated.
     -  Gamma-radiophagus,  - Kostya  explained. He glanced back at Yura.  -
Please, please have some, young man, - he  said.  -  You have just  received
four roentgen, and this must be reckoned with.
     - Yes, - said Yurkovski. - True.
     He reached for the box his  hand. Yura put the pill in  his  mouth. The
pill was very bitter.
     -  So  now, now  can we  help  the chief inspector? -  Kostya inquired,
hiding the box back under the console.
     - As  a  matter  of fact, I wanted  to... err... be  present during  an
experiment,  - said Yurkovski, - and,  whilst I am  at it, also... err... to
clarify the state of affairs at the  station... staff  needs...  complaints,
finally...  What?  Now  I  see,  the  laboratory  is  poorly  sheltered from
radiation... It's cramped. Poor automation, obsolete equipment... What?
     Kostya said with a sigh:
     -  Yes, that's  the truth, the truth,  bitter as the gamma-radiophagus.
But  if you were  to ask me, what  do I have to complain  about, I  would be
compelled to tell you, that I  have nothing to complain about. Of course, we
have  complaints. How can it be without  complaints in this world? But these
aren't our complaints, these are complaints against us. And you  must agree,
it  would be funny, if I would begin telling you,  the chief inspector,  why
they are complaining about us. By the way, are you hungry? It's really good,
that  you  are  not.  Try  and find  something  edible  in our pantry... The
earliest  supplies tanker will arrive only  tonight or tomorrow morning, and
that, believe you  me, is really sad, since the physicists  have become used
to eating daily,  and no  logistical mistakes can break  this habit. And, if
you  really want to know my  opinion on  the  complaints, I shall  tell  you
everything  terse  and  clear,  like  talking  to   a   girl  I  love:  this
diploma-holding  haphazarders  from  IBCC   are  always   complaining  about
something.  If we work fast they complain that we quickly wear out precious,
a.k.a. unique, equipment, that work melts in our hands, and they cannot keep
up with us. And if we work slowly... Though, what am I saying? There has not
yet been anyone original enough, who would complain of us working slowly. By
the way, Vladimir Sergeevich, you once were a decent planetary scientist, we
all used to learn  from  your fabulous books and  all kinds of  reports! Why
have  you joined IBCC and  then became involved with  general inspections on
top of that?
     Yurkovski  was  looking   at   Kostya,   astounded.  Yura  tensed   up,
anticipating an imminent storm. Ezra stood there, blinking his yellow bovine
eyelashes with total indifference.
     -  Er-rr... - Yurkovski dragged  out, frowning, - as a matter  of fact,
why not?
     - I  shall explain to you, why not, - said Kostya, pushing his  fingers
into Yurkovski's  chest. - You are such a good scientist, you are indeed the
father of  contemporary planetology! From  birth,  there  was a fountain  of
ideas  gushing out  of  you!  That  gigantic planets  must have  rings, that
planets may condense without a central luminary star, that Saturn's ring has
an artificial origin, - go and ask Ezra, who came up with all of these? Ezra
will tell you  straight away: Yurkovski! And you have left  all those  tasty
morsels  to be torn to pieces  by  all kinds of  odd  mackerel, and chose to
become a haphazarder instead!
     - Well, come on now! - Yurkovski said good-naturedly.  - I am just a...
err... an ordinary scientist...
     - You  were  an ordinary scientist!  Now you are, forgive me for saying
this, an ordinary chief inspector. Now, tell me seriously: why have you come
here? You can neither ask about anything properly, nor advise anything, I am
not  even  talking of  being able to  assist. Ok,  let's say, I will, out of
courtesy, take you around all laboratories, and we shall be walking like two
lunatics,  and letting each other go first through the hatches. And we shall
stay cordially silent,  since you don't know how  to ask, and I have no idea
how  to answer. I mean, we must  assemble all twenty seven  people  here, to
explain  what is happening at the station, and  twenty  seven  people  could
never fit here, despite all their respect for the chief inspector, since the
place is jam-packed and one of us here is actually living in an elevator...
     -  You  are  wrong  to  think that...  err...  this makes  me happy,  -
Yurkovski interrupted him  in an official  tone.  - By this I  mean  such...
err...  overcrowding of  the  station. As far I am  aware,  the  station  is
designed for  a  crew  of  five  gravity surveyors.  And  if you,  being the
station's  director,  would comply with  the existing procedure, ratified by
IBCC...
     - But it's true, Vladimir Sergeevich! - the mirthful Kostya  exclaimed.
- Comrade  chief  inspector! The  people really want to work! Do the gravity
surveyors want to  work? They  do. Do  the relativists  want to? They  do as
well.  I am not  even talking about the cosmogonists, who  squeezed in  here
right over my dead  body. And on  Earth, another hundred and fifty are eager
as  anything... Big  deal, sleeping in a lift! What  else, should  they wait
till IBCC  fin