Исай Лукодьянов - The Black Pillar

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You have probably seen Alexander Kravtsov's picture; it is in every textbook of geophysics, in the section dealing with Kravtsov's Ring. And there was a time when it was printed in issue after issue of all the newspapers of the world.

The picture shows a young fellow in an open-necked white garment, that used to be called "tennis shirt". In his eyes, which are squinting, no doubt, against the glare of the sun, there is a boyish but at the same time resolute expression. The picture is not, on the whole, very brilliant; you feel it was taken by means of the action of focused light on silver bromide, as was done in the second half of the twentieth century. Such cameras can be seen in the Central Museum of the History of Technique.

The picture was taken on board the "Fukuoka Maru" by Olovyannikov, the correspondent of "Izvestia", and he, of course, could not have had the least idea that he was recording the face of a man whose name was destined to live for ever.

But, as so often happens, the name has overshadowed the man.

Ask any schoolboy if he knows who Alexander Kravtsov was.

"Kravtsov? Well, of course!" the boy will answer. "Kravtsov's Ring!"

"I'm not asking you about the Ring, but about Kravtsov himself."

He will frown and say, "Well, it was a long time ago. He did something heroic during the Great Short Circuit."

"He did something heroic…" That's it. The all-knowing schoolboy of our times has to be told about Kravtsov-not about the name, but about the man.

Because he was not a hero at all. He was a perfectly ordinary young fellow. It was just that he could always be relied on.

The newspapers of those days were printed on paper-a flimsy perishable plastic material made of wood pulp. But there are microphotographs of them, and fortunately an excellent article about Kravtsov (micro No. KMMA2rk-2681438974), written by Olovyannikov, has been preserved. Indeed, Lev Grigorievich Olovyannikov himself, notwithstanding his advanced»age, is still quite hale and has a good memory, and he has told us many details of those distant events. He even has a copy of Kravtsov's last letter, which was never posted.

It is not easy to tell this story. For the fact is that, against the background of a gigantic event of significance to the whole planet-and the Great Short Circuit was just such an event-any attempt to tell the story of an individual human's fate must seem a bit pretentious. Willy-nilly one has to speak, not of a man, but of mankind, because only mankind is strong enough to overcome world catastrophes.

Nevertheless, we have done our best to trace the remarkable personal story of Alexander Kravtsov, who was an active participant in the events we are going to describe.

So, in short, judge for yourselves.

Waking up is a strange condition: the ancients considered that a sleeping man should never be wakened suddenly; for during sleep the soul left the body and until it returned of its own accord, the sleeper was dead. But the ancients knew nothing about the electrophysiochemical activity of the cells of the brain or about the properties of nucleic acids.

In a few seconds, the sleeper who is waking up recalls everything: who he is, where he is, what has happened, and what is in store…

Before opening his eyes, Kravtsov fancied that there, above his head, was the whitewashed ceiling he had known since childhood, with the moulded rosette in the centre. But then, still not opening his eyes, he remembered that the rosette was twelve thousand kilometres away, and that here, above his head, were narrow boards, painted with white enamel, with reflections of the ocean swell flitting and playing across them. He recalled everything and disconsolately opened his eyes.

It was going to be a hot day without a breath of a breeze. There would be arguments with Will; but today was Russian day: they would only speak Russian, and he, Kravtsov, would cook the meals the way he liked. How should he repay Will for yesterday's omelette with sour gooseberry jam poured over it?

He put on his sunglasses, went up on deck, and glanced through the half-open door of Will's cabin. From it came the drone of an electric shaver: the old pedant would sooner throw himself to the sharks for breakfast than appear in the morning with unshaven cheeks. As for Kravtsov, he had not shaved for over a month. After all, there wasn't a soul for three hundred miles around. But there was more than that to it. Kravtsov knew that his thin little brown tuft irritated Will and that-well, perhaps it would be wrong to say it pleased him, but at any rate, it amused him.

"Good morning, Will," said Kravtsov. "What would you like for breakfast?"

"Good morning," a voice growled from behind the door. "You're very kind. Thank you."

Kravtsov chuckled and went to the galley. He stood pondering for a while in front of the refrigerator and then turned resolutely to the shelves and took down a tin of buckwheat. Buckwheat porridge for breakfast was something Will couldn't stand.

While the porridge was cooking, Kravtsov made a round of the rig. That took about half an hour, for the circular rig had a diameter of five hundred metres. It stood motionless, though it was not at anchor; here, just above the deepest trench in the ocean, anchorage was impossible.

Six powerful screw-propellers held the rig on the spot: three had a right-hand and three a left-hand motion. Transmitters suspended over the side fed an electronic computer continuously with all the necessary data on wind, waves, and current; and the computer continuously processed this information and sent commands to the propeller-drives.

A second set of screws, again six, hung vertically under the rig, and counteracted any list or rocking. However much the ocean raged-and Kravtsov and Will had twice had proof of this- the rig remained almost motionless: its drift did not exceed a hundred metres and the string of pipes which passed through it to the bottom of the deep, deviated less than one degree from the perpendicular.

The highest waves did not reach the edge of the deck which was thirty metres high. But from time to time the wind tore flecks of foam from the breakers and flung them on deck.

Today, as always, everything was in order. The atomic pile duly heated the water, which had been desalinated by ion-exchange aggregates, and the steam duly turned the rotors of the turbines. The generators of the power station were working at minimal pressure, because the ocean was calm, justifying its ancient name of Pacific. The surplus energy was being put to a side use-electrolytic extraction of silver from sea-water, which in some measure recouped the International Geophysical Centre for its fairly heavy expenses.

The automatic mechanisms were working smoothly. Kravtsov looked out over the blue expanse of ocean softly lit by the morning sun. At first this majestic picture had taken his breath away, but now the ocean only bored him, nothing more.

"Twenty-seven days to the end of my spell," he thought, and scratched his beard under the left ear-a newly acquired habit.

Kravtsov went to the centre of the rig, where the hundred-and-fifty-metre derrick towered, and looked at the tape of the recorder. His glance became fixed stare: since the day before, the slack of the tackle cables had increased by fifteen millimetres. He and Will had already noticed the day before that the cable was a bit slacker than usual, but had attached no importance to it. But fifteen millimetres in twenty-four hours?