read. I will be back soon. - A boot trace? - Sadovski repeated. - From what boot? - Approximately size forty-five, - said Zhilin. - Rifled sole, low heel, a blunt square toe. - This is crazy, - Vlchek said decisively. - A hoax. Gorchakov laughed and asked: - Was there an imprint of "Skorohod" company brand name, by any chance? - No, - said Zhilin. He shook his head. - If there was just some kind of writing! Simply a boot print... slightly traced across by a naked footprint - somebody stepped on it later. - Come on, this is a hoax! - said Vlchek. - It's so obvious. Mass-scale poaching of mermaids on the island of Man, Buonaparte's spirit possessing the Massachusetts super-computer... - "Solar spots are positioned as a sketch of Pythagorean theorem!" - Sadovski announced. - "The Solar Population are seeking to make contact with IBCC!" - Vanyusha, I think that you are a little... You know... - Michael Antonovich said with distrust. Shemyakin stayed quiet. Yura, too. - I read a re-print from the scientific appendix to "Asahi-shinbun", - said Zhilin. - At first, I also thought that this was a hoax. This report did not appear in our news media. But the article was signed by professor Usodzuki - a prominent man, I have heard about him from the Japanese guys. There, he actually writes, that wishes to put an end to the stream of misinformation with his article, but is not going to give any commentaries. To me it seems that they don't know how to explain it themselves. - "A fearless European in the paws of mad synantropes!" - announced Sadovski. - "Eaten alive, all that remains is an imprint of a "Shoes Majestic" boot"! Get yourselves "Shoes Majestic" products, if you wish to leave some kind of trace". - These weren't synantropes, - Zhilin said patiently. - The big toe can be distinguished with a naked eye. Professor Usodzuki calls them nachonantropes. Finally, Shemyakin could not take it any longer. - And why, in fact, does it have to be a hoax? - he asked. - Why do we always choose the most probable of all hypotheses? - Really, why? - said Sadovski. - Traces were, of course, left by an Alien, and the first contact ended tragically. - And why not? - said Shemyakin. - Who could be wearing a boot two hundred years ago? - Holy cow, - said Sadovski. - If we are to talk seriously, then this is the footprint of one of the archaeologists. Zhilin shook his head. - First of all, the clay had completely fossilised there. The age of the imprint leaves no doubts. Do you really think, that Usodzuki did not consider such a possibility? - Then it's a hoax, - Sadovski said obstinately. - Tell us, Ivan, - said Shemyakin, - did they by any chance include a photo of the imprint? - Of course, - said Zhilin. - Both the photo of the imprint, and the photo of the cave, and Usodzuki's photo... By the way, don't forget, that the biggest size for Japanese is forty-two. At best, forty-three. - Let's put it this way, - said Gorchakov. - Let's think that we have a task of constructing a logically consistent hypothesis that explains this Japanese finding. - Please, go ahead, - said Shemyakin. - I suggest - an Alien. Now find inconsistency in this hypothesis. Sadovski waved his hand. - Aliens again, - he said. - Simply some kind of brontosaurus. - It's easier to assume, - said Gorchakov, - that it is still a footprint of some European. Some tourist. - Yes, it's either some unknown animal, or a tourist, - said Vlchek. - Animal footprints sometimes have really curious form. - The age, the age... - Zhilin said quietly. - Then simply an unknown animal. - A duck, for instance. Bykov returned, made himself comfortable in the chair with an air of dignity and asked: - Well, what have you got here? - Here the comrades are trying to explain the Japanese boot print somehow, - said Zhilin. - Suggested items: an Alien, a European, and an unknown animal. - And what about them? - said Bykov. - All these hypotheses, - said Zhilin, - even the hypothesis about an Alien, comprise one horrendous inconsistency. - Which one? - asked Shemyakin. - I forgot to tell you, - said Zhilin. - The floor area of the cave is forty square metres. The boot print is located in the very middle of the cave. - And, so what? - asked Shemyakin. - And it's a solitary one, - said Zhilin. For a while everyone stayed quiet. - Mm-yeah, - said Sadovski. - The ballad about a one-legged Alien. - Perhaps, other traces have rubbed out? - Vlchek proposed. - Absolutely impossible, - said Zhilin. - Twenty pairs of absolutely distinct footprints of naked feet over an entire cave and one distinct boot print in the middle. - Ok, this is how it is, - said Bykov. - The Alien was one-legged. He was brought into the cave, stood upright, and, after things were worked out, was eaten alive. - And why not? - said Michael Antonovich. - I think, that it's logically consistent. Why not? - The down part is that he is one-legged, - Shemyakin said pensively. - It's difficult to imagine a one-legged intellectual being. - Perhaps, he was an invalid? - Gorchakov suggested. - One foot could have been eaten immediately, - said Sadovski. - God knows, what rubbish we are talking about here, - said Shemyakin. - Let's go and do some work. - No, I am sorry, hold on, - said Vlchek. - We must investigate. I have this hypothesis: the Alien had a really wide step. They are all abnormally long-legged over there. - He would have cracked his head against the dome of the cave, - Sadovski objected. - Most likely he had wings - flew inside a cave, saw an unfriendly welcome ready for him, pushed off and flew away. And what do you think, Ivan? Zhilin opened his mouth to answer, but instead raised his finger and said: - Attention! The chief inspector! Into the ward-room walked a red and sweltering Yurkovski. - Ph-hew! - he said. - How nice and cool! Planetologists, the supervisors are calling you. And remember, that it's about forty degrees there right now. - He turned to Yura. - Get ready, cadet. I have arranged it with the captain of the tanker, he will drop you off at "Ring-2". - Yura shuddered and stopped smiling. - The tanker leaves in a few hours, but it's best to go there before launch. Vanya, you will see him off. Yes! Planetologists! Where are the planetologists? - He looked out into the corridor. - Shemyakin! Pasha! Get me the photos that you have made above the Ring. I need to have a look. Michael, don't go, wait a minute. Stay here, Alexey, drop your book, I need to talk to you. Bykov set the book aside. In the ward-room remained only him, Yurkovski and Michael Antonovich. Yurkovski, balancing awkwardly, ran from one corner to another. - What is it with you? - Bykov inquired, watching his evolutions suspiciously. Yurkovski stopped suddenly. - This is the deal, Alexey, - he said. - I have arranged with Markushin, he will let me have his cosmoscaphe. I want to fly above the Ring. An absolutely safe trip, Alexey. - Yurkovski became angry unexpectedly. - Well, why do you look at me like that? The guys have been making such trips twice a day for a whole year now. Yes, I know that you are obstinate. But I do not intend to get inside the Ring. I want to fly above the Ring. I obey your instructions. Please respect for my request, too. I am begging you in earnest, bloody hell. After all, are we friends or not? - What, exactly, is the matter? - Bykov said calmly. Yurkovski ran across the room again. - Give me Michael, - he said abruptly. - Wha-a-at? - said Bykov, rising slowly. - Or I will fly solo, - Yurkovski said immediately. - And I don't know cosmoscaphes well. Bykov stayed silent. Michael Antonovich was turning his eyes from one to the other in confusion. - Boys, - he said. - I mean, I would love to... What's there to talk about? - I could have taken another pilot at the station, - said Yurkovski. - But I am asking for Michael, because Michael is a hundred times more experienced and careful, than all of them put together. Do you get it? He's more careful! Bykov stayed silent. His face turned dark and sullen. - We'll be extremely careful, - said Yurkovski. - We'll proceed at the altitude of twenty or thirty kilometres above the median plane, no closer. I will make a few large-scale shots, make some visual observations, and in two hours we'll come back. - Aleshen'ka, - Michael Antonovich said timidly. - You know, the stray fragments above the Ring are very rare. And they are not all that harmful. A little bit of concentration... Bykov was quietly looking at Yurkovski. "Well, what am I to do with him? - he thought. - What am I to do with this old maniac? Michael has a sick heart. It's his last voyage. His reaction has become dull and all cosmoscaphes have manual controls. And I cannot fly a cosmoscaphe. And Zhilin can't. And I can't let a young pilot go with him. They'll convince each other to dive inside the Ring. Why have I, an old idiot, not learned to fly a cosmoscaphe?" - Alesha, - said Yurkovski. - I really beg of you. You know, I will probably never see Saturn's rings again. I am old, Alesha. Bykov got up and, not looking at anyone, walked out of the ward-room in silence. Yurkovski covered his face with his hands. - Oh no, what a disaster! - he said with vexation. - Why, how come I have such a horrible reputation? Why, Michael? - So reckless you are, Voloden'ka, - said Michael Antonovich. - Really, you are the culprit. - And why be careful? - asked Yurkovski. - Come on, tell me please, why? To reach an age of total spiritual and physical infirmity? To wait for the moment, when life will become loathsome, and die from boredom in bed? Come on Michael, after all, trembling over one's life like this is ridiculous. Michael Antonovich shook his head. - What a character you are, Voloden'ka, - he said quietly. - How can you not see, my dear, you alone will die - and that's that. But, you see, people will remain after you, friends. Do you know, how painful it will be for them? And you just go on about yourself, all about yourself. - Ahh, Michael, - said Yurkovski, - I don't feel like arguing with you. You better tell me, is Alexey going to agree or not? - I think, he'd already agreed to it, - said Michael Antonovich. - Can't you tell? Because I know him well, fifteen years on the same ship. Yurkovski ran across the room again. - And what about you, Michael, do you, at least, want to fly or not? - he shouted. - Or are you also... "agreeing to it"? - I really want to, - said Michael Antonovich and blushed all over. - Just once before we go. Yura was packing a suitcase. He never managed to pack up well, and now he was also rushing, so that no one could tell, how much he doesn't want to leave the "Takhmaseeb". Ivan was standing by, and it was awfully sad to think, that now they will have to say goodbye and that they will never meet again. Yura was carelessly shoving into the suitcase his clothes, study notes, books - among them "The road of all roads", of which Bykov said: "When you will begin to like this book, you can consider yourself an adult". Ivan, whistling, was watching Yura with cheerful eyes. Finally, Yura shut the suitcase, sadly looked around the cabin and said: - That's it, I think. - Well, if that's it, let's go say good-bye, - said Zhilin. He took the weightless suitcase from Yura and they walked down the circular corridor, past the ten-kilogram dumbbells floating up in the air, past the shower-room, past the kitchen, from which the aroma of oatmeal spread, into the ward-room. Yurkovski was alone inside the ward-room. He sat behind an empty table, clutching a balding head with his palms, and before him lay a lonesome clean sheet of paper, fastened with clamps to the table. - Vladimir Sergeevich, - said Yura. Yurkovski lifted his head. - Ah, the cadet, - he said, smiling sadly. - Well then, let's say good-bye. They shook each other's hands. - I am really thankful to you, - said Yura. - Come on, - said Yurkovski. - What are you on about, really. You know, that I didn't want to take you along. And was wrong about it. What to wish you before you leave? Always keep working more, Yura. Working with your hands, working with your head. Especially, don't forget to work with your head. And remember, that real people - are those who think a great deal about many things. Don't let your brain go mouldy. - Yurkovski looked at Yura with a familiar expression: as if he was expecting, that Yura will right now, immediately, change for the better. - Alright, off you go. Yura bowed awkwardly and walked out of the ward-room. At the door to the command post he looked back. Yurkovski followed him pensively with his eyes, but, seemingly, did not see him already. Yura went up to the command post. Michael Antonovich and Bykov were talking next to the control panel. When Yura walked in, they became quiet and looked at him. - Right, - said Bykov. - You are ready, Yuri. Ivan, in that case you will see him off. - Good-bye, - said Yura. - Thank you. Bykov silently stretched out his huge palm. - A big thank you to you, Alexey Petrovich, - Yura repeated. - And to you, Michael Antonovich. - It's alright, it's really alright, Yurik, - spoke Michael Antonovich. - Good luck with your job. Make sure you write me a letter. You haven't lost the address yet? Yura silently patted his shirt pocket. - Well, that's good, that's wonderful. Write to us, and if you want to - come over. Really, once you get back to Earth, come straight away. We always have fun. Lots of young people. You can read my memoirs. Yura smiled weakly. - Good-bye, he said. Michael Antonovich waved his hand, whilst Bykov thundered: - Calm plasma to you, probationer. Yura and Zhilin walked out of the command post. For the last time the caisson door opened and closed behind Yura. - Good-bye, "Takhmaseeb", - said Yura. They walked down an endless observatory corridor, where it was hot, like in a sauna, and walked out onto the second docking deck. At the opened tanker hatch on a small bamboo footstool sat a long-legged red-haired man wearing an unbuttoned uniform jacket with golden buttons and a pair of striped shorts. Looking into a small mirror, he was combing his red sideburns with his palm, and, jutting his jaw, played some Tirole motif on a pipe. Upon seeing Yura and Zhilin, he put the mirror into his pocket and stood up. - Captain Korf? - said Zhilin. - Ya, - said the red-haired man. - Onto "Ring-2", - said Zhilin, - you will deliver this particular comrade. The chief inspector had talked to you, didn't he? - Ya, - said the red-haired captain Korf. - Viery gut. Baggage? Zhilin handed him the suitcase. - Ya, - said captain Korf for the third time. - Bye, Yurka, - said Zhilin. - Don't look so unhappy, please. Come on, what sort of a habit is it? - I don't look unhappy at all, - said Yura sorrowfully. - I know very well, why you look unhappy, - said Zhilin. - You have imagined, that we will never meet again, and were quick to make a tragedy out of it. And there is no tragedy. You have another hundred years of meeting all kinds of good and bad people. And can you answer this question: how does one good person differ from another good person? - Don't know, - said Yura with a sigh. - I will tell you, - said Zhilin. - There is no substantial difference. For instance, tomorrow you will be with your guys. Tomorrow everyone will be jealous of you, and you will be bragging to them. Like, me and inspector Yurkovski... You will tell them, how you shot the leeches on Mars, how you have brought down mister Richardson on Bamberga with a chair just like this one, how you rescued a blue-eyed girl from the evil Shershen. About the death-planeters, you will make up something, too. - Come on, Vanya, - said Yura, smiling feebly. - Well, and why not? You have a lively imagination. I can imagine, how you will sing to them the ballad about a one-legged Alien. But remember. Frankly speaking, there were two boot prints. I did not have time to talk about the second boot print. The second boot print was up on the ceiling, precisely above the first one. Don't forget. Well, good-bye. - Tee-la-la-la ee-a! - captain Korf sang quietly from behind. - Good-bye, Vanya, - said Yura. He shook Zhilin's hand with both hands. Zhilin patted him on the shoulder, turned around and walked into the corridor. Yura could hear shouting from the corridor: - Ivan! There is one more hypothesis! There was no Alien inside that cave. Only his boot was there. Yura smiled meekly. - Tee-la-la-la ee-a! - captain Korf kept singing behind him, combing his red sideburns. "RING-1". MUST SURVIVE. - Voloden'ka, move over a little, - said Michael Antonovich. - Because I am pushing right into you with my elbow. If, for instance, we were to make a steep turn... - Sure, sure, - said Yurkovski. - Only, I have no room, actually. It's amazingly cramped in here. Who, indeed, built these... err... machines. - Ok, this way now... And it's fine, really fine, Voloden'ka... It was really cramped inside a cosmoscaphe. A small round rocket was designed for only one person, but generally two people would climb in. As if that was not enough, under the work safety rules above the Ring the crew were obliged to wear space suits with an open head piece. Being together, as well as wearing space suits, and with headpieces hanging behind their backs, there was no room to make a turn in the cosmoscaphe. Michael Antonovich got the comfortable navigator chair with soft seat belts, and he was really upset, that his dear friend Voloden'ka is compelled to twist somewhere between the regenerator cover and the charge-release controls. Yurkovski, pushing his face into the binoctar frame, was clicking the photocamera trigger from time to time. - Slow down a little, Misha, - he kept repeating. - Right... stop... Sheesh, how unwieldy is this device... Michael Antonovich, spinning the control wheel with enjoyment, was looking, without turning his gaze, at the teleprojector screen. The cosmoscaphe was slowly floating twenty five kilometres above the median plane of the Ring. Below them, to the right and left, across the entire screen, a giant flat glittering field stretched across the whole screen. In the distance it was cloaked with a greenish haze and it seemed, that the giant planet is dissected into two. And beneath the cosmoscaphe creeped a rocky hash. Iridescent scatterings of angular fragments, tiny pebbles, sparkling glittering dust. Occasionally strange whirlpool motions appeared in this hash and then Yurkovski would say: "Slow down, Michael... That's it..." - and snap the shutter a few times. These inexplicable and unfamiliar motions drew Yurkovski's special attention. The Ring was not a handful of rocks, thrown into terminal inactive movement around Saturn; it lived its own strange unfathomable life, and there still lay a task of sorting out this life's natural laws. Michael Antonovich was elated. He squeezed tenderly the receptive control handles, savouring with delight how smoothly and obediently the rocket responds to each finger movement. How fantastic was it - to navigate a ship without the cyberpilot, without any old electronics, bionics and cybernetics, to rely solely upon yourself, to revel in one's full and boundless confidence in oneself and to know, that between you and the ship - is only this soft and comfortable control wheel and you don't have to habitually force out the thought, that beneath your feet bubbles, although suppressed but fierce energy, capable of blowing an entire planet to bits. Michael Antonovich possessed a rich imagination, deep inside he was always slightly retrograde, and the sluggish cosmoscaphe with its meagre engine seemed to him cosy and homely compared with the photon monster that "Takhmaseeb" was and with other similar monsters that Michael Antonovich had to deal with in his twenty-five year career as a navigator. Beside that, the iridescent glitter of the diamond scatterings in the Ring, as always, stirred quiet admiration in him. Michael Antonovich always had a weakness for Saturn and for its rings. The Ring was astonishingly beautiful. It was much more beautiful, than Michael Antonovich could describe it, and still, every time when he saw the Ring, he wanted to tell others about it. - It's so nice, - he said, finally. - Look how it shimmers. I, perhaps, cannot... - Slow down now, Misha, - said Yurkovski. Michael Antonovich decelerated. - There are sleep-walkers, for instance, - he said. - And I have the same weakness... - Slow down more, - said Yurkovski. Michael Antonovich became quiet and decelerated more. Yurkovski was snapping the shutter. Michael Antonovich stayed silent for a bit and called into the microphone: - Aleshen'ka, are you listening to us? - I am listening, - Bykov responded in a bass voice. - Aleshen'ka, we are all fine here, - Michael Antonovich informed him hastily. - I just wanted to share this with you. It's so beautiful here, Aleshen'ka. The sun glitters so on the rocks... and the dust shimmers so... What a champion you are, Aleshen'ka, for letting us go. At least to have a glimpse one last time... Oh, if only you could see, how this one rock glitters! - Overwhelmed by emotion, he fell silent again. Bykov waited a while and then asked: - Do you intend advancing towards Saturn for long? - A long, long time! - Yurkovski said with irritation. - I wish you would go, Alexey, and find something to do. Nothing will happen to us. Bykov said: - Ivan is running prophylactic maintenance. - He stayed silent for some time. - So am I. - Please don't worry, Aleshen'ka, - said Michael Antonovich. - No freak boulders here, everything is really calm and safe. - It's good that there aren't any freak boulders, - said Bykov. - But please pay a touch more attention, still. - Slow down, Michael, - Yurkovski ordered. - What have you got there? - Bykov asked. - Turbulence, - replied Michael Antonovich. - Oh, - said Bykov and stayed quiet. About fifteen minutes passed in silence. The cosmoscaphe ventured already three hundred kilometres away from the edge of the Ring. Michael Antonovich was turning the wheel and suppressing the desire to accelerate as fast as he could, so that the glittering fragments below would flow as one whole sparkling strip. It would be very pretty. Michael Antonovich liked doing these things, when he was a little younger. Yurkovski suddenly said in a whisper: - Stop. Michael Antonovich slowed down. - Stop, I am telling you! - said Yurkovski. - Well? The cosmoscaphe hovered motionless. Michael Antonovich looked back at Yurkovski. Yurkovski had pushed his face into the binoctar frame so hard, as though he wished to puncture the cosmoscaphe's body and peer outside. - What's there? - asked Michael Antonovich. Yurkovski did not answer. - Michael! - he yelled suddenly. - Alongside the Ring's orbit... Do you see a long black fragment below us? Cruise right above it... precisely above it, without overtaking... Michael Antonovich turned to the screen, found the long black fragment below and guided the cosmoscaphe, trying not to lose the fragment from the optical marker. - What have you got there? - Bykov asked again. - Some fragment, - said Michael Antonovich. - Long and black. - Escaping, - Yurkovski said through clenched teeth. - Slow down by one meter! - he shouted. Michael Antonovich reduced the speed. - No, this won't work, - said Yurkovski. - Misha, look, the black splinter, do you see? - He was talking very fast and whispering. - I see. - Right on course, two degrees away from it is a cluster of rocks... - I see, - said Michael Antonovich. - There is something pretty glittering there. - That's right... head for that glitter... Just don't lose it... Or have I got something in my eye? Michael Antonovich moved the glittering dot inside the optical marker and put its maximal magnification up on the teleprojector. He saw five rounded, strangely identical white rocks, and between them - something shiny, unclear, resembling a silvery shadow of a spider spread out. As though the stones were undulating, whilst the spider clung onto them with bare spread legs. - How funny! - cried out Michael Antonovich. - What the hell have you got there? - Bykov hollered. - Hold on, hold on, Alexey, - Yurkovski muttered. - We must descend here... - Here we go, - said Bykov. - Michael! Not one meter lower! The agitated Michael Antonovich, without realising, was already guiding the cosmoscaphe down. It was so amazing and bizarre, five identical round boulders and a shadow with totally unfamiliar contours between them. - Michael! - Bykov roared and stayed silent. Michael Antonovich came to his senses and slowed down sharply. - Well, what are you doing? - Yurkovski shouted in a frenzied voice. - You are letting it go! Slowly, barely perceptible to the naked eye, the long black splinter was drawing over the strange rocks. - Aleshen'ka! - Michael Antonovich called out. - There is really something strange here! Can I go a little lower? We can't see very well! Bykov stayed silent. - You are, you are letting it get away, - Yurkovski was roaring. - Aleshen'ka! - Michael Antonovich screamed desperately. - I'll go lower! Five kilometres down, alright? He was clutching the control handles spasmodically, trying not to release the shiny object from the markers. The black splinter was advancing slowly and implacably. Bykov would not answer. - Come on now, go lower, - Yurkovski said in an unexpectedly calm voice. Michael Antonovich looked in desperation at the peacefully shimmering screen of the meteorite locator and guided the cosmoscaphe down. - Aleshen'ka, - he kept mumbling. - Just a tiny bit, just so I won't lose it from sight. It's all quiet and empty around here. Yurkovski was hastily clicking the photocamera's shutters. The long black splinter was crawling and crawling across, and finally moved up, covering the white rocks and the glittering spider among them. - Ahh, - said Yurkovski. - With your Bykov... Michael Antonovich slowed down. - Aleshen'ka! - he said. - It's all over. Bykov kept quiet, and then Michael Antonovich looked at the radio. The reception was turned off. - Oh-oh-oh! - cried Michael Antonovich. - How could I... With my elbow, perhaps? He turned on the reception. - ...chael, get back! Michael, get back! Michael, get back!.. - Bykov repeated monotonously. - I hear, I hear you, Aleshen'ka! I have accidentally switched off reception here. - Come back immediately, - said Bykov. - Now, now, Aleshen'ka! - said Michael Antonovich. - We have finished everything and everything's fine... - he became silent again. The elongated black splinter was gradually floating off, revealing the cluster of white stones again. The silvery spider glittered once more in the light. - What is happening down there? - asked Bykov. - Can you give me a proper explanation or not? Yurkovski, shoving Michael Antonovich aside, leaned down to the microphone. - Alexey! - he shouted. - Do you remember the tale about the gigantic fluctuation? I think, we got our one in a billion chance after all! - What chance? - It looks like we have found... - Look, look, Voloden'ka! - Michael Antonovich muttered, looking at the screen in panic. A mass of dense grey dust was advancing from the side, and above it tens of shiny angular boulders floated across. Yurkovski groaned even: in a moment it will pull away, conceal, crumple and drag those odd white rocks and this silvery spider god knows where, and no one will ever know, that it happened... - Down! - he screamed. - Michael, down!.. The cosmoscaphe budged. - Get back! - shouted Bykov. - Michael, I am ordering you: get back! Yurkovski stretched out his hand and switched off the reception. - Down, Misha, down... Only down... And hurry! - What are you saying, Voloden'ka! I can't - it's an order! What are you doing! - Michael Antonovich turned towards the radio. Yurkovski caught his hand. - Look at the screen, Michael, - he said. - In twenty minutes it will be too late... - Michael Antonovich was pushing towards the radio in silence. - Michael, don't be an idiot... We got one chance in a billion... They'll never forgive us... Why can't you understand it, you old fool! Michael Antonovich finally reached the radio and turned the reception on. They heard Bykov's heavy breathing. - No, they can't hear us, - he said to someone. - Misha, - Yurkovski whispered hoarsely. - I will never forgive you in my entire life, Misha... I'll forget, that you ever were my friend, Misha... I'll forget, that we were at Golconda together... Misha, this is the very meaning of my life, please understand... I waited for it all my life... I believed in it... These are Aliens, Misha... - Michael Antonovich looked him in the face and shut his eyes: he did not recognise Yurkovski. - Misha, the dust is getting closer... Get us under the dust, Misha, please, I beg you... We'll be quick, we'll just set up a radio buoy and come back straight away. This is perfectly simple and safe, and no one is going to know... - Here we go, how in the world can you deal with them? - Bykov screamed. - They found something, - Zhilin's voice said. - You know we can't. Don't ask, We can't. You know I promised. He is going to lose his mind from stress. Don't ask... The grey dust shroud moved up close. - Let me, - said Yurkovski. - I'll navigate myself. He started to pull Michael Antonovich from his chair in silence. It was so bizarre and awful that Michael Antonovich became totally lost. - Alright, fine, - he mumbled. - Sure, ok... Just wait... - He still could not recognise Yurkovski's face, it all seemed like a nightmarish dream. - Michael Antonovich, - Zhilin called out. - Here, - Michael Antonovich said weakly, and Yurkovski smashed the regulator with all his might. The metallic glove severed the handle like a razor. - Down! - roared Yurkovski. Horrified, Michael Antonovich plunged the cosmoscaphe down into a twenty kilometre abyss. He was shuddering all over with pity and terrible premonition. A minute had passed, then another... Yurkovski suddenly said in a clear voice: - Misha, Misha, I really get it now... The porous stone blocks on the screen were growing, turning slowly. Yurkovski pushed the transparent space suit helmet over his head in a habitual movement. - Misha, Misha, I really get it now, - Zhilin heard Yurkovski's voice. Bykov was sitting hunched up in front of the radio, clutching the stand of a useless microphone with both hands. He could only listen, and try to understand, what is happening, and wait, and hope. They come back - I'll beat them up without mercy, he thought. Both this goody-goody navigator and this brilliant bastard. No. I won't beat them. Just pray they come back. Nearby - hands in his pockets - the gloomy Zhilin stayed silent. - The rocks, - Michael Antonovich said plaintively, - the rocks... Bykov closed his eyes. Rocks inside the Ring. Sharp, heavy. Flying, crawling, swivelling. Surrounding you. Nudging, squeaking revoltingly against the metal. A thrust. Then a harder thrust. This is still a trifle, no big deal, the crawling fragments pouring like peas over the plating, and this is also no big deal, but somewhere from behind that very fast and heavy one, as though propelled from a giant catapult, is closing in, and the radars cannot see it yet behind the shroud of dust, and when they will, it will be too late anyway... The hull bursts, all bulkheads fold up like pleats, for one moment the sky swarming with rocks will flash through the crack, and people turn white and fragile like ice... They are wearing space suits, though. Bykov opened his eyes. Zhilin, - he said. - Go to Markushin and find out, where the second cosmoscaphe is. Ask him to get a pilot ready for me. Zhilin disappeared. - Misha, - Bykov said soundlessly. - Somehow, Misha... Somehow... - There he is, - said Yurkovski. - Oh-oh-oh-oh, - said Michael Antonovich. - About five kiolmetres? - What are you talking about, Voloden'ka! Much less... Isn't it really nice when there are no rocks? - Slow down gradually. I will start getting the buoy ready. What a moron I was to break the radio, I am such an idiot... - What could it this be, Voloden'ka? Look, what a monster!.. - He is holding them, see? That's where they are, the aliens. And you were nagging before! - How can you, Voloden'ka? Did I really nag you? I was just... - Park it somehow, so that god forbid, you don't brush against it... Silence set in. Bykov was listening intently. Perhaps somehow, it will work out, he thought. - Well, why are you pulling a face? - I don't know, really. Somehow it all seems so strange to me... Something doesn't feel right... - Go out under the shank and drop down the magnetic drag. - Alright, Voloden'ka... What have they found there, Bykov was thinking. What the hell is that shank? Why are they wasting time? Can't they hurry up? - Missed it, - said Yurkovski. - Hold on, Voloden'ka, you don't know how to. Let me. - Look, it's as if it had rooted itself in the rock... And did you notice, that they are all identical? - Yes, all five. I found it odd from the beginning... Zhilin returned. - There is no cosmoscaphe, - he said. Bykov wouldn't even ask, what that means - no cosmoscaphe. He left the microphone, got up and said: - Let's go over to the Swiss. - It won't work this way, - said the voice of Michael Antonovich. Bykov stopped. - Yes, indeed... What other means have we got? - Hold on, Voloden'ka. Let me get out now and do it all manually. - That's right, - said Yurkovski. - Let's get out. - Oh no, Voloden'ka, you sit here. You are not a huge help... Anything could happen... Yurkovski said, after some silence: - Alright. I'll make a few more shots. Bykov hurried towards the exit. Zhilin walked out of the command post after him and locked the hatch with a key. Bykov said whilst walking: - We'll take the tanker, find the bearing of that place and wait for them there. - That's right, Alexey Petrovich, - said Zhilin. - So what did they find there? - Don't know, - Bykov said through clenched teeth. - And don't want to know. Go to the command post and work on the bearing, while I talk to the captain. In the observatory's corridor Bykov caught the sweltering duty officer and ordered: - We are going out in the tanker now. You will remove the bridge and seal the hatch. The duty officer nodded. - The second cosmoscaphe is coming back, - he said. Bykov stopped. - No-no, - the officer said with regret. - It will be a while yet, about three hours. Bykov moved on silently. They passed the caisson, walked past the bamboo footstool and climbed up into the tanker's command post through a cramped narrow shaft. Captain Korf and his navigator were standing over a low desk and inspecting a blueprint. - Good day, - said Bykov. Zhilin, without saying a word, walked to the radio and began tuning it to the cosmoscaphe's frequency. The captain and navigator stared at him in astonishment. Bykov came up to them. - Who's the captain? - he asked. - Captain Korf, - said the red-headed captain. - Who aur yew? Hau kome? - I am Bykov, "Takhmaseeb's" captain. I am asking you to help me. - I happy, - said captain Korf. He looked at Zhilin. Zhilin was tampering with the radio. - Two of our comrades have gone inside the Ring, - said Bykov. - O! - perplexity showed on captain's face. - How reckless!!! - I need a ship. I am asking for your ship. - My ship, - Korf repeated confusedly. - Go inside the Ring? - No, - said Bykov. - Inside the Ring only as a last resort. If a disaster happens. - And where is your ship? - Korf asked suspiciously. - Mine's a photon freighter, - answered Bykov. - Ah, - said Korf. - Yes, zhat impossible. Yurkovski's voice came from the control room: - Hold on, I'll get out in now. - And I am telling you, stay put, Voloden'ka, - said Michael Antonovich. - You are taking forever. Michael said nothing back. - Is it them in the Ring? - Korf asked, pointing at the radio. - Yes, - said Bykov. - Are you willing? Zhilin came and stood next to him. - Yes, - Korf said reflectively. - Need to help. Suddenly the navigator began speaking so fast and incoherently, that Bykov could only understand isolated words. Korf was listening and nodding. Then, blushing severely, he told Bykov: - The navigator doesn't want to fly. It's not his duty. - He can go, - said Bykov. - Thank you, captain Korf. The navigator repeated a few more phrases. - He is saying, that we are heading for certain death, - Korf translated. - Tell him to go, - said Bykov. - We must hurry. - Perhaps, it would be better for mister Korf to disembark, too? - Zhilin asked cautiously. - Ho-ho-ho! - said Korf. - I am captain! He waved to the navigator and walked to the controls. The navigator left, not looking at anyone. One minute later the outer hatch boomed with an echo. - Girls, - said captain Korf, without turning, - they make us weak. Weak, like them. But one must resist. Let's get ready. He reached into his side pocket, pulled out a photo and fixed it on the panel in front of him. - Like this, - he said. - And it can't be otherwise, if the voyage is dangerous. Take your seats, gentlemen. Bykov sat at the controls next to the captain. Zhilin buckled up in a chair in front of the radio. - Dispatcher! - said the captain. - Dispatcher here, - the duty officer at the observatory responded. - Requesting take-off! - Clear to take off! Captain Korf pushed the starter, and everything shifted. And then Zhilin suddenly remembered: "Yurka!" For a few seconds he was looking at the radio that was moaning Michael Antonovich's rueful sighs. He simply did not know what to do. The tanker already left the observatory's zone, and captain Korf, manoeuvring the rudders, was putting the ship onto the bearing. Let's not panic, Zhilin thought. Things aren't all that bad. So far nothing terrible has happened. - Michael, - Yurkovski's voice called. - Will you be done soon? - Now, Voloden'ka, - responded Michael Antonovich. His voice sounded somewhat strange - either weary or confused. - Ho! - Yura's voice said behind them. Zhilin turned around. Yura was walking into the command post, sleepy-eyed and very excited. - You are going to "Ring-2" as well? - he asked. Bykov looked at him in frenzy. - H