Алексей Николаевич Толстой - The Garin Death Ray

"Tell me, I won't hurt you."

The boy did not answer and again hunched his shoulders so that his head disappeared in his jacket. That evening Tarashkin could not get anything out of him.

The polished wooden racing gig, as slim and elegant as a violin, was gliding softly over the mirror-like water, its two pair of oars sliding gently over the surface. Shelga and Tarashkin, in white shorts and naked to the waist, their shoulders and backs burned by the sun, were sitting motionless with their knees drawn up.

The cox, a serious-looking youth in a naval cap and a scarf wound round his neck, was studying a stop-watch.

"There's going to be a storm," said Shelga.

It was hot on the river and not a leaf stirred on the densely wooded bank. The trees stood as straight and still as if they were on parade. The sky was so saturated with sunshine that its bluish-white light seemed to be tumbling down in showers of crystals. It hurt the eyes and one's temples ached.

"Ready!" ordered the cox.

The oarsmen bent forward over their knees and their oars flew back, the blades dipping into the water; at a command from the cox they began to pull, leaning back and straightening their legs until they almost lay across the thwarts.

"One, two!..."

The oars bent under the strain and the gig cut through the water like a razor.

Regularly, rapidly, in time with the beating of their hearts—breathe in, breathe out—the oarsmen bent double, hanging over their own knees, and then straightened out like steel springs. Their muscles worked rhythmically, intensely, keeping time with the circulation of the blood.

The gig flew past pleasure boats in which men in braces were helplessly catching crabs. As they rowed Shelga and Tarashkin looked straight ahead, keeping their eyes fixed on the bridge of the coxswain's nose to maintain their balance. The people in the pleasure boats only had time to shout a word or two after them as they flashed past.

"That's something like!"

They reached the seacoast. Again for one minute their gig lay motionless on the water. They wiped the perspiration from their faces. "One, two!" They turned back past the Yacht Club, where the sails of the Leningrad Trade-Union Club's racing yachts hung limp in the crystal heat. A band was playing on the Yacht Club verandah. The brightly coloured flags and signs along the bank also hung motionless. Raising a shower of spray, brown bodies plunged into the water from boats out in the middle of the river.

The gig made its way through the bathers along the River Nevka, flew under the bridge, for a few seconds hung on the rudder of an outrigger four from the Arrow Club, overtook it (the cox asked politely over his shoulder, "Shall we take you in tow?"), turned into the narrow, densely wooded River Krestovka where, under the shadow of the silvery willows, flashed the red kerchiefs and bare knees of the women's training team, and drew up alongside the landing-stage of the rowing school.

Shelga and Tarashkin leaped ashore, carefully placed their oars on the sloping board-walk, bent over the gig, lifted it on to their shoulders in response to the coxswain's command, and carried it through wide doors into the boat-house. After that they went into the shower-bath. They rubbed themselves red and, following the usual custom, each drank a glass of tea with lemon. After this they felt that they had only just been born into this wonderful world which was so good to look at that it was worth while making it fit to live in.

On the open verandah, a storey above the ground, where they drank their tea, Tarashkin told Shelga about the boy he had found the previous day.

"A smart kid, just as clever as they make 'em." He leaned over the railing and called to the boy, "Ivan, come up here."

He was immediately answered by the patter of bare feet on the steps. Ivan appeared on the verandah. His ragged jacket had gone (for hygienic reasons it had been burned in the kitchen stove). He was wearing rowing shorts and on his bare body a waistcoat of unbelievable age, tied in a dozen places with string.

"Here he is," said Tarashkin, pointing to the boy. "No matter how much you talk to him he won't take that waistcoat off. How are you going to bathe in that thing? It isn't as if the waistcoat were any good, it's just a mass of dirt." ;"I can't bathe," said Ivan.

"We'll have to wash you in the bath-house, you're black and dirty."

"I can't wash in the bath. Up to here I can," and he pointed to his navel, cowered, and backed towards the door.

Tarashkin, scratching his calf where the sunburnt skin had peeled off, groaned in despair.

"There, you see, what can you do with him?"

"Are you scared of water?" asked Shelga.

The boy looked at him without a ghost of a smile.

"No, I'm not."

"Then why don't you want to bathe in the river?"

The boy lowered his head, his lips stubbornly pressed together.

"Why are you afraid to take off your waistcoat, are you afraid it'll be stolen?"

Ivan shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

"All right, Ivan, if you don't want to bathe you needn't, that's your business. But we're not going to let you keep that waistcoat. Here, you can have mine. Take that off."

Shelga began unbuttoning his own waistcoat. Ivan drew back. The pupils of his eyes began darting from side to side. Once he looked beseechingly at Tarashkin but kept edging towards the glass doors that opened on to a dark staircase.

"Oh no, that's not in the rules." Shelga got up, locked the door, put the key in his pocket and sat down right opposite the door. "Come on, take it off."

The boy looked round like a wild animal. He was now standing close up to the door, his back to the glass. He knitted his brows and suddenly, with a determined movement, threw off his rags and held them out to Shelga.

"Here, give me yours."

Shelga, however, with great astonishment was looking past the boy, over his shoulder, peering at the glass door.

"Give it to me," said Ivan, angrily, "why are you making fun of me, you're not children."

"What a dope!" Shelga laughed uproariously. "Turn round!" The boy fell back as though he had been pushed, and banged his head against the glass. "Turn round. I can see what's written on your back, anyway."

Tarashkin jumped up. The boy bounded across the verandah like a ball and sprang over the railing. Tarashkin just managed to catch him before he dropped. Ivan's sharp teeth bit into his hand.

"You fool! Stop biting!"

Tarashkin held the boy tightly. He stroked his greyish, shaven head.

"The kid's quite wild. He's trembling like a mouse. Stop being a fool, we shan't hurt you."

The boy calmed down in his arms, only his heart beat fast. Suddenly he whispered in Tarashkin's ear:

"Tell him he mustn't read what's on my back. Nobody must. They'll kill me for that."

"We won't read it, we're not interested," repeated Tarashkin, his eyes filled with the tears of laughter. Shelga still stood at the other end of the verandah; he was biting his nails and frowning like a man trying to solve some riddle. Suddenly he sprang forward and, notwithstanding Tarashkin's resistance, turned the boy round to look at his back. Amazement, almost horror, was registered on his face. Under the boy's shoulder blades, partially obliterated by perspiration, were words written with an indelible pencil:

"To Pyotr Gari... Resul... very comfort! .. . depth... olivine believe five kilome... continu... search... need help... hunger . .. hasten expedi..."

"Garin, that's for Garin!" shouted Shelga. At that moment a motor-cyclist from the Criminal Investigation Department clattered into the club yard.

"Comrade Shelga, an urgent telegram."

That was Garin's telegram from Paris.