(c) Vladislav Krapivin  1972,2000
(c) Translated by Jan Yevtushenko, 1984


                         Vladislav Krapivin.

                    The Pilot for Special Missions.


                             Chapter One

    That spring Alex's parents  had moved into a  wonderful new flat.   It
was on  the fourth  floor and  its windows  looked out  onto all  the tall
blocks of flats around and the little old houses further down towards  the
end of Glider Street.
    This  area  had  once  been  a  sports  airfield,  which in summer was
overgrown  with  clover,  plantain,  and  all  sorts of other plants whose
names nobody knew.  Wormwood  grew thickly along the airfield's  edges and
in the midst of it stood a small  lorry with a winch which used to wind  a
thin cord round a drum  and hoist the different-coloured gliders  into the
air in the same way  as children fly kites at  the end of long lengths  of
string.
    Alex was told  all about it  by the children  who used to  live in the
old houses nearby and  Val Yakovlev told him  a truly amazing story  about
how a real aircraft had landed at the airfield once.  It was a  two-seater
with orange wings, a  silver body and red  numbers on its side.  Something
must have gone wrong with its engine  and its pilot was forced to make  an
emergency landing but as he did not  know the best place to land, he  kept
circling overhead.   So Val  dashed out  onto the  runway, dived  into the
grass and  stretched his  arms out  in a  letter "T"  as a  landing signal
showing the pilot how best to land into the wind. After landing his  plane
and fiddling about with its engine for a while, the pilot asked Val if  he
would like  a spin.   Val, of  course, jumped  at the  idea and  the pilot
helped him into the back seat  and did three circles over the  field. None
of other children - not even the ones who had been living there longest  -
believed this  story but  Alex did.   He was  willing to  believe anything
worthwhile and interesting.
    He often recalled the story  afterwards and secretly envied Val.   And
he once even dreamed of something  similar. True, his dream was not  quite
the same  but he  also saw  an aeroplane  and an  airfield. It  was a warm
night and the sky over the  airfield was studded with huge stars  and only
the distant horizon  was streaked with  crimson from the  setting sun with
the  black  outlines  of  the  tall  blades  of grass standing out clearly
against  it.   A  little  plane  was  waiting  there and Alex was hurrying
towards it, waist-high in grass, as fast as his legs could carry him for
he was terrified it would take off without him.
    Later on he wrote the following poem:

               I dreamed a plane was waiting for me,
               A night plane without lights.
               In its cockpit sat a pilot,
               Chewing on cigarette end, anxiously
               For I was nowhere in sight.
               And I ran and ran towards the plane.
               As fast as my legs would carry me,
               Dreading the black flight ahead.
               The pilot said, "I'm in a heck of a hurry,
               Get in quick and let's be off.
               Please put on your parachute:
               There'll be danger on the way."
               What exactly he meant by that
               I never did find out
               For at that very moment I awoke...
               The morning town was roaring outside
               And so it was my spell broke...

    Alex wrote this serious poem down in a thick exercise book along  with
all his other serious  poems, the one about  a dog losing its  master, and
another  about  a  boy  who  was  made  to take violin lessons although he
really  wanted  to  be  an  explorer  and  not  a musician, and many other
besides.
    He  did  not  show  his  book  to  anyone  for he did not dare to and,
anyway, it was his secret.   What's more, one of his last  poems contained
the following lines:

               Masha, like a daisy in the grass,
               You're sweet, pretty and kind,
               How wonderful it is you exist!
               That's what matters most to my mind.

    It was obvious  you would not  care too much  for anyone to  see these
verses. Alex, however,  did not hide  the fact that  he wrote poetry.   On
the contrary, he  was only too  pleased to write  funny limericks for  the
school magazine or  clues for games  of charades. And  he once wrote  some
verses about the prince  in "Cinderella" and it  was because of them  that
he fell out with Olympiada Victorovna.  And it is with this incident  that
our story begins - the story about the journey with the Green Pass and
Alex and the Pilot and many other wonderful things.

    Olympiada Victorovna ran  a children's drama  group in the  recreation
room attached  to the  administration offices  in Alex's  block of  flats.
The group was  intended to give  the children an  extra interest at  home.
Now retired, Olympiada Victorovna had  worked for many years as  a theatre
wardrobe  mistress.   She  could  have   been  an  actress  but  for   the
unfortunate circumstance that she had  never learnt to pronounce her  "r"s
and said something more like a "w". For instance, a conversation between
her and Uncle Yura, the local plumber, would go something like this:
    "It's a disgwace!  When are the  wadiators going to  be mended?   It's
weally widiculous twying to work in this woom!"
    Uncle Yura who was by no means shy but, on the contrary, rather  rude,
cringed and mumbled,  "We'll get it  done. I'll report  it to the  manager
today. Right now, I will!"
    But Olympiada Victorovna, tall, erect and stern, fired back, "I  can't
possibly teach childwen to appweciate beauty in a damp woom!  We've  going
to wuin the pwemiere and it'll be all your fault!"
    And as she said so, she pointed her spindly, pencil-like index  finger
at poor old Uncle Yura as if she was going to stab him with it.
    The drama group  was rehearsing for  a production of  "Cinderella" and
the title role was  being played by Masha  Berezkina - the girl  whom Alex
had dedicated his poem to.
    Although she and Alex went to  the same school, they were in  parallel
forms and so  Alex could not  get to know  her well at  school and she did
not come  out to  play in  their yard  at home  because she took music and
figure-skating lessons.
    However, after they  broke up for  the summer holidays  Alex found out
that Masha had joined the drama group and so at once joined too.
    He  very  much  hoped  that  Olympiada  Victorovna  would give him the
prince's part for, you see, the  prince had to fence against some  bandits
trying to  kidnap Cinderella  and Alex  was good  at fencing  as there had
been a fencing section at his old  school and he had taken a few  lessons.
(In fact, he was sorry he had to change schools).
    Unfortunately, however, Olympiada  Victorovna had announced  that Alex
was to stand guard at the royal palace's gates and chose for the  prince's
part a taller and older boy.
    For some reason or other everybody went into raptures over her  choice
and  hailed  him  as  a  wonderfully  talented  actor,  but Alex could see
nothing special in him.  And when  the prince was dressed up in his  royal
attire, Alex  even noticed  that he  was far  too skinny  and had slightly
bandy legs. What's more,  he had no idea  about how to carry  a sword. And
Alex had then  gone back-stage muttering  under his breath,  "Our prince's
bandy-legged... And his sword's drooping like a brolly on a stand."
    All of  a sudden  he heard  someone laugh  and spotted  Masha standing
very close to him.  She laughed quietly and heartily and then seized  hold
of  Alex's  elbow  and  said  in  a  very  kind voice:  "Oh, Alex' do stop
feeling upset.  How can  you get  so worked  up over  just a silly prince.
I've got  to act  most the  play with  him but  I'm not  letting it get me
down, see."
    Alex felt like  whooping with joy  but did not,  of course. He  simply
smiled to show that  everything was all right  and he had no  intention of
getting upset. And  he felt so  happy that he  even volunteered to  go and
fetch  some  old  hats  with  Olympiada  Victorovna. Then in appeared that
Masha was going, too.
    The hats were  for the royal  guards, courtiers and  fat coachman whom
the Fairy  Godmother made  out of  rat.   But where  could you get so many
hats from?   It seemed  Olympiada Victorovna  knew just  the place  to go.
She announced that  she had "an  old fwend" called  Sofia Alexandrovna who
had also been  a wardrobe mistress  once, but was  now retired.   She was,
however, still kept just busy  as before by her important  life-long hobby
of collecting  hats. She  had over  a thousand  of them  and they were all
different.   So famous  was her  collection that  there had  even been  an
article  about  her  in  a  national theatre journal. Representatives from
various theatres  and drama  studios often  visited Sofia  Alexandrovna to
ask  her  advice  and  borrow  hats  for  their  productions. She was only
pleased to give advice but less so  to lend her hats as three years  ago a
local drama group had lost a Spanish cocked hat of hers.
    "But  she'll   definitely  come   to  out   wescue,"  said   Olympiada
Victorovna.  "She'll wescue us because we're old fwends." And so off  they
went.
    On the way  there Olympiada Victorovna  told Masha and  Alex about how
Sofia  Alexandrovna  lived  in  an  old  house  on  the edge of a gully in
Lopukhov Lane.   She had had  plenty of opportunities  to move into  a new
flat but did not want to in  case her hats got spoiled or lost  during the
removal. What's more, she had four tom-cats named Kuzya, Roly-Poly,  Vaska
and Matador. Sofia Alexandrovna simply  doted on them and was  afraid they
would not take to a new flat.
    "Of  course,  this  may   sound  wather  funny,"  remarked   Olympiada
Victorovna," but we must bear with other people's weaknesses."
    And saying so, for some reason  or other, she gave Alex a  stern look,
but he took  no notice as  he was walking,  looking at Masha  and thinking
with a smile, "Masha, you're pretty and kind, to my mind..."
    It was a bright  hot day in June  and Masha's golden hair  was shining
in  the  sunlight  and  she,  too,  looked  very  bright as she hopped and
skipped along the pavement and chased after a shiny lemonade bottle top.


                               Chapter Two

    The little house was standing right on the edge of the gully.  A  very
long time ago  it had probably  been quite attractive  but was now  so old
and so  deeply sunken  in the  earth that  its window-panes nearly reached
the ground,  its drainpipes  dug into  the grass  and there  was a  hollow
where there had once been a porch by the door.
    The door was opened by frail old lady with a pointed nose.
    "Sofia,  darling!"  exclaimed  Olympiada  Victorovna, sweeping towards
her.  "What a pleasure this is!"
    However,  it  did  not  seem  a  pleasure  to Sofia Alexandrovna.  She
looked so distressed that Olympiada Victorovna stopped sharply.
   "But, Sofia, my dear! What ever's wong?"
    "Oh,  my  dear  Lympie,"  sobbed  Sofia  Alexandrovna.  "Kuzya's  been
stolen..."
   "It can't be!"
    The old lady waved her hands despairingly.
    "He can't  have been!"  said Olympiada  Victorovna firmly.  "He's just
gone off for  a walk somewhere,  that's all.   You weally shouldn't  be so
upset!"
    "Oh no, he hasn't. He's never done it before. He always comes home  in
the evening  but he's  been missing  for two  days. I've already contacted
the militia but they don't want to  look for him and I think they  find my
complaint ridiculous."
    "Oh,  how  heartless  of  them,"  said  Olympiada  Victorovna.    "But
Sofia... Is it really worth getting so upset? After all, you've got  thwee
other cats and they're all weally adowable cweatures."
    Sofia Alexandrovna waved her hand feebly.
    "Oh, these creatures... They never stop fighting... Of course, I  love
them dearly  but Kuzya  was the  best of  all. He  was so affectionate and
sweetnatured...  Oh,  but  do  please  come in," she recollected suddenly.
"What ever am I..."
    The large  low-ceilinged room  smelled of  mothballs, mould  and cats.
Slanting rays  of sunlight  streamed through  the small  windows and  were
reflected off  the yellow  floor. The  dusty cut-glass  chandelier hanging
from  the  ceiling  and  the  silver  teaspoons  in  the  old dresser were
gleaming dimly.
    "Do sit down," sighed Sofia Alexandrovna.
    But this was  practically impossible as  there were hats  lying on all
the  chair.   Indeed,  everywhere  you  looked,  hats  were  poking out of
shelves, hanging on walls, stacked high on an old squat chest of  drawers.
Grand silk top  hats, straw boaters,  Mexican sombreros, Tyrolese  hunting
hats with pheasant's feathers and musketeer hats with plumes.
    "Golly! whispered Masha.
    Olympiada Victorovna pushed  Masha and Alex  forward and said,  "These
are two talented young artists of mine. We're here on business..."
    "Talented, my  foot!" Alex  thought angrily.  "It's your  prince who's
talented. You only need me to lug your hats about." But of course he  said
nothing aloud but simply stood gazing round.
    There were other interesting things  in the room besides hats  such as
a bronze candlestick with blue  glass trimmings, an old gramophone  with a
huge horn and a brightly-coloured  china gnome sitting half inside  an egg
like a goose's.
    The gnome was standing on the chest of drawers next to a pile of  hats
and among  various scraps  of material  and yellowed  lace.   Alex stepped
nearer to get a better look at the gnome.
    Then all  of a  sudden behind  the hats  he caught  sight of glass box
rather like an aquarium.
    "Surely fishes can't be living in such a dark box," thought Alex.   He
carefully moved a grey cowboy's hat  aside to have a look at  the aquarium
but the pile of hats collapsed and tumbled on the floor.
    But it wasn't Alex's fault! A  tousled ginger cat shot out from  under
the hats, bounded across the room and catapulted out of the window.
    "Roly-Poly!" gasped Sofia  Alexandrovna.  "What's  got into you?   Oh,
gracious me, you never give me a moment's peace."
    Alex and Masha began hurriedly picking up the hats.
    "Never  mind,  never  mind,"  Sofia  Alexandrovna kept saying. "It was
Roly,  the  little  devil,  that  knocked  them  over...  What  delightful
children... This cap goes here..."
    Freed from the pile  of top hats, bowlers  and cocked hats, the  shiny
glass box stood all alone on the  chest. It was not an aquarium. It  was a
glass  case  containing  a  sailing  ship  on  bronze supports that was no
bigger than a cowboy's hat but was a perfectly made model ship.
    Alex leaned against the chest and for a while forgot about  everything
else in the world.
    You would be wrong  to think that Alex  dreamed of becoming a  captain
or a  traveller. No,  he had  another dream  but he  did love the sea. The
year before he  had been to  the Crimea and  still recalled the  brilliant
blue horizons,  green breakers  and huge  stems of  passenger-ships rising
above the piers.   Well, and, of  course, he was  also very fond  of books
about pirates,  sea adventures  and sailing  ships.   And one  look at the
model was enough for him to realise it was a clipper:  the ship had a  low
bowsprit over its sharp stem, three  tall masts with straight sails and  a
narrow,  streamline  body.  Its  sides  were  covered with shiny nut-brown
lacquer and its bottom with thin copper plating.
    Taut rope ladders (Alex knew they were called "shrouds") ran from  the
sides to projections on the masts.  Tiny anchors hung from beams as  thick
as matchsticks.   A finely-moulded  wheel the  size of  a small  coin  was
fastened to the steering column in front of the chart house.
    "What a beauty," whispered Masha hotly against Alex's cheek.
    "It's a clipper,"  Alex whispered back,  pleased that Masha  liked the
little ship.
    Leaning so  close to  him that  her hair  tickled his  ear, Masha said
quietly: "When I was little, I wanted to be a sailor."
    "Don't you now?"
    "Well, now I realise they don't take girls."
    "They do sometimes. I saw a film  about it once... And I read about  a
woman captain in a magazine."
    "I know..." Masha sighed.  "But it's hard. I may have a go,  though...
But, you see, when I was little I didn't know it was hard."
    Alex smiled.
    "And now?"
    "What about now" asked Masha in surprise.
    "You're not fully grown yet, are you?
    "No, but  all the  same... I'm  not a  little girl  any more. I didn't
know anything then. I  used to think that  the most important thing  for a
sailor was to  have a sailor's  collar.  I  used to cry  my eyes out every
day and beg Mummy to make me a  dress with a collar like it. And I  got my
own way in the end.
    "I've  still  got  a  sailor  suit,"  said  Alex rather dreamily. "Mum
bought it when were  going down south.   Its collar's really huge,  like a
blue flag. When it flaps in the  wind, you feel you've got wings and  even
fancy  you  could  fly...  The  suit's  lovely  and light and white like a
sail."
    They stood for a moment  in silence, gazing at the  clipper's delicate
lawn sails which were flat and still.
    "They need wind," said Alex.
    "Of  course,"  agreed  Masha  in  a  whisper. "But, you know, I really
don't understand. After all,  it's a ship and  not a hat. What's  it doing
here?"
    Sofia  Alexandrovna  and  Olympiada  Victorovna  were  chatting  away,
eagerly interrupting one another:
    "Oh, Sofia, you must wealise that you weally need a new flat..."
    "No, no, Lympie, I don't. I'm too set in my ways"
    Trying to be  as polite as  possible, Alex waited  for a pause  in the
conversation and then said loudly, "I'm sorry, but would you mind  telling
us where you got this model?"
    Sofia Alexandrovna flew  up her hands  ("My, what a  delightful boy!")
and  began  saying  hurriedly,  "Yes,  it  is an interesting little thing.
True, I  came by  it quite  by chance.  An old  lodger who lived here many
years ago made it. And  then he died and the  ship was left here with  me.
It's a very sweet little thing  although I'm, of course, not an  expert on
things of this  sort.  The  TV studios wanted  to buy it  for some film or
other but what  do I need  money for?   I offered to  exchange it for  two
Napoleonic hussar' shakos.   They agreed but the  shakos turned out to  be
complete fakes..."
    Shortly afterwards the guests said  good-bye to the old lady  and Alex
was given a  high stack of  hats which had  been worn rusty  brown by time
and reeked so strongly of mothballs that he kept wanting to sneeze.
    "Well, darling, we  weally must be  off. Now be  a dear and  don't get
upset about Kuzya..."
    "Oh, Lympie..."
    Alex went out last.
    "Alex," Sofia Alexandrovna called quietly to him.
    Alex turned round slowly and peered at her through the hats.
    "Alex... You seem to me to be  a splendid and kind boy. I want  to ask
you a favour.   If you happen to  see a grey cat  with a white neck  and a
pink scratch  on one  ear, please  try and  catch him  and bring  him back
here... Of course,  this may sound  ridiculous but I've  grown so attached
to him."
    Alex did  not consider  himself splendid  or kind.  He even blushed to
the roots of  his hair from  embarrassment and shame  whenever such things
were said about  him. However, he  began to feel  sorry for the  old lady.
It was just too bad that silly cat Kuzya was the dearest thing she had  in
the world. And so he said, "Why no, it's not in the least bit  ridiculous.
Last year my puppy Julbars got lost  and I cried all day long. I'll  do my
best. If  I catch  sight of  your Kuzya,  I'll definitely  get him back to
you."
    He had  invented the  story about  the puppy.  Besides, it  would have
been silly to actually  compare a puppy with  a silly mewing cat  but Alex
wanted to comfort her somehow.


    At the rehearsal later that day  each of the guards and courtiers  was
given a hat and Alex got a  large one like a musketeer's with a  wide brim
and fluffy plume.
    When Olympiada Victorovna  decided to rehearse  the final scene,  Alex
began feeling thoroughly miserable because, you see, it was then that  the
prince finally found Cinderella, and of course, declared his love for  her
and almost went as far as kissing her.
    When starting  the scene,  Olympiada Victorovna  suggested the  prince
took off his beret and donned a hat with feathers.
    "I think this  black suit and  silvewy gwey, soft  felt hat will  look
weally gwand."
    "What did she say the hat's made of?" Alex asked Masha in a whisper.
    "Felt. That's what almost all hats are made of."
    "I see..."
    The rehearsal  began. The  prince dropped  onto his  knees in front of
Masha,  put  the  slipper  on  her  foot  and  declared  his love for her.
Olympiada Victorovna was dissatisfied.
    "No, no!  This  won't do at all.  Too little feeling.   You must sound
touching, weally  touching but  somehow you  sound wather  fwivolous.  You
make it look as if the pwince is feather-bwained."
    And thereupon Alex said in a rather loud voice:

           When you wear a hat made of felt
           Before you know it, your brains start to melt
           And soon you find they're all feathers and down,
           And not a single bit of brain's to be found.

    There was a chilly  silence. Olympiada Victorovna turned  round slowly
and  glared  fiercely  at  the  villain  who  had  dared  to interrupt the
proceedings.
    "You've  a  very  spiteful  tongue,  you  know. You're intewupting our
work.  Please leave. You're not in this scene."
    Alex went  back-stage, sat  on the  plywood royal  throne, picked up a
sword someone had left  behind and began drawing  the word "Masha" on  the
dusty floor.
    After the rehearsal the prince and Cinderella both came back-stage  in
an angry mood.
    "We're not getting anywhere!" said Masha.
    "What do you expect with such 'poets' around," snapped the prince  and
shook his white feathers towards Alex. "Making up silly little rhymes  and
getting in the way."
    "Watch it," said Alex.
    "Don't you boss me about," the prince retorted haughtily.  "There  was
once  a  time  when  people  got  nailed  to  a wall like butterflies in a
collection for making up stuff like that."
    "Do you want to challenge me to a duel, then?" asked Alex hopefully.
    "If you weren't a coward, I would."
    "Me? A coward?!" Alex jumped up.
    "You've both gone mad,"  said Masha as was  to be expected in  such an
event.
    The prince  unfastened his  cloak, dashingly  swept it  onto the floor
and drew his sword.
    Alex stuck his sword into the floor and slightly bent its blade.   The
prince rushed into  the attack. Alex  parried his blow  and with his  next
thrust knocked a feather  out of the prince's  hat.  Masha gasped  just in
case. The  prince leapt  back two  paces and  then gracefully prepared for
the attack and dashed forwards again.   Alex stepped to the left,  letting
the prince dive under his blade, and then turned and whacked his  opponent
across his  bony velvet  backside. The  prince let  out a  howl, cast  his
sword aside and rushed at Alex with raised fists.
    But then in walked Olympiada Victorovna.
    "What's going on in here?" she asked furiously.
    "He started it!" whined the sneaky prince. "Waving his sword about."
    Olympiada Victorovna hissed as she inhaled air and then rasped:   "Get
out!" and pointed a bony finger at the door.
    "Why, certainly," said Alex.


    Masha  caught  Alex  up  in  the  yard  and  they quietly walked along
side-by-side.
    "I'm sorry,"  said Masha.   "I didn't  even manage  to explain  to her
that you didn't start it."
    "What  ever  next!   What's   the  point  explaining!"  replied   Alex
cheerfully.
    He was pleased  Masha was walking  along beside him  and feeling sorry
for him but did not want her to feel too sorry.
    "Do you think I won't get by without this drama group?"
    "I don't like it  either," said Masha. "And  I haven't time to  spare.
You know, I've  also got music,  gymnastics and English  language classes.
But what can I do?   If I leave, the premiere  will have to be  cancelled.
I mustn't stop the show."
    "No, of course you mustn't!"
    Masha fell silent,  sighed and then  asked quietly, "So  you're not at
all sorry you've left the group?"
    Alex blushed and  astounded by his  own daring, suddenly  blurted out,
"Yes,  I  am  a  bit...  Because  from  now  on  I 'm not going to see you
much..."
    He could not bring  himself to look at  Masha and began examining  his
sandals instead. And  so he could  not tell whether  Masha was smiling  or
frowning. She was probably smiling  for she said, "My birthday's  in three
day's time. Will you come? At three."
    "Of  course,  I  will!"  Alex  exclaimed,  overjoyed, and at once took
fright and asked, "Only... who else will be coming?"
    "Oh, hardly anybody!  Two girls from our form, my first-former  cousin
and Andrei Lapnikov. You don't know  him. We go to the same  music school.
He's ever so  funny and a  bit fat but  he plays the  violin ever so well.
You see, our tape-recorder's broken and he'll play for us instead so  that
we can dance."
    "I'm no good at dancing."
    "Who is? Everybody will just do his own thing."
    "But what about the prince? Will he be coming, too, then?" Alex  asked
gruffly and hesitantly.
    "Of course not," replied Masha.


                              Chapter Three

    For  over  a  month  Alex's  father  who was an archaeologist had been
excavating an ancient  town in the  desert. He sometimes  wrote letters in
which he described  their wonderful finds  and Alex and  his mother really
enjoyed reading them.
    When Alex  came home  and saw  his mother  looking happy,  he at  once
asked, "Heard from Daddy?"
    But  she  replied,  "No,  I've  got  some  other  news.  The factory's
sending me on business  to Leningrad for ten  days.  I've decided  to take
you with me!.."
    She  was  amazed  that  Alex  did  not  start  jumping up and down and
whooping with joy.
    "Aren't you thrilled?"
    No two boys alike.  Some in Alex's shoes would have begun dodging  the
issue and making up  excuses. Others would have  decided that no girl  was
worth turning down a trip to Leningrad. But Alex said, "You see, Mummy,  a
girl I know has her birthday in three days' time. She's invited me to  her
party."
    No two mothers are alike either. Alex's did not get upset or angry.
    "Well, in that  case... I'll have  to ask Auntie  Dasha to look  after
you again."
    Auntie  Dasha  was  a  pensioner,  who  lived  in  the flat next-door.
Whenever Alex had  to be left  at home for  a few days,  his parents asked
Auntie Dasha to help and she  was always only too pleased to  oblige. Alex
did not  mind either  although he  considered he  was quite  old enough to
look after himself.
    In the late  afternoon his mother  set off for  the station after,  of
course, giving him  a lots of  advice and instructions  on how to  cope on
his own.   And as  she was  leaving, she  said, "Now,  when you  go to the
birthday party, do try and look really smart."
    "How do you mean?"
    "Go to  the barber's  and get  your hair  cut. Give  your neck  a good
scrub and do dress properly."
    "What do you mean by that?"  asked Alex anxiously. He had never  given
this a thought before.  His school  uniform was too drab for a party  and,
anyway, over the past year he had managed to wear it out at the knees  and
tear a hole in the elbow of his  jacket. And he could not very well go  in
his favourite  scruffy jeans  and sweat-shirt  as it  was not  the same as
chasing a football in the yard.
    "Wear your sailor suit."
    "I... I..." said Alex hesitantly.
    "What's wrong?"
    "Well... I look too young in it."
    His mother burst out laughing, kissed Alex and left.
    But Alex fell to thinking.
    Life became hard when  you were invited to  a birthday party. You  had
to think  about dressing  up smartly.  You had  to (it  suddenly dawned on
Alex!) look for a present. Well,  that wasn't so hard. He could  give her,
say, a pen with  four different-coloured inks.   Or, if the worst  came to
the  worst,  his  home-made  pistol  with  a  rubber band which fired wire
bullets and which looked  almost as good as  a Mauser. But what  should he
wear?
    When you're invited home for the first time by a girl whom you,  well,
whom you like, you  want to look your  best. But a sailor  suit is perhaps
too childish... On the other hand, it  was the best thing Alex had. So  he
just had to make up his mind.
    Alex  hunted  in  his  wardrobe  for  the hanger on which his sailor's
jacket and  shorts with  a narrow  blue belt  had been  hanging since last
year, put them on and stood in front of the mirror...
    It  is  on  little  details  of  this  kind that our tale depends.  If
Alex's mother had not  made the very casual  remark about him looking  his
best, he would not have been so anxious that evening, and, like all  other
boys of his age, would have been playing football in the yard  instead
of hovering in  front of the  mirror and carefully  examining his sailor's
jacket. And he  would not have  noticed that the  little golden anchor  on
his sleeve had  worked loose or  begun looking at  it attentively. Neither
would he have  suddenly remembered that  the anchors on  the clipper model
were almost the same. No, he would certainly not have recalled the  little
ship!

    But he did.
    If it had been the middle of  a day, full of hustle and bustle,  games
and urgent chores, nothing at all would have happened. But it was  evening
and some sad music  was being played on  the radio (and, what's  more, his
mother had just gone  away for ten whole  days), and that was  most likely
why his  memory of  the clipper  was also  sad. He  stopped worrying about
what to wear, switched off the  light, settled down on the sofa  and began
thinking about the little ship, and  about it standing in the dusk  on the
chest of drawers  among all those  dusty hats. Sofia  Alexandrovna was, of
course,  sitting  by  the  window  and  grieving over her missing cat. And
nobody cared that the  little but almost real  clipper was pining for  the
sea.
    It just wasn't fear! It really wasn't!
    Had  the  old  ship-wright  built  his  clipper  for  a dusty chest of
drawers?
    It  was  dark  in  the  room  but  the  small window was light and the
television aerials on  the neighbouring houses  could be seen  through it.
The aerials looked a  little like the masts  of clipper with a  small moon
hooked onto one.
    Alex thought  about ships  and ship-wrights  and the  following verses
gradually formed in his head: "Once upon a time there lived a  ship-wright
... who built amazing ships..."
    That's how they started and this is how they finished up:

        Once upon a time there lived an old ship-wright
        Who smoked a pipe and dreamed of the sea.
        And then one day he built a model ship -
        Tine it was but as real as can be.
        Just like a frigate, a marvellous sight,
        With mizzens and bowsprit, all of his labour.
        But the tired old ship-wright died one night,
        And the ship was left with his neighbour.

    This  is  how  Alex  began  his  "Ballad  about  a  Clipper".  he  was
astonished how easily the right words came to him:

        Surrounded by hats, all old and worn,
        Dusty plumes and felt, rotten and faded,
        How could the wonder ship not feel forlorn,
        The clipper once born of the wind and sea?

    Alex  felt  a  lump  in  his  throat  as  he  whispered these lines to
himself.
    Indeed, how could it not feel forlorn?  Was it right for a ship to  be
kept among  all that  moth-eaten junk?   No, it  should be  standing in  a
captain's  cabin  by  a  port-hole,  looking  out  on  all  the  seas  and
continents. Or  in an  old sailor's  flat whose  walls were decorated with
maps, steering-wheels and  colourful Indian masks.   Or on the  desk of  a
writer of travel stories. Or in the room of a boy who very much wanted  to
become  a  captain.   And  not  necessarily  of  a  boy - many girls loved
adventures, too.   Masha, for instance,  dreamed of becoming  a sailor and
was probably dreaming of it at that very moment.
    Yes, of course she was!
    If only she could have a little ship like that...
    If only she could have this very ship!
    It was such a fine idea that Alex began trembling with excitement.
    Of course,  the clipper  would make  the best  present for Masha! Yes,
why  give  her  a  pen  with  four  different-coloured inks or a home-made
pistol when the sailing ship was so wonderful?..
    "What  does  the  old  lady  need  the clipper for?" thought Alex with
vexation. "She takes no notice of it  at all and talks of it as  something
she  acquired  by  chance.   Just  imagine  it:   the clipper doesn't mean
anything for her!"
    Now  Alex  could  think  of  nothing  else  because something terribly
unfair  had  happened:  that  wonderful  little  ship  was  being  totally
neglected and  the best  girl in  the world  could not  be given  it as  a
present.
    Oh, how happy she would be!  Alex imagined Masha's sparkling eyes  and
seemed to hear her saying: "Oh, Alex! Oh, isn't it wonderful!"
    At the thought of all this, he began fidgeting about on the sofa.
    But what could he do? Perhaps  he should go to Sofia Alexandrovna  and
ask her to sell him the ship? But  it was a fine old model and not  just a
pen, and all he had was five rubles.
    Perhaps it would be best to explain everything to her? She might  just
understand then and give it away to him, mightn't she?
    Alex sighed. No,  he would not  dare tell her  everything and, anyway,
he would not know where  to begin.  After all,  he could not work out  for
himself why  Masha was  better than  anyone else  and why  she needed  the
little ship so much. He just felt it.
    And, anyway, would Sofia Alexandrovna bother to hear him out when  all
she thought of was cats and hats?
    Hats...
    Hats!
    Alex jumped up so fast that  the sofa springs creaked loudly and  went
on twanging for a long time. he had remembered something!
    In the block  of flats he  used to live  in there was  still a boy  he
knew  called  Vladik  Vasilkov  who  had  moved  there  two years ago from
Tallinn.  Now, there  were lots of houses  with tall chimneys in  Tallinn.
And  you  can't   have  chimneys  without   having  chimney-sweeps,   too!
Chimney-sweeps were famous people in Tallinn. And the tall black top  hats
they wore were famous, too.   Vladik had told him he  had one that he  had
been given  by famous  chimney-sweep. At  any rate,  that's what  he said.
Vladik Vasilkov was easy  to talk round and  would probably agree to  swop
his hat for four  stamps with African fishes  on them and a  good penknife
with four blades and a screw-driver.
    Sofia Alexandrovna had plenty of hats  of every kind but Alex had  not
noticed one quite like  Vladik's. No, she probably  did not have one  like
it in her collection. Early the next morning Alex would rush over and  get
this precious  hat and  then go  and see  Sofia Alexandrovna  and say very
politely, "Please excuse  me but you  have a little  ship which you  don't
need in the least and I've got  a rare hat which I don't need  either. You
collect hats whereas I collect models. Lets swop. We'll both only  benefit
from it..."
    Of  course,  it  would  demand  a  lot  of courage for it was not like
swopping things with his friends but  he would do it for Masha's  sake and
just to free the  clipper from captivity. Yes,  he simply had to  save the
ship!
   And thinking this, Alex fell fast asleep.

    A  thunderstorm  brewed  during  the  night.   However, it was not the
thunder and lighting that awoke Alex  but the cold splashes of rain  being
swept through the open  window by the wind,  the curtain billowing like  a
sail.
    Alex rushed over to slam the  window shut but there was suddenly  such
a brilliant flash  and such a  tremendous bang that  he stopped still  and
gazed out in wonder without feeling in the least afraid.
    In the blue  flash of light  he caught sight  of torrents of  rain and
frothy white streams gushing along  the road. There was another  streak of
lighting and  the poplars  seemed to  blaze with  green light from within.
The  wind  and  torrents  of  rain  raged  and roared and the storm was so
tremendous and fascinating that Alex  could not bring himself to  shut the
window.   He liked  the way  the curtain  was flapping  and the  lampshade
swinging to  and fro  and the  fine glasses  chattering with  fear in  the
sideboard. So he simply  took his mother's old  raincoat off the rack  and
huddled under it  on the sofa  so that the  stinging splashes of  rain did
not fall on his arms or legs.
    The streaks of lighting came thick and fast, turning the ceiling  blue
as the rain outside swished and gurgled.
    "The wet south-westerly roared," thought Alex.
    "The rain crashed down like a wall of water..."
    And he dozed off to the sound of the storm.


                              Chapter Four

    It was  a sunny  morning. Lying  here and  there along  the road  were
shiny puddles and maple branches which  had been torn off by the  storm. A
gentle breeze  was blowing  and when  Alex came  out into  the street, his
blue sailor's collar  stirred and began  flapping against his  back like a
carnival flag. His spirits rose  and he suddenly felt sure  that something
extraordinary was bound to happen that day.
    He set off towards Vladik Vasilkov's to get the chimney-sweep's hat.
    But sometimes things happen that turn all your plans upside down.   He
had passed two blocks when he heard a hoarse drawn-out mewing and  spotted
a grey cat  perched on the  top of a  large poplar. It  was wet and looked
very miserable and thin.   Some ferocious dogs had  probably chased it  up
the tree the day before and the  poor thing had spent the whole night  out
in the thunderstorm and rain. It had fled up to the top in fright and  was
now too scared to come down.
    Screwing up his eyes, Alex spotted a large pink scratch on one of  the
cat's ears and almost whooped with joy - "Kuzya". He no longer needed  the
chimney-sweep's  hat.   Once  she  got  her  beloved  Kuzya  back,   Sofia
Alexandrovna would definitely want to reward his rescuer. And, after  all,
she had seen how impressed Alex had been by the clipper and, indeed,  what
did the clipper mean to her next to Kuzya?
    Don't think badly of  Alex: even if there  had been no ship,  he would
still  have  not  passed  the  poor  cat  by.   But  now  he was even more
determined and hurriedly  kicked off his  sandals and started  climbing up
the poplar's wet  trunk. He found  it easy climbing  at first.   The trunk
was rough and slanting and he  quickly got half-way up the tree.  True, he
scratched his knees and  the front of his  shirt got wet and  crumpled but
this did not worry him in the least.
    Then  the  trunk  branched  and  he  had  to crawl along some slippery
boughs to reach Kuzya. When he  finally got near enough, he tried  to pick
it  up  gently  but  the  silly  cat  closed  its  eyes  tight,  let out a
protracted wail  and dug  its claws  deep into  the bark.   So Alex had to
grab it by the scruff  of the neck and pull  it off the bough. As  soon as
it broke loose, Kuzya sank its  claws into Alex's shoulder and the  latter
let  out  a  stifled  howl  and  flopped  down  to  the  ground where some
sympathetic onlookers had gathered.
    "What a little hero!" said a tall man with a moustache.
    "The poor  little cat's  had a  terrible time,"  sighed a  woman in  a
bright-coloured  blouse.   "And  the  poor  thing  probably doesn't have a
home."
    Feeling it was close to the ground, the "poor thing" relaxed its  grip
but its eyes were still tightly shut and its ears flattened.
    "I know  its owner,"  Alex replied  gruffly, groping  for his  sandals
with his feet. His scratched shoulder and knees were stinging.
    "Never mind," he thought. "After all, it's evidence that I took a  lot
of trouble and even a risk getting the brute back."
    And,  shuffling  along  in  his  unbuckled sandals, Alex carried Kuzya
back to Sofia Alexandrovna's little house.

    The house turned  out to be  empty. Its window-panes  were broken, its
door unhinged and the chimney on  its roof had caved in. Its  corners were
even more crooked than before and stuffing was sticking out of the  cracks
in its damp walls.
    Completely baffled, Alex  peered inside and  saw that its  empty rooms
were flooded with black water in which scraps of paper and a  three-legged
chair were bobbing about.
    He hugged  Kuzya, who  was limp  after his  ordeal, and  began walking
round the outside of the house.
    It was  obvious that  the night's  rainstorm had  done its worst here.
Torrents of  water had  washed away  the soil  and pushed  the house  even
nearer the gully. Bushes had been wrenched out of the ground on the  slope
where the water had been gushing downhill all night.
    A girl aged  about eight with  long straight hair  the colour of  ripe
corn was sitting  on an upturned  bucket right on  the edge of  the gully.
She was holding a huge-eyed doll  on her lap and softly singing  a strange
ditty:

                Yonder in the country
                Grass and trees will grow.
                Fear not the wild beasts
                In the forests where you go,
                But beware of the grey mouse
                For that's your main foe.
                And when it joins the tale,
                It's sure to bring woe.

    "Hello  there!"  called  Alex.   "What  happened  here?  Where's Sofia
Alexandrovna?"
    The little girl raised her limpid eyes towards Alex.
    "What happened?" she repeated in  a sing-song voice.  "The  rains came
down and flooded the house. And Sofia Alexandrovna's nephew came and  took
her away to a new  flat.  He's been trying  to persuade her to move  for a
long time but just couldn't get her  to. But this time he didn't need  to.
He arrived early in the morning in his car, loaded all her belongings  and
off they went. The house is going to slide into the gully before long..."
    An ill foreboding caused Alex's heart to sink.
    "But what about her things?" he asked. "Was anything damaged?"
    "Not  half!"  sighed  the  little  girl.   "The flood carried away her
night-table and two Spanish hats. And  her little ship. It was so  lovely,
too. Its glass box stayed put but the ship's completely disappeared..."
    "I just knew it!" thought Alex in despair.
    But the little  girl went on,  "Sofia Alexandrovna was  terribly upset
about the hats. And  she felt sorry about  the ship, too. She  didn't mind
about the  table but  she was  very sorry  about the  ship.   She said she
should have given it as a present to that boy."
    Alex was so surprised, he dropped his arms and Kuzya flopped onto  the
ground. Then he absent-mindedly picked him up again.
    "Why,  it's  Kuzya!"  exclaimed  the  little  girl joyfully. "I didn't
recognise him. So you've found my  little poppet? Give him to me  and I'll
take him to Sofia Alexandrovna. She'll be so happy."
    She stood up, put her doll on the bucket and straightened. She  looked
very small and  fragile in her  sun-bleached blue dress  with white polka.
And Alex suddenly felt  as if he had  seen her somewhere before  but could
not remember where. He handed the cat over to her and it began purring  in
her arms.
    "What boy did she mean to  give the ship away to?" asked  Alex, almost
crying with disappointment.
    "The one  who was  here yesterday.   What else?  She doesn't  know any
others."
    "Really," said Alex. "Then I'll go down and have a look in the  gully.
The ship might be stuck in the  bushes. It can't have been swept very  far
away."
    He stepped towards the edge of the gully and grabbed hold of a bush.
    "Don't  go  there!"  said  the  little  girl quickly. "You'll only get
covered  in  mud  and  scratched.   There's  nothing  down  there.   Sofia
Alexandrovna's nephew climbed down in his rubber boots and hunted for  her
hats and other things but he didn't find a sausage. The stream's swept  it
all away."
    "But I just might find it..."
    "You won't catch  up with anything  that's been swept  away," objected
the girl quietly but so confidently that Alex stopped in his tracks.
    "Why?"
    "Because you won't..."
    "Bother her!" thought Alex. "I'll go down and have a look."
    "Stop, Alex," said the little girl.
    "Why, do you know me?" he asked in surprise.
    "A bit," she replied craftily.
    It was all  so baffling. He  felt disturbed and  yet hopeful... So  he
went up to  her and said,  "Look... Perhaps you  know where I  should look
for the ship?"
    "Nope," she  answered, looking  gravely at  him, thought  for a moment
and then added suddenly, "No, I don't. But I'll help you find out."
    Alex smirked and asked doubtfully, "Are you a witch, then?"
    "Sort of," she replied without smile.
    "All right, help me then," said Alex with a hint of irony.
    "Go to the corner of May 1st and Garden Street and you'll come  across
an information office..."
    "There's a shoe  repairs booth there,  that's all," interrupted  Alex.
"Stop having me on."
    The little girl did not take offence.
    "Just listen  to me.  It all  depends. For  some it's  a shoe  repairs
booth and for others, an information  office.  There's an old man  working
there who knows all there is to know in the world."
    "How come you know about this old man?"
    "He's my Granddad."
    "And he's a wizard, too, of course?" asked Alex rather sarcastically.
    "Of course," said the little girl earnestly. "Only he doesn't like  it
when people bother him with questions. You've got to know how to  approach
him. So go up to the booth and  just stand there for a while and then  say
as if to yourself  something like, 'I wonder  where I could get  hold of a
magic carpet?' And if Granddad's in a good mood, he'll tell you."
    "And what if he isn't?"
    "Don't worry, he's feeling fine today."
    "Mmm... I  see..." said  Alex. "But  why have  you suddenly decided to
help me?"
    The  tips  of  the  little  girl's  ears  turned  bright  pink but she
continued to stare gravely at him.
    "Because you're handsome and brave," she said quietly.
    "Who? Me?!" asked Alex in astonishment.
    "Yes, you of course. You weren't even scared to climb all that way  up
to rescue Kuzya. Look how scratched you've got but that didn't stop you."
    "Oh, come on," mumbled Alex. "Why are you poking fun at me?"
    "I'm not," said the little  girl, and then clutched Kuzya  against her
cotton frock and ran off.
    "Well, I suppose you could just about say I was brave," thought  Alex.
"But as for being handsome... Fancy making up a thing like that!" Then  he
remembered the  little girl's  truthful eyes  and believed  her, that  is,
believed  what  she  had  said  about  the  information  bureau  and   her
grandfather and decided to try it out.
    Knocked  together   out  of   plywood,  the   booth  was   squat   and
flimsy-looking.   It  was  a  wonder  it  had  not  been blown away by the
previous night's storm. Its door was open and so Alex walked in.
    Sitting  in  a  corner,  which  was  partitioned  off  by a wide board
serving as a counter, was a gaunt  old man in a black beret with  a little
tip, with a pair spectacles perched  on his bulbous nose and grey  stubble
on his cheeks. He was hammering a  boot on a thin iron shoe-tree in  front
of him and muttering quietly to himself.
    "Hello..." said Alex bashfully.
    The old man did not reply.
    "Oh  well,  he  must  be  in  a  huff," thought Alex and began looking
round.  The  walls of the  booth were lined  with ordinary-looking shelves
of wooden lasts and shoes and  pested with colour pictures which had  been
cut out  of magazines  and an  old calendar.  A crooked  wall clock with a
large rusty padlock instead of weight was ticking away in a corner.
    Gazing at this padlock, Alex  said absent-mindedly, "I wonder if  it's
possible to  find the  little ship  now that  it's been  swept away by the
stream goodness knows where?"
    Alex heard the old man stop tapping the boot and chuckle quietly,  "Is
the little ship yours, then?"
    Alex  became  confused.  Of  course,  the  clipper wasn't his but then
Sofia Alexandrovna had wanted to give it to him as a present...
    "Yes... almost," said Alex and looked  askance at the old man who  did
not seem angry and even smiled.
    "Almost?" he asked.
    "He knows everything," thought Alex and felt very awkward.
    "Well... not quite," he began  explaining.  "But, you see,  it doesn't
belong to  anyone now  that it's  been abandoned...  According to maritime
law, even a real ship that's  been abandoned, becomes the property of  the
person who finds it."
    The old man cackled with laughter.
    "My, you old sea-dog.  A real admiral, you are... But how come  you've
decided to ask me about something like this? Who put you up to it?
    "Your Granddaughter," said Alex reluctantly.
    "I see... Well, did you catch her eye, then, Alex?"
    "Really! Whatever next!" exclaimed Alex and felt himself blushing.
    "Now, now,  don't get  excited," smirked  the old  man and then added,
"The little ship can be found but  you'll have to travel a long way...  It
was swept away by a stream, you  say?  All streams run into rives  and all
rivers flow into the  sea. And on the  shore of the bluest  sea stands the
town  of  Vetrogorsk.   And  this  town  has  a  Museum  of  Wonderful Sea
Discoveries and  Ships, otherwise  known simply  as the  Ship Museum. Now,
the Museum's Curator has a lot to do but what he likes best is  collecting
models of ships. And he's so good  at it and so fond of little  ships that
he has a simply amazing knack of not missing a single model.  He  attracts
them like a magnet, and no matter where a little ship has got lost and  no
matter where it has been swept to by the waves, it is bound to land up  in
Vetrogorsk  sooner  or  later.   It's  as  if  little ships have a special
instinct guiding  them, rather  like migratory  birds. For  instance, some
little boys lost  their model brigantine  yesterday and today  you'll find
the Curator's already got it in his Museum... Go and search for it if  you
like but you'll have to travel far."
    "It's just like a fairy-tale," said Alex.
    "But of  course!" the  old man  replied eagerly.  "That's just what it
is."
    "A real one?"
    "Well,  that  I  can't  tell  you..."  replied  the  old  man, looking
attentively and even sternly  at him.  "I  don't know, Alex. That  depends
on you. See for yourself."
    "But... what am I to see? What's meant to happen?"
    "Well, just you remember this,  Alex.  All real fairy-tales  are about
someone looking for someone else.  Little Ivanushka was searching for  his
sister  Alyonushka,  Tsarevich  Ivan  for  Maria  Morevna  and  the little
Star-Child for his mother who had been carried away by the evil wizard."
    "That's true. And in the 'Snow Queen' Gerda was searching for Kai."
    "Yes, and the Prince for Cinderella."
    Alex did not like being reminded of the prince and so angrily  decided
to object: "But not all tales  are like that. Some heroes are  looking for
the feather of a fire-bird or something or other. And not all princes  are
the same either..."
    "That's true... But why a feather of a fire-bird? They aren't  getting
it  for  themselves,  you  know,  but  so  as  to  save their beloved from
destruction or find a good friend."
    "But,  you  know,  I'm  not  searching  for the little ship for myself
either," said Alex in a slightly  offended tone. "I want to give  it... to
a good friend... Well, I mean,  she most likely doesn't know that  I'm her
real friend yet but I very much want to be friends with her."
    "But can't you be without the little ship?"
    "Of course we can!  Do you think I  want to buy her  friendship with a
little ship? No, simply it's her birthday and the clipper would make
the very best present for her! Do you know how happy she'll be!"
    Well, if  she'll be  happy, that's  fine," said  the old man pensively
and added solemnly, "Joy is a very important thing for us... Well, have  a
go, Alex, since you've made up your mind to. I'll give you some advice."
    "Thank you!"
    "You say that at the end of the tale, Alex. Now just listen. You  need
a ticket to Vetrogorsk..."
    "Right!"
    "So  go  along  to  the  Travel  Agency  where you can get tickets for
trains,  planes,  buses,  flying  carp...  well,  I  mean,  tickets of all
kinds."
    "You mean, in May 1st Street?"
    "No, there's another one in Polar Captains's Street."
    Alex had never heard of that street before.
    "Where exactly is it?"
    Why, don't you  know?" asked the  old man slyly.  "Listen, you go  all
the way along Garden Street until you come to an old stadium..."
    "Oh, I know! Last winter we played a war game there."
    "That's right.  But  don't go past it.  Find the gap in  its fence, go
straight through it and keep going when you've crossed the stadium,  crawl
through  another  gap  and  you'll  come  out  in  Polar Captain's Street.
You'll  find  the  agency  at  Number  Twenty-Two on the left-hand side...
Well, off you go."
    "Thank you!"
    "There's  no  need  to  thank  me  yet.  And  one  more  thing. If you
encounter  something  dangerous,  strange  or  puzzling, say, on your way,
don't try and avoid it because it's all part of the fairy-tale. Well,  and
don't forget the most important thing and put your best foot forward."
    "Right, I'll be off."
    "Go, Alex, and try not to let anything amaze you"


                              Chapter Five

    Alex at once believed  that he was entering  a fairy-tale world.   You
see, he was a poet, no matter  how small, and all poets, great and  small,
in their heart of hearts believe in fairy-tales.
    But the street he  was going down was  very ordinary. And so  were the
buses  rolling  past,  and  the   people  coming  towards  him,  and   the
watering-machine trundling along and spraying  everyone in its path.   And
so was the way passers-by hurled abuse after it. And so was the  stadium's
old fence made of rough grey planks.
    One  plank  had  been  ripped  out.  Alex crawled through the gap (and
there was nothing out  of the ordinary about  that either), and found  his
way under the wooden stands and onto the field.
    The old stadium had  not been used for  a long time and  its field was
overgrown with tall grass.
    White, bay and black horses were grazing  on it a long way off but  as
soon as Alex stepped onto the grass, they all raised their heads as if  by
a signal, and stared in his  direction. Alex even felt alarmed and  slowed
down. Then a  golden chestnut with  a beautiful proud  head and kind  eyes
came  cautiously  towards  him,  stopped   three  feet  away,  and   gazed
inquiringly, and somewhat sadly at him. And he understood her. No, he  did
not hear  her but  understood her  when she  asked, "Please  excuse me but
aren't  you  the  boy  who's  looking  for  a horse to gallop to the Magic
Kingdom?"
    "Gosh! This is it," thought Alex with a tremor of excitement but  said
aloud, "No. I've got to go somewhere else."
    "I'm sorry," sighed the horse and slowly walked away.
    The other  horses looked  expectantly at  her and  then began cropping
the grass again.
    A fragile  and tinkling  silence concealing  secrets reigned  over the
stadium. There were  also a great  many grasshoppers chirping  and hopping
this way and that at every step Alex made through the silky grass.
    He crossed  the field,  found a  hole in  the fence  and came out into
Polar Captains' Street  - a quiet,  ordinary-looking street with  old one-
and two-storey houses.
    Also old, Number Twenty-Two had  most likely been built by  a merchant
in the last century. The upper floor had been his living quarters and  the
lower one a shop.
    On the  balcony's cast-iron  railing over  the front  door Alex caught
sight of a long blue sign with "Travel Agency" painted on it.
    The  ground-floor  windows  were  decorated  with  colourful  Aeroflot
posters and the model of an IL-62 jet was hanging from a nylon cord.
    Alex heaved the heavy door open with his shoulder.
    The  Agency  was  ordinary-looking  and  empty  inside.   A  large fan
whirring lazily under the ceiling.  The walls were lined with railway  and
air timetables.   There was  also a  no-smoking sign  and a  notice  about
various excursions written in red crayon.  Alex looked closer and a  chill
ran up his spine:

                       "APPLICATIONS FOR EXCURSIONS
                       ON MAGIC CARPETS
                       WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED
                       UNTIL AUGUST 15
                              THE MANAGEMENT."

    A high partition with  small windows ran along  the far wall. All  the
windows were closed except for one, marked number two, which was  slightly
open.  Alex went up, sighed, plucked up courage, and then tapped.
    The window flew open and a cashier's head appeared.
    Alex felt even  more scared because  the cashier looked  very like his
geography teacher,  Klavdia Mikhailovna.   She had  the same  smooth  grey
hair, stern glasses and alert eyes.   Whenever anyone with eyes like  hers
looked at Alex he felt completely transparent.
    "What can I do for you?" asked the cashier.
    "I'm  sorry  but...  I  was  told  I  could buy a ticket to Vetrogorsk
here."
    The cashier's eye-brows rose slightly.
    "Yes, you can... But I'm curious to know who told you about it?"
    "There's an information bureau or rather a booth - it's not really  an
information bureau. I was told by an old man who works there..."
    The cashier's eyes grew kinder.
    "I  see.   An  old  man.   So,  you've  got some important business in
Vetrogorsk, have you?"
    "Rather!"
    "Right.  You're  lucky,  there's  one  ticket  left  on today's train.
You'd better hurry because it leaves in thirty-five minutes' time."
    "And how much  does it cost?"  asked Alex, recollecting  suddenly that
his mother had left him only five  rubles as pocket money. What if it  was
not enough?
    "Four rubles and ninety kopecks.  That's just for a seat.  You'll have
to make do without a berth."
    Alex nodded  joyfully and  slipped his  hand into  his pocket  for the
money.
    But there wasn't any.  Worse  still, there wasn't even a pocket  where
there  usually  was  one.   Then  he  realised  he had changed clothes the
evening before and left his money in his old trousers.
    "What's wrong? You look so..."
    "I've  forgotten  my  money,"  said  Alex  in  a whisper. "Now I can't
possibly make it."
    The cashier also became upset.
    "My, what  scatter-brains all  you boys  are. And  you're so messy and
undisciplined! When will there be an end to it?"
    Alex went  on standing  silently by  the window  although there was no
longer any point in him doing so.
    "Well, what am I to do with you now?" asked the cashier.
    Alex's hopes rose.
    "Tell me what you've got to do in Vetrogorsk," ordered the cashier.
    Alex felt his ears glowing and most likely turning pink.
    "Well... there's this girl. It's  her birthday soon. And there's  this
museum in Vetrogorsk..."
    The cashier smiled gently.
    "I see. This is a special case.  What you need is a Green Pass  on all
forms of transport there  and back. After all,  you've got to be  back the
day after tomorrow."
    Alex shrugged his shoulders in dismay. It made no difference now,  did
it? After  all, he  did not  have any  money, and  the special  ticket was
bound to cost more than an ordinary one.
    "The Green Pass does not  have a fixed price," explained  the cashier.
"But it's very  expensive for it  costs exactly as  much as the  passenger
has on him. No more, no less... Have you got anything at all?"
    Alex quickly slipped his fingers  into the side pocket under  belt and
felt a three-kopeck coin.  It  had been lying there ever since  the summer
before when  he had  tossed all  his silver  coins into  the sea as he was
leaving the Crimea and this copper coin was all that was left.
    "Here..." said Alex hesitantly. "But surely it's..."
    "Let's have it," interrupted the cashier.  She slammed the punch  down
hard and gave Alex a piece of green cardboard.
    "The ticket's valid until four the day after tomorrow."
    "Thank you! Good-bye!" cried Alex and raced towards the door.
    "Wait!"
    "But the train's..."
    "Don't hurry.   You don't  need the  train now...  If you  go down the
side-streets past the old church  and Cosmos Cinema, you'll come  out into
Faraway Street..."
    Alex nodded.   He had never  heard of Faraway  Street but he  knew the
Cosmos Cinema.
    "Go right down  to the end  of this street  and then keep  going along
the path  until you  come out  onto the  riverbank.   Sit down and wait. A
steamboat will arrive at four..."
    "A steamboat?" repeated Alex in  amazement.. "Why, but our river's  so
small even rowing boat run aground in it!"
    "Don't argue, Alex,  " said the  cashier wearily. "Off  you go.   Now,
don't hurry but  don't dally either.   The steamboat will  arrive at  four
sharp."
    Alex recalled  the horses  in the  stadium and  the notices  about the
flying carpets and realised it was silly to argue.
    "I'll even have  time to pack  a few things,"  he thought.   "And I'll
tell Auntie Dasha that I'm going to Val Yakovlev's country cottage."



                               Chapter Six

    Faraway Street  was very  old indeed.   It's little  houses and fences
stood knee-deep in  burdocks.  Its  road was overgrown  with bright yellow
dandelions and its ditches with ox-eye daisies. Tall blades of grass  were
sticking  through  chinks  in  its  narrow  wooden pavement and its planks
gently gave way underfoot. And there was nobody to be seen.
    Alex was dressed for a hike in a green shirt and an old pair or  track
trousers, and he had  taken along the jacket  he travelled to summer  camp
in just  in case.   He had  shoved two  buttered sandwiches  into his back
pocket but held onto the Green Pass  because he was afraid to put it  with
sandwiches in case it got smeared with butter!
    The  pass  was  as  green  as  a  fresh  poplar leaf. Alex looked more
closely at  the faintly  printed pictures  of an  airplane, train, steamer
and bus in its corners.   A black number - OS  100743 - ran along the  top
and "For Special Cases" was printed  in small red letters underneath.   In
the middle of the  pass was a large  printed notice:  "Valid  on all forms
of Transport.  Return", and then  just below "Vetrogorsk".  In the  bottom
corner a  blue square  stamp said  "Travel Agency.   Booking-Office Number
2".   It certainly  looked as  if the  pass was  real and  Alex could  not
believe he had paid only three kopecks for it...
    The street ended  or, rather, the  house did, and  wooden pavement and
ditched continued and  beyond them stretched  a meadow as  far as the  eye
could see. Then  the pavement ended  and an overgrown  path ran on  ahead.
The grass began rustling at his feet.
    Alex felt  as if  he was  swimming across  a green  sea except that he
could  hear  no  surf  but  only  rustling  grass and incessantly chirring
grasshoppers. The  sky and  its small  white clouds  seemed to  be swaying
above him and drifting towards him.
    And  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  spotted the river. How beautiful it
looked! It was small, no wider  than an average lane, and the  golden sand
on its bed gleamed through its dark waters. Dragonflies were darting  here
and there.  Alder  bushes grew along its  banks.  But how  could a steamer
possibly get here when even a small boat would hardly manage to?
    "It was  a joke!"  thought Alex.   "I've been  tricked into  buying  a
useless ticket for three kopecks! And  like a fool I believed it  all!" He
sat down by the water's edge, feeling bitterly disappointed.
    But he did not have to feel  sad for long. In the distance he  heard a
strange puffing  as if  a steam-engine  was caught  in the grass. Belching
smoke, a large  blue funnel with  silver stars was  moving round the  bend
over the high bushes.
    Alex jumped up.
    The  steamer  came   crawling  round  the   bend.  It  was   a   white
double-decker,  obviously  very  old.  Its  flat green bottom was scraping
along the sandy river-bed and its huge paddle-wheels were too big for  the
river  and  hung  over  the  bank,  digging  into the earth with their red
blades and cutting  down bushes. It  was rumbling along  the river like  a
tractor and resembled a sea monster which had scrambled onto dry land.
    Alex  stared  hard  and  could  not  believe  his eyes. But whether he
believed them  or not,  the puffing  steamer came  up close  and he had to
jump aside so as not to get struck by a paddle.
    The steamer sighed  like a tired  whale and came  to a standstill.   A
gangway made of  two planks with  cross-beams came crashing  down right by
Alex's sandals. By the  entrance on board appeared  a very large and  very
fat man in a smart white uniform. He had a fair forked beard, shaggy  grey
hair, a brick-red  face and a  nose like a  tomato.  His  naval cap looked
minute, perched somewhere on the back of his vast head.
    Alex at once realised that he must be the Captain.
    "Young man!" boomed  the Captain so  loudly that the  grass swayed. "I
hope you're the passenger with the Green  Pass?  If you are, I would  like
to welcome you aboard my ship!"
    Alex climbed on board, still blinking with astonishment.
    "Welcome aboard!" roared the Captain, stretching out his hand.   "This
is a very great pleasure! At last  I've got a real passenger, the sort  my
steamer is intended for." He  lowered his voice and continued,  "You won't
believe  how  fed  up  I  am  of  taking  all  kinds of odd bods, wretched
business folk and lazy tourists. Just have a look at that lot!"
    He squinted towards the fore  deck where several men in  straw boaters
were  sitting  in  wicker  chairs  as  if  they  were on a bus, with large
briefcases on their laps, and their eyes fixed straight ahead.
    The Captain  snorted sarcastically  and said,  "They got  on board  by
pulling strings. And  now they're annoyed  I've changed course  because of
my passenger with Green Pass. Never mind, my dear, you can wait..."
    "Surely you  haven't forced  your way  up this  river just  because of
me?" asked Alex in amazement.
    "But  of  course!  Two  hours  ago  we received a radiogram saying you
would be waiting for us here."
    "But you know... It's such a  huge steamer and the river's so  small I
just can't believe it."
    The Captain grinned  and looked as  pleased as Punch.  "Fiddle-sticks!
If needs  be, my  little ship  will even  paddle across  the Sahara Desert
although, strictly speaking, the Sahara isn't a sea at all."
    "Of course," agreed Alex. "A steamer gets on much better at sea."
    The Captain looked approvingly at him.
    "By Jove, I like you, young man. Allow me to invite you to lunch  with
me and then I'll accompany you to your cabin."
    Alex  readily  agreed  because  he  was  really famished! He liked the
Captain and, in general, everything was working out splendidly.

    Puffing and rocking,  the steamer headed  back stern first,  while the
Captain and Alex set off to have lunch.
    I the mess a lanky sailor  with a long face and a  dismal-looking nose
was sitting at a laid table and picking at a rissole with his fork.
    "Let me introduce you,"  said the Captain to  Alex. "This is my  First
Mate."
    "Hello," mumbled Alex.
    The sailor raised himself slightly,  silently bowed hid head and  then
downed some  yoghurt and  said sourly,  "By your  leave, I've  already had
lunch. So if you don't mind, I'll go and check the watches."
    "That would be awfully kind of you," said the Captain.
    The sailor slouched towards the door and disappeared from sight.
    Gazing after him, the Captain  said with conviction, "He's a  bore and
the world's worst First Mate. I  know it's wrong to wash your  dirty linen
in  public,  so  to  speak,  but  I  simply  can't  keep  it  to   myself.
Incidentally, those  are his  proteges in  the deckchairs  and whenever  I
object, he writes complaints about me to our head office."
    The Captain sighed,  took his cap  off, invited Alex  to sit down  and
then squeezed himself into a chair.
    They ate in silence.  The Captain was lost  in sad thought. Every  now
and  then  he  sighed  so  loudly  that  the curtain fluttered against the
window and Alex caught sight  of the bushes drifting past.  Their branches
were  no  longer  scraping  along  the  windows-panes,  and  the steamer's
paddles were now sloshing loudly through the water.
    Toward the end of  the meal the Captain  cheered up and said  to Alex,
"I  can  offer  you  a  choice  of  cabins. There's first-class cabins and
luxury ones  with a  bath, television  and so  on.   But I'd advise you to
take a  super-luxury one.   I assure  you it's  most suitable  for  anyone
who's not too old. Many people ask to be put there but I don't let them."
    He  took  Alex  to  the  upper  deck  whose  sides  were  lined   with
life-boats,  unlaced  the  tarpaulin  covering  one  of  them and flung it
aside.
    "Here we are!"  he exclaimed triumphantly.   "Here you can  live under
the stars and  marvel at the  water and shores.  It's wonderfully peaceful
and quiet  up here  and the  wind's warm.   And..." he  lowered his voice,
"nobody'll get on your nerves."
    "Oh, how fantastic!" exclaimed Alex. "You mean, I can sleep here?"
    "Of course you can. You'll be brought an air-bed."
    ...The evening  came quickly.  The sunset  flared up  and quickly died
away over the water. The river was now so wide that you could hardly  make
out its banks.
    Alex  snuggled  down  in  the  lifeboat. The Little Bear constellation
swayed gently over him  and he felt asleep  to the sound of  lapping water
and the steamer's even puffing.
    He  was  awoken  by  steps  which  were  cautious  but  heavy  as if a
hippopotamus  was  creeping  up  on  him.  He  sat  up and saw the Captain
standing by the lifeboat.
    "I beg your pardon,"  he said in a  whisper which sent ripples  across
the tarpaulin cover.  "I hope I  haven't disturbed you?  The fact is...  I
have something important to discuss with  you. Or rather an offer to  make
you... You wouldn't by any chance agree to being my First Mate?"
    Alex almost jumped up with surprise.
    "What?"
    "There's nothing to  it. Being my  First Mate. It's  not a bad  job at
all."
    "But... It's such important work. You've got to know the ropes."
    "I assure you, you'll learn! Where there's a will..."
    "Yes... but you've already got a First Mate."
    "I'll  sack  him!"  declared  the  Captain.  "Or leave him on a desert
island  where  he  can  write  as  many  complaints as he likes. He's more
trouble than he's worth."
    Alex kept silent. He,  of course, could not  agree, but was afraid  of
offending the Captain by turning his offer down.
    "Do agree,"  urged the  Captain. "You'll  never regret  it. You'll see
more far-off  seas and  wonderful islands  than in  all the sea adventures
ever  written.   I  promise  you  exciting  experiences  almost every day.
Incidentally,  there're  still  real  pirates  in  the  mouth of the River
Jil-Baldeo..."
    "This is all really terrific,"  Alex began cautiously, "but, you  see,
I've got  some important  business which  means more  to me  than anything
else. And you can't give up things that matter most."
    "I see," said the  Captain sadly. "Everyone has  his own way to  go. I
understand you and  I'm not in  the least offended.  But I am  very sorry.
Good night."

    Alex woke up late, or, rather, was awoken by the Captain inviting  him
to breakfast.
    Afterwards they went  up onto the  bridge. It was  a cloudless morning
and the big  river gleamed like  fish-scales in the  sunlight. The steamer
turned towards the bank and the  Captain said, "I could take you  straight
to Vetrogorsk  but it  would take  many days.  You'll get  there faster by
plane. There's a small airfield half  an hour's walk away from here.  Show
your pass at the ticket office and you'll be put straight onto a plane."
    Alex felt rather sad. He had  already got used to the steamer  and its
Captain but he had his  own way to go. And  when the steamer dug its  prow
into the sand, he said, "Good-bye. Farewell!"
    "Best of luck," replied the Captain.


                              Chapter Seven

    The steamer cast  off from the  bank and began  splashing down-stream.
Alex waved after it  and then threw his  jacket over his shoulder  and set
off down the path.
    The  path  ran  up  and  down  hillocks and twisted between huge shiny
speckled boulders and dense blooming eglantine thickets. Now and then  the
bushes covered the path and he had to pick his way through them.
    About a kilometre later  Alex came out onto  a clearing with a  carpet
of yellow  dandelions and  caught sight  of a  sturdy four-cornered  stone
pillar which looked  like the base  of an old  monument. White arrows  had
been drawn on different  parts of it and  next to them were  the following
inscriptions:

                           MAGIC KINGDOM
                           STATE FARM
                           ENCHANTED FOREST
                           MERMAID CREEK
                           VEHICLE DEPOT No.4

    And so on. In fact, the whole pillar was marked with white arrows.
    "My goodness," said Alex but did not feel very surprised.
    Near the base  of the pillar  among the dandelions  he found an  arrow
marked with the word "Airfield". Alex looked where it was pointing to  and
started picking his way again between the boulders and eglantine bushes.
    Before long from the hillock he spotted a field overgrown with  ox-eye
daisies, and two  small houses on  the other side  of it, one  light brown
with a tall aerial and the other covered in large red and white checks.  A
long white  balloon with  black horizontal  stripes, used  for gauging the
wind was  hanging on  a long  pole above  the chequered  house. There  was
hardly any wind and the sausage-like balloon was hanging almost still.
    Alex walked through  the grass and  daisies towards the  small houses.
Birds were twittering somewhere in the grass or the sky. The air was  warm
and caressing and the sun was  rather hot. Everything seemed fine but  for
some  strange  reason  Alex  suddenly  began  feeling uneasy. He could not
understand why at first but then  he guessed it was because there  were no
planes on the field.
    There  was  not  a  single  one  to  be seen and the field was totally
empty.
    What would he fly in, then?
    It was only when  he had almost reached  the houses that he  spotted a
plane, but it looked more as if it was used for aerobatics or  instruction
than carrying passengers in. It  was small, light and almost  transparent.
The  tall  grass  was  partly  covering  it,  and  Alex  could  not see it
properly.  He was anxious now to  meet someone and find out how to  get to
Vetrogorsk.
    Beside the brown house stood two birches with a swing hanging  between
them. A boy,  slightly smaller than  Alex, with rather  tousled, very fair
hair was  sitting on  it. He  was wearing  a white  tee-shirt with a light
blue stripe just under  its collar. He was  very suntanned. On his  lap he
was holding a map-case which  was only slightly darker than  his scratched
thin legs.
    "My, how tanned he is!" marvelled Alex. "And his hair's been  bleached
white.  He's  probably  a  pilot's  son  and  has flown in from the South.
Around here  you can  only get  that tanned  by the  end of the summer and
then only if  you try really  hard. But there's  no way you  can do so  in
June."
    The  boy  did  not  notice  Alex  as  he  was  looking down and lazily
swinging to and fro, pushing himself off with his sandals' toe-caps.
    "Perhaps I should  ask him about  planes to Vetrogorsk?"  thought Alex
but at that moment he spotted  two dark blue signs marked "Ticket  Office"
and "Controller's Office" on the door of the house.
    He ran onto the porch and pushed the door open.
    In the corridor he saw a ticket-office window. It was shut. He  tapped
shyly on it. Nothing happened. He  turned towards an inner door which  was
covered with black oil-cloth and had a "No Admittance" sign on it.
    What should he do now?  Go and ask the boy?  But he was not a  cashier
or a controller, was he? Plucking up courage, Alex pulled the door open.
    The Controller was seated at a  desk in the room which was  fitted out
with all sorts  of strange equipment,  radio transmitters and  telephones.
He was wearing a white shirt, his blue jacket with stripes on its  sleeves
was hanging on the back of his  chair, and his uniform cap was lying  on a
pile of papers. He was angrily munching an apple, making marks with a  red
pencil in a large exercise-book and did not notice Alex.
    "Good afternoon,"  said Alex  in the  doorway, addressing  the back of
the Controller's bald head.
    The Controller stopped  munching but went  on making marks  and asked,
"What do you want?"
    Strictly speaking, Alex  should have been  taken aback by  such a cold
reception but he only felt slightly annoyed.
    "I've got to get to Vetrogorsk!" he said loudly.
    "Really? Is that all?"
    "Well... yes," replied Alex not so loudly.
    "Then, what business is it of mine?"
    "Well... I wanted  to show my  ticket but the  ticket-office's shut. I
wanted to ask you..."
    There'll be no  planes today," said  the Controller, lifting  his head
and putting his cap on. He had bushy eyebrows and a strong square chin.
    "My. he's tough," thought Alex. He's most likely an ex-pilot who  used
to  fly  to  the  Arctic."  Generally  speaking,  he liked the look of the
Controller but did not like the way he spoke.
    "There'll be no planes, got it? So that's that."
    "What shall I do?" asked Alex plaintively.
    "I don't know."
    "But I really need to get to Vetrogorsk."
    "People who  really need  to, get  here on  time and  fly on scheduled
flights. All our planes leave in the morning."
    "I didn't know that. I was told I could fly any time."
    "Who told you such nonsense?"
    Alex was about to explain that the Captain told him but then  realised
that the  Controller would  not care  a straw  about what  some captain or
other had said.
    "There're no planes today," repeated the Controller. "None at all."
    Alex felt offended and began to get rather angry again.
    "None, you say?!  Well, I've just  seen one. It's  standing quite near
here."
    "Well I  never!   Seen it,  have you?   This plane's  special, and for
special cases only."
    "Well, that's just what I am!"
    "Really," grinned  the Controller  sarcastically. "And  what have  you
got to prove it?"
    "A ticket," said Alex boldly. "Here it is."
    He strode towards the  table and put the  Green Pass down in  front of
the Controller.
    "Mmmm..."  said  the  Controller,  scratching  his  left brow with his
pencil and then, opening his eyes wide, he shouted deafeningly, "Masha!"
    A girl in a blue forage cap appeared from behind the equipment.
    "Sir?"
    "Masha," said the Controller sternly,  "please go out into the  field,
find the Pilot for Special Missions and ask him to come and see me."
    "Golly!" thought Alex.
    "Oh! Right!" said the girl. Her heels clicking against the floor,  she
headed for the door  but then turned round  and looked enquiringly at  the
Controller, who raised  his eyebrows and  shrugged his shoulders  as if to
say, "Well, what else can I do?"
    The girl went out.
    "How  amazing!"  thought  Alex.  "So  I'm  going to be flying with the
Pilot for Special Missions!"  He expected a tall  pilot in a blue  uniform
with gold stripes and a pair of large gloves in one hand and a helmet  and
goggles in the other to come  into the Controller's office, and say,  "I'm
ready. Where's my passenger?"
    But what if he didn't? What if he refused to take Alex?
    Instead a boy came in  - the same one Alex  had seen on the swing.  He
was  carrying  a  map-case  on  a  long  strap  which  kept catching on the
floor-boards.
    The boy stood in the middle of the room and looked at the Controller.
    "The Controller'll send him off to look for the Pilot," thought Alex.
    But the Controller asked, "Where's Vetrogorsk?"
    The boy smiled faintly, looked away  and pursed his lips as if  he was
going to whistle or to say "ooh".
    "I see," said the Controller. "Is it on the map?"
    "On mine it is," the boy replied in a ringing voice.
    "I'm asking about ordinary maps," snapped the Controller.
    "Nope..."
    "How long does it take to fly there?"
    The boy kicked his map-case and it began swinging like a pendulum.
    "I've no idea," replied  the boy in no  hurry. "Depends. You know  how
it is..."
    "I  don't  know  anything  about  all  those  fancy  things  of  yours
altogether, I didn't  really want to  send you because  of all the  pranks
you've been getting up to."
    "But  what  have  I  done?"  the  boy  asked innocently and kicked his
map-case again.
    "Well, who swooped down on that lorry? Perhaps it was me?"
    "But why did they steal the dog from those children?!"
    "You chased the lorry into a ditch."
    "It served them jolly well right."
    "You might have caused a serious accident. Do you realise that?
    "But it would have  been worse if the  children had been left  without
their dog. Do you realise that?" asked the boy insolently.
    The Controller's ears  and nose began  to flush.   The boy kicked  his
map-case with the toe-cap of his sandal and watched it spinning round  and
round on the strap.
    Alex took a liking to him. He  was such a fine, bold lad even  through
he was so small.  But Alex  could not understand a word of what  was being
said between him and  the Controller.  Only  one thing was clear:  the boy
had done  something naughty  and had  almost caused  an accident with some
lorry or other and  because of it was  not being allowed to  go somewhere.
Perhaps, to a film?  Whatever it was, it  did not concern Alex.   He began
wondering where the pilot had got to.
    "Stop  kicking  that  bag.   It's  state  property!"  snapped  the
Controller. "And stand up  straight when you're addressing  the Controller
on duty."
    "Right!"  the  boy  rapped  out  and  deftly  threw the strap over his
shoulder, clicked his heels, pulled up his blue shorts, which had  poppers
on their pockets, and stood to attention.
    "That's more  like it,"  muttered the  Controller. "You've  really got
out of hand, you know."
    Then the  boy said  in a  quiet but  distinct voice,  "There's nothing
wrong about the way I'm standing.  Please use a more respectful tone  when
you're addressing the Pilot for Special Missions!"
    "Gosh!" Alex gasped to himself.
    But the  Controller's nose  and ears  went puce.  There was a creaking
sound as he got up from his chair. Alex thought he was going to roar  like
a lion but instead he said in an offended bass, "Listen to what you're  to
do... please."
    "At your service!" said the Pilot for Special Missions.
    "You're  to...  please...  take  a  passenger  with  Green  Pass   to
Vetrogorsk.  And  then   come  straight  back...   When...  could   you...
possibly... get back here?"
    "Hard to say. Just depends."
    "Well, you're to come back as soon as possible. Understood?"
    "Right. May I go?"
    "Yes... thank you..."
    The little pilot turned towards Alex, looked gravely at him and  said,
"Let's get going. Don't forget your ticket."


    They  went  towards  the  plane.  The  pilot  walked  ahead,  knocking
daisies' heads off with his case. Alex felt rather uneasy.
    The pilot turned round, stopped and asked quietly, "Scared?"
    "No, no...  I just  didn't expect  this. I  didn't think  YOU were the
Pilot."
    "Don't worry. I've got a good plane. It's as safe as houses."
    It was only now that  Alex got a good look  at his face. It was  quite
ordinary-looking and even  slightly familiar. The  pilot had huge  serious
eyes without a trace of mockery in them. After all, he might have  smirked
or looked smugly  at him and  asked, "Got cold  feet, eh?" Or  put on airs
for he was, after all, a pilot. But he wasn't at all snooty.
    "Don't be afraid. We'll get there safely, you'll see."
    "I'm  not  afraid,"  said  Alex  in  a  relieved  voice.  "I  was just
surprised, that's all."
    "How long have you been travelling?"
    "One day."
    "And you're still feeling surprised?" asked the Pilot, laughing.
    "Yes," said Alex and laughed too.
    The  plane  was  covered  with  something  silvery. Its tail and wings
shone in the sunlight.
    "It's a  toy," thought  Alex. "I  could probably  pick it  up with one
hand." However, he no longer felt frightened, or, at least, not really.
    Three blue letters - SFC - were painted on the plane's tail.
    "They  stand  for  Special  Flying  Corps  and everyone here calls the
plane 'Fly' for short.  I think it's a  silly nickname because it  doesn't
look a bit like a fly."
    "Of course it  doesn't," said Alex.  "Flies are ugly  black things but
your plane's beautiful."
    "I call it 'Dragonfly'," the Pilot said shyly.
    He threw  back the  transparent hood  over the  cockpit, and  open the
door.
    "Get into the back seat and I'll start the engine."
    Alex scrambled inside.  The plane sunk  and bounced gently  under him.
The plastic-covered seat turned out to rather hard but he did not mind.
    The  Pilot  went  to  the  plane's  nose,  jumped up, caught hold of a
propeller blade and hung on with his legs dangling in the air.  The  blade
turned  slowly  and  the  Pilot  strained  himself and swung it round. The
propeller suddenly  jerked and  at once  almost vanished,  turning into an
empty circle, studded  here and there  with sparks of  sunlight. The Pilot
jumped aside and burst  out laughing.  The  grass under the plane's  wings
bent and lay flat  against the ground. The  cabin began shuddering and  it
became rather noisy inside.
    The  Pilot  came  up  to  the  door  with  the wind from the propeller
streaking through his hair, he  turned towards the house, raised  his arm,
climbed into  the cockpit,  slammed the  door, lowered  the hood  and said
gleefully, "Off we go!"


                              Chapter Eight

    After a  very short  run the  plain leapt  into the  air. The airfield
receded into the distance and the houses became tiny.
    It took Alex  about ten minutes  to get used  to flying. He  had flown
before with his mother in a large jet  but it had not been such fun.   You
could hardly see anything and did not even feel you were flying.  It  only
got rather bumpy over  the sea just before  landing.  Now, however,  there
was sky  and puffy  clouds above  and green  land, dark  forests and light
meadows below.   Stretching out  all around  was the  misty horizon, which
seemed vaster than it looked from the ground.
    Sometimes the plane tilted  one way and then  the other and every  now
and then began to fall  as if sliding down a  steep hill.  But it  was fun
and  not  at  all  frightening  to   hear  the  engine  whirring  like   a
sewing-machine and the oncoming wind whistling against the glass.
    Alex glanced  at the  Pilot. His  seat was  lower than his passenger's
and tilted far  back. Above the  plastic seat Alex  could see the  back of
his head, his shoulders and knees, which were raised high and moved  every
time he pressed  the pedals. The  plane was flying  due south and  the sun
was almost directly ahead of them. The Pilot's hair was ablaze with  light
and his knees shone like hard brown chestnuts.
    "I say!" called Alex. "Where did you get so tanned?"
    "Here," replied the Pilot and  without turning round, raised his  hand
and tapped the glass hood.  "It's fibreglass and unlike window glass  lets
through all types of  rays. And as you  can see, I'm flying  very close to
the sun."
    "Do you fly often?"
    "Quite often!" said the Pilot loudly.
    "You don't mind  me chattering to  you, do you?"  asked Alex. "Perhaps
you're not meant to during a flight?
    The Pilot turned his head. He was smiling.
    "Go ahead! Only  I can't hear  very well because  of the engine.  Come
over here, if you like."
    There was a narrow  gap between the pilot's  seat and the wall  of the
cockpit. Alex squeezed into it and squatted down on his heels.
    The  horizon  swayed  ahead  and  the  sun's  rays  beat  down  on his
forehead. He screwed up his eyes.
    "Doesn't the sun bother you?" he asked the Pilot.
    "I'm used to it."
    And, sure  enough, his  light grey  eyes were  calmly staring straight
ahead and two tiny suns were shining in them.
    "Is it far to Vetrogorsk?"
    "We'll be there at dusk."
    "Oh... Can't you  try and get  there earlier? I've  got to be  in time
for the museum. It'll most likely be shut in the evening."
    The Pilot shook his head.
    "There's no point trying."
    "Why?"
    "Why, don't  you understand?  You're in  a fairy-tale  and fairy-tales
have  lots  of  different  rules.  Planes  always land at Vetrogorsk after
sunset."
    "But what if you're in a supersonic jet?"
    "Makes  no  difference  whether  you're  in  a supersonic jet, or on a
flying carpet,  a balloon  or even  a rocket...  The Pilot  won't spot the
town unless the sun has set."
    Alex was silent  for a while,  and then plucked  up courage and  asked
the question  playing on  his mind.  "I say...  Are you  really a pilot? A
real pilot? Only please don't feel offended."
    "I'm not offended in the  least," replied the Pilot gravely.  "I would
have been if you'd asked that  before we took off. But you  weren't afraid
to fly with me."
    "No, and I'm not  afraid now either. I'm  just curious. Is this  a job
you do - just like a grown-up pilot?"
    "Yes, almost...  Well, no,  not quite.  My flights  are different. You
see, I'm a Pilot for Special Missions."
    "But that's even  more important than  being an ordinary  pilot, isn't
it? After all, Special Missions are really hard, aren't they?"
    "Not always. They're just special."
    "But why were  you picked for  this work?   I mean... you're  not even
grown-up yet. After all, it's usually grown-ups who are sent on  important
missions."
    "Grown-ups  are  no  good  for  this  job,"  sighed  the  Pilot."  You
sometimes have to  fly into fairy-tales  and grown-ups can't  make head or
tail of them and always muddle something up."
    "But surely some grown-ups understand fairy-tales well?"
    "Yes, of course, they do but then they can't fly planes."
    "You  mean,  there  isn't  anyone  who  can  both  fly  and understand
fairy-tails?"
    "I don't know... I heard of one  but he lived a long time ago.  A test
pilot who was killed fighting fascists. He crashed into the sea..."
    The Pilot fell silent, and so  did Alex for he thought that  the Pilot
was most likely feeling sad and  did not dare ask him any  more questions.
A bristly bluish forest stretched out below.
    "Look," said the Pilot.  "That's Enchanted Forest Number Eleven.  It's
got everything!   For one thing  at least a  dozen Red Riding  Hoods.  You
can't imagine what horrid little girls they are! They reckon that  because
a  fairy-tale  was  written  about  them,  they  can behave just like film
stars!  They're  forever arguing and  shrieking at one  another and almost
coming to blows over the pettiest of things."
    "How incredible!..."  Alex said  in a  whisper.   "And who  else lives
there?"
    "You  see  that  road?  Well,  every  day  at twelve o'clock sharp the
Gingerbread Man runs along it.  As regular as clockwork... Well,  and then
he meets the Cat and then the Dog and then the Cow..."
    "You mean, the Fox gobbles him up every day?" sadly asked Alex.
    "Not likely!   Gingerbread men  are sharper  these days  and don't let
themselves get  eaten up...  There're also  two goblins,  a cave of gnomes
and eight talking owls. Two of them can even read and write..."
    All of a sudden something glinted in the sunlight on the road below.
    "And  there  goes  the  Silver  Knight!" exclaimed the Pilot joyfully.
"Look!"
    Alex looked closer and, sure enough, a knight in a pointed helmet  and
silver armour was trotting along the  road on a stallion with a  streaming
mane. He  looked as  tiny as  a toy  horseman. A  brightly-coloured little
pennant was fluttering  at the end  of his spear,  which seemed no  bigger
than a straw and his white shield  was casting off sun's rays like a  tiny
mirror.
    "His horse went lame one day," said  the Pilot. "And I had to fly  him
to the Blue Kingdom. The knight, I mean, not his horse. Gosh, he was  huge
and had such a lot of armour! It's a good thing my plane's unbreakable  or
else we would definitely have crashed."
    "Is it really unbreakable?" asked Alex cautiously.
    "Of course! You can do anything you  like in it! Would you like me  to
show you?"
    "Oh yes!" said Alex warily.
    And the next moment the  plane plummeted downwards. The earth  and sky
began  twirling  round  at  a  terrifying  speed  and  Alex's  heart  sank
violently.
    "Well, this is where my  fairy-tale ends," he thought and  closing his
eyes tight, grit his teeth so as not to scream.
    And then all of a sudden they were flying normally again. Alex  opened
his eyes and saw they were flying very, very low over a yellow road.  Then
the Knight flashed by  and Alex caught sight  of him waving his  hand in a
chain-mail gauntlet.
    The plane began to climb again. Alex's heart was pounding like a  drum
in a symphony orchestra.
    "Phew," he said.
    The Pilot  looked brightly  at him  and said,  "You were  terrific!  I
thought  you'd  be  scared  stiff  but  you didn't even yell... The Knight
screamed 'crikey' twice! He's so heavy, we had to descend quickly, and  he
started shrieking... But when  I asked him how  he was going to  fight the
Dragon when  he was  even afraid  of a  plane, he  said, 'Oh, the dragon's
quite different. I'm used to him but you won't get me back in a plane  for
love or money'."
    "You mean,  he really  did fight  the Dragon?"  asked Alex,  his voice
still unsteady.
    "They've been fighting once a week  for a long time now. The  Dragon's
really old and has only five of  his nine heads left. And his eyes  on one
of them are made  of car headlights. He  keeps asking to be  pensioned off
but without success. He's been told he  can go to a zoo whenever he  likes
and there's a cage with  all mod cons ready for  him. But he can't have  a
pension because he's  not a person,  you see... But,  you know, the  witch
Baba-Yaga wangled a pension because  she's disabled, you see. She's  got a
gammy leg."
    "Have you seen her too?" asked Alex with admiration.
    "I flew her to  town once when she  went to arrange to  have her hovel
fixed up... What a horrible old  hag she is. Kept grumbling that  I wasn't
flying the plain right, and so I said to her, 'This is a plane, you  know,
grannie, not a broom.' And do you know what she said, 'If I'd got hold  of
you when my teeth were in good  shape I'd have made quick work of  you...'
How do you like  that? And then she  went and wrote a  letter of complaint
to the Controller, saying she'd been spoken to disrespectfully."
    "But why's the Controller  mad at you? Has  it something to do  with a
fairy-tale?"
    "No. If it  had, he wouldn't  have bothered... In  a village near  the
airfield there were some children who kept a puppy in their yard. One  day
some  people  driving  by  in  a  lorry  spotted  the puppy in the street,
grabbed it and slung it in the  back of the lorry. They wanted to  keep it
for themselves. Well, the children began yelling and chasing after it  but
how could they possibly  catch a lorry? Well,  it just so happened  that I
was flying past..."
    "Did you catch them up?"
    "Why, of course. I swooped down on them from behind, hovered over  the
back of the  lorry, crawled out  onto the wing,  grabbed the puppy  by the
scruff of its neck and popped it inside the cabin. But the driver got  the
fright of his life  and drove into a  ditch... The Controller didn't  want
to let me fly  after that." The Pilot  suddenly smiled rather sadly.  "But
he had to in the end. Seeing there's nobody else..."
    "Tell me... began Alex hesitantly,  "how did you become the  Pilot for
Special Missions? Or is it a secret?"
    "No, not at all. I can tell you if you're interested."
    "Of course I am!"
    "Only... There's still time. Let's call in at the Antarctica first."
    Alex decided  not to  let anything  surprise him  any more  and merely
commented, "It's probably very cold there."
    "Not a bit."
    They flew  on for  a short  while and  then all  of a sudden the plane
began to descend  over a vast  green wasteland on  the edge of  a town. It
landed in a patch of weeds.
    The Pilot flung  the door open  and jumped down  into the undergrowth.
Alex followed suit. His  feet had gone rather  numb and he began  stamping
them to get his blood flowing again and asked in a matter-of-fact  manner,
"Were you forced to land?"
    "No, we've arrived," said the Pilot quietly.
    Alex did not  understand what he  meant. Then he  gazed round, blinked
and asked hesitantly, "This isn't Antarctica, is it?"
    There were burdocks, hemp and  wormwood growing all around, and  there
was a bitter  smell of wormwood  summer air. The  outline of a  small town
could be seen in the greyish-blue mist on the horizon.
    It was very quiet. In fact, the silence was so profound that not  even
the constant chirring of industrious  grasshoppers could disturb it.   The
silence was coming from everywhere and seemed all-absorbing.
    The  remains  of  a  plank  fence  and  two  posts with a sagging gate
between them were sticking out of the undergrowth near the plane.
    The Pilot went  up to a  post, leaned towards  it and whispered,  "Can
you hear how quiet it is?"
    Alex felt rather scared.
    "It's like being on another planet," he said.
    "Or in Antarctica before it was discovered."
    "But... all the same this isn't Antarctica," said Alex warily.
    Instead of the replying, the Pilot gazed into the distance and asked,
    "See that town?"
    "Yes."
    "That's Kolokoltsev. We used to live there..."
    "Who's 'we'?"
    "Come over here."
    Alex walked  over and  the Pilot  moved away  from the  post and  four
names, which had been  carved with a penknife,  became visible on the  old
wood:

                               ANTON
                               ARKADY
                               TIMA
                               CARROTY.

    "Anton  -  that's  me,"  said  the  Pilot.  "And  the  others  were my
friends."
    "Were?" asked Alex. "What about now?"
    The Pilot raised  his serious eyes  towards Alex and  said, "I'll tell
you if you like."
    With a feeling of alarm, Alex hurriedly nodded.


                              Chapter Nine

    "We used to  play here," said  the Pilot. "You  can hear how  quiet it
is. It's just  like being on  some remote island...  This is our  country.
Just look: if you  join the first letters  of our names together,  you get
"Ant...  Ar...  T...  Ca...".  Of  course,  it's  not  real Antarctica. We
probably wouldn't even get there on  my Dragonfly. But we didn't want  to.
We were happy here..."

    Yes, they  were very  happy whenever  the four  of them  got together:
There was wide-eyed little  Anton who usually spoke  in a whisper and  was
best at inventing  games; and stocky  business-like Arkady who  had worked
out a way of catching summer stars in  the sky:  you smeared the top of  a
balloon with  soft toffee  and then  released it  into the  sky on  a long
length of string.  As  soon as a star got  stuck to it, you could  pull it
down (mind you, the star sometimes  scorched the balloon and burst it  but
that didn't happen often). Then there was skinny fair-haired Tima who  was
good  at  training  grasshoppers,   and  freckled  ginder-haired   Danilka
(nicknamed Carroty) who was a loyal  friend and a witty artist. It  was he
who had  drawn on  the fence  the mischievous  bobtails and  cunning beast
Crocopudra which had  then escaped from  the planks and  started living in
the undergrowth.
    It was  wonderful on  this vast  wasteland although  there was nothing
but weeds all around and an old fence...
    You only had to  will it and the  wasteland turned into an  unexplored
land. In  the heart  of the  forests bobtails,  part-hare and  part-gnome,
frolicked and  made merry  while Crocopudra,  which had  a great  sense of
humour despite its voracious appetite, set traps and organised  adventures.
And you could discover entire underground towns in the labyrinthine  caves
whose stone icicles emitted a strange  light. And in Green Creek the  Blue
Whale ice-breaker was always standing ready to sail in any direction.
    And this was all completely real and not make-believe.
    You see,  somewhere here  on the  wasteland (perhaps  under the  stone
house's foundations overgrown with  nettles) lived a very  old Fairy-Tale.
None of the four friends was aware of it. All they did was play games.
    The four  friends never  fell out  and only  once quarrelled when Tima
wanted to  turn the  malachite grasshoppers  living on  the wasteland into
little  fiddlers  while  Arkady  stubbornly  insisted  they  should make a
cavalry squadron out of them.
    "Who wants their squeaky music!" he objected.
    But Tima  batted his  white eyelashes  and said  quietly, "But listen,
listen... How can  you call it  squeaky? After all,  you can't do  without
music."
    "But you can without horses, can you?" yelled Arkady and began  waving
his arms about. "How on earth will  we catch the Black Knight? How will  we
fight the kangapaws? On Crocopudra? Maybe astride your fiddlers?"
    "Oh, come on, lads!" Danilka suddenly  said loudly. He got a piece  of
chalk out  of his  pocket and  drew four  fiery steeds  on the part of the
fence where Crocopudra used to sit.
    "Gosh!" said Arkady.
    And they began to examine the horses but then all of a sudden  noticed
that Anton was not with them. Then they turned round and Arkady  exclaimed
in surprise, "What's up with you?"
    "Has something got into your eye?" Danilka asked anxiously.
    "Have you hurt yourself?" Tima asked quietly.
    Anton smiled awkwardly and turned his face away.
    "Oh,  do  stop  it...  I  got  a  fright.  I thought you were going to
quarrel..."
    "Now, just you stop talking  nonsense, Anton," said Danilka, his  most
loyal friend. "How  can we possibly  quarrel? We've got  Antarctica, don't
forget."
    "I know," said Anton, smiling. "I just wondered..."
    It was already late  evening. Old Fairy-Tale had  gone off to bed  and
all the magic plants had  vanished, leaving behind only ordinary  burdocks
and hemp. But  it was still  just as quiet  as on a  remote island. And in
this silence the white horses slipped off the fence and vanished into  the
dusk. But  the boys  didn't notice  because they  were sitting  with their
arms round  each other's  sunburnt shoulders,  and their  legs all tangled
and their  heads so  close together  that strands  of Tima's and Danilka's
hair were tickling Anton cheeks.
    And Anton  whispered, "Do  you know  what's the  greatest thing in the
world? That all  of us live  together in the  same town. What  would it be
like if we didn't? Awful!"
    "Well, we'd..."  Arkady began  dreamily but  then all  of a sudden let
out a howl and jumped up.
    He had a matchbox in his pocket containing a little evening star  they
had caught with a  balloon the day before  yesterday. The little star  had
at last burned a  hole in the matchbox  and his pocket and  had just stung
his leg. And that's why he was shrieking!
    He jumped up, shook the star out, and it began glowing in the grass.
    "Why, the little!.." said Danilka,  picking it up and tossing  it from
one hand to  the other like  a coal. Then  he swung his  arm and hurled it
into the  sky. The  star flew  far away  and disappeared  among the  other
stars which had already emerged in the lilac twilight...
    The  town's  main  clock  struck  resonantly  through  the silence ten
times.
    "Oh, it's late," said Arkady  anxiously, still rubbing his burnt  leg.
"Lets get back before we get into hot water at home!"
    Holding  hands,  they  ran  through  the bushes towards the flickering
lights.
    Not  once  had  they  ever  quarrelled  but  then something much worse
happened.

    "What was it?" asked Alex in alarm.
    The  Pilot  sat  down  and  leaned  against the broken gate. Winding a
blade of grass round  his finger and angrily  tugging at it, he  looked up
at Alex rather guiltily.
    "If I'd have known..." he said,  "I would never ever have gone  off to
camp... But, you see, I didn't know things would turn out like this...  My
parents talked  me into  it. Dad  had to  go away  on business and Mum was
taking her institute  exams and they  decided to send  me to camp  to make
things easier. I tried to get out of it, of course, but they pleaded  with
me, saying it was only for three weeks... I didn't stick it out for  three
weeks and came  back after two.  But I was  still too late  because they'd
already left."
    "Who had?"
    "Arkady,  Tima  and  Danilka...  You  see,  they'd  all moved to other
towns."
    "All at once?" asked Alex in amazement.
    "I didn't think that was possible either," said the Pilot sadly.  "All
at once,  Arkady's dad  was sent  to work  on a  construction site in Blue
Hills,  Tima's  parents  were  invited  to  a  new  theatre in Yasnograd -
they're actors,  you see.  And Danilka's  mother took  him to  live in the
country."
    The little Pilot fell silent and banged his fist against his knees.
    "If only I'd known!.."
    "But what could you have  done?" asked Alex. "Well, you  wouldn't have
gone away to camp. But the boys would still have been taken away."
    Anton shook his head.
    "Never! We'd have  thought of something.  We'd have simply  held hands
and nobody would  have been able  to drag us  apart. We could  do anything
when we were together. But this time... It was all my fault..."
    Alex thought that the  Pilot was going to  burst into tears and  so he
said hurriedly, "Oh, come now! You're not that much to blame."
    Anton  glanced  at  him  and  said  thoughtfully,  "I  know I'm not...
Because afterwards I did everything I could."

    After  losing  his  friends,  Anton  realised  it was pointless crying
although his  eyes sometimes  smarted of  their own  accord. Anton  missed
Danilka, Tima  and Arkady  terribly but  people react  to this  feeling of
loss in  different ways.  Some simply  sit about  feeling miserable  while
others look for ways out. And this is what Anton did.
    Blue Hills, Yasnograd and Danilka's  village were all a long  way from
Kolokoltsev. You could not possibly get  there on foot, and it would  take
a very long time by train, too.  Anton realised he needed a plane and,  of
course, not an ordinary one which carried passengers with tickets for  you
could  not  very  well  fly  there  and  back  every  day  on one of them.
Besides, there was no airfield near Danilka's village.
    He needed a small,  light, fast plane of  his own which could  land on
the wild wasteland which the boys called Antarctica.
    Now, a plane  isn't like a  carrot: you can't  grow it on  a vegetable
plot. And even if  you were to save  your ice-cream money for  the rest of
your life, you  still wouldn't have  enough to buy  one in a  shop. That's
why  Anton  went  to  his  Dad's  cupboard  and dragged out some rolled-up
drafts.
    Anton's  Dad,  Ivan  Topolkov  ran  an  aircraft  model  group  at the
Pioneer's Club.   He sometimes  tried to  explain to  his small  son  what
ailerons,  undercarriages  and  fuselages  were  but  so far Anton had not
taken much interest in planes. Now, however, he had no choice.
    He selected the draft of the most attractive model but it was still  a
model and not  a real plane  and so he  carefully added a  naught in black
ink to all the figures signifying dimensions. For instance, the wings  now
spanned  ten  meters  instead  of  one  and  the  fuselage was six hundred
centimetres long  instead of  sixty.   Then he  carefully drew see-through
hood over the cabin.
    It's, of course, awful to deceive, Anton knew that perfectly well  but
what else could he  do? Besides, he considered  he had also been  deceived
when they did not write and tell him about his friends leaving.
    Anton's father was away on business  and the group was being run  by a
monitor  whose  name  was  Senya  Lapochkin  and who was seventeen. And so
Anton  brought  the  draft  to  the  Pioneer's  Club and handed it over to
Senya.
    "Here... Dad said you're to start building it while he's away."
    Senya unrolled the sheet of paper  and whistled, "Why, this is a  huge
plane, not a model. Why make it so big?"
    "Don't  known..."  Anton  shrugged  his  shoulders and blushed. It was
horrible lying, especially as  he liked Senya. But  what could he do?   "I
don't know exactly... I think Dad said the plane's going to be carried  at
the front of the column during the sports parade."
    "Huh..."  said  Senya.  "What  an  original  venture.  Only  I   don't
understand why it's got a real engine."
    "Well, probably so that the propeller should turn like a real one."
    "It's got a cabin, too. And even two seats..."
    "Oh, well..." replied  Anton, going even  redder, "that's because  Dad
promised to put me inside it during the parade."
    Senya scratched the back of his  head and adjusted the glasses on  his
long nose.
   "Well, then... Boys! Have  a look at the  order we've been given!  Will
we cope?"
    The boys, tall  and serious teenagers,  gathered round to  have a look
and said they would.

    They built the plane outside in the yard because if they had built  it
indoors, they would not have been able to get it through a window or  door
afterwards and the director of the Pioneers' Club would certainly not  let
them knock down a wall. Anton hovered nearby all the time and watched  how
the  work  was  progressing  and  in  bed  at  night dreamed of flying and
meeting his friends. Before going to  sleep, he would stick his nose  into
his  pillow  and  whisper,  "Good  night,  Tima,  good night, Arkady; good
night, Danilka. Don't worry. I'll soon fly over and get you..."
    The plane's body and wings were assembled from laths and covered  with
silver film. Its engine and wheels  had been taken from an old  motorbike.
When the propeller was  tested for the first  time, a rustling wind  raced
round the yard and the plane rose slightly on its springy undercarriage.
    "I  hope  it  doesn't  take  off,"  said Senya and Anton's heart began
pounding.
    Anton's father came  home just before  the sports parade.  He was very
surprised when  he caught  sight of  the silver  plane in  the yard of the
Pioneers' Club.  The boys  showed him  the draft.  Anton's naughts were so
neat that  his father  did not  suspect anything  and decided  that he had
muddled  up  the  figures  himself.   He  cursed  himself  for  being   so
absent-minded but did  not get upset.  After all, why  shouldn't they take
their wonderful creation to the parade and surprise the whole town!
    Meanwhile  Anton  was  getting  terribly  nervous  at the prospect of
flying. Don't imagine he was afraid, though! He was afraid of not  getting
off the ground. You see, his  only chance would be during the  parade when
the column came out into the square. He could not very well take off  from
the yard because of all the fences around and wires in the air.
    However, on the morning of the  parade, Anton grit his teeth and  told
himself not to be nervous for he  realised that if he was, he would  spoil
everything.
    The plane was so  light that it was  lifted and carried along  by only
twelve  people  who  were,  to  be  sure,  strapping  lads from the senior
classes.
    Anton swayed to  and fro in  the seat and  touched accelerator. Before
they set off, Senya had said him,  "When we get near the square, push  the
lever but only gently just so that the propeller should start spinning."
    Large  brightly-coloured  flags  were  fluttering  in  the wind, shiny
trumpets were blaring  and drums beating.  The square drew  nearer all the
time.
    Anton stepped on  the pedals, placed  his right palm  over the control
lever and the  left one over  the accelerator.   He felt frightened  for a
second, but  as soon  as he  imagined how  surprised and  happy Arkady and
Tima would be and how Danilka would roar with laughter when he arrived  in
his plane  his fear  vanished. He  lowered the  cabin's see-through  hood.
The houses parted and  an empty space stretched  out ahead. He pushed  the
lever slightly.
    The propeller  jerked and  began whirring  like a  large fan. "Go on,"
Anton  ordered  himself  and  pushed  the  lever slightly again. The plane
began to shudder.
    "Hey!" someone shouted below. "Cut it out!"
    "Now!" said Anton and pressed it harder.
    The  plane  rushed  forwards,  cutting  off  a large bunch of balloons
above the column with a tip of its wing and flew low over people's  heads.
Anton pulled the  control lever towards  him and the  square began quickly
and smoothly to recede.  He did not hear  people shouting, of course,  and
only saw them waving  their arms. They had  most likely decide the  flight
had been specially arranged for the parade.
    "I  won't  half  catch  it  at  home,"  Anton  thought  in a flash but
instantly put it out of his mind.
    A splendid dark-blue  sky swept open  above. The earth  had grown vast
and lost its  edges in far-off  mists. Somewhere to  the north beyond  the
mists lay  Blue Hills  and Anton  turned his  plane towards  them. He  did
everything just as he had read  in the flying handbooks and the  plane was
responding and being as meek as a lamb.
    "That's it, my little dragonfly..." Anton said to it.
    The plane flew  over the north  edge of Kolokoltsev,  and Anton caught
sight of his house, his school  and the pond where some boys  were fishing
for perch, and the museum's white tower and the old clock. And beyond  the
last street stretched the green field of Antarctica.
    And then all of a sudden the engine failed.
    It  grew  quieter  and  quieter  and  the propeller began turning more
slowly as  if someone  in front  of the  cockpit was  waving his  arms and
asking for help. The  fuel tank had run  dry for, you see,  nobody had got
the plane ready for a long flight and Anton not thought of this either.
    The plane's nose dipped and plunged downwards.
    Anton was not  afraid or, rather,  he was not  afraid of crashing  but
afraid that the plane would be taken away from him and he would never  fly
to his friends.
    He landed  his obedient  plane on  the wasteland  with relative  ease.
The  weeds  began  rustling  under  its  wings  and it grew very quiet. He
rested his  forehead against  the cold  instrument panel  and stayed still
for a long time. Then he heard shouts.
    People  were  shouting  in  alarm  as  they  hurried towards the plane
through  Antarctica's  tall  weeds.   Among  them  was Anton's father, the
manager of  the Pioneers'  Club and  the head  mistress of Anton's school,
Vera  Severyanovna.   A  policeman  was  running  ahead  of them blowing a
whistle.
    Anton climbed  out of  the cockpit,  hung his  head and  waited to  be
scolded and punished.
    "You wicked boy," said his father breathlessly. "You almost gave me  a
heart attack."
    And this was true.
    "Oh, everyone  knows Topolkov  here. He's  the worst  behaved pupil of
the Form Three B," declared Vera Severyanovna in a menacing tone.
    But this was not true.
    The policeman started getting  his pad and pen  out of his bag  and it
was all very unpleasant.
    Then all of a sudden a  tall, stern-looking man in a blue  uniform and
white  peaked  cap  appeared  (Anton  never  understood how he got there),
carefully drew  Anton by  the elbow  towards him  and said quietly, "Would
you all please be so  kind as to calm down  and leave the boy alone.  He's
under Fairy-Tale's protection."


    "And then  what happened?"  asked Alex  because the  Pilot had  fallen
silent.
    "Then  the  man  took  me  into  a  large room containing all sorts of
equipment with walls lined  with various maps. He  sat me down in  a chair
and asked if  I'd like an  apple. I thought  for a moment  and then said I
would because, you see, I really did feel like one. And as I was  munching
it, he said,  "We've got a  very serious problem,  Anton. A little  girl's
fallen ill  and she  may even  die. She  was on  her own  at home  and ate
something she  shouldn't have  but what  it was  exactly, nobody knows and
the doctor can't  understand what he  should treat her  for. We've got  to
help.'
    "I, of course, kept silent because  I'm not a doctor, after all.   But
then he again said, "There was a furry toy monkey with the little girl  at
the time and it saw everything but,  you see, it can't speak.  Get  what I
mean?'
    "But I hadn't understood  a word.  He  began explaining that far  away
in the north-west there  was a magic forest  and a wizard lived  there who
could speak to toys. He asked me  if I could fly the monkey there  so that
the wizard could have a word with it."
    "Can you?"  the man  asked Anton  and looked  him gravely  in the eye.
"You're not afraid?"
    Anton was not afraid of flying  and was not very afraid of  the wizard
either.
    "Are there no grown-up pilots?" he simply asked in surprise.
    The man  grinned and  said, "You  see, in  order to  fly to  the magic
forest, you've first got to  believe that it actually exists.  No grown-up
pilots believe in fairy-tales."
    "Do you think I do?" asked Anton.
    "I know you do. Otherwise you and your friends wouldn't have  invented
your Antarctica."
    "All right, agreed  Anton. After all,  if the little  girl did die  no
fairy-tales would be of any use.
    He  put  the  one-eyed  toy  monkey  on  the back seat. Some mechanics
filled the fuel tank and he set off on his second flight.

    "Did you find the wizard?" asked Alex.
    "I didn't  even need  to. The  monkey started  speaking to  me in  the
plane."
    "Really?!"
    "Yes.  It  said  the  little  girl  had swallowed two tubes of shaving
cream and one of its glass eyes."
    "Did she get well?"
    "Of course. Only then I had to fly to Black Lake straightaway  because
a hole had appeared in the  mermaids' underwater school and they needed  a
diver."
    "Well, and what are mermaids like?.." asked Alex nervously.
    "Just like all little  girls - giggly and  silly. Even worse then  Red
Riding Hoods."
    "Did they tickle you?"
    "Gosh, if they'd tried! I took a big stick along just in case..."
    "And then what happened?" asked Alex.
    "Well, the  Chief Controller  registered me  as one  of his pilots and
said I'd be  flying on Special  Missions because I  already had experience
and my plane was  very reliable... I was  issued a map-case and  a uniform
but I  don't like  wearing it  because it's  made of  very coarse  prickly
cloth and its collar rubs my neck like a grater..."
    "Are you pleased you became a pilot?"
    Anton  shrugged  his  shoulders  and   then  replied  with  a   smile,
"Sometimes I am and sometimes I'm not... Once we were having a maths  test
and I  was really  stuck. Then  all of  a sudden  someone called round the
door that the headmaster wanted to  see me! The Chief Controller had  sent
a parcel I  was to deliver  at once. What  a stroke of  luck it was!  Vera
Severyanovna was really furious about it, though."
    "You mean you fly all year round and not just in summer?"
    "That's  right...  But  when  you  fly  into a Fairy-Tale, it's almost
always  summer  there.  That's  why  I'm  so  tanned." The Pilot burst out
laughing and jumped up.
    "Hang on!" said Alex cautiously. "You've forgotten the most  important
part! Did you fly to your friends?"
    Anton stopped laughing and said, "Yes, I did..."


                               Chapter Ten

    It happened like this.
    He flew to Blue Hills and found Arkady.
    "Golly! Anton!" Arkady cried, his  round face lighting up in  a smile.
"Have you come for good or are you just visiting?"
    "I've come for you," said Anton. "Let's fly to the others. I've got  a
plane. Yes, a real plane, honest!"
    Arkady did not seem very surprised.
    "But where did you  get it from? Built  it at the Pioneers's  Club? In
our engineering  group we  make robots,  you know.  I'll show  you, if you
like."
    "Another time,"  said Anton.  "Arkady... Well,  come on,  let's fly to
Carroty and Tima right away!"
    Arkady sighed again and said, "You see, I've got an engineering  group
at two."
    "Arkady..." said Anton quietly. "But what about Antarctica?"
    Arkady sighed again and glanced at his watch.
    "You know what?  Fly to Timka  first, arrange everything  with him and
then fly back for me."
    "Well, all right..." said Anton.

    Timka  was  playing  the  violin.   The  music  was coming through the
window and you could tell how well he played from a long way off.
    He caught  sight of  Anton in  the doorway,  lowered his  bow and said
quietly, "Anton... is it really you?"
    "Do you  want to  go back  to Antarctica?"  asked Anton.  "I've got  a
plane. Honest, I have."
    Timka looked at him and then at the violin.
    "But can  I take  it with  me? Nothing  will happen  to it on the way,
will it?"
    "We'll  wrap  it  up  and,  anyway,  I'll fly ever so carefully," said
Anton.
    And then Tima's famous father came  in and said, "Anton, can I  have a
heart-to-heart talk with you as one man to another?"
    "Of course, Uncle Vic," replied Anton.
    They went  out into  the corridor.  Uncle Vic  nervously adjusted  the
braces over  his round  stomach and  said, "The  thing is...  I know  what
friendship's  all  about,  too.  I  know  all  about  favourite places and
favourite games and  so on... But  Tima's really got  into music and  he's
doing so well. He's already played in a real concert. He can't play  games
now because he has to practise every day."
    Anton felt like bursting into tears but checking himself, said,  "Well
in that case..."
    "We'll always be happy to see you!" Tima's father called after him.

    Anton landed his plane in a meadow behind some vegetable plots,  asked
a group of boys the way and went straight to Carroty's house.
    Carroty  was  sitting  on  the  porch  and  moulding  a  wonderful big
crocodile out of clay.  Before Anton had time  to say anything, he  got up
and turned round quickly.  Then he smiled very  slightly but his eyes  and
even freckles sparkled with joy.
    "Well," he said. "I told everyone  so. I knew you'd come, I  promise I
did. Even  Mum didn't  believe me  but I  just knew  it... How did you get
here?"
    "By  plane...  Yes,  really!  I'm  not  joking, Carroty. I've a little
plane. Let's fly to Antarctica!"
    Carroty went on smiling but the shine vanished from his eyes.
    "I can't," he said. "I won't be allowed to."
    "But it's completely safe!"
    "That's not the point. My doctor  won't let me.  It seems,  there's...
well, something's  wrong with  my heart...  That's why  we moved  into the
country.   It's quieter  here.   I'm not  even allowed  to run,  and so  I
certainly should not fly. If I disobey doctor's orders, I'll have to  have
an operation. I'm not afraid of that, but Mum's terribly worried."
    What  could  you  say  to  that?  If  your  heart  stops,  not  even a
fairy-tale will help you.  So trying as hard  as he could to  smile, Anton
said, "Don't you worry. I'll come and see you often..."

    And so every now and then he flew to see Carroty, Arkady and Tima  and
they were all  pleased to see  him. But in  their new homes  they made new
friends who were  always close by,  while Anton could  not stay with  them
for long because of his Special Missions.
    "... And that's  now it's been  for a whole  year now," he  told Alex.
"Visiting enchanting forests and magic kingdoms..."
    "Well it's interesting, isn't it?"
    "Yes,  sometimes  it  is  and  sometimes  it's even frightening and at
others it's fun... But it still makes no difference..."
    "What doesn't?"
    "Well, you  see... who  wants magic  countries when  you're alone. You
get bored all by yourself."
    "How can you say you're alone?" objected Alex. "After all, you  always
carry a passenger."
    "Well, what of it?  My passenger leaves me  as soon as he  gets to his
destination. Everyone has his own fairy-tale and his own way to go. I  fly
in other people's fairy-tales but don't  seem to have one of my  own. It's
come to an end."
    "Do you really think it has?"
    "Of course,  it has.  Antarctica no  longer exists  because I couldn't
get my  friends together...  And, you  know, the  best fairy-tale's  about
finding a friend."
    "That's true," said Alex.  "You know what, Pilot?  What you need is  a
co-pilot."
    "No, I don't," said the Pilot. "He'd  be of no use. I'd need a  second
seat for  him but  where would  I put  my passenger  then? Now,  if I  had
someone near me like Carroty... or Tima. Well, someone who could sit  near
me or  even share  the same  seat, we'd  never feel  cramped. What matters
most is being together..."
    "I understand," said Alex.
    And he really did but the sun  was already sinking and he had his  own
fairy-tale and his own  way to go. To  remind the Pilot of  this, he asked
cautiously, "Will I be flying back with you?"
    "No,  you'll  go  back  by  train,"  said the Pilot. "That's the rule.
It'll be simpler and easier that way, you'll see... Well, let's be off."
    They flew until the  sun dipped below the  horizon. The sky was  still
bright, but the earth became plunged in twilight.
    The Pilot landed  his plane in  a large field  and Alex jumped  out of
the cabin.  The grass  was soft  and springy.  There was  a smell  of warm
earth, grass juice and, for some reason or rather, milk.
    A pale yellow sunset  gleamed over the tops  of the grass in  the west
and a  half moon  was floating  in a  green strip  of sky  just above  the
sunset. It  was very  bright and  porous and  seemed to  smell just like a
fresh  loaf.  And  above  this  loaf-moon  the  lilac sky was studded with
stars.
    The Pilot jumped out and stood next to Alex.
    "Well, here  we are,"  he said  quietly. "Now  we've really arrived...
Go straight  towards the  sunset. First  you'll walk  over some  grass and
then you'll come to a path and  then a road. Keep going until you  see the
town. It's not far."
    "Thank you, Anton," said Alex.  For some reason he was  feeling rather
guilty and did not dare look  into Anton's face. However, when he  finally
did, he saw tiny half moons reflected like gold dots in Anton's eyes.
    "Good-bye," he said quietly and  took Anton's firm, warm palm  between
his own.
    "Good-bye..." said the Pilot, looking down.
    It did  not seem  right just  to go  off, and  Alex sighed  and asked,
"Will you fly back now?"
    The  Pilot  shook  his  head  and  replied,  "No,  I'll  sit here till
morning."
    He moved away from the plane, sat down by its small wheel, and  leaned
his back against its soft tyre.
    "Why?" asked Alex anxiously.
    "Well, no reason. Someone may  suddenly come along. Some passenger  or
other."
    "But the Controller will lose track of you."
    "No, he won't, he's used to me. And I don't like flying alone."
    "Anton..." Alex said hesitantly. "You  mean, there's no way I  can fly
back with you?"
    "No. You see, we mustn't take risks. Your journey with the Green  Pass
on this  plane is  over. If  you fly  again, we'll  get bogged down in all
sorts of business and  be sent heaven knows  where for a week,  a month or
perhaps even forever. And you haven't  the time.  You've got your  own way
to go.
    "Yes," said Alex, straightening up. He came to his senses and said  in
a resolute tone, "I'll go now."
    "Of course. It's time you did," said the Pilot.
    But Alex  still hesitated  and asked,  "And you  don't mind being left
here alone? It's night-time after all..."
    "Of course not,"  replied the Pilot.  "Nothing will happen  to me. I'm
under Fairy-Tale's protection."
    "Well, that  may be  so but  it's  still cold  at night," grumbled
Alex. "Here, take my jacket. It's warm and tough."
    "No, you mustn't! You'll get into trouble at home."
    "No, I won't at all, don't worry!"
    Alex took his jacket off and threw it to the Pilot who was sitting  in
a huddle. The jacket completely covered him from shoulder to toe.
    "Thanks," said the Pilot. "Well, off  you go now. It'll soon be  pitch
dark."
    He  stretched  his  hand  out  from  under  the jacket. Alex shook his
little hand again, turned and  walked across the dark rustling  grass. And
when he turned round, neither the  Pilot nor his plane could be  seen over
the grass.


                             Chapter Eleven

    Sure  enough,  after  a  short  while  Alex  came to a path and then a
country lane  leading straight  towards the  sunset where  the outlines of
black roofs and towers stood out against a yellow strip of sunset.
    "If only I could get there before the museum closed," thought Alex.
    And then a black cat crossed his path.
                    (In Russian folklore a black cat crossing your path
                     is supposed to bring bad luck. - Tr. remark)
    It was a large cat and, unlike  others of its kind, it was walking  on
its hind legs with its front paws  behind its back as if deep in  thought.
Its head was inclined and its tail shaped like a question mark.
    Generally speaking, Alex was not  at all superstitious, but this  time
he stopped and spat over his shoulder.
    The cat stopped, too, and glancing over its shoulder at Alex, said  in
a sharp shrill voice, "Lord, how sick I am of the lot of you!"
    "Who do you mean?" asked Alex taken aback.
    "Everyone," said the cat firmly.  "Everyone who spits and swears  when
he sees me."
    Alex became totally confused.
    "I spat for no particular reason,"  he muttered. "What's it got to  do
with you?"
    But the cat didn't believe him.
    "I wish you were  in my skin," he  said in an offended  tone. "Yes, in
this black furry skin of mine. Then you'd find out what it was like..."
    The cat suddenly sat down on the roadside, scratched his ear with  his
hind paw and went on in a calmer tone, "Wherever you go, there are  always
roads,  streets,  pavements,  paths,  alleys  and staircases. And there're
people everywhere too.  Wherever you go,  you're bound to  cross someone's
path.   And  all  of  them  hiss  at  you  like  snakes...  It was only in
Vetrogorsk that I got some peace and quiet."
    "Did you? How come?"
    "I spent a whole  week there in an  empty barrel on the  shore. Lovely
town it is. Nobody gets on your back. Not even the dogs pester you."
    "Why did you leave, then?" asked Alex in surprise.
    The cat sighed sadly.
    "I couldn't  find the  right cobbler's  there... I  want to order some
boots but nobody wants  to make them because  they say they haven't  small
enough  boot-trees...  I  went  to  a  puppet workshop but they don't make
boots there either. Only shoes and slippers of every shape and size.  They
even make sandals. But  what good are they  to me? It's boots  I need: red
ones with tops."
    "What do you need boots for?" asked Alex in surprise.
    I was now the cat's turn to be surprised.
    "Can't you read and write, then?" he asked. "Don't you know the  story
of Puss in Boots? They've even made a film of it."
    "Yes, I know it," replied Alex  in a rather offended tone. "But  it's
not about just  any cat. Do  you reckon that  if you put  boots on, you'll
automatically became Puss in Boots?
    Alex  thought  that  the  cat  would  get  angry,  but he thoughtfully
scratched his ear again  and said, "Well... He  was an ordinary cat,  too,
before he got hold of his boots. He was no better than any other cat.  The
whole thing is  that a cat  is noticed when  he's walking about  in boots.
They give him prestige and help him find his Marquis Carabas."
    "You mean,  you're looking  for a  marquis?" asked  Alex in a slightly
mocking tone.
    The cat sighed deeply and gloomily.
    "Not necessarily  a marquis  but, to  tell the  truth, anyone  at all.
Just so as not to wander about on my own any more."
    "Poor  thing,"  thought  Alex.  "He's  unhappy  although he lives in a
fairy-tale land and knows how to talk."
    As if reading his thoughts, the  cat looked at him with doleful  green
eyes and asked, "Do  you need a companion?  I know everywhere around  here.
And we can have a wonderful adventures together."
    Of  course,  it  would  have  been  fantastic  to  go back home with a
talking cat but Alex remembered that his mother was away and Auntie  Dasha
hates cats. But why not introduce the cat to Sofia Alexandrovna?
    "No," thought Alex. "He's too independent. He won't get on there  with
her Kuzya and Roly-Poly."
    "The thing is..." he began embarrassedly.
    "Yes, I  understand," interrupted  the cat.  "Everyone has  worries of
his own. I don't mind. It just gets my back up when people start  spitting
after me. How can I go anywhere? I can't fly through the air, can I?"
    "Through  the  air?"  repeated  Alex,  cheering  up  at  an  idea that
suddenly  flashed  through  his  mind.   "Listen,  puss!   Just keep going
straight and you'll come to a plane in the grass and a boy sitting by  it.
He's not just a  boy, but also a  pilot and he gets  terribly bored flying
by himself.   If you  tell him  you're looking  for a  companion, he'll be
really pleased."
    "You  think  so?"  asked  the  cat  and even quivered with excitement.
"Will he take me?"
    "Yes,  I  think  so.  After  all,  you're  small  enough not to need a
separate seat."
    "Of course! I can curl up into a tiny ball! Thanks! I'm off!"
    The cat went down on all fours, swished its tail and streaked  through
the grass like black lightning. The  next moment he vanished and only  the
tops of the grass swayed after him.
    Alex looked after it and then began walking towards Vetrogorsk. For  a
few minutes  he felt  annoyed with  himself as  if he  had done  something
wrong. But then he began thinking about the clipper and forgot  everything
else.


     Vetrogorsk began  with a  small avenue  lined with  great knotty elms
and oaks. You could hardly see the houses in the shadows. The lights  from
the windows of  the small turrets  and upper storeys  filtered through the
leaves  onto  the  cobblestones,  which  gleamed  like  the  scales  of an
enormous fish. Night  had already descended  and the sky  was a very  dark
blue.
    It  turned  out  to  be  a  long  street running up and down overgrown
slopes,  under  flickering  lights  and  over  little hunch-backed bridges
beneath which water babbled and frogs croaked.
    At last Alex came  out into a small  round square which was  lit up by
lamps.  In  its centre stood  a tall white  statue of a  fisherman tightly
gripping the fragment of an oar in one hand and carrying a huge fish  like
a  shark  on  his  shoulder.   All  the  surrounding houses had balconies,
galleries and  small stairways.   A small  tram with  laughing  passengers
clanked and vanished into the dark slit of a side-street.
    A vaguely familiar  salty smell was  coming from the  side-streets. At
regular intervals yellow  gleams of light  flickered on and  off the stone
fisherman's  sou'wester  and  light  walls  of  the  upper  storeys.  Alex
realised it was the light of a lighthouse and the smell of the sea.
    He looked round  for someone who  could tell him  the way to  the Ship
Museum but there were not many  people about. Then he heard some  cheerful
sounds behind him and was surrounded by a crowd of little boys.
    He was startled  at first but  then realised there  was nothing to  be
afraid of as the boys looked very friendly. A tall, slim, dark-haired  boy
said to Alex  as if he  knew him, "Come  with us! We're  going to look for
Steve  the  talking  dolphin  because  he  knows  where  the  old  steamer
'Vesuvius' sank with all the New-Year's tree decorations on board.   We've
been told Steve's spending the night in Yellow Bay.  Come on!  It just  so
happens we need one more man in our crew."
    "Never mind  that! You're  welcome anyway!"  chimed in  a round-headed
little lad in very long baggy trousers and striped tee-shirt.
    He had large freckles and  two teeth missing. "Come on,"  he repeated.
"Steve will give us a ride. He's as fast as a rocket!"
    He lisped and so  it sounded more like:  "Steve will gith uth  a ride.
He'th ath fatht ath a rocket!"
    The others  started laughing  but not  at all  spitefully and then the
tall boy spoke up  again, "It's such a  wonderful evening, we're bound  to
have some kind of adventure."
    Many of the boys  were carrying oars and  two had a long  pole wrapped
in tarpaulin on their shoulders. Alex guessed it was a sail.
    "No, I can't," he said. "Thanks  but I really can't, honest. I've  got
some important business and hardly any time to spare."
    They looked disappointed but not  offended, and the little lad  in the
stripped shirt said, "That'th a terrible shame."
    Alex asked the boys how to get to the Ship Museum and they  explained:
"First go down that  side-street, then across a  large park and through  a
hole in the hedge and you'll see it straight ahead."
    The park  was like  a magic  forest and  the path  was overgrown  with
creepers. Bats flitted  through the air  and green lights  were glimmering
over the lawns like swarms  of butterflies. Alex glimpsed a  little yellow
latticed window for  a moment. Someone  was striding after  him. Every now
and then branches crackled around him.  Suddenly two shots rang out and  a
voice shouted out cheerfully, "Missed,  Crooked Shark! Now it's my  turn!"
Then a little bell tinkled.
    Several times Alex  was hailed: "Hey,  you boy, stop!  Do you want  to
come with us?"  But he kept  going and said  nothing in reply  for he felt
that if he looked  round, he was bound  to be distracted from  his goal by
some adventure or other.
    At last he  got to the  hedge, found the  hole and crawled  out onto a
stone pavement.
    He spotted  the museum  at once.  It was  an old  mansion which looked
like a large church except it did not have domes. A real ship's mast  with
little lights  loomed over  its facade.  Lights were  on inside the museum
too.
    Alex ran across the street and onto its porch.
    It had very tall oak doors  with wooden carvings of sailing ships  and
bronze door handles shaped like crossed anchors.
    Alex was  sure the  doors would  be locked  but still  took hold  of a
bronze anchor and pulled.   The door moved heavily  and soundlessly and  a
narrow strip of light fell on the porch.
    "They must have forgotten to lock up," thought Alex.
    What should  he do  now? After  all, he  had not  come all this way by
ship and plane just to give up at the last moment.
    He opened the door wider, slipped  inside and found himself in a  hall
dimly lit by a large patterned  lanterns, which, he guessed at once,  came
from old ships. To the right against a wall lay a huge black anchor and  a
grey puppy was fast  asleep by its massive  base.  Its ear  kept twitching
but it did not wake up.
    To the left a semi-circular  staircase led up into the  darkness above
the lanterns. Sea ropes ran up its sides instead of banisters. They  were
almost as thick as Alex and sagged heavily.
    A white sculpture was gleaming by  the staircase.  Alex went up  to it
and saw it was a plaster-cast of a  boy on a grey rock. You could tell  he
had just  scrambled out  of the  sea for  he was  kneeling on one knee and
holding a bottle he had fished out of the waves. It was a real bottle  and
through its bumpy greenish glass  he could see a little  three-masted ship
inside.
    The boy  was staring  thoughtfully at  the bottle,  perhaps trying  to
guess how the tiny  frigate had got inside  or, perhaps, on the  contrary,
wondering how  he could  get it  out without  breaking the  mysterious old
bottle.
    "He was hunting  after a little  ship, too," thought  Alex. "Just like
me." But the boy did not look like Alex. If anything, he looked more  like
the little Pilot.
    Alex  started  climbing  the  staircase.   Vast  ship flags from every
country and age were hanging above  it and one gently brushed against  his
shoulder.
    It became lighter further up.  The stairway curved round smoothly  and
led Alex  into a  high-ceilinged hall  whose walls  were hung  with sombre
paintings with white sails gleaming dimly in tarnished gold frames.
    And the walls beneath them were lined with brown oak  steering-wheels,
huge bronze compasses on lacquered  stands and piles of ring-buoys  marked
with Russian and foreign lettering.
    In a pier between two narrow  latticed windows Alex caught sight of  a
glass-case containing bottles  of all sorts  of colours, shapes  and sizes
with coloured wax in  their necks.  Lying  next to them were  semi-decayed
crinkled scraps of paper and rags with very faint letters on them.   These
bottles had evidently been fished out  of the sea and the messages  inside
them, of course, described shipwrecks and treasures.
    Over the  glass-case hung  a mighty  copper bell  from a  sailing ship
with the prominent letters "Azimut" written along its rim.
    Then Alex  caught sight  of a  mermaid (and  even started with fright)
but she turned  out to be  made of wood.  In days of  yore she had adorned
the prow  of a  large clipper  but was  now nestling  in a  corner of  the
museum hall  between a  case of  thick books  about the  sea and  a bronze
ship's cannon.
    All  in  all  it  was  very  fascinating  but for the deep silence all
around, and  Alex almost  jumped when  he heard  a pattering  sound behind
him.
    It was the puppy which had been asleep beside the anchor. It gazed  up
at Alex and began wagging its comma-like tail. Alex was delighted  because
two is always company  and it was very  eerie in the empty  museum and, to
tell the truth, rather frightening.
    He walked into another room where it was not so quiet because  ticking
sounds were  coming from  everywhere -  some quiet  like buzzing  insects,
others loud like thudding hammers and others still resonant like  twanging
springs. Some ticked fast  and other slow, and  all the sounds were  mixed
together. There were clocks everywhere - on the walls, in glass-cases  and
on the window-sills; large  clocks from mess-room and  admirals' quarters;
navigators' small chronometers; bronze, china, cast-iron and ivory  clocks
and   clocks   shaped   like   ships,   lighthouses,  steering-wheels  and
life-buoys...
    Shiny  brass  telescopes  and  strange-looking instruments lay between
faded yellow maps in glass-cases.
    "I wonder where the ship models are?" thought Alex.
    He  walked  round  a  huge  globe  girded  with bronze rings and found
himself in another room. The puppy kept close at his heels.
    There were no models  here either. The walls  were hung with guns  and
standing and grinning  in the corner  was a jolly  pirate. No, not  a real
one. He was  dressed in a  long green jacket,  brown boots with  tops, and
the ends  of a  brightly-coloured scarf  were sticking  out from under his
tattered cocked hat. Hilts of knives  and pistols were jutting out of  his
belt, as befitted a  pirate, and in his  hand he was clutching  a yataghan
which looked like a curved hack-saw.
    The pirate's  face was,  well, very  pirate-like, although  it was, in
fact, grinning.
    "I wouldn't like to meet him in a dark street..." thought Alex.
    The puppy evidently didn't take a  liking to the pirate either for  it
crouched on  its front  paws, growled  ineffectively and  suddenly started
barking so loudly that echoes rang out all over the building.
    "Be quiet, you daft thing!" ordered Alex in fright.
    The puppy stopped yapping and gave him a crafty look.
    There was a sound of steps.
    "Well," thought Alex, "Now I'm really going to get into trouble."
    An inconspicuous door opened in the  far corner, and in strode a  tall
man in a dark blue jacket with naval buttons.
    "Well, now he's going to give me an earful..." thought Alex again.
    "So we have a  visitor!" said the man.  "A guest at such  a late hour.
You obviously like the museum very much?"
    "Yes, I  do..." replied  Alex hesitantly.  "Only I  haven't had a very
good look round yet. I'm here on business."
    "Really! Important business?"
    "Yes."
    "Well, tell me about it."
    "So you... you work here, do you?"
    "I'm the Museum's Curator."


                             Chapter Twelve

    Why hadn't Alex guessed who he was at once?
    It was because he had imagined the Curator as being old,  grey-haired,
important-looking and bearded.  This man, however, was still quite  young,
trim and lean, and looked like  the P.T. teacher from Alex's school,  only
slightly taller.
    And he had wonderful  eyes. Even in the  dim light you could  see that
he had very  light eyes like  sea-water pierced with  the sun's rays.  And
they did not look at all stern. Alex stopped feeling nervous.
    "So you're  here on  important business,  are you?"  the Curator asked
again.
    "Yes... Is it really true that  all the models of ships that  get lost
find their way to you?"
    The Curator nodded.
    "Yes, it is.  But that's only  true of the  good ones if  they've been
lovingly made. The bad ones perish on the way."
    Alex glanced round and said,  "I've looked everywhere but I  can't see
a single little ship here..."
    "No, they're not here. Come with me."
    The Curator took Alex's hand and led the way.
    Through the small  door was a  spiral staircase with  a bronze railing
and resounding  iron steps  which led  down into  what seemed  like a deep
round well. Alex even became dizzy as they walked down it.
    At the bottom  they came to  a semi-circular door.  The Curator heaved
it open with his shoulder and told him to go in.
    Alex found himself in a large underground chamber with mighty  pillars
and a vaulted ceiling which contained a dazzling treasure trove of  ships.
His  eyes  first  fell  on  some  huge  models  of  frigates,  as large as
rowing-boats.  Their  masts, three metres  high, almost touched  the large
ships' lanterns  hanging on  chains from  the stone  vaults.  Further away
were  tables  and  glass-cases  containing  smaller models of brigantines,
galleons, narrow streamlined cruisers and destroyers.  Shiny white  liners
and trading  ships gleamed  through the  cobweb-like rigging  of schooners
and caravels. A pencil-lenght submarine  was standing next to a  corvette,
one and a half  metres long.  An  atomic ice-breaker's mighty body  loomed
among blue-glass  hummocks of  ice, and  blazing behind  it was the winged
sail of a Malayan catamaran...
    "There must  be at  least a  thousand of  them here,"  said Alex  in a
whisper. "I never dreamed there could be so many in the world."
    "There're many more in the world," replied the Curator.  "But here  we
have the best examples of miniature fleet."
    They walked slowly  past the glass-cases,  tables and shelves  housing
models. Their steps and voices were muffled by the porous stone walls.
    "Miniature ships  have existed  as long  as real  ones have," said the
Curator slowly.  "After  hollowing out the very  first boat in the  world,
man immediately set about making a  miniature copy of it. Perhaps he  hung
it over his hearth to appease the spirits or gave it to his child to  play
with. Who knows...  These tiny boats  are now found  in ancient caves  and
burial mounds... Then  people built galleys  and caravels, and  along with
the large sailing vessels appeared  others, only a hundred times  smaller.
The same's true of brigs and  clippers.  And next came steamers,  cruisers
and atomic ships... The old ships were demolished or wrecked in storms  or
battles, burned down  or were smashed  to pieces against  rocks. But their
little twins  survived... Ignorant  folk regard  them as  toys and nothing
but  a  complete  waste  of  time,  but they don't understand anything, my
friend...
    "These little ships  serve a great  purpose: they inspire  children to
dream of  far-off islands  and azure  coves, storms  and trade-winds. They
sometimes bring a smack of the sea  to places which have never felt a  sea
breeze. When a little boy picks  up a model ship, runs his  fingers across
its shrouds  and rocks  its light  beams, he  ceases to  be just a boy and
becomes a navigator of the future...
    "Little ships teach  people to be  brave. When sailors  look at models
of  old  frigates,  they  became  mindful  of  the  valour  shown by their
forebears in the past battles...
    "And these models are  a joy and consolation  to old sailors for  they
help them recall their  past voyages and moments  of glory and keep  their
maritime pride alive in their old hearts...
    "That's  how  it  is...  And  then  there's one other thing: models of
ships are supposed to be lucky.
    "You've no doubt heard of the custom of hanging little ships from  the
ceilings in seaport taverns. They're  meant to remind sailors who've  been
ashore  too  long  that  it's  time  to  be  getting back to sea. And they
reassure those who  are far away  from home that  a reliable, strong  ship
will carry them safety back home..."
    Alex listened without interrupting. It  was all very interesting.   He
thought about how  he could spend  a whole year  among these ships  in the
basement without ever getting  bored. But he could  not stay there a  year
because it was Masha's birthday the next day. And the little  three-masted
clipper with a walnut-coloured body  interested Alex more than the  entire
miniature fleet put together.
    The Curator  fell silent,  gazed attentively  at Alex  and then  said,
"I'm sorry, I got carried away. Now, why are you here?"
    Alex  sighed  and  said  hesitantly,  "Well,  you  know,  it's  a long
story..."
    The Curator seemed delighted, "Is it? How splendid! Then come on."
    He took  Alex into  a corner  which had  been partitioned  off by some
cupboards and made into a separate small room. It had an  ordinary-looking
lamp  standing  on  an  ordinary-looking  table,  a  chair  and  a  narrow
leatherette sofa  which had  most likely  been taken  from a ship's cabin.
Alex noticed an electric stove and an enamel kettle on the table.
    The Curator plugged the stove in,  put the kettle on, sat down  on the
sofa and invited Alex to join him.
    "Well, go ahead, I'm all ears..."
    But  Alex  did  not  know  how  to  begin.  Even  his  shoulders began
trembling with excitement, and the  Curator asked anxiously, "Do you  fell
cold? It's rather damp in here because the basement's below sea-level  and
the sea sometimes seeps through the  walls here and there. But there's  no
real harm in that. The sea's  moisture only does the ships good.  And I've
got used to it. But mind you don't catch a chill..."
    "Oh no," said Alex.
    And he  began telling  all about  Sofia Alexandrovna  and her hats and
cats and  about the  clipper and,  finally about  Masha. And  when he  had
finished, he found the Curator staring gravely and even sternly at him.
    "You mean, you want to give her the model as a present?" he asked.
    Alex nodded.
    "That's a  good idea...  But, you  know, you  can only  make a gift of
something that's yours. Something you've made yourself or, say, bought  or
earned. But is the clipper really yours?"
    "Well... After all, Sofia Alexandrovna did want to give it to me..."
    "She wanted to but she didn't..."
    "Yes, but  as it  was swept  away by  the rain,  it doesn't  belong to
anyone now. And I've come all this way looking for it."
    "But you haven't found it."
    "Isn't it here?
    "Yes, most likely,"  said the Curator.  "That's the whole  point: it's
here and not with you. It found its own way here."
    Alex kept  silent for  a while  because he  was afraid  he might start
crying in dismay. Then he  said quietly, "You've got thousands  of models.
I only need one. Surely you don't mind giving up one?"
    The Curator  shrugged his  shoulders and  said, "To  tell the truth, I
really do. But that's not the point. Our museum has strict regulations.  I
can't give the  model away if  the person can't  prove it belongs  to him.
Can you prove that it's yours by rights?"
    "Prove  it?  How?  I've  already  told  you  everything... No, wait...
there's one other thing."
    "What?"
    Alex  screwed  up  his  eyes  with  embarrassment and blurted out with
desperate determination, "I've written a poem about the clipper!"
    "A poem?"  repeated the  Curator, drumming  his fingers  on his knees.
"Poems are serious things. Well then, let's hear it."
    "I... right..."
    It was difficult  reciting sitting down  and so Alex  stood up, leaned
against the  cupboard, turned  his head  away and  began reciting huskily,
"Once upon a time  there lived an old  ship-wright... Well, that's how  it
starts. It's called 'Ballad about a Clipper'.

           Once upon a time there lived an old ship-wright,
           Who smoked a pipe and dreamed of the sea.
           And then one day he built a model ship -
           Tiny it was but as real as can be.
           Just like a frigate, a marvellous sight,
           With mizzens and bowsprit, all his labour.
           But the tired old ship-wright died one night,
           And the ship was left with his neighbour.

    Alex paused for breath and then began reciting more calmly:

           Well now, she did not treat it badly.
           And kept it dust-free and behind glass.
           But not once did the old lady dream
           Of a creaking helm or a squall's mighty blast.
           What did she care for seas, anchors and cannons?
           What did she care for the ocean's blue face?..
           A hoarse little cuckoo cried on the hour.
           And cockroaches ran over the glass-case...

    He  recalled  the  peeling  wall-paper,  tiny  windows,  and  chest of
drawers reeking of  mothballs in the  dark corner and  his voice resounded
with pity for the little ship:

           Surrounded by hats, all old and worn,
           Dusty plumes and felt, rotten and faded,
           How could the wonder ship not feel forlorn,
           The clipper once born of the wind and sea?
           What did it see on lonely dark nights,
           With its bowsprit turned to the blind window?
           Stubborn and desperate, was it waiting for the wind?
           Or calling to someone to rescue it?

           And the damp south-westerly roared
And the rainstorm lashed and seethed.
           Floods tore the small house from its roots,
           And at last the little ship was freed.
           It sailed away over golden dawns,
           Towards bright crimson sunsets inclined,
           May the fickle breezes keep it safe
           On its dangerous course to far-off climes...

    "That's all..." said Alex.  "So  far.  I haven't thought of  an ending
yet."
    The Curator sat in  silence for a while  and then snapped his  fingers
and got up slowly.
    "Well, Alex...  You still  don't know  how the  clipper's story  ends.
You'll finish the poem off later.  We won't argue any more. The  clipper's
yours."
    Confused and delighted, Alex was struck dumb. The Curator strode  over
to the table and touched the kettle.
    "It's warm enough. Let's have supper.  Then you can kip down here  for
the night and go home tomorrow morning."
    "But I may be late!"
    "Hardly. Come on, show me  your ticket... No, friend, you'll  never be
late with a ticket like this. Sit yourself down."
    Alex was very hungry, and ate  two buttered ham rolls and drank  three
cups of sweet tea. Then he felt desperately tired and the only thing  that
worried him now was the whereabouts of the little ship.
    The Curator  brought over  a camp-bed,  set it  up and  handed Alex  a
shaggy brown blanket.
    "Lie down. I'll be back in a jiffy..." he said and went out.
    Alex did  as he  was told.  Through a  tiny window  high above  him he
could see  two white  stars. The  air smelt  of the  sea and damp seashore
pebbles and  not at  all like  basements usually  smell. He  shut his eyes
tightly and at once imagined he was lying on some rocks right by the sea.
    "And the little ships most likely  think they're lying at anchor in  a
harbour," he thought.
    The Curator came back  carrying the model clipper  and put it down  on
the table. Alex smiled gratefully.
    "Look here," said  the Curator, "are  you really sure  it'll be better
off in Masha's  keeping than at  the museum? Here  it's among other  ships
and feels really at  home. Hundreds of boys  and sailors come here  during
the day-time. They'd get a lot  of pleasure from looking at it...  But are
you sure Masha will? Will she love it?"
    "Oh yes."
    "Are you sure you aren't mistaken?"
    "Yes, quite sure."
    "Well then, good night..."



                            Chapter Thirteen

    A  sunbeam  pounced  through  the  little  window  like a warm, fluffy
kitten and woke Alex up.
    The Curator was nowhere to be  seen. A ship's clock with a  bronze rim
was ticking away in a corner. Its small hand was pointed to seven.
    Alex jumped up.
    The  Curator  was  standing  on  the  table next to Alex's Green Pass.
"Good luck" had been written in bold red pencil on one of its corners.
    "Thanks," said Alex to himself.
    Half  a  loaf  of  bread  was  also  lying there and a warm kettle was
standing on the  stove. However, as  he did not  feel hungry, he  took the
clipper and  walked down  up the  long sloping  corridor and  out into the
street.
    The street, overcast with shadows, was  old and so narrow that only  a
dark-blue  crooked  slit  of  sky  was  visible above, and through it tiny
yellow clouds were racing past between pointed triangular roofs.
    "That means a wind's up," thought  Alex. "But how come the clouds  are
flying this way and that and heaven knows where?"
    There was also  a small wind  blowing along the  street. The clipper's
sails filled out, and it lunged ahead as if wanting to take wing but  Alex
carefully and firmly held onto it.
    After striding  past some  grey and  pink houses,  winged stone lions,
creaking tin signboards and old lamp-posts, he suddenly remembered he  had
not asked the Curator  the way to the  station. He did not  worry about it
though, so far the road itself had taken him the right way.
    The street wound on  and on and the  houses seemed without end...  And
then all  of a  sudden it  seemed to  Alex that  the blue  slit of sky had
dropped to the ground and split the town in two. It was the sea  sparkling
at the end of the street.
    Alex  started,  stood  still  for  a  moment  and then ran towards the
dazzling  blue  sea.   The  oncoming  wind  turned the little ship's sails
inside out and flattened them  against the masts. Alex thought  the street
was leading  him to  the shore  but when  the houses  ended, a square with
towers on it stretched between him and the sea.
    And Alex stopped again. Just imagine this scene: a vast deep blue  sky
up above, a vast deep blue sea in  front of you, a huge square by the  sea
and towers in the  square which looked as  if they had been  gathered from
fairy-tales and sea-adventure stories. They were all very different;  some
were  made  of  grey  blocks,  others  of  orange bricks and even of white
marble. Some were imposing and grim like fortresses and others  ornamental
like palaces,  with merlons  or pointed  roofs, spires  and weather-vanes,
balconies  and   patterned  windows.    And  others   were  simply   large
lighthouses.   A spiral  staircase with  bronze tubular  railings ran from
the top to the bottom  of one of them and  a ship's mast stood on  its top
landing.
    Alex got so  carried away looking  at them that  he even forgot  about
the sea. Then he walked cautiously  across the square, feeling as one  who
had chanced, like Gulliver, upon a land of slumbering giants.  The  square
was totally silent except for the clattering sound of Alex's steps  across
the cockle-shell slabs and the pounding sea.
    The square  was paved  with square  slabs and  growing in the crevices
between them were various plants but mostly stiff shrubs with little  pink
flowers. The  towers stood  far apart  from each  other. Tossing  back his
head, Alex walked round each one in  turn, and it seemed to him that  they
were  swaying  slightly.   The  lenses  of  the  lighthouses' beacons were
shining overhead, the  lacy aerials loomed  black and gay-coloured  signal
flags fluttered  in the  wind. The  clouds raced  in different directions,
only the pounding sound of the surf grew louder and louder.
    Alex saw that he had come very close to the sea.
    Large  waves  were  running  towards  the  shore,  white manes on blue
crests. The shore was  low and the square  was almost level with  the sea.
The  slabs  sloped  very  gently  into  the  water,  and the waves swished
against them and raced along them far into the square. Eddy pools  whirled
by  the  towers'  mighty  foundations  and  the  small  oak doors in stone
niches.  Then  the  water  reluctantly  receded  leaving  long  strips  of
vanishing  foam.  Seaweed  stuck  in  the  crevices between the slabs, and
marooned crabs scampered backwards after the rapidly retreating water.
    Alex walked along  the damp cockle-shell  slabs and a  wave broke over
his sandals, soaking his trousers.
    "I'd better roll them up," he  said to himself but did not  attempt to
because he would have had to put  the clipper down and it might have  been
swept away by the waves.
    Standing closest to the  sea was a grey  lighthouse tower with a  high
porch and railings like those on a captain's bridge. A thin suntanned  boy
in  red  swimming  trunks  came  out  onto  the porch, screwed up his eyes
against the sun and jumped down onto  the slabs from the top step.   A
wave immediately swept over  his legs, up to  his knees and then  ran back
again. The  boy burst  out laughing  and, splashing  barefooted across the
slabs, came towards where Alex was standing.
    He did not notice  Alex at first, but  as soon as he  did, he stopped,
became serious  and came  closer. Glancing  first at  the little  ship and
then into Alex's face, he said slowly, "What a beauty..."
    And he did not say it with  envy but as if asking Alex whether  he was
delighted to own such a wonderful little ship.
    "Yes," replied Alex. "Everyone says that. It's a clipper."
    "I know. Granddad promised to make  me one but he never has  time. But
now I'll ask him to get a move on."
    Although he only came up to  Alex's shoulders, he did not seem  small.
He was obviously a bold and cheerful little lad.
    "And what does your granddad do?" asked Alex. "It he a sailor?"
    "No, he's a scientist. He studies the midnight north-westerly."
    "That's good  work," said  Alex with  respect. "And  do you  both live
here in this tower?"
    "No, only  Granddad does.   I just  come and  visit him  and spend the
night with him whenever I like. We watch the wind together."
    He gazed at Alex  and the sea was  reflected in his eyes  (for you see
it was very  close-by), and then  said confidently, "You  know, our wind's
completely tame.   It whips up  storms in other  places far away  but it's
ever so kind and gentle when it reaches us..."
    "And  what  about  the  other  towers?  Do  scientists live in them as
well?"
    "Why,  of  course,  and,  you  see,  each  of them studies a different
wind."
    Alex became  more and  more fascinated  and even  forgot he  should be
hurrying to the station. He glanced now  at the boy and now at the  towers
and thought to himself, "So that's why the town's called Vetrogorsk..."
                                        <Vetrogorsk - Windtown - Tr.>
But there were still many things he did not understand.

    "But how  come..." he  began. "Well,  the winds  are all  different. I
mean, they come  from different directions.  Don't they ever  collide over
the square?"
    The  boy  burst  out  laughing  but  not at all derisively. "I guessed
straightaway you weren't  from here because  you don't know  things. Winds
never collide. You see, the towers  aren't all the same height. Each  wind
has its  own altitude,  sticks to  its own  course like  a plane  during a
flight."
    He lifted  his tanned  palms and  smoothly passed  one over the other,
"Like this..."
    Then all of  a sudden as  if he had  been jolted, Alex  remembered the
little Pilot. But then  a wave rolled over  their feet again and  they ran
further back.
    "A crab once bit  my foot," said the  boy, "It was this  huge... May I
hold your clipper for a second?"
    "Yes, do."
    The boy took the clipper and rocked it in his hands.
    "It's ever so light. It would race along even in a slight breeze."
    "Yes," agreed Alex. "Only there isn't and wind at all down here."
    "The wind's up there,"  explained the boy, and  they looked up at  the
sky.
    "Now I  understand why  the winds  over your  town are  blowing in all
directions at once," said Alex.
    The  boy  gave  the  clipper  back  and, gazing cheerfully into Alex's
face, confided, "The lads  and I once played  a joke... We climbed  up the
winter  trade-wind's  tower  and  raised  its  aerial  to the level of the
sirocco's tower. All hell was let loose... The sirocco and the  trade-wind
flew into one another and  started fighting like tigers! The  trade-wind's
quite even-tempered but the sirocco's terribly vicious... And that  really
did it! There was a whirlwind over the sea, a thunderstorm over the  town,
tin sheets flying  off the roofs  and gates banging...  We got a  terrible
ticking-off from our head-master..."
    "It's  better  not  to  get  on  the wrong side of head-masters," said
Alex. "They don't give a straw  about winds, just as long as  everything's
as it should be."
    "Yes, of course," replied the  boy vaguely and glancing hesitantly  at
Alex,  asked,  "You  know  what?   If  you  like... I don't know if you're
interested or not... If you like, you can watch our north-westerly  arrive
tonight. Don't worry, Granddad  won't mind, he's kind.   Do you know  what
he's done? He's  fixed an old  drain-pipe to the  window so that  when the
wind  flies  in  through  the  window,  it  goes  down the pipe and starts
singing at  once. It  likes it  there and  sings all  sorts of  songs it's
heard in different countries... Would you like to listen?"
    "I'd love to," said Alex. "I  really would but I can't. I've  got some
important business and now I really  must get to the station and  leave...
You don't happen to know how to get to the station?"
    "The station?" the boy repeated. "Why, yes, I do. Behind that  pointed
tower there's a side-street which leads straight to the station."
    "Well, then... bye."
    "Bye," the  boy said  and stood  still for  a little  while, shook his
head  and  then  walked  down  the  wet  slabs  into  the sea. When he was
waist-deep in  water, he  turned round  and waved  to Alex  and then dived
into the waves and swam towards the white crests.
    "Yes," said Alex. "It's a pity but never mind..."
    He turned  off the  square and  into the  side-street and soon reached
the station.

    The  station  was  a  small  and  cosy-looking brick building with tin
ships on its turrets and a round clock with a picture of a compass on  its
face.
    After finding out  from the information  desk that his  train would be
arriving in forty minutes' time, he went out onto the platform to wait.
    The  sky  was  now  overcast  and  the  poplars  were  rustling in the
station's garden.  A stifling  off-shore wind  was blowing  a thunderstorm
towards the sea.
    There were only  a few passengers  on the platform.  An elderly sailor
with gold  stripes on  his sleeve  came up  to Alex,  glanced first at the
clipper and then at  him, sighed for some  reason or other and  asked, "Is
it yours?"
    Alex nodded.
    "It's an old piece of work," said the sailor. "I've dreamed of  having
a model like that since my childhood."
    Alex felt uneasy and somehow guilty. The sailor hung about beside  him
and then asked embarrassedly, "Look  here, lad... Do you really  need this
frigate?"
    "Of course, I do!" exclaimed Alex in surprise.
    The sailor  sighed again  and said,  "I know  it's ridiculous offering
money for a thing like this,  but I've got a mahogany steering-wheel  from
the English privateer 'Witch'.  And  a bronze clock from the mess-room  of
the sailing corvette 'Rurik'. Perhaps you'd swop? Well? Will you?  At  the
Ship Museum they begged and pleaded with me for them..."
    "You see, I just can't," said  Alex. "The model's not really mine  any
more. It's a present for someone."
    "Is it? What a pity."
    The sailor stood there for a moment and then walked away.
    The thunderstorm was getting very close. Lightning began to flash  and
rolls of thunder rang out beyond the trees. Dusty, spiral whirlwinds  tore
onto the platform and swept along the tracks.
    Alex had an uneasy feeling  that he had forgotten something  important
and that something dreadful might happen if he did not remember.
    But that was  it? After all,  everything was going  according to plan.
He had the clipper  in his hands and  his train would soon  be drawing in.
So why was he feeling alarmed?
    The wind  was spinning  the little  tin ships  round on  the station's
turrets.  Alex looked  at these turrets and  recalled the large towers  in
the square by the  sea, and the tower  of the midnight north-westerly  and
the tanned little boy who had invited him to watch the wind arrive...  But
the boy had swum out to sea, hadn't he!
    And the  wind was  off-shore! What  if the  boy hadn't  managed to get
back in time? Would he be able to swim ashore against the wind and waves?
    Everyone has  an inner  self offering  comforting advice  in times  of
trouble. This inner  self at once  began whispering to  Alex, "Why do  you
think he didn't make it? Why  have you decided he won't swim  ashore? He's
a splendid swimmer.  Anyway, how can you help? You hardly managed to  swim
across that stream back at home..."
    These thoughts  held Alex  back for  several seconds.  Then he  dashed
over to the elderly sailor and held the clipper out to him.
    "Please hold it  for a while!  I'll be back  very soon!" he  cried and
ran off.
    The wind pushed  him forward slightly  and large drops  of rain lashed
his back like whips.  He reached the end  of the side-street and  ran into
the square.
    White horses were galloping  across the grey sea.   He raced past  one
tower  after  another  and  at  last  came to the granite lighthouse tower
where the old scientist was studying the midnight north-westerly.  Now  he
simply had  to beat  against the  door, call  to the  old man and tell him
about the boy. Perhaps there was a boat or launch nearby?
    Alex flew up onto high  porch... Standing by the bronze  railings were
a shaggy grey-haired old man and the boy he had met.
    The  boy,  wrapped  in  a  large  naval  jacket, was cheerfully saying
something to his  grandfather.  Alex  stopped and began  panting so loudly
with relief and joy that they noticed him at once.
    "Have you come to visit us?" the boy asked joyfully.
    "Just for a minute," said Alex. "I've just dropped by on my way."
    "Oh, I can see  that," said the shaggy  old man with a  kind smile. He
had obviously seen through him...
    It was  awkward just  standing there  and saying  nothing but it would
not be right to dash off  straightaway either. So Alex said, "I  wanted to
find out  if you  had a  radio in  your tower  because I  need to  contact
someone."
    "Ay, there's a  transmitter," replied the  old man. "What  exactly did
you have in mind?"
    "Well, can you contact a  plane?" asked Alex, thinking to  himself how
good it would be to find out if the cat had actually found Anton.
    "What plane?"  enquired the  old man.
    "There's a Pilot for Special Missions..."
    "Yes, I know," said the old man. "But Captain Topolkov doesn't have  a
radio aboard his plane."
    "How's that? What if he needs to relay something important?"
    "People say the lad's like a radio himself. His heart tells him  where
he's needed and off he flies there."
    "I see," said Alex. "Good-bye. It's time I was off."
    The wind had died down. The thunderstorm had passed over the town  and
rolled out to sea.  Every now and then  dark drops of rain  dashed against
the stone slabs like disintegrating stars. In a crevice between the  slabs
Alex spotted a  small round shell,  which was grey  and bumpy outside  and
pink inside. He slipped it into his pocket and ran to the station.
    "Well, mate, you've had me  on tenterhooks for the past  five minutes.
The train was due in any second  but you still weren't here. What would  I
have done with your ship?"
    "Thank you," said Alex, gasping  for breath. You see, I  had something
very important to attend to."
    The train drew in  and Alex climbed into  a carriage and settled  down
by the window. Bushes flashed past  and the sea gleamed behind the  houses
for the last time.
    "Well, this is where my fairy-tale ends," Alex said to himself.   "How
strange it's been  - without any  dangers or obstacles.  Everything's gone
so smoothly.  Surely that's not possible?" This thought alarmed him for  a
moment but the train's smooth motion soon lulled him to sleep.


                            Chapter Fourteen

    When Alex  awoke, familiar  streets around  the station,  a pump-house
and a bridge  were flashing by  the windows. And  three minutes later  the
train drew into the station.
    The station clock showed two-forty.
    "I'll get to Masha's  in time," he thought.  "I've no time to  drop by
home though."
    There  had  been  a  short  shower  not  long ago. The sky had already
cleared and the sun was burning hot but the puddles had not yet dried  up.
Alex looked in one and caught sight of his reflection.
    Auntie Dasha was bound to exclaim, "Lord, what a sight! You look  like
a  street-urchin."  His  shirt  was  crinkled,  and  its collar button was
missing; his trousers looked as if  a crocodile had chewed them and  their
bottoms were stained with sea salt.
    "Oh, well, never mind, " Alex  thought to himself. To make up  for it,
in his  hands he  had a  streamlined shiny  clipper with  gay white sails,
which was the  best present for  a girl like  Masha, who almost  certainly
dreamed of becoming a captain. And he was bringing her this present  after
a wonderful long journey.   And when travellers come  home, they can't  be
expected to look like young violinists in white shirts and bow-ties.
    He sloshed through  the sunny puddles  towards Masha's house,  feeling
in the best of moods, and ran up the staircase to Masha's door.
    From  the  other  side  of  the  door  came  the sound of voices and a
scraping violin.
    "Am I late? Oh well, a few minutes do not matter..." he thought.
    He did not want to give the clipper to Masha straightaway in front  of
everybody. He wanted them to be  alone. He would then hand her  the little
ship and she would slowly take  it from him and quietly say,  "Oh, Alex...
Oh, how wonderful. Thank you."
    He  glanced  round  and  caught  sight  of  a  cupboard  in  the  wall
containing a fire tap. He tugged  at the door and it opened.  He carefully
put the model into the cupboard  (it only just fitted), shut the  door and
rang the bell.
    Masha opened it at  once. Beaming happily, she  was dressed in a  sort
of shiny dress with red beads like cranberries. "Oh, Alex!" she  exclaimed
joyfully, and then added in surprise, "Oh, you look so... messy..."
    "Hello," he said. "If only you  knew where I'd been! I've brought  you
an incredible present!"
    "Thank you!.. Well, come on in."
    "Wait."
    He wanted to  go back for  the little ship  but over Masha's  shoulder
caught sight of her guests - two girls with large bows and a fat boy in  a
check jacket (holding a violin) and guess who else? - the lanky prince!
    And Masha realised he had spotted him and decided that was why he  had
said, "Wait."
    "Oh, Alex," she  began saying. "Don't  get upset. I  decided to invite
him because we are, after all, acting in the same play."
    "Why not?" said Alex in a whisper.
    "If you ask  me, you're wrong  to be angry  with him. He's  not bad at
all. I think you ought to make it up."
    "I'm not a  bit angry with  him. No, not  a bit," said  Alex casually,
and he was telling the truth because  during the last few days he had  not
given the prince a single thought.
    "Well then, come in. What's wrong?"
    Alex grinned  and asked,  "How can  I, looking  like this?  You're all
so... grand. And I'm a real mess."
    "Well, so what?.." Masha glanced hesitantly at her guests. "You  mean,
you've only  just got  back? You  know what?  You could  run home and tidy
yourself up. We'll wait. All right?"
    "She  hasn't  even  asked  where  I've  been"  thought  Alex and began
feeling not exactly sad but rather bored.
    "All right," he said. "I'll go now."
    "Wait..."
    "Perhaps she's going to  ask me?" he said  to himself, cheering up  at
the thought.
    "What's  the  present  you've  brought?  Don't  think  I'm greedy. You
mentioned it yourself, you see, and you've made me curious."
    Alex simply could not bring himself to give her the clipper now so  he
brought the shell out of his pocket.
    "Here. I found it on a sea-shore a long way from here. You can  always
hear the sea in it."
    "Oh, isn't it  wonderful! Daddy's got  one, only smaller.  He keeps it
on his writing-desk and sticks his cigarette butts into it."
    "But I hope you won't stick cigarette butts into this one, will you?"
    "Oh really! Do you  think I smoke? I've  never even tried. And  when I
grow up, I  won't either although  it's considered the  in-thing for girls
to smoke."
    "What on earth is the  matter?" wondered Alex. "Only five  minutes ago
everything seemed so wonderful..."
    "Masha..."
    "What?"
    "Listen. There's  such a  wonderful sea-shore  there... And  such huge
stone slabs going down  into the sea. And  crabs crawling across them  and
shells lying in the seaweed. And towers right by the sea..."
    "Where do you mean?  Sochi? Mummy and Daddy  are taking me there  this
year."
    "No, not Sochi... Have  you ever heard what  the sea sounds like  in a
shell? Well, say, in the one Dad's got?"
    "I wanted to  but Daddy didn't  let me. He  said it simply  echoes any
sound around, and as for the sea, it's just a fairy-tale."
    "What does  your Dad  know about  fairy-tales!" thought  Alex and said
aloud, "I'll go now."
    "But you will come back?"
    "I'll try to."
    "No, promise you will."
    "Well, I give you my word, I will... if nothing happens."
    He went down  one flight of  stairs, waited until  Masha had shut  the
door, tiptoed back again,  took the clipper out  of the cupboard, and  set
off home.
    "Lord, what a  sight!" said Auntie  Dasha as she  opened the door  for
him. "What  a mess  you look!  What have  you been  up to at your friend's
house?"
    "We messed  around, climbed  trees, and  played football  and slept in
the hayloft."
    "My word! Can't you look more or less respectable?"
    "I will again soon," promised Alex and went off to change.
    "I'll heat your dinner up," Auntie Dasha called after him.
    "Don't worry. I'm  going out to  a birthday party.  There'll be plenty
of buns and cakes to eat there."
    Alex stood the model on his  window-sill and got out his sailor  suit.
He no  longer cared  whether it  was suitable  to wear  to a  party.   The
anchors and blue  collar reminded him  of the winds  above the towers  and
the shimmering sea and that was what mattered most.
    His suit was crumpled (for he  had been wearing it when he  climbed up
the poplar to rescue Kuzya).  So he  had to give it a good ironing.   Then
he got some yellow thread from  Auntie Dasha and firmly sewed back  on his
sleeve  the  anchor,  which  had  been  partly  torn off. He went about it
slowly and  rather absent-mindedly  as he  was thinking  to himself,  "But
she's still beautiful  and kind. It's  not her fault  either.  She  didn't
see the stadium and the horses  that spoke, or the rustling grass,  or the
steamer with silver stars on its funnel. She hasn't been to Vetrogorsk  or
looked at the clouds  over the towers. She  hasn't heard about the  little
Pilot and  his Antarctica...  She doesn't  know what  the journey  was all
about."
    And  so  he  began  thinking  about  his  journey  and the road he had
covered for the first time.
    ... And at  that very moment  he heard the  Voice of the  Road calling
very softly. What was it like?
    Perhaps you could say  it was like the  very gentle twang of  a guitar
string which someone  was strumming slowly,  trying to recall  a song. And
it was a sad song for the journey  was over. But there was also a note  of
alarm in it. How could that be if, after all, it was already over.
    However, as long  as the strumming  remains muted, this  note of alarm
does, too. And  anyone hearing the  Voice of the  Road for the  first time
has yet to discover  that the strumming may  well break off, and  trumpets
may sound on the horizon...

    Alex pulled  on his  trousers and  shirt, which  were warm after being
ironed and smelt slightly singed.
    He took the three kopecks,  his penknife, a crumpled handkerchief  and
everything else out of his old  trousers and stuffed them into his  sailor
suit's pockets to make sure he never again got caught out as had  happened
in the travel agency. Then he picked up his Green Pass.
    It was already worn  and its corners puckered  and tatty but it  could
still be  used for  travelling. Yes,  it was  valid (Alex  glanced at  his
alarm-clock) for another eleven whole minutes until four o'clock!
    And then a desperate idea flashed through Alex's mind: what if he  ran
over to Masha's, grabbed her by the hand, dragged her into the street  and
rushed over to the river with her!
    If they ran  really fast, they  might get there  before four and  then
the steamer was bound to turn up!
    And on the way  he would explain to  Masha all about the  forests full
of fairy-tales and  the town which  had adventures round  every corner and
about the Pilot who knew the way to magic lands...
    But would  Masha come?  As if  in a  waking dream,  he seemed  to hear
Masha say, "Oh, Alex! I can't I've got guests."
    "Never mind them. They'll eat the cake without you."
    "No, I can't!  After all, it  was me who  invited them. It's  just not
done."
    "But it'll soon be too late!"
    "I still can't. I've got music and swimming tomorrow."
    Somewhere in  a neighbouring  flat he  heard radio  pips marking  four
o'clock. His alarm-clock was eight minutes slow.

    He no  longer felt  like going  to the  party and  as soon  as he  was
outside, he began arguing with himself:  "Well, why should I go?   They'll
manage perfectly well without me."
    "But you promised."
    "I said I would if nothing happened."
    "But what's happened?"
    At this point he realised that something really had happened.
    It was nothing special: simply  a breeze was blowing, and  filling out
the clipper's sails and flapping his sailor collar. He remembered how  two
mornings ago (was it really only the day before yesterday and not a  whole
year ago?)  he had  come out  of his  house and  the wind had been blowing
too.  Only  it  had  been  blowing  jauntily  for  it  betokened a journey
although Alex had  not known that  yet. Now, however,  it was pulling  the
little ship along  and not Alex.  And the little  ship's sails filled  out
and  it  was  straining  to  break  free  and  sail somewhere far away but
certainly not to Masha's house.
    So far Alex had believed he should still give it to Masha, but now  he
began wondering where she would keep it.
    He imagined her putting it on  a shelf next to an aquarium  containing
lazy round-bellied fish which had been born in a glass bowl and had  never
even seen a small  pond, let alone the  sea. He also imagined  her putting
it on the table next to the shell stuffed with cigarette butts.
    What would  life be  like there  for the  valiant little clipper which
knew all about the winds and  wide open world? "Oh Masha, Masha...",  Alex
whispered, and set off down the road. He now knew where he was going.

    Sofia Alexandrovna's house had grown even more lop-sided since he  had
last seen it.  One of its  corners was hanging  right over the  gully. Its
windows had  been completely  boarded up  and a  dried-up ditch  still ran
down into the gully from the churned up earth around the house.
    Alex began  climbing down  to the  stream along  this dried-up  ditch.
Thistles clutched  at his  elbows, brambles  bit him  viciously and  sharp
pieces of clay got stuck in his  sandals but he held the little ship  over
his  head  and  raced  downhill  without  stopping  like  a  stone rolling
downhill. At last he reached the bank, knelt down in the water and  pushed
the little ship out towards the middle of the stream.
    "Sail away. You know which way to go."
    The clipper trembled and then  floated along the babbling stream  past
a blackcurrant bush on a bend and then its sails were filled by the wind.
    Alex rose and sat  down on a snag  lying by the water.  He was feeling
better because he had at least put one of his mistakes right.
    But what could he do about the others? After all, he had made so  many
blunders during  the journey.  Wonderful adventures  had been  waiting for
him  at  every  crossroads,  on  every  path  and  in  every sidestreet of
Vetrogorsk.  And  everyone  he  had  met  (even the cat!) had promised him
adventures. And  the old  man in  the booth  had told  him not  to try and
avoid them because they were all part of the fairy-tale but he had  passed
by without heeding the Voice of the Road.
    And now this Voice was giving him no peace. But what could he do?
    "It's not my  fault," he said  to himself. "After  all, I didn't  know
I'd chosen the wrong road."
    "Oh yes, it is."
    "Why?"
    "Don't you know?"
    "No!"
    "They why's your conscience bothering you?"
    "I don't know... I made a  mistake but nobody got hurt because  of it.
Only me. Well, and the little ship but I've let it go."
    "What's the ship got to do with it..."
    "Well, then I just don't understand."
    "That's a lie!"
    "But what about the Pilot?"
    Indeed,  Alex,  what  about  the  Pilot?  It  makes you go cold inside
merely to remember him sitting by  the wheel, wrapped in your jacket,  and
gazing after you. He badly needed  a companion and a friend. You  realised
that but kept repeating that you had your own way to go.
    But no matter where you have to go and how important the task at  hand
is, you must never pass someone by who needs a friend. But you...

    "But  I  sent  him  a  stray  cat  instead," thought Alex bitterly and
angrily thumped his  knee with his  fist. His knee  was damp and  his fist
rebounded and hit the snag. Little  red drops appeared on the scratch  and
Alex recalled the  beads he had  seen on Masha's  dress a short  while ago
and thought, "They're probably still waiting  for me to turn up. Oh  well,
let them. Or perhaps she thinks I'm upset because of the prince?"
    But, after all, even  if there had been  no prince, and even  if Masha
had given Alex a  hero's welcome, and even  if she had listened  in wonder
and delight to his story about his journey, and even if she had picked  up
the little ship as  if it were a  most precious treasure, would  he really
have been  able to  say to  himself that  everything was  fine? For in his
heart of hearts he would still have been thinking about the little Pilot.
    So what HAD happened? Was it that Alex had chosen the wrong road  back
in the field near Vetrogorsk? The  Pilot needed a friend. And Alex  needed
one, too, and namely a bold,  cheerful and kind one like Anton  the little
Pilot.
    Alex stood up and said to himself, "I'm going..."
    "Where?"
    "I'm  going  to  wade  downstream  after  the  little ship. Since it's
sailed away,  it means  it's started  its journey  to Vetrogorsk.  So I'll
follow it and see the Curator and ask him how I can find the Pilot."
    Alex stepped into the water with his sandals on and waded  downstream.
However,  his  feet  soon  started  sticking  in  the silt and then a wire
caught one of his sandals and tore its sole off.
    He clambered  out of  the water  and began  scrambling along the bank,
but  the  brambles  and  briars  were  so  entangled  that  even  the  sky
completely disappeared  from sight.   And only  round-bellied  bumble-bees
buzzed in the stifling air and slimy frogs croaked underfoot. Alex  forced
his way to the top of the  gully and walked along its edge but  further on
the path was blocked  by a crooked grey  fence.  Alex climbed  over it and
then came  upon some  other fences  with potato  patches, heaps  of broken
glass and barbed wire.
    And when he  came out into  a side street,  he no longer  had any idea
where the gully or the stream was or where he should go next.
    "Things were  quite different  when I  had a  Green Pass," he thought.
"Every way was open to me then  but now every fence is like a  mountain in
my way."
    But, then, there had to be more than one Green Pass in the world!  Why
hadn't that occurred to him before? The pass was issued to people on  Very
Important Business! And wasn't  that what Alex had  now? Yes, it was  much
more  important  than  finding  the  little  ship  for  Masha!  He was now
searching for a friend  and, as the Pilot  had said, the best  ending to a
fairy-tale is when you  find a friend. And  as Alex had still  to find the
Pilot, it meant his fairy-tale was not yet over.
    "I'll  ask  the  old  man's  advice  in  the  information  office", he
resolved  and,  flicking  his  torn-off   sole,  raced  off  towards   the
side-street where he had already been.

    The shoe repairs' booth was open but sitting there was a  rosy-cheeked
fellow, tapping a hammer and whistling.
    "But where's the old man?" asked Alex breathlessly. "The one who  used
to work here."
    "Hello! The old man? Oh, he's retired."
    "Retired?" repeated Alex inanely.
    "Yep. Why, did you know him?"
    "Yes..." replied Alex quietly.
    "Well, never  mind. I'll  do just  as good  a job  for you  as the old
man."
    Before Alex could open  his mouth, the lad  had pulled his sandal  off
his foot, and put the sole back on.
    "There you are!"
    "Thanks," said Alex in a whisper and walked off.
    However, he decided that  he still had one  chance left: he could  run
over to the travel agency and explain everything to the cashier there  and
she would most likely be sympathetic and issue him a new Green Pass.
    And so off he ran again.
    He crawled through the hole into the stadium.
    "If I don't get a ticket,  I'll come back here and asked  the horses,"
he thought. "They can take me  to that airfield. After all, they  know all
the magic routes."
    But there was no sign of any horses. Some carpenters were mending  the
benches and staircases on the stands.
    "You've got no business being here..." one of them called to Alex.
    Alex crossed  the field  without turning  round, came  out into  Polar
Captains' Street  and walked  towards the  agency. It  was shut.  Its blue
signboard  had  been  taken  down  and  stood upright against the wall and
"Closed For Repairs" was written in chalk on its locked doors.
    So that was that. What else could he do?
    Go home?
    Go back to Masha's birthday party?
    Sit down right there and burst into tears?
    He turned round and walked away.
    After going down some winding  side-streets and passing an old  church
and a new cinema, he came out into Faraway Street.
    And everything there was just the  same as before. First he passed  by
the wooden houses lining  the street and then  came to the plank  footpath
along the  overgrown ditches.   The grasshoppers  were still  chirring and
bright yellow dandelions were still growing in the ditch. And broken  bits
of grass  were still  glinting in  the sunlight.   So he  should have been
feeling blissfully happy as  he walked along, but,  you see, he knew  that
he was going to no purpose: the steamer would not turn up.
    And he  would not  manage to  get to  the airfield  on his own. But he
kept going  all the  same because  deep inside  the Voice  of the Road was
asking  anxiously  over  and  over   again,  "Do  you  remember?  Do   you
remember?.."
    So  there  was  nothing  left  for  him  to  do  but keep going and to
remember things and, anyway, even  this was better than simply  sitting at
home.
    The pavement  came to  an end  and the  path ran  on ahead.  The grass
began rustling at his feet and he again felt as if he was swimming  across
a green sea. And the sky with its little clouds was swaying overhead.  The
path went on and on. Last time it had seemed much shorter, but now he  had
been walking for over an hour and the river was still nowhere in sight.
    "What's happened?" he wondered.   "The old man's retired.   The travel
agency's  been  closed  for  repairs  but  where's  the  river  got to? It
couldn't have gone underground."
    He was  longing to  get the  river and  hunt for  the steamer's tracks
along its banks and stand on  the spot where the gangway had  been lowered
and recall exactly how everything  had happened. You see, you  always feel
better when you remember something pleasant. And, besides, Alex still  had
a tiny glimmer of  hope left. The steamer  just might turn up,  after all,
for all sorts of wonderful things can happen in fairy-tales.
    He walked on for  at least another hour  and could now only  just make
out the town on the horizon behind him.  The grass was swaying all  around
but there was still no sign of the river.
    "No, I'll never make  it," he realised and  felt so miserable that  he
could not walk  a step further.   He stopped and  (to tell you  the truth)
almost burst into  tears. I say  "almost" because the  tears welled up  in
his eyes and hung on his lashes and silver spots of sunlight flared up  in
them.   Alex blinked  angrily to  shake them  off and  they vanished.  All
except one - a brilliant little  star which soared up and began  sparkling
in the bright-blue sky.
    Alex blinked  again and  again but  the white  spark blazed  even more
brightly high above. Then  all of a sudden  he heard a quiet  but distinct
whirring noise  breaking through  the silence,  chirring grasshoppers  and
rustling grass.
    Alex's heart  leapt. He  ran towards  the spark,  stopped for a moment
then ran  on again.  The silver  spark was  getting bigger  and bigger and
growing delicate dragonfly wings.
    "The Pilot..." Alex whispered joyfully. "Why, it's the Pilot!"
    He could see the plane getting  bigger and bigger as it came  straight
towards him.
    "What a good thing it is I  put my sailor suit on," he thought.   "The
Pilot would never have spotted me in the grass in my green shirt!"
    And then Alex became frightened  for it suddenly occurred to  him that
the Pilot might not recognise him in his ironed suit!
    So he  rushed towards  the plane,  found a  place where  the grass was
slightly shorter, fell flat  on his back and  stretched out his arms  in a
letter "T".
    Blades  of  grass  were  fluttering  over  his  face  and  the sun was
dazzling his  eyes, but  even so  through grass  and rays  of sunlight  he
caught  sight  of  a  large  slender-winged  bird  swooping  down straight
towards him from a great height: it was the plane belonging to the  little
Pilot, Anton Topolkov.
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