Исай Лукодьянов - The Black Pillar

"Listen, Jim, I can forgive a lot, but this…"

"I know. You're for equality and all that. He's ready to apologize to the Italian engineer."

"All right," said Kravtsov wearily. At last he felt sleepy and could hardly keep his eyes open. "Let him apologize tomorrow to the whole Italian shift. In front of our boys."

"I'll tell him," answered Jim in a rather dubious tone. "Well, good night." And he went out.

Kravtsov's pen nearly dropped from his hand. He dragged himself over to his bunk by sheer will-power and fell fast asleep.

The steam crane had lifted the last block of the circular core from the broad deck of the "Ivan Kulibin", suspended it in mid-air, and then slowly lowered it onto a barge. A steam launch towed the barge over to the rig.

The riggers, lying about the deck of the "Kulibin", were smoking and chatting, just as though it were an ordinary day like other ordinary days.

But it was no ordinary day. Today assembly of the core would be completed. It would turn the rig into an electromagnetic belt, and its exciters, ready for the assault, were aimed at the pillar.

Morozov had come up on the upper deck of the "Kulibin" from below. And with him came little Bernstein, Bramulla in a vast raincoat, and several electrical engineers. They stopped on the starboard side, waiting for a launch to take them to the rig.

Kravtsov threw his cigarette-end overboard and went over to Morozov.

"Victor Konstantinovich, I've heard the 'fire-fly' is being brought in tomorrow?"

"Fire-fly" was what someone had called the guided atom bomb that was to cut the pillar, and this nickname had stuck.

"Yes, it's on its way," answered Morozov. "I believe the whole Security Council, or very nearly, are accompanying the precious thing."

"I'd like to have a look at it. I've never seen an atom bomb."

"And you won't. It's none of your business." "Of course. My business is drilling wells." Morozov looked at Kravtsov through puckered lids. "What do you want, Alexander Vitalyevich?"

"Nothing," Kravtsov looked away. "What should I want? Only for everything to be finished quickly and then off home."

"Oh, no! By your sly expression I see you've got something up your sleeve."

"No, really, Victor Konstantinovich!" "Now listen, my dear chap, I'll tell you in advance: don't ask and don't try. Many have asked already. The bomb will be launched by experts. By atomic specialists. Do you understand?"

"The specialists have nothing to do there. All they've got to do is to switch on the clockwork mechanism, and then return to their launch at their leisure."

"That makes no difference. It's no good asking."

"But I'm not asking… But it seems to me that the right to start things belongs to those who were on the last watch on the rig."

"The right of the discoverers?"

"You can call it that."

"McPherson is ill, only Kravtsov is left. Not a bad idea." Morozov laughed and looked at his watch. "What's happened to the launch?"

A little way off Ali-Ovsad was talking to Bramulla, and this time the conversation concerned lofty matters. The Chilean understood very little of what the old driller was trying to explain to him, but out of courtesy nodded, grunted agreement, and blew clouds of cigar smoke from mouth and nose.

"What's worrying you, Ali-Ovsad?" asked Morozov.

"I'm asking, Comrade Morozov, who will turn this wheel core?"

"No one's going to turn it."

"There's a wheel and it won't turn?" Ali-Ovsad clicked his tongue with a puzzled air. "Well, then, it won't work."

"Why won't it?"

"A machine must turn," returned the driller with conviction. "It works when it turns-everybody knows that."

"Not always, Ali-Ovsad, not always," said Morozov with a smile. "A radio set, for instance, doesn't turn, does it?"

"What do you mean-it doesn't turn? It's got all sorts of knobs." Ali-Ovsad was adamant. "And what about electric current? Protons-electrons, everything turns."

Morozov was just going to explain to the old man how the circular core would work, when the launch arrived, and the scientists left for the rig.

Standing in the stern with the wind in his face, Morozov screwed up his eyes and gazed thoughtfully at the approaching rig. "A machine must turn… That's true, actually: if, at the moment of cutting the pillar, the rig and the core were rotating round the pillar, we'd be able to dispense with the cumbersome transformers which, in any case, will only be ready at the last moment. The pillar is the stator, the rig and core-the rotor. We must think this out and make the necessary calculations. It could save a tremendous lot of time. A steamer could be brought alongside the rig and the machine set going…"

He turned to Bernstein. "What's your opinion, colleague, of this immature but interesting idea?…"

"What a never ending letter I'm writing you! I feel as though I were talking to you, my darling, and it makes me happy; but I'm being interrupted all the time.

"It's pandemonium here. You see, they've brought the atom bomb-we call it the 'fire-fly'- and so many diplomats and military men have arrived that the place is swarming with them. You know, of course, that this is the first time since the banning of nuclear tests there's been any need to explode one. Naturally, the Security Council has the wind up and has sent its representatives here. It's as crowded on the 'Fukuoka' as the beach at Kuntsevo on a Sunday in summer. Do you remember how we used to go there in a motor-boat? That was in those happy days when our little terrestrial globe had its normal magnetic coat.

"We'll put the apparatus with the 'fire-fly' on a platform and send it toward the pillar. It will stick to the pillar and…

"I've been interrupted again. Morozov has just phoned and asked me to see him. And it's already past midnight. Good night, Marina!"

Will was sitting in an armchair modelling, his long fingers kneading a yellow 'lump of plasticine. Norma Hampton, who was sitting and sewing at the table, stretched out her hand and lowered the smoking flame of the lamp.

"What about Howard, dear?" she asked.

"Do as you like," answered Will. "He asked you."

"If he'd asked for twenty or thirty pounds, as he used to, I'd not have bothered you. I'd have sent it to him, and that would have been the end to it. But now the boy asks…"

"The boy's twenty-four years old," Will interjected. "At his age I didn't cadge off my parents."

"Will, he writes that if he doesn't get this money he'll lose a golden opportunity. He and two young men of very good family want to start a 'scratch club': it's all the rage now, it's something like a mediaeval tournament, with armour and lances, only not on horseback but on motor-scooters."

"And I thought it was on horseback! Well, of course, since it's on motor-scooters, you must send him a cheque."

"Don't joke, please. If I send him a sum like that, I'll have nothing left. Do be serious about it, Will. After all, he's our son…"

"Our son! He's ashamed of the fact his father was once an ordinary driller on the oilfields." Will, please…"

"I'm as obstinate and miserly as all Highlanders. Not a penny, do you hear? Not a single penny will that good-for-nothing get from me!"

"All right, dear, but don't excite yourself, please."

"Let him wait," said Will in a low voice after a long silence. "His name's mentioned in my will. Let him wait, and then he can found his damned club."

Norma sighed and shook her golden mane and took up her needlework again. In Will's fingers the plasticine turned into a head with a thin face and a very prominent lower jaw. Will took a penknife and made eyes, nostrils, and a mouth. There was a knock at the door of the cabin and Kravtsov came in. He looked as if he'd just won a hundred thousand. His jacket was wide open and his brown hair resembled the undergrowth of a forest.