e seaside promenade and vanished. That was the last they saw of her. The two men turned oft the bustling avenue into quiet Cooper Lane. "Will you come in for a while?" Nikolai asked, stopping under an archway that led into a courtyard. "Can you lend me something to read?" "Of course I can." They crossed the yard diagonally. It was a yard they had known from childhood, with a glassed-in gallery running the length of the two-storey house. An outside stairway supported by iron posts, down which it had been so convenient and pleasant to slide, led up to the top floor. In the cellar the children used to hunt for buried treasure and hide from pursuit, sending arrows flying through the air. Yura and Nikolai had grown up in this wonderful courtyard which could be turned, in the twinkling of an eye, into a prairie or the deck of a frigate. Here they had invented their earliest games and read their first books. They had raced about the yard, shooting arrows from their bows and lassoing the rubber plants set out for watering. One of the ground-floor tenants in those days was a sailor. The boys used to gaze respectfully at his black cap with its gold emblem and the gold stripes on his sleeve. The sailor would be away for weeks at a lime, leaving behind, at home, a live turtle and a daughter with freckles and yellow braids. Although girls were not invited to play Red Indians, Yura and Nikolai made an exception in the case of the sailor's daughter. Yellow Lynx, as they named her, could run like the wind and slide down the stairway posts like a cat. She did not cry when they pulled her by her braids. She plunged courageously into courtyard battles, using her fingernails and screaming in a high, piercing voice. Besides the live turtle there were other interesting things in the sailor's flat. A real dirk hung on one wall and a barometer on another. On the desk, beside a bronze inkwell, lay two pieces of iron with mysterious letters carved on them. Yellow Lynx and the boys resolved that some day they would discover the meaning of those mysterious letters. The sailor and his daughter left for Leningrad early in the spring of 1941. Nikolai copied a picture from a volume of Pushkin's Tales showing a ship with a huge taut sail decorated with a drawing of the sun, approaching a wharf on which men in old-fashioned long robes were firing cannons. He presented it to Yellow Lynx as a farewell gift. They were both about nine years old at the time. Soon after, a husky young man by the name of Bugrov, whom the boys addressed as Uncle Vova, moved into the sailor's flat. He had a blue motorcycle on which he sometimes took the boys riding. What is more, he taught them the Greco-Roman style of wrestling. A circus poster on the wall of the new tenant's room showed him among the other performers, very handsome and muscular in black tights, his chest bulging. When the war broke out Uncle Vova locked up his flat and went into the army. Nikolai's father, who worked at a railway-carriage repair shop, was also drafted. Yura's father, an oil refinery engineer, was given a draft deferment. Now the boys played army scouts and guerrillas. Life was hard, especially for Nikolai and his mother, who was a nurse and worked day and night at an army hospital. Nikolai's father was killed in a battle on the Dnieper River. After seven years of schooling Nikolai told his mother that he wanted to go to work. She tried to persuade him to stay in school but he would not be moved. Yura's father found a job for Nikolai as an apprentice fitter in the oil refinery's maintenance shop and persuaded him to attend night school. Soon after, Yura's family moved to another part of town and Nikolai was left without a playmate. But this did not matter because he had no time for play. Yura felt that fate had been unkind to him for making him sit over his books all through the war instead of letting him fight the Nazis. Besides, he envied Nikolai's hands, with their traces of grease and metallic dust. And so, after finishing the eighth grade at school Yura went to work in the maintenance shop, side by side with Nikolai. They went through night school together and then entered the evening department of a college. Shortly after graduating with degrees in engineering the two young men were assigned to jobs in the Oil Transportation Research Institute, where they worked under Boris Privalov. They crossed the courtyard, climbed the stairs, walked down the glassed-in gallery and entered Nikolai's room. There, it was pleasantly cool. Bookshelves lined the wall above Nikolai's desk. A photographic enlarger stood on the floor in a corner of the room, like a stork on one leg. Yura picked up the underwater gun Nikolai was making and examined it. "The spring's a bit tight." "No, it's just right," said Nikolai. "Can't have it any looser." "If you finish it by Sunday we can do some shooting." "We're racing on Sunday." "Why, so we are. I forgot." Yura stretched out luxuriously on the sofa. "I want you to look at this," said Nikolai, producing several sheets of paper covered with sketches and figures from a drawer of the desk. "What do you think of it?" Yura glanced at the sketches. "They look like pears." He yawned. "Take these drawings away. I'm too lazy to think." "But first listen. Remember that conversation about surface tension and the interesting idea Privalov suggested?" "He told us to forget it." Nikolai lost his temper. "You're an idiot! I can't discuss anything with you nowadays. All you can think of is Val." "You're the idiot," Yura replied cheerfully. "All right, let's have it." Nikolai turned on the fan. "What shape does a liquid have?" he asked, lighting a cigarette. Yura lifted his eyebrows. "It takes the shape of the vessel into which it's poured. Primitive man guessed that much." "Very well. Now take a drop of liquid. What keeps the liquid in a droplet? Surface tension. No vessel is needed. A sphere is the ideal shape of a minimum surface. But a droplet is not spherical. The earth's gravity gives it a bulge, making it pear-shaped." "In short, a drop-like shape." "Exactly." There was a knock on the door. A tall, husky man in a white singlet and blue jeans entered. He had a broad, heavy-jawed face, and there was a tuft of red hair on top of his head. "Caught you in at last, Nikolai," he said in a deep, hoarse voice. "Where've you been hiding?" "What can I do for you, Uncle Vova?" Nikolai asked. "I want to borrow your aqualung for a couple of days." "My diving gear?" "Don't worry, you'll get it back in perfect condition," he said reassuringly, 'I'll refill the cylinders too." "All right, take it," Uncle Vova picked up the aqualung and inspected it. "Fine workmanship," he remarked. "Thanks." "When did you return?" asked Nikolai. "Sunday. By the way, I saw you pull that girl out of the sea. You made a neat job of it." "Why, it looks as though the whole town saw it." "Really?" Uncle Vova pricked up his ears. "Who else?" "The whole ship. You were on the Uzbekistan too, weren't you?" "Oh, I don't give a damn about the Uzbekistan" Uncle Vova replied vaguely. "Well, I'm off." He nodded and went out. "Now Yura, listen to what-" At this point Nikolai noticed that Yura, his long legs hanging over the edge of the sofa, was sound asleep. Nikolai shook him by the shoulder. Yura jerked a leg and pushed his friend away without opening his eyes. "Wake up this instant or I'll shake the life out of you!" Nikolai shouted. Yura opened his eyes. "I must have dozed for a moment," he remarked with a conciliatory smile. "You certainly did. Get off the sofa." "I'm more comfortable on it. You can continue talking. We stopped on droplets being droplet-shaped. It sounds fascinating." "Are you trying to be funny?" "Not 'for the world." "Then listen. The size of a droplet depends on the magnitude of the surface tension. In the case of water"-Nikolai glanced at his notes- "the surface tension is 72.8 ergs per square centimetre. The surface tension of alcohol is a little more than 22 ergs." "What is it for mercury?" "Mercury? Just a minute." Nikolai took down a thick reference book from a shelf and leafed through it. "Just listen to this! The surface tension of mercury is 470 ergs. That's terrific!" "You can increase the tension by passing an electric current through the mercury. Don't you remember reading about that old 'mercury heart' experiment?" "Why, that's right. Thanks for recalling it, Yura." Yura made a regal gesture. "Think nothing of it." "We'll set mercury aside for the time being," said Nikolai. "Now consider the following. Have you noticed the way water runs along telegraph wires in the rain?" "An intriguing sight, isn't it?" "The flow has a droplet-like cross-section," Nikolai went on. "Suppose we use an electric ray instead of a wire. The ray creates a field. The field increases the surface tension, and the cross-section builds up." "Better not tangle with fields, old man. You and I don't know much about them." "We won't really tangle with them. All we need is a high-frequency generator." "Let's have a look at those papers," said Yura after a pause. "What does this diagram represent?" Nikolai sat down on the sofa beside him. "Look here," he said. "We'll string up an inclined wire and send water down it to a vessel at the bottom. Since we know the time and the amount of water we'll be able to calculate the speed at which it moves. We'll measure the cross-section of the droplets and calculate their surface tension. Then we'll put a spiral round the wire-" "I get the point-a resonance circuit and superimposed frequencies." Yura sprang to his feet. "Give me some wire!" Nikolai's grey eyes wrinkled in a smile. Once Yura was hooked on an idea his energy knew no bounds. Yura pulled off his shirt, tossed his hair back off his forehead and produced a screwdriver from his pocket. It was his favourite screwdriver, for which he had made a hollow plastic handle, with a neon indicator lamp inside it, in his student days. He carried the screwdriver everywhere he went. Like Roland's sword, it had a name of its own. It was called Durandal. "We'll disembowel your radio set for a start," Yura said. "But don't worry, we'll only remove the input circuit. And the heterodyne." He turned the set Over on its side and went at it with his screwdriver. "We'll take out the giblets. Don't just stand there, Nick. Go out on the gallery and put the wire up." Working away busily, Yura went on. "A great man once said the true experimenter can set up any kind of experiment with three sticks, a piece of rubber, a glass tube, and some of his own saliva." CHAPTER FIVE IN WHICH THE READER GETS TO KNOW ANATOLE BENEDICTOV BETTER Anatole Benedictov switched on the motor. The belt drive made a rustling sound and the glass disc of the electrostatic machine began to revolve. Blue sparks crackled. A round aquarium on the table had wire wound around it, with thick copper tubing on top of the wire. A copper disc hung above the aquarium parallel with the surface of the water. Small fish darted about in the greenish water. Benedictov turned the levers of the valve oscillator. Then, slowly tightening a screw, he brought the copper disc close to the water. The fish stopped darting about. They seemed to fall asleep instantly. Benedictov looked at his watch, dropped heavily into an armchair and closed his eyes. The room was shrouded in semi-darkness. Rita sat on the sofa. A black cat lay at her feet. "You ought to give up these experiments, Anatole," she said thoughtfully. "You're biting off more than you can chew." "It's too late, Rita. I can't give up now." There was a silence. The electricity crackled. The fish in the aquarium slept. "Why do you keep experimenting with living creatures, Anatole?" Rita asked, leaning forward. "Your old-time predecessors used inorganic matter." "You know why. Living matter gives me something a piece of wood or a chunk of metal never could. It gives me action potentials." "But the knife is lost. How can you continue experimenting without it?" "I don't know. I need that knife all the time." Benedictov paused, then added, "Did you actually see it fall overboard? Could someone in the crowd have grabbed it?" "No, it went overboard. I dived after it at once, but the knife sank to the bottom." "What a thing to have happened!" Benedictov rubbed his shaggy head furiously. The doorbell rang. When Rita opened the door she found a husky man in blue overalls and a cap pulled down over his eyes standing there. "I'm from the municipal electricity board," he said. "I've come to inspect the wiring." "Step in," said Rita. "The meter's over there." The electrician removed the fuses and inspected them. "These have to be replaced," he said. "They're defective." "Rita!" Benedictov called from his room. "Why did you switch off the electricity?" "Hurry up and put those fuses back," Rita told the electrician. "Are you in a hurry to be fined?" said the electrician, but he put back the fuses. "Where's the Hkitchen?" He went through the rooms, his head tipped back, looking at the wiring. Suddenly he stopped short. "Is that a motor running?" he asked. "Got a license for it?" "Rita!" Benedictov called impatiently. "Excuse me a moment," Rita said to the electrician as she turned towards Benedictov's study. The electrician heard her explaining what the matter was. A man's voice said, "To hell with him! Let him look. Here, hold this fish." "Ouch!" Rita exclaimed. The electrician glanced into the room in time to see the woman drop the fish and a big black cat spring to seize it. "Shoo!" cried Benedictov. The electrician jumped back from the doorway as the cat, covered with blue sparks and screeching piteously, dashed into the passage. Its fur stood on end, the sparks crackling. The cat ran frenziedly between the electrician's legs, received a kick, and bounded down the passage. "The cat thought I tossed the fish to her," Rita said with a laugh as she came out of the study. "Have you finished looking things over?" Benedictov followed his wife into the passage. "Who are you?" he asked the electrician in alarm. "What do you want?" "I ought to fine you for such goings-on," the electrician growled hoarsely, tugging his cap down over his forehead. He strode to the door, pulled it open and went out, slamming the door behind him. After the war Bugrov returned home to his flat in Cooper Lane where a circus poster, now yellowed, still hung on the wall beside his bed. Soon afterwards he married a stately, imperious woman named Claudia. She hid the poster in the lower drawer of the bureau, placed little rugs and embroidered cushions here, there and everywhere. Bugrov did not return to the circus. He obtained a medical certificate stating that he was a disabled veteran and began to make spring dynamometers at home for a small producers' co-operative of disabled war veterans. When Bugrov saw Benedictov's strange knife on board the Uzbekistan on his way home from a holiday on the Volga he immediately realized that such a knife could be a gold mine in a circus act. He carefully noted the place where the woman in red had dived overboard. When the passengers from the Uzbekistan went ashore he took a taxi and followed Benedictov to his home. Bugrov hesitated for several days before finally deciding on direct action to learn whether the man still had the knife or whether it had sunk to the bottom of the Caspian. "It was a waste of time," Bugrov thought gloomily as he walked to the trolleybus stop. "I didn't learn anything about the knife. All I did was tangle with a cat." Recalling the black cat covered with sparks he spat on the ground in fury. Vova Bugrov did not know that cats possess excellent electrical properties, although they could hardly be a source of electric power. It has been estimated that if 1,500 million cats were stroked simultaneously they would generate a mere 15 watts. "But maybe it wasn't a complete loss, after all," Bugrov reflected in the trolleybus. "The cat's owner was out of sorts. He swore and shouted at his wife. He might have been upset because the knife sank into the sea. Why didn't I grab it? I should have kept my eye on the handle. Well, I'll have to search the sea bottom." Bugrov fell into a daydream about a wonderful circus act. The day he arrived in a small town posters would be pasted on all the fences showing Bugrov in a red robe-no, a green robe would perhaps be better-and a turban, with a knife piercing his throat. "Famous Fakir so-and-so" the poster would read. He'd have to think up a good name for himself. The hall would be jammed to the rafters as he, Vova, emerged on the stage in a green robe, or maybe a black robe. He'd have to borrow his neighbour's scuba gear and do some diving. There was no silt in that place. Just sand. He was sure he would find the knife. Bugrov pushed his cap to the back of his head and winked at his reflection in the trolleybus window. CHAPTER SIX IN WHICH NIKOLAI OPRATIN TAKES THE BULL BY THE HORNS Nikolai Opratin saw Benedictov as soon as he opened the door into the laboratory. Corpulent and dishevelled, the biophysicist stood beside a table around which ran a thick copper coil. He was unfastening the harness in which a brown and white dog hung. When he set the dog on the floor it shook itself and began to sniff angrily at the experimenter's feet. "Good morning," Opratin said. "What do you want?" Benedictov asked coldly. "Your advice about fish." Benedictov turned away. "Ask someone else." "I'm sorry about that argument we had on board the ship," Opratin said softly. "I'm ready to take back my words." The biophysicist was silent. Then he nodded in the direction of the glass partition at the end of the laboratory. "Come this way," he said jerkily. They sat down opposite each other at a table covered with papers and blocks of paraffin cut into cubes. "The problem we're working on is the level of the Caspian, that is, how to raise it," Opratin explained. "We plan a series of experiments in the course of which ionized water will appear in the sea. My question is: how will this affect the fish?" Benedictov gave a cough but said nothing. "Our Institute will of course get in touch officially with yours," Opratin went on, his gaze fixed on Benedictov's face. "But I'd like to know, ahead of time-" "What are your ionization figures?" Benedictov asked, moving closer a spirit lamp on which stood a nickel-plated tray. The conversation faltered. Benedictov answered questions in unwilling monosyllables. He coughed and squirmed in his chair. His bloodshot eyes were evasive. Suddenly he rose, murmured an excuse, and left the room. Opratin let his eyes roam over the table. He noticed an empty glass ampoule. As he read the Latin inscription on it his thin lips twisted in an ironic smile. Benedictov returned looking a completely different man, fresh-faced, cheerful, with sparkling eyes. "Please continue," he said on his way to his desk. "Look here," said Opratin softly. "Did you try to magnetize that knife?" Benedictov stopped short. Opratin's pale blue eyes stared steadily at him without blinking. Benedictov felt acutely uncomfortable. "What's it to you?" he muttered. The ensuing silence lasted several seconds. Benedictov was the first to lower his eyes. "Sit down," Opratin said. "I'm not asking out of idle curiosity. I've been thinking a lot about your knife and it seems to me I've guessed a few things. Can it be magnetized?" "Suppose it can? So what?" "This is extremely important. Don't look at me as if you wanted to tear me to pieces. I've come here to help you." "I don't need any help." Opratin let this remark pass. "Did you measure the knife's electric resistance?" he asked. "Did you test it for use as the core of an electromagnet?" Benedictov had not done that either. "Did you try it on a voltaic arc?" Benedictov shook his head thoughtfully. "How does the knife react to chemical substances?" He flung question after question at Benedictov. Benedictov gave reluctant replies. He had not performed half of the tests about which this uninvited inspector was asking him. "Well, well," said Opratin. He smoothed his thinning hair. "To all appearances, my dear man, you have followed the wrong path." "What path I follow is my own business," Benedictov growled. "Yes, to be sure." Opratin drummed his fingers on the table. "You're a biologist and I'm a physicist. Don't you think that if we combined forces we'd reach the goal faster?" Benedictov said nothing. "I won't lay claim to any of your laurels. I just want to help you. All I'm interested in are the scientific results." Opratin looked searchingly at Benedictov. "What do you say?" The biophysicist glanced out of the window. "Damn it!" he said flatly. CHAPTER SEVEN IN WHICH A REGATTA BRINGS THREE OF THE CHARACTERS STRAIGHT TO THE PLACE WHERE THE AUTHORS WANTED THEM TO BE Early Sunday morning Nikolai Potapkin ran down the steps and out into the courtyard, swinging his little suitcase. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up above the elbows, his open collar exposed a tanned chest. Glancing up at the cloudless sky, he shook his head. Not a breath of wind! Yet this was the day of the big regatta. He arrived at the marina to find preparations in progress only on the centreboard and Star class boats, for which even a slight breeze would be enough. The crews of the L-4 boats, discouraged by the absence of wind, were gathered in their cabins in front of TV sets watching a children's programme. Nikolai found Yura sitting on the edge of the pier in his bathing trunks, his long arms wrapped round his knees, singing a song from an Indian film in a mournful voice. He sat down beside Yura and took up the refrain. They sang until dockmaster Mehti stuck his head out of the window of the boathouse and begged them to stop. "This isn't an opera-house," he complained. "You shouldn't have lent uncle Vova your scuba gear," Yura remarked after a while. "We could have done some diving." "Why not come over to my place if the races are cancelled? We might try to change the pitch of the spiral." "I don't want to." "Why not?" Nikolai looked at his friend. "Ah, yes, of course. A date with Val." "No, I-" "Then what the devil-" "Nothing will come of it, Nick. The surfaces of substances are a hazy subject. If famous scientists don't know how to handle them, then what's the use of us trying?" "You needn't if you don't want to. I'll get along without you." "You can't. At least I know my way about electronics, which is more than you can say." "Anyway, I won't give up. There must be a field in which surface tension increases." "A field!" Yura repeated derisively. "'Oh, field, broad field, who strewed you with whitened bones?'" Boris Privalov came up to the young men. "Good morning, boys. Doesn't look as though there'll be any racing today, does it?" "The races haven't been officially called off yet," said Yura. "We're waiting. Take a seat." The three of them sat side by side on the pier, dangling their feet in the water, the sun warming their backs, waiting for the wind to come up. "Do you recall our talk about surface tension, Boris?" Nikolai asked in a determined voice. The sun flashed on Privalov's glasses as he turned to look at Nikolai. "Yes, I do." "Well, it's like this." Nikolai launched into a description of the experiment with water and a wire, and mentioned the spiral and the desired field. Privalov listened closely, frowning and screwing up his eyes. "It's amateurish," he said finally. "You can't go in for that sort of thing without thorough preparation. There's a book by Adam on the physics and chemistry of surfaces. I'll lend it to you." He was silent for a while. "Besides, at the moment we have more than enough work on our hands, and later there will be a pipeline across the whole of the Caspian." "I've been hearing about a transcaspian pipeline for years," said Yura. "We're beginning to wonder whether it will ever be built." "It will. I forgot to ask you yesterday, Nikolai, if you went over to Opratin's." "Yes, I did." "See anything interesting?" "Not particularly. I think they're setting up a big electrostatic installation." "Electrostatic, you say?" Privalov looked thoughtful. Yura sprang to his feet. "A wind! A wind's coming up!" A light southerly sea breeze ruffled the surface of the bay and rustled in the trees along Seaside Boulevard. The flag of the Chief Judge fluttered tautly. A ship's bell tinkled. The class M flag was run up. "The centreboard boats are getting ready," Yura said excitedly. "If it blows a little stronger the keel boats can follow suit. Let's go." After the centreboards the Star class boats started off. There was enough wind for these small, light boats which carried a great deal of sail. The wind freshened, and half an hour later boats of the L-4 class were announced. Soon the steady ringing of a ship's bell informed the competitors that five minutes were left before the start. Ah, those last five minutes! What a tricky business it was getting as close to the starting line as possible within those five minutes, but not crossing it ahead of time! Four rings of the bell meant four minutes were left, then three, two, and one. Finally, a quick ringing of the bell gave the signal for the start. Beating against the wind, the boats entered the first lap of the fifteen-mile course. Wind filled the sails as the sheet, held in strong hands, quivered; the sea whispered to the boats sliding through it; the sun bathed everything in gold against the blue of the sea. The Mekong was among the first to round the mark. Following an advantageous course, it approached its closest rival on a parallel course windward, but the other boat did not let the Mekong overtake it. In the excitement both crews forgot about the other competitors. When the Mekong finally forged ahead, the crews discovered that almost all the other boats had overtaken both of them, were rounding the second buoy and were raising their spinnakers, the big triangular sails used when running before the wind. Yura, who was sitting on the deck, raised himself on one knee. "Obstacle ahead!" he shouted. "Two boats lying at anchor!" When the Mekong came closer they saw a man in a straw hat sitting in one of the boats. They could hear the motor running, but the boat was not moving. The second boat, some distance away, was empty. "Ahoy there!" Yura shouted, leaning over the side. "Watch out!" Just then the wind died down, prompting the thought that Nature is sometimes actively hostile to man. Why else should the wind die down at noon on a Sunday just when a regatta is at its height? The sails flapped several times and then hung limp. The Mekong continued to move forward a short distance by inertia before coming to a full stop about half a cable length from the motor-boat. "Well, all we can do now is sunbathe. What a race!" said Yura in disgust. Whistling softly, he scratched the boom with his fingernails, then threw a ten-kopek coin overboard. But these century-old remedies failed to call up a wind. "I've done everything I can," Yura announced. Then he stretched out on the deck and began to sing in a doleful voice: The river flows but it doesn't flow; The day got off to a bad start. How can I tell you what's in my heart? But I think you probably know. Nikolai glanced at the distant shore and the refrigeration plant outlined against the blue sky. "Why," he said wonderingly, "I believe this is the spot where we rescued that young woman in the red dress." All of a sudden silence descended as the motor of the boat ahead was switched off. They heard an angry voice say: "I came here first. Everything I find here is mine." "Don't be silly," another voice said. "The sea doesn't belong to you. It belongs to everyone." "I'll show you who it belongs to!" The motorboat rocked as the man in the straw hat waved his arms. "I wonder who he's talking to?" Nikolai looked more closely at the motorboat. Then he fetched his binoculars from the cabin and trained them on the straw hat. "Just what I thought. The voice sounded familiar. That's Opratin." "Give him my regards," Privalov said. "Damn it!" Nikolai exclaimed. "You spoke of wanting the scuba gear, Yura. Well, there it is." Taking the binoculars, Yura clearly saw Bugrov's big head in the water beside the motorboat. The mask was pushed up on Vova's forehead and he was clinging to the boat with one hand. Yura lowered the binoculars. "You're right. The diving gear is in danger. It looks as though they want to drown each other." "I'd like to know what they're doing here," said Nikolai. "Do you mind, Boris, if I take a short swim?" "Don't be too long. The wind may come up any minute." "I'll be back soon." With these words Nikolai plunged into the sea and swam towards the motorboat. "Come, Yura," said Privalov, lighting a cigarette and letting the smoke out through his nostrils, "tell me about your experiments once again." That morning Nikolai Opratin had spent more than an hour on the small wharf belonging to the Institute of Marine Physics. He had attached a cable drum to the side of an Institute motor-boat and had wound on it a thin cable with a strong electromagnet at its end. Anatole Benedictov had said the knife could be magnetized. If this was so, then he, Opratin, would find it. How stupid that the knife should have fallen overboard! And what a scene Benedictov had made on deck! Opratin recalled the glass ampoule on the biophysicist's desk. A drug addict. Yet without that scene on deck he, Opratin, would not have learned of the existence of the mysterious knife. A drop of common sense in a barrel of nonsense. Opratin finished equipping the boat, started up the motor, and chugged out of the bay. The sea heaved lazily beneath the hot August sun. The red cone of the fairway buoy with a big white "18" painted on it rocked on the surface. The TV mast was at Opratin's stern and the refrigeration plant on the left. He turned the boat a few degrees to starboard. Now this must be the place. This was where Benedictov's wife had fallen overboard after the knife had dropped into the sea. An interesting woman, no doubt about that. Had she fallen or had she jumped? An empty boat bobbed in the water about twenty metres away. Where was the owner? Had he drowned? Or had the boat torn free of its moorings and drifted out of the bay? Opratin was not in the least interested. He pushed a lever which switched the motor's drive from the propeller to a generator to which the cable with the electromagnet was attached. The cable wound off the drum into the water. Opratin wondered how soon his particular fish would bite. At the end of the cable was an electromagnetic underwater probe connected with an ultrasonic range-finder. The zigzagging green line on the oscillograph screen would show the shape of metallic objects on the sea floor. If Opratin wanted some object he could switch on the electromagnet and pick it up. Using the oars, Opratin slowly moved the boat back and forth, combing the place. Suddenly the cable jerked. Bubbles rose to the surface, then a huge hand was thrust out of the water, followed by a head, the face covered by a mask. The mask was connected by a hose to a cylinder on the man's back. The diver closed the valve of the aqualung and pushed the mask up onto his forehead, revealing a broad face with a heavy jaw. Opratin recognized him at once. He was the man who had tried to take the knife from Benedictov aboard the Uzbekistan. It was obvious why he was at this particular spot in the sea. An unpleasant situation. While the diver coughed and spat out water Opratin decided to take the offensive. "Hey you, there!" he shouted. "Why the devil did you pull my cable?" "You'll soon find out!" came the answer in a threatening tone. The man swam over to Opratin's motorboat, reached up to grip its side, and let loose a stream of obscenities that set Opratin's teeth on edge. The substance of Bugrov's monologue was that law-abiding citizens could not go in for skin-diving on their day off because "others"-a word which Bugrov proceeded to define-played all kinds of dirty tricks on them. Bugrov had been combing the area in circles. He would anchor his boat, dive down and swim around in a circle, studying the firmly-packed sandy bottom. His supply of air was almost half used up when he saw a black cylinder suspended from a cable slowly moving over the bottom. He swam up to the cylinder and tugged at it, gripping the place where it was attached to the cable. An electric shock galvanized him, and he tore his hand away with difficulty. Dazed and angered, he headed for the surface. Bugrov had been having bad luck with electricity lately. "Get going, quick-before I turn your tub upside down!" he roared. Opratin did not want any trouble, the more so that a sailboat was approaching. He moved over to the stern and said in a placative tone, "Listen, how was I to know you were swimming here?" "Couldn't you see my boat? Stop acting innocent, you scum!" They wrangled for another few minutes, until Opratin realized he was being foolish and would have to get rid of the man some other way. He switched off the motor, gave the becalmed sailboat a fleeting glance, and said, "I know what you're looking for, but you'll never find it with an aqualung." Bugrov blinked in disbelief. "D'you take me for a fool?" he asked hoarsely. "Get out! I came here first. Everything I find here is mine." "Don't be silly! The sea doesn't belong to you. It belongs to everyone." "I'll show you who it belongs to!" Bugrov began to rock the motorboat. Opratin had to throw out his arms to keep his balance. "All right, I'm leaving," Opratin said, strongly tempted to hit the man over the head with his anchor. "But you'll never see that knife. You can take my word for it as a scientist." This made an impression on Bugrov, who had a deep faith in the omnipotence of science. "Are you looking for the knife too?" he asked in what was almost a civil tone. "There, that's the way to talk," said Opratin. "Yes, I am. If I don't find it I'll make one just like it." Bugrov gave the face under the straw hat a thoughtful glance. "I'm apt to be quick-tempered," he said. "Maybe I said some things I shouldn't have." Opratin gave a wry grin. Nikolai quickly covered the hundred metres or so to the motorboat in a noiseless breast stroke. As he approached it he heard Bugrov say, "All I want is the knife. I'm willing to make sacrifices for science." "I'm glad to hear it," said Opratin. "I am what I am," Bugrov said modestly. "Will I be going to the island often?" "No, not very." "There's a fishery nearby. I can get caviar cheap there." He fell silent, his head filled with visions of future profits. At that moment Opratin caught sight of Nikolai beside the boat. He removed his dark glasses to take a better look. "Is that you?" he asked with a pleasant smile. "What an unexpected encounter!" "Hi, there," called Bugrov, recognizing his neighbour. "Where" d you drop from?" "That sailboat," Nikolai caught hold of the motorboat's life line. "We're becalmed, so I decided to take a swim." An awkward silence followed. "I'll be on my way," said Bugrov, pushing off from the motorboat. "Do you want your scuba gear now?" "No," said Nikolai. "Bring it to me at home." Bugrov swam back to his rowboat. "I see you know him," remarked Opratin. "Yes, we live in the same house." Nikolai stared at the generator, the face plate of the cathode-ray tube of the oscillograph and the drum with the cable running into the sea. Opratin smiled. "How I envy you. Sailing is a wonderful sport. But I, as you can see, have to carry out investigations on Sundays too." "Yes, I see," said Nikolai, trying feverishly to make out what sort of cable it was. "Well, good luck." He pushed off from the motorboat and swam back to the sailboat. If only he had known the circumstances under which he would cling to the life line of that motorboat a second time! CHAPTER EIGHT IN WHICH PRIVALOV ACQUIRES A NEW ALLY The wheel now worked well. Unwinding the "spool", a tug had laid the first pipeline to Neftianiye Reefs. The pressure trials completed, they returned home towards evening. At this time of day there was not much traffic on the road, which ran between vineyards, with oil derricks beyond them, and their sleek grey car made good time. Privalov relaxed in the back seat, satisfied after two days of intensive work. Pavel Koltukhov, who sat beside him, dozed and smoked simultaneously; he woke every now and then to take a puff or two on his cigarette and then closed his eyes again. Nikolai was at the wheel. Beside him Yura was going through his notes on the pressure trials. "That's a load off my mind," Privalov said with a sigh. "I hope the builders will be able to handle the parallel pipelines without us." "You can gird your loins for another job," said Koltukhov. "You mean the transcaspian pipeline? But the project hasn't been approved yet." "Approval was wired yesterday. Is your survey programme ready?" "It's been ready a long time." "That's fine. We'll discuss it tomorrow." Nikolai slowed down as they passed through a small town and then put on speed when they came out into open country again. "How are things going, boys?" Privalov asked in a low voice. "Have you read that book by Adam?" "It isn't what you'd call light reading," Nikolai replied. "We're stuck, Boris. We're thinking of experimenting with mercury." The remainder of the drive into town passed in silence. After the young men got out on the corner of Toilers of the Sea Street, Privalov took the wheel and drove to the Institute. "Look here, Boris," said Koltukhov. "Do you think it's fair to let your imagination run wild and make those two young men pay for it by wasting their time and energy?" "I'm not making them do anything. They started experimenting without sufficient theoretical grounding. I told them what to read and gave them some advice. That's all." "Then why does Nikolai spend every free minute of his time in the automation department, showering everyone there with questions?" Privalov shrugged his shoulders. "Aren't you letting your own imagination run wild? Dabbling in resins like an alchemist, in between co