Aelita

Alexey Nikolaevich Tolstoy

Strange announcement

A strange notice appeared on Krasnye Zori Street: a small, gray piece of paper tacked to the peeling wall of a deserted house. Archibald Skyles, a correspondent for an American newspaper, passed by and saw a barefoot young woman in a neat cotton dress standing before the notice; she was reading, her lips moving. Her tired, sweet face betrayed no surprise—her eyes were indifferent, blue, and wild. She tucked a strand of wavy hair behind her ear, picked up a basket of greenery from the sidewalk, and crossed the street.

The ad deserved more attention. Skyles read it curiously, moved closer, ran his hand over his eyes, and read it again.

“Twenty-three,” he finally said, which was supposed to mean, “The devil take me and my guts.”

The ad read:

"Engineer M.S. Los invites those interested in flying with him to the planet Mars on August 18th to attend personal talks from 6 to 8 pm. Zhdanovskaya Embankment, Building 11, in the courtyard."

It was written in an ordinary and simple manner, with an ordinary ink pencil.

Skiles involuntarily checked his pulse: normal. He glanced at the chronometer: it was ten minutes past four, August 17, 192...

With calm courage, Skyles awaited everything in this crazy city. But the notice, tacked to a peeling wall, had an extremely painful effect on him.

A wind blew down the deserted street of Krasnye Zori. The windows of the multi-story buildings, some broken, others boarded up, seemed deserted—not a single head peeked out. A young woman, having set her basket on the sidewalk, stood across the street and looked at Skyles. Her sweet face was calm and tired.

Skiles' jaw muscles began to clench. He pulled out an old envelope and wrote down Moose's address. At that moment, a tall, broad-shouldered man, hatless, dressed like a soldier, in a beltless cloth shirt and puttees, stopped in front of the notice. His hands were tucked idly into his pockets. His strong neck tensed as he began to read the notice.

"That one—he took it like that—to Mars!" he said with pleasure, turning his tanned, carefree face toward Skiles. A white scar slanted across his temple. His eyes were bluish-brown and, like that woman's, sparkled. (Skiles had long since noticed this sparkle in Russian eyes and even mentioned it in an article: "...The lack of certainty in their eyes, sometimes mockery, sometimes insane determination, and, finally, an incomprehensible expression of superiority—have an extremely painful effect on a European.")

“But to just take off and fly with him, it’s very simple,” the soldier said again, and smiled innocently, and at the same time quickly looked over Skyles from head to toe.

Suddenly he narrowed his eyes, the smile vanished. He stared intently across the street at the barefoot woman, still standing motionless next to the basket.

Nodding his chin, he said to her:

-- Masha, why are you standing there? (She blinked quickly.) Well, you should go home then. (She shifted her small, dusty feet, sighed, and bowed her head.) Go, go, I'll be back soon.

The woman picked up the basket and walked away. The soldier said: "I was discharged from the army due to a concussion and injury. I just walk around reading advertisements, it's terribly boring."

"Are you thinking of following this ad?" asked Skyles.

-- I'll definitely go.

- But it’s nonsense to fly fifty million kilometers in airless space.

-- What can I say, it's far away.

-- This is quackery or nonsense.

-- Anything is possible.

Skiles, now also squinting, glanced at the soldier, who was looking at him just like that: mockingly, with an incomprehensible expression of superiority. He flushed angrily and walked toward the Neva. His strides were confident and broad. In the park, he sat down on a bench, shoved his hand into his pocket, where, right there in the pocket, like an old smoker or businessman, lay his tobacco. With a flick of his thumb, he filled his pipe, lit it, and stretched out his legs.

The old linden trees in the park rustled. The air was damp and warm. On a pile of sand, alone in the entire park, apparently for a long time, sat a small boy in a dirty polka-dot shirt and no pants. The wind occasionally lifted his soft, light hair. In his hand, he held the end of a string, and tied to the other end of the string by the leg was an old, disheveled crow. It sat disgruntled and angry, and, like the boy, it stared at Skyles.

Suddenly - it was for a moment - it was as if a cloud slid across his consciousness, his head began to spin: was he seeing all this in a dream?.. A boy, a crow, empty houses, deserted streets, strange glances of passers-by and a notice nailed to it with nails - an invitation to fly into outer space...

Skiles took a deep drag on his strong tobacco. He unrolled a map of Petrograd and, running the end of his pipe across it, found Zhdanovskaya Embankment.

In Moose's workshop

Skiles entered a yard littered with rusty iron and cement barrels. Stunted grass grew on piles of rubble, between tangled skeins of wire and broken machine parts. In the depths of the yard, the dusty windows of a tall shed gleamed in the sunset. A small door stood ajar, and a worker squatted on the threshold, stirring red lead in a bucket. When Skiles asked if he could see Engineer Los, the worker nodded inside. Skiles entered.

The shed was barely lit—a single bulb glowed in a tin cone above a table piled high with blueprints and books. In the depths of the shed, scaffolding rose to the ceiling. A forge, fanned by a worker, blazed here. The densely riveted metal surface of the spherical body gleamed through the piles of scaffolding. Through the open halves of the gate, the crimson streaks of sunset and wisps of clouds rising from the sea were visible.

The worker who was blowing on the furnace said in a low voice:

-- To you, Mstislav Sergeevich.

A man of medium height and strong build emerged from behind the scaffolding. His thick, mop-like hair was white. His face was young and clean-shaven, with a handsome, wide mouth and intense, light, unblinking eyes that seemed to fly ahead. He wore a dirty linen shirt, open at the chest, and patched trousers belted with a rope. He held a dirty blueprint in his hand. As he approached, he tried to fasten the shirt on a nonexistent button.

"Are you here about the ad? Do you want to fly?" he asked in a muffled voice and, pointing Skiles to a chair under the cone of the light bulb, sat down opposite him at the table, put down the drawing and began filling his pipe. This was engineer Mstislav Sergeyevich Los.

He lowered his eyes and lit a match; the flame illuminated his strong face from below, the two wrinkles at his mouth—bitter folds—the wide nostrils, the long dark eyelashes. Skyles was satisfied with the inspection. He explained that he had no intention of flying, but that he had read an advertisement on Krasnye Zori Street and considered it his duty to introduce his readers to such an extraordinary and sensational interplanetary travel project.

The moose listened, not taking his unblinking light eyes off him.

“It’s a shame you don’t want to fly with me, it’s a shame,” he shook his head, “people shy away from me like I’m crazy. I’m leaving Earth in four days and I still can’t find a companion.” He lit the match again and blew out a cloud of smoke. “What information do you need?”

-- The most prominent features of your biography.

“Nobody needs that,” said Moose, “there’s nothing remarkable about it. I studied for pennies, and have been on my own two feet since I was twelve. My youth, my years of study, my work, my service – not a single feature that would be of interest to your readers, nothing remarkable, except...” Moose suddenly frowned, and the wrinkles around his mouth became clearly visible. “Well, so... I’ve been working on this machine,” he pointed his pipe towards the scaffolding, “for a long time. I started building it two years ago. That’s all!”

"About how many months do you think it will take to cover the distance between Earth and Mars?" asked Skiles, looking at the tip of his pencil.

-- At nine or ten o'clock, I think, no more.

“Aha!” said Skyles to this, then he blushed and moved his cheekbones. “I would be very grateful to you,” he said with ingratiating politeness, “if you had confidence in me and a serious attitude towards our interview.”

The moose rested his elbows on the table, wrapped himself in smoke, and his eyes sparkled through the tobacco smoke.

-- On August 18th, Mars will approach Earth to within forty million kilometers -- that's the distance I must fly. What does it consist of? First, the height of the Earth's atmosphere -- seventy-five kilometers. Second, the distance between the planets in airless space -- forty million kilometers. Third, the height of Mars's atmosphere -- sixty-five kilometers. Only these one hundred and forty kilometers of atmosphere are important for my flight.

He stood up, put his hands in his trouser pockets, his head was lost in the shadows, in the smoke - only his exposed chest and hairy arms with sleeves rolled up to the elbows were illuminated.

-- They usually call it flight -- the flight of a bird, a falling leaf, an airplane. But this is not flight, but floating in the air. Pure flight is a fall, when a body moves under the action of a pushing force. An example is a rocket. In airless space, where there is no resistance, where nothing interferes with flight, a rocket will move with ever-increasing speed: obviously, there I can approach the speed of light, if magnetic influences do not interfere. My apparatus is built precisely on the rocket principle. I will have to fly one hundred and forty kilometers through the atmosphere of the Earth and Mars. With ascent and descent, this will take an hour and a half. I set aside an hour to escape the Earth's gravity. Furthermore, in airless space I can fly at any speed. But there are two dangers: excessive acceleration can burst blood vessels, and secondly, if I fly at great speed into the atmosphere of Mars, the impact in the air will be like digging into sand. Instantly, the craft and everything in it will turn to gas. Fragments of planets, unborn or destroyed worlds, drift through interstellar space. Plunging into the air, they burn up instantly. Air is a nearly impenetrable armor. Although on Earth, it was apparently once pierced.

The moose took his hand out of his pocket, placed it on the table, under the light bulb, and clenched his fingers into a fist.

-- In Siberia, among the eternal ice, I dug up mammoths that had died in cracks in the earth. They had grass between their teeth; they had grazed where there is now ice. I ate their meat. They didn't have time to decompose; they froze in a few days and were buried in snow. Apparently, the tilt of the Earth's axis happened instantly. The Earth collided with a celestial body, or we had a second satellite, smaller than the moon. We pulled it in, and it fell, broke the Earth's crust, tilting the Earth's axis. Perhaps it was this impact that destroyed the continent lying west of Africa in the Atlantic Ocean. So, to avoid melting when I hit the Martian atmosphere, I'll have to slow down significantly. Therefore, I estimate the entire flight in airless space to be six or seven hours. In a few years, a trip to Mars will be no more difficult than a flight from Moscow to New York.

Moose walked away from the table and flipped the switch. Arc lights hissed and lit up in the ceiling. Skiles saw blueprints, diagrams, and maps on the plank walls; shelves filled with optical and measuring instruments; spacesuits, piles of canned goods, fur clothing; a telescope on a ladder in the corner of the barn.

Moose and Skiles approached the scaffolding surrounding the metal egg. Skiles estimated by eye that the egg-shaped apparatus was at least eight and a half meters high and six meters across. A steel belt ran around its circumference, curving downward toward the surface of the apparatus like an umbrella—this was the parachute brake, increasing the apparatus's drag during atmospheric descent. Beneath the parachute were three round doors—the entrance hatches. The lower part of the egg ended in a narrow neck. This was surrounded by a double, massive steel, circular spiral, coiled in opposite directions—this was the buffer, softening the impact upon impact with the ground.

Tapping his pencil against the egg's riveted skin, Los began explaining the details of the interplanetary ship. The craft was constructed of elastic, refractory steel, heavily reinforced internally with ribs and lightweight trusses. This was the outer shell. It housed a second shell made of six layers of rubber, felt, and leather. This second quilted leather egg contained observation and propulsion devices, oxygen tanks, carbon dioxide-absorbing boxes, and hollow cushions for instruments and provisions. For observation, special "eyes" protruded from the outer shell of the craft. These were short metal tubes fitted with prismatic lenses.

The propulsion mechanism was housed in a neck, wrapped in a spiral. The neck was cast from a metal harder than astronomical bronze. Vertical channels were drilled into the neck, each widening at the top to form a so-called explosion chamber. A spark plug from a common magneto and a feed tube were run into each chamber. Just as gasoline is fed into the engine cylinders, so too were the explosion chambers fed with ultralyddite—an extremely fine powder, an incredibly powerful explosive, discovered in the laboratory of the ... plant in Petrograd. The power of ultralyddite surpassed anything previously known in this field. The explosion cone was extremely narrow. To ensure that the axis of the explosion cone coincided with the axes of the vertical channels in the neck, the ultralyddite entering the explosion chambers was passed through a magnetic field.

This, in general, was the principle of the propulsion mechanism: it was a rocket. The ultralyddite reserve was enough for a hundred hours. By decreasing or increasing the number of explosions per second, the speed of the apparatus's ascent and descent could be regulated. Its lower part is significantly heavier than its upper part, so when it enters the planet's gravitational field, the apparatus always points toward it.

"What funds were used to build the apparatus?" asked Skiles.

The moose looked at him with some surprise:

-- At the expense of the republic...

Moose and Skyles returned to the table. After a moment of silence, Skyles asked hesitantly:

-- Do you expect to find living creatures on Mars?

-- I will see this in the morning, on Friday, the nineteenth of August.

-- I'm offering you ten dollars per line of travel impressions. The advance payment is six two-hundred-line feuilletons, and you can cash the check in Stockholm. Do you agree?

Moose laughed and nodded his head: agreed. Skyles sat down on the corner of the table to write a check.

“It’s a pity, it’s a pity that you don’t want to fly with me: after all, it’s essentially so close, closer than walking to Stockholm, for example,” said Moose, smoking his pipe.

Satellite

Moose stood leaning his shoulder against the open gate. His pipe had gone out.

Beyond the gates, a vacant lot stretched up to the Zhdanovka embankment. Beyond the river, the trees of Petrovsky Island stood indistinctly. Beyond them, a mournful sunset was fading, never to fade. Long clouds, touched at the edges by its light, lay like islands in the green waters of the sky. Above them, the sky was green. A few stars lit up it. It was quiet on old Earth.

The worker Kuzmin, who had just been stirring red lead in a bucket, also came up and stopped at the gate, throwing the light of his cigarette into the darkness.

“It’s hard to leave the Earth,” he said quietly. “It’s hard to leave home, even. When you leave the village for the railroad, you look back ten times. The hut is thatched, but it’s your own, your home. Leaving the Earth—ah, ah, ah…”

“The kettle has boiled,” said Khokhlov, another worker, “go on, Kuzmin, and have some tea.”

Kuzmin sighed, "Yes, that's it," and went to the forge. Khoklov—a stern man—and Kuzmin sat down on crates by the forge and drank tea, carefully breaking bread, tearing dried fish from the bones, and chewing slowly. Kuzmin, shaking his beard, said in a low voice:

-- I feel sorry for him. There are almost no people like him these days.

-- Just wait until he has his funeral service.

-- One pilot told me: he climbed eight miles - in the summer, mind you - and the oil still froze in his apparatus. And what about flying higher? It's cold there. Dark.

“And I say, wait until the funeral service,” Khokhlov repeated gloomily.

-- No one wants to fly with him, they don't believe him. The ad has been hanging there for two weeks in vain.

-- And I believe.

-- Will it fly?

-- That's what will fly. Then they will rise up in Europe too.

--Who will rise?

--Who, who will rise up? Now, take this, -- Whose Mars is it? -- Soviet.

-- Yes, that would be great.

Kuzmin moved closer on the box. Los came over, sat down, and took a mug of steaming tea.

-- Khokhlov, would you like to fly with me?

“No, Mstislav Sergeevich,” answered Khokhlov, “I don’t agree, I’m afraid.”

The moose grinned, took a sip from his mug, and glanced sideways at Kuzmin.

-- And you, my dear friend?

- Mstislav Sergeevich, I would fly with pleasure, my wife is sick, and then there are the kids, how can I leave them?

“Yes, it looks like I’ll have to fly alone,” said Moose, putting down his empty mug and wiping his lips with his palm. “There aren’t many people willing to leave Earth.” He chuckled again and shook his head. “Yesterday a young lady came in response to an ad. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’ll fly with you. I’m nineteen years old. I sing, dance, play the guitar. I don’t want to live on Earth anymore—I’m tired of revolutions. Do you need an exit visa?’” Our conversation ended, the young lady sat down and burst into tears. “You deceived me. I thought we’d have to fly much closer.” Then a young man showed up, speaking in a bass voice, his hands sweaty. “You think I’m an idiot,’ he said, “it’s impossible to fly to Mars. On what basis do you post ads like that?” I barely calmed him down.

Moose leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the coals. His face at that moment seemed tired, his forehead wrinkled. Apparently, he was completely rested from the prolonged exertion of his will. Kuzmin went to get some tobacco. Khokhlov, coughing, said:

- Mstislav Sergeevich, aren’t you scared yourself?

The moose turned its eyes, warmed by the heat of the coals, to him.

-- No, I'm not afraid. I'm sure I'll land successfully. And if I fail, the blow will be instantaneous and painless. What's scary is something else. Imagine this: my calculations turn out to be wrong, I don't get caught in Mars's gravity - I'll fly past. I have enough fuel, oxygen, and food to last me a long time. And now - I'm flying in the darkness. A star is burning ahead. In a thousand years, my frozen corpse will fly into its fiery oceans. But these thousand years - my corpse flying in the darkness! But these long days, while I'm still alive - and I will live a long time in this box - long days of hopeless despair - alone in the entire universe! It's not death that's scary, but loneliness, hopeless loneliness in eternal darkness. It's really scary. I really don't want to fly alone.

The moose squinted at the coals, his mouth set stubbornly.

Kuzmin appeared at the gate and called him in a low voice:

-- Mstislav Sergeevich, to see you.

- Who? - The moose quickly stood up.

-- Some Red Army soldier is asking.

A man in a beltless shirt, reading the ad on Krasnye Zori Street, entered the barn after Kuzmin. He nodded briefly to Los, glanced back at the scaffolding, and approached the table.

-- Do you need a travel companion?

The moose moved a chair towards him and sat down opposite him.

-- Yes, I'm looking for a travel companion. I'm flying to Mars.

-- I know, it said so in the ad. They showed me this star the other day. It's far away, of course. What are the conditions, I wanted to know: salary, food?

-- Are you a family man?

-- Married, no children.

He tapped his nails busily on the table, glancing around curiously. Los briefly explained the flight conditions and warned him of the potential risks. He offered to provide for his family and pay his salary in advance, in cash and food. The Red Army soldier nodded and agreed, but listened absentmindedly.

“Do you know,” he asked, “if there are people or monsters living there?”

The moose scratched the back of his head vigorously and laughed.

-- In my opinion, there must be people there, something like us. We'll go and see. The thing is: for several years now, large radio stations in Europe and America have begun receiving strange signals. At first, they thought they were traces of storms in the Earth's magnetic fields. But the mysterious sounds were too similar to basic signals. Someone persistently wants to talk to us. From where? Life has not yet been detected on planets other than Mars. Signals can only come from Mars. Look at its map - it is covered with channels, like a grid. (He pointed to a drawing of Mars nailed to a wooden wall.) Apparently, there is the possibility of installing a radio station of enormous power there. Mars wants to talk to Earth. So far, we cannot answer these signals. But we are flying towards the call. It is difficult to imagine that radio stations on Mars were built by monsters, creatures unlike us. Mars and Earth are two tiny balls circling nearby. The same laws for us and for them. The dust of life drifts through the universe. The same spores settle on Mars and Earth, on all the myriad cooling stars. Life arises everywhere, and above all life, the humanoid reigns: no animal more perfect than man can be created.

“I’m going with you,” the Red Army soldier said decisively. “When should I come with my things?”

-- Tomorrow. I need to introduce you to the device. What is your first name, patronymic, and last name?

- Gusev, Alexey Ivanovich.

-- Class?

Gusev glanced absentmindedly at Los and lowered his eyes to his fingers tapping on the table.

“I’m literate,” he said, “I know my way around a car pretty well. I used to fly an airplane as an observer. I’ve been involved in war since I was eighteen – that’s all I’ve done. I’ve been wounded. Now I’m in the reserves.” He suddenly rubbed the top of his head vigorously with his palm and laughed shortly. “Well, what a lot has happened in these seven years! To tell the truth, I should be commanding a regiment now – I have an unsociable character! When military action stops, I can’t sit still: it sucks. Everything in me is poisoned. I’ll either ask for time off to go on a business trip or just run away.” (He rubbed the top of his head and grinned.) “I founded four republics – I don’t even remember the names of those cities now. Once I gathered about three hundred guys and set off to liberate India. We wanted to get there. But we got lost in the mountains, got caught in a blizzard, under avalanches, and beat our horses. Only a few of us returned from there.” I was with Makhno for two months, I wanted to have some fun... well, I didn't get along with the bandits... I joined the Red Army. I was driving the Poles from Kyiv - by then I was in Budyonny's cavalry: "Give us Warsaw!" I was wounded for the last time when we were taking Perekop. After that I spent almost a year in hospitals. I was discharged - what else could I do? Then this girl of mine turned up - I got married. My wife is good, I feel sorry for her, but I can't live at home. I have to go to the village - my father and mother are dead, my brothers are killed, the land is abandoned. There is nothing to do in the city. There is no war now - none is expected. Please, Mstislav Sergeyevich, take me with you. I will be of use to you on Mars.

“Well, I’m very glad,” said Elk, giving him his hand, “see you tomorrow.”

Sleepless night

Everything was ready for departure from Earth. But the next two days involved barely any sleep, fussing over the numerous small parts stowed inside the apparatus—in its hollow cushions. Instruments and tools were checked. The scaffolding surrounding the apparatus was removed, and part of the roof was dismantled.

Elk showed Gusev the mechanism of movement and the most important instruments; Gusev turned out to be a dexterous and resourceful person.

The departure was scheduled for the following day at six in the evening.

Late in the evening, Los let the workers and Gusev go, turned off the electricity except for the light bulb above the table, and lay down, without undressing, on an iron cot in the corner of the barn, behind the telescope tripod.

The night was quiet and starry. The moose didn't sleep. He folded his arms behind his head and stared into the gloom. For many days he hadn't given himself free rein. Now, on his last night on Earth, he let go of his heart: suffer, cry.

He remembered... The room is in semi-darkness... The candle is covered with a book. The smell of medicine, it is stuffy. On the floor, on the carpet - a basin. When you get up and walk past the basin, shadows sway along the wall, on the dreary wallpaper. How languid! In bed, what is more precious than light - Katya, his wife - breathes quickly, quietly. On the pillow - thick, tangled hair. Knees are raised under the blanket. Katya is leaving him. Such a kind, gentle face has changed recently. It is pink, restless. She straightened out her hand and pinches the edge of the blanket with her fingers. Elk sheaf, takes her hand again, puts it under the blanket.

"Well, open your eyes, well, look, say goodbye to me." She says in a plaintive, barely audible voice: "Skoy okro, skoy okro." Her childish, barely audible, plaintive voice wants to say: "Open the window." More terrible than fear is pity for her, for this voice. "Katya, Katya, look." He kisses her cheeks, her forehead, her closed eyelids. Her throat trembles, her chest rises in spurts, her fingers clutch the edge of the blanket. "Katya, Katya, what's wrong with you?" She doesn't answer, she leaves... She raised herself on her elbows, raised her chest, as if someone was pushing her from below, tormenting her. Her sweet head threw back... She sank, went into bed. Her chin dropped. Moose, shaking with despair, embraced her, pressed himself against her.

...No, no, no, there is no reconciliation with death...

Moose rose from his bunk, picked up a box of cigarettes from the table, lit one, and paced the dark barn for a while. Then he climbed the telescope ladder, found Mars with the finder scope, already rising above Petrograd, and gazed for a long time at the small, clear, warm ball. It trembled slightly in the crisscrossing hairs of the eyepiece.

...He lay down again... Memory revealed a vision. Katyusha is sitting in the grass on a hillock. In the distance, beyond the rolling fields, are the golden dots of Zvenigorod. Kites float in the summer heat above the grain fields, above the buckwheat. Katyusha is lazy and hot. Elk, sitting nearby, nibbling a blade of grass, glances at Katyusha's blond head, at her tanned shoulder with a light strip of skin between the tan and her dress. Katyusha's gray eyes - indifferent and beautiful - kites float in them too. Katyusha is eighteen years old. She sits and is silent. Elk thinks: "No, my dear, I have more important things to do than fall in love with you here on this hillock. I won't fall for this hook, I won't come to your dacha anymore."

Oh, my God! How foolishly we wasted those hot summer days. If only time could stop then! Never to return! Never to return!

Moose rose from his bunk again, struck matches, smoked, and paced. But even walking along the plank wall was tedious: like an animal in a pit.

The moose opened the gate and looked at Mars, who had already risen high.

"And there you can't escape yourself - beyond the Earth, beyond the edge of death. Why was it necessary to drink this poison - to love! To live unawakened. The frozen seeds of life, icy crystals, fly through the ether, dormant. No, you need to fall and blossom - awaken to the thirst - to love, to merge, to forget, to stop being a lonely seed. And all this short sleep is so that again - death, separation, and again - the flight of ice crystals."

The Elk stood for a long time at the gate. Mars shimmered with a blood-red, now blue, now diamond light – high above sleeping Petrograd. "A new, marvelous world," thought the Elk, "perhaps long since extinguished, or fantastic, blooming and perfect... So from there, some night, I will gaze upon my native star among the stars... I will remember the hillock, and the kites, and the grave where Katya lies... And my sorrow will be light..."

Towards morning, Moose put a pillow over his head and dozed off. He was awakened by the rumble of a convoy traveling along the embankment. He ran his hand over his face. His eyes, still unfocused by the night's visions, studied the maps on the walls and the outline of the apparatus. He sighed, fully awakened, walked to the faucet, and doused his head with cold water. He threw on his coat and walked across the vacant lot to his apartment, where Katya had died six months earlier.

Here he washed, shaved, put on clean underwear and clothes, and checked that all the windows were locked. The apartment was deserted—dust everywhere. He opened the door to the bedroom, where he had never slept since Katya's death. The bedroom was almost dark from the drawn curtains, the only reflection coming from the mirrored closet containing Katya's dresses—the mirrored door was slightly open. Moose frowned, tiptoed over, and closed the door tightly. He locked the bedroom door. He left the apartment, locked the front door, and put the flat key in his vest pocket.

Now everything was finished before leaving.

That same night

That night, Masha waited a long time for her husband, heating the kettle several times on the primus stove. Behind the tall oak door, it was quiet and eerie.

Gusev and Masha shared a room in a once luxurious, enormous, now abandoned house. During the Revolution, its inhabitants abandoned it. Over the course of four years, rains and winter blizzards had severely damaged its interior.

The room was spacious. On the ceiling, amidst golden carvings and clouds, a plump woman was flying, her smile all over her face, surrounded by winged babies.

“You see, Masha,” Gusev would always say, pointing to the ceiling, “what a cheerful woman, full-bodied, and with six children, that’s a woman.”

Above the gilded, lion-pawed bed hung a portrait of an old man in a powdered wig, his mouth pursed, and a star on his caftan. Gusev nicknamed him "General Toptygin." "He was a man who never let anyone off the scent; if anything didn't go his way, he'd trample on you." Masha was afraid to look at the portrait. An iron stove pipe stretched across the room, blackening the wall with smoke. The shelves and the table where Masha cooked her meager meals were neat and tidy.

The carved oak door opened onto a double-height hall. Its broken windows were boarded up, and the ceiling had collapsed in places. On windy nights, the wind howled and rats scurried through.

Masha sat at the table. The primus flame hissed. From afar, the wind carried the mournful chime of a clock – it struck two. Gusev didn't come. Masha thought:

"What is he looking for, what is not enough for him? He always wants to find something, his restless soul, Alyosha, Alyosha... If only you would close your eyes once, lie down on my shoulder, my son: don't look, you won't find anything more precious than my pity."

Tears welled up on Masha's eyelashes; she slowly wiped them away and rested her cheek on her hand. A cheerful woman with cheerful babies flew overhead, unable to fly away. Masha thought of her: "If she were like that, she'd never leave me."

Gusev told her he was going far away, but where, she didn't know, and was afraid to ask. She herself saw that living with her in this wonderful room, in silence, without his former will, was difficult, unbearable. At night he would dream something – he would grind his teeth, cry out dully, sit up in bed and breathe, his teeth clenched, his face and chest sweating. He would collapse, fall asleep, and in the morning – all dark, restless.

Masha had been so quiet with him, so fawning, smarter than his mother. For this he loved and pitied her, but as the morning dawned, he looked for somewhere to go.

Masha served, bringing home rations. They often had no money at all. Gusev took on various jobs, but soon gave up. "The old men said there's a golden wedge in China," he'd say. "There's no such wedge, of course, but it's still a land unknown to us. I'll go to China, Masha, to see what's what."

Masha awaited the hour of Gusev's departure with a sadness as if she were dying. She had no one in the world but him. From the age of fifteen, she worked as a saleswoman in stores and as a cashier on Neva steamships. Her life was lonely and joyless.

A year ago, on a holiday, I met Gusev in the park on a bench. He asked: "I see you're sitting alone, could you let me spend some time with you? It's boring being alone." She glanced at him - a nice face, cheerful, kind eyes, and - sober. "I have nothing against it," she answered briefly. So they walked in the park until the evening. Gusev told her about wars, raids, coups - things you can't read in any book. He walked Masha home and from that day on began to visit her. Masha gave herself to him simply and calmly. And then she fell in love - suddenly, with all her blood, she felt that he was her own. That was the beginning of her torment - the kettle boiled, Masha took it off and fell silent again. For a long time now she had been imagining a rustling behind the door, in the empty hall. She was so sad - she didn't listen. But now - clearly audible - someone's shuffling steps.

Masha quickly opened the door and leaned out. A streetlamp's light filtered through one of the hall's windows, casting dim, bubbly patches on several low columns. Among them, Masha saw a gray-haired, hatless old man in a long coat, his brow bowed. He stood with his neck craned forward, looking at Masha. Her knees weakened.

“What do you want here?” she asked in a whisper.

The old man craned his neck and looked at her. He raised his index finger, threateningly. Masha slammed the door hard, her heart pounding. She listened—the footsteps were now receding: the old man was apparently heading down the front staircase.

Soon, the husband's quick, strong footsteps were heard from the other side of the hall. Gusev entered, cheerful and covered in soot.

“Go and wash yourself,” he said, unbuttoning his collar, “we’re leaving tomorrow, goodbye. Is your kettle hot? That’s wonderful.” He washed his face, his strong neck, his arms up to the elbows, and while drying himself, he glanced sideways at his wife. “That’s enough, I won’t be lost, I’ll be back. For seven years, neither bullet nor bayonet could destroy me. My hour is still far away—the mark hasn’t been made. And dying—you can’t escape it anyway: a fly will touch you with its paw in flight—a kick and you’re dead.”

He sat down at the table, began to peel boiled potatoes, broke them, and dipped them in salt.

-- Prepare clean clothes for tomorrow, two shifts: shirts, long johns, and turn-ups. Don't forget the soap, the awl, and the soap. What, have you been crying again?

“I got scared,” Masha answered, turning away. “Some old man keeps walking around, wagging his finger. Alyosha, don’t go.”

-- It's not like we're going to go -- what did the old man wag his finger at?

-- Unfortunately, he threatened.

-- It's a shame, I'm leaving, I'd like to have a serious talk with this old man. It's definitely one of the former ones, from here, wandering around at night, whispering, surviving.

- Alyosha, will you come back to me?

-- I said I'll be back, so I'll be back. Ugh, you're restless.

--Are you going far?

Gusev whistled, nodded at the ceiling and, laughing with his eyes, poured hot tea onto a saucer.

-- I'm flying beyond the clouds, Masha, just like this woman.

Masha merely lowered her head. Gusev yawned and began to undress. Masha quietly cleared away the dishes and sat down to darn her socks, without raising her eyes. And when she took off her dress and approached the bed, Gusev was already asleep, his hand on his chest, his eyelashes peacefully closed. Masha lay down next to him and looked at her husband. Tears streamed down her cheeks, so dear was he to her, so longed she for his restless heart: "Where is he flying, what is he seeking?"

At dawn, Masha rose, brushed her husband's clothes, and gathered clean underwear. Gusev woke up. He drank some tea, joked, and stroked Masha's cheek. He left her some money—a large wad. He slung his bag over his back, paused in the doorway, and kissed Masha.

So she never found out where he was going.

Departure

People began to gather in the vacant lot in front of Los's workshop. They came from the embankment, ran from Petrovsky Island, huddled together, gazing at the low sun, its broad rays piercing the clouds. Conversations began:

-- What is this crowd of people gathering for? Did they kill someone?

-- They're flying to Mars now.

-- You've come this far, that's all we need!

--What are you telling me? Who will fly?

-- They took two bandits from prison, sealed them in a steel ball and sent them to Mars for an experiment.

-- Stop lying, really.

- Oh, the bastards, they don’t feel sorry for people!.. - What do you mean - who is this - “them”?

-- And you, citizen, don't cling.

-- Of course, it's a mockery.

-- What fools these people are, my God!

-- Why are people stupid? How did you decide that?

-- You yourself should be sent away for these words.

-- Come on, comrades. This is truly a historic event, and you, the devil knows what you're talking about.

-- And for what purposes are they sent to Mars?

-- Excuse me, someone just said here: they loaded twenty-five poods of propaganda literature alone.

-- This is an expedition.

-- For what?

-- For gold.

-- Absolutely right, -- to replenish the gold fund.

-- Are you thinking of bringing a lot?

-- Unlimited quantity.

-- Citizen, how much longer do we have to wait?

-- As the sun sets, so they will rise...

Until dusk, the crowd buzzed with conversation, awaiting the extraordinary event. They argued, quarreled, but did not leave.

The dim sunset spread its crimson light across half the sky. And then, slowly pushing aside the crowd, a large car belonging to the Provincial Executive Committee appeared. The windows of the barn lit up from within. The crowd grew quiet and moved closer.

Open on all sides, gleaming with rows of rivets, the egg-shaped apparatus stood on a slightly sloping cement platform in the middle of the barn. Its brightly lit interior of diamond-patterned yellow leather was visible through a round hatch opening.

Los and Gusev were already dressed in felt boots, sheepskin coats, and leather pilot's helmets. Members of the executive committee, academics, engineers, and journalists surrounded the apparatus. The farewell speeches had already been made, the photographs taken. Los thanked the people seeing them off for their attention. His face was pale, his eyes glassy. He hugged Khokhlov and Kuzmin and glanced at his watch.

-- It's time!

The escorts fell silent. Gusev frowned and climbed into the hatch. Inside the apparatus, he sat down on a leather cushion, adjusted his helmet, and straightened his sheepskin coat.

“Go see your wife, don’t forget,” he shouted to Khoklov and frowned deeply.

The moose still hesitated, looking down at his feet. Suddenly he raised his head and said in a low, agitated voice:

-- I think I'll land successfully on Mars. I'm sure that in a few years hundreds of airships will be plowing through the stars. The spirit of exploration eternally, eternally drives us. But I wasn't supposed to be the first to fly. I wasn't supposed to be the first to penetrate the heavenly mystery. What will I find there? -- Self-forgetfulness... That's what troubles me most as I part with you... No, comrades, I'm not a brilliant builder, not a daredevil, not a dreamer, I'm a coward, I'm a fugitive...

Moose suddenly broke off, looking strangely at those seeing him off; everyone listened to him with bewilderment. He pulled his helmet down over his eyes.

-- But, by the way, no one needs this, neither you nor I, these personal relics... I'm leaving them on this lonely bed in the barn... Goodbye, comrades, I ask you to move as far away from the apparatus as possible...

Right now Gusev shouted from the hatch:

-- Comrades, I will convey to those on Mars warm greetings from the Soviet Republic. Do you authorize me to do so?

The crowd buzzed and applause broke out.

The moose turned, climbed into the hatch, and immediately slammed it shut behind him. The people seeing him off, crowding together and exchanging excited words, ran from the barn into the crowd and out into the vacant lot. Someone's voice began to cry out:

-- Be careful, move away, lie down!

Thousands of people now gazed silently at the square, illuminated windows of the barn. It was quiet there. Silence, too, in the vacant lot. Several minutes passed like this. Many people lay on the ground. Suddenly, a horse neighed loudly in the distance. Someone shouted in a terrible voice:

-- Quiet!

A deafening roar and crackling sound came from the barn. Immediately, louder, more frequent blows rang out. The ground shook. A blunt metal prow rose above the barn roof, shrouded in a cloud of smoke and dust. The crackling grew louder. The black apparatus appeared entirely above the roof and hung in the air, as if taking aim. The explosions merged into a continuous howl, and the four-fathom-long egg, diagonally, like a rocket, soared above the crowd, rushed westward, flashed a fiery streak, and disappeared into the crimson, dim glow of the clouds.

Only then did the crowd start shouting, hats started flying, people started running and surrounding the barn.

In the black sky

Having screwed the entrance hatch shut, Los sat down opposite Gusev and began to look into his eyes, into the prickly pupils, like those of a captured bird.

- Are we flying, Alexey Ivanovich?

-- Let them go.

Then Los grabbed the rheostat lever and turned it slightly. There was a dull thud—that first crack that had shaken the thousand-strong crowd in the vacant lot. He turned the second rheostat. A dull crack sounded underfoot, and the shaking of the apparatus became so strong that Gusev grabbed the seat, his eyes widening. Los turned on both rheostats. The apparatus jerked. The blows became softer, the shaking diminished. Los shouted:

-- Got up.

Gusev wiped the sweat from his face. It was getting hot. The speedometer showed fifty meters per second, and the needle continued to move forward.

The craft was hurtling tangentially, counter to the Earth's rotation. Centrifugal force was pushing it east. Calculations predicted that at an altitude of 100 kilometers, it would right itself and fly diagonally, vertical to the Earth's surface.

The engine ran smoothly, without a hitch. Los and Gusev unbuttoned their sheepskin coats and pushed their helmets back. The power was off, and a pale light filtered through the peepholes.

Overcoming his weakness and the onset of dizziness, Moose dropped to his knees and peered through the peephole at the receding Earth. It stretched out like a vast, edgeless, concave bowl—blueish-gray. Here and there, ridges of clouds lay like islands—the Atlantic Ocean.

Little by little, the bowl narrowed, descending. Its right edge began to glow like silver, while a shadow appeared on the other. And now the bowl seemed like a ball, floating away into the abyss.

Gusev, who was peering through the other peephole, said:

-- Farewell, mother, you have suffered too much, you have shed too much blood.

He rose from his knees, but suddenly staggered and fell onto the pillow. He yanked at his collar:

-- I'm dying, Mstislav Sergeevich, I can't bear it.

The moose felt his heart beating faster and faster, then no longer, but trembling painfully. Blood rushing to his temples. The light growing dark.

He crawled toward the meter. The needle was rapidly rising, marking incredible speed. The air layer was disappearing. Gravity was diminishing. The compass showed the Earth was vertically downward. The apparatus, gaining speed with every second, was hurtling at breakneck speed into the icy expanse of the world.

The moose, breaking his nails, barely unbuttoned the collar of his sheepskin coat—his heart stopped.

* * *

Anticipating that the speed of the apparatus and the bodies in it would reach such a limit that a noticeable change would occur in the heartbeat rate, the exchange of blood and juices, and the entire vital rhythm of the body - anticipating this, Los connected the speed meter of one of the gyroscopes (there were two of them in the apparatus) with electrical wires to the taps of the tanks, which at the right moment would release a large amount of oxygen and ammonia salts.

The moose was the first to come to. His chest was aching, his head was spinning, his heart was pounding like a top. Thoughts appeared and disappeared – extraordinary, quick, clear. His movements were light and precise.

Moose closed the extra valves in the tanks and glanced at the meter. The device was covering about five hundred miles per second. It was daylight. A direct, blinding beam of sunlight entered one of the eyelets. Gusev lay supine beneath the beam, his teeth bared, his glassy eyes bulging.

The moose held a caustic salt to his nose. Gusev took a deep breath, his eyelids fluttering. The moose grabbed him by the floor with his arms and made an effort to lift him, but Gusev's body hung like an air bubble. He released his grip, and Gusev slowly sank to the floor, stretched his legs out in the air, raised his elbows, and sat as if in water, looking around:

- Mstislav Sergeevich, am I drunk?

Moose ordered him to climb up and observe through the upper peepholes. Gusev stood up, swayed, took aim, and climbed the sheer wall of the apparatus like a fly, clinging to the quilted upholstery. He pressed himself to the peephole.

-- It's pitch dark, Mstislav Sergeevich, you can't see anything.

Moose placed a smoked lens on the eyepiece facing the sun. The sun hung in the empty darkness, a clear outline, a huge, shaggy ball. Two nebulae of light extended from its sides like wings. A fountain separated from the dense core and spread out like a mushroom—this was the time when large sunspots passed. Farther from the bright core were oceans of light, even paler than the wings of the zodiac, cast from the sun and revolving around it.

Moose tore himself away with difficulty from this spectacle—the life-giving fire of the universe. He covered the eyepiece with the cap. It became dark. He moved to the eyepiece opposite the light side. Here it was pitch black. He turned the eyepiece, and his eye was pricked by the greenish ray of a star. But then a blue, clear, strong ray entered the eyepiece—it was Sirius, the celestial diamond, the first star of the northern sky.

The moose crawled up to the third eyepiece. He turned the eyepiece, took a look, and wiped it with a handkerchief. He peered closely. His heart sank, and the hair on his scalp became sensitive.

Not far away, in the darkness, vague, foggy spots floated, very close. Gusev spoke with alarm:

-- Some thing is flying next to us.

The foggy patches slowly receded, becoming clearer and brighter. Jagged, silvery lines and threads began to appear. And then the bright outline of a jagged, rocky ridge began to emerge. The apparatus was apparently approaching some celestial body, entering its gravity well and, like a satellite, beginning to orbit it.

With a trembling hand, Los fumbled with the rheostat controls and turned them all the way, risking the apparatus exploding. Inside, beneath his feet, everything roared and trembled. The spots and shining, jagged edges began to recede faster. The illuminated surface grew larger, drawing closer. Now the sharp, long shadows cast by the rocks could be clearly seen—they stretched across the bare, dead plain.

The craft was flying toward the cliffs—they were very close, bathed in sunlight from the side. Moose thought (his consciousness was calm and clear): in a second—the craft won't have time to turn its throat toward the mass pulling it—in a second—death.

In that split second, Los noticed the ruins of stepped towers on the dead plain, between the rocks... Then the craft glided over the bare peaks of the mountains... But there, on the other side, was a precipice, an abyss, darkness. Veins of metal flashed along the jagged, sheer cliff. And the fragment of a shattered, unknown planet was left far behind, continuing its dead journey toward eternity. The craft again raced through the desert of the black sky.

Suddenly Gusev shouted:

-- It looks like the Moon is in front of us!

He turned, separated from the wall, and hung in the air, spreading out like a frog and, cursing under his breath, trying to swim toward the wall. The moose separated from the floor and also hung there, holding onto the peephole, gazing at the silvery, dazzling disk of Mars.

Descent

The silvery, cloud-shrouded disk of Mars was noticeably larger. A patch of ice at the South Pole sparkled dazzlingly. Below it, a curved nebula stretched. In the east, it reached the equator, rose near the midmeridian, gently curving around the lighter surface, and bifurcated, forming a second cape at the western edge of the disk.

Five dark dots, circular patches, were clearly visible along the equator. They were connected by straight lines that outlined two equilateral triangles and a third, elongated one. The foot of the eastern triangle was encompassed by a perfect arc. From its midpoint to the westernmost point ran a second semicircle. Several lines, dots, and semicircles were scattered to the west and east of this equatorial group. The North Pole was immersed in darkness.

The moose peered greedily at this network of lines: there they were, the ever-changing, geometrically perfect, incomprehensible canals of Mars that drove astronomers crazy. The moose could now discern, beneath this clear outline, a second, barely visible, seemingly erased, network of lines.

He began sketching a rough sketch of it in his notebook. Suddenly, the disk of Mars trembled and floated in the eyepiece. Moose rushed to the rheostats:

-- We're in trouble, Alexey Ivanovich, we're pulling in, we're falling!

The craft turned its throat toward the planet. Moose slowed down and then shut off the engine completely. The change in speed was now less painful. But a silence so excruciating fell that Gusev buried his face in his hands and covered his ears.

The moose lay on the floor, watching the silver disk grow, expand, and become ever more convex. It seemed as if it were now flying toward them from the black abyss.

Moose turned on the rheostats again. The apparatus shuddered, overcoming Mars's gravity. The speed of its descent slowed. Mars now covered the entire sky, growing dim, its edges curved like a bowl.

The final seconds were terrifying: a dizzying fall. Mars obscured the entire sky. Suddenly, the lens of the eyepieces fogged up. The craft cut through the clouds above the dim plain and, roaring and shaking, slowly descended.

"Landing!" Moose managed to shout and turned off the engine. A strong jolt threw him against the wall and flipped him over. The craft landed heavily and fell on its side.

* * *

Their knees were shaking, their hands were trembling, their hearts were pounding. Silently, hurriedly, Los and Gusev tidied up the apparatus's interior. They poked a half-dead mouse, brought from Earth, through one of the eyeholes. The mouse gradually came to life, lifted its nose, began twitching its whiskers, and washed itself. The air was fit for life.

Then they unscrewed the entrance hatch. Moose licked his lips and said in a still somewhat muffled voice:

-- Well, Alexey Ivanovich, congratulations on your safe arrival. Let's get out.

They took off their felt boots and sheepskin coats. Gusev attached his Mauser to his belt (just in case), grinned, and opened the hatch.

Mars

Gusev and Los saw a dark blue, dazzling, bottomless sky, like the sea during a thunderstorm, as they climbed out of the apparatus.

The blazing, shaggy sun stood high above Mars. Streams of crystalline blue light were cool and transparent—from the sharp horizon to the zenith...

"They have a cheerful sun," said Gusev and sneezed, so blinding was the light in the deep blue heights. His chest tingled, the blood pounded in his temples, but he could breathe easily - the air was thin and dry.

The device lay on a flat, orange-green plain. The horizon was very close, within reach. The soil was covered in large cracks. Tall cacti stood everywhere on the plain, like seven-branched candlesticks, casting sharp purple shadows. A dry breeze blew.

Moose and Gusev looked around for a long moment, then set off across the plain. The going was unusually easy, though their feet sank ankle-deep in the crumbling soil. Rounding a tall, plump cactus, Moose reached out his hand. The plant, barely touched, trembled as if caught in the wind, and its brown, fleshy shoots reached out to their hand. Gusev kicked it in the root—"Oh, the filth!"—and the cactus toppled, its spines piercing the sand.

They walked for about half an hour. The same orange plain stretched before their eyes—cacti, purple shadows, cracks in the ground. When they turned south and the sun was off to the side, Moose began to peer around, as if pondering something, then suddenly stopped, crouched down, and slapped his knee.

- Alexey Ivanovich, the soil is plowed.

-- What do you?

Indeed, the wide, half-collapsed furrows of the field and the neat rows of cacti were now clearly visible. A few steps later, Gusev tripped over a stone slab; a large bronze ring with a piece of rope was screwed into it. The moose scratched his chin, his eyes glittering.

- Alexey Ivanovich, you don’t understand anything?

-- Yes, I see that we are in a field.

-- And what is the ring for?

-- The devil knows why they screwed the ring in. -- To tie the buoy. Do you see the shells? We are at the bottom of a dry canal.

Gusev said:

-- Yes, indeed... The water here is rather bad.

They turned west and walked across the furrows. In the distance, a large bird with a drooping body like a wasp's rose above the field and flew, its wings flapping spasmodically. Gusev paused, his hand on his revolver. But the bird soared, flashing in the deep blue, and disappeared over the near horizon.

The cacti grew taller, denser, and more robust. We had to carefully navigate their vibrant, thorny thicket. Animals resembling stone lizards scurried out from underfoot, many-legged, bright orange, with jagged spines. Several times, bristly tangles of something slipped and darted through the thicket. We treaded carefully here.

The cacti ended at a chalk-white, sloping bank. It was lined with what appeared to be ancient hewn slabs. Dried moss strands hung in the cracks and crevices of the masonry. A ring identical to the one in the field was embedded in one of these slabs. Ridged lizards dozed peacefully in the sun.

Los and Gusev climbed the slope. From here, a rolling plain of the same orange, but duller hue, was visible. Here and there, clumps of low-growing trees, similar to mountain pines, were scattered across it. Here and there, piles of stones and the outlines of ruins gleamed white. In the distance, to the northwest, a range of mountains rose, sharp and jagged, like frozen tongues of flame. Snow glittered on their peaks.

“We need to go back, eat, rest,” said Gusev, “we’ll get washed up, there’s not a single living soul here.”

They stood there for a while longer. The plain was deserted and sad, and their hearts sank.

“Yes, we’ve arrived,” said Gusev.

They descended the slope, walked toward the device, and wandered for a long time, searching for it among the cacti. Suddenly, Gusev whispered:

-- Here he is!

With a habitual grip he pulled the revolver from its holster.

“Hey,” he shouted, “whoever’s on the phone, say something like that. I’ll shoot!”

-- Who are you shouting to?

- Do you see the device sparkling? - I see it now, yes.

--And over there, to the right of him, he's sitting.

Moose finally saw them, and they stumbled toward the device. The creature sitting near it moved to the side, hopped between the cacti, leaped up, spread its long, membranous wings, rose with a crash, and, circling in a semicircle, soared above the group. It was the same thing they had mistaken for a bird earlier. Gusev raised his revolver, trying to cut down the winged beast in flight. But Moose knocked the weapon from his hand and shouted:

-- Are you crazy? It's a Martian!..

With his head thrown back and his mouth open, Gusev gazed at the astonishing creature circling in the cube-blue sky. The moose pulled out a handkerchief and began waving at the strange bird.

- Mstislav Sergeevich, be careful, so that he doesn’t hit us with something from there.

-- Hide the revolver, I say.

The large bird descended. Now the humanoid creature seated in the saddle of the flying machine was clearly visible. Its waist-deep body hung in the air. Two curved, mobile wings flapped at shoulder level. Below them, in front, a shadowy disk spun, apparently a propeller. Behind the saddle was a tail with forked rudders. The entire apparatus was mobile and flexible, like a living creature.

Here he dived and went right by the plowed field, one wing down, the other up. The head of a Martian appeared, wearing an egg-shaped hat with a long peak. On his eyes were glasses. His face was brick-colored, narrow, wrinkled, with a sharp nose. He opened his large mouth and squeaked something. He flapped his wings rapidly, dropped low, ran across the plowed field and jumped from the saddle about thirty paces from the people.

The Martian was a man of average height, dressed in a wide yellow jacket. His withered legs, above the knees, were tightly bandaged. He angrily pointed at the fallen cacti. But when Los and Gusev moved toward him, he quickly leaped into the saddle, shook a long finger, took off with barely a running start, and immediately sat back down, continuing to shout in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, pointing at the broken plants.

"The weirdo is offended," said Gusev and shouted at the Martian: "Stop yelling at you, you son of a bitch. Come on over here, we won't hurt you..."

-- Alexey Ivanovich, stop swearing, he doesn't understand Russian. Sit down, otherwise he won't come.

Moose and Gusev sat down on the hot ground. Moose began to signal that he was thirsty and hungry. Gusev lit a cigarette and spat. The Martian stared at them for a moment and then stopped shouting, but still angrily shook his pencil-long finger. Then he untied the pack from his saddle, tossed it toward the group, circled to a great height, and quickly disappeared northward over the horizon.

The bag contained two metal boxes and a flat vessel filled with liquid. Gusev opened the boxes—one contained a strongly scented jelly, the other contained gelatinous chunks resembling Turkish delight. Gusev sniffed them.

-- Ugh, tell me what they eat!

He pulled a basket of provisions from the apparatus, filled it with dried cactus fragments, and lit them. A thin smoke rose as the cacti smoldered, but the heat was intense. They heated up a tin of salted meat and spread the food on a clean cloth. They ate greedily, only now feeling the unbearable hunger.

The sun was overhead, the wind had died down, and it was hot. A many-legged creature crawled across the orange hummocks... Gusev tossed it a piece of cracker. It raised its triangular, horned head and seemed petrified.

The moose asked for a cigarette and lay down, propping up his cheek, smoking and grinning.

- Alexey Ivanovich, do you know how long we haven’t eaten?

- Since yesterday evening, Mstislav Sergeevich, before the flight I ate my fill of potatoes.

-- We haven't eaten, my dear friend, for twenty-three or twenty-four days.

-- How many?

--Yesterday in Petrograd it was the eighteenth of August, and today in Petrograd it is the eleventh of September - what miracles!

-- I don't understand this, you'll tear my head off, Mstislav Sergeevich.

-- Yes, I don't really understand how that is possible either. We took off at seven. Now, you see, it's two o'clock in the afternoon. Nineteen hours ago we left Earth, according to this watch. And according to the watch that was left in my workshop, about a month had passed. Have you noticed - you're riding on a train, sleeping, the train stops, you either wake up from an unpleasant sensation, or you start to feel tormented in your sleep. This is because when the carriage stops, a slowdown occurs throughout your entire body. You're lying in a running carriage, and your heart is beating, and your watch is ticking faster than if you were lying in a stationary carriage. The difference is imperceptible, because the speeds are very small. Our flight is a different matter. We flew half the way at almost the speed of light. Then the difference is noticeable. My heartbeat, the speed of my watch, the vibrations of the particles in my body's cells remained unchanged in relation to one another as we flew through airless space—they formed one whole with the apparatus, everything moved in the same rhythm. But if the speed of the apparatus exceeded the normal speed of a body on Earth by five hundred thousand times, then the rate of my heartbeat—one beat per second, according to the clock in the apparatus—increased five hundred thousand times; that is, my heart beat five hundred thousand times per second during the flight, according to the clock left in Petersburg. Judging by the beating of my heart, by the movement of the chronometer hand in my pocket, by the sensations of my entire body, we had lived nineteen hours on the way. And in fact, they were nineteen hours. But according to the beating of the heart of a resident of Petersburg, according to the movement of the hand on the clock of the Peter and Paul Cathedral, more than three weeks had passed since the day of our departure. Later, we could build a large apparatus, equip it with a six-month supply of food, oxygen, and ultralyddite, and offer it to some weirdos: you don't like living in our time—would you like to live in a hundred years? All you need is six months of patience, sit in this box, but what a life! You'll skip a century. And send them off at the speed of light for six months into interstellar space. They'll get bored, grow a beard, come back, and Earth will be in a golden age. And all of this will happen someday.

Gusev gasped, clicking his tongue, and was very surprised: “Mstislav Sergeyevich, what do you think about this drink? Will we get poisoned?”

He pulled the stopper out of the Martian flask with his teeth, tested the liquid on his tongue, and spat it out: drinkable! He took a sip and grunted.

-- Like our Madeira.

Moose tasted the liquid; it was thick, slightly sweet, with a strong floral scent. They drank half the flask, tasting it. A warmth and a special, light strength coursed through their veins, but their heads remained clear.

The moose rose, stretched, straightened up—it felt good, easy, strange to him under this different sky, unreal, wondrous. As if he had been thrown out by the surf of a starry ocean, reborn into an unknown, new life.

Gusev carried the basket of food into the apparatus, screwed the hatch tightly shut, and pushed his cap to the very back of his head.

- Okay, Mstislav Sergeevich, it’s not a pity that we went.

It was decided to go to the shore again and wander around the hilly plain until evening.

Chatting cheerfully, they walked among the cacti, occasionally leaping over them with long, light strides. The stones of the embankment soon became white through the undergrowth.

Suddenly, Elk stopped. A chill of disgust ran down his spine. Three steps away, close to the ground, from behind the greasy leaves, large, horse-like eyes, half-closed with red eyelids, peered at him. They stared intently, with fierce malice.

-- What are you doing? -- asked Gusev and also saw the eyes. And without thinking, he immediately fired at them - dust flew up. The eyes disappeared. -- There's another one - a reptile! -- Gusev turned and fired again at a brown, sparsely striped, fat body running rapidly on large spider legs. It was a huge spider, the kind that on Earth are found only at the bottom of deep seas. It was walking into the thicket.

Abandoned house

From the shore to the nearest clump of trees, Los and Gusev walked through burnt, brown dust, leaping over crumbling narrow canals, skirting dried-up ponds. Here and there, in half-filled riverbeds, the rusty skeletons of barges jutted out of the sand. Here and there, on the dead, bleak plain, convex disks glinted—about a meter in diameter. The reflective patches of these disks stretched from the jagged mountains—over the hills—to the treetops, to the ruins.

Between two hills stood a thicket of low, brown trees with spreading, flat tops. Their branches were gnarled and stout, their foliage resembled fine moss, their trunks sinewy and knobbly. At the edge of the forest, between the trees, hung scraps of barbed netting.

They entered the woods, Gusev bent down and kicked something—a broken human skull rolled from the dust, metal gleaming in its teeth. It was stuffy here. Mossy branches cast scant shade in the windless heat. A few steps later, they came across the convex disk again—it was screwed to the base of a round metal well. At the end of the woods, ruins were visible—thick brick walls, as if torn apart by an explosion, mountains of rubble, the protruding ends of bent metal beams.

"The houses were blown up, Mstislav Sergeyevich," said Gusev. "They apparently had some business here. We know about these things."

A large spider appeared on a pile of rubble and scurried down the jagged edge of the wall. Gusev fired. The spider leaped high into the air and fell, flipping over. Immediately, a second spider ran from behind the house toward the trees, kicking up brown dust, and ran into a barbed web, thrashing about, stretching its legs.

From the grove, Gusev and Los emerged onto a hill and began descending toward the second grove, where brick buildings and one stone building, taller than the others, with flat roofs, could be seen from afar. Between the hill and the village lay several disks. Pointing to them, Los said:

-- In all likelihood, these are wells for water pipes, pneumatic tubes, and electrical wires. All of this, apparently, has been abandoned.

They climbed over a barbed net, crossed a small forest, and approached a wide, flagstoned courtyard. In the depths stood a house of unusual and somber architecture. Its smooth walls tapered toward the top and ended in a massive cornice of blood-black stone. Long, narrow, deep windows, like slits, pierced the walls. Two scaly, tapering columns supported a bronze bas-relief over the entrance—a reclining figure with closed eyes. Flat steps, the full width of the building, led up to low, massive doors. Dried vines hung between the dark slabs of the walls. The house resembled a vast tomb.

Gusev began to test the metal door with his shoulder. He pushed, and it gave way with a creak. They passed through a dark vestibule and entered a high hall. Light penetrated through the glass of the dome. The hall was almost empty. Several overturned stools, a low table with a dusty black tablecloth, broken vessels on the stone floor, some strangely shaped machine, or maybe a weapon—made of disks, balls, and a metal net—standing near the doors—everything was covered in a layer of dust.

A dusty light fell on yellowish walls dappled with golden sparks. Above, they were encircled by a wide band of mosaic. Apparently, it depicted historical events—the struggle of the yellow-skinned creatures against the red-skinned: sea waves with a human figure immersed in them up to the waist, the same figure flying among the stars—images of battles, attacks by predatory beasts, herds of strange animals driven by shepherds, scenes of everyday life, hunting, dancing, births, and burials. The somber band of this mosaic closed above the doors with a depiction of the construction of a gigantic circus.

“It’s strange, strange,” repeated Moose, climbing onto the sofas to better understand the mosaic, “the curious design of a human head is repeated everywhere, you understand, it’s very strange...”

Meanwhile, Gusev found a barely noticeable door in the wall; it opened onto an internal staircase leading to a wide, vaulted corridor, filled with dusty light.

Along the walls and in the niches of the corridor stood stone and bronze figures, torsos, heads, masks, and broken vases. Doorways decorated with marble and bronze led from here to the inner chambers.

Gusev went to peer into the side rooms—low, musty, dimly lit. In one was a dried-up swimming pool with a dead spider lying in it. In another, a mirror, forming one of the walls, was shattered into pieces, a pile of decayed rags lay on the floor, furniture was overturned, and tattered clothing lay in the closets.

In the third room, on a raised platform beneath a tall well from which light fell, stood a wide bed. The skeleton of a Martian hung halfway over it. Evidence of a brutal struggle lay everywhere. A second skeleton lay bumped against the bed in the corner.

Here, among the rubbish, Gusev found several items of hammered, heavy metal—apparently jewelry, items for women's use—and small vessels of colored stone. From the skeleton's decaying clothing, he removed two large, dark-golden stones, connected by a chain, seemingly glowing from within.

“It will come in handy,” said Gusev, “I’ll give it to Masha...”

Moose examined the sculpture in the hallway. Among the sharp-nosed Martian heads, depictions of sea monsters, painted masks, and glued vases strangely reminiscent of Etruscan amphoras in outline and design, his attention was caught by a large half-length statue. It depicted a naked woman with tousled hair and a fierce, asymmetrical face. Her pointed breasts jutted out to the sides. A golden circlet of stars encircled her head, merging above her forehead into a thin parabola containing two spheres: one ruby ​​and one reddish-brick. There was something thrillingly familiar in the features of her sensual and commanding face, evoking an incomprehensible memory.

To the side of the statue, in the wall, a small niche loomed, enclosed by bars. Elk slid his fingers through the bars, but the bars didn't budge. He lit a match and saw a golden mask sitting on a decayed cushion in the niche. It was the image of a human face with wide cheekbones and calmly closed eyes. The moon-shaped mouth smiled. The nose was sharp and beaked. On the forehead between the eyebrows was a swelling in the shape of an enlarged dragonfly's eye. This was the head depicted in the mosaic in the first hall.

Moose burned half a box of matches, excitedly examining the astonishing mask. Not long before leaving Earth, he had seen photographs of similar masks recently unearthed among the ruins of gigantic cities along the banks of the Niger, in a part of Africa where traces of the culture of a mysterious, vanished race are now believed to exist.

One of the side doors in the corridor was slightly open. Moose entered a long, very high room with a gallery and a latticed balustrade. Above and below—in the gallery—stood flat bookcases and shelves lined with small, thick books. Decorated with embossing and gold embossing, their spines stretched in monotonous lines along the gray walls. In the bookcases stood small metal cylinders, while others held enormous books bound in leather or wood. From the bookcases, from the shelves, from the dark corners of the library, the wrinkled, bald heads of Martian scholars peered out with stony eyes. Several deep seats and several boxes on thin legs with a round screen propped up at the side were scattered around the room.

Holding his breath, Moose looked around this treasure trove, with its smell of decay and mold, where the wisdom of the millennia that had flown over Mars lay silent, bound in books.

He carefully approached the shelf and began opening the books. The paper was greenish, the font geometric, and the color a soft brown. Los pocketed one of the books, containing machine drawings, to peruse at his leisure. The metal cylinders contained yellowish rollers, like those of a phonograph, which sounded like bone under a fingernail, but their surface was smooth as glass. One of these rollers lay on a box containing a screen, apparently prepared for loading and abandoned when the house was destroyed.

Then Moose opened the black cabinet, picked up at random one of the light, plump books bound in worm-eaten leather, and carefully dusted it with his sleeve. Its yellowish, worn pages ran from top to bottom in a continuous, zigzag strip. These pages, flowing into each other, were covered with colored triangles the size of fingernails. They ran from left to right and back in irregular lines, sometimes falling, sometimes intertwining. They changed in shape and color. After a few pages, colored circles appeared between the triangles, changing shape and hue. The triangles began to form figures. The interweaving and shimmering colors and shapes of these triangles, circles, squares, and complex figures ran from page to page. Little by little, a barely perceptible, subtle, marvelous music began to play in Moose's ears.

He closed the book and stood for a long time, leaning against the bookshelves, excited and intoxicated by a never-before-experienced charm: it was a singing book.

“Mstislav Sergeevich,” Gusev’s voice echoed through the house, “come here, quickly.”

Moose walked out into the corridor. At the end of it, in the doorway, stood Gusev, smiling fearfully.

-- Look what's going on with them.

He led Moose into a narrow, dimly lit room; a large square frosted mirror was set into the far wall, and several stools and armchairs stood in front of it.

-- You see, the ball is hanging on a string; I think, it's golden, let me pick it up, -- look what happened.

Gusev pulled the ball. The mirror lit up, revealing the stepped outlines of enormous buildings, windows glittering in the setting sun, and fluttering banners. The dull hum of the crowd filled the dark room. A winged shadow slid across the mirror, obscuring the city's outline. Suddenly, a fiery flash illuminated the screen, a sharp crack resounded beneath the room's floor, and the foggy mirror went dark.

“Short circuit, the wires burned out,” said Gusev. “We have to go, Mstislav Sergeyevich, it’s getting dark soon.”

Sunset

The blazing sun was setting, its narrow, misty wings spread.

Los and Gusev hurried across the fading, now even more deserted and wild, plain toward the canal bank. The sun was quickly sinking beyond the near edge of the field—and vanished. A blinding scarlet glow spread across the sunset. Its sharp rays illuminated half the sky and quickly became covered in gray ash—fading. The sky seemed impenetrable.

In the ashen sunset, low above Mars, a large red star rose. It rose like an angry eye. For a few moments, the darkness was saturated only by its somber rays.

But already, across the disproportionately high celestial dome, stars began to pour forth, shining, greenish constellations—their icy rays piercing the eyes. The gloomy star, rising, flared up.

Having reached the shore, the Elk stopped and, pointing his hand at the star, said:

-- Earth.

Gusev removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. He threw back his head and gazed at his distant homeland floating among the constellations. His face seemed haggard and sad.

“Earth,” he repeated.

So they stood for a long time on the bank of the ancient canal, above the plain with the outlines of cacti unclear in the light of the stars.

But then, from behind the sharp line of the horizon, a bright crescent, smaller than the moon, appeared and began to rise above the cactus field. Long shadows fell from the paw-shaped plants.

Gusev nudged Los with his elbow.

- It's behind us, look.

Behind them, over the rolling plain, above the groves and ruins, gleamed the second moon of Mars. Its round, yellowish disk, also smaller than the moon, leaned behind the jagged mountains. Metallic disks glittered on the hills.

“What a night,” whispered Gusev, “like a dream.”

They carefully descended from the shore into the cactus thicket. A shadow darted out from under their feet. A shaggy ball of fur ran along the reflections of two moons. There was a creaking sound. A squeak—piercing, unbearable, thin. The shimmering leaves of the cacti stirred. A web clung to their faces, elastic as a net.

Suddenly, a stealthy, heart-rending howl filled the night. It cut off. Everything went silent. Gusev and Los, shuddering with disgust and horror, ran across the field in great leaps, leaping high over the living plants.

Finally, the steel casing of the craft gleamed in the light of the rising crescent. They reached it. They crouched down, panting.

"Well, no, I'm not one to go to those spidery places at night," said Gusev. He unscrewed the hatch and climbed into the apparatus.

The moose hesitated, listening and looking. And then he saw—the winged shadow of a ship, a fantastic silhouette, floating among the stars.

The moose looks at the ground

The airship's shadow vanished. Moose climbed onto the wet surface of the craft, lit a pipe, and gazed at the stars. A thin chill tingled his body. Gusev fiddled around inside the craft, muttering, examining and hiding the things he'd found. Then his head popped out of the boat's hatch.

"Whatever you say, Mstislav Sergeyevich, it's all gold, and the stones are priceless. My little fool will be delighted."

His head disappeared, and soon he became completely silent. Gusev was a happy man.

But Moose couldn't sleep—he sat there, blinking at the stars, sucking on his pipe. The devil knows what was going on! Where on earth did those golden masks with that distinctive third dragonfly eye get to Mars? And the mosaic? The giants perishing in the sea, flying between the stars. And the parabola symbol: the ruby ​​ball—Earth, the brick one—Mars? A symbol of power over two worlds? Incomprehensible. And the singing book? And the strange city that appeared in the foggy mirror? And why, why was this entire land abandoned, desolate?

The moose knocked his pipe against his heel. I wish the day would come soon! Obviously, the Martian pilot would send word to some populated area. Perhaps they were already being searched for, and the ship that had sailed across the stars had been sent specifically for them.

The moose glanced at the sky. The light of the reddish star—Earth—was fading, it was approaching the zenith, its ray reaching into the very heart.

One sleepless night, standing in the barn gate, Moose gazed with the same cold sadness at the rising Mars. That had been the night before last. Only a day separated him from that hour, from Earth.

Earth, Earth, green, now in clouds, now in breaks of light, lush, full of water, so wastefully cruel to its children, yet beloved, - the homeland...

An icy chill gripped my brain. This reddish globe of Earth was like a burning heart... Man, an ephemeris, awakening for a moment to life, he is an Elk, alone, torn from his homeland by his own mad will, and now, like a dejected demon, he sits alone in the vacant lot. Here it is, here it is, loneliness. Is this what you wanted? Have you abandoned yourself?

Moose shuddered from the chill. He stuffed the phone in his pocket. He hooked it up and lay down next to the snoring Gusev. This simple man hadn't betrayed his homeland, had flown to the ends of the earth, to the ninth heaven, and here, as there, he was at home... He slept peacefully, his conscience clear.

From the warmth and fatigue, Moose dozed off. In his sleep, comfort descended upon him. He saw the shore of an earthly river, birches rustling in the wind, clouds, sparks of sunlight on the water, and on the other side, someone in a bright, shining light—waving to him, calling, beckoning. Moose and Gusev were awakened by the loud noise of propellers.

Martians

Dazzling pink banks of clouds, like strands of yarn, covered the morning sky. Now appearing in the deep blue gaps, now disappearing behind the pink banks, a flying ship descended, bathed in sunlight. The outline of its three-masted hull resembled a giant beetle. Three pairs of sharp wings extended from its sides.

The ship cut through the clouds and, all wet, silvery, and glittering, hung above the cacti. The vertical propellers on its short outer masts roared powerfully, preventing it from sinking. Ladders folded down from the sides, and the ship settled on them. The propellers stopped.

The skinny figures of Martians ran down the stairs. They wore identical egg-shaped helmets and wide silver jackets with thick collars that covered their necks and lower faces. Each carried a weapon in the form of a short, disk-shaped automatic rifle.

Gusev stood scowling near the apparatus. His hand on his Mauser, he watched the Martians line up in two rows. Their guns rested muzzle-down on their bent arms.

“The bastards hold weapons like women,” he grumbled.

The moose stood with his arms folded across his chest, smiling. The last to descend from the ship was a Martian, dressed in a black robe that flowed in wide folds. His exposed head was bald and covered in bumps. His beardless, narrow face was bluish.

Sinking into the loose soil, he passed a double row of soldiers. His bulging, bright, icy eyes settled on Gusev. Then he looked only at Los. He approached the men, raised a small hand in a wide sleeve, and spoke a bird-like word in a thin, glassy, ​​slow voice:

-- Taltsetl.

His eyes widened even further, lit with cold excitement. He repeated the bird's word and pointed commandingly at the sky. The moose said:

-- Earth.

"Earth," the Martian repeated with difficulty, lifting the skin on his forehead. The bumps on his forehead darkened. Gusev stuck out his leg, coughed, and said angrily:

-- From Soviet Russia, we are Russians. We, therefore, come to you, hello, -- he touched the visor of his cap, -- we do not offend you, you do not offend us... He, Mstislav Sergeyevich, does not understand a damn thing of our language.

The Martian's bluish, intelligent face was motionless, only a reddish spot on his sloping forehead, between his eyebrows, began to swell with tension. With a slight movement of his hand, he pointed at the sun and uttered a familiar, strange-sounding sound:

-- Soatsr.

He pointed to the ground and spread his arms, as if embracing a ball:

-- Fog.

Pointing to one of the soldiers standing in a semicircle behind him, he pointed to Gusev, to himself, to Los:

-- Shokho.

So he named several objects and listened to their meanings in the language of Earth. He approached Moose and solemnly touched his forehead, the hollow between his eyebrows, with his ring finger. Moose bowed his head in greeting. Gusev, after being touched, pulled his cap up.

-- How they treat savages.

The Martian approached the apparatus and, for a long moment, with restrained surprise, then—apparently understanding its principle—he gazed with admiration at the enormous steel egg, encrusted with carbon. Suddenly, he clasped his hands, turned to the soldiers, and began speaking to them rapidly, raising his clenched hands to the sky.

“Aiu,” the soldiers answered in howling voices.

He put his hand on his forehead, took a deep breath, controlled his excitement, and, turning to Moose, without the cold, looked into his eyes with darkened, moistened eyes.

“Aiu,” he said, “aiu utara shokho, datsia Tuma ra geo Taltsetl.”

With that, he covered his eyes with his hand and bowed deeply. He straightened up, called the soldier over, took the narrow knife from him, and began scratching the apparatus's casing: he drew an egg, a lid above it, and the figure of a soldier to the side. Gusev, looking over his shoulder, said:

-- He suggests setting up a tent around the apparatus and guards, but, Mstislav Sergeyevich, we don’t want them to steal our things, the hatches don’t have locks.

-- Stop playing the fool, Alexey Ivanovich.

- But there are tools, clothes... And I exchanged glances with one of them, with this little soldier, - he has the most unreliable face.

The Martian listened to this conversation with attention and respect. Moose gestured to him that he agreed to leave the craft under guard. The Martian raised a whistle to his large, thin mouth. The ship responded with an equally shrill whistle. Then the Martian began whistling some signals. At the top of the middle, taller mast, lengths of thin wire rose like hair, and a crackling sound of sparks was heard.

The Martian pointed Los and Gusev toward the ship. The soldiers moved closer and formed a circle. Gusev glanced back at them, grinned wryly, walked over to the apparatus, pulled out two bags of underwear and small items, slammed the hatch shut, and, pointing it at the soldiers, slapped his Mauser, shook his finger, and grimaced threateningly. The Martians watched these movements in amazement.

“Well, Alexey Ivanovich, whether we are prisoners or guests, we have nowhere to go,” said Los, laughed, threw the bag over his shoulder, and they went to the ship.

The vertical propellers on its masts whirred with a loud noise. The wings drooped. The propellers whined. Guests, perhaps prisoners, climbed the fragile ladder aboard.

Beyond the Jagged Mountains

The ship flew low above Mars, heading northwest. Moose and the bald Martian remained on deck. Gusev went inside the ship to join the soldiers.

In the light, straw-colored cabin, he sat down in a wicker chair and gazed for a while at the sharp-nosed, skinny soldiers, their red eyes blinking like birds. Then he took out his treasured tin cigarette case—he had never parted with it at the front for seven years—slapped the lid, "Let's have a smoke, comrades," and offered them a cigarette.

The Martians shook their heads in dismay. One finally took the cigarette, examined it, sniffed it, and hid it in the pocket of his white trousers. When Gusev lit it, the soldiers backed away from him in utter fear, whispering in bird-like voices:

- Shbho tao brand shbho-om.

Their reddish, pointed faces watched in horror as the "shokho" swallowed the smoke. But little by little, they sniffed the air and calmed down, and sat down next to the man again.

Gusev, not particularly bothered by his lack of knowledge of the Martian language, began to tell his new friends about Russia, about the war, the revolution, about his exploits:

“Gusev is my last name. Gusev comes from geese: huge birds like them on Earth, you’ve never seen anything like them. My name is Alexei Ivanovich. I commanded more than just a regiment; I also commanded a cavalry division. A terrible hero, a terrifying one. My tactics are: machine guns or not, sabers at the ready – ‘Give it to me, son of a bitch, take your position!’ – and hack away. And I’m all hacked up myself, I don’t care. We even have a special course at our military academy: ‘Alexei Gusev’s Hacking’ – don’t believe me? They offered me a corps.” Gusev pushed his cap aside with his fingernail and scratched behind his ear. “I’m tired of it, no, I’m sorry. I fought for seven years, I’d be damned if I had to. And then Mstislav Sergeyevich calls me, begs me: ‘Alexei Ivanovich, I wouldn’t fly to Mars without you.’ Well, hello then.”

The Martians listened, amazed. One brought a flask of brown, nutmeg-scented liquid. Gusev pulled half a bottle of alcohol from his bag, brought from Earth. The Martians drank and began chattering. Gusev slapped them on the backs and made a fuss. Then he began pulling various junk from his pockets, offering to trade. The Martians happily gave him gold items for a penknife, a pencil stub, and an amazing lighter made from a rifle cartridge.

Meanwhile, Moose, leaning against the ship's latticed side, gazed at the bleak, rolling plain floating away below. He recognized the house they had visited yesterday. Everywhere lay similar ruins, islands of trees, and dried-up canals.

Pointing to this desert, Moose feigned bewilderment: why was this entire region abandoned and dead? The bald Martian's bulging eyes suddenly turned angry. He gave a signal, and the ship rose, described an arc, and was now flying toward the peaks of the jagged mountains.

The sun had risen high, the clouds had vanished. The propellers roared, the flexible wings creaked as they turned and climbed, and the vertical rotors hummed. Moose noticed that, other than the hum of the propellers and the whistling of the wind through the wings and slotted masts, there were no other sounds: the engines worked silently. The engines themselves were invisible. Only a round box, like a dynamo casing, spun on the axle of each propeller, and two elliptical baskets of silver wire crackled on the tops of the fore and aft masts.

Moose asked the Martian the names of objects and wrote them down. Then he pulled the book of blueprints from his pocket, asking him to pronounce the sounds of the geometric letters. The Martian stared at the book in amazement. Again his eyes grew cold, his thin lips curled in disgust. He carefully took the book from Moose's hands and tossed it overboard.

The altitude and thin air made Moose's chest ache, and tears blurred his vision. Noticing this, the Martian signaled for a descent. The ship was now flying over blood-red desert cliffs. A sweeping, winding mountain range ran from southeast to northwest. The ship's shadow flew below, along jagged cliffs sparkling with veins of ore and metal, down steep slopes covered in lichen, falling into misty chasms, shrouding the glittering icy peaks and mirror-like glaciers in cloud. The land was wild and deserted.

“Lysiasira,” said the Martian, nodding towards the mountains and baring his small teeth that gleamed like metal.

Looking down upon these cliffs, so sadly reminiscent of the dead landscape of a shattered planet, Moose saw the overturned hulk of a ship lying in a chasm on the rocks, fragments of silvery metal scattered around it. Further on, from behind the ridge of the cliff, the broken wing of a second ship rose. To the right, pierced by a granite peak, hung a third, completely mangled ship. All around these places were the remains of enormous wings, shattered hulks, and protruding ribs. This was the site of a battle; it seemed as if demons had been cast down upon these barren cliffs.

Moose glanced sideways at his neighbor. The Martian sat, holding his robe to his neck, calmly gazing at the sky. Long-winged birds, in a line, flew toward the ship. They soared, their yellow wings flashing in the deep blue, and turned. Following their descending flight, Moose saw the black water of a round lake, lying deep between the rocks. Curly bushes clung to its banks. The yellow birds perched by the water.

The lake began to ripple, boil, a strong stream of water rose from the middle of it, spread out and subsided.

"Soam," the Martian said solemnly. The mountain range ended. To the northwest, through the transparent, rippling waves of heat, a canary-yellow plain was visible, with large bodies of water glistening. The Martian extended his hand toward the misty, wondrous distance and said with a long smile:

-- Azbra.

The ship rose slightly. The moist, sweet air hit their faces and buzzed in their ears. Azora stretched out like a broad, shining plain. Cut through by full-flowing canals, covered with orange thickets of vegetation and cheerful canary-colored meadows, Azora, which meant joy, resembled those chicken-filled, spring meadows remembered in dreams from distant childhood.

Wide metal barges floated along the canals. White houses and patterned garden paths were scattered along the banks. Martian figures crawled everywhere. Others would take off from flat roofs and fly like bats across the water or beyond the grove. Puddles glistened in the meadows everywhere, and streams sparkled. Azor was a wondrous land.

At the end of the plain, the sunlit ripples of a vast expanse of water played, where the winding lines of all the canals led. The ship flew in that direction, and Moose finally saw a large, straight canal. Its far bank was lost in a damp haze. Its yellowish, murky waters flowed slowly along a rocky slope.

They flew for a long time. And then, at the end of the canal, a smooth edge of a wall began to rise out of the water, its ends stretching beyond the horizon. The wall grew. Now huge blocks of masonry were visible, overgrown with bushes and trees between the cracks. They were approaching a gigantic cirque. It was full of water. Fountains of foam rose above the surface in many places...

“Ro,” said the Martian, raising his finger importantly.

Moose pulled a notebook from his pocket and found a hastily sketched drawing of lines and dots on the disk of Mars. He handed the drawing to his neighbor and pointed down at the circus. The Martian peered at it, wincing. He understood, nodded happily, and with the nail of his little finger traced one of the dots on the drawing.

Leaning over the side, Moose saw two straight lines and one curved line of water-filled canals radiating from the cirque. So here it was—the mystery: the round spots on the disk of Mars were cirques—water reservoirs; the lines of triangles and semicircles—canals. But what creatures could have built these cyclopean walls? Moose glanced back at his companion. The Martian thrust out his lower lip and raised his outstretched arms to the sky:

- Tao hatsha ro hamagatzitl.

The ship was now crossing a parched plain. Across it lay the waterless bed of the fourth canal, a wide, lush, pinkish-red strip covered with regular rows of vegetation like a field of crops. Apparently, this was one of the lines of the second canal network—a pale outline on the disk of Mars.

The plain gave way to low, gentle hills. Beyond them, the bluish outlines of lattice towers began to appear. On the ship's middle mast, lengths of wire rose and sparked. Beyond the hills, more and more outlines of lattice towers and stepped buildings appeared. The vast city emerged as silvery shadows from the sunlit haze.

The Martian said:

-- Soatsra.

Soacera

The bluish outlines of Soacera, the terraced flat roofs, the latticed walls covered in greenery, the oval mirrors of the ponds, the transparent towers, rising from behind the hills, took up ever more space, disappearing behind the misty horizon. A multitude of black dots flew over the city toward the ship.

The flourishing canal retreated to the north. To the east of the city stretched a deserted, pitted field covered in piles of rubble. At the edge of this desert, casting a sharp, long shadow, towered a gigantic statue, cracked and covered in lichen.

The stone-like, naked man stood at full height, his legs folded, his hands pressed to his narrow hips, a ribbed belt supporting his bulging chest, his eared helmet, crowned with a sharp crest like a fish's spine, glimmering dully in the sun. His high-cheekboned face, eyes closed, smiled with a moon-shaped mouth.

“Magazitl,” said the Martian, pointing to the sky.

In the distance, beyond the statue, the enormous ruins of a circus could be seen, the outlines of the collapsed arches of an aqueduct. Looking closer, Los realized that the piles of rubble on the plain—pits, hills—were the remains of an ancient city. The new city, Soacera, began beyond the sparkling lake, to the west of these ruins.

The black dots in the sky grew closer and larger. They were hundreds of Martians, flying toward them in winged boats and saddles, on canvas birds, in baskets with parachutes.

The first to arrive was a narrow, golden, four-winged cigar, like a dragonfly, shining over the ship, making a sharp turn. Flowers and colorful papers rained down from it onto the ship's deck, and excited faces hung over it.

Moose stood up, holding onto the rope, and removed his helmet, the wind lifting his white hair. Gusev emerged from the wheelhouse and stood nearby. Armfuls of flowers flew down upon them from the boats. The bluish, sometimes swarthy, sometimes brick-red faces of the approaching Martians were filled with excitement, delight, and horror.

Now, overhead, in front, on the sides, chasing the slowly moving ship, hundreds of air crews were flying. A fat man in a striped cap, waving his arms, glided down in a parachute basket. A lumpy face flashed past, peering into a telescope. A preoccupied, sharp-nosed Martian, his hair flying, twirled in front of the ship on a winged saddle, aiming some kind of revolving box at Moose. A wicker boat, covered in flowers, flashed past—three women's faces, large-eyed, pale, blue caps, flowing blue sleeves, gold-woven scarves.

The whistling of the propellers, the noise of the wind in the wings, the thin whistles, the glitter of gold, the motley array of clothes in the airy blue, below – the purple, now silver, now canary-colored foliage of the parks, the windows of the terraced houses sparkling with the reflections of the sun – it was all like a dream. His head was spinning. Gusev looked around, repeating in a whisper:

-- Look, look, oh my God!..

The ship sailed over the hanging gardens and gently descended onto a large circular square. Immediately, hundreds of boats, baskets, and winged saddles rained down from the sky like peas, landing and plopping down on the white flagstones of the square. The streets radiating out from it like a star were bustling with crowds of people—running, throwing flowers, papers, waving handkerchiefs.

The ship landed at a tall, pyramid-like building of gloomy black-red stone. On its wide staircase, between square, tapering columns that reached only a third of the building's height, stood a group of Martians. They were all dressed in black robes and round caps. This, as Los later learned, was the Supreme Council of Engineers—the supreme governing body of all Martian countries.

The Martian companion motioned to Los to wait. Soldiers ran down the steps to the square and surrounded the ship, holding back the pressing crowds. Gusev gazed in admiration at the colorful, surging square, the multitude of wings rising above their heads, the massive grayish or black-red buildings, the transparent outlines of the towers beyond the roofs.

“Well, this is a city, this is a city!” he repeated, stamping his feet.

On the stairs, the Martians in black robes parted. A tall, stooped Martian appeared, also dressed in black, with a long, gloomy face and a long, narrow black beard. A golden comb quivered on his round cap, like a fish's spine.

Halfway down the stairs, leaning on his cane, he gazed for a long time with his sunken, dark eyes at the aliens from Earth. Moose looked at him too, attentively, warily.

"Damn it, you're staring!" Gusev whispered. He turned to the crowd and, this time carelessly, shouted, "Hello, fellow Martians! We bring you greetings from the Soviet republics... To establish good-neighborly relations..."

The crowd gasped in amazement, murmured, began to rustle, and pressed closer. The grim Martian grabbed his beard in a fist and turned his gaze to the crowd, casting a dull glance across the square. And under his gaze, the agitated sea of ​​heads began to quiet. He turned to those standing on the stairs, said a few words, and, raising his cane, pointed it at the ship.

Immediately, one of the Martians ran up to the ship and spoke quietly and quickly to the bald Martian leaning over the side. Signal whistles blared, two soldiers ran aboard, the propellers whined, and the ship, lumbering away from the square, floated north over the city.

In the azure grove

The Soacera sank far beyond the hills. The ship flew over the plain. Here and there, monotonous lines of buildings, the poles and wires of overhead railways, mine openings, and loaded barges moving through narrow canals could be seen.

But then, rocky peaks began to rise more and more frequently from the forest thickets. The ship descended, flew over a gorge, and landed in a meadow that sloped gently down to the dark, lush thicket.

Los and Gusev took the bags and, together with their bald companion, walked across the meadow, down to the grove.

The spray of water gushing from beneath a tree played like rainbows over the shimmering, curly grass. A herd of short, long-haired animals, black and white, grazed along the slope. It was peaceful. The water murmured softly. A breeze blew.

The long-haired animals rose lazily, making way for the people, and moved away, waddling their bear-like paws, turning their flat, gentle muzzles. Yellow birds alighted on the meadow and fluffed themselves up, shaking themselves under the iridescent fountain of water.

They approached a grove. The lush, weeping trees were azure-blue. Resinous foliage rustled their dry, drooping branches. The shimmering waters of a lake sparkled in the distance through the mottled trunks. The spicy, sweet heat in this blue thicket was dizzying.

The grove was crisscrossed by many paths strewn with orange sand. At their intersections, in circular clearings, stood large sandstone statues, some old, some broken, some covered in lichen. Above the thicket rose the remains of columns, the remains of a cyclopean wall.

The path curved toward the lake. Its dark blue mirror revealed itself, with the upturned peak of a distant rocky mountain. The reflections of weeping trees rippled faintly in the water. A lush sun shone. In a bend in the shore, flanking a mossy staircase descending into the lake, towered two enormous seated statues, cracked and overgrown with creeping vegetation.

A young woman appeared on the steps of the stairs. A pointed yellow cap covered her head. She seemed youthfully slender, white and bluish, next to the heavy frame of Magazitl, perpetually smiling in his sleep, seated and covered in moss. She slipped, grabbed a stone ledge, and raised her head.

“Aelita,” the Martian whispered, covering his eyes with his sleeve and dragging Los and Gusev off the path into the thicket.

Soon they emerged into a large clearing. Deep within it, amidst the thick grass, stood a gloomy, sloping-walled gray house. From the star-shaped sandy area in front of its façade, straight paths ran across the meadow down to a grove of trees, where low stone buildings could be seen between the trees.

The bald Martian whistled. A short, plump Martian in a striped robe appeared from around the corner of the house. His crimson face looked as if it had been rubbed with beetroot. Wincing in the sun, he approached, but upon hearing who the newcomers were, he immediately scurried around the corner. The bald Martian spoke to him imperiously, and the fat man, crouching with fear, turning around, showing a yellow tooth from his toothless mouth, led the guests into the house.

Rest

The guests were shown to bright, small, almost empty rooms, their narrow windows overlooking the park. The walls of the dining room and bedrooms were covered with white mats. Pots with flowering trees stood in the corners. Gusev found the room suitable: "Like a luggage basket, very nice."

The fat man in the striped robe, the manager of the house, was fussing, babbling, rolling from door to door, wiping his skull with a brown handkerchief and from time to time turning to stone, rolling his sclerotic eyes at the guests, and whispering hastily, soundlessly, some kind of spells, probably.

He turned on the water in the pool and led Los and Gusev each into their own tub, where thick clouds of steam rose from the bottom. The touch of the hot, bubbling, light water on his exhausted body was so sweet that Los almost fell asleep in the pool. The manager pulled him out by the hand.

Moose barely made it to the dining room, where the table was set with a multitude of plates laden with vegetables, pâtés, tiny eggs, and fruit. Crispy, nut-sized balls of bread melted in the mouth. There were no knives or forks, only a tiny spatula jabbed into each dish. The manager was petrified, watching the people from Earth devour the most delicate dishes. Gusev had acquired a taste. The wine, with its scent of damp flowers, was especially good. It evaporated in the mouth and flowed through the veins with a hot invigoration.

After leading the guests to their bedrooms, the manager fussed for a long time, tucking in blankets and stuffing pillows. But a deep, long sleep had already overtaken the "white giants." They breathed and snored so loudly that the glass shook, the plants in the corners trembled, and the beds creaked beneath their un-Martian-like bodies.

The moose opened his eyes. A bluish artificial light poured from the ceiling well. It was warm and pleasant to lie down. "What happened? Where am I lying?" But he still couldn't figure it out—he closed his eyes again in pleasure.

Some radiant spots floated by, as if water were playing through azure foliage. A premonition of astonishing joy, the expectation that at any moment something would emerge from these shining spots into his dream, filled him with a wondrous anxiety.

Through his drowsiness, he frowned, smiling, trying to penetrate this thin veil of gliding sunspots. But an even deeper sleep covered him like a cloud.

* * *

The moose sat on the bed. He sat there for a while, his head bowed. He stood up and tugged the curtain to the side. Outside the narrow window, enormous stars glowed with an icy light, their unfamiliar pattern strange and wild.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said the Elk, “I’m not on Earth. An icy desert, endless space. I’m in a new world. Well, yes: I’m dead. Life remains there...”

He dug his nails into his chest where his heart was.

-- It's neither life nor death. A living brain, a living body. But life remains there...

He himself couldn't understand why, for the second night, he was so unbearably tormented by a longing for Earth, for himself, who lived there, beyond the stars. It was as if a living thread had been severed, and his soul was suffocating in an icy, black void. He collapsed back onto the pillows.

* * *

--Who's here?

The moose jumped up. A ray of morning light streamed through the window. The small thatched room was dazzlingly clean. Leaves rustled, birds whistled outside. The moose ran his hand over his eyes and sighed deeply.

There was another light knock at the door. The moose opened the door, revealing a fat, striped man, clutching a bunch of azure, dew-drenched flowers across his stomach with both hands.

“Aiu utara Aelita,” he whispered, holding out the flowers.

Foggy ball

During the morning meal Gusev said:

"Mstislav Sergeyevich, this isn't really the right thing to do. We flew God knows where, and now we're stuck in the boondocks. Cooling off in the baths—that wasn't even worth flying for. They probably didn't let us into the city—that bearded fellow, remember how he scowled. Oh, Mstislav Sergeyevich, beware of him. For now they're giving us food and drink, and then what?"

“Don’t be in a hurry, Alexey Ivanovich,” said Los, looking at the azure flowers that smelled bitter and sweet, “we’ll live, look around, they’ll see that we’re not dangerous, they’ll let us into the city.”

“I don’t know about you, Mstislav Sergeevich, but I didn’t come here to chill out.”

-- What do you think we should do?

“It’s strange to hear this from you, Mstislav Sergeevich. Have you been sniffing something sweet?”

-- Do you want to quarrel?

-- No, not to quarrel. And to sit and smell the flowers, we have plenty of that on Earth. And I think that if we were the first people to show up here, then Mars is now ours, Soviet. This matter needs to be consolidated.

- You're a weirdo, Alexey Ivanovich.

"Well, let's see which one of us is the weirdo." Gusev adjusted his belt, shrugged, and his eyes narrowed slyly. "It's a difficult matter, I understand: there are only two of us. But we need them to give us a document stating their desire to join the Russian Federative Republic. They won't give us that document quietly, of course, but you've seen for yourself: not everything is in order on Mars. I have a trained eye for such things."

-- Do you want to start a revolution or something?

-- Well, Mstislav Sergeyevich, we'll see. What are we going to return to Petrograd with? A dried spider, perhaps? No, we'll return and present: here you go -- the annexation of the planet Mars to Resefeser. Then Europe will rejoice. You can see for yourself that gold alone here can be transported by the shipload. That's it, Mstislav Sergeyevich.

The moose looked at him thoughtfully: it was impossible to understand whether Gusev was joking or speaking seriously; his sly, simple eyes were laughing, but somewhere in them a little madness was hiding.

The moose shook his head and, touching the transparent waxy azure petals of the large flowers, said thoughtfully:

-- It never occurred to me why I was flying to Mars. I was flying to arrive. There was a time when the conquistadors would fit out a ship and set sail in search of new lands. An unknown shore would appear over the sea, the ship would enter the mouth of a river, the captain would take off his wide-brimmed hat and call the land by his name. Then he would plunder the shores. Yes, you are probably right: just reaching the shore is not enough – we need to load the ship with treasures. We are about to glimpse a new world – what treasures! Wisdom, wisdom – that is what we need to take away on our ship, Alexei Ivanovich.

-- It will be difficult for us to come to an agreement, Mstislav Sergeyevich. You are not an easy person.

The moose laughed:

- No, I am only difficult for myself, let's come to an agreement, my dear friend.

There was a scratching at the door. The manager appeared, sitting up slightly with fear and respect, and motioned for them to follow him. Moose rose quickly and ran a hand through his white hair. Gusev resolutely twirled his mustache, making it stick up. The guests walked through the corridors and up the stairs to the far part of the house.

The manager knocked on the low door. A hurried, childish voice rang out from behind it. Los and Gusev entered a long white room. Rays of light, dust motes dancing in them, fell through the ceiling windows onto the mosaic floor, reflecting neat rows of books, bronze statues standing between flat bookcases, tables on sharp legs, and the cloudy mirrors of screens.

Not far from the door stood an ash-haired young woman in a black dress, covered to the neck and wrists. Dust motes danced above her high-up hair in the sunlight falling on the gilded book bindings. This was the one the Martian had named Aelita yesterday at the lake.

The moose bowed low to her. Aelita, motionless, gazed at him with the enormous pupils of her ashen eyes. Her elongated, white-blue face trembled slightly. Her slightly upturned nose and slightly elongated mouth were childishly tender. Her chest heaved beneath its soft, black folds, as if from climbing a steep slope.

“Ellio utara geo,” she said in a voice as light as music, gentle, almost a whisper, and bowed her head so low that the back of her head became visible.

In response, Moose merely cracked his knuckles. Making an effort, he said, inexplicably pompously:

"The aliens from Earth greet you, Aelita." He said and blushed. Gusev spoke with dignity:

-- Pleased to meet you, Regiment Commander Gusev, Engineer Mstislav Sergeevich Los. We've come to thank you for your hospitality.

After listening to the human speech, Aelita raised her head, her face calmer, her pupils smaller. She silently extended her hand, wrapped the narrow part of it around her, palm up, and held it there for a moment. Los and Gusev seemed to see a pale green sphere appear in her palm. Then Aelita quickly turned her palm over and walked along the bookshelves into the depths of the library. The guests followed her.

Now Moose saw that Aelita was shoulder-length, delicate and light, like the bitter-scented flowers she'd sent him that morning. The hem of her wide dress floated across the mirrored mosaic. She smiled when she turned, but her eyes remained worried and anxious.

She pointed to a wide bench standing in the semicircular extension of the room. Los and Gusev sat down. Aelita immediately sat down opposite them at the reading table, rested her elbows on it, and began to gaze softly and intently at the guests.

They remained silent for a while. Little by little, Moose began to feel a sense of peace and sweetness—sitting like this and contemplating this wonderful, strange girl. Gusev sighed and said in a low voice:

-- A good girl, a very nice girl.

Then Aelita spoke, as if she had touched a musical instrument—her voice was so wonderful. Line after line she repeated some words, barely moving her lips. Her ashen eyelashes slowly closed and then opened.

She held her hand out in front of her again, palm up. Almost immediately, Los and Gusev saw a pale green, misty ball, the size of a small apple, in the hollow of her palm. Within its sphere, it was moving and shimmering.

Now both guests and Aelita gazed intently at this cloudy, opalescent apple. Suddenly, the streams within it stopped, letting in dark spots. Looking closer, Moose cried out; in Aelita's palm lay a globe.

“Taltsettl,” she said, pointing her finger at him.

The ball slowly began to spin. The outlines of America and the Pacific coast of Asia floated past. Gusev became agitated.

“It’s us, we are Russians,” he said, pointing his fingernail at Siberia.

The Ural Mountains, a thread of the lower Volga, floated past like a sinuous shadow. The shores of the White Sea appeared.

“Here,” said Moose and pointed to the Gulf of Finland.

Aelita looked up at him in surprise. The sphere's rotation had stopped. Moose concentrated, a fragment of a map forming in his memory—and immediately, like an imprint of his imagination, a black blot appeared on the surface of the misty sphere, a thread of railroad tracks extending from it, and—an inscription on a greenish field: "Petrograd."

Aelita peered closer and shielded the orb—it was now visible through her fingers. Looking at Moose, she shook her head.

“Oceo, ho sua,” she said, and he understood: “Concentrate and remember.”

Then he began to recall the outlines of St. Petersburg - the granite embankment, the cold blue waves of the Neva, a boat diving into them, the long arches of the Nikolaevsky Bridge hanging in the fog, the thick smoke of the factories, the smoke and clouds of a dull sunset, the wet street, the sign of a small shop, the old cab driver on the corner.

Aelita, resting her chin, gazed quietly at the globe. Moose's memories floated through it, sometimes clear, sometimes as if erased. The dim dome of St. Isaac's Cathedral appeared, and in its place a granite staircase by the water appeared, a semicircle of benches, a sadly seated fair-haired girl—her face trembled and vanished—and above her, two sphinxes in tiaras. Columns of numbers and a blueprint floated by, a blazing furnace appeared, and a sullen Khokhlov fanned the embers.

Aelita gazed for a long time at the strange life passing before her in the sphere's misty streams. But then the images began to become confused: they were persistently interrupted by images of a completely different nature—streaks of smoke, a glow, galloping horses, people running and falling. Then, obscuring everything, a bearded, blood-stained face loomed. Gusev sighed loudly. Aelita turned to him anxiously and immediately turned her palm over. The sphere had vanished.

Aelita sat for a few minutes, leaning her elbows, her hand covering her eyes. She stood up, took one of the cylinders from the shelf, pulled out a bone roller, and placed it on the reading table with the screen. Then she pulled the cord, and the upper windows in the library were covered with blue curtains. She moved the table to the bench and turned the switch.

The mirror of the screen lit up, and figures of Martians, animals, houses, trees, and utensils floated across it from top to bottom.

Aelita named each figurine. When the figurines moved and combined, she named a verb. Sometimes the images were interspersed with colorful signs, like in a singing book, and a barely perceptible musical phrase could be heard—Aelita named a concept.

She spoke in a quiet voice. Images of the objects in this strange alphabet floated slowly by. In the silence, in the bluish gloom of the library, ashen eyes gazed at Moose, Aelita's voice penetrating his consciousness with a powerful yet gentle spell. His head spun.

Los felt his brain clearing, as if a fog had lifted, and new words and concepts were imprinted in his memory. This went on for a long time. Aelita ran her hand over her forehead, sighed, and turned off the screen. Los and Gusev sat as if in a fog.

“Go and go to bed,” Aelita said to the guests in a language whose sounds were still strange, but whose meaning was already evident in the darkness of consciousness.

On the stairs

Seven days have passed.

When Moose later recalled this time, it seemed to him like a blue twilight, an amazing peace, where in reality a series of wondrous dreams passed.

Los and Gusev woke early in the morning. After a bath and a light meal, they went to the library. Aelita's attentive, gentle eyes greeted them at the threshold. She spoke words that were almost intelligible. There was a feeling of indescribable peace in the silence and semi-darkness of this room, in Aelita's quiet words—the moisture in her eyes shimmered, their eyes widened into a sphere, and dreams unfolded within. Shadows flitted across the screen. Words, beyond their control, penetrated their consciousness.

Words—at first mere sounds, then concepts emerging as if from a fog—gradually became imbued with the juice of life. Now, when Moose pronounced the name—Aelita—it stirred him with a dual feeling: the sadness of the first word, AE, which meant "seen for the last time," and the sensation of silvery light—LITA, which meant "starlight." Thus the language of the new world, like the subtlest substance, flowed into his consciousness.

This enrichment continued for seven days. Lessons were held—morning and after sunset—until midnight. Finally, Aelita apparently grew tired. On the eighth day, no one came to wake the guests, and they slept until evening.

When Moose rose from his bed, long shadows from the trees could be seen through the window. A bird whistled with a crystal, monotonous voice. Moose dressed quickly and, without waking Gusev, went to the library, but no one answered his knock. Then Moose went out into the yard, for the first time in seven days.

The clearing sloped gently down to a grove of low buildings. A herd of clumsy, long-haired animals—khashi—half-bear, half-cow—was moving toward it, bellowing mournfully. The slanting sun gilded the curly grass; the entire meadow glowed with damp gold. Emerald cranes flew toward the lake. In the distance, the snowy cone of a mountain peak loomed, bathed in sunset light. Here, too, there was peace, the sadness of a day ending in peace and gold.

The moose walked toward the lake along a familiar path. The same weeping azure trees stood on either side, the same ruins he saw behind the spotted trunks, the same air—thin, chilling. But it seemed to the moose that only now had he seen this wondrous nature—his eyes and ears had opened—he had learned the names of things.

The lake shone through the branches in blazing patches. But when Elk approached the water, the sun had already set, fiery plumes of sunset, tongues of gentle flame, engulfing half the sky in golden flame. Swiftly, the fire was covered in ash, the sky cleared, darkened, and then the stars began to shine. The strange pattern of constellations was reflected in the water. In a bend of the lake, near the stairs, two stone giants towered in black outline—guardians of millennia, sitting with their faces turned toward the constellations.

The moose approached the stairs. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the rapidly approaching darkness. He leaned against the statue's pedestal and inhaled the damp moisture of the lake—the bitter scent of marsh flowers. The reflections of the stars blurred, and a fine mist began to curl over the water. The constellations burned ever brighter, and now the dormant branches, the glittering pebbles, and the smiling face of the seated Magazitl were clearly visible.

The moose stared and stood there for so long, until his hand resting on the stone went numb. Then he stepped away from the statue and immediately saw Aelita on the stairs below. She sat motionless, gazing at the reflection of the stars in the black water.

"Aiu tu ira khaskh, Aelita," said Los, listening in amazement to the strange sounds of his words. He spoke them with difficulty, as if in the cold. His desire—"Can I be with you, Aelita?"—was itself transformed into these alien sounds.

Aelita slowly turned her head and said:

-- Yes.

Moose sat down on the step next to her. Aelita's hair was covered by a black cap—the hood of her cloak. Her face was visible in the starlight, but her eyes were invisible—only large shadows in the sockets.

In a cool voice, calmly, she asked:

--Were you happy there, on Earth?

The moose did not answer right away, but looked closely: her face was motionless, her mouth was sadly folded.

“Yes,” he answered, “yes, I was happy,

"What is happiness like on Earth?" The moose looked again.

-- Perhaps the happiness we have on Earth is to forget ourselves. He who is happy is he who has fullness, harmony, and a thirst to live for those who give this fullness, harmony, and joy.

Now Aelita turned to face him. Her enormous eyes became visible, staring in amazement at this white-haired giant, this human.

“Such happiness comes from loving a woman,” said Elk.

Aelita turned away. The sharp cap on her head trembled. Was she laughing? No. Was she crying? No. The moose shifted uneasily on the mossy step. Aelita said in a slightly trembling voice:

-- Why did you leave Earth?

“The one I loved died,” said the Elk. “I had no strength to overcome despair; life became terrible for me. I am a fugitive and a coward.”

Aelita pulled her hand out from under her cloak and placed it on Moose's large hand, touched it, and then put her hand back under her cloak.

“I knew this would happen in my life,” she said, as if lost in thought. “Even as a girl, I had strange dreams. I dreamed of high green mountains. Bright rivers, not ours. Clouds, clouds, huge, white, and rains, streams of water. And giant people. I thought I was going crazy. Later, my teacher said that this was ashkhe, second sight. In us, the descendants of the Magatsitls, the memory of another life lives, ashkhe dormants, like an unsprouted grain. Ashkhe is a terrible power, great wisdom. But I don’t know what – happiness?”

Aelita pulled both hands from under her cloak and clasped them like a child. Her cap began to tremble again.

“For many years now, at night, I have been coming to this staircase and looking at the stars. I know a lot. I assure you, I know things that you should never and never need to know. But I was happy when, as a child, I dreamed of clouds, clouds, streams of rain, green mountains, giants. The teacher warned me: he said that I would perish.” She turned her face to Moose and suddenly smiled.

The moose felt terrified; Aelita was so wonderfully beautiful, such a dangerous, bittersweet smell came from her cloak with a hood, from her hands, from her face, from her breath.

-- The teacher said: "Hao will destroy you." This word means descent.

Aelita turned away and pulled the cap of her cloak lower, over her eyes.

After a silence, Moose said:

-- Aelita, tell me about your knowledge.

“It’s a secret,” she answered importantly, “but you are a man, I will have to tell you a lot.”

She raised her face. The great constellations on either side of the Milky Way shone and twinkled as if a breeze of eternity passed across their lights. Aelita sighed.

“Listen,” she said, “listen to me carefully and calmly.”

Aelita's first story

-- Tuma, that is, Mars, twenty thousand years ago was inhabited by the Aols, an orange race. The wild tribes of the Aols—hunters and eaters of giant spiders—lived in the equatorial forests and swamps. Only a few words remain in our language from these tribes. Another part of the Aols inhabited the southern bays of the large continent. There are volcanic caves with salt and freshwater lakes there. The population caught fish and carried them underground, dumping them in the salt lakes. In the depths of the caves, they found refuge from the winter cold. To this day, mounds of fish bones are still visible there.

A third of the Aols settled near the equator at the foot of the mountains, wherever geysers of drinking water gushed from the ground. These tribes knew how to build shelters, bred long-haired hashi, fought spider-eaters, and worshiped the blood star Talzetl.

Among one of the tribes inhabiting the blessed land of Azora, a remarkable man, Shoho, appeared. He was the son of a shepherd, grew up in the mountains of Lysiasira, and when he was seventeen years old, he descended upon the villages of Azora, wandered from town to town, and spoke thus:

"I had a dream. The sky opened and a star fell. I drove my khashi to the place where the star fell. There I saw the Son of Heaven lying in the grass. He was tall, his face white as the snow on the mountain peaks. He raised his head, and I saw light and madness coming from his eyes. I was frightened and fell on my face and lay there for a long time, as if dead. I heard the Son of Heaven take my staff and drive my khashi, and the earth trembled under his feet. And I also heard his loud voice, he said: "You will die, for I want this." But I followed him, because I felt sorry for my khashi. I was afraid to approach him: an evil fire emanated from his eyes, and each time I fell on my face to stay alive. So we walked for several days, moving away from the mountains into the desert.

The Son of Heaven struck the stone with his staff, and water came out. Khashi and I drank this water. And the Son of Heaven said to me: "Be my slave." Then I began to herd his khashi, and he threw me the remains of the food."

Thus spoke the shepherd to the city dwellers. And he continued:

"The gentle birds and peaceful beasts live, not knowing when death will come. But already the predatory ihi has spread its sharp wings over the crane, and the spider has woven a web, and the eyes of the terrible cha burn through the blue thicket. Fear. You do not have swords sharp enough to strike the evil one, you do not have walls strong enough to fence him off, you do not have legs long enough to escape the evil one. I see a fiery line in the sky, and the evil Son of Heaven is falling into your villages. His eye is like the red fire of Taltsetl."

The inhabitants of peaceful Azora raised their hands in awe as they listened to these words. The shepherd continued:

"When the bloodthirsty cha searches for you with his eyes through the thicket - become a shadow, and the nose of the cha will not smell your blood. When the ihi falls from a pink cloud - become a shadow, and the eyes of the ihi will search for you in vain in the grass. When, by the light of two moons - ollo and litha - at night, the evil spider, tsitli, weaves a web around your hut - become a shadow, and the tsitli will not catch you. Become a shadow, poor son of Tuma. Only evil attracts evil. Remove from yourself everything akin to evil. Bury your imperfection under the threshold of the hut. Go to the great geyser Soam and wash yourself. And you will become invisible to the evil Son of Heaven - in vain will his bloody eye pierce your shadow."

The people of Azora listened to the shepherd. Many followed him to the round lake, to the great geyser of Soam.

There, others asked: "How can evil be buried under the threshold of a hut?" Others grew angry and shouted at the shepherd: "You are deceiving us—offended beggars have persuaded you to lull our vigilance and take possession of our homes." Others conspired: "Let us take the mad shepherd to the cliff and throw him into the hot lake, let him become a shadow himself."

Hearing this, the shepherd would take his ulla, a wooden pipe with strings stretched across a triangle at the bottom, sit among the angry, irritated, and perplexed, and begin to play and sing. He played and sang so beautifully that the birds fell silent, the wind died down, the flocks lay down, and the sun stood still in the sky. Each listener felt at that moment as if they had already buried their imperfections beneath the threshold of their hut.

The shepherd taught for three years. In the fourth summer, spider-eaters emerged from the swamps and attacked the inhabitants of Azora. The shepherd went through the villages, preaching: "Don't step over the threshold, fear the evil within you, fear losing your purity." They listened, and some refused to resist the spider-eaters, so the savages beat them at the thresholds of their huts. Then the elders of the towns, having conspired, seized the shepherd, led him to a cliff, and threw him into the lake.

The shepherd's teachings spread far beyond the borders of Azora. Even the inhabitants of the Pomor caves carved images of him playing the ulla into the rocks. But it also happened that the leaders of other tribes executed those who worshiped the shepherd, because they considered his teachings mad and dangerous. And now the hour of the prophecy's fulfillment had arrived. The chronicles of that time say:

"For forty days and forty nights the Sons of Heaven fell upon Tuma. The star Talzetl rose after the evening dawn and burned with an extraordinary light, like an evil eye. Many of the Sons of Heaven fell dead, many were killed by the rocks, many drowned in the southern ocean, but many reached the surface of Tuma and were alive."

This is how the chronicle tells of the great migration of the Magacitls, that is, one of the tribes of the earthly race that perished in the flood twenty thousand years ago.

The Magacitls flew in bronze, egg-shaped craft, using the force of matter disintegration for propulsion. Over the course of forty days, they departed Earth.

Many giant eggs were lost in stellar space, many more crashed onto the surface of Mars. A small number landed harmlessly on the plains of the equatorial continent.

The chronicle says:

"They emerged from eggs, tall and black-haired. The Sons of Heaven had yellow, flat faces. Their torsos and knees were covered with bronze armor. Their helmets had a sharp crest, and the helmet protruded in front of their faces. In their left hand, the Son of Heaven held a short sword, in their right, a scroll with formulas that destroyed the poor and ignorant peoples of Tuma."

Such were the Magacitls, a fierce and powerful tribe. On Earth, on a continent sunken to the ocean floor, they ruled the City of a Hundred Golden Gates.

Here, emerging from bronze eggs, they went to the Aol villages, took what they wanted, and killed those who resisted. They drove the Khashi herds to the plains and began digging wells. They plowed the fields and sowed them with barley. But there was little water in the wells, and the barley grains perished in the dry, barren soil. Then they told the Lols to go to the plains, dig irrigation canals, and build large reservoirs.

Some of the tribes obeyed and went to dig. Others said, "We will disobey and kill the newcomers." The Aolian army came out onto the plain and covered it like a cloud.

The newcomers were few. But they were as strong as rocks, as powerful as the ocean waves, as ferocious as a storm. They scattered and destroyed the Aol armies. Villages burned. Herds scattered. Ferocious cha emerged from the swamps and tore apart children and women. Spiders wove themselves around the deserted huts. The corpse-eaters—the ikhi—grew fat and could no longer fly. The end of the world was coming.

Then they remembered the prophecy: "Become a shadow for evil, poor son of Tuma, and the bloody eye of the Son of Heaven will pierce your shadow in vain." Many Aols went to the great geyser of Soam. Many went into the mountains, hoping to hear the evil-cleansing song of the Ulla in the misty gorges. Many shared their possessions with one another. They sought the good in themselves and in each other, and with songs and tears of joy they greeted it. In the Lysiasira Mountains, the shepherd's followers built a Sacred Threshold, beneath which lay evil. Three rings of ever-burning fires guarded the Threshold.

The Aols' troops perished. The spider-eaters were exterminated in the forests. The remnants of the Pomor fishermen became slaves. But the Magatsitls did not touch the shepherd's believers, did not touch the Sacred Threshold, did not approach the Soam geyser, did not enter the depths of the mountain gorges, where at midday the passing wind emitted mysterious sounds—the song of the ulla.

Thus many bloody and sad years passed.

The newcomers had no women—the conquerors were expected to die without leaving offspring. And so, in the mountains where the Aoli were hiding, a messenger appeared—the beautiful-faced Magacitl. He was without helmet or sword. In his hand, he held a cane with yarn tied to it. He approached the fires of the Sacred Threshold and began to speak to the Aoli, who had gathered from all the gorges:

"My head is uncovered, my chest is bare—strike me with the sword if I tell a lie. We are mighty. We possessed the star Talzetl. We flew across the stellar road called the Milky Way. We conquered Tuma and destroyed the tribes hostile to us. We began to build water reservoirs and great canals in order to collect water and irrigate the hitherto barren plains of Tuma. We will build the great city of Soaceru, which means Solar Village, we will give life to all who desire life. But we have no women, and we must die without fulfilling our destiny. Give us your virgins, and we will give birth to a mighty tribe from them, and it will populate the continents of Tuma. Come to us and help us build."

The Messenger placed his reed and yarn by the fire and sat facing the Threshold. His eyes were closed. And everyone could see the third eye on his forehead, covered with a thin film, as if inflamed.

The Aoli consulted and said among themselves: "There is not enough fodder for the livestock in the mountains and little water. In winter, we freeze in the caves. Strong winds blow our huts into bottomless gorges. Let us obey the messenger and return to the old ashes."

The Aols emerged from the mountain gorges onto the Azor plain, driving herds of hashi before them. The Magacitls took the Aols' virgins and gave birth to the blue tribe of Gor. At the same time, construction began on the sixteen gigantic Ro cirques, which collected water from the melting polar snows. The barren plains were cut with canals and irrigated.

From the ashes, new Aol settlements arose. The fields yielded abundant harvests.

The walls of Soacera were erected. During the construction of the circuses and walls, the Magacitls used gigantic lifting machines, powered by amazing mechanisms. With the power of knowledge, the Magacitls could move large stones and cause plant growth. They recorded their knowledge in books—with colored spots and star signs.

When the last alien from Earth died, Knowledge went with him. Only twenty millennia later did we, the descendants of the Mountain tribe, once again read the secret books of the Atlanteans.

Accidental discovery

At dusk, Gusev, having nothing better to do, wandered through the rooms. The house was large, solidly built—for winter living. It was filled with passages, staircases, deserted halls, and galleries with an uninhabited silence. Gusev wandered, looking around, yawning: "They live richly, the devils, but it's boring."

From the far end of the house, voices could be heard, the clatter of kitchen knives, the clanking of dishes. The manager's squeaky voice was spewing bird-like words, cursing at someone. Gusev reached the kitchen, a low, vaulted room. In the depths, oil flames flared over the frying pans. Gusev paused in the doorway, sniffing. The manager and the cook, who had been arguing among themselves, fell silent and retreated, somewhat apprehensively, into the depths of the vaulted ceiling.

"You're in a mess, in a mess, in a mess," Gusev said to them in Russian, "put a hood over the stove. Oh, barbarians, and even Martians!"

Waving his hand at their frightened faces, he stepped out onto the back porch. He sat down on the stone steps, took out his treasured cigarette case, and lit a cigarette.

At the edge of the clearing below, a shepherd boy, running and shouting, was herding dully bellowing khashi into a brick barn. A woman with two pails of milk was walking toward him along a path through the tall grass. The wind blew through her yellow shirt, fluttering the tassel on her funny cap against her bright red hair. She stopped, set down the pails, and began swatting away some insect, shielding her face with her elbow. The wind caught her hem. She squatted down, laughing, picked up the pails, and ran again. Seeing Gusev, she bared her cheerful white teeth.

Gusev called her Ikhoshka, although her name was Ikha, the manager’s niece, a funny, dark-blue, plump girl.

She quickly ran past Gusev, only wrinkling her nose in his direction. Gusev was about to give her a slap from behind, but refrained. He sat, smoked, and waited.

Indeed, Ikhoshka soon appeared again with a basket and a knife. She sat down not far from the Son of Heaven and began peeling vegetables. Her thick eyelashes blinked. It was clear that she was a cheerful girl.

"Why are your women on Marcia so blue?" Gusev said to her in Russian. "You're a fool, Ihoshka, you don't understand real life."

Iha answered him, and Gusev, as if in a dream, understood her words:

-- I studied sacred history at school; it said that the Sons of Heaven are evil. The books say one thing, but in reality it turns out to be another. The Sons of Heaven are not evil at all.

"Yes, they're kind," said Gusev, squinting one eye. Ikha choked on her laughter, the peel flying out from under her knife.

-- My uncle says that you, Sons of Heaven, can kill with a glance. Somehow I don't notice it.

-- Really? And what do you notice?

“Listen, answer me in our language,” said Ikhoshka, “but I don’t understand in yours.”

-- And in your opinion, my speech is awkward.

"What did you say?" Ikha put down the knife, she was bursting with laughter. "I think it's the same here at Red Star."

Then Gusev coughed and moved closer. Ikha took the basket and moved away. Gusev coughed and moved even closer. She said:

"Wash your clothes—sliding up and down the steps." Maybe Ikha said it differently, but that's exactly how Gusev understood it.

He sat very close. Ikhoshka sighed briefly. She bowed her head and sighed more deeply. Then Gusev quickly glanced back and grabbed Ikhoshka by the shoulders. She immediately leaned back, staring. But he kissed her hard on the mouth. Ikhoshka clutched the basket and the knife tightly to her.

"That's it, Ihoshka!" She jumped up and ran away. Gusev remained sitting, tugging at his mustache. He grinned.

The sun set. The stars came out. A long, furry little animal crept up to the steps and stared at Gusev with phosphorescent eyes. Gusev stirred, the little animal hissed, and vanished like a shadow.

"Yes, we should leave these trifles aside," said Gusev. He tugged at his belt and went into the house. In the hallway, Ikhoshka immediately darted in front of him. He beckoned her with his finger, and they walked down the hallway. Gusev, wincing with tension, began to speak in Martian:

-- You, Ihoshka, just know this: if anything happens, I will marry you. You obey me. (Iha turned to face the wall, buried her face in it. He pulled her away from the wall and took her arm firmly.) Wait to stick your nose into the wall, I'm not married yet. Listen, I, the Son of Heaven, didn't come here for trifles. I have big business planned with your planet. But I'm a new person here, I don't know the rules. You must help me. Just watch out, don't lie. Tell me this: who is our master?

“Our master,” answered Iha, listening with effort to Gusev’s strange speech, “our master is the ruler over all the countries of Tuma.”

-- Hello, there you go! -- Gusev stopped. -- Are you lying? (He scratched behind his ear.) What is his official title? King, or what? What is his position?

--His name is Tuskub. He is Aelita's father. He is the head of the High Council.

-- Okay. I see.

Gusev walked in silence for some time.

-- Look here, Ihoshka, I saw you have a frosted mirror in that room. It's interesting to look into it. Show me how it's connected.

They entered a narrow, dimly lit room filled with low armchairs. A foggy mirror gleamed white in the wall. Gusev sank into a chair, closer to the screen. Iha asked:

--What would the Son of Heaven like to see? --Show me the city.

-- It's night now, work is over everywhere, factories and shops are closed, the squares are empty. Perhaps -- a spectacle?

-- Put on a show.

Iha plugged the switches into the digital board and, holding the end of the long cord, walked over to the chair where the Son of Heaven sat with his legs stretched out.

“A public celebration,” said Iha and pulled the cord.

A loud noise erupted—the sullen, thousand-voiced chatter of a crowd. The mirror lit up, revealing an immense vista of vaulted glass roofs. Broad shafts of light rested on enormous posters, on inscriptions, on clouds of billowing, multicolored smoke. Below, heads swarmed, heads, heads. Here and there, like bats, winged figures flew up and down. Glass vaults, crisscrossing beams of light, swirls of crowds receded into the depths, lost in the dusty, smoky haze.

“What are they doing?” Gusev shouted, breaking his voice, so great was the noise.

-- They breathe precious smoke. Do you see the clouds of smoke? -- Those are the leaves of the khawrā smoking. This is precious smoke. It is called the smoke of immortality. Whoever inhales it sees extraordinary things: it seems as if you will never die -- such miracles can be seen and understood. Many hear the sound of the ulla. No one has the right to smoke khawrā in their own home -- the punishment for this is death. Only the High Council permits smoking; only twelve times a year are khawrā leaves lit in this house.

-- And what are those people doing?

--They spin the number wheels. They guess the numbers. Today, anyone can guess a number, and whoever guesses it is freed from work forever. The High Council gives them a beautiful house, a field, ten hashes, and a winged boat. It is a great blessing to guess.

While explaining, Ikha sat down on the arm of the chair, and Gusev immediately grabbed her from behind. She tried to free herself, but went quiet and sat still. Gusev marveled at the wonders in the foggy mirror. "Oh, the devils, oh, the ugly ones!" Then he asked to see something else.

Ikha climbed down from the chair and, having turned off the mirror, fiddled with the digital board for a long time—she couldn't hit the switches in the right places. When she returned to the chair and sat down on the armrest again, twirling the ball of the cord in her hand, her face was slightly dazed. Gusev looked up at her and grinned. Then horror appeared in her eyes.

-- It's time for you, girl, to get married.

Ikhoshka looked away and took a breath. Gusev began to stroke her back, which was as sensitive as a cat's.

-- Oh, my glorious, beautiful, blue one.

“Look, here’s something else interesting,” she said very weakly and pulled the cord.

Half of the illuminated mirror was blocked by someone's back. An icy voice could be heard, slowly speaking. The back swayed, moving away from the mirror's field. Gusev saw part of a large vault, resting in the distance on a square pillar, part of a wall covered in golden inscriptions and geometric shapes. Below, around a table, sat the same Martians who had greeted the ship carrying the people on the stairs of the gloomy building, their heads bowed.

Aelita's father, Tuskub, stood before a brocade-covered table. His thin lips moved, his black beard stirred against the gold embroidery of his robe. He was as if turned to stone. His dull, gloomy eyes stared motionlessly ahead, as if into a mirror. Tuskub spoke, and his barbed words were incomprehensible, yet terrifying. Then he repeated several times, "Talzetl," and lowered his hand, clutching a scroll in his fist, as if in shock. The Martian sitting opposite him, his broad, pale face, rose and, glaring furiously at Tuskub with his whitish eyes, shouted:

-- Not them, but you!

Ikhoshka shuddered. She sat facing the mirror, but saw and heard nothing—the Son of Heaven's large hand stroked her back. When a scream rang out in the mirror and Gusev asked several times, "What are they talking about?" Ikhoshka seemed to wake up—her mouth gaped, staring at the mirror. Suddenly, she cried out piteously and yanked the cord.

The mirror went out.

“I was mistaken... I accidentally connected... Not a single Shokho dares listen to the secrets of the High Council.” Ikhoshka’s teeth were chattering. She ran her fingers through her red hair and whispered in despair: “I was mistaken. It’s not my fault. They’ll send me to the caves, to the eternal snows.”

"It's okay, it's okay, Ihoshka, I won't tell anyone." Gusev pulled her close to him and stroked her soft, warm hair, like an Angora cat's. Ihoshka fell silent and closed her eyes.

-- Oh, you fool, oh, girl! You're either a beast or a human being. Blue, stupid.

He scratched her behind the ear with his fingers, sure she enjoyed it. Ikhoshka tucked her legs up and curled up into a ball. Her eyes glowed like those of the little animal from earlier. Gusev felt a little creepy.

At that moment, footsteps and the voices of Los and Aelita were heard. Ikhoshka climbed down from the chair and walked unsteadily toward the door.

That same night, when he went into Los’s bedroom, Gusev said:

"Things aren't going so well for us, Mstislav Sergeyevich. I got a girl here to help me connect the mirror, and we just happened to stumble upon a meeting of the Supreme Council. I realized something. We need to take action, or they'll kill us, Mstislav Sergeyevich, believe me, that's how it will end."

Moose listened and didn't hear, looking dreamily at Gusev. He threw his hands behind his head:

-- Witchcraft, Alexey Ivanovich, witchcraft. Turn off the light.

Gusev stood there and said gloomily:

-- So.

And he went to bed.

Aelita's Morning

Aelita awoke early and lay propped up on her elbows. Her wide bed, open on all sides, stood, as was customary, on a raised platform in the center of the bedroom. The canopy of the ceiling merged into a high marble well, from which the diffused morning light fell. The bedroom walls, covered in pale mosaic, remained in semi-darkness—a shaft of light descended only on the snowy sheets, the pillows, and Aelita's ashen head resting on her hand.

She had spent the night badly. Fragments of strange and disturbing dreams passed haphazardly before her closed eyes. Sleep was as thin as a film of water. All night long she felt herself asleep, contemplating tedious images, and in a daze she thought: what futile dreams!

When the morning sun illuminated the well and cast a light on her bed, Aelita sighed, fully awakened, and now lay motionless. Her thoughts were clear, but a vague uneasiness still coursed through her blood. This was very, very bad.

"Anxiety of the blood, clouding of the mind, an unnecessary return to the long-ago experience. Anxiety of the blood is a return to the gorges, to the herds, to the fires. Spring wind, anxiety and birth. To give birth, to raise creatures for death, to bury, and again - anxiety, the torment of a mother. An unnecessary, blind prolongation of life."

Aelita pondered this, and her thoughts were wise, but the anxiety persisted. Then she climbed out of bed, put on her woven slippers, threw a robe over her bare shoulders, and went to the bathroom. She undressed, tied her hair into a bun, and began descending the marble steps into the pool.

She paused on the bottom step—it was pleasant to stand in the beam of sunlight streaming through the window. Flickering reflections played on the wall. Aelita looked into the bluish water and saw her reflection there, a beam of light falling on her stomach. Her upper lip trembled in disgust. Aelita dived into the cool pool.

The bath refreshed her, and her thoughts returned to the day's concerns. Every morning she spoke with her father—that was the custom. A small screen stood in her dressing room.

Aelita sat down at the dressing mirror, tidied up her hair, wiped her face, neck and hands with fragrant fat, then with flower essence, looked at herself from under her brows, frowned, pulled over the table with the screen and turned on the digital board.

The familiar image of my father's study appeared in the foggy mirror: bookcases, cartograms, and drawings on rotating prisms. Tuskub entered, sat at the table, pushed the manuscripts aside with his elbow, and found Aelita's eyes with his eyes. He smiled with the corner of his long, thin lips:

-- How did you sleep, Aelita?

-- Good. Everything is good in the house.

--What are the Sons of Heaven doing?

--They are calm and contented. They are still sleeping.

--Are you continuing your language lessons with them?

-- No. The engineer speaks freely. His companion has enough knowledge.

-- Do they still have no desire to leave my house?

-- No, no, oh no.

Aelita answered too hastily. Tuskub's dull eyes widened in surprise. Under his gaze, Aelita began to move away until her back touched the back of the chair. Her father said:

-- I don't understand you.

--What don't you understand? Father, why don't you tell me everything? What are you planning to do with them? I beg you...

Aelita didn't finish—Tuskub's face distorted, as if a fire of rage had passed through it. The mirror went dark. But Aelita still peered into its misty surface, still saw her father's face, terrifying to her, terrifying to all living beings.

“It’s terrible,” she said, “it will be terrible.” She rose quickly, but dropped her hands and sat down again.

A vague sense of unease gripped her. Aelita stared at herself in the mirror with enormous pupils. Anxiety roared through her blood, sending chills through her. "How bad this is, so pointless."

Against her will, the face of the Son of Heaven rose before her like a dream of that night - large, with snowy hair - agitated, with a series of incomprehensible changes, with eyes sometimes sad, sometimes tender, saturated with the sun of the Earth, the moisture of the Earth - eerie, like foggy abysses, stormy, crushing the mind.

Aelita slowly shook her head. Her heart was pounding terribly, dully. Bending over the digital tablet, she inserted the pins. In the foggy mirror, the wrinkled figure of an old man appeared, dozing in a chair among a multitude of pillows. The light from the small window fell on his withered hands, lying atop a shaggy blanket. The old man shuddered, adjusted his sagging glasses, looked over the lenses at the screen, and smiled toothlessly.

-- What do you say, my child?

“Teacher, I’m worried,” said Aelita, “my clarity is leaving me. I don’t want this, I’m afraid, but I can’t.”

-- Does the Son of Heaven bother you?

-- Yes. There's something about him that confuses me and I can't understand it. Teacher, I just spoke with Father. He was restless. I sense a struggle within the High Council. I'm afraid the Council might make a terrible decision. Help.

"You just said that the Son of Heaven bothers you. It would be better if he disappeared completely."

“No!” Aelita said this quickly, sharply, excitedly.

The old man frowned under her gaze and chewed with his wrinkled mouth.

“I don’t understand your train of thought very well, Aelita; there is duality and contradiction in your thoughts.

-- Yes, I feel it.

"Here is the best proof of your innocence. The highest thought is clear, dispassionate, and uncontradictory. I will do as you wish and talk to your father. He is also a passionate man, and this could lead him to actions inconsistent with wisdom and justice."

-- I will hope.

"Calm down, Aelita, and be attentive... Look deep within yourself. What is your anxiety? From the depths of your blood rises an ancient sediment—a red darkness—it is the thirst for prolongation of life. Your blood is in turmoil..."

-- Teacher, he confuses me in another way.

-- No matter how sublime a feeling he may have trodden upon you, the woman within you will awaken, and you will perish. Only the cold of wisdom, Aelita, only the calm contemplation of the inevitable destruction of all living things, this body saturated with fat and lust, only the expectation that your spirit, already perfect, no longer needing the pitiful experience of life, will go beyond the bounds of consciousness, will cease to exist -- that is happiness. And you desire a return. Fear this temptation, my child. It is easy to fall, quickly -- to roll down the mountain, but the ascent is slow and difficult. Be wise.

Aelita listened, her head bowed...

“Teacher,” she said suddenly, her lips trembling, her eyes filled with melancholy, “the Son of Heaven said that on Earth they know something that is above reason, above knowledge, above wisdom. But what it is, I did not understand. That is why I am worried. Yesterday we were at the lake, the Red Star rose, he pointed at it with his hand and said: “It is surrounded by the mist of love. People who know love do not die.” Melancholy tore my chest, teacher.

The old man frowned and remained silent for a long time, but the fingers of his withered hand continued to move.

“Very well,” he said, “let the Son of Heaven give you this knowledge. Until you know everything, do not disturb me. Be careful.”

The mirror went dark. The room grew quiet. Aelita took a handkerchief from her lap and wiped her face with it. Then she looked at herself – carefully, sternly. Her eyebrows rose. She opened a small chest and bent low over it, sorting through the items. She found and placed around her neck a tiny, dried paw of the wondrous indri, set in precious metal. According to ancient beliefs, it is a great help to women in difficult times.

Aelita sighed and went into the library. The moose rose to greet her from the window where he had been sitting with a book. Aelita looked at him—big, kind, worried. Her heart warmed. She placed her hand on the chest, on the paw of the wonderful little animal, and said:

--Yesterday I promised to tell you about the destruction of Atlantis. Sit down and listen.

Aelita's second story

“This is what we read in the colored books,” said Aelita.

In those distant times, the center of the world on Earth was the City of a Hundred Golden Gates, now lying at the bottom of the ocean. From the city flowed knowledge and the temptations of luxury. It attracted the tribes inhabiting the Earth and ignited their primal greed. The time would come, and the young people would descend upon the rulers and take the city. The light of civilization would fade for a time. But time would pass, and it would flare up with renewed brilliance, enriched by the fresh blood of the victors. Centuries passed, and once again hordes of nomads loomed like a cloud over the eternal city.

The first founders of the City of a Hundred Golden Gates were African Negroes of the Zemze tribe. They considered themselves a younger branch of the black race, which in ancient times inhabited the gigantic continent of Gwandana, which perished in the waves of the Pacific Ocean. The surviving portions of the black race fragmented into numerous tribes. Many of them became savage and degenerate. Yet, the memory of a great past flowed in the blood of the blacks.

The Zemze people were of immense strength and stature. They were distinguished by one extraordinary ability: they could sense the nature and form of things from a distance, much like a magnet senses the presence of another magnet. They developed this ability while living in the dark caves of the tropical forests.

Fleeing the poisonous gokh fly, the Zemze tribe emerged from the forests and moved west until they encountered a suitable habitat. It was a rolling plateau, washed by two enormous rivers.

There was plenty of fruit and game here, and gold, tin, and copper in the mountains. The forests, hills, and quiet rivers were beautiful and free from deadly fevers.

The people of Zemze built a wall to protect themselves from wild animals and piled a high pyramid of stones to show that this place was strong.

At the top of the pyramid, they erected a pillar with a tuft of feathers from the klitli bird, the tribe's patroness, who had saved them from the gokh fly during their journey. The Zemze chieftains adorned their heads with feathers and named themselves after the birds.

West of the plateau, Indian tribes roamed. Zemze's people attacked them, took captives, and forced them to plow the land, build shelters, and mine ore and gold. The city's fame spread far west, and it inspired fear among the Indians, for Zemze's people were strong, could divine the enemy's thoughts, and could kill from a distance by throwing a bent piece of wood. In bark boats, they navigated the wide rivers and collected tribute from the Indians.

The descendants of Zemse adorned the city with round stone buildings roofed with reeds. They wove exquisite woolen garments and knew how to record thoughts through the images of objects—a knowledge they carried deep within their memories, like an ancient relic of a vanished civilization.

Centuries passed. And then, in the west, a great leader of the Reds appeared. His name was Uru. He was born in the city, but in his youth, he went to the steppes, to the hunters and nomads. He gathered countless warriors and went to war against the city.

Zemze's descendants used all their knowledge to defend themselves: they struck their enemies with fire, sent herds of enraged buffalo against them, and cleaved them with boomerangs that flew like lightning. But the redskins were strong in greed and numbers. They captured the city and plundered it. Uru declared himself leader of the world. He ordered the red warriors to take Zemze's girls for themselves. The remnants of the vanquished, hiding in the forests, returned to the city and began serving the victors.

The Reds adopted the knowledge, customs, and arts of the Zemze. Their mixed blood produced a long line of administrators and conquerors. A mysterious ability to sense the nature of things was passed down through generations.

The warlords of the Uru dynasty expanded their domains, exterminating the nomads in the west and piling up pyramids of earth and stone along the Pacific Ocean. In the east, they drove back the Blacks. Along the banks of the Niger and Congo, along the rocky shores of the Mediterranean Sea, which lapped what is now the Sahara Desert, they founded powerful fortresses. It was a time of war and construction. The land of Zemze was then called Hamagan.

The city was surrounded by a new wall, with one hundred gates inlaid with gold leaf. People from all over the world flocked there, drawn by greed and curiosity. Among the many tribes wandering its bazaars and pitching tents beneath its walls, a people never seen before appeared. They were olive-skinned, with long, fiery eyes and beak-like noses. They were intelligent and cunning. No one remembered how they entered the city. But no more than a generation passed, and the science and commerce of the City of a Hundred Golden Gates fell into the hands of this small tribe. They called themselves the "Sons of Aam."

The wisest of Aam's sons read the ancient inscriptions of Zemze and began to develop the ability to see the essence of things. They built an underground temple to the Sleeping Head of the Negro and began to attract people to themselves—healing the sick, telling fortunes, and showing the faithful the shadows of the dead.

With their wealth and the power of knowledge, the sons of Aam gained control of the country. They won over many tribes and simultaneously raised a rebellion for the new faith on the outskirts of the land and within the city itself. The Uru dynasty perished in a bloody struggle. The sons of Aam seized power.

This ancient time coincided with the Earth's first tremors. Flames erupted in many places among the mountains, and ash clouded the sky. Large areas of the southern Atlantic continent sank into the ocean. In the north, rocky islands rose from the seabed and merged with the land, forming the outlines of the European Plain.

The sons of Aam devoted all their power to cultivating culture among the many tribes once conquered by the Uru dynasty and then revolting. But the sons of Aam disliked war. They equipped ships adorned with the Head of the Sleeping Negro and loaded them with spices, fabrics, gold, and ivory. Those initiated into the cult, disguised as merchants and healers, would sail to distant lands. They traded and healed the sick and crippled with charms and incantations. To protect their goods, they built a large, pyramid-shaped house in each land, where they transferred the Head of the Sleeping Negro. This was how the cult was established. If the people rebelled against the newcomers, a detachment of redskins, clad in bronze, with shields adorned with feathers, and wearing tall, terrifying helmets, would disembark from the ship.

Thus, the ancient land of Zemze once again expanded and strengthened its dominion. It was now called Atlantis. In the far west, in the land of the reds, a second great city, Ptitligua, was founded. Atlantean trading ships sailed east to India, where the black race still reigned. On the east coast of Asia, they first saw giants with yellow, flat faces. These people threw stones at their ships.

The Cult of the Sleeping Head was open to all—it was the primary instrument of power and authority—but the meaning, the inner content of the cult, was guarded in the greatest secrecy. The Atlanteans cultivated the seed of Zemze's wisdom and were still at the very beginning of the path that would lead to the destruction of the entire race.

They said this:

"The true world is invisible, intangible, inaudible, tasteless, and odorless. The true world is the movement of reason. The initial and final goal of this movement is incomprehensible. Reason is matter, harder than stone and faster than light. Seeking rest, like all matter, reason falls into a kind of sleep, that is, it becomes slower, which is called the embodiment of reason in matter. At the depth of sleep, reason is embodied in fire, air, water, earth. From these four elements, the visible world is formed. A thing is a temporary condensation of reason. A thing is the core of the sphere of condensing reason, like a round lightning bolt into which the storm air condenses.

In the crystal, the mind is in perfect rest. In interstellar space, the mind is in perfect motion. Man is the bridge between these two states of mind. Through man, the stream of mind flows into the visible world. Man's legs grow out of the crystal, his belly is the sun, his eyes are the stars, his head is a cup with rims extending into the universe.

Man is the master of the world. The elements and movement are subject to him. He controls them with the power emanating from his mind, just as a ray of light emanates from the opening of a clay vessel."

So spoke the Atlanteans. The common people did not understand their teachings. Some worshiped animals, others the shadows of the dead, others idols, others night rustlings, thunder and lightning, or a hole in the ground. It was impossible and dangerous to combat many of these superstitions.

Then the priests—the highest caste of the Atlanteans—realized that a clear and understandable cult, uniform for all, was needed. They began building enormous, gold-adorned temples and dedicating them to the sun—the father and ruler of life, wrathful and life-giving, dying and reborn.

The cult of the sun soon spread across the entire Earth. Much human blood was shed by the faithful. In the far west, among the reds, the sun took the form of a feathered serpent. In the far east, the sun—lord of the shadows of the dead—took the form of a man with a bird's head.

At the center of the world, in the City of a Hundred Golden Gates, a stepped pyramid so tall that clouds smoked at its summit was built—the Head of the Sleeping One was transferred there. At the base of the pyramid, in a plaza, a golden winged bull with a human face and lion's paws was placed. Beneath it, a fire burned unquenchably.

On the days of the equinoxes, in the presence of the people, to the beat of egg-shaped drums, to the dances of naked women, the high priest, the Son of the Sun, the great ruler, killed the most beautiful of the city's youths and burned him in the belly of a bull.

The Son of the Sun was the absolute ruler of the city and country. He built dams and provided irrigation.

He distributed clothing and food from stores and assigned land and livestock to each person. Numerous officials carried out his orders. No one could say, "This is mine," for everything belonged to the sun. Labor was sacred. Laziness was punishable by death. In the spring, the Son of the Sun was the first to go out into the fields, plowing furrows with oxen and sowing corn.

The temples were filled with grain, fabrics, and spices. The Atlantean ships, with purple sails adorned with images of a serpent holding the sun in its mouth, plied all the seas and rivers. A long peace was coming. People forgot how to hold a sword.

And so a cloud loomed over Atlantis from the east. On the eastern plateaus of Asia lived a powerful tribe of yellow-skinned, slanted-eyed Uchkurs. They obeyed a woman possessed by the power of madness. She was called Su Hutam Lu, which meant "moon-speaker."

Su Hutam Lu said to the Uchkurams: "I will lead you to a land where the sun sets in a gorge between the mountains. There graze as many sheep as there are stars in the sky, there flow rivers of kumiss, there are yurts so tall that you can drive a herd of camels into each one. Your horses have never set foot there, and you have never scooped water from those rivers with your helmet."

The Uchkurs descended from the plateau and attacked numerous nomadic tribes of yellow-faces, subduing them and becoming their military leaders. They told the vanquished, "Follow us to the land of the sun, which Su Hutam Lu indicated."

The star-worshipping nomads were dreamy and fearless. They dismantled their yurts and drove their herds westward. They moved slowly, year after year. The Uchkur cavalry led the way, attacking, fighting, and destroying cities. Behind them trudged the herds and carts carrying women and children. The nomads passed by India and spread across the eastern European plain.

Many remained there on the lakeshores. The strongest continued westward. On the Mediterranean coast, they destroyed the first Atlantean colony and learned from the vanquished where the land of the sun lay. Here, Su Hutam Lu died. Her hair and skin were stripped from her head and nailed to a high pole. With this banner, they moved further along the sea. Thus they reached the edge of Europe and, from the mountaintops, saw the outlines of the promised land. A hundred years had passed since the Uchkurs first descended from the plateau.

The nomads began cutting down forests and building rafts. They used these rafts to cross the warm, salty river. Having set foot on the sacred land of Atlantis, the nomads attacked the sacred city of Thule. As they scaled the high walls, the city's bells began to ring: the sound was so pleasant that the yellow-skinned people did not destroy the city, did not exterminate the inhabitants, and did not plunder the temples. They took supplies of food and clothing and continued southwest. Dust from their wagons and herds obscured the sun.

Finally, the nomads' path was blocked by an army of redskins. The Atlanteans were all clad in gold, in multicolored feathers, effeminate and beautiful in appearance. The Uchkur cavalry exterminated them. From that day on, the yellow-skinned ones smelled the blood of the Atlanteans and were no longer merciful.

From the City of a Hundred Golden Gates, messengers were sent west to the Reds, south to the Blacks, east to the Aam tribes, and north to the Cyclopes. Human sacrifices were made. Fires atop the temples burned unquenchably. The city's inhabitants flocked to the bloody sacrifices, indulged in frenzied dancing, sensual amusements, became intoxicated with wine, and squandered treasures.

The priests and philosophers prepared for the great test, carried the books of Great Knowledge deep into the mountains, into caves, and buried them in the ground.

War began. Its fate was predetermined: the Atlanteans could only defend their satiated wealth, while the nomads possessed a primal greed and faith in the promise. Yet the struggle was protracted and bloody. The land was devastated. Famine and pestilence ensued. The troops scattered and plundered everything they could. The City of a Hundred Golden Gates was stormed and its walls destroyed. The Son of the Sun threw himself from the top of a stepped pyramid. The fires on the temple peaks went out. A few of the wise and initiated fled to the mountains and caves. Civilization perished.

Among the ruined palaces of the great city, sheep wandered in the grassy squares, and a yellow-faced shepherd sang a sad song about a blessed, like a steppe mirage, sacred land, where the earth is blue and the sky is golden.

The nomads asked their leaders, "Where else should we go?" The leaders told them, "We have brought you to the promised land; settle and live peacefully." But many of the nomadic tribes disobeyed and went further west, to the land of the Feathered Serpent, where they were exterminated by the ruler Ptitligua. Other nomads penetrated to the equator, where they were destroyed by blacks, herds of elephants, and swamp fevers.

The Uchkurs, the leaders of the yellow-faces, chose the wisest of the military leaders and installed him as ruler of the conquered country. His name was Tubal. He ordered the walls repaired, the gardens cleared, the fields plowed, and the dwellings rebuilt. He issued many wise and simple laws. He summoned the sages and initiates who had fled to the caves and told them, "My eyes and ears are open to wisdom." He made them advisors, permitted the opening of temples, and sent messengers everywhere with the message that he desired peace.

Such was the beginning of the third, highest wave of Atlantean civilization. The blood of numerous tribes—black, red, olive, and white—was infused with the dreamy, fermenting, hop-like blood of Asian nomads, star worshipers, descendants of the possessed Su Hutam Lu.

The nomads quickly merged with other tribes. Of the yurts, herds, and wild spirit, only songs and legends remained. A new tribe of strong, black-haired, tan-skinned people emerged. The Uchkurs, descendants of horsemen and military leaders, were the city's aristocracy. They loved science, art, and luxury. They adorned the city with new walls and heptagonal towers, inlaid the twenty-one tiers of the giant pyramid with gold, built aqueducts, and pioneered the use of columns in architecture.

In protracted wars, the fallen lands and cities were once again conquered. In the north, they fought the Cyclopes—the feral descendants of the Zemze tribe, survivors of the interbreeding. The great conqueror Rama reached India. He united the infant tribes of the Aryans into the kingdom of Ra. Thus, once again, the borders of Atlantis expanded to unprecedented proportions and strengthened—from the land of the Feathered Serpent to the Asian shores of the Pacific Ocean, from where yellow-faced giants once hurled stones at ships.

The dreamy souls of the conquerors strove for knowledge. The ancient books of Zemze and the wise books of the sons of Aam were read again. A circle closed and a new one began. The half-decayed "Seven Papyri of the Sleeper" were found in the caves. From this discovery, knowledge began to rapidly develop. What the sons of Aam lacked—the unconscious creative force—what the sons of the Zemze tribe lacked—a clear and sharp mind—flowed in abundance in the restless and passionate blood of the Uchkurs.

The basis of the new knowledge was this:

"The most powerful of all world forces slumbers within man—the matter of pure reason. Just as an arrow, taut with a bowstring and directed by a sure hand, strikes its target, so too the matter of the dormant mind can be taut with the bowstring of will, directed by the hand of knowledge. The power of directed knowledge is limitless."

The science of knowledge was divided into two parts: the preparatory part - the development of the body, will and mind, and the main part - the knowledge of nature, the world and the formulas through which the matter of aspiring knowledge takes possession of nature.

The complete acquisition of knowledge, the flourishing of a culture unprecedented on Earth and still unrepeatable, lasted for a century, between four hundred and fifty and three hundred and fifty years before the Flood, that is, until the destruction of Atlantis.

There was universal peace on Earth. The powers of the Earth, brought to life by knowledge, served people abundantly and luxuriously. Gardens and fields yielded abundant harvests, herds multiplied, and labor was easy. People recalled old customs and holidays, and no one interfered with their lives, love, procreation, and rejoicing. Legends call this age golden.

At that time, a sphinx was erected on the eastern edge of the Earth, representing the four elements in a single body—a symbol of the mystery of the sleeping mind. The Seven Wonders of the World were built: the Labyrinth, the Colossus in the Mediterranean, the Pillars west of Gibraltar, the Tower of the Astrologers on Poseidones, the seated statue of Tubal, and the city of Lemutes on an island in the Pacific Ocean.

The light of knowledge penetrated the Black tribes, until then confined to tropical swamps. They quickly adopted civilization and began building gigantic cities in Central Africa.

Zemze's seed of wisdom blossomed fully and luxuriantly. But the wisest initiates of knowledge began to understand that the growth of civilization was rooted in an original sin. Further advancement of knowledge must lead to destruction: humanity would strike at itself, like a snake biting its own tail.

The original evil was that being—the life of the Earth and of all beings—was conceived as something emanating from the human mind. In understanding the world, man understood only himself. Reason was the only reality, the world its representation, its dream. Such an understanding of being was bound to lead each person to assert that he alone was the sole, the real being, and that everything else—the entire world—was merely a figment of his imagination. The sequel was inevitable: a struggle for a singular identity, a struggle of all against all, the extermination of humanity as a dream rebelling against man—contempt and disgust for being as an evil dream.

Such was the initial evil of Zemze's wisdom.

Knowledge was fractured. Some saw no way to remove the seed of evil and said that evil was the only force that created existence. They called themselves black, since knowledge came from black people.

Others, recognizing that evil lies not in nature itself, but in the deviation of reason from naturalness, began to seek counteraction to evil.

They said: "A ray of sunshine falls to the earth, perishes, and is resurrected as the fruit of the earth: this is the fundamental law of life." Such is the movement of the universal mind: descent, sacrificial death, and resurrection into the flesh. The fundamental sin—the solitude of the mind—can be destroyed by the Fall. The mind must fall into the flesh and pass through the living gates of death. These gates are sex. The fall of the mind is accomplished by the power of sexual desire, or Eros.

Those who claimed this called themselves white because they wore a linen tiara—a symbol of Eros. They created a spring festival and a mystery play about the Fall, which was performed in the lush gardens of the ancient temple of the sun. The virgin youth represented reason, the woman the gates of mortal flesh, and the serpent—Eros. People came from distant lands to witness these spectacles.

The rift between the two paths of knowledge was great. A struggle began. At that time, a remarkable discovery was made: the ability to instantly release the life force dormant in plant seeds. This force—a detonating, fiery-cold matter—when released, rushed into space. The Dark Ones used it for battle, for weapons of war. They built enormous, terrifying flying ships. Savage tribes began to worship these winged dragons.

The Whites realized that the world's destruction was near and began preparing for it. They selected the purest and strongest among the common people and began leading them north and east. They assigned them high mountain pastures, where the settlers could live like primitive beings.

The Whites' fears were confirmed. The Golden Age was degenerating, and satiety was setting in in the cities of Atlantis. Nothing could restrain the unbridled imagination, the thirst for perversion, the madness of a devastated mind. The power that man had wielded turned against him. The inevitability of death made people gloomy, ferocious, and merciless.

And so the last days arrived. They began with a great disaster: the central region of the City of a Hundred Golden Gates was shaken by an earthquake, much land sank to the ocean floor, and the waves of the Atlantic forever separated the land of the Feathered Serpent.

The Blacks accused the Whites of unleashing the spirits of earth and fire through their spells. The people revolted, and the Blacks staged a nighttime massacre in the city. More than half the inhabitants wearing the linen tiara perished, and the rest fled beyond Atlantis.

The wealthiest citizens of the Black Order, known as the Magacitls, meaning "merciless," seized power in the City of a Hundred Golden Gates. They declared, "Let us destroy humanity, for it is a nightmare of reason."

To fully enjoy the spectacle of death, they proclaimed festivals and games across the land, opened state treasuries and stores, brought white girls from the north and gave them to the people, flung open the temple doors to all who thirsted for unnatural pleasures, filled the fountains with wine, and roasted meat in the squares. Madness seized the people. This was during the autumn grape harvest.

At night, in the fire-lit squares, among the people intoxicated by wine, dancing, food, and women, the Magacitls appeared. They wore tall helmets with spiky crests, wore armor belts, and carried no shields. With their right hands, they hurled bronze balls that exploded in cold, destructive flames; with their left hands, they plunged swords into the drunks and madmen.

The bloody orgy was interrupted by a terrible earthquake. The statue of Tubal collapsed, the walls cracked, the aqueduct columns fell, flames burst from deep cracks, and ash filled the sky.

The next morning, the sun's bloody, dim disk illuminated ruins, burning gardens, crowds of demented, demented people, and piles of corpses. The Magacitls rushed to their egg-shaped flying machines and began to leave Earth. They flew into starry space, to the birthplace of abstract intelligence.

Many thousands of spacecraft had already departed. Then came a fourth, even more powerful tremor. An ocean wave rose from the ashen darkness to the north and swept across the land, destroying all life.

A storm erupted, lightning struck the ground and homes. A downpour poured down, sending volcanic rock fragments flying.

Beyond the stronghold of the great city's walls, topped by a stepped, gold-clad pyramid, the Magacitls continued to fly through an ocean of falling water, from smoke and ash into starry space. Three successive tremors split the land of Atlantis. The City of the Golden Gates sank into boiling waves.

Gusev observes the city

Ikha was completely stupefied. Whatever Gusev asked of her, she immediately did, looking at him with dull eyes. It was both funny and pathetic. Gusev treated her sternly, but fairly. When Ikhoshka was completely overwhelmed by emotion, he would sit her on his lap, stroke her head, scratch her behind the ear, and tell her all sorts of funny stories. She listened, stupefied.

Gusev's plan to escape to the city was firmly in place. It was like being trapped here: there was no way to defend themselves, no way to escape. They were in grave danger—of that, Gusev had no doubt. Talking to Los was getting him nowhere. Los merely winced, his vision obscured by the hem of Tuskub's daughter's robe.

"You're a fussy man, Alexei Ivanovich. Well, they'll kill us, but it's not for you and me to be afraid of death. Otherwise, we'd be sitting in Petrograd—what's safer?"

Gusev ordered Ikhoshka to take the keys to the hangar where the winged boats were stored. He climbed in with a flashlight and spent the entire night tinkering with a small, apparently fast-flying, double-winged craft. Its mechanism was simple. A tiny motor was powered by grains of white metal that disintegrated with monstrous force in the presence of an electric spark. The craft drew electrical energy from the air during flight, as Mars was covered in high-voltage electricity—it was sent from stations at the poles. (Aelita had told us about this.)

Gusev pulled the boat right up to the hangar gates. He handed the key back to Ikha. The lock could easily be pried off by hand if necessary.

He then decided to take control of the city of Soaceru. Iha taught him how to connect the fog mirror. This talking screen in Tuskub's house could be connected one-way, meaning he could remain invisible and inaudible.

Gusev explored the entire city: squares, shopping streets, factories, workers' settlements. A strange life unfolded and passed before him in a foggy mirror.

Low brick factory halls, dim light shining through dusty windows. The workers' faces, dull, hollow-eyed, wrinkled. The machines, the machines, the hunched figures, the precise movements of their work—a dreary, hopeless, ant-like existence.

The straight, monotonous streets of the working-class districts appeared, the same dejected figures wandering along them, heads bowed. A millennial boredom emanated from these brick corridors, each one swept clean. Apparently, there was no hope left here.

Central squares appeared: terraced houses, creeping, variegated greenery, sun-reflected glass, elegant women; in the middle of the street – tables, narrow vases full of flowers; a swirling, elegant crowd, men's black robes, the facades of houses – all reflected in the greenish parquet pavement. Golden boats swooped low, the shadows of their wings gliding, upturned faces laughing, colorful, light scarves fluttering...

There was a double life going on in the city. Gusev took all this into account. As a man of great experience, he sensed with his nose that, in addition to these two sides, there was a third – an underground one. Indeed, along the city's wealthy streets and in the parks – everywhere, a large number of sloppily dressed, drunken young Martians were wandering. They wandered around idle, hands in their pockets, glancing around. Gusev thought: "Aha, we've seen those things too."

Ikhoshka explained everything to him in detail. There was just one thing she wouldn't agree to: connecting the screen to the House of the Supreme Council of Engineers.

She shook her red hair in horror and folded her hands:

-- Don't ask me, Son of Heaven, better kill me, dear Son of Heaven.

One morning, on the fourteenth day, Gusev, as usual, sat down in a chair, put the digital board on his knees, and pulled the cord.

A strange picture appeared in the mirrored wall: in the central square – worried, whispering groups of Martians. The pavement tables, flowers, and colorful umbrellas had disappeared. A detachment of soldiers appeared, marching in a triangle, like terrifying dolls, with stony faces. Further on – on the shopping street – a running crowd, a scuffle, and some Martian, flying out of the fight like a propeller on wing-machines. In the park – the same anxious groups of whisperers. In one of the factories – buzzing crowds of workers, excited, gloomy, ferocious faces.

Apparently, something of extraordinary importance had happened in the city. Gusev shook Ikhoshka by the shoulders: "What's going on?" She remained silent, looking at him with dull, loving eyes.

Tuskub

The city was gripped by anxiety. Mirrored phones muttered and blinked. Clusters of Martians whispered in the streets, squares, and parks. They waited for events, glancing at the sky. Rumors swirled that warehouses of dried cactus were burning somewhere. At midday, the city's water taps were turned on, and the water dried up, but not for long... Many heard a distant explosion in the southwest. People were taping paper across their windows, crisscrossing them.

The alarm was heard from the city center, from the House of the Supreme Council of Engineers.

They talked about the shaken power of Tuskub and the upcoming changes.

The anxious excitement was cut through like a spark by rumors:

"The lights will go out at night."

"Polar stations will be stopped."

"The magnetic field will disappear."

"Some individuals have been arrested in the basements of the Supreme Council House."

On the outskirts of the city, in factories, workers' settlements, and public stores, these rumors were received differently. Apparently, more was known about their origins here. It was said with anxious glee that the giant circus, number eleven, had been blown up by underground workers, that government agents were searching everywhere for weapons depots, that Tuskub was amassing troops in Soacera.

By midday, work had ceased almost everywhere. Large crowds had gathered, awaiting events, glancing at the suggestive young, sloppily dressed Martians who had appeared out of nowhere, their hands in their pockets.

In the middle of the day, government boats flew over the city, and a rain of white posters fell from the sky onto the streets.

The government warned the population against malicious rumors spread by enemies of the people. It was said that the government had never been so strong and determined.

The city fell silent for a moment, and rumors began to circulate again, each more terrifying than the last. Only one thing was known for certain: that evening, in the House of the Supreme Council of Engineers, a decisive battle would take place between Tuskub and the leader of the working population of Soatsera, engineer Gor.

By evening, crowds of people filled the vast square in front of the Supreme Council House. Soldiers guarded the stairs, entrances, and roof. A cold wind brought fog, and lanterns swayed in the wet clouds, their reddish, blurry glows. The gloomy walls of the house, a vague pyramid, receded into the darkness. All its windows were illuminated.

Under heavy vaults, in a circular hall, members of the Supreme Council sat on amphitheater benches. Everyone's faces were attentive and wary. In the wall, high above the floor, images of the city passed quickly one after another in a foggy mirror—factory interiors, intersections with figures darting through the fog, the outlines of water circuses, electromagnetic towers, and monotonous, deserted warehouse buildings guarded by soldiers. The screen was continuously connected to all the control mirrors in the city. Then the square in front of the Supreme Council of Engineers appeared—an ocean of heads obscured by wisps of fog, the broad glow of lanterns. The vaulted ceiling filled with the ominous murmur of the crowd.

A thin whistle distracted everyone present. The screen went dark. Tuskub ascended to a dais covered in black and gold brocade in front of the amphitheater. He was pale, calm, and gloomy.

“There is unrest in the city,” said Tuskub, “the city is agitated by the rumor that someone intends to contradict me here today. This rumor alone was enough to shake the state balance. I consider this state of affairs painful and ominous. It is necessary to destroy once and for all the cause of such unrest. I know that among us there are those present who will spread my words throughout the city this very night. I speak openly: the city is in the grip of anarchy. According to my agents, the city and the country do not have enough muscle to resist. We are on the eve of the end of the world.”

A murmur ran through the amphitheater. Tuskub chuckled with disgust.

-- The force that destroys the world order -- anarchy -- comes from the city. Peace of mind, the natural will to live, the powers of the senses are wasted here on dubious amusements and useless pleasures. The smoke of the hawthorn -- that is the soul of the city: smoke and delirium. The motley streets, the noise, the luxury of golden boats and the envy of those who look at these boats from below. Women, baring their backs and stomachs and perfumed with stimulating aromas; colorful lights flickering across the facades of brothels; restaurant boats flying over the streets -- that is the city! Peace of mind burns to ashes. The desire of such devastated souls is one -- thirst... The thirst for intoxication... Satiety of souls is intoxicated only by blood.

Tuskub said this, piercing the space in front of him with his finger... The hall hummed subduedly. He continued:

-- The city is preparing an anarchist personality. Its will, its pathos is destruction. They think that anarchy is freedom, no -- anarchy thirsts only for anarchy. The duty of the state is to fight these destroyers -- such is the law! We must oppose anarchy with the will to order. We must summon healthy forces in the country and throw them into the war against anarchy with the least possible losses. We declare merciless war on anarchy. Security measures are only a temporary remedy: the hour must inevitably come when the police will reveal their weak spot. While we double the number of police agents, the anarchists increase squarely. We must be the first to go on the offensive, decide on harsh and inevitable action; we must destroy and annihilate the city.

Half the amphitheater howled and jumped up on their benches. The Martians' faces were pale, their eyes blazing. Tuskub restored the silence with his gaze.

"The city will inevitably be destroyed, one way or another; we ourselves must organize this destruction. Later, I will propose a plan for resettling the healthy portion of the city's inhabitants in rural settlements. We must use for this purpose the richest country—on the other side of the Lysiasira Mountains—abandoned by its population after the civil war. A vast amount of work lies ahead. But its purpose is great. Of course, by destroying the city, we will not save civilization; we will not even delay its demise, but we will give the Martian world the opportunity to die peacefully and solemnly."

“What is he saying?” the listeners shouted in frightened, high-pitched voices.

-- Why do we need to die?

-- He's gone crazy!

-- Down with Tuskub!

With a movement of his eyebrows, Tuskub silenced the amphitheater again.

-- The history of Mars is over. Life is dying out on our planet. You know the statistics of births and deaths. A few centuries will pass, and the last Martian will watch the sunset with a frozen gaze for the last time. We are powerless to stop the extinction. We must surround the last days of the world with pomp and happiness with harsh and wise measures. First and foremost, we must destroy the city. Civilization has taken everything from it; now it is corrupting civilization; it must perish.

In the middle of the amphitheater stood Horus – the broad-faced young Martian whom Gusev had seen in the mirror.

His voice was low and barking. He threw out his hand in Tuskub's direction.

“He’s lying! He wants to destroy the city to maintain power. He’s sentencing us to death to maintain power. He understands that only by destroying millions can he retain power. He knows how much he’s hated by those who don’t fly in golden boats, who are born and die in underground factory cities, who wander through dusty corridors on holidays, yawning with hopelessness, who, with a frenzy, seeking oblivion, breathe in the smoke of the damned hawra. Tuskub has prepared a deathbed for us, let him lie in it himself. We don’t want to die. We were born to live. We know the danger—the degeneration of Mars. But we have salvation. We will be saved by the Earth, by people from Earth, a healthy, fresh race with hot blood. That’s who he fears more than anything in the world. Tuskub, you hid two people who came from Earth in your house. You fear the Sons of Heaven. You are strong only among the weak and those intoxicated by the havra. When the strong, with hot blood, arrive, you yourself will become a shadow, a nightmare, you will disappear like a ghost. That is what you fear most in the world! You deliberately invented anarchy, you have just devised this mind-boggling destruction of the city. You yourself need blood—to drink. You need to distract everyone's attention so you can discreetly eliminate these two brave men, our saviors. I know you have already given the order—" Horus suddenly interrupted. His face began to darken with tension. Tuskub looked into his eyes heavily, from under his brows.

-- ... You won't make me... I won't shut up!.. -- Horus croaked. -- I know -- you are privy to ancient devilry... I am not afraid of your eyes...

Horus wiped the sweat from his forehead with a wide palm. He took a deep breath and staggered. In the still silence of the amphitheater, he sank onto a bench and dropped his head into his hands. His teeth could be heard grinding.

Tuskub raised his eyebrows and continued calmly:

-- Rely on settlers from Earth? Too late. Infuse fresh blood into our veins? Too late. Too late and cruel. We will only prolong the agony of our planet. We will only increase the suffering, because we will inevitably become slaves of the conquerors. Instead of the calm and majestic decline of civilization, we will once again draw ourselves into the tedious cycle of centuries. Why? Why should we, an ancient and wise race, work for conquerors? So that life-hungry savages will drive us from our palaces and gardens, force us to build new circuses, dig ore, so that the plain of Mars will once again resound with the cries of war? So that our cities will once again be filled with debauchees and madmen? No. We must die peacefully on the thresholds of our homes. Let the red rays of Talzetl shine upon us from afar. We will not allow foreigners to come near us. We will build new stations at the poles and surround the planet with impenetrable armor. We will destroy Soacera—a nest of anarchy and mad hopes—here, here this criminal plan for intercourse with Earth was born. We will plow the squares. We will leave only the institutions and enterprises necessary for life. We will force criminals, alcoholics, madmen, and all dreamers of the impossible to work in them. We will chain them. We will grant them the life they so crave. To all who agree with us, who submit to our will, we will assign a country estate and ensure life and comfort. Twenty thousand years of hard labor give us the right, at last, to live idle, quietly, and contemplatively. The end of civilization will be crowned with the crown of a golden age. We will organize public holidays and wonderful entertainments. Perhaps even the life span I have indicated will be extended for several more centuries, because we will live in peace.

The amphitheater listened in silence, mesmerized. Tu-gkub's face turned mottled. He closed his eyes, as if peering into the future. He stopped mid-sentence...

...A dull, polyphonic roar from the crowd penetrated the vaulted ceiling from outside. Horus rose. His face was contorted. He tore off his cap and flung it far away. He extended his arms and rushed down the benches toward Tuskub. He grabbed Tuskub by the throat and threw him from the brocaded dais. He also extended his arms, fingers spread, and turned toward the amphitheater. As if tearing away a dried tongue, he shouted:

-- Good. Death! Let it be death! For you!.. For us - struggle...

People on the benches jumped up, started making noise, and several figures ran down to Tuskub, who was lying face down.

Gore leaped for the door. He elbowed the soldier aside. The hem of his black robe flashed at the entrance to the square. His distant voice rang out. A roar like a wind swept through the crowd.

The moose is left alone

-- Revolution, Mstislav Sergeyevich. The whole city is upside down. What fun!

Gusev stood in the library. A cheerful sparkle danced in his usually sleepy eyes, his nose was upturned, his mustache bristled. He tucked his hands deep into his belt.

-- I've already packed everything into the boat: provisions, grenades. I got their rifle. Get ready quickly, throw the book, let's fly.

Moose sat with his legs tucked up in the corner of the sofa, staring blankly at Gusev. For over two hours now, he had been awaiting Aelita's usual arrival, approaching the door and listening—it was quiet in Aelita's rooms. He would sit in the corner of the sofa and wait for the sound of her footsteps. He knew: those light steps would resound within him like thunder from heaven. She would enter, as always, more beautiful, more stunning than he expected, passing beneath the illuminated upper windows; her black dress would fly across the mirrored floor. And everything within him would tremble. The universe of his soul would tremble and freeze, as before a thunderstorm.

-- Are you feverish or something, Mstislav Sergeyevich? What are you staring at? I told you, we're flying, everything's ready, I want to declare you a Mars Commissar. It's a clean slate.

The moose lowered his head, Gusev's eyes were so intense. He asked quietly:

-- What's happening in the city?

-- The devil knows. There are clouds of people on the streets, a roar. Windows are being broken.

"Go ahead, Alexei Ivanovich, but come back this very night. I promise to support you in everything you want. Organize a revolution, appoint me commissar, if necessary, shoot me. But today, I beg you, leave me alone. Do you agree?"

"Okay," said Gusev, "oh, they're the cause of all the chaos, even if they're a fly, fly to the seventh heaven, and there's a woman there. Phooey! I'll be back at midnight. Ihoshka will make sure there's no denunciation of me."

Gusev left. Elk picked up the book again and thought: "How will it end? Will the storm of love pass by? No, it will not. Is he glad of this feeling of tense, mortal anticipation, that some unimaginable light is about to open? Not joy, not sadness, not sleep, not thirst, not satiation... What he experiences when Aelita is next to him is precisely the acceptance of life into the icy solitude of his body. Life enters him across the mirrored floor, under the shining windows. But this, too, is a dream. Let what he longs for happen. And life will arise in her, in Aelita. It will be full of fulfillment, trembling flesh. And he again - languor, loneliness."

Never before had Moose felt the hopeless thirst for love with such clarity, never before had he so understood this deception of love, the terrible substitution of himself for a woman: the curse of the male being. To open his arms, to spread his arms from star to star, to wait, to accept the woman. And she will take everything and live. And you, lover, father, are like an empty shadow, spreading your arms from star to star.

Aelita was right: he had learned so much in vain during this time; his consciousness had opened too wide. Hot blood still flowed through his body, he was still filled with the restless seeds of life—a son of Earth. But his mind was a thousand years ahead of him: here, on another earth, he learned what he didn't yet need to know. His mind opened up and revealed an icy desert. What had his mind uncovered? A desert, and there, beyond, new secrets.

Make a bird, singing in tender rapture, with its eyes closed, in a hot ray of sun, understand even the edge of human wisdom, and the bird will fall dead.

The drawn-out whistle of a departing boat was heard outside the window. Then Ikha's head poked into the library.

-- Son of Heaven, go and have dinner...

Moose hurried into the dining room—the white, round room where he'd dined with Aelita the past few days. It was hot here. Flowers in the tall vases by the columns smelled heavy and stuffy. Iha, turning away her tear-reddened eyes, said:

“You will dine alone, Son of Heaven,” and she covered Aelita’s place setting with white flowers.

The moose darkened. He sat down gloomily at the table. He didn't touch his food, only crumbled the bread and drank a few glasses of wine. From the mirrored dome above the table, faint music, as usual during dinner, emanated. The moose clenched his jaw.

From the depths of the dome, two voices poured forth—strings and brass: they converged, intertwined, singing of the impossible. On high, fading notes, they parted—and now the low notes called out from the grave with yearning voices—calling, exchanging excitedly, and again singing of a meeting, drawing closer, swirling, like an old, old waltz.

Moose sat, clutching a narrow glass in his fist. Iha, going behind a column, lifted her dress and buried her face in it—her shoulders were shaking. Moose threw down his napkin and stood up. The languid music, the sultry smell of flowers, the spiced wine—all of it was completely in vain. He approached Iha.

-- Can I see Aelita?

Without revealing her face, Iha shook her red hair. Moose took her by the shoulder.

-- What happened? Is she sick? I need to see her.

Ikha slipped under Los's elbow and ran off. A photograph Ikhoshka had dropped was left on the floor by the column. Soaked with tears, the photograph depicted Gusev in full combat uniform—cloth helmet, straps across his chest, one hand on the handle of a saber, a revolver in the other, grenades exploding behind him. It was signed: "To the lovely Ikhoshka, for an unforgettable memory."

The moose tossed the postcard, left the house, and strode across the meadow toward the grove. He made huge leaps, unaware of it, muttering:

-- He doesn't want to see -- there's no need. To enter another world -- an unparalleled effort -- to sit in the corner of the sofa, waiting: when, when, will a woman finally come in... Madness! Obsession! Gusev is right -- fever. "Sniffed sweets." To wait, as if for the end of the world, for a tender look... To hell with it!..

The thoughts pricked him cruelly. The moose cried out as if from a toothache. Without controlling his strength, he leaped a fathom into the air and, falling, barely managed to stay on his feet. His white hair fluttered. He hated himself fiercely.

He reached the lake. The water was like a mirror, with shafts of sunlight blazing on its black-blue surface. It was stifling. The moose clutched his head and sat down on a rock.

From the transparent depths of the lake, round purple fish slowly rose, moving the fibers of their long needles, and looking indifferently at the Elk with their watery eyes.

“You listen, fish, goggle-eyed, stupid fish,” Elk said in a low voice, “I am calm, I speak with full memory. Curiosity torments me, it burns – to take her in my arms when she enters in a black dress. To hear how her heart begins to beat... She herself, with a strange movement, will move closer to me... I will watch how her eyes turn wild... You see, fish,” I stopped, broke off, I don’t think, I don’t want to. Enough. The thread is broken – the end. Tomorrow to the city. The fight is wonderful. Death is wonderful. Only – no music, no flowers, no sly seduction. I don’t want any more stuffiness. The magic ball in her palm – to hell, to hell, it’s all a deception, a ghost!..

The moose stood up, picked up a large stone, and hurled it at the school of fish. His head was pounding. The light hurt his eyes. In the distance, ice sparkled, a sharp mountain peak rising from behind a grove. "I need to get some icy air." The moose squinted at the diamond-shaped mountain and headed in that direction through the blue thicket.

The trees ended, and before him lay a desolate, rolling plateau—the icy peak far beyond. Slag and rubble littered the ground beneath his feet, and abandoned mine shafts lay everywhere. The moose stubbornly decided to grab a chunk of that glittering snow in the distance with his teeth.

Off to the side, in a ravine, a brown cloud of dust rose. A hot wind carried the murmur of many voices. From the top of the hill, Moose saw a large crowd of Martians trudging along the dry canal bed. They carried long poles with knives tied to the ends, picks, and hammers for crushing ore. They stumbled along, brandishing their weapons and roaring ferociously. Behind them, above the brown clouds, flew birds of prey.

Moose recalled Gusev's earlier words about the events. He thought: "Live, fight, conquer, perish... And keep your heart on a chain, frantic, unhappy."

The crowd disappeared behind the mountains. The elk walked quickly, excited by the movement and the struggle, and suddenly stopped, throwing back its head. A winged boat floated in the blue sky, descending. It flashed, circled, lower and lower, glided overhead, and landed.

Someone wrapped in white fur, white as snow, emerged from the boat. From behind the fur, from under a leather helmet, Aelita's worried eyes peered at Moose. His heart pounded. He approached the boat. Aelita pushed back the fur, damp with his breath, covering his face. Moose looked into her face with darkened eyes. She said:

-- I'm coming for you. I was in the city. We need to run. I'm dying of longing for you.

The moose only gripped the side of the boat with his fingers and caught his breath with difficulty.

Charms

Moose sat behind Aelita. The mechanic—a red-skinned boy—with a smooth push lifted the winged boat into the sky.

A cold wind rushed towards her. Aelita's snow-white fur coat was imbued with a stormy freshness, a mountain chill. Aelita turned to Moose, her cheeks flushed.

“I saw my father. He told me to kill you and your comrade.” Her teeth flashed. She unclenched her fist. A small stone flask hung from a ring on a chain. “Father said: let them sleep peacefully, they deserve a happy death.”

Aelita's gray eyes watered. But then she laughed and snatched the ring from her finger. Elk grabbed her hand.

“Don’t throw it away,” he took the bottle from her and put it in his pocket, “this is your gift, Aelita, a dark droplet – sleep, peace. Now both life and death are you.” He leaned towards her breathing. “When the terrible hour of loneliness comes, I will feel you again in this droplet.”

Trying to understand, Aelita closed her eyes and leaned her back against Moose. No, she still couldn't understand. The rustling wind, Moose's hot chest behind her, his hand buried in the white fur on her shoulder—it seemed as if their blood were coursing through the same vortex, in the same rapture, as if they were flying with one body into some shining, ancient memory. No, she still couldn't understand!

A minute passed, a little more. The boat drew level with the Tuskubov estate. The mechanic turned around: Aelita and the Son of Heaven had strange expressions. Sunlight shone in their empty pupils. The wind ruffled the snowy fur of Aelita's coat. Her rapt eyes gazed into the ocean of heavenly light.

The boy mechanic buried his sharp nose in his collar and began to laugh silently. He rested the boat on its wing and, cutting through the air with a steep drop, descended toward the house.

Aelita came to and began to unbutton her coat, but her fingers slid over the bird heads on the large buttons. The moose lifted her from the boat, placed her on the grass, and stood hunched over her. Aelita said to the boy:

-- Prepare a closed boat.

She didn’t notice Ihoshka’s red eyes, nor the manager’s pumpkin-yellow face, distorted with fear; smiling, absentmindedly turning to Los, she walked ahead of him into the depths of the house, to her own.

For the first time, Los saw Aelita’s rooms—low golden vaults, walls covered with shadow images, like figures on a Chinese umbrella—and he felt a head-spinning, bitter, warm smell.

Aelita said quietly:

-- Sit down.

The moose sat down. She sank down at his feet, laid her head on his knees, her hands on his chest, and did not move again.

He gazed tenderly at her ash-blond hair, piled high on the back of her head, and held her hands. Her throat trembled. Moose bent down. She said:

-- Perhaps you are bored with me? Forgive me, I don't know how to love yet. I feel confused. I told Iha: put more flowers in the dining room, when he is alone, let the ulla play for him.

Aelita leaned her elbows on Los's knees, her face dreamy.

-- Did you listen? Did you understand? Did you think about me?

“You see and you know,” said the Elk, “when I don’t see you, I go crazy with anxiety. When I see you, the anxiety is even more terrible. Now it seems to me that longing for you drove me through the stars.”

Aelita took a deep breath, her face looking happy.

-- My father gave me poison, but I saw that he didn't believe me. He said: "I will kill both you and him." We don't have long to live. But you feel that the minutes unfold endlessly, blissfully.

She hesitated and watched as Moose's eyes flashed with cold determination, and his mouth tightened stubbornly.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll fight.” Aelita moved closer and whispered:

--You are the giant from my childhood dreams. You have a beautiful face. You are strong, the Son of Heaven. You are courageous, kind. Your hands are made of iron, your knees are made of stone. Your gaze is deadly. From your gaze, women feel a heaviness in their hearts.

Aelita's head fell limply onto his shoulder. Her muttering became indistinct, barely audible. Moose brushed her hair from her face.

-- What's wrong with you?

Then she quickly threw her arms around his neck like a child. Large tears welled up and streamed down her thin face.

“I don’t know how to love,” she said, “I’ve never known this... Have pity on me, don’t disdain me. I will tell you interesting stories. I’ll tell you about terrible comets, about the battle of airships, about the destruction of a beautiful country on the other side of the mountains. You will not be bored loving me. No one has ever caressed me. When you first came, I thought: “I saw him in childhood, this is my own giant.” I wanted you to take me in your arms, carry me away from here. Here it is gloomy, hopeless, death, death. The sun warms poorly. The ice no longer melts at the poles. The seas dry up. Endless deserts, copper sands cover Tuma... Earth, Earth... dear giant, take me to Earth. I want to see green mountains, streams of water, clouds, fat animals, giants... I don’t want to die...

Aelita burst into tears. She now seemed like a mere child to Moose. It was funny and tender when she clasped her hands, speaking of giants.

The moose kissed her tear-stained eyes. She fell silent. Her mouth swelled. From below, lovingly, as if she were looking at a giant from a fairy tale, she gazed up at the Son of Heaven.

Suddenly, a soft whistle echoed through the dim light of the room, and immediately the oval on the dressing table flashed with a cloudy light. Tuskub's head appeared, peering intently.

“Are you here?” he asked.

Aelita, like a cat, jumped onto the carpet and ran to the screen.

-- I'm here, father.

--Are the Sons of Heaven still alive?

- No, father, I gave them poison, they are killed.

Aelita spoke coldly, sharply. She stood with her back to Los, blocking the screen.

- What else do you want from me, father?

Tuskub was silent. Aelita's shoulders began to rise, her head tossed back. Tuskub's ferocious voice roared:

--You're lying! The Son of Heaven is in the city. He's leading the rebellion!

Aelita swayed. Her father's head disappeared,

Ancient song

Aelita, Ihoshka and Los flew in a four-winged boat to the Lysiasira Mountains.

The electromagnetic wave receiver—a mast with lengths of wire—was constantly working. Aelita leaned over the tiny screen, listening, peering.

It was difficult to make sense of the desperate telephone messages, appeals, cries, and anxious requests flying and swirling in the magnetic fields of Mars. Yet, almost without ceasing, Tuskub's steely voice muttered, cutting through the chaos, dominating it. Shadows of a disturbed world flitted across the mirror.

Several times, in the welter of sounds, Aelita's hearing caught a strange voice, screaming in a drawn-out voice:

"...Comrades, do not listen to the whisperers... We do not need any concessions... To arms, comrades, the last hour has come... All power to the Sov... Sov... Sov..."

Aelita turned to Ihoshka.

“Your friend is brave and daring, he is the true Son of Heaven, do not be afraid for him.

Ikhoshka stamped her feet like a goat and shook her red head. Aelita managed to see that their escape had gone unnoticed. She removed the receivers from her ears. She wiped the fogged window glass with her fingers.

“Look,” she said to Elk, “they are flying after us.”

The boat floated at a tremendous height above Mars. From the sides of the boat, in the blinding light, two writhing, mangy, brown-furred animals flew on membranous wings. Their round heads with flat, toothy beaks were turned toward the windows. One, seeing Moose, dove and slapped its jaws against the glass. Moose threw back its head. Aelita laughed.

They passed Azora. The jagged cliffs of Lysiasira now lay below. The boat descended, flew over Lake Soam, and landed on a spacious platform hanging over the abyss.

Moose and the mechanic pulled the boat into the cave, hoisted the baskets onto their shoulders, and followed the women down a barely visible, ancient-worn staircase into the gorge. Aelita walked quickly and easily. Holding onto the rocky outcrops, she kept a watchful eye on Moose. Rocks flew from beneath his enormous feet, echoing in the abyss.

"Magazitl came down here, carrying a cane with yarn tied to it," Aelita said. "Now you will see the places where the circles of sacred fires burned."

Halfway down the abyss, the staircase descended into the depths of the cliff, into a narrow tunnel. A damp, dank air wafted out of the darkness. Bending over the stones, Moose moved with difficulty between the polished walls. He felt Aelita's shoulder and immediately felt her breath on his lips. He whispered in Russian, "Darling."

The tunnel ended in a dimly lit cave. Basalt columns glittered everywhere. Light clouds of steam rose from the depths. Water gurgled, dripping monotonously from vaults invisible in the depths.

Aelita walked ahead. Her black cloak and pointed cap glided over the lake, sometimes hidden by clouds of steam. She said from the darkness, "Careful," and appeared on the narrow, steep arch of the ancient bridge. Moose felt the vault tremble beneath his feet, but he only watched her light cloak slipping through the gloom.

It was getting lighter. Crystals glittered overhead. The cave ended in a colonnade of low stone pillars. Beyond them, a vista of rocky peaks and the cirques of Lysiasira, bathed in the evening sun, was visible.

Beyond the colonnade lay a wide terrace, covered in rusty moss. Its edges dropped steeply. Barely visible steps and paths led upward, into the cave city. In the center of the terrace lay the Sacred Threshold, half-buried in the soil and covered in moss. It was a large sarcophagus of solid gold. Crude images of animals and birds covered it on all four sides. At the top rested the image of a sleeping Martian—one arm folded under his head, the other clutching a ullu to his chest. The remains of the collapsed colonnade surrounded this astonishing sculpture.

Aelita knelt before the Threshold and kissed the image of the sleeping man on the heart. When she rose, her face was thoughtful and gentle. Iha also knelt at the sleeping man's feet, clasped them, and pressed her face to them.

On the left side, in the rock, amidst half-erased inscriptions, a triangular golden door was visible. Elk raked through the moss and opened it with difficulty. This was the ancient dwelling of the Guardian of the Threshold—a dark cave with stone benches, a hearth, and a bed carved from garnet. Baskets were brought in. Iha covered the floor with a mat, made a bed for Aelita, poured oil into the lamp hanging from the ceiling, and lit it. The boy mechanic went off to guard the winged boat.

Aelita and Los sat on the edge of the abyss. The sun was setting behind the jagged peaks. Sharp, long shadows stretched from the mountains, breaking in the ravines. It was gloomy, barren, and wild in this land, where the ancient Aols once took refuge from humans.

"The mountains were once covered with vegetation," said Aelita, "herds of khashi grazed here, and waterfalls roared in the gorges. Tuma is dying. The circle of long, long millennia is closing. Perhaps we are the last: we will leave, and Tuma will become empty."

Aelita paused. The sun set not far away behind the dragon-like ridge of rocks. The furious blood of the sunset poured upward, into the purple darkness.

"But my heart tells me otherwise." Aelita rose and walked along the cliff, picking up clumps of dry moss and dried twigs. Gathering them into the edge of her cloak, she returned to Elk, built a fire, brought a torch from the cave, and, kneeling, lit the grass. The fire crackled and flared up.

Then Aelita pulled a small ulla from beneath her cloak and, sitting with her elbows resting on her raised knee, plucked the strings. They began to hum gently, like bees. Aelita raised her head to the stars emerging from the darkness and sang in a low, quiet, mournful voice:

Collect dry grass, animal droppings and broken branches,

Fold them carefully,

Strike a stone against a stone, -- a woman, a guide of two souls.

Strike a spark, and the fire will blaze.

Sit by the fire, stretch your hands towards the flame.

Your husband sits on the other side of the dancing tongues.

Through the streams of smoke rising to the stars

A man's eyes look into the darkness of your womb, into the depths of your soul.

His eyes are brighter than the stars, hotter than fire, bolder than the phosphorescent eyes of tea.

Know that the sun will become an extinguished coal and will roll away

The stars from the sky, the evil Taltsetl will go out over the world,--

But you, woman, sit by the fire of immortality, with your hands stretched out to it,

And you listen to the voices of those waiting to awaken to life.

Voices in the darkness of your womb.

The fire was dying down. Aelita lowered the ulla to her knees and gazed at the coals, which illuminated her face with a reddish glow.

“According to ancient custom,” she said sternly, “a woman who sings a song of ulla to a man becomes his wife.”

Moose flies to Gusev's aid

At midnight, Moose jumped out of the boat in the courtyard of the Tuskubov estate. The windows of the house were dark, meaning Gusev hadn't returned yet. The sloping wall was illuminated by stars, their bluish sparks glinting in the blackness of the glass. A strange shadow jutted out at an acute angle from behind the battlements of the roof. Moose peered intently—what could it be?

The boy mechanic leaned towards him and whispered cautiously:

-- Don't go there.

Moose pulled his Mauser from its holster. He inhaled the chilly air. The memory of the fire above the abyss and the smell of burning grass rose in his mind. Aelita's darkened, hot eyes... "Will you return?" she asked, standing over the fire. "Fulfill your duty, fight, win, but don't forget—it's all just a dream, all shadows... Here, by the fire, you're alive, you won't die. Don't forget, come back..." She came closer. Her eyes, right next to his, opened onto the bottomless night, full of stardust: "Come back, come back to me, Son of Heaven..."

The memory burned and faded—lasting only a second, while Moose unbuckled his revolver. Peering into the strange shadow on the other side of the house, above the roof, Moose felt his muscles tense, hot blood pounding his heart—a struggle, a struggle.

He ran lightly, leaping, toward the house. He listened, slid along the side wall, and peered around the corner. Near the entrance to the house, a wrecked ship lay on its side. One wing rose above the roof toward the stars... Moose made out several bodies lying on the grass like sacks. The house was dark and silent.

"Could it really be Gusev?" Los ran up to the dead. "No, Martians." One lay upside down on the steps. Another hung among the wreckage of the ship. Apparently, they were shot from inside the house.

The moose ran up the stairs. The door was ajar. He entered the house.

“Alexey Ivanovich,” Los called.

It was quiet. He turned on the light, and the whole house lit up. He thought, "Careless," and immediately forgot about it. Walking under the arches, he slipped into a sticky puddle.

"Alexei Ivanovich!" shouted Los. He listened - silence. Then he went into the narrow hall with the foggy mirror, sat down in a chair, and grabbed his chin with his nails. "Should I wait for him here? Should I fly to help? But where? Whose wrecked ship is this? The dead don't look like soldiers - most likely workers. Who fought here? Gusev? Tuskub's people? Yes, we can't delay."

He picked up the digital board and turned on the mirror: "Supreme Council of Engineers Square." He pulled the cord, and immediately a roar blew him away from the mirror: there, in the reddish glow of the street lamps, billows of smoke flew, flashes of fire and sparks flickered. Then a figure with bloodshot eyes flew into the mirror, arms outstretched.

The moose pulled the cord and turned away from the screen.

"Won't he let me know where to look for him in this mess?"

Moose put his hands behind his back and paced the low hallway. He shuddered, stopped, turned around quickly, and clicked the safety catch on his Mauser. A head poked out from behind the door, right at the floor—red hair, a red, wrinkled face.

Moose jumped to the door. On the other side of it, a Martian lay against the wall in a pool of blood. Moose picked him up, carried him, and laid him in a chair. His stomach was torn open.

Licking his lips, the Martian said barely audibly:

-- Hurry, we are perishing, Son of Heaven, save us... Open my hand...

Moose unclenched the dying man's numb fist and tore the note from his palm. He could barely make it out:

"I'm sending a warship and seven workers for you—reliable fellows. I'm laying siege to the House of the Supreme Council of Engineers. Come down to the square next to the tower. Gusev."

Moose leaned over to the wounded man to ask what had happened. But the Martian only wheezed, twitching in his chair.

Then Moose took his head in his hands. The Martian stopped wheezing. His eyes bulged. Horror, bliss lit them: "Save me..." His eyes grew dusty, his mouth bared.

Moose buttoned his jacket and wrapped a scarf around his neck. He headed for the exit. But as soon as he opened the door, bluish sparks darted from behind the wreck of the ship ahead; a faint, piercing crack rang out. A bullet had torn Moose's helmet off his head.

Gritting his teeth, Moose rushed down the stairs, leaped up to the ship, leaned his shoulder on it, his muscles cracked, and he overturned the hull of the ship onto those who were hiding behind him in ambush.

There was a crash of breaking metal, the bird-like cries of Martians; a huge wing whipped through the air and slapped those crawling from the rubble. Crouching figures ran in zigzags across the misty meadow. The moose caught up with them in a single leap and fired. The roar of the Mauser was terrifying. The nearest Martian fell into the grass. Another dropped his rifle, crouched down, and covered his face with his hands.

The moose grabbed him by the collar of his silver jacket and lifted him up like a puppy. It was a soldier. The moose asked:

--Are you sent by Tuskub?

-- Yes, Son of Heaven.

-- I'll kill you.

-- Good, Son of Heaven.

-- How did you arrive? Where is the ship?

Hanging before the terrible face of the Son of Heaven, the Martian, with eyes wide with horror, pointed to the trees: in their shadow stood a small military boat.

--Have you seen the Son of Heaven in the city? Can you find him?

-- Yes.

-- Take it.

The moose jumped into the naval boat. The Martian sat at the helm. The propellers howled. The night wind rushed forward. Enormous, wild stars swayed in the black heights.

Gusev's activities for the past day

At ten o'clock in the morning, Gusev flew from the Tuskubov estate to Soatsera, having on board the boat an aviation map, weapons, provisions and six hand grenades - which he had seized in secret from Los in Petrograd.

At midday, Gusev saw Soacera below. The central streets were deserted. Near the House of the Council of Engineers, on a huge star-shaped square, warships and troops stood in three concentric semicircles.

Gusev began to descend. And then—he was obviously spotted. A six-winged, glittering ship took off from the square, shimmering in the sun's rays as it rose vertically. Silvery figures stood along its sides. Gusev described a circle above the ship. Carefully, he pulled a grenade from his bag.

The colored wheels on the ship began to spin and the wire hairs on the mast began to move.

Gusev leaned over the side of the boat and shook his fist. A faint cry echoed through the ship. Silvery figures raised their short rifles. Yellow smoke billowed out. Bullets sang. A chunk of the boat's side flew off.

Gusev cursed cheerfully. He raised the rudders. He dove down onto the ship. He tossed a grenade, whirling overhead. He heard a deafening explosion behind him. He straightened the rudders and turned. The ship flipped carelessly in the air, smoking and falling apart, and crashed onto the rooftops.

That's where it all started.

Flying over the city, Gusev recognized the squares, government buildings, arsenals, and workers' quarters he'd seen in the mirror. A crowd of thousands of Martians stirred like a disturbed anthill near the long factory wall. Gusev descended. The crowd shied away. He landed in a cleared spot, baring his teeth.

They recognized him. Thousands of hands rose, throats roared: "Magazitl, Magazitl!" The crowd timidly began to move closer. He saw trembling faces, pleading eyes, peeling skulls red as radishes. They were all workers, the rabble, the poor.

Gusev climbed out of the boat, threw the bag over his shoulder, and waved his hand widely through the air.

-- Greetings, comrades! -- It became as quiet as in a dream. Gusev seemed like a giant among the puny people. -- Are you gathered here to talk, comrades, or to fight?

If I have no time to talk, goodbye.

A heavy sigh swept through the crowd. Several Martians cried out in despair, and the crowd took up their cries:

-- Save, save, save us, Son of Heaven!

“So, you want to fight?” said Gusev and roared in a hoarse throat: “The battle has begun. A warship has just attacked me. I shot it down to hell. To arms, follow me!” He grabbed the air as if it were a bridle.

Gor pushed his way through the crowd (Gusev recognized him immediately). Gor was gray with excitement, his lips trembling. He clutched Gusev's chest with his fingers.

--What are you saying? Where are you calling us? They will destroy us. We have no weapons. We need other means of struggle...

Gusev tore his hands away from himself.

-- The main weapon is to decide. He who decides, has the power. I didn't fly from Earth to talk here... I flew from Earth to teach you to decide. You're covered in moss, comrade Martians. Those who aren't afraid to die, follow me. Where's your arsenal? Get your weapons! Everyone follow me, to the arsenal!

- Ay-ay! - the Martians screamed.

A crush began. Gore desperately extended his hands to the crowd.

Thus began the uprising. A leader had been found. Heads spun. The impossible seemed possible. Gor, who had been slowly and scientifically preparing the uprising, hesitating and hesitating even after yesterday, suddenly seemed to wake up. He delivered twelve furious speeches, transmitted to the workers' quarters by foggy mirrors. Forty thousand Martians began to gather at the arsenal. Gusev broke the attackers into small groups, and they fled under the cover of houses, monuments, and trees. He ordered women and children stationed at all the control screens through which the government monitored city traffic and ordered them to halfheartedly curse Tuskub. This Asiatic ruse lulled the government's vigilance for a while.

Gusev feared an air attack by warships. To distract them, at least for a short time, he sent five thousand unarmed Martians into the city center to shout, beg for warm clothing, bread, and khavra. He told them:

-- None of you will return from there alive. You remember that. Go.

Five thousand Martians cried out in one voice: "Oh, oh!" - unfurled huge umbrellas with inscriptions and went to die, singing with a mournful howl the old forbidden song:

Under glass roofs,

Under the iron arches,

In a stone pot

The hawra is smoking.

We are having fun, having fun.

Give us a stone pot!

Ay-ay! We won't be back

Into the mines, into the quarries,

We won't be coming back

Into the terrible, dead corridors,

To the cars, to the cars.

We want to live. Ouch! Live!

Give us a stone pot!

Twirling their huge umbrellas and howling, they disappeared into the narrow streets.

The arsenal, a low, square building in the old part of the city, was guarded by a small military unit. The soldiers stood in a semicircle on the square in front of the bronze-bound gates, covering two strange machines made of wire coils, disks, and spheres (Gusev had seen such a thing in an abandoned house). Through numerous crooked alleys, the attackers approached and surrounded the arsenal: its walls were sheer and strong. Peering around corners, running behind trees, Gusev surveyed the position – it was clear: the arsenal had to be taken head-on, through the gates. Gusev ordered the bronze door of one of the entrances to be torn open and wrapped with ropes. He ordered the attackers to throw lava, screaming – tsk-tsk! – as terribly as possible.

The soldiers guarding the gates calmly glanced at the bustle in the alleys; only the cars were pushed forward, their spirals crackling with purple light. Pointing at them, the Martians squinted and whistled softly, "Fear them, Son of Heaven." There was no time to waste. Gusev spread his legs, grabbed the ropes, and lifted the bronze door—it was heavy, but no matter, he could carry it. He walked under the cover of the house wall to the edge of the square, from there it was a stone's throw to the gates. He whispered to his men, "Get ready." He wiped his brow with his sleeve and thought, "Oh, I wish I could get angry right now." He lifted the door and closed it behind him.

"Give us the arsenal! Give us, damn you, the arsenal!" he yelled in a voice that wasn't his own and ran heavily across the square towards the soldiers.

Several shots gurgled, slicing explosions hitting the door. Gusev staggered. He grew seriously angry and ran faster, cursing. And all around, the Martians began howling and shrieking, pouring out of every corner, doorway, and tree. A thunderbolt exploded in the air. But the rushing streams of attackers crushed the soldiers and the terrifying machines.

Gusev, cursing, ran to the gate and slammed the corner of the bronze door into the lock. The gate creaked and fell apart. Gusev ran into a square courtyard where winged ships stood in rows.

The arsenal was captured. Forty thousand Martians were armed. Gusev connected via mirror phone to the House of the Council of Engineers and demanded the surrender of Tuskub.

In response, the government sent an air squadron to attack the arsenal... Gusev flew out to meet it with the entire fleet. The government ships fled. They were caught, surrounded, and destroyed over the ruins of ancient Soacera. The ships fell from the sky at the feet of a gigantic statue of Magacitl, smiling with closed eyes. The sunset light shimmered on his scaly helmet.

The sky was in the hands of the rebels. The government was amassing police forces at the Council House. Machines were stationed on its roof, sending out fiery cannonballs—round lightning bolts. Part of the rebel fleet was shot out of the sky by them. By nightfall, Gusev had laid siege to the Supreme Council Square and began erecting barricades in the streets radiating out from the square like a star. "I'll teach you how to organize a revolution, you brick devils," Gusev said, demonstrating how to uproot pavement slabs, fell trees, rip down doors, and stuff shirts with sand.

Opposite the Supreme Council House, they parked two vehicles seized from the armory and began firing fireballs at the troops. But the government had blanketed the square with an electromagnetic field.

Then Gusev delivered his final speech of the day, a very brief, inexpressive one, climbed onto the barricade, and hurled three hand grenades, one after the other. The force of their explosion was terrifying: three jets of flame shot up, sending stones, soldiers, and pieces of vehicles flying into the air, shrouding the square in dust and acrid smoke. The Martians howled and advanced. (This was precisely the moment when Los glanced into the foggy mirror at Tuskubov's estate.)

The government lifted the magnetic field, and fiery balls began to dance and leap above the square and the fighters on both sides, bursting into streams of bluish flame. The roar shook the gloomy pyramidal buildings.

The battle didn't last long. Gusev, at the head of a select squad, stormed through the corpse-strewn square into the House of the Supreme Council. The building was empty. Tuskub and all the engineers had fled.

Turn of events

The rebel forces occupied all the most important points in the city, as designated by Horus. The night was chilly. The Martians were freezing at their posts. Gusev ordered fires lit. This seemed unheard of—no fire had been lit in the city for a thousand years—the dancing flames were sung of only in ancient song.

In front of the Supreme Council House, Gusev himself lit the first bonfire from scraps of furniture. "Ulla, ulla," the Martians howled in low voices, surrounding the flames. And now bonfires were blazing in every square. A reddish light enlivened the sloping walls of the houses with flickering shadows, shimmering in the glass.

Bluish faces appeared outside the windows, anxiously and melancholy peering into the unseen lights, into the gloomy, ragged figures of the rebels. Many of the houses were empty that night.

The city was quiet. Only the fires crackled and weapons clanged, as if millennia had returned to their paths, their languid flight beginning anew. Even the shaggy stars above the streets, above the fires, seemed different—one sitting by the fire involuntarily raised his head and peered at the forgotten image, seemingly brought to life. Gusev flew on a winged saddle over the troop positions. He fell from the starry darkness onto the square and walked across it, casting a gigantic shadow. He seemed like a true Son of Heaven, an idol descended from a stone plinth. "Magazitl, Magazitl," the Martians whispered in superstitious horror. Many saw him for the first time and crawled to touch him. Others cried in childish voices: "Now we will not die... We will be happy... The Son of Heaven has brought us life."

Thin bodies, covered with dusty, uniform clothes for everyone, wrinkled, sharp-nosed, flabby faces, sad eyes, accustomed for centuries to the flickering of wheels, to the gloom of the mines, skinny arms, inept in the movements of joy and courage - arms, faces, eyes with sparks of fires - reached out to the Son of Heaven.

"Don't be shy, don't be shy, lads. Look brighter," Gusev told them, "there's no law that says you have to suffer innocently until the end of time, don't be shy. We'll overcome this and live well."

Late that night, Gusev returned to the Council House, chilled and hungry. In the vaulted hall, beneath low, golden arches, about twenty Martians, laden with weapons, slept on the floor. The mirrored floor was littered with chewed-up khavra. In the center of the hall, Gor sat on some cartridge cans, writing by the light of a flashlight. Open cans, flasks, and crusts of bread littered the table.

Gusev sat down on the corner of the table and began eating greedily. He wiped his hands on his pants, took a swig from his flask, grunted, and said hoarsely:

--Where is the enemy? That's what I need...

Gore raised his reddened eyes to him, looked at the bloody rag wrapped around Gusev’s head, his hard-chewing, high-cheekboned face—his mustache sticking up, his nostrils flared.

"I can't figure out where the hell the government troops went," Gusev continued. "There are about three hundred of them lying around in the square, and there were at least fifteen thousand troops. They failed. They couldn't hide - they weren't pins and needles. If they had failed, I would have known. The situation is terrible. The enemy could be in the rear at any moment."

“Tuskub, the government, the remnants of the troops and part of the population went into the labyrinths of Queen Magr under the city,” said Horus.

Gusev jumped off his chair.

-- Why are you silent?

“Pursuing Tuskub is useless. Sit and eat, Son of Heaven.” Horus, wincing, pulled a pepper-red packet of dried khavra from under his clothes, tucked it into his cheek and chewed slowly. His eyes grew moist, darkened, and the wrinkles disappeared. “Several millennia ago, we did not build large houses; we could not heat them—electricity was unknown to us. During the winter cold, the population retreated beneath the surface of Mars, to great depths. Enormous halls, adapted from caves dug by water, colonnades, tunnels, and corridors were warmed by the internal heat of the planet. In the craters of volcanoes, the heat was so great that we used it to generate steam. To this day, clumsy steam engines from those times still operate on some islands. Tunnels connecting underground cities stretch almost under the entire planet. Searching for Tuskub in this labyrinth is pointless. He alone knows the plans and secrets of Queen Magr's Labyrinth—the ruler of two worlds, who once ruled all of Mars. A network of tunnels leads from beneath Soacera to five hundred living cities and over a thousand dead, extinct ones. There are weapons depots and airship harbors everywhere. Our forces are scattered, poorly armed. Tuskub has an army, on his side are the owners of rural estates, the hawra planters, and all those who thirty years ago, after a devastating war, became owners of city houses. Tuskub is clever and treacherous. He deliberately provoked all these events to crush forever the remnants of resistance... Ah, the Golden Age... The Golden Age!..

Horus shook his dazed head. Purple spots appeared on his cheeks. Havra was beginning to affect him.

-- Tuskub dreams of a golden age: to usher in the final era of Mars -- a golden age. Only the chosen ones will enter it, only those worthy of bliss. Equality is unattainable, there is no equality. Universal happiness is the delirium of madmen intoxicated with hawra. Tuskub said: the thirst for equality and universal justice destroy the highest achievements of civilization. -- Reddish foam appeared on Horus's lips. -- To go back to inequality, to injustice! Let the past centuries rush at us, like them. Shackle the slaves, chain them to machines, to lathes, lower them into mines... Let it be the fullness of sorrow. And the blessed -- the fullness of happiness... Here is a golden age. The gnashing of teeth and darkness. Cursed be my father and mother! To be born into this world! Cursed be I!

Gusev looked at him, chewing his cigarette vigorously:

-- Well, I'll tell you, you've lived here this long!..

Gore was silent for a long time, bent over the cartridge cans like an ancient, ancient old man.

-- Yes, Son of Heaven. We, who inhabit ancient Tuma, have not solved the riddle. Today I saw you in battle. Joy dances within you like fire. You are dreamy, passionate, and carefree. You, the sons of Earth, will someday solve the riddle. But not us; we are old. There is ashes within us. We have missed our hour.

Gusev pulled up his sash.

-- Well, alright. Ashes! What do you plan to do tomorrow?

-- In the morning we need to find Tuskub on the mirror phone and enter into negotiations with him about mutual concessions...

"You've been talking nonsense for an hour, comrade," Gusev interrupted. "Here's your disposition for tomorrow: you announce to Mars that power has passed to the workers. Demand unconditional obedience. And I'll pick up some brave men and, with the entire fleet, head straight for the poles and seize the electromagnetic stations. I'll immediately begin telegraphing Earth, Moscow, asking them to send us reinforcements as soon as possible. They'll build the devices in six months, and the flight will only take..."

Gusev staggered and sat heavily on the table; the entire house shook. Stucco decorations rained down from the darkness of the vaults. The Martians sleeping on the floor jumped up and looked around. Another, even more powerful tremor shook the house. Glass shattered. Doors burst open. A low, increasing rumble filled the hall. Shouts and gunshots rang out across the square.

The Martians, rushing to the door, backed away and parted. The Son of Heaven—Moose—entered. It was difficult to recognize his face: his enormous, sunken eyes were dark, a strange light emanating from them. The Martians backed away from him, squatting. His white hair stood on end.

"The city is surrounded," said Elk loudly and firmly, "the sky is full of the lights of ships. Tuskub is blowing up the workers' quarters."

Counterattack

Los and Gore were just emerging onto the building's staircase, beneath the colonnade, when a second explosion rang out. A bluish fan of flames rose from the northern side of the city. Rising plumes of smoke and ash became clearly visible. A whirlwind swept past the roar. A crimson glow spread across half the sky.

Now not a single cry rang out across the star-shaped square filled with troops. The Martians silently gazed at the glow. Their homes and families crumbled to dust. Hopes vanished in clouds of black smoke.

After a brief meeting with Los and Gore, Gusev ordered the air fleet to be prepared for battle. All the ships were in the arsenal. Only five of these enormous dragonflies lay in the square. Gusev sent them out to scout. The ships rose, their wings flashing with fire.

The arsenal responded that the order had been received and the embarkation of troops on the ships had begun. An indefinite amount of time passed. The smoke glow grew. The city was ominously quiet. Gusev kept sending Martians to the mirror telephone to hasten the embarkation. He himself, a huge shadow, darted across the square, shouting hoarsely, organizing the disorderly groups of troops into columns. Approaching the stairs, he grinned, his mustache standing on end.

-- Just tell them in the arsenal (an expression incomprehensible to Gore followed), -- livelier, livelier...

Gore went to the telephone. Finally, a telegram was received that the landing was complete and the ships were disembarking. Sure enough, not far above the city, dragonflies appeared hovering in the dense glow. Gusev, legs apart, head raised, gazed with pleasure at these swarming lines. At that moment, a third, louder explosion rang out.

Swords of bluish flame pierced the ships' paths—they rose, spun, and vanished. In their place rose sheaves of dust and clouds of smoke.

Horus appeared between the columns. His head was sunken. His face trembled, his mouth stretched. When the roar of the explosion died down, Horus said:

-- The arsenal was blown up. The fleet was destroyed.

Gusev gave a dry grunt and began gnawing at his mustache. Elk stood, his head pressed against the column, staring at the glow. Gore tiptoed up to his glassy eyes.

-- It will not be good for those who remain alive today.

Moose didn't answer. Gusev stubbornly shook his head. I went to the square. His command rang out. And so, column after column, the Martians marched into the depths of the streets, to the barricades.

Gusev's winged shadow flew in the saddle over the square, shouting from above:

-- Hurry up, hurry up, turn around, you dead devils!

The square was empty. The vast conflagration now illuminated lines of dragonflies approaching from the opposite direction: wave after wave of them rose from the horizon and floated over the city. These were Tuskub's ships.

Gore said:

“Run, Son of Heaven, you can still escape.” Elk merely shrugged. The ships approached, descended. A fireball rose to meet them from the darkness of the streets, then a second, then a third. The rebel machines were firing circular bolts of lightning. Strings of winged galleys described a circle above the square and, dividing, floated above the streets, above the rooftops. Incessant flashes of gunfire illuminated their sides. One galley capsized and, falling, got stuck with its broken wings between the rooftops. Others landed at the corners of the square, disembarking soldiers in silver jackets. The soldiers fled into the streets. Shots began to come from windows, from around corners. Stones flew. More and more ships flew in, crimson shadows gliding ceaselessly across the square.

Elk saw Gusev's broad-shouldered figure rise up on the house's stepped terrace not far away. Five or six ships immediately turned in his direction. He raised a huge stone over his head and hurled it at the nearest galley. Immediately, glittering wings covered him from all sides.

Then Moose ran across the square, almost flying, as if in a dream. Above him, ships circled, their propellers roaring angrily, crackling, and flashing. He gritted his teeth, his eyes keenly taking in every detail.

In a few leaps, Moose crossed the square and again saw Gusev on the terrace of the corner house. He was surrounded by Martians, climbing on him from all sides. He thrashed like a bear under this living heap, throwing them about, thrashing with his fists. He tore one from the throat, threw it into the air, and walked along the terrace, dragging them behind him. He fell.

Moose screamed loudly. Clinging to the ledges of the buildings, he climbed onto the terrace. Again, Gusev's head emerged from the pile of screaming bodies, eyes bulging, mouth broken. Several soldiers grabbed Moose. With disgust, he threw them aside, rushed toward the tossing heap, and began to scatter the soldiers—they flew over the balustrade like splinters. The terrace was empty. Gusev struggled to rise, his head bobbing. Moose picked him up, jumped through the open door, and laid him on the carpet in the low, glow-lit room.

Gusev wheezed. Moose returned to the door. Ships sailed past the terrace, peering, sharp-nosed faces sailing past. An attack was expected.

“Mstislav Sergeyevich,” Gusev called. He was now sitting up, touching his head and spitting blood. “They beat up all of ours... Mstislav Sergeyevich, what is this? How they attacked, attacked, started mowing us down... Some were killed, some hid. I was the only one left... Oh, what a pity!” He stood up, stumbled around the room, staggering, and stopped in front of a bronze statue, apparently of some famous Martian. “Just you wait!” He grabbed the statue and rushed to the door.

- Alexey Ivanovich, why?

-- I can't. Let go.

He appeared on the terrace. Shots flashed from behind the wings of a passing ship. Then there was a bang and a crack.

- Aha! - shouted Gusev.

The moose dragged him into the room and slammed the door.

- Alexey Ivanovich, understand - we are defeated, it’s all over... We need to save Aelita.

-- Why are you bothering me with your woman?

He quickly sat down, grabbed his face, snorted, stamped his foot, and it was as if a board inside him was being torn apart:

-- Well, let them flay me. Everything in this world is wrong. This planet is wrong, damn it! "Save us," they say, "save us..." They cling to it... "If only we could somehow live," they say... Live!.. What can I do?.. Look, I've shed my blood. They crushed me. Mstislav Sergeyevich, well, I'm a son of a bitch, I can't bear to see this... I'll tear my tormentors apart with my teeth...

He snorted again and walked toward the door. Moose took him by the shoulders, shook him, and looked him firmly in the eyes.

--What happened is a nightmare and delirium. Let's go. Maybe we'll get through. Home, to Earth.

Gusev smeared blood and dirt across his face.

-- Let's go.

They emerged from the room onto a ring-shaped platform hanging above a wide well. A spiral staircase spiraled down its inner edge. The dim light of the glow penetrated through the glass roof into this dizzying depth.

Los and Gusev began to descend the narrow staircase—it was quiet below. But above, the crackle of gunfire grew louder, the creaking of the ships' bottoms scraping against the roof. Apparently, the attack on the Sons of Heaven's last refuge had begun.

Moose and Gusev ran along endless spirals. The light grew dim. And then they spotted a small figure below. It was barely crawling toward them. It stopped and cried out weakly:

-- They're about to burst in. Hurry. There's a passage to the labyrinth below.

It was Horus, wounded in the head. Licking his lips, he said:

-- Follow the great tunnels. Follow the signs on the walls. Farewell. If you return to Earth, tell us about us. Perhaps you will be happy on Earth. And for us -- icy deserts, death, melancholy... Ah, we have missed the hour... We should have loved life fiercely and powerfully, powerfully...

A noise was heard below. Gusev ran down. Moose tried to drag Gore down with him, but the Martian gritted his teeth and gripped the railing.

-- Go. I want to die.

Moose caught up with Gusev. They passed the last ring-shaped platform. From there, a steep staircase descended to the bottom of the well. Here they saw a large stone slab with a screw-in ring. With difficulty, they lifted it: a dry wind blew from the dark opening.

Gusev slid down first. Moose, sliding the slab behind him, saw the soldiers' figures appear on the ring-shaped platform, barely discernible in the red gloom.

They ran up the spiral staircase. Horus extended his arms to meet them and fell under the blows.

The Labyrinth of Queen Magra

Los and Gusev moved carefully in the musty and stuffy darkness.

-- We're wrapping up, Mstislav Sergeevich...

-- Narrow?

-- It's too wide, my hands can't reach it.

-- Some columns again. Stop! Where are we... At least three hours had passed since they descended into the labyrinth. The matches were exhausted.

Gusev had dropped his flashlight during the fight. They were moving in impenetrable darkness.

The tunnels branched endlessly, intersected, and plunged deeper. Occasionally, the distinct, monotonous sound of falling drops could be heard. Wide-open eyes discerned vague, grayish outlines, but these shifting heels were merely hallucinations of the darkness.

-- Stop.

-- What?

-- There is no bottom.

They began to listen. A sweet, dry breeze blew across their faces. From far away, as if from the depths, came the sound of sighs—inhaling and exhaling. With a vague uneasiness, they sensed the empty depths before them. Gusev felt underfoot for a stone and tossed it into the darkness. A few seconds later, a faint sound of impact was heard.

-- Failure.

-- What's that breathing?

-- Don't know.

They turned and encountered a wall. They groped left and right, their palms sliding over crumbling cracks and over the ledges of the vaults. The edge of an invisible abyss was very close to the wall—now to the right, now to the left, now to the right again. They realized they were spinning around and couldn't find the passage through which they had entered this narrow ledge.

They leaned side by side, shoulder to shoulder, against the rough wall, listening to the soporific sighs from the depths.

- The end, Alexey Ivanovich?

"Yes, Mstislav Sergeyevich, it seems it's the end." After a silence, Los asked in a strange, quiet voice:

-- Now -- don't you see anything?

-- No.

-- To the left, far away.

-- No no.

The moose whispered something to himself and shifted from foot to foot.

-- To love life fiercely and powerfully... Only this way...

--Who are you talking about?

-- About them. And about us. Gusev also shifted his position and sighed.

-- There she is, do you hear, breathing.

--Who, -- death?

“The devil knows who she is?” Gusev spoke as if lost in thought. “I’ve thought about her for a long time, Mstislav Sergeyevich. You’re lying in a field with a rifle, it’s raining and dark. Whatever you think about, you’ll always return to death. And you see yourself, lying there, bared teeth, frozen stiff, like a wagon horse, by the side of the road. I don’t know what will happen after death, I don’t know that. But here, while I’m alive, I need to know: am I horse carrion or am I a man? Or is it all the same? When I die, my eyes will roll back, my teeth will clench, a spasm will break them – it’s over... at that moment – ​​the whole world, everything I’ve seen with my own eyes – will it turn upside down or not? That’s what’s scary, I’m lying there dead, bared teeth – I mean, I can remember myself from the age of three... and everything in the world continues to go on as usual? It’s incomprehensible. We've been killing people since 1914, and we've gotten used to—what is a man?—take a shot at him with a rifle, and there you have a man. No, Mstislav Sergeyevich, it's not that simple. Once, at night, I was lying on a cart, wounded, with my nose up, looking at the stars. Sadness, nausea. A louse, I think, and so am I—what does it matter? A louse wants to drink and eat, and so do I. It's hard for a louse to die, and so do I. One end. At that moment I looked—the stars had come out like millet—it was autumn, August. How my spleen trembled. It seemed to me, Mstislav Sergeyevich, as if all the stars were inside me. No, I'm not a louse. No. How I burst into tears. What is this? A man is not a louse. To split my skull—a terrible deed, a great attempt on my life. Otherwise—they've invented poisonous gases. I want to live, Mstislav Sergeyevich. I can’t stand this damned darkness... What are we standing here for, really...

“She’s here,” said Moose in the same strange voice.

At that moment, a distant rumble echoed through the countless tunnels. The ledge beneath their feet shook, the wall trembled. Stones rained down into the darkness. Waves of roar rolled and faded away. This was the seventh explosion. Tuskub had kept his word. From the distance of the explosion, one could tell that Soacera had remained far to the west.

For a moment, the sound of falling pebbles rustled. It grew quiet, then quieter. Gusev was the first to notice that the sighs in the depths had ceased. Now strange sounds were coming from there—rustling, hissing, as if some soft liquid were boiling there. Gusev now seemed to have gone mad—he spread his arms along the wall and ran, screaming, cursing, and throwing stones aside.

-- The cornice goes all the way around. Do you hear? There must be a way out. Damn it, I hit my head! -- He moved silently for a while, then spoke excitedly from somewhere ahead of Los, who continued to stand motionless by the wall: -- Mstislav Sergeyevich... The handle... The switch... Honestly, the switch...

A screeching, rusty creak was heard. A dusty light flared beneath the low brick dome. The ribs of its flat vaults rested on a narrow ring of cornice hanging above a circular shaft, about ten meters in diameter.

Gusev was still holding the switch handle. On the other side of the shaft, under the dome's arch, Los leaned against the wall. He shielded his eyes from the piercing light with his hand. Then Gusev saw Los withdraw his hand and look down into the shaft. He bent low, peering. His hand trembled, as if his fingers were shaking something. He raised his head, his white hair shining, his eyes wide, as if in mortal terror.

Gusev shouted to him:

"What are you looking at?" and only then did he glance into the depths of the brick shaft. There, the russet-brown skin swayed and rolled. It was emitting a hissing sound, a growing, ominous rustling. The skin was rising and swelling. It was entirely covered with large, horse-like eyes, turned toward the light, and furry paws...

"Death!" Les shouted.

It was a huge swarm of spiders. They had apparently been breeding in the warm depths of the shaft; the explosion had disturbed them, and they began to rise, swelling in mass. They made a hissing and woolly rustling sound... Then one of the spiders, its legs raised at the corners, ran along the ledge.

The entrance to the ledge was not far from Los. Gusev shouted:

"Run!" and with a powerful leap he flew across the shaft, scraping his skull against the dome's vault, fell on his haunches next to Moose, grabbed him by the hand and dragged him into the passage, into the tunnel. They ran as fast as they could.

Dusty lanterns flickered sparsely under the vaulted tunnel. Thick dust lay on the floor, on the fragments of columns and statues, on the thresholds of narrow doors leading to other passages. Gusev and Los walked along this corridor for a long time. It ended in a hall with flat vaults and low columns. In the center stood a ruined statue of a woman with a fat, ferocious face. In the depths, the openings of dwellings loomed black. Here, too, dust lay—on the statue of Queen Magra, on the fragments of utensils.

The moose stopped, its eyes glassy and wide.

“There are millions of them there,” he said, looking around, “they are waiting, their time will come, they will take over life, populate Mars...”

Gusev led him into the widest tunnel leading out of the hall. The lanterns burned sparsely and dimly. They walked for a long time. They passed a circular bridge spanning a wide crevice, at the bottom of which lay the joints of gigantic machines. Beyond, the dusty, gray walls stretched again. Despair settled over his soul. His legs buckled from exhaustion. Elk repeated several times in a quiet voice:

-- Let me go, I'll lie down.

His heart stopped beating. A terrible melancholy overcame him as he stumbled along in Gusev's footsteps, through the dust. Beads of cold sweat ran down his face.

The moose peered into the depths of no return. Yet a greater force pulled him away from that line, and he dragged himself, half-dead, through endless, deserted corridors.

The tunnel took a sharp turn. Gusev cried out. The semicircular entrance revealed a dazzling, cube-blue sky and the mountain peak, glittering with ice and snow—the one so memorable to Los. They emerged from the labyrinth near the Tuskubov estate.

Hao

“Son of Heaven, Son of Heaven,” called a thin voice.

Gusev and Los approached the estate from the grove. A sharp-nosed face poked out from the azure thickets. It was Aelita's mechanic, a boy in a gray fur coat. He clasped his arms and began to dance, his face wrinkled like a tapir's. Parting the branches, he revealed a winged boat hidden among the circus ruins.

He recounted: the night passed quietly, and before dawn there was a distant rumble and a glow. He thought the Sons of Heaven had perished, jumped into a boat, and flew to Aelita's refuge. She, too, had heard the explosion and, from atop a cliff, was looking down on the conflagration. She told the boy: "Return to the estate and wait for the Son of Heaven. If Tuskub's servants capture you, die silently. If the Son of Heaven is killed, make your way to his corpse, find the stone flask on it, and bring it back to me."

Moose, gritting his teeth, listened to the boy's story. Then Moose and Gusev went to the lake and washed off the blood and dust. Gusev carved a club from a strong tree, almost the size of a horse's leg. They boarded a boat and soared into the shining blue water.

Gusev and the mechanic brought the boat into the cave, lay down at the entrance, and unfolded the map. Just then, Ikha rolled down from the cliffs above. Looking at Gusev, she clutched her cheeks. Tears streamed from her loving eyes. Gusev laughed joyfully.

The moose descended alone into the abyss toward the Sacred Threshold. As if carried by a wing of the wind, he climbed steep steps across narrow passages and bridges. What would happen to Aelita, to him? Would they be saved or would they perish? He couldn't figure it out: he'd start thinking and then give up. The main, most astonishing thing would be that he would now once again see "the one born from the light of the stars." Just to gaze upon her thin, bluish face—to lose himself in waves of joy.

Swiftly crossing the humpbacked bridge over the cave lake in clouds of steam, Moose, like the last time, saw a lunar vista of mountains beyond the low columns. He cautiously emerged onto the platform hanging over the abyss. The Sacred Threshold gleamed with dull gold.

It was sultry and quiet. The moose longed to tenderly kiss the red moss, the footprints on this last refuge of love.

Far below, barren mountain peaks rose. Ice glistened in the deep blue. A piercing melancholy gripped my heart. Here were the ashes of a fire, here was the trampled moss where Aelita had sung the ulla's song. A ridged lizard, hissing, scurried across the rocks and froze, its head turned.

The moose walked up to the rock, to the triangular door, opened it slightly and, bending down, entered the cave.

Aelita slept among white pillows, illuminated by a ceiling lamp. She lay on her back, her bare elbow tucked behind her head. Her thin face was sad and meek. Her clenched eyelashes trembled—she must have been dreaming.

The moose sank down at her head and gazed, touched and moved, at the companion of both happiness and sorrow. What torment he would endure now, to ensure that this wondrous face would never be darkened, to stop the destruction of her charm, her youth, her innocent breath—she breathed, and the strand of ashen hair lying on her cheek rose and fell.

Moose thought of those breathing, rustling, and hissing in the deep well in the darkness of the labyrinth, awaiting their moment. He groaned with fear and longing. Aelita sighed, waking. Her eyes stared blankly at Moose for a moment. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. She propped herself up on the pillows with both hands and sat up.

“Son of Heaven,” she said tenderly and quietly, “my son, my love...”

She didn't cover her nakedness, only a blush of embarrassment rose to her cheeks. Her bluish shoulders, barely developed breasts, and narrow hips seemed to Moose born of starlight. Moose continued to kneel by the bed, silent, because the joy of looking at his beloved was too great. A bittersweet scent approached him like a thunderous darkness.

“I saw you in a dream,” said Aelita, “you carried me in your arms up glass stairs, carrying me higher and higher. I heard the beating of your heart. The blood beat into it and shook it. Anguish seized me. I waited – when will you stop, when will the anguish end? I want to know love. I know only the heaviness and horror of anguish... You woke me up.” She fell silent, her eyebrows raised. “You look so strange. Oh, my giant!”

She quickly moved to the far end of the bed. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to defend herself, like an animal. Moose spoke heavily:

-- Come to me.

She shook her head.

--You look like a scary Cha.

He immediately covered his face with his hand, overcome by an effort of will, and it was as if a flame had engulfed him—everything within him now became fire. He took his hands away, and Aelita quietly asked:

-- What?

-- Don't be afraid.

She moved closer and whispered again:

-- I'm afraid of Hao. I'll die.

-- Don't be afraid. Hao is fire, it is life. Don't be afraid of Hao. Come down, my love!

He extended his hands toward her. Aelita sighed silently, her eyelashes drooping, her attentive face haggard. Suddenly, just as swiftly, she sat up in bed and blew out the lamp.

Her fingers tangled in Moose's snowy hair...

A noise like the buzzing of a multitude of bees came from behind the cave door. Neither Moose nor Aelita heard it. The howling noise grew louder. And then—slowly, like a monstrous wasp, a warship rose from the abyss, its nose scraping against the rocks.

The ship hovered level with the platform. A ladder fell from the side onto its edge. Tuskub and a squad of armored soldiers wearing ribbed metal caps descended.

The soldiers formed a semicircle in front of the cave. Tuskub approached the triangular door and struck it with the end of his cane.

Los and Aelita were fast asleep. Tuskub turned to the soldiers and ordered, pointing his cane toward the cave:

-- Take them.

Escape

The warship circled for a while above the cliffs of the Sacred Threshold, then sailed off toward Azora and landed somewhere. Only then were Ikha and Gusev able to descend. On the trampled ground, they saw Moose lying near the cave entrance, face down in the moss, in a pool of blood.

Gusev lifted him into his arms. Los was breathless, his eyes tightly clenched, and there was dried blood on his chest and head. Aelita was nowhere to be found. Ikha howled, picking up her things in the cave. The only thing she was missing was her hooded cloak. Aelita, dead or alive, must have been wrapped in the cloak and taken away on a ship.

Iha tied into a knot what was left of the "born from the light of the stars", Gusev threw Los over his shoulder, and they walked back across the bridges over the lake boiling in the darkness, along the stairs hanging over the foggy abyss - this was the way Magatsitl once returned, carrying the striped apron of the girl Aol tied to the spinning wheel - the message of peace and life.

At the top, Gusev brought a boat out of the cave and put Moose, wrapped in a sheet, into it, pulled up his sash, pulled his helmet down further and said sternly:

“I won’t fall into our hands alive. Well, if I make it to Earth... We’ll come back here...” (Three incomprehensible words followed.) He climbed into the boat and disassembled the rudders. “And you guys, go home or somewhere else. Don’t think ill of me.” He leaned over the side and shook hands with the mechanic and Ikha. “I’m not asking you to come with me, Ikha: I’m flying to certain death. Thank you, my dear, for your love, we, the Sons of Heaven, never forget that, that’s it. Goodbye.”

He squinted at the sun, nodded his chin, and soared into the blue. Ikha and the boy in the gray fur coat stared for a long time at the departing Son of Heaven. They didn't notice that from the south, from behind the lunar cliffs, a winged speck rose, cutting off his path. When Gusev drowned in the sun's torrents, Ikha crashed onto the mossy rocks in such despair that the boy feared that she, too, had abandoned sorrowful Tuma.

“Iha, Iha,” he repeated plaintively, “ho tua mirra tua murra...”

Gusev didn't immediately notice the warship crossing his path. Checking the map and glancing at the receding cliffs of Lysiasira, he headed east, toward the cactus fields where the apparatus had been abandoned.

Behind him, in the boat, Elk's body sat reclining, covered by a sheet flapping in the wind and clinging to it. It was motionless and seemed asleep—there was none of the hideous, senseless quality of a corpse. Gusev only now realized how dear his comrade was to him.

The tragedy unfolded like this: Gusev, Ikhoshka, and the mechanic were sitting in the cave near the boat, laughing. Suddenly, shots rang out below. Then a scream. And a minute later, a warship rose from the abyss like a hawk, abandoning Los's unconscious body on the platform, and began circling, looking out.

Gusev spat over the side, so rotten was Mars for him. "If only I could get to the apparatus and give Los a sip of alcohol." He touched the body; it was barely warm: there had been no sign of rigor mortis since Gusev had lifted it from the platform. "God willing, he'll catch his breath." Gusev knew from experience the feeble effects of Martian bullets. "But the fainting spell lasts too long." Anxiously, he turned to the setting sun, and at that moment saw the ship falling from above.

Gusev immediately turned north, avoiding the enemy. The ship turned as well. From time to time, yellowish smoke from gunfire appeared on it. Gusev then began to gain altitude, hoping to double his speed during the descent and escape his pursuer.

An icy wind whistled in his ears, tears clouded his vision, freezing on his eyelashes. A flock of disgusting ichthys, flapping their wings sloppily, lunged at the boat, but missed and fell behind. Gusev had long since lost his bearings. Blood pounded his temples, the thin air whipped like icy whips. Then Gusev plunged full speed downward. The ship fell behind and disappeared over the horizon.

Now, as far as the eye could see, a copper-red desert stretched below. Not a tree, not a single life anywhere. Only the shadow of the boat flew across the flat hills, across the waves of sand, across the cracks of the rocky soil, glittering like glass. Here and there, the ruins of dwellings cast a dismal shadow on the hills. Everywhere, dried-up canal beds crisscrossed this desert.

The sun was sinking lower towards the smooth edge of the sands, the coppery, melancholy glow of the sunset was spreading, and Gusev could still see below the waves of sand, the hills, the ruins of Tuma, dying and covered in dust.

Night fell quickly. Gusev sank down and sat on the sandy plain. He climbed out of the boat, pulled back the sheet over Moose's face, lifted his eyelids, and pressed his ear to his heart. Moose sat there, neither alive nor dead. Gusev noticed a ring on his little finger and an open bottle hanging from a chain.

“Oh, the desert,” said Gusev, walking away from the boat. Icy stars lit up the immensely high black sky. The sands seemed gray from their light. It was so quiet that you could hear the rustle of sand crumbling into deep footprints... Thirst tormented. Melancholy came over him. “Oh, the desert!” Gusev returned to the boat and sat at the helm. Where to fly? The pattern of stars was wild and unfamiliar.

Gusev started the engine, but the propeller spun lazily and stopped. The engine wasn't working—the box of explosive powder was empty.

“Okay then,” Gusev said quietly. He climbed out of the boat again, tucked the club into his belt, pulled out Moose, “Come on, Mstislav Sergeyevich,” put him over his shoulder, and walked, sinking ankle-deep in the sand. He walked for a long time. He reached a hill, laid Moose on the snow-covered steps of some staircase, looked back at a lonely column at the top of the hill in the starlight, and lay down face down. Mortal fatigue, like an ebb tide, rustled in his blood.

He didn't know how long he lay there motionless. The sand was chilling, his blood ran cold. Then Gusev sat up, raising his head in melancholy. Not far above the desert stood a dark, reddish star. It was like the eye of a large bird. Gusev stared at it, his mouth open.

"Earth." He grabbed Moose in his arms and ran towards the star. He now knew which way the apparatus lay.

Whistling and sweating, Gusev leaped across ditches in enormous leaps, screaming with rage as he tripped over rocks. He ran and ran—and the desert's close, dark horizon swam before him. Several times, Gusev lay face down in the cold sand, hoping to cool his parched mouth with the steam. He'd grab his comrade and continue walking, gazing at the Earth's reddish rays. His enormous shadow moved alone amidst the world's graveyard.

Olla, a waning crescent, rose. In the middle of the night, Lichta, a round moon, rose—her light was gentle and silvery, double shadows cast by the waves of sand. These two strange moons floated—one rising, the other waning. Talzetl faded in their light. In the distance, the icy peaks of Lysiasira rose.

The desert ended. It was close to dawn. Gusev emerged into the cactus fields. He knocked down one of the plants with a kick and greedily sated himself with its writhing, watery flesh. The stars were fading. Pinkish edges of clouds were visible in the purple sky. And then Gusev began to hear something like the blows of iron rollers, a monotonous metallic clatter, distinct in the stillness of the morning.

Gusev soon realized its significance: three lattice masts of a pursuing warship jutted above the cactus thicket. The blows were coming from there—the Martians were destroying the craft.

Gusev ran under the cover of the cacti and simultaneously saw the ship and the huge, rusty hump of the apparatus next to it. About twenty Martians were pounding its riveted hull with large hammers. Apparently, the work had only just begun. Gusev laid Moose on the sand and pulled a club from his belt.

"I'll get you, you sons of bitches!" Gusev screamed at the top of his lungs, leaping out from behind the cacti. He ran up to the ship and, with a blow from his club, shattered the metal wing, knocked down the mast, and struck the side like a barrel. Soldiers burst out of the ship's bowels. Throwing down their weapons, they tumbled from the deck like peas and ran in all directions. The soldiers who had smashed the apparatus crawled along the furrows with a quiet howl and disappeared into the thicket. The entire field was deserted in a moment—so great was the terror of the omnipresent, invulnerable to death Son of Heaven.

Gusev unscrewed the hatch, pulled Moose in, and both Sons of Heaven disappeared inside the egg. The lid slammed shut. Then the Martians, hiding behind the cacti, saw an extraordinary and stunning sight.

A huge rusty egg, the size of a house, thundered, sending up brown clouds of dust and smoke. Tuma trembled under the terrible blows. With a roar and a thunderous roar, the giant egg bounced across the cactus field. It hung suspended in clouds of dust and, like a meteor, shot into the sky, carrying the ferocious Magacitls back to their homeland.

Non-existence

- Well, Mstislav Sergeevich, are you alive?

His mouth burned. Liquid fire coursed through his body, through his veins, through his bones. The moose opened his eyes. A dusty star burned very low above him. The sky was strange—yellow, quilted, like a chest. Something was pounding, pounding with measured blows, the dusty star trembled.

-- What time is it?

“The clock has stopped, that’s the trouble,” the voice answered.

-- How long have we been flying?

-- A long time ago, Mstislav Sergeevich.

-- And where to?

-- The devil knows, I can’t make out anything, it’s darkness and stars... We’re heading into outer space.

The moose closed his eyes again, trying to penetrate the void of memory, but nothing opened up in his memory, and he again plunged into a pitch-black sleep.

Gusev covered him up more warmly and returned to the observation tubes. Mars now seemed smaller than a tea saucer. The bottoms of dried-up seas and dead deserts stood out against it like moonspots. The disk of Tuma, covered in sand, grew smaller and smaller, and the apparatus flew further and further away, somewhere into pitch darkness. Occasionally, a ray of a star pricked his eye. But no matter how hard Gusev peered, the red star was nowhere to be seen.

Gusev yawned and clicked his teeth, so overcome was he by the boredom of the empty space of the universe. He inspected the supplies of water, food, and oxygen, wrapped himself in a blanket, and lay down on the trembling floor next to Moose.

An indefinite amount of time passed. Gusev woke up hungry. The moose lay with its eyes open—its face was wrinkled, old, its cheeks sunken. He asked quietly:

-- Where are we now?

- It's still there, Mstislav Sergeevich, in space.

- Alexey Ivanovich, have we been to Mars?

-- You, Mstislav Sergeevich, must have completely lost your memory.

-- Yes, something happened to me... I remember, and the memories break off somehow vaguely. I can't understand what really happened - it's all like a dream. Give me a drink...

The moose closed his eyes and after a while asked in a trembling voice:

-- Is she also a dream?

-- Who?

The moose did not answer, lowered his head, and closed his eyes.

Gusev peered through all his little eyes at the sky—darkness, darkness. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and sat hunched over. He had no desire to think, or remember, or wait. What for? The iron egg, hurtling at breakneck speed through the bottomless void, thumped and trembled soporifically.

An inordinately long, unearthly time passed. Gusev sat huddled in a numb drowsiness. The moose slept. The chill of eternity settled like invisible dust on his heart, on his consciousness.

A terrible scream tore at his ears. Gusev jumped up, his eyes wide. It was Moose screaming, standing among the scattered blankets, a gauze bandage slipping down onto his face.

-- She's alive!

He raised his bony hands and rushed at the leather wall, pounding on it, scratching with his nails.

-- She's alive! Let me out... I'm suffocating... She was, she was!..

He struggled and screamed for a long time, and then hung, exhausted, in Gusev's arms. And then he fell silent again and dozed off.

Gusev curled up under the blanket again. His desires faded like ashes, his feelings grew numb. His hearing had grown accustomed to the egg's iron pulse and no longer detected sounds. The moose muttered and groaned in his sleep, and occasionally his face lit up with happiness.

Gusev looked at the sleeping man and thought: "You are fine in your sleep, my dear man. And don't, don't wake up, sleep, sleep... You'll wake up and sit like this, squatting under the blanket, and shivering like a raven on a frozen stump. Ah, night, night, the final end..."

He didn’t even want to close his eyes, so he sat there, looking at some glittering carnation... A great indifference set in, oblivion was approaching...

Thus an immeasurable space of time passed.

Strange rustling sounds, knocking, and touching of some bodies from outside on the iron casing of the egg were heard.

Gusev opened his eyes. Consciousness was returning, and he began to listen—it seemed the apparatus was moving through a cluster of rocks and rubble. Something pressed against the wall and began to crawl. It rustled and rustled. Then it struck the other side, and the apparatus shook. Gusev woke Los. They crawled toward the observation tubes, and immediately both cried out.

All around, in the darkness, lay fields of sparkling diamond-like fragments. Rocks, boulders, and crystalline facets shone with sharp rays. Beyond the vast expanse of these diamond fields, a shaggy sun hung in the black night.

"We must be passing the comet's head," Moose whispered. "Turn on the rheostats. We need to get out of these fields, otherwise the comet will drag us toward the sun."

Gusev reached for the upper peephole, Los went to the rheostats. The blows on the egg's casing became more frequent and louder. Gusev shouted from above:

-- It's easier -- there's a block on the right... Let's go full speed... The mountain, the mountain is flying... We've passed... Keep going, keep going, Mstislav Sergeyevich.

Earth

The diamond fields were the traces of a comet wandering through space. For a long time, the craft, drawn into its gravity, made its way among the celestial stones. Its speed was constantly increasing, the absolute laws of mathematics were in effect – little by little, the direction of the egg and the meteorites’ flight changed: an ever-widening angle formed. The golden nebula – the head of the unknown comet and its trail – the streams of meteorites – were carried away along a hyperbola – a hopeless curve, to round the sun and disappear forever into space. The curve of the craft’s flight increasingly approached an ellipse,

The almost impossible hope of returning to Earth brought Los and Gusev back to life. Now, without taking their eyes off the peepholes, they watched the sky. The apparatus was getting very hot on one side from the sun, so they had to take off their clothes.

The diamond fields remained far below: they seemed like sparks, then became a whitish nebula and disappeared. And then, in the vast distance, Saturn was discovered, shimmering with rainbow rings, surrounded by satellites.

The egg, attracted by the comet, returned to the solar system, from where it was thrown out by the centrifugal force of Mars.

For a moment, a luminous line pierced the darkness. Soon it, too, faded and went out. These were asteroids—small planets, swirling in countless swarms around the sun. The force of their gravity further curved the egg's flight curve. Finally, through one of the upper peepholes, Los saw a strange, blinding narrow crescent—it was Venus. Almost at the same time, Gusev, watching through the other peephole, snorted terribly and turned around—sweaty, red.

-- She, by God she!..

A silvery-blue sphere glowed warmly in the pitch-black darkness. Ahead of it, and brighter than it, glowed a sphere the size of a currant. The craft was speeding slightly away from them. Then Los decided to use a dangerous device—a twist of the craft's throat to deflect the axis of the explosions from their flight path. The twist was successful. The direction began to change. The warm sphere gradually moved toward the zenith.

Time flew by. Los and Gusev were either glued to their observation tubes or collapsing among the scattered skins and blankets. Their last strength was fading. They were tormented by thirst, and all their water had been drained.

And then, half-conscious, Moose saw skins, blankets, and sacks crawling along the walls. Gusev's bare-chested body hung suspended in the air. It all seemed like a dream. Gusev found himself lying face down by the peephole. Then he sat up, muttering, clutching his chest, shaking his shaggy head, his face streaming with tears, his mustache drooping.

-- Darling, darling, darling!..

Through the haze of his consciousness, Moose finally realized that the apparatus had turned and was flying forward, throat first, pulled by the Earth's gravity. He crawled to the rheostats and turned them—the egg began to shake and rumble. He leaned toward the peephole.

A huge globe of water, bathed in sunlight, hung in the darkness. The oceans appeared blue, the islands' outlines greenish, and cloud fields obscured some continent. The wet globe slowly turned. Tears blurred the view. A soul, weeping with love, flew toward the bluish-damp column of light. The birthplace of humanity! The flesh of life! The heart of the world!

The globe of the Earth blocked out half the sky. Elk cranked the rheostats all the way up. Yet the flight was swift—the shell heated up, the rubber casing boiled, the leather upholstery smoked. With a final effort, Gusev twisted the hatch cover. An icy wind howled through the crack. The Earth opened its arms, welcoming the prodigal sons.

The impact was powerful. The casing burst. The egg's throat sank deep into a grassy knoll.

It was midday on Sunday, June 3rd. A great distance from the crash site—on the shores of Lake Michigan, boaters, people sitting on the open terraces of restaurants and coffee shops, playing tennis, golf, and soccer, flying kites into the cloudless sky—all this multitude of people, out on a Sunday afternoon to enjoy the beauty of the green shores and the rustle of June foliage, heard a strange howling sound for five minutes.

People who remembered the World War II said, looking up at the sky, that this was the usual roar of heavy artillery shells. Then many saw an egg-shaped shadow quickly slide to the ground.

Less than an hour had passed before a large crowd had gathered at the crash site. Curious onlookers were running from all sides, climbing fences, racing in cars and boats across the blue lake. The egg, crusted with soot, dented and cracked, stood tilted on a hillock. Numerous theories were floated, each more absurd than the last. The crowd became especially agitated when they read the inscription chiseled into the half-open hatch: "RSFSR. Departed from Petrograd on August 18, 192...." This was all the more astonishing given that today was June 3, 1900... In short, the marking on the apparatus had been made three and a half years earlier.

When faint groans were then heard from within the mysterious apparatus, the crowd retreated in horror and fell silent. A squad of police, a doctor, and twelve reporters with cameras appeared. They opened the hatch and, with the utmost caution, pulled two half-naked people from the egg's interior: one, skeletal and old, with white hair, unconscious; the other, with a bruised face and broken arms, groaned piteously. Cries of compassion and women's weeping rang out from the crowd. The celestial travelers were placed in a car and taken to the hospital.

A bird sang with a voice crystal clear with happiness outside the open window. It sang of a sunbeam, of a blue sky. The moose lay motionless on the pillows, listening. Tears streamed down its wrinkled face. He'd heard that crystal voice somewhere before. But where, when?

Outside the window, the curtain half-drawn, slightly billowing in the morning breeze, the blue dew glistened on the grass. Wet leaves moved like shadows on the curtain. A bird sang. In the distance, a dense white cloud rose from the forest.

Someone's heart yearned for this land, for the clouds, for the noisy showers and sparkling dew, for the giants wandering among the green hills... He remembered—on a sunny morning, not on Earth, a bird sang of Aelita's dreams... Aelita... But was she real? Or was she just a dream? No. The bird muttered with its glassy tongue that once upon a time a woman, bluish as twilight, with a sad, thin face, sat by the fire at night and sang an ancient song of love.

That's why tears streamed down Moose's wrinkled cheeks. The bird sang of the one left behind the stars, and of the gray, wrinkled, old dreamer who had flown across the skies.

The wind blew the curtain harder, its lower edge splashing softly, and the smell of honey, earth, and moisture entered the room.

One such morning, Skyles showed up at the hospital. He shook Moose's hand firmly, "Congratulations, my dear friend," and sat down on a stool next to the bed, pushing his hat back on his head.

“You’ve been let down badly on this trip, old man,” he said. “I’ve just been to see Gusev, he’s a fine fellow: his hands are in plaster, his jaw is broken, but he’s always laughing. He’s very glad to be back. I sent his wife a telegram in Petrograd with five thousand dollars. I’ve telegraphed my newspaper about you—you’ll receive a huge sum for ‘Travel Sketches.’ But you’ll have to improve the apparatus—you’ve sunk badly. Damn it all, to think about it—almost four years have passed since that crazy evening in Petrograd. I advise you, old man, to drink a glass of good cognac; it will bring you back to life.”

Skiles chatted, glancing cheerfully and solicitously at his interlocutor—his face was tanned and carefree, his eyes full of greedy curiosity. Moose extended his hand.

-- I'm glad you came, Skyles,

The voice of love

Clouds of snow flew along Zhdanovskaya Embankment, drifting like drifting snow along the sidewalks, and wild flakes swirled around the swinging streetlights. Entrances and windows were covered, and across the river, a blizzard raged in the howling park.

Moose walked along the embankment, his collar turned up and his shoulders bent into the wind. A warm scarf fluttered behind him, his feet slipped, and snow lashed his face. At his usual hour, he was returning home from the factory to his lonely apartment. The residents of the embankment had become accustomed to his wide-brimmed hat, the scarf covering his lower face, his hunched shoulders, and even when he bowed and the wind blew his white hair, no one was surprised by the strange look in his eyes, which had once seen what no one else had seen.

In another time, some young poet would certainly have been inspired by his incongruous figure, with a fluttering scarf, wandering among snow-capped clouds. But times were different now: poets were delighted not by blizzards, not by the stars, not by the heavenly lands, but by the pounding of hammers across the land, the hiss of saws, the rustle of sickles, the whistle of scythes—merry, earthly songs.

Six months had passed since Los's return to Earth. The curiosity that had gripped the world when the first telegram about the arrival of two people from Mars had subsided. Los and Gusev had consumed the required number of dishes at one hundred and fifty banquets, dinners, and scientific gatherings. Gusev had brought Masha from Petrograd, dressed her up like a doll, given several hundred interviews, started a motorcycle, started wearing round glasses, and spent six months traveling around America and Europe, telling stories of fights with Martians, of spiders and comets, of how he and Los nearly flew to Ursa Major. Upon returning to Soviet Russia, he founded the "Society for the Transfer of a Combat Detachment to the Planet Mars to Save the Remnants of Its Working Population."

Los was building a universal Martian-type engine at one of the mechanical plants in Petrograd.

He usually returned home by six o'clock in the evening. He dined alone. Before bed, he opened a book—the poet's lines seemed to him like childish babble, the novelist's inventions like childish chatter. After turning off the light, he lay for a long time, staring into the darkness—his lonely thoughts flowing, flowing.

Moose walked along the embankment at his usual hour today. Clouds of snow rose high into a raging blizzard. Cornices and roofs smoked. Streetlights swayed. Breath caught in their throats.

The moose stopped and raised his head. The wind tore through the blizzard clouds. A star shimmered in the bottomless black sky. The moose gazed at it with a maddened gaze—its ray penetrated his heart... "Mist, Mist, star of sorrow..." The drifting edges of the clouds once again covered the abyss, concealing the star. In that brief instant, a vision that had always eluded him flashed through the moose's mind with terrifying clarity...

A noise came through his sleep—like the angry buzzing of bees. Sharp knocks rang out—a thud. The sleeping Aelita shuddered, sighed, awakening, and trembled. He couldn't see her in the darkness of the cave, only felt her heartbeat. The knock on the door was repeated. Tuskub's voice rang out from outside: "Take them." Elk grabbed Aelita by the shoulders. She said, barely audible:

-- My husband, Son of Heaven, farewell.

Her fingers slid quickly over his face. Then Moose began to grope for her hand and took the vial of poison from her. She quickly, quickly—in one breath—muttered in his ear:

"I am under a ban, I am dedicated to Queen Magr... According to ancient custom, the terrible law of Magr, a virgin who violates the prohibition of initiation is thrown into a labyrinth, into a well. You saw it... But I could not resist the love of the Son of Heaven. I am happy. I thank you for my life. You returned me to the millennia of Chao. I thank you, my husband..."

Aelita kissed him, and he tasted the bitter scent of poison on her lips. Then he drank the last of the dark liquid—there was still plenty in the vial. Aelita barely had time to touch him. Knocks on the door forced Moose to his feet, but consciousness was fading, his arms and legs wouldn't obey. He returned to the bed, fell onto Aelita's body, and embraced her. He didn't move when the Martians entered the cave. They tore him from his wife, covered her, and carried her. With a final effort, he lunged for the hem of her black cloak, but the flashes of gunfire and the dull blows to his chest sent him flying back toward the golden door of the cave...

* * *

Overcoming the wind, the Elk ran along the embankment. And again he stopped, spun in the snowy clouds and, just as then – in the darkness of the universe – he shouted:

-- Alive, alive... Aelita, Aelita...

A furious gust of wind caught this name, spoken for the first time on Earth, and scattered it among the flying snow. The moose tucked his chin into his scarf, thrust his hand deep into his pocket, and staggered toward the house.

A car was parked at the entrance. White flies swarmed in the smoky columns of its headlights. A man in a shaggy fur coat danced on the frosty soles of his feet on the sidewalk.

“I’m here for you, Mstislav Sergeevich,” he shouted cheerfully, “get in the car, let’s go.”

It was Gusev. He quickly explained: today, at seven o'clock in the evening, the radiotelephone station is expecting—as it has been all week—unknown signals of extraordinary strength. Their code is incomprehensible. For a whole week, newspapers around the world have been speculating about these signals—some believe they are coming from Mars. The station's director has invited Los to receive the mysterious waves this evening.

The moose silently jumped into the car. White flakes danced wildly in the cones of light. A blizzard-like wind blew into my face. Above the snowy desert of the Neva, the city's purple glow blazed, the glow of streetlights along the embankments—lights, lights... In the distance, the siren of an icebreaker howled, breaking through the ice somewhere.

At the end of Krasnye Zori Street, in a snowy clearing, beneath whistling trees, near a house with a round roof, the car stopped. The lattice towers and wire nets, lost in snow clouds, howled desolately. Elk opened the snow-covered door, entered the warm house, and threw off his scarf and hat. A plump, ruddy man began explaining something to him, holding his hand, reddened by the cold, in his warm, plump palms. The clock was approaching seven.

Moose sat down at the receiver and put on his headphones. The clock hand crawled. Oh, time, the hurried beats of the heart, the icy expanse of the universe!

A slow whisper echoed in his ears. The moose immediately closed his eyes. The distant, unsettling, slow whisper echoed again. A strange word was being repeated. The moose strained his ears. Like a silent lightning bolt, a distant voice pierced his heart, repeating sadly in an unearthly language:

-- Where are you, where are you, where are you, Son of Heaven?

The voice fell silent. The moose stared ahead with whitened, wide eyes... The voice of Aelita, of love, of eternity, the voice of longing, flies across the universe, calling, summoning, crying out, -- where are you, where are you, love...