immeldonnerwetter! - captain Korf whispered. He had also fully forgotten about Yura. - Passenger! In-nn yor cabin! - he shouted with a threat. His ruddy sideburns stood out menacingly. Michael Antonovich suddenly said in a loud voice: - Volodya... Be so kind, move the cosmoscaphe about thirty meters away? Will you manage? Yurkovski grumbled with annoyance. - Well, I'll try, - he said. - And why is this necessary? - I'll be more comfortable like this, Volodya. Please. Bykov suddenly got up and pulled harshly on his jacket's fastenings. Yura was looking at him in with horror. Bykov's face, always brick-red, turned a whitish blue. Yurkovski suddenly screamed: - A rock! Misha, there's a rock! Get back! Drop everything! A faint moan could be heard, and Michael Antonovich said in a trembling voice: - Voloden'ka, go away. Go quickly. I can't. - The speed, - Bykov said hoarsely. - What does it mean - I can't? - Yurkovski squealed. His heavy breathing could be heard. - Go away, go, don't come here... - Michael Antonovich was muttering. - Nothing will come out of it... Don't do it, don't... - So that's what it is, - said Yurkovski. - Why did you keep quiet? Well, that's no big deal. We'll get you right now... Right now... Gee, how did you get so messy... - The speed, the speed... - Bykov kept roaring. Captain Korf, twisting his freckled face, hovered above the control buttons. Gravity overload intensified. - Right now, Mishen'ka, right now... - Yurkovski kept saying cheerfully. - Like this... Damn, I wish I had a crow bar... - Too late, - Michael Antonovich said with sudden calmness. In the silence that set in their heavy, wheezing breath could be heard. - Yes, - said Yurkovski. - It's too late. - Leave me, - said Michael Antonovich. - No. - It's pointless. - No matter, - said Yurkovski, - it'll be quick. A dry laugh was heard. - We won't even notice it. Close your eyes, Misha. And after a brief silence someone - not clear who it was, - called out softly and wistfully: - Alesha... Alexey... In silence, Bykov threw captain Korf away, like a kitten, and dug his fingers into the buttons. The tanker jumped. Pushed into his chair by a tremendous overload, Zhilin just managed to realise "Forced acceleration!" He lost consciousness for a second. Then through the noise in his ears he heard a short scream that was cut off, as though from tremendous pain, and through the red fog covering his eyes, saw that the arrow on the auto bearing finder twitched and swung feebly from side to side. - Misha! - Bykov screamed. - Guys! He fell head down on the controls and began crying, loudly and awkwardly... Yura felt sick. He was nauseous, his head hurt terribly. He was tormented by some obscure twofold delirium. He was lying on his bed in a cramped, dark cabin on "Takhmaseeb", and at the same time it was his big bright room at home on Earth. His mother would walk into the room, place a cool pleasant hand on his cheek and say in Zhilin's voice: "No, still sleeping". Yura felt like saying, that he is not sleeping, but somehow it was impossible to do it. Some people, familiar and unfamiliar, and among them - one wearing white overalls - leaned over and knocked Yura hard over his smashed head, and immediately Michael Antonovich said ruefully: "Alesha... Alexey...", and Bykov, terrifying, pale as a ghost, grabbed the controls, and Yura was thrown down the corridor head against something sharp and hard. Tearfully sad music was playing and someone's voice was talking: "...During exploration of Saturn's Ring the chief inspector of the international board of cosmic communications Vladimir Sergeevich Yurkovski and the oldest navigator-astronaut Michael Antonovich Krutikov perished..." And Yura cried, like even the adult people cry in their sleep, when they dream of something sad... When Yura came round, he saw that he is really inside a cabin on "Takhmaseeb", and next to him a doctor is standing, wearing white overalls. - Here we are, it's about time, - said Zhilin, smiling plaintively. - Were they really killed? - Yura asked. Zhilin nodded silently. - And Alexey Petrovich? - Zhilin didn't say anything. The doctor asked: - Does your head hurt much? Yura concentrated for a moment. - No, - he said. - Not too much. - That's good, - said the doctor. - Stay in bed for about five days, and you'll be well. - I won't be sent back to Earth? - Yura asked. Suddenly he became really scared that he would be sent back to Earth. - No, why, - the doctor was surprised, and Zhilin cheerfully informed him: - They already asked about you at "Ring-2", they want to come and visit. - Let them, - said Yura. The doctor told Zhilin, that Yura must be given the mixture every three hours, warned them that he will come in one day, and left. Yura closed his eyes again. Perished, he thought. No one will ever call me a cadet and won't ask me to sit down and have a small chat with an old man, and no one is going to read his memoirs about the nicest, most charming people. This will never happen. The most awful is - that it will never happen. You can smash your head against the wall, you can tear your shirt - still, you could never see Vladimir Sergeevich again, the way he is standing outside the shower room in his splendid robe and a giant towel across the shoulder and how Michael Antonovich is scooping the inevitable porridge into the bowls and smiling kindly. Never, never, never... Why - never? How can this be so, never again? Some stupid stone in some stupid Ring of the stupid Saturn... And the people, who must stay, simply have to stay, because the world will become worse without them, - these people are no longer and will no longer be... Yura remembered vaguely, that they had found something down there. But that was irrelevant, that wasn't the main thing, though they did think, that that was the main thing... And, of course, everyone, who doesn't know them, will also think, that that was the main thing. It is always like that. If you don't know the one who accomplished a feat, the main thing for you - is the feat. And if you do know - what is that feat to you then? A feat - is all very well, but the person must live on. Yura thought that he will meet his mates in a few days. They will, naturally, start asking what and how straight away. They will ask neither about Yurkovski nor about Krutikov, they will be asking what Yurkovski and Krutikov found. They will be literally burning with curiosity. They will be interested the most in what Yurkovski and Krutikov managed to report about their findings. They will marvel at Yurkovski and Krutikov's valour and will exclaim with envy: "Now these were real men!" And most remarkable to them will be the fact that they both died on active duty. Yura even felt nauseated with resentment and anger. But he already knew what he will say to them. So as not to yell at them "Snotty faced idiots!", so as not to start crying, not to start a fight, I will tell them: "Hold on. There is a story...", and I will begin it like this: "On the island of Honshu, in the Titigatake mountain gorge, in an impenetrable forest, a cave was found..." Zhilin walked in, sat at the foot of Yura's bed and patted him on the knee. Zhilin was wearing a chequered shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His face was sunken and weary. He was unshaven. And how is Bykov, Yura wondered suddenly and asked: - Vanya, so how is Alexey Petrovich? Zhilin didn't say anything. EPILOGUE. The bus rolled noiselessly to the low white barrier and stopped in front of a large motley crowd of people waiting. Zhilin was sitting at the window and looking at the cheerful faces, reddened with frost, at the snow mounts glistening in the sun before the aero-terminal building. The doors opened, chilled air rushed inside the bus. The passengers followed each other to the exit, cracking final jokes with the stewardess. A lively hubbub came from the crowd - at the door people were hugging, shaking hands, kissing. Zhilin searched for familiar faces, did not find anyone, and sighed with relief. He looked at Bykov. Bykov was sitting motionless, face lowered into the furry collar of his Greenland jacket. The stewardess took her bag from the baggage locker and said cheerfully: - Well, what are you waiting for, comrades? We are here! This bus won't go any further. Bykov got up with an effort and, without taking his hands out of pockets, walked across an empty bus to the exit. Zhilin followed him with Yurkovski's satchel. The crowd had already dispersed. People were heading to the terminal in groups, laughing and talking among themselves. Bykov stepped into the snow, stood for a while, squinting gloomily at the Sun, and also walked to the terminal. Snow was squeaking intensely under the boots. At the side a long bluish shadow scurried. Then Zhilin saw Daugeh. Daugeh was hurriedly hobbling towards him, leaning heavily on a polished walking stick, tiny, muffled up, with a dark wrinkled visage. In his hand, in a warm furry mitt, he clutched a pitiful little bouquet of forget-me-nots. Looking straight in front of him, he walked up to Bykov, shoved the bouquet to him and pressed his face into the Greenland jacket. Bykov hugged him and grumbled: - Come on now, you should have stayed at home, you see how chilly it is... He held Daugeh under the arm, and they walked slowly to the terminal - a huge stooped Bykov and a tiny humped-up Daugeh. Zhilin was walking behind them. - How are the lungs? - Bykov asked. - So-so... - said Daugeh, - neither better nor worse... - You must go to the mountains. You are not a little boy, you must look after yourself. - Don't have time, - said Daugeh. - There is much to be finished. A great many things have been started, Alesha. - Well, and so what? You must get treatment. Or you won't even have a chance to finish. - The main thing is - to begin. - All the more so. Daugeh said: - The question of sending an expedition to Transpluto has been finalised. They insist on you going. I asked them to wait until you come back. - Well, then, - said Bykov. - I'll go home, get some rest... Sure. - They appointed Arnautov as the chief. - Doesn't matter, - said Bykov. They started climbing up the stairs of the terminal. Daugeh was uncomfortable; it seemed that he still had not gotten used to his walking stick. Bykov was holding him under the elbow. Daugeh said quietly: - You know, I did not even hug them, Alesha... I hugged you, Vanya, and them I didn't hug... Bykov stayed silent and they walked into the lobby. Zhilin walked up the stairs and suddenly saw in the shadows behind the column a woman, who was looking at him. She turned away immediately, but he still managed to notice her face under a fur hat - once upon a time, probably a very pretty face, and now an old, drooping one, almost hideous. Where have I seen her? - Zhilin thought. I know I have seen her many times. Or does she resemble someone? He pushed the door and walked into the lobby. So, then, Transpluto now, also known as Cerberus. Ever so faraway. Far away from everything. Far away from Earth, far away from people, far away from the main things. Once more, a steel box, once more the alien, glaciered, and such unimportant rocks. The main things remain on Earth. As the always have, however. But this isn't right, it's unfair. Time to decide, Ivan Zhilin, it's time! Of course, some people will say - with regret or tauntingly: "His nerves gave in. It happens". Alexey Petrovich may think that. Zhilin stopped even. Yes, that's exactly what he'll think: "His nerves gave in. And what a solid fellow he was". But this is splendid! At least he won't feel as bad, that I am deserting him now, when he is left all alone... Of course, it will be easier for him to think that my nerves gave in, than seeing, that I don't give a damn about all these transpluto's. I know he is stubborn and extremely firm in his convictions... and deceptions. Stone-firm deceptions... The main things are on Earth. The main things always remain on Earth, and I will stay on Earth. I have decided, he thought. It's decided. The main things are - on Earth... 1960. CONTENTS PROLOGUE Okroshka (rus.) - cold kvass soup with chopped vegetables and meat Here: a ten day period A.S.Pushkin, the poem " Queen of Spades", rephrased. Areologist - specialising in Martian geology Original - (fr.) renome [rus. renome] Verbal play: cook - 1. Prepare a meal; 2. weld [metal] [rus. varit'] Lit. - to get a hiding, to be punished like a child [rus. nadrat' ushi] Verbal play altered: orig. - rus. tabletki [pills] consonant with rus. kotletki [rissoles] Verbal play orig: [rus. Ryba ishchet, gde glubzhe, a chelovek - gde huzhe] Alexey Tolstoy, a Soviet writer, author of popular children's tales and science fiction novels Torus (lat.) - a three-dimensional cylindrical ring-shaped figure, a doughnut shape Relativists - physicists developing the theory of relativity Ilya Repin's classical painting "Zaporozhian Cossacks writing a letter of reply to the Turkish Sultan" Katakhresis (gr.) - semantically incorrect combination; an oxymoron Dvornik (rus.) - Worker who takes care of the yard and pavement in front of the house [rus. dvornik] Originally an English phrase in text Valenki (rus.) - Loose fitting thick felt boots designed for snowy conditions [rus. valenki] "Skorohod" - formerly a popular footwear brand in USSR Untranslatable verbal play: [rus. utka] means 1) duck; 2) newspaper hoax Arkadij i Boris Strugackie. Stazhery Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Probationers