Владислав Крапивин - I am going to meet my brother

Outside the window the bushes, wet from the recent rain, glistened in the light of the Ring. They cast a barely perceptible greenish reflection on the white walls and broad panes of the school buildings. Above the hills an orange ray quivered on the thin clouds and died away: Ratal Cosmodrome was signalling to someone again.

Naal pushed the glass of the window aside and stepped out on to a well-trodden path.

The Head of the school, Alexei Oskar, had not yet gone to bed, and was reading. Fresh air, smelling of rain burst through an opened door and stirred the pages of his book.

A boy stood in the doorway.

"Naal?"

"Yes."

Stammering slightly and hurrying to finish the conversation, Naal told his story for the first time.

Oskar rose and turned toward the window. Contrary to general opinion, he did not consider himself an experienced teacher. He was simply gifted with the ability to make the right decision at the right time. But now he was at a loss. What could he say? Try some explanation or talk the boy out of it? But could he? And if he did, would it be right?

The Head said nothing, but time was passing, and he could stay silent no longer.

"Listen, Naal," he began, not yet knowing what he would say next. "It's… night-time now…"

"Oskar, let me go to the Summer Coast," said the boy quietly. It was not even a request. There was a yearning in his voice like that irrepressible longing for Earth that makes astronauts perform desperate deeds.

There are times when ordinary ideas and rules are powerless. What could Oskar say? Only that it was night-time and that he ought to wait till morning. But what was the use of that?

"I'll drive you to the station," he said.

"There's no need to. I'd rather walk. Alone…"

The boy went out.

Oskar went over to the videophone, called the Summer Coast, and dialling the number of the pilot's station, frenziedly pressed the button for urgent calls.

No one answered. Only a robot said calmly: "All is well."

It would have been better if he had not taken that road.

As a short cut, Naal had decided to get to the station across the hills. In a quarter of an hour he had reached the pass. Above the rounded summits hung the white moon in the bright ellipse of the Power Ring. To the right the beacons of Ratal were winking slowly. To the left, partly concealed by a line of low hills, shone the lights of Konsata, stretching in a broad semi-circle; and behind them, like a misty wall, stood the sea, shimmering faintly in the moonlight.

The whole valley was crossed by an old viaduct-the huge black Bridge of Ratal.

So far Naal had not been afraid of the meeting and had no doubts about his decision. The news of the "Magellan" was too unexpected and wonderful, and his happiness left no room for doubts. And he felt no fear until the moment he first saw the viaduct. Naal could not have explained why he began to have qualms. Perhaps it was that the two-hundred-metre-high arches which stood like gigantic gates across the road were too dark and enormous. They reminded him of the inconceivable magnitude of everything connected with space, of the distances traversed by the "Magellan", of the three centuries… "The grandsons of your brothers will become your brothers!" Anyone could have said anything three hundred years ago!

The black supports of the viaduct stood like a double line of Atlantes and mutely questioned the boy: where was he going? Why? What absurd ideas had got in his head?

Naal looked back as though hoping for support. But the lights of South Valley were hidden behind the hill now.

He stopped in his tracks for an instant and then, all at once, dashed towards the viaduct, running straight toward it through the tall, damp grass. Some prickly plant scratched his leg, and he stopped vindictively tore it up by the roots and then ran on. Faster, faster, so that throbbing fear would not catch him! In a minute he was crossing the broad band of shadow and would leave the black gates of Ratal Bridge behind.

The carriage of the Circle Express, which passed through Summer Coast to the northern tip of the continent, was empty. Naal made himself comfortable in the seat and watched the darkness fly past the windows at five hundred kilometres an hour.

He was tired. At any other time he would have fallen asleep, of course, but that fear, like a boring tune, kept ringing in his years: "What if he doesn't answer me? Or if he thinks it's all a joke? What interest is a kid to a space hero just returned to Earth after three hundred years?"

The boy suddenly pictured to himself the immense field of the cosmoport filled with thousands of welcoming people. Thousands of greetings, thousands of hands stretched out to be shaken, and what would he be doing there? What would he say?

And as suddenly the thought came into his head that he must not spend the night in town, waiting for morning and landing of the spaceship. He must tell Alexander everything immediately. "Pilot-5" was keeping in touch with the frigate. The station was forty kilometres from Summer Coast. It would only take another five minutes.

Waiting for the next revolution, Naal alighted on the moving circular platform. As the circles' speed slackened, he jumped from one to another until he reached the stationary centre-then down the tunnel from the platform.

A dark field lay before him. Behind shone the dim lights of the platform; in the distance in front he could see the luminous blue spire of the pilot's station. A breeze was blowing and its gentle murmur soothed Naal for some reason or another. Striding through the long grass, he made straight for the spire.

It had obviously been raining here too quite recently. The wet blades stuck to his knees. The breeze was warm and damp.

Soon Naal came out to the road and began to walk faster. The wind, too, blew faster, trying to tear the light jacket from his shoulders.

Pilot Station 5 had long ceased to give any detailed information. To all inquiries the robot-phone replied briefly: "All is well." Many people tried to tune in on the spaceship's wave, but failed: no one knew the old system of broadcasting.

The first communication about approaching photon frigate had been received from the intermediate station on Jupiter. But now Earth was in direct touch with the ship. The pilots did not leave their station for a minute. Three were on duty at the vector beacon, a fourth slept in an armchair by it. The crew of the spaceship had already transferred control to Earth, and it was up to the pilots to land the frigate on Coast Cosmodrome.

Only a few hours ago Sergei Kostyor had established two-way sound communication with the frigate. But so far the crew had transmitted no other information than data on the automatic system needed for landing.

The pilots brought the ship into a circular orbit, and it hung above Earth, a satellite with a twenty-four hour revolution.

Sergei had finished transmitting his coordinates, when Miguel Nuevos said:

"Somebody's been signalling for over an hour and wants a reply."

"Somebody's got insomnia," retorted Sergei without turning round. He was intently following the vector that was crossing the black spot of the cosmodrome on the luminous map.

"It's an urgent call-six frantic signals. That's not just curiosity."

"If it's important, why don't they get into direct communication?"

"I don't know."

A few minutes later Sergei himself heard the pips of the urgent call. But neither he, nor the other two pilots on duty at the parallel transmitters, could go to the videophone.

"Misha, you might answer, after all," Sergei pleaded. But Miguel had already fallen asleep in his armchair.