ng  to  the  Academician.
"Suppose we were to reproduce  his 'transmission  installation'? It seems to
me that would make the work easier."
     "It  certainly would," said the  Academician.  "Benedictov really did a
brilliant piece of research. Opratin  apparently played  a most  significant
role too. Do  you  remember my saying last spring that I thought it might be
possible to transfer the properties of an object  with restructured bonds to
other objects? Benedictov did just that. The unknown Indian scholar may have
worked along the same lines.
     "But Benedictov failed to achieve stability. It's a great pity, a  very
great  pity, he did not work in contact with us. There  are many interesting
points in his  records. By the  way, I am urging  the Academy of Sciences to
publish his papers."
     "That's splendid!" Nikolai exclaimed. "Now,"  said  Academician Markov,
"I want to hear what our friend Jafar Rustamov has to say."
     The director of the Institute of Marine Physics passed  a hand over his
curly hair, coughed, and began:
     "The problem of raising the level of the Caspian-"
     "Look here, my son," said Professor Bagbanly. "I know how good  you are
at making speeches. But don't  make one now. Just give us the gist of it. We
know all about the problem."
     "I should say we do." said Pavel Koltukhov.  "We  know all  about water
heaters on the Black ;Sea, a cloud  conductor across  the Caucasian mountain
range and man-made cloudbursts-"
     Bustamov nodded. "Very well, to put it briefly, Nature uses up millions
of kilowatthours of solar energy to produce  a  few  average-sized clouds in
the second  half  of  a  summer day.  You  know  that,  of course." His eyes
crinkled in a sly smile.
     "Yes, certainly," said Koltukhov in a voice that was not quite certain.
     "Fine. Now we  have  nuclear power, a tremendous source of  energy. The
only drawback,  my  friends, is its  cost.  A long man-made  downpour is  an
extremely  expensive business.  We  have  done  preparatory research anyway,
because any  expenditure would  be justified if we succeeded in raising  the
level  of  the  Caspian.  This  summer  we lost  our experimental  condenser
installation on Ipaty Island. But  you all know that. Now Academician Markov
has suggested  something else. Instead of shifting clouds from the Black Sea
to the  Caspian  he proposes building an  underground sea-water line beneath
the Caucasian isthmus."
     "A sea water line?" Privalov repeated, slowly rising from his chair.
     The  young  engineers jumped to their feet and  stared at  Rustamov  in
astonishment.
     "Yes, a sea-water line," said Academician Markov. "At approximately the
42nd parallel, between Poti on the Black Sea and Derbent on the Caspian Sea.
Today we  sent  a stream  of  oil through the sea. Tomorrow a sea-water line
could  carry  a  stream  of Black  Sea  water through  the  ground into  the
Caspian."
     A stunned silence reigned  in the room for a moment. The engineers were
struck dumb by the scope of the idea.
     "I've already calculated that it  would be much  cheaper than  anything
else," Rustamov went on briskly. "I was doubtful about it at the  beginning,
but now I see how it can be done. It's a good idea."
     "Good?"  shouted  Privalov.  "You  say  it's a  good  idea?  I  call it
fabulous."
     "Don't  get excited, Boris,"  said  the  Academician. "The  idea  of  a
sea-water  line cannot be  compared  in scope  with all the  prospects which
penetrability  holds out to us. The future will produce a great deal that is
amazing and surprising.  I can tell you one thing.  Our  Institute is  doing
highly promising experiments in releasing the energy of surfaces."
     Nikolai  and  Yura,  standing  by the window, were excitedly discussing
something.
     "They're already planning  the details of the scheme,"  said Koltukhov,
nodding in their direction. "See that wild gleam in their eyes?"
     Outside, twilight was falling; silvery stellar dust powdered the sky.
     The launch sped along,  cutting diagonally across the path of moonlight
on the water. The passengers sat in silence, weary after the long, fruitful,
and fascinating day.
     They were racing ahead  towards the lights of the big city. The channel
buoys cheerfully blinked their red and yellow lights.
     "Do you remember how it all began, Boris?" Nikolai suddenly asked.
     "How what began?"
     "Well, the experiments with surface tension and the rest of it."
     Boris Privalov paused for a moment. "Actually, how did  it all begin? I
recall there was some talk about it while we were out sailing one day."
     "But before  that, don't  you remember  the bazaar? We were standing in
front of that painting of Leda and the Swan, and you said-"
     Boris  Privalov  laughed.  "Ah, to be sure.  You're right.  That vulgar
painting was what gave us the idea-"
     He turned to Academician Markov to tell him how it had all begun at the
bazaar. The Academician laughed, then said, his face serious, "That painting
was  just an  accidental  factor. The  important thing  is-"  He  could have
carried on from there  at length,  but instead he limited himself  to giving
Boris's arm a friendly squeeze.
     A big white ship, all  gleaming with lights, cut across the path of the
launch. Dance music came from the open portholes of the saloon.
     Yura turned to read the name on the high bow of the ship.
     "The Uzbekistan" he said. "Look, Nicky, it's the Uzbekistan!"
     Nikolai did not answer. He stood there gazing after the ship for a long
time.


        EPILOGUE

     One  evening  in  early winter  when  snowflakes were  floating  lazily
earthwards, only to melt at  once on the wet black pavement, Rita sat curled
up in her favourite spot on the sofa, leafing through a thin paperback.
     She studied the lines of familiar and unfamiliar formulas and carefully
read the description of  experiments,  for  she well  remembered some of the
early ones. Again she looked at the cover. At the top was the author's name:
Anatole  Benedictov, and below it the title: Changing the Internal Bonds  of
Matter.
     The book had just arrived from Moscow that morning. It had not come out
in a large printing, for it was intended for a narrow circle of researchers.
Academician  Markov was the editor and also  the author  of the introductory
essay and the commentaries.
     The room was quiet.  Rita lifted  her  head to look about her,  at  the
standing lamp, the fish in the aquarium,  a solitary microscope on the desk.
Then she looked at the cover of  the  book  again, and at the author's name:
Anatole Benedictov.
     The  doorbell  rang.  Rita  sprang up and ran out  into  the  entryway,
straightening her housecoat on the way. No one had  rung her bell for a long
time.
     Pronka, the black cat, was at her side as she opened the door. When she
saw it  was Val and Yura her face lit up. Behind them Rex moved impatiently,
his paws tapping on the floor.
     "How  glad I  am to see you!"  Rita exclaimed,  shaking hands  with her
visitors. She was about to pat Rex on the head when he suddenly gave a jerk,
pulling the leash out of Yura's hand, and raced into the depths of the flat,
barking wildly. They could hear chairs being knocked over.
     "That dog will be the death of me," Val complained.
     Hurrying  into  the  dining-room,  they found  Pronka  on  top  of  the
sideboard, her fur  on end,  hissing furiously. Rex kept leaping frantically
into the air in a vain attempt to get his teeth into his age-old enemy.
     "Down, Rex, down!"  Yura shouted sternly, seizing  Rex  by the  collar.
"Where are your manners, sir?"
     Rita picked up  Pronka and carried her  into the  kitchen, the  door of
which she carefully closed.  Rex wagged his  stub of  a tail guiltily. Order
was restored.
     "You look splendid, Val," Rita said. "Marriage certainly seems to agree
with you."
     (The  reader  will  forgive  the  authors for  failing to  describe the
wedding  of Val  and  Yura.  They  will  merely note that it was  a very gay
wedding indeed, and that the  crew of  the Mekong was  there  in full force.
Valery drank a bit  too much and then  went on to give a display of the test
dance  steps, followed by a moving rendition of an old  Papuan song, to  the
delight of all present at this most delightful wedding.)
     "I'm  surprised to  hear you  find me  looking  well," Val  said. "It's
taking all my patience to get along with this brute."
     "Why aren't you treating your wife properly, Yura?" Rita asked.
     "Nobody is mistreating her," Yura replied from the armchair in which he
had settled himself. "You know, she gave me her thesis to read-"
     "Just  imagine," Val interrupted. "I'm going to present it soon,  so  I
wanted his opinion. Well, I gave it to him to read, and he-"
     "Tore it up?" Rita asked in mock horror.
     "Worse than that.  He read  it aloud, making snide  remarks as  he went
along. You know the sort of things Yura is capable of saying."
     Rita laughed.  "How glad I  am to see  you!" she said again,  feeling a
surge of affection for the young couple. "I'm going to serve you tea now."
     Yura  was on his feet instantly. He took  Rita by  the arm.  "Let's not
have any tea this time, really. We dropped in to pick you up and take you to
Nikolai's with us."
     Rita gave Yura a long look. "What for?"
     "No  special purpose. Just  a friendly call. Nikolai has  always been a
stay-at-home,  and  now more  so  than ever before.  He's permanently in low
spirits and sits at  home  all the  time.  He doesn't even want to go to the
pictures. I have to drag him out. Let's go over and cheer him up."
     Rita said nothing for a moment. "Very well," she consented.
     The  snowflakes that  were floating down  to  the  wet  pavement melted
immediately.  But there was snow  clinging to the garden fence  in  a  thin,
fragile layer. Yura scooped some of it into a snowball and aimed it at Val.
     "Don't you dare, you beast!" she cried, taking shelter behind Rita. She
was wearing a new coat.
     Yura tossed  the snowball  at  Rex. Rex  was  wearing  his old  coat of
beautiful striped fur  and was  not at  all  afraid of ruining it. He yelped
with joy.
     They came to the house in Cooper Lane, entered the yard and climbed the
steps to the second floor. Yura pushed the bell. The door opened-




        TO THE READER

     MIR PUBLISHERS  would be  grateful for your  comments on the  contents,
translation and design of this book. We would also be pleased to receive any
other suggestions you may wish to make.
     Our address is:
     USSR, 129820, Moscow 1-110, GSP
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     MIR PUBLISHERS


     Printed in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

     EVGENY  VOISKUNSKY  was  born  in  Baku,  Azerbaijan,  in  1922.  After
finishing secondary school he went to Leningrad to study the history of art.
     The  Second World War  interrupted his studies. He served in the Baltic
Fleet, taking part in the defence  of Hanko Island  and Leningrad.  For many
years after the  war he  worked for the newspaper published by the Navy. His
first novels were about  men serving in  the Soviet Navy. The  Crew  of  the
Mekong is the first of the  science-fiction novels written  in collaboration
with I. Lukodyanov.

     ISAI LUKODYANOV (born 1913) was an engineer at a machine-building works
and served in the Air Force during the Second World War. Then he returned to
Baku  and became a design  engineer. He is  the author of several  technical
books.  In  recent years  he has written  science-fiction stories and novels
together with E. Voiskunsky.

     These two well-known writers of science fiction followed up The Crew of
the  Mekong with the novel  The Black Pillar, a collection  of short stories
called At the Crossroads of Time, the novel -  Very Distant Tartess and  the
novel The Gentle Splash of Stellar Seas.

     Last edited: December 22, 2001