ber, because,  while I  am not actually a barber, I
am a match  for any professional barber, for not a  single  barber can outdo
me. And do you know why? Because, while a professional barber...."
     The old man interrupted the chattering Pivoraki rudely:
     "Can you,  0 unnecessarily talkative barber, shave a young man well and
without cutting  him once, although you are not even  worthy of  kissing the
dust beneath his feet?"
     "As to the essence of your question, I would say...."
     He was about  to  continue his speech, but  here  the old  man silently
gathered  up  his  shaving  equipment, took  Stepan Stepanych, who was still
going  a mile  a minute, by the scruff of his neck and, without further ado,
flew out the window with him, headed for parts unknown.
     Soon they flew into a familiar room, where Volka Kostylkov sat sadly on
his bed, moaning every time he looked at himself and his bristly chin in the
mirror.
     "Happiness and luck accompany  you in all your undertakings, 0 my young
master!" Hottabych  announced triumphantly, still holding on to  the kicking
Stepan Stepanych. "I was about  to despair of ever finding you a barber when
I suddenly came upon  this unusually talkative man, and I brought him  along
to  this room beneath the blessed roof of your house. Here he is before you,
with everything necessary for shaving. And now," he said to Pivoraki who was
gaping  at  the bristly boy,  "lay out your  tools  properly and shave  this
honourable youth  so that his cheeks become as smooth  as those  of a  young
maiden."
     Pivoraki  stopped struggling. The razor glistened in his  skilled  hand
and a few minutes later Volka was excellently shaved.
     "Now  put away your tools," the old  man  said.  "I'll fly over for you
again early tomorrow morning, and you'll shave this youth once more."
     "I can't come tomorrow,"  Pivoraki objected in a tired  voice. "I'm  in
the morning shift tomorrow."
     "That doesn't  concern  me in  the  least," Hottabych replied  icily. A
heavy  silence fell on  the room.  Suddenly, Stepan  Stepanych had  a bright
idea.
     "Why don't you try a Tbilisi preparation? It's an excellent remedy."
     "Is  that  some  kind of a  powder?" Volka  interrupted.  "Isn't that a
greyish powder? I heard about it, or read something about it...."
     "Yes, that's it! A greyish powder!" Pivoraki cried happily. "It's  made
in Georgia, a wonderful and sunny land. I personally am crazy about Georgia.
I've travelled back and  forth across all the roads in the country during my
many vacations. Sukhumi, Tbilisi, Kutaisi... . There's no better place for a
rest! From the bottom  of my  heart and  from  my own  experience, I  highly
recommend that  you visit.... Pardon  me, I  seem  to  have drifted  off the
point. Anyway, getting back to the powder.... All you have to do is apply it
to  your  cheeks,  and  the  heaviest  beard  disappears  without  a  trace.
Naturally, it'll grow back again after a while."
     "It won't grow back in my young friend's case," Hottabych interrupted.
     "Are you positive?"
     Hottabych assumed a haughty expression and said nothing. He  considered
it beneath his dignity to take a lowly barber into his confidence.
     A  short  minute later,  an  old  man wearing  an  old-fashioned  straw
-boater,  a white linen suit and  pink morocco  slippers with turned-up toes
was seen in the locker room of a local bath-house in Tbilisi.
     Without  bothering to  get  undressed, he entered  the steam  room. The
smell  of sulphur stung his nostrils, but this  was to be expected, as these
were  the famous  Tbilisi sulphur baths.  However,  a  person  entering  the
crowded, steam-filled room fully dressed could not but attract the attention
of the other patrons.
     Curious  eyes  followed  him  as  he slowly  made  his  way  towards  a
bright-eyed attendant. He halted  within a few steps of the attendant, whose
name was Vano, and began to remove his linen coat with an unhurried gesture.
     "Genatsvale"  (A  friendly  form  of  address  (Georgian).,  Vano  said
affably,  "you are supposed to. get  undressed in the  locker room. This  is
where you wash."
     The old  man smirked. He had  no intention of washing. It was just that
he felt a bit warm with his coat on.
     "Come over here!" he said to Vano and fanned himself languidly with his
hat. "But hurry, if you value your life."
     The attendant smiled pleasantly.
     "Genatsvale, on such a lovely  morning one values one's  life more than
ever. What would you like, Grandfather?"
     The old man addressed him in a stern voice:
     "Tell me nothing but the truth, 0 bath  attendant. Are these really the
very famous Tbilisi Baths, of which I've heard so much worthy of amazement?"
     "Yes, they're the  very same  ones,"  Vano  said with  pride.  "You can
travel all over the world,  but you'll  never find  another bath-house  like
this. I take it you're a stranger here."
     The haughty old man let the question go unanswered.
     "Well,  if  these are the very same  baths  I've been looking for,  why
don't  I see  any of that  truly magic salve  which people  who know and are
worthy of trust say removes human hair without a trace?"
     "Ah, so that's what it's all about!" Vano cried happily. "You want some
'taro.' You should have said so right away."
     "All right, if it's called 'taro,' then bring me some 'taro,' but hurry
if you...."
     "I know, I know: if I value my life. I'm off!"
     The  experienced  bath attendant had  met many a queer character in his
life and he knew that the wisest thing to do was never to argue.
     He returned with a clay  bowl  filled with something that  looked  like
ashes.
     "Here," he said, panting heavily as he handed the old man the bowl. "No
place  in the  world will you find such a wonderful powder. You can take the
word of a bath-house attendant!"
     The old man's face turned purple with rage.
     "You're making a  fool  of me,  0  most  despicable of  all  bath-house
attendants!" he said in a voice terrible in all its  softness. "You promised
to bring  me a wonderful  salve, but like a  marketplace crook, you  want to
pass off an old dish of powder the colour of a sick mouse!"
     The old man snorted so loudly that the entire contents of the bowl rose
in a cloud and settled  on  his hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard,  but he
was too furious to bother shaking it off.
     "You  shouldn't  be so angry, Genatsvale," the attendant laughed. "Just
add some water and you'll have the salve you longed for."
     The   old   man  realized  he  was  shouting  for  nothing  and  became
embarrassed.
     "It's  hot," he mumbled in some confusion.  "May this tiring heat be no
more!" and he added very  softly:  "and while  my beard is wet, may my magic
powers remain in my fingers.... And so, may this tiresome heat be no more!"
     "I'm  sorry,  but  that's something  I've no power over," Vano said and
shrugged.
     "But  I  have,"  Hottabych (naturally,  it  was  he)  muttered  through
clenched teeth and snapped the fingers of his left hand.
     The attendant gasped. And no wonder: he felt  an  icy chill coming from
where the strange  old  man stood; the  wet floor became covered with a thin
sheet of ice and clouds of hot steam from the entire room were drawn towards
the  cold pole which had formed  over Hottabych's head; there,  they  turned
into rain clouds and came down in a drizzle over his head.
     "This is much better," he said with pleasure. "Nothing is so refreshing
as a cool shower on a hot day."
     After  enjoying  this  both  unnatural  and natural  shower for  a  few
minutes, he  snapped the  fingers of his right hand. The current of cold air
was  cut  off immediately,  while the ice melted. Once  again clouds  of hot
steam filled the room.
     "And so," Hottabych said, pleased at the impression these unaccountable
changes of temperature had made on the other patrons, "and so, let us return
to the  'taro.' I  am  inclined to believe that the powder will really  turn
into the salve I have come in search of if one adds  water to it. I want you
to bring me a  barrel of this marvellous potion, for I do not have much time
at my disposal."
     "A barrel?!"
     "Even two."
     "Oh, Genatsvdle! One bowl-full  will be more than  enough for even  the
heaviest beard!"
     "All right then, bring me five bowls of it."
     "In  a second!" Vano said,  disappearing  into  an  adjoining room.  He
reappeared in a moment  with a heavy bottle  stopped with a cork. "There are
at least twenty portions here. Good luck."
     "Beware, 0  bath attendant, for I'd not wish anyone to be in your boots
if you have tricked me!"
     "How  could you even think of such  a thing,"  Vano protested. "Would I
ever dare trick such a respectable old man as you! Why, I would never...."
     He  stood  there and gaped, for  the  amazing,  quarrelsome old man had
suddenly disappeared into thin air.
     Exactly a minute later, a bald old man without eyebrows, a moustache or
a beard and dressed in a straw boater, a linen  suit  and pink slippers with
turned-up  toes  touched Volka  Kostylkov's  shoulder as the boy  was  sadly
devouring a huge piece of jam tart.
     Volka turned round, looked at him, and nearly  choked on  the  cake  in
amazement.
     "Dear Hottabych, what's happened to you?"
     Hottabych looked at himself in the  wall mirror  and forced a laugh. "I
suppose it  would be  exaggerating things to say I  look  handsome.  You may
consider me  punished for lack of trust  and  you  won't be wrong. I snorted
when I was  kind-heartedly offered a bowl  of  'taro' powder in that far-off
bath-house. The powder settled on my eyebrows, moustache and beard. The rain
which  I called  forth in  that justly famous place turned  the powder  into
mush, and the rain I was  caught in on the way back to Moscow washed off the
mush  together with my beard, moustache, and eyebrows. But don't worry about
my appearance.  Let's  better  worry  about yours." Then  he  sprinkled some
powder into a plate.
     When Volka's beard and  moustache were  disposed  of, Hottabych snapped
the fingers of his left hand and once again assumed his previous appearance.
     Now  he  looked at himself  in  the mirror with true  satisfaction.  He
stroked his recovered beard and  twisted the ends of his moustache jauntily.
Then he passed his hand over his hair, smoothed his eyebrows and sighed with
relief.
     "Excellent ! Now both our faces are back to normal again."
     As  concerns Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki, who will  never again appear on
the pages of our extremely truthful story, it is a known fact that he became
a changed man after the events described above. Why, it seems only yesterday
that his friends,  who suffered so  acutely  from his  talkativeness,  named
every chatter-box "Pivoraki." However, he has now become so sparing with his
words, weighing each one carefully beforehand,  that it is a  joy to talk to
him and listen to him speak at meetings.
     Just think what an effect this incident had on him!

        AN INTERVIEW WITH A DIVER

     Zhenya Bogorad's parents were up all night. They  telephoned  all their
friends and, taking a cab, made the  rounds of every militia station in  the
city, and of every  hospital. They even  stopped off at the  criminal court,
but all to no avail. Zhenya had disappeared without a trace.
     The following morning  the  principal of the school  called in Zhenya's
classmates, including Volka, and questioned each one.
     Volka  told the principal  about meeting Zhenya at the movies the night
before, though he quite naturally said  nothing about his beard. The boy who
sat next to  Zhenya in class recalled that he had seen him on Pushkin Street
close to six o'clock the previous  evening, that he was in high  spirits and
was rushing to the movies.  Other children said the same, but this was of no
help.
     Suddenly, one boy remembered Zhenya said he wanted to go swimming too.
     In half an hour's time  every volunteer  life  guard in  the  city  was
searching for Zhenya Bogorad's  body. The river  was dragged within the city
limits, but yielded  nothing. Divers traversed  the entire river-bed, paying
special attention to holes and depressions, but they, too, found nothing.
     The fiery blaze  of sunset was slowly sinking beyond the river, a faint
breeze carried the low sounds of a siren from the recreation park,  a signal
that the second act of the evening's play at the summer theatre was about to
begin, but the dark  silhouettes of the river  boats  could still be seen on
the water. The search was still on.
     This  cool, quiet  evening  Volka  was  too  restless to  sit at  home.
Terrifying thoughts of  Zhenya's fate gave  him  no peace. He  decided to go
back  to school, perhaps there  was some news there. As  he  was leaving the
school  yard,  Hottabych  joined him silently  at the gate,  appearing  from
nowhere at  all. The old man  saw Volka was upset, yet he was too tactful to
annoy  him with his questions. Thus, they continued on in silence, each lost
in his own thoughts. Soon they were walking down the wide granite embankment
of the Moskva River.
     "What  kind of  strange-headed  people  are  standing  in  those  frail
vessels?" the old man asked, pointing to the river boats.
     "Those are divers," Volka answered sadly.
     "Peace be  with you, 0 noble  diver," Hottabych said  grandly to one of
the divers climbing out of a boat near the bank. "What are you searching for
on the bottom of this beautiful river?"
     "A boy drowned," the  diver answered  and hurried  up the steps  of the
first-aid station.
     "I have no more questions, 0 highly respected diver," Hottabych said to
his disappearing back.
     Then he returned to Volka, bowed low and exclaimed:
     "I kiss the ground beneath your feet, 0 most noble student of Secondary
School No. 245!"
     "Huh?" Volka started, shaken from his unhappy thoughts.
     "Am I correct  in  understanding that this  diver is searching for  the
youth who has the great honour of being your classmate?"
     Volka nodded silently and heaved a great sigh.
     "Is  he  round  of face,  sturdy of body, snub of nose  and sporting  a
haircut unbecoming to a boy?"
     "Yes, that was Zhenya. He  had a haircut like a real dandy," Volka said
and sighed heavily again.
     "Did we see him in the movies? Was it he who shouted something  to  you
and made you sad, because he'd tell everyone you had such a beard?"
     "Yes. How did you know what I was thinking then?"
     "Because  that's  what  you mumbled  when  you  tried to  conceal  your
honourable and most beautiful face from  him," the old man continued. "Don't
fear, he won't tell!"
     "That's not true!"  Volka said angrily. "That doesn't bother me at all.
On the contrary, I'm sad because Zhenya drowned."
     Hottabych smirked triumphantly.
     "He didn't drown!"
     "What do you mean? How d'you know he didn't drown?"
     "Certainly I am the one to  know," Hottabych said. "I lay  in  wait for
him near the first row in the dark room and I said to myself in great anger,
'No,  you will  tell nothing, 0 Zhenya! Nothing which is unpleasant  to your
great, wise  friend Volka ibn Alyosha, for never  again will  you see anyone
who will believe you or will be interested in such news!' That's what I said
to myself as I tossed him far away to the  East, right to where  the edge of
the Earth meets the edge of the Heavens and where, I assume,  he has already
been  sold into slavery. There he can tell  whomever he  wants to about your
beard."

        CHARTING A FLIGHT

     "What do  you  mean-slavery?!  Sell Zhenya  Bogorad  into slavery?!"  a
shaken Volka asked.
     The old man saw that something had gone wrong again, an his face became
very sour.
     "It's very simple. It's quite usual. Just like they always  sell people
into slavery," he mumbled, rubbing his hands together nervously and avoiding
Volka's eyes. "That's  so he won't babble for nothing, 0 most pleasant  dope
in the world."
     The old man was very pleased at having been able to put the new word he
had learned from Volka the night before into the conversation. But his young
saviour was  so  upset by  the  terrible  news  that  he  really didn't  pay
attention to having been called dope for nothing.
     "That's horrible!" Volka  cried,  holding  his head. "Hottabych,  d'you
realize what you've done?"
     "Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab always realizes what he does!"
     "Like hell you  do! For no reason  at  all, you're  ready  to turn good
people into sparrows  or  sell  them  into slavery.  Bring Zhenya back  here
immediately!"
     "No!" Hottabych shook his head. "Don't demand the impossible of me!"
     "But  do you  find it possible to sell people into slavery? Golly,  you
can't even imagine what I'll do if you don't bring Zhenya right back!"
     To  tell the  truth, Volka himself  had no  idea what he could do -s to
save  Zhenya from  the clutches  of unknown slave dealers, but he would have
thought of something. He would have written to some  ministry or  other. But
which ministry? And what was he to say?
     By now  the readers of this  book know Volka  well enough to agree that
he's  no  cry-baby.  But  this  was  too  much,  even  for  Volka. Yes,  our
courageous, fearless Volka sat  down on the edge of the first bench  he came
upon and broke into tears of helpless rage.
     The old man asked anxiously:
     "What is the meaning of  this crying that has overcome  you? Answer me,
and do not tear my heart apart, 0 my young saviour."
     But Volka, regarding the old man with hate-filled eyes;
     pushed him away as he leaned over him with concern.
     Hottabych  looked  at  Volka  closely,   sucked  his  lips   and   said
thoughtfully:
     "I'm really amazed.  No  matter what I do, it just doesn't seem to make
you happy. Though I'm  trying  my best to please you, all my efforts  are in
vain. The most powerful potentates of the  East and  West would often appeal
to my magic powers, and  there was not  a  single one among them who was not
grateful  to me later and did not glorify my name in words and thoughts. And
look at me now! I'm  trying to understand what's  wrong, but I cannot. Is it
senility? Ah, I'm getting old!"
     "Oh no, no, Hottabych, you  still look very young," Volka  said through
his tears.
     And true enough, the old man was well preserved for being close on four
thousand years of age. No one would have ever given him more than seventy or
seventy-five. Any of our readers would have looked much older at his age.
     "You flatter me," Hottabych smiled and  added: "No, it is not within my
powers to return your friend Zhenya immediately."
     Volka's face turned ashen from grief.
     "But," the old man continued significantly, "if his absence  upsets you
so, we can fly over and fetch him."
     "Fly?! So far away? How?"
     "How?  Not  on  a   bird,  of  course,"  Hottabych  answered  craftily.
"Obviously, on a magic carpet, 0 greatest dope in the world."
     This time Volka noticed  that he had been called  such an  unflattering
name. "Whom did you call a dope?!" he flared.
     "Why, you, of course, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha, for you are wise beyond your
years," Hottabych replied, being extremely pleased that he was again able to
use his new word so successfully in a conversation.
     Volka was about to  feel offended.  However, he  blushed as he recalled
that he had no one to blame but himself. Avoiding the old man's honest eyes,
he asked him never again to call him a dope, for he was not worthy of such a
great honour.
     "I praise your modesty,  0 priceless Volka ibn Alyosha," Hottabych said
with great respect.
     "When  can  we  start?"  Volka  asked,  still  unable  to  overcome his
embarrassment.
     "Right now, if you wish."
     "Then let's be off!" However, he added anxiously, "I don't know what to
do about Father  and  Mother.  They'll worry if  I fly away without  telling
them, but if I tell them, they won't let me go."
     "Let it worry you no more," the old man  said. "I'll  cast  a spell  on
them and they won't think of you once during our absence."
     "You don't know my parents!"
     "And you don't know Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!"


        THE FLIGHT

     In  one  corner  of the magic  carpet the pile was  rather  worn,  most
probably due to moths. On the whole,  however,  it was wonderfully preserved
and the fringes were as good as new.  Volka thought he had seen exactly  the
same  kind  of  carpet before, but  he could not  recall whether  it was  in
Zhenya's house or in the Teachers' Room at school.
     They took off from  the river bank  without a  single witness  to their
departure. Hottabych  took Volka's hand and stood  him  in the middle of the
carpet  beside himself;  he then yanked three hairs from  his beard, blew on
them,  and  whispered  something,  rolling  his  eyes  skyward.  The  carpet
trembled. One after the other, all four tassled corners rose. Then the edges
buckled and rose, but the middle remained on the grass, weighted down by the
two heavy passengers. After fluttering a bit, the carpet became motionless.
     The old man bustled about in confusion.
     "Excuse  me, 0 kind Volka. There's been a mistake somewheres.  I'll fix
everything in a minute."
     Hottabych  was quiet as he did some complex figuring on his fingers. He
apparently got the  right answer, because he beamed. Then he yanked six more
hairs from his beard, tore off half of one hair and threw it away, and  then
blew on the others, saying the magic words and rolling his eyes skyward. Now
the carpet ' straightened out and became as flat  and as hard as a staircase
landing. It soared upwards, carrying  off a smiling Hottabych and Volka, who
was dizzy from exhilaration, or the height, or from both together.
     The  carpet rose over the highest trees, over the highest houses,  over
the highest factory stacks and sailed over the city that was blinking with a
million  lights  below. They  could hear muffled  voices, automobile  horns,
people singing in row boats on the river and the far-off music of a band.
     The city  was plunged in twilight,  but here, high  up in the air, they
could  still  see the  crimson  ball of  the sun  sinking  slowly beyond the
horizon.
     "I wonder how high up we are now?" Volka said thoughtfully.
     "About 600  or  700 elbows," Hottabych  answered,  still  figuring  out
something on his fingers.
     Meanwhile,  the  carpet settled on  its course,  though  still  gaining
height. Hottabych sat down majestically, crossing his legs and holding on to
his hat. Volka tried to sit down cross-legged, as  Hottabych  had, but found
neither pleasure nor satisfaction from this position. He shut his eyes tight
to  overcome his  awful dizziness and sat down on  the  edge  of the carpet,
dangling  his legs over the side. Though this was more comfortable, the wind
tore  at his  legs  mercilessly; it blew them  off  to a side  and they were
constantly at a sharp angle to  his body. He soon became convinced that this
method was no good either, and finally settled down with his  legs stretched
out before him on the carpet.
     In  no  time, he felt chilled to the bone. He thought sadly of his warm
jacket that was so far below in his closet at home, hundreds of miles away.
     As a last resort, he decided  to warm up the way  cabbies used to do in
the olden days, long before he was born. His father  once showed him  how it
was done when they were out ice  skating.  Volka began to slap his shoulders
and sides in sweeping motions, and in the twinkling of an eye he slipped off
the carpet and into nothingness.
     Needless  to say, if he had not  grabbed  on to the  fringes, our story
would have ended with this unusual air accident.
     Hottabych did not even notice what had happened to his young friend. He
was sitting  with  his back to  Volka, his legs tucked under  him in Eastern
fashion and lost in thought. He was trying to recall  how to break spells he
himself had cast.
     "Hottabych!" Volka howled,  feeling that he  wouldn't  last long, as he
hung on to the fringes. "Help, Hottabych!"
     "0 woe is me!" the  old man cried, seeing that Volka was flying through
the air. "Shame on  my old grey head!  I would have killed myself if you had
perished!"
     Muttering and calling himself all kinds of names for being so careless,
he dragged a petrified Volka back up on the carpet, sat him down and put his
arm around the boy, firmly resolved not to let go of him until they landed.
     "It would be  g-g-good t-t-to h-h-have s-s-something w-w-warm to wear!"
Volka said wistfully through chattering teeth.
     "S-s-sure,  0  gracious  Volka ibn  Alyosha!"  Hottabych  answered  and
covered him with a quilted robe that appeared from nowhere.
     It became  dark.  Now it  was  especially  uncomfortable on  the  magic
carpet. Volka suggested that they rise another 500 elbows or so. "Then we'll
see the sun again."
     Hottabych greatly doubted that they could see the sun  before  morning,
since it had already set, but he didn't argue.
     You can imagine how surprised he was and how his esteem for Volka grew,
when,  as they rose higher, they really saw the sun again! For a second time
its crimson edge was barely touching the black line of the far horizon.
     "Oh, Volka, if only I had not promised  myself faithfully  to obey your
modest request, nothing would prevent  me from calling you the greatest dope
in  the world," Hottabych  cried  ecstatically.  However,  when  he saw  how
displeased Volka was, he quickly added, "but since  you forbade  it, I shall
limit  myself to expressing  my amazement at  the unusual  maturity of  your
mind. I "promised never to call you a dope and I won't."
     "And don't call anyone else by that name, either."
     "All right, 0 Volka," Hottabych agreed obediently.
     "Do you swear?"
     "Yes, I do!"
     "Now  don't forget," Volka said in a tone of satisfaction  that puzzled
Hottabych.
     Far  below them  forests and  fields, rivers  and  lakes,  villages and
cities sailed  by,  adorned in  softly glowing  pearly strings  of  electric
lights. A sea of clouds with hard round edges appeared;
     they darkened and  disappeared in the  blackness  below, but the carpet
kept on flying farther and farther away to the south-east, closer and closer
to the strange land where the young prisoner
     Zhenya  Bogorad was  probably already suffering at the  hands of fierce
and terrible slave traders.
     "To think that poor  Zhenya's  breaking his back at hard labour," Volka
said bitterly after a long silence.
     A guilty Hottabych only grunted in reply.
     "He's all alone in  a  strange land, without any  friends or relatives.
The poor fellow's probably groaning," Volka continued sadly.
     Hottabych again said nothing.
     If only our  travellers could have heard what  was  happening that very
minute, thousands of miles away to the East!
     Far away in the East, Zhenya Bogorad was really groaning.
     "Oh no, I can't!" Zhenya moaned, "Oh no, no more!"
     In order  to  describe the  circumstances under which he uttered  these
heart-rending words, we  shall have to  part with our travellers for a while
and relate the experiences of Zhenya Bogorad, a  pioneer group  leader of 6B
(7B, as of the day before) of Moscow Secondary School No. 245.

     ZHENYA BOGORAD'S ADVENTURES FAR AWAY IN THE EAST

     As  soon as  Zhenya Bogorad,  seated  in  the first  row of the  Saturn
Theatre, turned around  to catch  a glimpse  of the bearded  boy  before the
movie  began,  everything  suddenly  went  dark, he heard  an  ear-splitting
whistle, and  instead of  the hard floor beneath his  feet,  he felt  he was
standing in tall grass.
     When his  eyes became accustomed  to the dark, he was greatly amazed to
discover that he  was in  a dense forest  filled  with the  aroma of strange
flowers. Lianas hung  from huge trees, the likes of which he had  never seen
before. Yes, these were definitely lianas. It was hot and humid, much hotter
than it had been in the projection room.
     Holding his arms out,  Zhenya  took several cautious steps  and  nearly
trod on a  ... snake! The snake hissed like a  broken bicycle pump,  flashed
its small green eyes and disappeared in the bushes.
     "Golly! Where am I?!"  Zhenya  wondered, not daring to move. "It's just
like the jungles. It's  just like a dream. Why,  sure," he thought  happily,
"sure, this is all a dream! I'm sleeping and this is a dream."
     At one time or another everyone has had a dream in which he knows quite
clearly that he  is  dreaming.  It's fun to  have such  a dream:  no dangers
frighten you,  and you  always succeed  in  the  most hazardous  feats. Most
important, you know  the time will come when you'll awake  safe and sound in
your own bed.
     However,  when  Zhenya  attempted to make his way  through  the prickly
bushes, he really got scratched. Since it's most unpleasant to be hurt, even
though you are quite positive everything is just a dream, Zhenya  decided to
doze off till morning.
     When he awoke, he  saw the hot, pale blue  sky shining brightly through
the openings in the  crowns of the trees. Zhenya was overjoyed  to find  his
wonderful dream still continuing!
     The first thing he saw when he found his way  to the edge of the forest
were four elephants carrying huge logs in their trunks. A thin, dark-skinned
man,  naked to the waist and  wearing a  white  turban,  was riding the lead
elephant.
     In the distance, smoke curled from the rooftops of a small village. Now
Zhenya knew what  he was  dreaming  about. He was dreaming about India! This
was really wonderful. Yet, still more wonderful things awaited him.
     "Who  are  you?"  the  man  on  the  elephant  asked  Zhenya dryly. "An
Englishman? A Portuguese? An American?"
     "No,"  Zhenya answered  in broken  English. "I Russian, Rusi."  Just to
make sure, he pointed to himself and said, "Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai."
     At this, the man  on the elephant beamed  and nodded so vigorously that
it was a wonder his turban didn't fall off his head.
     Then  he  made his elephant kneel and he took Zhenya up beside him. The
whole cavalcade, swaying majestically, continued towards the village.
     On the way they met several children.
     The man  shouted something  to  them;  they  gaped  and stared  at  the
real-life  Soviet  boy. Then they dashed back to the  village, shouting  and
skipping. By the time Zhenya Bogorad, a 7B pupil  of Moscow Secondary School
No.  245,  arrived  in  the  village riding the head  elephant,  its  entire
population had poured out into the narrow single street.
     What a welcome it was!
     Zhenya was helped down respectfully, he was led into a room and offered
food, which was more than welcome, since he found  that even in his sleep he
was hungry. Imagine, what a real dream he was having! Then people approached
him  and  shook  his hand,  then everybody  sang a long and plaintive Indian
song. Zhenya sang along with them as best he could and everyone was terribly
pleased.  Then Zhenya sang the democratic youth song and some boys and girls
joined in, while the rest sang along as best they could. Then everyone began
coaxing a young Hindu  youth  and he finally gave in and began another song,
which Zhenya recognized  as "Katyusha." He joined in enthusiastically, while
everyone else  clapped in rhythm to the song. Then they shook his hand again
and everyone shouted Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai!
     When things settled down a bit, the  whole village began a conversation
with  Zhenya.  However, since neither  he nor the villagers  knew very  much
English, it took a long time for them to discover whether  Zhenya was  in  a
hurry  to get to Delhi and the Soviet Embassy. But  Zhenya was in no special
rush. Why should a  person hurry when he's  having such  an interesting  and
pleasant dream?
     In no time,  delegates from  a neighbouring village arrived to lead the
honoured guest to their village. In  this village and in the three others he
visited  during that wonderful  day  the scene which had taken  place in the
first village was repeated again and again.
     He spent the night in the fourth village. At day-break delegates from a
fifth village were awaiting him. This was when Zhenya began to moan a bit.
     Just try not to moan when hundreds of friendly arms toss  you up to the
accompaniment  of: Hindi Rusi bhai,  bhai and overflowing emotions make them
toss you as high as the clouds.
     Luckily for him,  they soon heard  the  rumbling of a small truck which
was going  past the closest  railway  station  and  which was to take Zhenya
along.
     Smiling villagers surrounded the  perspiring  boy, they shook his hands
and embraced him. Two girls came running up with  a  large wreath of flowers
and put  it  around his neck. The young guest blushed.  Three boys and their
schoolteacher  brought him a gift of  a large bunch of bananas. On behalf of
all the  villagers, the teacher wished Zhenya a happy  journey. The children
asked him to say hello to the children of  Moscow from the children of India
and they  also asked  for  his  autograph, just  as if  he had been a famous
person. Naturally, he could not refuse.
     Clutching the bunch of bananas with both hands and bowing to all sides,
Zhenya  was  being  helped  onto  the  running  board when suddenly  he  ...
disappeared. He simply vanished!
     This in itself was  worthy  of great amazement, but more amazing  still
was the fact that not a single villager was surprised at this. They were not
surprised, because they  immediately and completely forgot all about Zhenya.
But  we, dear reader, should by no means be surprised that they forgot about
him so quickly.

        TRA-LA-LA, 0 IBN ALYOSHA!

     There is  nothing more dangerous than falling asleep on a magic  carpet
without having first taken the necessary precautions.
     Tired from  all their experiences and lulled to sleep by  the  complete
quiet that  surrounded them, Hottabych and  Volka did not  notice  how  they
dozed off under the warm quilted robes that had appeared from nowheres.
     Volka had curled up cosily and  slept a dreamless sleep, but Hottabych,
who  had  fallen  asleep  sitting  up uncomfortably, with his  chest pressed
against his sharp old knees, had a terrible dream.
     He  dreamt  that the servants  of  Sulayman, son of  David, led  by the
Vizier Asaf ibn Barakhiya, were  once  again about to imprison him in a clay
vessel  and that they had stuffed him halfway in  already, but that  he  was
struggling desperately, pressing  his chest against the mouth of the bottle.
He  dreamt  that his  wonderful young  friend  and  saviour was about  to be
stuffed into another vessel and then  neither of them would ever be rescued,
while  poor  Zhenya would have to suffer the  slave's  lot to the end of his
days,  with  no one  to  save him. Worst of all, someone had a firm  hold on
Hottabych's arms so that he was  unable to yank a single hair from his beard
and therefore was  unable to use his magic powers to save himself and Volka.
Realizing that  it would be too late to  do anything in a few more  moments,
Hottabych  exerted all his energy.  In  great despair  he  plunged sideways,
forcefully enough to fall completely out of the vessel. Before really waking
up, he slipped off the carpet into the cold black void below.
     Fortunately, his  shout  awakened Volka. The boy was just able to  grab
his  left arm. Now it was Hottabych's turn to fly in  tow behind the carpet.
However, the tow was not very  firm: the old man was  too  heavy  for Volka.
They  would  probably  have plunged downwards  from this great height to the
unseen  Earth below, if Hottabych had  not managed  to yank a whole batch of
hair from his beard with his  free hand and rattle  off  the necessary magic
words.
     Suddenly, Volka found he could pull the old man up quite easily.
     Our  young  fellow's  happiness  would  have  been  complete,  had  not
Hottabych been bellowing,  "Aha, 0 Volka!  Everything's in  top  shape, 0 my
precious one!" and trying to sing something and laughing with such wild glee
all the while  Volka was pulling him  up that he really became worried: what
if  the old  man had  lost his mind from fright? True, once Hottabych  found
himself on the carpet, he  stopped singing. Yet, he could think  of  nothing
better to do  than begin a jig. And this in  the  middle of  the night! On a
shabby, threadbare old magic carpet!
     "Tra-la-la, 0 Volka! Tra-la-la, 0 ibn Alyosha!" Hottabych yelled in the
darkness, raising his  long skinny  legs  high and  constantly  running  the
danger of falling off the carpet again.
     Finally, he gave in  to Volka's pleas and  stopped dancing. Instead, he
began to sing again. At first he sang "When Your Far-off Friend is Singing,"
terribly off-key and then went on  to mutilate an old Gypsy love song called
"Open the Garden  Gate," which  he  had heard goodness  knows where.  All at
once, he stopped singing, crouched, and yanked several hairs from his beard.
Volka guessed what he was doing by the slight crystal tinkling.
     In a word, if you ever  forget something very  important and just can't
recall it, there's no better remedy than to fall off a magic carpet, if even
for  a second. Such  a fall really clears one's memory.  At least it  helped
Hottabych recall how to break spells he himself had cast.
     Now there was no need to continue the difficult and dangerous flight to
rescue the unfortunate Zhenya  Bogorad  from  slavery.  Indeed, the sound of
crystal tinkling was still in  the air when Zhenya fell out of  the darkness
and onto the magic carpet, clutching a twenty-pound bunch of bananas.
     "Zhenya!" Volka shouted happily.
     The  magic  carpet  could not withstand the  extra weight  and  plunged
downward with a whistling sound.  Suddenly, it became damp  and chilly.  The
stars shining overhead disappeared. They had entered a cloud bank.
     "Hottabych!"  Volka shouted. "We have to get out  of here, up over  the
clouds!"
     But Hottabych did  not answer. Through the  heavy fog they could barely
make out the  shrivelled figure  with his collar turned up.  The old man was
hurriedly yanking one  hair after another  from his beard. There was a sound
like plink,  like  a  tightly stretched  string  on  a home-made  children's
balalaika. With a  moan of despair, Hottabych would throw out the  hair  and
yank out another. Once again  they'd hear  the plink, once again the moan of
despair, and the despondent mumbling of the old Genie.
     "Hey, Volka," Zhenya said, "What's this we're flying  on? It looks like
a magic carpet."
     "That's exactly what it is. Hottabych, what's taking you so long?"
     "There's no such thing as a magic carpet," Zhenya said. "Help!"
     The carpet had dipped sharply.
     Volka had no time to argue with Zhenya.
     "Hottabych, what's the matter?"  he said, tugging at the old man's damp
coat sleeve.
     "0  woe is  me!" came the  hollow, sobbing  voice of a faintly  visible
Hottabych through  the whistling of the falling carpet. "0 woe is all of us!
I'm soaked from head to toe!"
     "We're all drenched!" Volka shouted back angrily. "What selfishness!"
     "My beard! Alas, my beard is wet!"
     "Ha, what a thing to worry about!" Zhenya smirked.
     "My beard  is  wet!" Hottabych  repeated  in terrible  grief.  "I'm  as
helpless  as a babe. You need dry hair for  magic,  the very  driest kind of
hair!"
     "We'll  go  smack  against the ground!"  Volka said in a  wooden voice.
"There'll just be a little wet spot left from all of us."
     "Wait!  Wait  a  minute!" Zhenya panted. "The main thing is not to  get
panicky! What do people in balloons do in such a case?
     In  such a case, people flying  in balloons throw  their  extra ballast
overboard. Farewell, my dear Indian bananas!"
     With  these  words  he  tossed  the  heavy  bunch of bananas  into  the
darkness.  They  began  to  fall  more slowly.  Then  they  stopped  falling
altogether. The  carpet  swerved  upwards and was caught  in an air  current
which carried them to the right of their previous course.
     Zhenya was dying to know what this was all about, and so he asked Volka
in a whisper:
     "Volka, Volka! Who's the old man?"
     "Later," Volka  whispered back. "I'll tell you later,  when we get back
on the ground. Understand?"
     All Zhenya understood was that for  some very important reason or other
all his questions would have to wait till later.
     Volka shared his robe with Zhenya and gradually all three dozed off.

        MEET MY FRIEND

     Volka awoke from a pleasant ringing sound, like the tinkling of crystal
chandelier pendants. Still half asleep, he thought it  was Hottabych yanking
magic hairs. But  no,  the old man was snoring softly, sleeping like a babe.
The tinkling sound was coming from the icicles on  his beard  and the frozen
carpet fringes flying in the fresh morning wind.
     In the East,  the blinding sun was rising.  It kept getting  warmer and
warmer. The icicles on Hottabych's beard and on the fringes melted;  the icy
crust that had  covered the rest of the carpet also melted. Hottabych turned
over  on his  side, yawned and began  to snore  with  a whistle, as if there
really was a pipe in his nose.
     Zhenya  woke  up  from the  dampness  and  the warmth. Leaning  towards
Volka's chilled ear he whispered:
     "Do tell me who the old man is?"
     "Come clean,"  Volka  whispered back, keeping  a wary eye on Hottabych.
"Did you want to talk to the fellows about me behind my back?"
     "What of it?"
     "Just that he doesn't like it."
     "What doesn't he like?"
     "He doesn't like people to go blabbering about me!"
     "Humph!"
     "Humph yourself! Presto! And you're in a desert. It's all very-simple."
     Zhenya wasn't convinced.
     Volka  cast another  wary glance at  Hottabych and  moved closer to his
friend's ear.
     "Do you think I'm crazy?"
     "What a silly question!"
     "Not even a bit?"
     "Of course not."
     "Well, believe  it or not,  but this  old man  is a Genie, a real  live
Genie from the Arabian Nights!"
     "Boloney!"
     "And he was the one who got everything  messed  up during the  exam. He
prompted me and I had to repeat everything like a parrot."
     "Him?!"
     "But don't say a word about my  having failed. He swore to kill all the
teachers if they failed me. And now I'm knocking myself out  to save Varvara
Stepanovna  from  his  magic. I have to keep distracting him all  the  time.
Understand?"
     "Not really."
     "Well, be quiet anyway!"
     "Don't  worry, I will," Zhenya whispered thoughtfully. "Then he was the
one who tossed me into India?"
     "Sure he was. And he got you back from India, too. If you want to know,
he sent you there so they could sell you into slavery."
     Zhenya giggled.
     "Me, a slave? Ha-ha-ha!"
     "Ssh! You'll wake him up."
     But  Volka's  warning  came  too  late.  Hottabych opened his  eyes and
yawned.
     "Good morning, 0 Volka. Am I correct in assuming that this young man is
none other than your friend Zhenya?"
     "Yes, I'd like you to meet him," Volka said, introducing  his recovered
friend to Hottabych as if all this was taking place in the most  ordinary of
circumstances and not on a magic carpet high above the Earth.
     "Pleased to meet you," Zhenya said solemnly.
     Hottabych was silent for a moment, looking at the boy closely to decide
whether or not he was worth a kind word. He apparently became convinced that
Volka had not made  a mistake  in choosing his friend and so smiled his most
amiable smile.
     "There is no end to my happiness at meeting you. Any friend of my young
master is my best friend."
     "Master?" Zhenya asked.
     "Master and saviour."
     "Saviour?!" Zhenya repeated and giggled.
     "There's no need to laugh," Volka stopped him sternly. "There's nothing
to laugh about."
     In  as  few words as possible, he told  Zhenya everything our attentive
readers already know.



        HAVE MERCY ON US, 0 MIGHTY RULER!

     Twice that day the magic carpet  passed through heavy cloud  banks, and
each time Hottabych's nearly dry beard would again become so  damp it was no
use thinking about even the simplest kind  of magic-something that would get
them  some food,  for  instance. They were  beginning  to feel  hungry. Even
Zhenya's  description of his adventures  of the previous day  could not take
their minds away from food.  But, most  important, there was no end to their
flight in sight.
     They were hungry, bored, and extremely uncomfortable. The carpet seemed
to be  stuck  in mid-air,  so slowly  did it fly and  so monotonous was  the
steppe stretching far below them. At times, cities or little blue ribbons of
rivers would drift by  slowly, and  then  once  again they saw  nothing  but
steppe and endless fields of ripening wheat. Zhenya was right in saying they
were flying over the southern part of the country. Then, suddenly, ahead and
to  the  right of them,  as far as the  eye could see, there  was blue water
below. To the left was the ragged line of distant mountains.
     "It's the Black Sea!" the boys shouted in unison.
     "0 woe is us," Hottabych cried. "We're going straight out to sea!"
     Fortunately, a capricious air  current turned the  carpet a  bit to the
left and  tossed  it into another  cloud  bank at  top speed.  Thus,  it was
carried along the Caucasian coastline.
     Through an opening in the clouds, Zhenya noticed the city of Tuapse far
below, its boats on anchor at the long, jutting pier.
     Then everything was lost in a thick fog again. Our travellers' clothing
once   again-for  the   hundredth  time!-became   wet.  The  carpet  was  so
water-logged and heavy that it began to fall sharply with a whistling sound.
In  a few short seconds the  clouds were left  far  above. Soon, the  famous
resort  city of Sochi flashed by below in the blinding  rays of the  setting
sun.
     As it descended lower and lower, the carpet passed over the broad white
band of the Sochi-Matsesta Highway. The three passengers, horror-stricken in
expectation  of  their  near  and  terrible end, thought  that  the highway,
studded  on both sides  by former palaces which  were  now  rest  homes, was
dashing towards them at a mad speed.
     They had a  momentary glimpse of a beautiful bridge thrown over a deep,
narrow valley.
     Then they were grazing the tree-tops. It  seemed as if they could touch
them if they leaned over.
     Then they  flew over a sanatorium with a high escalator which  took the
bathers up from the beach in a pretty little car.
     Several  minutes  later, amidst  a shower of spray, the  carpet plunged
into  the swimming  pool  of  another  sanatorium. The place  was quiet  and
deserted, as it was supper time and  all the vacationers were in  the dining
room. Shedding  water and puffing, our  ill-fated travellers climbed  out of
the pool.
     "It could have been worse," Volka said, looking around curiously.
     "Sure," Zhenya agreed. "We  could have crashed into a building just  as
easy as pie. Or into a mountain."
     It was a good thing there was no one close by.  The travellers sat down
on beach chairs  placed near the pool. They undressed, wrung out  their  wet
clothes, pulled them on again,  shivering and groaning  with cold, and  then
left the swimming enclosure.
     "If  only  I could dry  my  beard,  everything would be  just  lovely,"
Hottabych said with concern and touched it, just to make sure. "Ah, me! It's
quite damp!"
     "Let's look for the kitchen," Zhenya suggested. "Maybe  they'll let you
dry it near  the stove.  Boy, what wouldn't I give for  a big chunk of bread
and some sausage!"
     "Or some fried potatoes," Volka added.
     "You're  breaking  my  heart,  0  my young  friends,"  Hottabych  cried
woefully. "It's all my fault that you...." .
     "No,  it's  not your fault at all," Volka  consoled him. "Let's go look
for the kitchen."
     They  passed the deserted tennis court, went down a paved path under  a
high arch and found themselves before the  majestic, snow-white columns of a
miners' sanatorium. A circular  fountain with a pool as big as a dance floor
shot up foaming sprays of water, right to the  third-storey windows. All the
windows of the main building were brightly lit.
     "Our end  has come!" Hottabych  gasped. "We're in  the palace of a most
wealthy  and mighty potentate. His  guards will be on us any minute and chop
off our heads, and I'm the only one to blame! 0 woe! Oh, such terrible shame
on my old grey head!"
     Zhenya giggled. Volka nudged  him, to make him  still and not tease the
old man.
     "What guards? Which  heads?" Volka asked  with annoyance. "It's a  very
ordinary  sanatorium.  What  I  mean is, not  very  ordinary, but very nice.
Though I think they're all the same here in Sochi."
     "I    was    an    expert    on   palaces,    0    Volka,   when   your
great-great-great-grandfather wasn't  even born,  and I, for one,  certainly
know that guards will come running any minute and.... 0 woe is us! Here they
come!"
     The boys also heard the sounds of  running feet on the staircase of the
main building.
     "Jafar!" someone hanging over  the  banister shouted from above. "We'll
look  for them together after  supper! They  can't  disappear this  late  at
night! Jafar!"
     "Did you hear him?"  Hottabych  cried,  grabbing  the  boys' hands.  He
dragged them off to a side path as fast as he could and from there  into the
nearest bushes.
     "Did you hear him? That was the Sergeant of the Guard shouting. They'll
go looking for us after supper, and they'll  certainly find us. But my beard
has soaked up as much water as a sponge, and I'm as helpless as a babe!"
     Just then he happened to glance at two towels hanging over the back  of
a park bench.
     "Allah be praised!"  he  cried  excitedly, running towards the  towels.
"These will help me  dry my beard! Then  we won't have to fear any guards in
the world."
     He picked up first one and then the other towel and groaned:
     "0 Allah! They are quite damp! And the guards are so close!"
     Nevertheless, he hurriedly began to dry his beard.
     It was while  he  was drying  it that  an  Azerbaijanian  of tremendous
height, dressed in a dark red robe, came upon them. He  appeared from behind
the pink bushes as unexpectedly as a Jack-in-the-box.
     "Aha!" he said rather calmly. "Here they are. Tell me, my dear man,  is
this your towel?"
     "Spare us, 0 mighty ruler!" Hottabych cried, falling to his knees. "You
can  chop off my head, but these youths  are  in no way  guilty. Let them go
free! They have lived but such a short while!"
     "Hottabych,  get up  and don't  make a fool of yourself!" Volka said in
great embarrassment. "What kind of a ruler  are you talking about? He's just
a very ordinary man here on a holiday."
     "I won't get  up  until this wonderful  and merciful sultan promises to
spare your lives, 0 my young friends!"
     The Azerbaijanian  shrugged  his  mighty  shoulders and  said, "My dear
citizen, why  are you  insulting me? What kind  of  a sultan am  I?  I'm  an
ordinary Soviet citizen." He puffed out his chest  and added, "I'm Jafar Alt
Muhammedov, a drilling foreman. Do you know where Baku is?"
     Hottabych shook his head.
     "Do you know where Bibi-Aibat is?"
     Hottabych shook his head again.
     "Don't you read the  papers?  Now,  what  are you kneeling  for? That's
shameful.  Oh, how very shameful and embarrassing, my  dear man!" Muhammedov
pulled the old man to his feet.
     "Wait a  minute!" Volka whispered like a conspirator, taking Muhammedov
off to a side. "Don't pay any attention to the old man. He's off his rocker.
And the worst part of it is, we're so wet."
     "Ah! Did you get  caught in the rain in the mountains  too? I came back
as wet as a mouse. Vai, vai! The old man may catch cold. Dear man," he said,
catching  Hottabych  under  the arms  as  he was about to  fall to his knees
again.  "You  look  very  familiar. Are  you from Gandji?  You look  like my
father, except that he's older. My father's going on eighty-three."
     "Then know ye, 0 mighty ruler,  that I am going on three thousand seven
hundred and thirty-three!" Hottabych replied hotly.
     It  was only to Muhammedov's credit  that he  didn't bat an eyelid upon
hearing  these  words. He merely nodded  understandingly  to Volka,  who was
winking hard from behind Hottabych's back.
     Pressing his  right  hand to his  heart, the drilling foreman  answered
Hottabych politely, "Of course, my good  man, of course.  But you're so well
preserved.  Let's  go and  warm  up. We'll have something to eat and rest or
else you might catch cold. Va, how you remind me of my father!" -
     "I don't  dare disobey, 0 mighty ruler," Hottabych answered  fawningly,
touching his beard ever so often. Alas! It was still very, very damp.
     Oh, how  restless his soul  was! All his many years' experience rose up
against  the fact that  the  owner of the palace should invite a strange old
man and two young boys-all dressed in a far from elaborate  fashion-to share
his meal. That meant there was  some mischief to  be  expected. Perhaps this
Jafar Alt  ibn Mohammed was trying to coax them into his  palace in order to
play a joke on them and then, having had his fill  of torturing  them, would
order  his servants to  chop off their heads, or throw them into  cages with
wild beasts. Oh, how cautious he had to be!
     So thought Hottabych  as he and his young  friends ascended  the  broad
stairway to the first block of dormitories.
     They encountered no  one, either on the stairs or in the hall, and this
but served to confirm  Hottabych's suspicions.  Muhammedov  took them to his
room, induced the  old  man to  change into  a  pair of pyjamas,  and  left,
telling them to make themselves at  home. "I'll be back soon, after I give a
few orders. I'll be right back."
     "Aha!  We  know to whom you'll give those  orders  and what they'll  be
about, you crafty, two-faced ruler!" Hottabych thought. "You have a heart of
stone, one that is immune to mercy. To chop off such noble boys' heads!"
     Meanwhile, the noble boys were looking round the comfortable room.
     "Look, d'you see this?" Volka cried happily. He picked up a small table
fan, a thing Hottabych had never seen.
     "It's a fan," Volka explained. "We'll dry your beard in a flash!"
     True enough, in two minutes' time Hottabych's beard was ready for use.
     "We'll test it," the sly old man mumbled innocently.
     He  yanked out two hairs. Before the  crystal  tinkling  sound had died
down,  our friends suddenly found  themselves about three miles away, on the
warm  sandy  beach.  At their feet, the blue-black waves  of the rising tide
softly lapped against the shore.
     "This is much better,"  Hottabych  said  contentedly. Before  the  boys
could utter a sound, he yanked three more hairs from his beard.
     That very instant  a  large tray of  steaming roast lamb  and a second,
smaller tray of fruit and biscuits appeared on the sand.
     Hottabych snapped his fingers and two  strange-looking  bronze pitchers
with sherbet appeared.
     "Golly!" Zhenya cried. "But what about our clothes?"
     "Alas,  I  am  becoming  forgetful  before  my  time,"  Hottabych  said
critically and yanked out  another  hair. Their clothes and shoes became dry
the same instant.
     Moreover, their things appeared freshly pressed and their shoes  shined
brightly and even smelling of the most expensive shoe polish.
     "And may this treacherous ruler,  Jafar Alt ibn Muhammed, call  for  as
many  guards  as he wishes!"  the  old man said with  satisfaction,  pouring
himself a cup of icy, fragrant sherbet. "The birds have flown out from under
the knife!"
     "Why, he's no  ruler!" Volka said indignantly. "He's  a real  nice man.
And if you want to know, he didn't go off to call any guards, he went to get
us something to eat."
     "You're too young to teach me, 0  Volka!" Hottabych snapped, for he was
really displeased that his  young companions were not in the least  thankful
for having been saved from death's jaws.  "Who but I should know what rulers
look like and how  they  behave! Know ye, that there are no more treacherous
men than sultans."
     "But  he's  no  sultan,  he's a  foreman.  D'you understand, a drilling
foreman!"
     "Let's not argue, 0 Volka," the old man answered glumly.
     "Don't you think it's time we sat down to eat?"
     "What  about your pyjamas?"  Zhenya said, seeing  that  they could  not
out-talk the old man this time. "You've carried off someone else's pyjamas!"
     "Oh,  Allah!  I've  never  yet degraded  myself by stealing," Hottabych
cried unhappily.
     If  all the people at the  sanatorium were not then in the dining hall,
they  probably would  have seen a pair of striped pyjamas appear suddenly in
the dark sky, coming from the direction of Matsesta, flying at the height of
the third-storey windows. The  pyjamas flew into Muhammedov's  room  through
the open  balcony doors and  draped themselves neatly  over the back of  the
chair, from which the  kind drilling foreman had  so recently picked them up
and handed them to a shivering Hottabych.
     Muhammedov, however, forgot all about  the old man  and the boys before
he even reached the dining hall.
     "I found them," he said to his room-mate. "I found both towels. We left
them on the bench when we sat down to rest."
     Then  he  joined the others  at  the table  and  applied himself to his
supper.

     IT'S SO EMBARRASSING TO BE AN ILLITERATE GENIE!

     Before Muhammedov had a chance to start on his dessert, the clouds that
our travellers  had left somewhere between Tuapse and Sochi  finally reached
the spa and burst forth in a loud, torrential, sub-tropical storm.
     In a moment the streets, parks and beaches became deserted.
     Soon  the storm reached the spot where, by Hottabych's grace, the small
crew of the drowned magic carpet were to spend the night on the shore of the
Black Sea.
     Luckily, they noticed the  approaching storm in  time;  the prospect of
getting drenched to  the  bone again did not  appeal  to them in  the least.
However, the most important thing to keep  dry was the old  man's beard. The
simplest thing to do would have been to fly  somewhere farther south, but in
the pitch darkness of  the  southern night they  might  easily crash  into a
mountain.
     For  the time being, they took refuge under some bushes and  considered
where to go.
     '"I've  got  it!" Zhenya cried,  jumping to  his feet. "Golly, what  an
idea! We should smear his beard with oil!"
     "And then what?" the old man shrugged.
     "Then it won't even get wet in another Flood, that's what!"
     "Zhenya's right," Volka agreed, feeling a bit peeved that it was not he
who had thought of such a  wonderful, scientifically sound idea. "Hottabych,
go into action!"
     Hottabych yanked out  several  hairs, tore one of them in  two, and his
beard became covered with a thin layer of excellent palm oil.
     Then he tore  a second hair  in two and they all found themselves  in a
comfortable, marble-faced cave that suddenly appeared on the steep bank. And
while  a warm June storm was booming  loudly  over the Caucasian coast, they
sat on thick carpets, had a plentiful  dinner and  then fell asleep  soundly
till morning.
     They were awakened by the soft whispering of the crystal-clear waves.
     The sun had long since risen.
     Stretching  and yawning,  they went out onto the deserted beach, bathed
in the  slanting rays of  the morning sun. Immediately, as  if it  had never
existed, the cave that had sheltered them for the night disappeared.
     The boys were splashing delightedly in the cool waves  when they  heard
the  far-off hum of  an  airplane motor coming from the  direction  of Adler
Airport.
     A large  passenger  plane with glistening silver wings  was flying over
the sea.
     "Ah-h!" Zhenya sighed dreamily. "Wouldn't it be nice if  we could go to
Moscow in that plane?"
     "That's not a bad idea at all," Volka agreed.
     Thereupon Hottabych drew something very thin and white from his pocket.
It  resembled a delicate silver thread.  He  tore it into several pieces and
suddenly all three of them found themselves  in comfortable reclining  seats
inside the airplane.
     The  most  surprising thing was that none of the  passengers  paid  the
slightest attention to them, as if they had been aboard the plane right from
the start.
     "Hottabych,"  Zhenya whispered. "What was it you  tore that looked just
like a silver thread?"
     "Just a little hair from my beard," Hottabych replied, though he seemed
strangely embarrassed.
     "But you took it from your pocket."
     "I tore it out of my beard beforehand and hid it in my pocket, just ...
in case.... Forgive me, but I wasn't sure my oiled beard would stay dry."
     "Don't you believe in science?" Zhenya cried in amazement.
     "I am quite  well  versed in  the  sciences," Hottabych  said in a hurt
voice, "but I  don't know what kind of  a  science teaches you  to protect a
magic beard from getting wet by oiling it." To change  the subject  he said,
"How comfortable and speedy this air chariot is! At first, I thought we were
inside a tremendous and truly unusual iron bird and was indeed surprised."
     All conversation stopped at this point, because the old man became just
a tiny bit air-sick. Rather, he was very tired. He dozed off in his seat and
did not  open  his eyes until they  were quite near Moscow. Beneath them was
the great Moscow Sea.
     Volka, who was sitting  beside  him,  whispered proudly, "My uncle made
this sea."
     "This sea?"
     "Yes."
     "Your uncle?"
     "Yes."
     "You mean to say that you're Allah's nephew?" the old man sounded  very
sad.
     "My  uncle's  an  excavator  operator.  He's in  charge  of  a  walking
excavator. His name's Vladimir Nekrasov. If  you want to know, he's  digging
the Kuibyshev Sea right now."
     "My, oh my! You most blessed one!" Hottabych said turning an angry red.
"I so believed you, 0 Volka! I respected you so! And suddenly you tell  such
horrid, shameful lies!"
     "Is Vladimir Nekrasov really your uncle?" the  stocky man with a broad,
weather-beaten face sitting behind them asked loudly. "Is he really?"
     "He's my mother's cousin."
     "Why didn't you say so before!" the man exclaimed. "The  boy's got such
a  man for an uncle,  and  he doesn't  say a thing!  Why,  he's a rare  man,
indeed! I'm on my way back  from the Kuibyshev Sea  right now. We're working
on the same sector. Why, if you want to know, we...."
     Volka nodded towards a gloomy Hottabych.
     "But he doesn't believe my uncle made the Moscow Sea."
     "Ai-ai-ai, citizen.  That's not nice  at  all!" the man  began to shame
Hottabych. "How can you  doubt it? Vladimir Nekrasov dug  that sea  and  now
he's digging another, and if a third sea has to  be dug, he'll dig that one,
too! What's the matter? Don't you read the papers? Here, have a  look. Right
here. This is our paper." He pulled a newspaper from his battered brief-case
and pointed to a photograph. "See?"
     "Look! That's my uncle!" Volka shouted.  "Can I have this paper? I want
to give it to my mother."
     "Take it, it's yours," the man said. "Do you still doubt him?" he asked
Hottabych,  who  now  seemed  very  small.  "Here,  read  the heading:  'Our
Wonderful Sea-Builders.' It's all about his uncle."
     "Is it about you, too?" Zhenya asked.
     "It's mostly about Nekrasov. I'm not famous. Here, read it."
     Hottabych took the paper and pretended to read. Really now, he couldn't
admit he didn't know how to read, could he?
     That  is why,  on the way home  from the airport,  he  asked  his young
friends to teach him how to  read and write, for  he said he had nearly died
of shame  when  the  man had asked  him to read  the  words  "Our  Wonderful
Sea-Builders."
     They agreed that at the very first opportunity they would teach him how
to read  the papers,  because the  old man was  very insistent that he begin
with them. Nothing else would do.
     "So's I'll know which sea is  being  built,  and where," he  explained,
looking away shyly.

     WHO'S THE RICHEST?

     "Let's go  for a walk, 0 crystal  of my soul," Hottabych said the  next
day.
     "On one condition only, and that's  that you won't shy  away from every
bus like a village horse. But I'm insulting village horses for nothing. They
haven't shied away from cars in a long, long  time. And it's about  time you
got used to the idea that these aren't any  Jirjises, but honest-to-goodness
Russian internal combustion engines."
     "I hear and I obey, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha," the old man answered timidly.
     "Then repeat after me: I will never again be afraid of...."
     "I will never again be afraid of...."
     ". .. buses, trolley-buses, trolley-cars, trucks, helicopters...."
     "... buses, trolley-buses, trolley-cars, trucks, helicopters...."
     "... automobiles, searchlights, excavators, typewriters...."
     "...   automobiles,  searchlights,  excavators,  typewriters...."  "...
gramophones,    loud-speakers,   vacuum-cleaners...."   "...    gramophones,
loud-speakers,  vacuum-cleaners...." "... electric plugs, TV-sets,  fans and
rubber toys that squeak.'
     "... electric plugs, TV-sets, fans and rubber toys that squeak." "Well,
I guess  that  takes care  of  everything," Volka said. "Well,  I guess that
takes care of everything,"  Hottabych  repeated automatically, and they both
burst out laughing.
     In  order  to  harden  the  old man's  nerves, they crossed the busiest
streets at least  twenty times. Then they  rode on a trolley-car  for a long
while and, finally, tired but content, they boarded a bus.
     They rode off, bouncing softly on the leather-upholstered seats.
     Volka  was engrossed  in  a copy  of Pionerskaya Pravda, the children's
newspaper. The  old man was lost in thought and kept  glancing at  his young
companion  kindly from time  to time.  Then his face  broke  into  a  smile,
evidently reflecting some pleasant idea he had conceived.
     The bus took them to the doorstep. Soon they were back in Volka's room.
     "Do  you  know  what, 0 most  honourable of  secondary school  pupils?"
Hottabych began the minute the door closed  behind them. "I think you should
be more  aloof and reserved in your relations  with the young inhabitants of
your house. Believe it or not, my heart was ready to break when I heard them
shouting:
     'Hey, Volka!' 'Hello, Volka!' and so forth, all  of which  is obviously
unworthy  of you. Forgive me for being so outspoken, 0 blessed one,  but you
have slackened the reins unnecessarily. How can they be your equals when you
are  the richest  of  the  rich,  to  say nothing of  your other innumerable
qualities?"
     "Huh! They certainly are my equals. One boy is  even  a grade ahead  of
me, and we're all equally rich."
     "No, you  are mistaken here, 0  treasure of my  soul!"  Hottabych cried
delightedly and led  Volka to the  window.  "Look, and be  convinced of  the
truth of my words."
     A strange sight met Volka's eyes.
     A few moments before, the left half of their tremendous  yard  had been
occupied  by a volley-ball pitch, a big pile of fresh sand for the toddlers,
"giant steps" and  swings  for  the  daring,  exercise  bars  and rings  for
athletics fans,  and one long and  two round bright flower-beds  for all the
inhabitants to enjoy.
     Now,  instead  of all  this, there towered  in  glittering magnificence
three marble  palaces in an ancient Asiatic style. Great columns adorned the
facades.  Shady gardens crowned the flat roofs,  and strange red, yellow and
blue  flowers  grew  in  the  flower-beds. The  spray  issuing  from  exotic
fountains sparkled like precious stones in the sunlight. Beside the entrance
of  each  palace stood two giants  holding  huge  curved  swords. Volka  and
Hottabych went down to the yard.  At the sight of Volka,  the giants fell to
their  knees as one  and greeted  him in  thunderous voices, while  terrible
flames escaped their mouths. Volka shuddered.
     "May my young  master  not  fear  these beings,  for these are peaceful
Ifrits whom I have placed at the entrance to glorify your name."
     The  giants again fell  to  their  knees  and,  spitting  flames,  they
thundered obediently, "Order us as you wish, 0 mighty master!"
     "Please  get up!  I  do  wish  you'd  get  up,"  Volka  said  in  great
embarrassment.  "Why  do  you keep falling on  your knees all the time? It's
just like feudalism. Get up this minute, and don't you ever let me catch you
crawling like this. Shame on you! Shame on both of you!"
     Looking at each other in dismay,  the Ifrits rose and  silently resumed
their previous stand of "attention."
     "Well now!" Volka mumbled. "Come on, Hottabych,  let's  have a  look at
your palaces." He skipped up the steps lightly and entered the first palace.
     "These are not my palaces, they are your palaces," the old man objected
respectfully as he followed Volka in.
     However, the boy paid no attention to his words.
     The  first palace was  made entirely  of  rare  pink  marble. Its heavy
carved sandalwood  doors were  studded  with silver nails  and adorned  with
silver stars and bright red rubies.
     The second palace  was  made of light blue marble  and had ten doors of
rare ebony studded with gold nails and adorned with  diamonds, sapphires and
emeralds.
     In the middle of  the second palace was the  mirror-like  surface  of a
large pool, the home of goldfish the size of sturgeon.
     "That's instead of your little aquarium," Hottabych explained shyly. "I
think this is the only kind of aquarium in keeping with your great dignity."
     "Hm, imagine picking up one of those fishes. It'll bite your hand off,"
Volka thought.
     "And now,  do me the honour of casting a  kindly glance  at  the  third
palace," Hottabych said.
     They  entered  the  portals  of  the  third  palace.  It  glittered  so
magnificently that Volka gasped:
     "Why, it's  just like  the  Metro!  It's  just  like  the Komsomolskaya
Station!"
     "You haven't seen it all yet, 0 blessed one!" Hottabych said quickly.
     He led Volka out into the yard. Once again the giants "presented arms,"
but  Hottabych  ignored them and  pointed  to  the  shining  golden  plaques
adorning the entrances to the palaces. On each the same words were engraved,
words which made Volka both hot and cold at the same time:
     "These palaces belong to the most noble and glorious of youths of  this
city, to the most  beautiful of the beautiful, the most wise of the wise, to
him who is replete with endless qualities and perfections, the unmatched and
unsurpassed scholar in geography and other sciences, the first among divers,
the best of all swimmers  and volley-ball players, the unchallenged champion
of billiards and ping-pong-to the Royal Young Pioneer Volka ibn Alyosha, may
his name be glorified for ages to come as well as the names of his fortunate
parents."
     "With  your  permission,"  Hottabych  said,  bursting  with  pride  and
happiness, "I wish, when you come  to live here with your parents,  that you
appoint  me a corner,  too, so that your new  residence will not separate us
and I may thus have the opportunity at all  times to express my deep respect
and devotion to you."
     "In the first place, these  inscriptions  aren't very objective," Volka
said after a short pause, "but  that's not the most important  thing  in the
long run. It's not important, because we'll have to hang up new signs."
     "I  understand  you  and   cannot   but  blame   myself  for  being  so
short-sighted,"  the  old man said in  an embarrassed  tone. "Naturally, the
inscriptions should  have been made in precious stones. You  are most worthy
of it."
     "You  misunderstood  me, Hottabych. I  wanted the  inscriptions to read
that these palaces belong  to the RONO. (District  Department of Education.)
You  see,  in our country all  the palaces  belong to the  RONO,  or  to the
sanatoriums."
     "Which RONO?"
     Volka misunderstood Hottabych's question.
     "It  doesn't  matter  which,  but   I'd  rather   it  belonged  to  the
Krasnopresnensky RONO.  That's the  district  I was born in,  that's where I
grew up and learned how to read and write."
     "I  don't  know  who that RONO is,"  Hottabych said bitterly, "and  I'm
quite ready to believe that he is a worthy person. But did RONO free me from
my thousands of years of imprisonment in the vessel? No, it was not RONO, it
was you, 0 wonderful youth, and that is why these palaces will belong to you
alone and no one else."
     "But don't you see...."
     "I don't want to! They are yours or no one's!"
     Never before had Volka seen Hottabych so angry. His face was purple and
his  eyes were  flashing.  The old man was obviously trying hard to keep his
temper.
     "Does that mean you don't agree, 0 crystal of my soul?"
     "Of course not. What do I need these palaces for?  What do  you think I
am, a clubhouse, or an office, or a kindergarten?"
     "Ah-h-h!" Hottabych  sighed  unhappily and shrugged. "We'll have to try
something else then!"
     The palaces became hazy,  swayed, and dissolved into  thin  air, like a
fog blown by the wind. The giants howled and shot upwards, where they,  too,
disappeared.

        A CAMEL IN THE STREET

     Instead, the yard suddenly filled with heavily laden  elephants, camels
and  mules.  New  caravans kept  arriving  constantly.  The  shouts  of  the
dark-skinned  drivers,  dressed  in  snow-white  robes,  blended   with  the
elephants'  trumpeting,  the  camels'  snorting,  the  mules'  braying,  the
stamping of hundreds of hooves and the melodious tinkling of bells.
     A short sunburnt man in rich silk robes climbed down from his elephant,
approached the  middle of  the yard, and tapped the pavement thrice with his
ivory cane. Suddenly, a huge fountain appeared. Immediately drivers carrying
leather  pails  formed  a  long queue; soon the  yard  was  filled  with the
snorting, chomping and wheezing of the thirsty animals.
     "All this is yours, 0 Volka,"  Hottabych cried, trying to make  himself
heard above the din. "Won't you please accept my humble gift?"
     "What do you mean by 'all this'?"
     "Everything. The elephants, and  the camels, and the mules, and all the
gold  and  precious stones they carry,  and the  people who are accompanying
them-everything is yours!"
     Things were going from bad  to worse. Volka had nearly become the owner
of three magnificent but quite  useless palaces, and  now  he was to  be the
owner  of  a  vast fortune,  an  owner  of  elephants and, to  top  it all-a
slave-owner!
     His first thought was to  beg Hottabych to make all these useless gifts
disappear before anyone had noticed them.  But  he immediately  recalled how
things had gone with the palaces. If he had been smarter, he  probably would
have been able to talk the old man into letting the city keep them.
     He had to stall for time to think and map out a plan of action.
     "You know what, Hottabych?" he said, trying to  sound nonchalant. "What
do  you say if we go for a ride  on a camel, while the men take  care of the
caravan?"
     "It would really be a pleasure," answered the unsuspecting old man.
     A moment later,  a double-humped camel appeared on the  street, swaying
majestically and looking round  with  an arrogant air. On  its  back were an
excited Volka and Hottabych, who felt quite at home and was fanning  himself
lazily with his hat.
     "A camel! A camel!" the children shouted excitedly. They had poured out
into the street in great numbers, just  as if they had all  been waiting for
the camel to appear.
     They surrounded the  unruffled animal in a close circle, and it towered
over them like a double-decker bus towers over an ice-cream cart. One of the
little boys was skipping and shouting:

     They're coming
     on a camel!
     They're coming
     on a camel!

     The camel  approached the crossing  just as the light turned red. Since
it was not used  to traffic  rules, it coolly stepped across the  white line
with the word "STOP!"  written in large letters in front of it.  In vain did
Volka try to hold it back. The camel  continued on its way, straight towards
the militia man who was quickly pulling out his receipt book for fines.
     Suddenly a horn blared, brakes screeched and a light blue car came to a
stop  right under the steely-nerved camel's nose. The driver jumped out  and
began yelling at the animal  and its two passengers.  And  true  enough,  in
another second there would have been a terrible accident.
     "Kindly pull over to the  curb," the militia man  said politely  as  he
walked up to them.
     Volka had great difficulty in making the camel obey this fatal order. A
crowd gathered immediately, and everyone had an opinion to offer:
     "This is the first time I've seen people riding a camel in Moscow."
     "Just think, there could have been a terrible accident!"
     "What's wrong with a child going for a ride on a camel?"
     "No one's allowed to break traffic rules."
     "You try and stop a proud animal like that. That's no car, you know!"
     "I can't imagine where people get camels in Moscow!"
     "It's obviously from the zoo. There are several camels there."
     "It  makes  me shiver  to  think  what  could  have happened.  He's  an
excellent driver!"
     "The militia man is absolutely right."
     Volka felt  he was in a jam. He hung down  over  the  camel's side  and
began to apologize:
     "It'll  never  happen  again! Please let us go! It's time to  feed  the
camel. This is a first offence."
     "I'm sorry, but there's  nothing I can do about it,"  the  militia  man
replied dryly. "They always say it's the first time in cases like this."
     Volka was still attempting to soften the stern man's heart when he felt
Hottabych tugging at his sleeve.
     "0 my young master, it makes me sad to see  you lower yourself in order
to shield me from any unpleasantness.  All these people are unworthy of even
kissing  your  heels. You should let  them  know of the chasm that separates
them from you."
     Volka waved the old man away impatiently, but all at once he felt as he
had  during the geography examination: once again  he was  not the master of
his own words.
     He wanted to say:
     "Please, won't  you  let us go? I promise  never to break  any  traffic
rules as long as I live."
     Instead of  this humble plea, he suddenly bellowed  at the  top of  his
voice:,
     "How dare you,  0 despicable  guard, detain me during the precious hour
of my  promenade!  On  your knees!  On  your knees immediately, or  I'll  do
something terrible to you! I swear by my beard-I mean, by his beard!" And he
nodded towards Hottabych.
     At these .words, Hottabych grinned smugly and stroked his beard fondly.
     As concerns the militia man and the crowd, the child's insolence was so
unexpected that they were more dumbfounded than indignant.
     "I  am the  most outstanding  boy in  this  whole  city!" Volka kept on
shouting, inwardly wishing he were dead. "You're unworthy of even kissing my
heels! I am handsome! I am wise!"
     "All  right," the  militia man answered darkly.  "They'll see  just how
wise you are down at the station."
     "Goodness!  What nonsense  I'm saying! It's really hooliganism!"  Volka
thought and shuddered. Nevertheless, he continued:
     "Repent,  you,  who  have dared  to spoil my  good spirits! Cease  your
insolence before it's too late!"
     Just  then,  something  distracted  Hottabych's  attention.  He stopped
whispering to Volka and for a few moments the boy was once again on his own.
As  he  hung  down  over  the  side  of the  camel  and looked at  the crowd
pathetically he began to plead:
     "Citizens! Dear  people! Don't  listen  to  me. Do you  think  it's  me
talking? It's him, this old man, who's making me talk like this."
     But here  Hottabych once  again  picked  up  the reins and  in the same
breath Volka screamed:
     "Tremble before me and do not  anger me, for I am terrible in my wrath!
Oh, how fearsome I am!"
     He  understood only  too well that  his words did  not frighten anyone;
instead, they made some indignant, while others found them simply funny. But
there was  nothing he could  do.  Meanwhile, the crowd's feeling of surprise
and indignation began to change  to  one of  concern.  It  was clear that no
schoolboy could ever speak so foolishly and rudely if he were normal.
     Then  a  woman  shouted,  "Look! The child  has  a  fever!  Look,  he's
steaming!"
     "What disrespect!" Volka shouted back, but, to his utter horror, he saw
large puffs of black smoke escaping his mouth at every word.
     People gasped, someone ran to call an ambulance, and Volka whispered to
Hottabych, taking advantage of the confusion:
     "Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!  I order you to take this camel and us
as  far away  as possible. Immediately. Somewhere  outside  the city limits.
Otherwise, we can get in very bad trouble. Do you hear me? Im-me-di-ate-ly!"
     "I hear and I obey," the old man replied in a whisper.
     That  very instant,  the camel and its riders soared  into the air  and
disappeared, leaving everyone behind in the greatest confusion.
     A moment later it landed gracefully on the outskirts of the city. There
its passengers parted with it forever.
     The camel is probably still grazing there.  You'll recognize it at once
if you see it, for its bridle is studded with diamonds and emeralds.

        A MYSTERIOUS HAPPENING IN THE BANK

     Despite  the day's unpleasant  experiences, Volka  was in high  spirits
when he and Hottabych returned home. He had finally hit  upon an idea of how
to dispose of the endless treasures he had so suddenly acquired.
     First, he asked Hottabych whether he could make the drivers, elephants,
camels, mules and all their loads invisible.
     "You need only command me to do so, and it will be done."
     "Fine. Then please make them invisible for the time being, and let's go
to bed. We'll have to get up at sunrise tomorrow."
     "I hear and I obey!"
     And so, the people who had gathered in the yard to stare at the strange
and noisy caravan suddenly found the place to be completely empty. They went
back to their homes in amazement.
     Volka  gulped down his supper, undressed and climbed  into  bed with  a
happy sigh. He only had a sheet for a cover, since it was so hot.
     Hottabych, however, had decided to comply with an ancient custom Genies
had.  He  became  invisible and lay down  across the threshold, to guard his
young  master's  sleep.  Hottabych  was  just  about  to   begin  a   solemn
conversation when the door  opened and Volka's  grandmother  entered, to say
good night  as always. She tripped  over the invisible  old man  and  nearly
fell.
     "Why, something was definitely lying on the threshold!" she gasped when
Volka's father came running.
     "Where  was  that  something  lying?"  he  asked.  "And  what did  that
something look like?"
     "It didn't look like anything, Alyosha."
     "Mother,  do you mean to tell me you tripped over an  empty space?"  he
asked and laughed with relief, happy that she had not hurt herself.
     "Yes,  I  guess I did,"  Grandma  answered in bewilderment and laughed,
too.
     Volka's father and grandmother left.
     As for Hottabych, he had wisely decided to  crawl under  Volka's bed-at
least no one would step on him there, and he would be closer to Volka.
     For several minutes no one said  a  word. Volka could not decide how to
begin such a ticklish conversation.
     "Good night!" Hottabych said amiably from under the bed.
     Volka realized he had better begin.
     "Hottabych," he called,  hanging his head over  the side of the bed, "I
want to talk to you about something."
     "Not about my gifts to you  today?" Hottabych asked warily, and when he
received an affirmative answer he sighed.
     "You see, dear Hottabych, I'd like to know whether I can do as I please
with your presents?"
     "Undoubtedly."
     "And you won't be angry at me, no matter what I do with them?"
     "No, I won't,  0 Volka.  How can I dare be angry with  someone who  has
done so much for me?"
     "If  it's  not too much trouble, Hottabych,  could  you please swear to
that?"
     "I  swear!" Hottabych  said in a  hollow voice from  under the bed.  He
understood that there must be a catch to this.
     "That's fine," Volka said happily. "That means  you won't feel too  bad
if  I tell you that I have no earthly  use for  these presents,  though  I'm
awfully grateful to you for them."
     "0  woe is me!" Hottabych moaned. "You're refusing my gifts  again. But
these aren't palaces! Can't you see, 0 Volka, I'm not giving you palaces any
more.  You  might  as well tell me the  truth-that  the  gifts  of your most
devoted servant disgust you."
     "Figure  it out  yourself, Hottabych, you're a very wise old man:  now,
what in the world could I do with so many treasures?"
     "You  could  be the  richest  of  the  rich,  that's  what,"  Hottabych
grumbled.  "Don't tell me you wouldn't want to be the richest person in your
country? Yet,  it would be just  like you, 0 most capricious and puzzling of
all boys I have  ever met! Money means power, money means glory, money means
friends galore! That's what money means!"
     "Who  needs  bought  friends  and  bought  glory?  You  make me  laugh,
Hottabych!  What's  the use of  glory that's been bought,  instead of earned
through honest labour in your country's service?"
     "You  forget that  money gives you the most reliable  and durable power
over people, 0 my young and stubborn arguer."
     "But not in our country."
     "Next thing, you'll be saying that people in your country don't want to
get richer. Ha, ha, ha!" Hottabych thought this was really a cutting remark.
     "Sure  they  do," Volka answered  patiently. "A  person  who does  more
useful work  makes more money.  Sure, everyone wants to earn more, but  only
through honest work."
     "Be that as it  may, nothing could be further from my mind than to make
my precious young friend seek dishonest  earnings.  If you don't need  these
treasures, turn  them  into  money and lend  the money  out. You must agree,
that's a very honourable undertaking-to lend money to those who need it."
     "Why, you must be crazy! You  don't know what you're talking about. How
can a Soviet person be a usurer! And even if there was such a vampire, who'd
ever go to him? If a person needs money, he can ask for a loan at the Mutual
Aid, or borrow some from a friend."
     "Well then," a somewhat disheartened  Hottabych persisted, "buy as many
goods  as  you can and open up  your  own shops in every  part  of the city.
You'll become a well-known merchant and everyone will respect you  and  seek
your favour."
     "Don't you understand,  the  Government  and  the co-operatives are  in
charge  of all  trade?  Why, making a profit by  selling stuff  in  your own
shop...."
     "Hm!" Hottabych  pretended to agree. "Supposing it is as you say it is.
I hope you think creating goods is an honest occupation?"
     "Sure it is! See, you're beginning to understand!" Volka said happily.
     "I am extremely pleased." Hottabych  smiled sourly. "I recall you  once
said  that your  greatly respected father was  a foreman in a factory.  Am I
correct?"
     "Yes."
     "Is he the most important man in the factory?"
     "No. He's a foreman, but there's  a shop foreman, and a chief engineer,
and a director above him."
     "Well  then,"  Hottabych  concluded  triumphantly,  "you  can  use  the
treasures  I've given you to buy your excellent father the factory he  works
in and lots of other factories besides."
     "It belongs to him already."
     "Volka ibn Alyosha, you just said..."
     "If you want to know, he owns the factory he works in and all the other
factories and plants, and all the mines  and the railways, and the  land and
the  water,  and the  mountains  and  the shops and  the  schools,  and  the
universities and  the  clubs, and the palaces, and  the  theatres,  and  the
parks, and the  movies in  the country. And they belong  to me and to Zhenya
Bogorad, and to his parents, and...."
     "You wish to say that your father has partners, don't you?"
     "Yes, that's what it is-partners.  About two hundred million  partners.
As many as there are people in the country."
     "You have a very strange country, one that I cannot understand at all,"
Hottabych mumbled from under the bed and said no more.
     At  sunrise  the  next  day the  ringing of  a  telephone  awakened the
District Branch Manager of the State Bank. He was urgently being summoned to
the office. Worried  by such an early  phone  call, he dashed  to his office
and, upon entering the yard of the building in which the branch was located,
he saw a great number of heavily-laden elephants, camels and mules.
     "There's someone here who wants to make a deposit," the night  watchman
said in dismay.
     "A deposit?" the manager repeated. "So early in the morning? What  kind
of a deposit?"
     The watchman handed  him a sheet of paper torn from a school  notebook.
It was covered with  a firm, childish scrawl. The manager read the paper and
asked the watchman to pinch  him.  The puzzled  man did  as he was told. The
manager winced, looked at the page again and said:
     "Impossible! It's absolutely incredible!"
     A  person who  wished to remain anonymous was giving the State Bank two
hundred and  forty-six bags  of gold, silver  and precious stones, valued at
three  thousand four  hundred  and  sixty-seven  million,  one  hundred  and
thirty-five thousand, seven hundred and  three  roubles and eighteen kopeks,
to use as it saw fit.
     The  most  amazing thing happened a moment  later. First,  the  animals
which  had  delivered the treasure,  then, the people  who  had  driven  the
animals, and then, the treasures they had brought began to sway; they became
transparent  and  dissolved  in the  air, just  like  steam. A fresh morning
breeze tore  the sheet  of paper from the  amazed manager's hand, whipped it
high into  the air  and  carried it off  into an open window. It  was  Volka
Kostylkov's  room. As  he  slept soundly, the page was fitted back into  the
notebook it had recently been torn  from and once again became a clean piece
of paper.
     But that is not all. Strange as it may seem, neither  the people at the
branch  office of the bank, nor Volka's neighbours,  nor Volka himself  ever
remembered anything at all about the event afterwards. It was  as if someone
had erased it from their memories completely.

        HOTTABYCH AND SIDORELLI

     It  was pitiful  to look at the old man.  He spent the whole day in the
aquarium,  saying that he  was  having an  attack  of  rheumatism.  This was
certainly a foolish excuse, for nothing can be sillier than  sitting in cold
water if you have rheumatism.
     Hottabych lay on the bottom of the aquarium, moving his fins sluggishly
and swallowing water lazily. When either Volka or Zhenya approached, the old
man would swim  off  to the far side and rudely turn  his tail towards them.
However, whenever Volka left the room, Hottabych  would get out of the water
to  stretch his  legs; but as soon as he'd hear  him approaching, he'd  dash
back into the aquarium with a soft splash, as though he had never thought of
leaving it. He apparently found  some bitter pleasure in the fact that Volka
kept pleading with him to get out of the water and stop sulking. The old man
would listen to all his entreaties with his tail turned towards the boy. Yet
the moment his young friend would open his geography book and begin to study
for his exam, Hottabych would stick his head out of the aquarium and  accuse
Volka of having no heart at all.  How could he be occupied with all sorts of
nonsense, when an old man was suffering so from rheumatism?!
     No  sooner would Volka  close his book, however,  than  Hottabych would
again  turn his  tail towards him. This went  on  till evening.  At a little
after seven o'clock, he swished his tail and hopped out on to  the floor. He
squeezed the water from  his beard and  moustache and dried them  quickly at
the buzzing table fan. Then he said with some reserve:
     "You hurt me by refusing to accept my humble gifts. It's your good luck
that I promised you I wouldn't get angry. But I  did promise and, therefore,
I'm  not angry at you,  for I now  see who  is really  responsible for  your
offending me so,  though  you do it unconsciously. It is  your teachers-they
are  the  root  of all  evil! Varvara  Stepanovna,  not you, 0 youthful  and
inexperienced boy, will be  held fully responsible for all the bitterness of
the past few  days. And  now that undeserving Varvara,  daughter  of Stepan,
will...."
     He yanked  four hairs at once  from his  beard. Something extraordinary
was about to happen.
     "Oh, no! No, Hottabych! Dear, dear Hottabych!" Volka babbled as he hung
on the angry Genie's arms. "My  word of honour! Varvara Stepanovna's not  at
all to blame! It was only me..."
     "No! She's to blame, she's to blame!"  Hottabych droned, trying to free
his hands.
     "She's not to blame! She's not to blame! Upon my  word of honour, she's
not to blame!" Volka repeated in a frightened voice, while feverishly trying
to think of a way to distract the raging Genie's attention from his teacher.
"You  know what? You know what?" He had finally thought of something: "Let's
go to the circus.  Huh, Hottabych? Let's go to the circus! Zhenya and I will
never get tickets, but it's so easy for you to get them. You're the only one
who can  help  us  get  into  the circus.  You're so powerful, so  amazingly
all-powerful!"
     The old  man was very  inquisitive  and an easy prey to  flattery. Most
important, unlike all other Genies, he never remained angry long.
     "And what  does this funny  word  mean?" Hottabych's eyes  burned  with
interest. "Is it a market where they sell  parrots  and other unusual birds?
Then, know ye, that I am  completely indifferent to birds. I've  had my fill
of the sight of parrots."
     "Oh, no, this is a thousand times more interesting. Why, it's a million
times, a million million times more interesting!"
     Hottabych immediately forgot about Varvara Stepanovna.
     "Let's  go there on  a camel.  No, better still,  on  an elephant. Just
imagine how everyone will envy you."
     "No, don't bother. I don't want  you to go to all  that trouble," Volka
objected with  suspicious haste.  "If  you're not  afraid,  let's go on  the
trolley-bus."
     "What's there  to be afraid  of?" the  old  man sounded offended. "Why,
I've been looking at these iron carts for four days now without any fear  at
all."
     Half an hour later, Volka, Zhenya and Hottabych reached the  recreation
park and approached the entrance to the summer circus.
     The old man ran  over  to the box-office to have a look at the tickets,
and soon he, Volka and Zhenya were holding pink tickets.
     They entered the brightly-lit big top.
     There were three empty  seats in one of the boxes right near the arena,
but Hottabych was quite vigorous in refusing them.
     "I cannot agree  to  having  anyone  in this place  sitting higher than
myself and my greatly respected friends. It would be below our dignity."
     It was  no  use arguing with  the old man. With  heavy  hearts the boys
climbed to the last row of the second balcony.
     Soon  attendants in crimson and gold uniforms lined up along both sides
of the entrance to the arena.
     The ring-master announced the first act. A bare-back rider dressed in a
sequined suit and looking like a Christmas tree ornament rode into the ring.
     "Do you like it?" Volka asked Hottabych.
     "It is not devoid of interest, and it is pleasant to the eye," the  old
man replied cautiously.
     The bare-back  rider  was  followed  by acrobats,  who were followed by
clowns, who were followed by a  dog act-this attraction met with Hottabych's
reserved praise-who were followed by jugglers and spring-board jumpers. Then
there was an intermission.
     It  was a shame to  leave and miss the second half of the  show, but  a
geography book opened at the very first chapter awaited Volka at home.
     He  sighed  heavily  and whispered  to  Zhenya, "Well, I guess I'll  be
going. But you try and  keep him here for at least another two hours. Go for
a walk with him after the show, or something...."
     Zhenya mumbled softly, but with great emphasis:
     "We  should all three leave, all three  of us.  V. S. is here! V. S. is
here!"
     And he nodded towards the side isle.
     Volka turned round and froze: Varvara Stepanovna and  her five-year-old
granddaughter Irisha were making their way down the isle to the foyer.
     As if by agreement, the boys jumped to their feet and stood in front of
the unsuspecting old man in a way to shield their teacher from him.
     "You know what, Hottabych?" Volka  choked. "Let's go home! Huh? There's
nothing of interest here today."
     "Sure," Zhenya agreed, trembling like  a leaf  in his  fear for Varvara
Stepanovna's life. "That's right, let's go  home. We'll walk in the park and
all kinds of things...."
     "Oh,  no,  my  young  friends!" Hottabych  answered  innocently. "Never
before have I been so interested as I am in this truly magic tent. I'll tell
you what: you run along and I'll return as soon as this amazing  performance
ends."
     What an  idea-to leave Varvara Stepanovna alone  with a Genie who hated
her so!
     They had  to  think of  something, of  anything at all, to  occupy  him
during intermission. Once the  performance was resumed,  his  eyes  would be
glued on the arena. They had to  think of  something urgently,  but, fearing
for  Varvara Stepanovna's very  life, Volka was  completely at a  loss.  His
teeth  even began to chatter. This  attracted Hottabych's attention,  for he
was interested in everything.
     "I tell  you, Hottabych," Zhenya came to the  rescue, "it's  either one
way or the other: either we study or not!"
     Both Volka and Hottabych looked at him in bewilderment.
     "What I mean is, since we've promised  Hottabych  to teach him  to read
and write, we  should  use every free minute  for study.  Isn't  that right,
Hottabych?"
     "Your  perseverance  is  worthy  of  the greatest  praise,  0  Zhenya,"
Hottabych answered. He was really touched.
     "Well, if that's the case, here's the circus programme. Let's sit right
down and learn the alphabet. We'll study all through intermission...."
     "With happiness and pleasure, 0 Zhenya."
     Zhenya opened the programme and pointed to the first letter "A" he saw.
     "This is the letter 'A,' understand?"
     "Yes, 0 Zhenya."
     "Now, what letter did I say it was?"
     "It's the letter 'A,' 0 Zhenya."
     "Right. Now find me all the 'A's you can on this page."
     "Here's a letter 'A,' 0 Zhenya."
     "Fine! Do you see any more?"
     "Here, and here, and here, and here, and here...."
     Hottabych was so engrossed in  his studies that he paid no attention at
all to anything else. By the time the intermission was over and the audience
had  returned to  its  seats,  Hottabych had  learned the alphabet  and  was
reading in syllables:
     "An ac-ro-bat on a spring ... board."
     "D'you know, Hottabych, you  really are  gifted!" Zhenya said with true
amazement.
     "What did you think?" Volka replied.  "Why, there has never been such a
talented Genie in all the world."
     Hottabych read on delightedly: " 'Jum-ping ac-ro-bats un-der the di-rec
. ..  di-rec-tion of  Phil-lip  Bel-ykh.'  We saw  that already.  'Ev-en-ing
per-for-man-ces beg-in  at  8  p.m.  Ma-ti-nees  at  12  no-on.' 0 my  young
teachers, I have read the entire programme. Does that mean I'll now  be able
to read the newspapers, too?"
     "Certainly! Sure you will!" the boys said.  "Now let's try  to read the
greetings hanging over the orchestra pit," Volka said.
     Just then a young lady in a little white  apron  carrying  a large tray
appeared.
     "Would  you care for some ice-cream?" she asked the old man.  He looked
at Volka questioningly.
     "Take some, Hottabych, it's very nice.  Try it!" Hottabych tried it and
he  liked it. He bought some for the  boys and another portion  for himself,
then a third and, finally, being carried away, he bought the astounded young
lady's  entire supply-forty-three bars  of ice-cream  covered with  delicate
frost. The girl said she'd be back later for the tray  and went off, turning
back to look at the strange customers.
     "Oho!" Zhenya  winked. "Look at him pack it away." In the space of five
minutes' time,  Hottabych had gulped down all forty-three bars. He ate it as
one would  eat a  cucumber, biting off big  chunks  and  chewing loudly.  He
swallowed the last mouthful just as the performance began.
     "A  world-famous  act!  Presenting  Afanasy  Sidorelli!"  The  audience
applauded and the band played a loud viva.  A  short, middle-aged  man  in a
blue silk robe  embroidered with  gold dragons entered the arena, bowing and
smiling  in all directions. It  was the famous Sidorelli himself. While  his
assistants laid out his props on a small lacquered table, in preparation for
the first magic trick, he continued to bow and smile. A gold tooth glittered
in his mouth w