Исай Лукодьянов - The Black Pillar

"Hi, engineer," he said, screwing up his eyes. "How are you, Mr. Engineer?"

"I want to talk to you, boys," said Kravtsov, looking round at the riggers. "I know you're thinking of skipping from the 'Fukuoka Maru'."

Fletcher leaped off his chair.

"How d'you know, sir?" he asked with an evil grin.

"You're planning to jump the transport tomorrow," said Kravtsov, restraining himself. "You won't be able to do it, boys."

"We won't?"

"No, I give you fair warning."

"Well, and I warn you, sir: we don't mean to kick the bucket together with you."

"What put that into your head, Fletcher?" Kravtsov was still trying to keep calm.

"Why do they give us triple pay for doing nothing? That's right, ain't it, boys?"

"Right," shouted the riggers in chorus. "They wouldn't pay us like that for no reason at all- they know we're for it!"

"Atoms are pouring out of the black pillar!"

"Fireballs are flying about the cabins!"

"McPherson's already dying from cosmic rays, and soon we'll turn up our toes!"

Kravtsov was stunned. The yelling crowd was threatening him, and he was all alone: Chulkov had disappeared. He saw Jim Parkinson sitting on a couch in the corner and nonchalantly turning the pages of a garish magazine with a blonde bathing-beauty on its glossy cover.

"That's not true!" shouted Kravtsov. "You've got it all wrong! McPherson's had a heart attack-cosmic rays have got nothing to do with it. The scientists are looking for a way to destroy the pillar and we've got to be ready."

"Damn the scientists!" yelled Fletcher.

"They're the cause of all our troubles!"

"The scientists would kill everybody, if they got the chance!"

"The transport's due tomorrow, and no one will hold us! We'll make short work of the Japs!"

The riggers had closed in on Kravtsov. He saw their excited faces, their howling mouths, their malevolent eyes.

"We won't let you desert!" he cried, trying to make himself heard above the din.

Fletcher, his face twisted with rage, came right up to him, and Kravtsov stiffened.

Parkinson threw his magazine aside and got up, and at that moment, the door burst open, and the riggers of Ali-Ovsad's crew, and Gheorghi, rushed into the mess. Chulkov, breathless, slipped adroitly between Kravtsov and Fletcher.

"Now then, now then, none of that!" he said to the Texan. "Get back!"

"So that's it," drawled Fletcher. "Defending your own people! Come on, boys! Down with the reds!" he shouted suddenly, and jumped back, reaching for his hip-pocket.

"Stop!" Jim Parkinson caught Fletcher by the arm.

The latter pulled, trying to free himself, but Jim held him tight. Fletcher's face was flushed. "All right, let go," he muttered huskily. "That's better," said Parkinson in his usual languid voice. "Beat it, boys. My crew's stopping here, Mr. Kravtsov. We'll wait till they give us work."

Ali-Ovsad came hurrying in. "Why didn't you call me?" he said to Kravtsov, panting noisily. "Who wants a punch-up here."

"All right, Ali-Offside," said Jim. "It's all right. Under control."

"This one?" Ali-Ovsad pointed at Fletcher, who was still rubbing his arm. "Eshek balassi, kiul bashina!" (You son of an ass, ashes on your head! (Azerbaijanian).-Tr.) he started swearing at him. "Are you a man or what?"

Kravtsov, Olovyannikov, and Ali-Ovsad were having supper together at the same table. The old driller was munching roast beef and telling a rambling story of how his brother, the agronomist, had beaten the red tape of "Azervintrest" and had greatly improved the quality of two varieties of grape. Kravtsov was sipping beer and looking about him, and scarcely listening.

"The other day," began Olovyannikov, when Ali-Ovsad had finished, "I accidentally saw a strange scene. Tokunaga was standing by the ship's rail-he'd obviously come out to have a breath of fresh air. I wanted to take a picture of him and had begun to adjust the lens, when I suddenly saw him take a bracelet of some sort off his wrist, look at it, and throw it overboard. Just then Morozov came up to him. 'What did you throw into the sea, Masao-san?' he asked. 'Was it the ring of Polycrates, by any chance?' Tokunaga smiled in his sad way and answered, 'I haven't a ring, unfortunately. I threw my magnetic bracelet into the sea.' You know those Japanese bracelets: many elderly people wear them, especially those with high blood pressure."

"I've heard about them," said Kravtsov.

"Well," continued Olovyannikov. "Morozov grew serious. 'I don't follow your train of thought, Masao-san. Do you think, then, that we'll not succeed…?' 'No, no,' answered Tokunaga. 'We'll give magnets back their properties, but I don't know whether I shall live to see it.' 'Why do you talk like that?' said Morozov laying his hand on his shoulder, and he replied, 'Don't take any notice, Morozov-san. We Japanese are fatalists in a way.' "

"What happened then?" asked Kravtsov.

"They went away. He really does seem to be suffering from an incurable disease."

"Yes," said Kravtsov. "Not a very cheerful business."

They ate in silence for a while.

"Who's that shrimp with the grey moustache?" asked Kravtsov, indicating a little man sitting at Morozov's table.

"That shrimp? That's Professor Bernstein," answered Olovyannikov.

"Really!" Kravtsov felt ashamed of his "shrimp". "I never thought that he…"

"That he was such a puny creature? And have you read in the American papers what he did at Princeton? He barricaded himself in his laboratory and created a powerful electric field round it, with power from an electrostatic generator driven by a wind turbine. The bandits started hopping about as if they had St. Vitus' dance and hurried away as fast as they could go. He and two assistants stayed in the laboratory for all those six days with nothing but water. That's the kind of chap he is!"

"You know everything," said Kravtsov.

"That's my profession."

"By the way, Chulkov tells me you've been trying to get various bits of information about me out of him. Why?"

"Your Chulkov is a chatterbox. I simply wanted to know how you quelled that mutiny."

"Now then, 'mutiny'-that's a bit strong," said Kravtsov smiling.

"He wants to write about you," interacted Ali-Ovsad. "He wants to write 'Kravtsov stood by the black pillar…'"

Laughing, Olovyannikov gave his hand to the driller who amiably touched his palm with the tips of his fingers.

"We've been circling round that pillar for a whole month now," said Kravtsov. "Observations, measurements… we're being too cautious… I'm sick of it." He drank off his beer and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "It's true, we should smash the damned thing with an atom bomb…"

Morozov turned his head and glanced at Kravtsov. He had probably heard him. His grey hair had a coppery sheen in the dim light of the oil lamps.

A Japanese waiter came noiselessly over to them, courteously took a deep breath, and offered them ice-cream and fruit.

"No, thank you." Kravtsov got up from the table. "I'm going to see how McPherson's getting on."

Ali-Ovsad looked at his watch.

"In an hour the Armenian comes to drink tea with me," he said. "You've got just one hour."

"What Armenian?" asked Olovyannikov.

"He insists on calling Bramulla an Armenian,' replied Kravtsov, laughing. "I must say, Ali-Ovsad, you've certainly taught him to like tea. '

"On Sunday Bramulian and I are going to make jiz-biz. The cook has promised to let me have some lamb's fry."

"If you're going to see McPherson," said Olovyannikov, "I'd like to go with you, if I may."

Some days previously the doctor had permitted Will to move his arms and turn from side to side. But from time to time a twinge of pain distorted his face and his lower jaw jutted out more than usual, and Norma Hampton, terrified, would rush for the doctor.