ead. "We don't feel like  eating at all.  We are very  full. We are  so
full, that  if  we  eat a single chicken leg our stomachs will  burst and we
will die in terrible agony."
     "They're lying!" Volka whispered to Zhenya with conviction;
     "I'm  ready  to bet  anything that they're lying.  They  wouldn't  mind
eating, but they're  afraid  of Hottabych." Then he addressed  the  sailors.
"You say  you're  full, but won't you please tell me when you've had time to
eat?"
     "Then know  ye, 0 young and noble master, that we  can go  without food
for a year or more and never feel hungry," the sailor replied evasively.
     "They'll   never  agree,  they're  afraid  of  him,"  Zhenya   said  in
disappointment.
     The sailors backed out and were gone.
     "To  my  great pleasure, I suddenly feel hungry again,"  Hottabych said
cheerfully. "Let us begin quickly."
     "No, Hottabych, you eat by yourself. We're no company  for you!" Zhenya
muttered angrily and got up. "Come on, Volka!"
     "Come on. Golly! You try  to educate  a person and change his ways, but
nothing good comes of it...."
     And so, the old man was left  alone with the untouched dinner.  He  sat
there with his legs tucked under him, as straight and stiff and solemn as an
Eastern  god. But the  moment the boys disappeared behind the  drapery  that
separated the cabin from the deck, he began to pound his head with his small
fists that were nevertheless as hard as iron.
     0 woe to him, poor Hassan  Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!  Something had gone
wrong again!  Yet, how happily the "Sweet Omar" had started on its  journey!
How sincerely delighted the boys had been with its adornments, its sparkling
sails, the soft carpets in  which their bare feet sank  up  to their ankles,
the priceless handrails of ebony and ivory, the mighty masts covered with  a
mosaic  of precious stones! Why had  they suddenly  conceived such a strange
idea? But what if it  wasn't just an  idea or a caprice, but something quite
different?  How queer these boys  were to have refused such a feast, despite
their hunger,  and  only because his  servants were not allowed to share the
meal as equals! Oh, how puzzling and unfair it was, and how hungry, how very
hungry Hottabych was!
     While  his feeling of  attachment  for Volka and Zhenya was  struggling
with prejudices  of thousands of years' standing, our  young travellers were
discussing the situation heatedly. Hottabych's servants tried to keep out of
sight,  but one of  them,  either absent-mindedly or from  lack of  caution,
suddenly appeared from the very  cubby-hole  Volka had believed was intended
for captive pirates. Then  the dingy hole on the  luxurious "Sweet Omar" was
the sailors' quarters!
     "Oh, no!" Volka  said indignantly. "We'll  never remain on such a ship.
Either Hottabych changes the  rules  immediately, or  else we call  off  our
friendship and he gets us back home."
     Suddenly they heard Hottabych's voice behind them.
     "0 sails of my heart," the  crafty old man said, as if nothing untoward
had  happened. "Why are you  wasting  your time here on deck,  when  a  most
delightful and filling dinner awaits you?  The turkey is still steaming, but
it can get cold, and  then it certainly will taste worse. Let us  hurry back
to the cabin, for my beloved sailors and I, your faithful servant, are dying
of hunger and thirst."
     The  boys looked into the  cabin they had just left and saw the sailors
sitting primly on the rug, awaiting their return.
     "All right,"  Volka said dryly. "But  we're still going  to have a long
and serious talk with you, Hottabych. Meanwhile, let's have our dinner."
     No sooner was dinner over, than the sea became turbulent;
     the  small ship  now flew up on the crest of  a  huge wave, now plunged
down into a  deep chasm between  two tremendous walls  of water.  The  waves
thundered  and crashed as  they washed over the  deck  and carried  off  the
carpets that covered  it. Streams of water kept rushing into  the cabins. It
became chilly, but the brazier with  hot coals was tossed back  and forth so
violently that they  had to  throw  it  overboard  to prevent  a  fire.  The
servant-sailors, whose only clothing were their loincloths, turned grey from
the cold, as they battled the flapping sails.
     In another half hour  nothing but a  sad memory would have  remained of
the "Sweet Omar." However, the storm ceased as unexpectedly as it had begun.
The  sun peeped out. It became warm  again.  But everything  became terribly
calm. The sails hung  limply on  the masts and the ship began to rock softly
on the water without moving forward an inch.
     Hottabych  decided  that this was  just the time  to  improve his shaky
relations with his young companions. Rubbing his  hands together merrily, he
said, "Calm? Why you should know, 0 benevolent and just youths, that a  calm
means nothing to us. We can do fine without the wind. The 'Sweet Omar'  will
go forward  faster than ever. May  it be so!" He snapped the fingers  of his
left hand.
     Instantly  the  "Sweet  Omar" sped forward at  top  speed;  the  sails,
meeting  the resistance  of  the  air, naturally  filled out in  a direction
opposite to the ship's movement.
     In  the entire  history of  sailing  ships, no one had ever seen such a
strange sight. However, neither Volka nor Zhenya, nor  Hottabych, who at the
time the  ship started were all standing on the stern, had time to enjoy the
sight, since the sudden forward thrust threw them overboard. The next moment
the mainmast, unable  to withstand the terrible resistance  of the air, came
crashing down on the very spot  where the three travellers had been standing
but a moment before.
     The "Sweet Omar" disappeared from sight immediately.
     "A  life-boat, or even a life-saver  would  really come in  handy now,"
Volka thought as he splashed about  in the water and blew air like  a horse.
"We can't even see the shore."
     And true, no matter which way he  looked, he could  see nothing but the
calm and endless sea.

        THE "VK-1" MAGIC-CARPET-SEAPLANE

     "Where are  you going?" Volka shouted  to  Zhenya, who was swimming off
rapidly. "You  won't reach the shore anyway,  Don't waste  your energy! Turn
over and float on your back."
     Zhenya took  his advice. Hottabych  also  turned over,  holding his hat
carefully above water.
     Thus began the only  conference of shipwrecked people in the history of
sailing, in which the speakers expressed their  opinions  while floating  on
their backs.
     "Well,  we're  shipwrecked!"  Volka   said  with  something   close  to
satisfaction. He  had taken upon himself the duties of  chairman.  "What are
you planning  to  do?" he asked, noticing that  Hottabych had begun  yanking
hairs from his beard with his free hand.
     "I want to return  our  ship. It's a great stroke of luck that my beard
is completely dry."
     "There's no hurry," Volka  interrupted. "The question is: do we want to
return to it or not?  I, for one, do not. To tell  you the truth,  there are
inhuman rules aboard. It's disgusting to even think of it."
     "I agree. The 'Sweet  Omar' is out of the question," Zhenya added. "But
you  know,  Hottabych,  you'll  have  to act  quickly  to save the  sailors,
otherwise they'll go down with the ship!"
     Hottabych frowned.
     "The fate  of my  unworthy servants should not bother you  at all. They
have  been in Arabia  for not less than five minutes already.  That is where
they reside, that is  where they are now awaiting my orders. But please tell
me,  0 masts of my heart, why should we not continue our journey aboard  the
'Sweet Omar'?"
     "I thought we made that clear," Volka said.
     "And anyway, a sailing ship is too slow and unreliable. We're dependent
on every little change in the weather. No, the  'Sweet Omar' is out," Zhenya
said.
     "0  anchors of my  happiness!"  Hottabych  whined pitifully.  "I'll  do
anything to...."
     "No,  it's  out,  and  that's  the  end of  it,"  Volka interrupted and
shivered. It was most unpleasant  to  lie in the  water fully  dressed.  "It
remains to be seen what else Hottabych can suggest."
     "I can take you under my arms and fly."
     "No good!" Volka said. "Who wants to fly under somebody's arms!"
     "Not somebody's-mine!" Hottabych replied in a hurt voice.
     "It makes no difference."
     "Then  I would  venture  to suggest  to your enlightened  attention the
magic  carpet. It  is  an excellent  means  of transportation,  0  my choosy
friends!"
     "There's  nothing excellent about it. You  freeze on  it,  and it's too
slow, and there's  no comforts at all," Volka said thoughtfully and suddenly
exclaimed, "I've got it! Upon my word of honour, I have a wonderful idea!"
     At  this, he went under, as in his excitement he could think of nothing
better to do than clap  his hands. He bobbed  up again, huffing and spitting
water, and  then resumed his comfortable position on his back, continuing as
if nothing had happened:
     "We have to  modernize the magic carpet:  it should  be streamlined and
cold-resistant, and it should have bunks and be on pontoons."
     It  was  most difficult  to explain Volka's  idea  to Hottabych. In the
first place,  the  old man  did  not know what  "streamlined" meant.  In the
second place, he could not visualize a pair of pontoons.
     It would seem that "streamlined" was such  a  simple word, but they had
to explain and explain  until  they finally  hit upon the  thought of saying
that a streamlined magic carpet should look like a hollowed-out cucumber. It
also  took  a great deal of  explaining to  make  Hottabych  understand what
pontoons  were  like. Finally,  a  streamlined "VK-1"  magic-carpet-seaplane
soared into the  air and set its course at  South-South-West. In translation
to ordinary words, "VK-1" meant "Vladimir Kostylkov. First Model."
     This magic-carpet-seaplane, resembling a huge cucumber with a tiny stem
in  back, had  three berths  and two windows  on each  side, cut through the
heavy carpeting.
     The flying  qualities  of  Volka's plane were  immeasurably superior to
those  of  an ordinary  magic  carpet.  The Black  Sea,  the  Bosporus,  the
Dardanelles,  Asia Minor  and  the sun-parched plateau of Arabia flashed  by
below. Then  they saw the  yellow sands of the Sinai Desert. The thin ribbon
of the Suez Canal separated it from the no  less yellow sands of the Arabian
Desert, which was  Africa, Egypt. Hottabych  had planned to begin his search
for  Omar Asaf here, in the  Mediterranean, from  its eastern  point  to its
western  end. But no  sooner had the "VK-1" descended  to an altitude of 200
metres,  than  Hottabych   groaned  and  said   he  was  an  old  fool.  The
magic-carpet-seaplane  gained altitude  and  headed west. After  spending so
many years in  the  vessel,  Hottabych had forgotten that this was where the
Nile discharged into the Mediterranean and where the water was  always muddy
from  the  slime and sand the great river carried far out to  sea. How could
one even attempt a search in such sticky yellow mire? It would only irritate
the eyes.
     Hottabych decided to put off the exploration of this inconvenient  area
till last, if their search for Omar Asaf in other parts of the Mediterranean
proved futile.
     A short while later they landed  in  a quiet  blue lagoon close to  the
Italian city of Genoa.

        HOTTABYCH IS LOST AND FOUND AGAIN

     "Well,  wish me luck!"  Hottabych  exclaimed, turning into  a fish  and
disappearing into the lagoon.
     The  water  was  crystal-clear,  so very unlike the water  of the  Nile
Delta, and they  had a good view of the old  man working his fins quickly as
he headed for the open sea.
     While awaiting his return, the boys went in for a good dozen dips, they
dived  to their heart's content, lay in the sun  until they were dizzy, and,
finally,  with  hunger  clawing  at  their insides,  they  began  to  worry.
Hottabych had been gone for a suspiciously long time, though he had promised
not  to be  away longer than an hour.  The sun had long since set, colouring
the horizon and the calm sea in tints of amazing beauty;  thousands  of city
lights twinkled in the distance, but still the old man had not returned.
     "Could he have got lost?" Zhenya said despondently.
     "He can't get lost," Volka answered. "Chaps like him never get lost."
     "He might have been swallowed by a shark."
     "There aren't any sharks in these  waters,"  Volka objected, though  he
wasn't too sure of his words.
     "I'm hungry!" Zhenya confessed after a long silence.
     Just then, a  rowboat nosed  into the  beach with  a soft splash. Three
fishermen climbed out. One  of them began to  lay a fire of driftwood, while
the others picked out the smaller fish. They cleaned it  and threw it into a
kettle of water.
     "Let's go ask  them for something to eat," Zhenya suggested. "They look
like nice working people. I'm sure they'll give us something."
     Volka agreed.
     "Good evening, Signores!" Zhenya  bowed politely,  as he  addressed the
fishermen.
     "Just think  how many homeless children there  are  in our poor Italy!"
one of the three, a  thin,  grey-haired  man, said hoarsely. "Giovanni, give
them something to eat."
     "We've just  enough  bread  for ourselves, but there's plenty of onions
and  more than  enough salt!" a curly-haired stocky youth of about  nineteen
answered cheerfully. He was busy cleaning fish.
     "Sit down, boys. Soon the best fish soup ever cooked in or around Genoa
will be ready."
     Either the cheerful Giovanni was truly a gifted cook by nature, or else
the  boys were famished, but they agreed that they had  never eaten anything
more delicious in their lives. They ate with such gusto, smacking their lips
from sheer joy, that the fishermen watching them chuckled.
     "If  you want  some more, you can  cook  it  yourselves,  there nothing
complicated  about  it,"  Giovanni  said  and  stretched.  "We'll  doze  off
meanwhile.  Be  sure  you  don't  take any big  fishes,  they go  to  market
tomorrow, so we'll have money to pay our taxes."
     Zhenya  began  puttering  around the fire,  while Volka  rolled up  his
trousers and made his way to the boat full of fish.
     He had gathered as much  as  he  needed and was about to re turn to the
beach, when his  eyes  chanced  upon the  net folded near the mast. A lonely
fish  was  struggling frantically within, now  giving  up, now resuming  its
useless battle to free itself.
     "It will  come in handy for the chowder," Volka  said, plucking it from
the net. But it again began to struggle in  his hands, and  he suddenly felt
sorry for it. He turned round to make sure the fishermen weren't looking and
threw it back into the water.
     The fish made a small splash as it hit  the  dark surface of the lagoon
and turned into a beaming Hottabych.
     "May  the  day  upon  which  you  were  born   be  forever  blessed,  0
kind-hearted  son  of  Alyosha!"  he  exclaimed  gratefully,   as  he  stood
waist-deep in water. "Once again you've saved my life A few moments more and
I would have choked in that net. got foolishly trapped in it while searching
for my unfortunate brother."
     "Hottabych, old man! What a great fellow  you are  for being alive!  We
were so worried!"
     "And I, too,  was tortured by the thought that you, 0 twice my saviour,
and our young friend were left alone and hungry in an alien country."
     "We're  not  hungry at  all. These fishermen  really treated  us  to  a
feast."
     "May these kind people be blessed! Are they rich?"
     "I think they're very poor."
     "Then let's hurry, and I will return their kindness generously."
     "I don't think it's the right thing to do," Volka said after a moment's
pause. "Put yourself in their place: suddenly you see a wet old man climbing
out of the water in the middle of the night. No, this is no good at all."
     "You're right as always,"  Hottabych agreed.  "Return to the shore  and
I'll join you presently."
     A short while later, the sleeping fishermen were awakened  by the sound
of an approaching horse. Soon  a  strange rider stopped  at  the smouldering
fire.
     He was an old man in  a cheap  linen suit and a hard straw  boater. His
magnificent beard was wind-blown, disclosing to all  who  cared  to look  an
embroidered Ukrainian shirt. He  wore  a pair of gold and silver embroidered
pink  slippers  with  funny  turned-up toes. His  feet  were  placed in gold
stirrups that were studded with diamonds and emeralds. The saddle upon which
he sat was so  magnificent that it was surely  worth a fortune. The prancing
horse  was of  indescribable  beauty. In each  hand the old man held a large
leather suitcase.
     "Would you please  direct me to the  noble fishermen who have so kindly
taken  in and fed two lonely, hungry boys?"  he  said to Giovanni,  who  had
risen to greet him.
     Without waiting  for an  answer,  he dismounted, and,  with  a  sigh of
relief, set the suitcases on the sand.
     "What's the matter? Do you know them?" Giovanni asked cautiously.
     "Certainly I know my young friends!" Hottabych cried, embracing each in
turn as they ran up to him.
     Then he addressed the startled fishermen:
     "Believe me, 0 most honourable of all fishermen,  when  I say I do  not
know how to thank you enough for your precious hospitality and kindness!"
     "Why, there's nothing to thank us for. Not for the fish certainly?" the
grey-haired fisherman said in surprise. "It didn't Set us back much, believe
me, Signore."
     "These are the words of a truly selfless man, and they only increase my
feeling  of gratitude. Permit me  to  repay you with  these  modest  gifts,"
Hottabych said, handing a dumb-founded Giovanni the two suitcases.
     "There  must be some mistake,  0  respected Signore,"  Giovanni uttered
after exchanging puzzled glances  with his companions. "Why, you can buy  at
least a  thousand chowders like the one we shared with the boys for two such
suitcases. I don't  want you to think it was a very special kind of chowder.
We're poor people...."
     "It is you who are mistaken, 0 most modest  of all kind-hearted people!
Within these  excellent  boxes  which  you  call by  the scholarly  name  of
'suitcase' are riches that are thousands and thousands of times greater than
the cost of your soup. Nonetheless, I consider they cannot pay  for it,  for
there is nothing more precious in the world than disinterested hospitality."
     He opened the suitcases and  everyone saw  that they  were crammed with
magnificent, live, silvery fish.
     While the fishermen were still wondering what sense there was in giving
fishermen fish, Hottabych emptied  the quivering  contents  of the suitcases
onto the  sand.  It  was  then  that  the three men  gasped in  surprise and
amazement: in some strange way, both suitcases were found to be crammed full
of fish again! Hottabych emptied the suitcases once  again, and  once  again
they were filled with the marvellous gifts of the sea. This was  repeated  a
fourth and a fifth time.
     "And now," Hottabych said, enjoying the impression he had made, "if you
wish, you can test the wonderful  qualities of these 'suitcases' yourselves.
Never again will you have to shiver  in your little dingy in foul weather or
in the fog of early dawn. You will no longer have to pray to Allah for luck,
you will  never again have to drag about the market-place with heavy baskets
of  fish. You need only take  along one of  these  'suitcases' and give  the
customer  exactly  as  much  as he  wants. But I beg  you,  do not  object,"
Hottabych  said  when  he  noticed that  the  fishermen were  about  to  say
something. "I assure you, there has been no mistake. May your life be  happy
and cloudless, 0 most noble of fishermen! Farewell! Hop up here, boys!"
     With  Giovanni's  help,  the  boys  climbed  into  the  saddle   behind
Hottabych.
     "Farewell,  Signore! Good-bye, boys!" the dazed  fishermen  shouted, as
they watched the surprising strangers disappear in the distance.
     "Even if these were ordinary  suitcases,  not magic ones, we  could get
many liras for them," Giovanni said thoughtfully.
     "Well, I think  we'll  finally be able  to make ends meet now, Pietro,"
the oldest  of the three  added.  He  was close to  sixty, with  a wrinkled,
weather-beaten face  and dry,  sinewy  arms. "We'll  pay our taxes,  cure my
cursed rheumatism, and buy you a coat, a hat and a pair  of shoes, Giovanni.
After all, you're a young man and you should be dressed well. As a matter of
fact, some new clothes won't harm any of us, will they?"
     "New clothes!" Giovanni mimicked  angrily. "When there's so much sorrow
and  poverty  everywhere! First of  all, we'll have to help Giacomo's widow,
you  know, the one who drowned last year and left three children and an  old
mother."
     "You're right,  Giovanni,"  Pietro agreed.  "We should  help  Giacomo's
widow. He was a good and true friend."
     Then the  third fisherman entered  the  conversation. He  was a man  of
thirty, and his name was Cristoforo.
     "What  about  Luigi?  We should  give  him some  money,  too.  The poor
fellow's dying of tuberculosis."
     "That's right," Giovanni said. "And Sybilla Capelli.  Her son's been in
prison for over a year now for organizing the strike."
     "Just  think how many people we can help," Giovanni said excitedly. And
the three  kind fishermen sat late into the night, discussing whom else they
could help, now that they had the wonderful suitcases. These were honest and
kind-hearted  toilers,  and the  idea  never  entered  their  minds  to  use
Hottabych's present in order to get rich and be wealthy fishmongers.
     I am happy to tell this  to  my readers,  so they'll know the old man's
present fell into good hands, and I'm  certain that  none of  them,  if they
were in the fishermen's place, would have acted otherwise.

        THE VESSEL FROM THE PILLARS OF HERCULES

     This time Hottabych was true to  his word. He had promised he'd be back
in two or three hours.  At about a quarter to nine his beaming face shot out
of the  water.  The old  man  was  excited. He scrambled up  on  the  beach,
carrying a large seaweed-covered metal object over his head.
     "I found him, my friends!" he yelled.  "I found the vessel in which  my
unfortunate  brother  Omar Asaf ibn  Hottab has  been  imprisoned these many
centuries-may the sun always shine over him! I scanned the whole  sea bottom
and was beginning to despair when  I noticed this magic  vessel in the green
vastness near the Pillars of Hercules."
     "What are you waiting for? Hurry up and open it!" Zhenya cried, running
up to the exultant old man.
     "I dare not  open it, for it is sealed  with Sulayman's Seal. Let Volka
ibn Alyosha,  who  freed me,  also free my  long-suffering  little  brother.
Here's the  vessel which  I have spent  so  many  sleepless nights  dreaming
about!" Hottabych continued, waving his find overhead.
     "Here, 0 Volka, open it, to the joy of my brother Omar and myself!"
     Pressing his ear  to the side of  the vessel, he laughed happily, "Oho,
my friends! Omar is signalling to me from within!"
     There was  envy in Zhenya's eyes  as he  watched the  old  man  hand  a
nattered Volka the vessel, or, rather, lay it at Volka's feet, since it  was
so heavy.
     "But didn't you  say that Omar was imprisoned in a  copper vessel? This
one's  made of iron. Oh well, no  matter.... Where's the  seal? Aha, here it
is!" Volka said, inspecting the vessel carefully from all sides.
     Suddenly he turned pale and shouted:
     "Quick, lie down! Zhenya, lie down! Hottabych, throw it right back into
the water and lie down!"
     "You're mad!" Hottabych said indignantly. "I've dreamed  of our meeting
for so many years, and now, after finding him, you want me to throw him back
to the waves."
     "Throw it  as far out  as you  can! Your Omar  isn't inside!  Hurry, or
we'll all  be  dead!" Volka pleaded. Since the old  man still hesitated,  he
yelled at the top of his voice, "It is an order! Do you hear?!"
     Shrugging in dismay, Hottabych raised the heavy object, heaved  it  and
tossed it at least 200 yards from the shore.
     Before he  had  a chance to turn for an  explanation towards Volka, who
was  standing  beside him, there  was a terrible  explosion at  the spot the
vessel hit the  water. A huge pillar of water rose over the calm surface  of
the lagoon and fell apart with a loud crash. Thousands of stunned and killed
fish floated bellies up on the waves.
     People were already running towards them, attracted by the sound of the
explosion.
     "Let's run!" Volka commanded.
     They hurried to the highway and headed towards the city.
     A grieved Hottabych lagged behind and kept turning round constantly. He
was still not convinced that he had done right by obeying Volka.
     "What  did  you see on the thing?" Zhenya  asked when  he had caught up
with Volka, who was way ahead of him and Hottabych.
     " 'Made in USA,' that's what!"
     "So it was a bomb."
     "No, it  was a  mine.  There's  a big difference! It  was an underwater
mine."
     Hottabych sighed sadly.
     When Hottabych  saw that Omar was  not to be found in the Mediterranean
Sea, he suggested that they set out to the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. The
suggestion in itself was extremely tempting. However, Volka was unexpectedly
against it.  He said that he had  to be in Moscow the  following day without
fail.  But he would  not  tell them the reason, he  just  said it  was  very
important.  And so, with  a heavy  heart, Hottabych temporarily put  off the
search for Omar Asaf.
     The "VK-1" magic-carpet-seaplane  with Hassan  Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab,
Volka  Kostylkov  and  Zhenya  Bogorad  aboard,  soared  into  the  air  and
disappeared beyond the far-off mountains.
     Some ten hours later it landed safely on the sloping bank of the Moskva
River.


        THE SHORTEST CHAPTER OF ALL

     On a hot July noon, the ice-breaker "Ladoga," carrying a large group of
excursionists, left the Red Pier of the port of Arkhangelsk. The band on the
pier was playing marches. People  waved their handkerchiefs and shouted "Bon
voyage!" Trailing white puffs of steam, the ship sailed  cautiously out into
the middle of the Severnaya Dvina, past the many Soviet and foreign ships at
anchor  there,  and  headed for the mouth of  the river and the  White  Sea.
Endless  cutters,  motor-boats, schooners,  trawlers,  gigs,  and cumbersome
rafts ploughed the calm surface of the great northern river.
     The excursionists,  who were now gathered on the top deck, were leaving
Arkhangelsk and the mainland for a whole month.
     "Volka!" one of  the  passengers shouted to another, who  was anxiously
darting about near the captain's bridge, "Where's Hottabych?"
     The perceptive reader will gather from these words that our old friends
were among the passengers.

        DREAMING OF THE "LADOGA"

     Here we should like to pause for a moment and tell our readers how  our
three friends came to be aboard the "Ladoga" in the first place.
     Naturally, everyone recalls that Volka failed his geography examination
disgracefully, which was largely his own fault (he should never have  relied
on  prompting). It is  difficult to  forget such an  event.  Volka certainly
remembered it and was  studying  intently  for  his  re-examination.  He had
decided to do his utmost to get an "A."
     Despite his sincere desire to  prepare for the examination,  it was not
as easy as it seemed. Hottabych was  in the way. Volka had never mustered up
enough  courage to tell  the old man of the true consequences  of  his fatal
prompting.  That is why he could  never  tell him  he needed time to  study,
since he  feared that Hottabych might  decide to  punish  his teachers,  and
Varvara Stepanovna in particular, for having failed him.
     Hottabych made himself particularly troublesome the day of the  unusual
football match between the Shaiba and Zubilo teams.
     Feeling terribly  contrite for all the  anguish he had caused Volka  at
the stadium, Hottabych fairly shadowed him; he tried to regain his favour by
scattering  compliments  and proposing the most  tempting adventures. It was
not until eleven o'clock at night that Volka had a chance to get down to his
studies.
     "With  your  permission,  0  Volka,  I shall  go  to sleep,  for I feel
somewhat drowsy," Hottabych finally said, as he yawned and crawled under the
bed.
     "Good night, Hottabych! Sweet dreams!" Volka answered, settling back in
his chair  and gazing at his bed longingly. He was also tired and, as he put
it,  was quite ready to doze off for some 500 or 600 minutes.  But he had to
study, and so reluctantly put his mind to his work.
     Alas! The rustling of the pages attracted the sleepy Genie's attention.
He stuck  his head and dishevelled beard from  under  the bed and  said in a
foggy voice:
     "Why aren't you in bed yet, 0 stadium of my soul?"
     "I'm not sleepy. I have insomnia," Volka lied.
     "My, my, my!" Hottabych said compassionately.  "That's really too  bad.
Insomnia  is extremely  harmful  at  your delicate  age. But  don't despair,
there's nothing I can't do."
     He  yanked  several  hairs  from his  beard,  blew  on them,  whispered
something,  and  Volka, who  had no  time  to object  to this  untimely  and
unnecessary aid,  fell asleep  immediately,  with  his head resting  on  the
table.
     "Praised be Allah! All is well," Hottabych mumbled,  crawling  out from
under  the bed. "May you  remain in  the embraces of sleep  until  breakfast
time!"
     He lifted the sleeping boy lightly and carefully lay him to rest in his
bed, pulling  the  blanket  over  him.  Then,  clucking  and  mumbling  with
satisfaction, he crawled back under the bed.
     All night  long the table lamp cast its useless  light on the geography
text-book, forlornly opened at page 11.
     You can well imagine  how cunning Volka  had to  be to prepare for  his
re-examination in such difficult circumstances. This  was the very important
reason why Volka (and, therefore, Hottabych and Zhenya) had to  fly  home to
Moscow  from Genoa instead of continuing  on to the  shores  of the Atlantic
Ocean.
     However, Volka  soon found  out  that preparing for the examination was
only half the job done. He had yet to think of a way to get rid of Hottabych
while  he  was  in school taking  the  exam, to find a way  of  leaving  the
apartment unnoticed.
     The telephone  rang.  Volka  went to the foyer  to  answer  it. It  was
Zhenya.
     "Hello!" Volka said.  "Yes,  today. At noon.... He's still sleeping....
What?. . . Sure,  he's well.  He's a very healthy old man.... What?... No, I
haven't thought of anything yet.... You're crazy! He'll be terribly hurt and
he'll do such mischief we won't be able to undo it in  a  hundred  years....
Then you'll be here at ten-thirty? Fine!"
     Hottabych  stuck   his   head  out  of   Volka's  room.  He   whispered
reproachfully, "Volka,  why are  you talking to our best friend  Zhenya  ibn
Kolya in  the hall? That's not  polite.  Wouldn't it be nicer if you invited
him in?"
     "How can he come in if he's at home?"
     Hottabych was offended.
     "I can't understand  why you want  to play  tricks  on your old devoted
Genie.  My  ears  have  never yet deceived me. I just heard  you talking  to
Zhenya."
     "I was talking to  him  on the telephone. Don't you understand-te-le-ph
one? I sure  do have a lot of  trouble with you! What a thing to get mad at!
Come here, I'll show you what I mean!"
     Hottabych  joined  him. Volka  removed  the  receiver  and  dialled the
familiar number.
     "Will you please call Zhenya to the phone?" he said.
     Then he handed the receiver to Hottabych.
     "Here, you can talk to him now."
     Hottabych pressed the receiver to his ear cautiously and his face broke
into a puzzled smile.
     "Is that really you, 0 blessed Zhenya  ibn Kolya? Where are you now?...
At home?... And  I thought you  were sitting in  this black little thing I'm
holding to my ear.... Yes, that's right, it's me, your devoted friend Hassan
Abdurrakhman ibn Hot-tab.... You'll be  here soon? If that's the  case,  may
your trip be blessed!"
     Beaming with pleasure,  he handed the receiver back to  Volka, who  was
looking very superior.
     "It's amazing!" Hottabych  exclaimed. "Without once  raising my voice I
spoke to a boy who is two hours' walking distance away!"
     Returning to Volka's room, the old man turned round  slyly, snapped the
fingers  of his left hand, and there appeared  on the wall over the aquarium
an exact copy of the telephone hanging in the hall.
     "Now you can talk  to your friends as much as  you like without leaving
your own room."
     "Golly, thanks a lot!"  Volka said gratefully. He removed the receiver,
pressed it to his ear and listened.
     There was no dial tone.
     "Hello!  Hello!"  he shouted. He shook the receiver and then blew  into
it. Still, there was no dial tone.
     "The  phone's  broken," he explained  to  Hottabych.  "FU  unscrew  the
receiver and see what's wrong."
     However, despite all his efforts, he could not unscrew it.
     "It's made of the finest black marble," Hottabych boasted.
     "Then there's nothing inside?" Volka asked disappointedly.
     "Why, is there supposed to be  something inside this, too? Just like in
a watch?"
     "Now  I  know  why  it  doesn't  work.  You've  only made  a model of a
telephone, without anything that's supposed to go inside it. But the insides
are the most important part."
     "What's supposed to be inside? A special kind of filling? The kind that
was in  the watch, with  all kinds  of wheels? You just explain it, and I'll
make it exactly as it should be."
     "It's not like a watch;  it's  entirely different. And it's not so easy
to explain. You have to study all about electricity first," Volka said  with
an air of importance.
     "Then teach me about what you call electricity."
     "To  begin with,  you  have  to  study  arithmetic, algebra,  geometry,
trigonometry, mechanical drawing and all kinds of other subjects."
     "Then teach me these other subjects, too."
     "Uh ... well... I don't know all of them myself, yet," Volka confessed.
     "Then teach me what you already know."
     "It'll take an awfully long time."
     "That  doesn't matter.  I  am willing, nonetheless.  Don't  keep me  in
suspense:  will  you  teach  me  these  subjects, which give a  person  such
wonderful powers?"
     "On condition that  you  do your homework  well," Volka  said  sternly.
"Here, read  the paper while  I go to see a friend of mine about something."
He handed Hottabych a copy of Pionerskaya Pravda and set out for school.
     The light-grey school building was unusually deserted and quiet. In the
office  on  the  first  floor  the principal  and  Varvara  Stepanovna  were
discussing school problems, and on the third floor the loud, cheerful voices
of  the painters and plasterers echoed through the  halls. It was summer and
the school was being renovated.
     "Well,  my dear  Varvara Stepanovna, what shall  I say?" the  principal
said  with a smile. "One can only envy such a vacation. How long will you be
gone?" "I believe for a month or so."
     Volka was  glad to hear that Varvara Stepanovna  would not be in danger
of encountering Hottabych for at least a  month. If only she would leave  as
quickly as possible!
     "Aha, the crystal cupola of the  heavens!" the principal teased  as  he
greeted  Volka.  "Well,  are you feeling better now?" "Yes, I'm  quite well,
thank you."
     "Excellent! Have you prepared for your examination?" "Yes, I have."
     "Well, then, let's have a little talk."
     The little talk embraced almost the whole of sixth-grade geography.  If
Volka had  thought of looking at the time, he would have  been  surprised to
note that their little talk lasted nearly twenty minutes. But he couldn't be
bothered  with  the  time.  He  thought the  principal was  not  asking  the
questions  in great enough detail. He felt he could speak  on each topic for
five or ten minutes. He was experiencing the tormenting and at once pleasant
feeling of a pupil who knows  his subject inside-out and is most worried  by
the thought that this fact might go unnoticed by his examiners. But one look
at  Varvara Stepanovna convinced him that she was pleased  with his answers.
Nevertheless, when  the  principal said, "Good for you! Now  I can see  that
your teacher hasn't wasted her time on you," Volka felt a pleasant chill run
down  his spine. His freckled face spread into  such  a broad smile that the
principal and Varvara Stepanovna smiled, too.
     "Yes, Kostylkov has  obviously put in a lot  of studying,"  his teacher
said.
     Ah, if they only  knew of the terribly difficult conditions under which
Volka had to prepare for his exam! What stratagems he had had  to resort to,
how he had had to  hide  from Hottabych in order to have a chance  to  study
quietly;  what colossal barriers the unsuspecting  Hottabych had put in  his
way! How much more his teachers would  have  respected his achievements, had
they only known!
     For a moment, Volka was on the point of boasting of his  own success as
a  teacher (not everyone can proudly say he has taught  a  Genie to read and
write!), but he checked himself in time.
     "Well,  Kostylkov, congratulations on  passing to the 7th grade! Have a
good rest until September. Get strong and healthy! Goodbye for now!"
     "Thank you," Volka replied  as discreetly as  a 7th-grade pupil should.
"Good-bye."
     When  he  arrived at  the  river bank,  Hottabych, who had made himself
comfortable in  the shade of a mighty oak,  was reading the  paper aloud  to
Zhenya.
     "I passed!  I  got  an 'A'!" Volka  whispered  to his  friend.  Then he
stretched  out  beside  Hottabych,  experiencing  at  least  three  pleasant
feelings at once: the first was that he was lying in the  shade; the second,
that he had passed his exam so well; and the last, but by no means least-the
pride of a teacher enjoying the achievements of his pupil.
     Meanwhile, Hottabych had reached  the section entitled  "Sports  News."
The very first article made the friends sigh with envy.
     "In the middle  of July, the  ice-breaker 'Ladoga,'  chartered  by  the
Central Excursion Bureau, will leave Arkhangelsk for the Arctic. Sixty-eight
persons,  the best  workers  of  Moscow  and  Leningrad,  will  spend  their
vacations aboard it. This promises to be a very interesting cruise." "What a
trip! I'd give anything to go along," Volka said dreamily.
     "You need only  express your wish, 0 my most excellent friends, and you
shall go wherever you please!" Hottabych promised, for he yearned to somehow
repay his young teachers. Volka merely sighed again. Zhenya explained sadly:
     "No, Hottabych, there's no question of it. Only famous people  can  get
aboard the 'Ladoga.' "


        A COMMOTION AT THE CENTRAL EXCURSION BUREAU

     That very same  day  an  old man  dressed  in a  white suit and a straw
boater and  wearing  queer pink embroidered  slippers  with  turned-up  toes
entered  the  offices of the Central Excursion Bureau. He politely  inquired
whether he had the good fortune of being in the chambers of that high-placed
establishment  which  granted  people  the  fragrant   joy  of  travel.  The
secretary, surprised by such a flowery question, replied in the affirmative.
Then the  old man inquired in the same  florid  language  where the wise man
worthy of the greatest respect sat, he, who was in charge of booking passage
on the ice-breaker "Ladoga."
     He was directed to a  plump, bald man seated at a large desk piled high
with letters.
     "But  please  bear  in  mind  that  there  are  no cabins left  on  the
'Ladoga'," the secretary warned.
     The old man did not reply. He thanked her with a nod and approached the
plump man silently. In silence he made a low bow, in silence and with  great
dignity he handed him a roll of paper wrapped in a newspaper; then  he bowed
again,  turned  in  silence and left, with  the puzzled eyes of  all who had
witnessed this curious scene following him out.
     The  bald  man unwrapped the newspaper.  There,  on  his desk, was  the
strangest letter the Central Excursion Bureau had ever received-or, for that
matter, the strangest  letter ever received by any Soviet  office. It  was a
yellow parchment scroll. A large green wax seal  dangled from  a golden silk
cord attached to it.
     "Did you ever see anything like it?" the plump man asked loudly and ran
off to show it to his chief, in charge of long-range cruises.
     When they  had read it, his chief dropped  his work and the two of them
dashed off to the director.
     "What's the matter? Can't you see I'm busy?" the director said.
     The section chief silently unrolled the parchment scroll.
     "What's that? Is it from a museum?"
     "No, it's from 'Incoming mail'."
     "Incoming  mail?!  What's  in  it?" After  reading  the  contents,  the
director  said,  "Well, I've seen  quite a  lot  in  my day, but  I've never
received such a letter. It must have been written by a maniac."
     "Even if  he is a  maniac, he's a  collector of antiques,"  the section
chief answered. "You try to get some genuine parchment nowadays."
     "Just listen to what  he's written," the director continued, forgetting
that his subordinates had already read the message. "It's typical raving!
     "  'To the greatly respected Chief of  Pleasures, the incorruptible and
enlightened Chief of the Long-Range Cruise Section, may his name be renowned
among the most honourable ' and respected Section Chiefs!' "
     The director read this  and winked at the section chief. "He means you,
I guess!" The section chief coughed in embarrassment.
     " 'I, Hassan Abdurrakhman, the mighty Genie, the great Genie, known for
my  power and  might in Baghdad and Damascus, in Babylon  and Sumer, son  of
Hottab, the great King of Evil Spirits, a part of the Eternal Kingdom, whose
dynasty is pleasing to Sulayman, the Son of David (on the twain  be peace!),
whose reign  is pleasing  to their hearts. Allah was overjoyed at my blessed
doings and blessed  me, Hassan Abdurrakhman, a Genie who worshipped him. All
the kings reigning  in  the palaces of the Four Parts of the World, from the
Upper Sea to the Lower Sea, and the kings of the West who live in  tents-all
have brought their homage to me and kissed my feet in Baghdad.
     "  'It has become known to me, 0 most noble of Section Chiefs,  that  a
ship which navigates without sails  and  is named the "Ladoga" will soon set
out on a pleasure cruise from  the city of Arkhangelsk with famous people of
various  cities  aboard. It  is my wish  that my  two young  friends,  whose
virtues are so many that even a short enumeration  of them will not fit into
this scroll, should also be among them.
     " 'Alas, I have not been informed of  how great a person's fame must be
in order that he be eligible for this magnificent  trip. However,  no matter
how great the  requirements,  my friends will meet  them-nay, more than meet
them, for it is in my power to make them princes or sheiks, tsars or  kings,
the most famous of the famous, the richest of the rich, the mightiest of the
mighty.
     " 'I kiss your feet seven times and seven times and send you greetings,
0 wise Section Chief, and request you to ' inform me when I and my two young
companions  should appear on  board the above-mentioned ship, may storms and
ill-fortune by-pass it on its distant and dangerous journey!
     "  'Signed  by the hand of Hassan Abdurrakhman  ibn Hottab,  the Mighty
Genie.' "
     At the very bottom was Volka's address, enclosed for a reply.
     "'Ravings!" the director said, rolling up the scroll. "The ravings of a
madman. Stick it away in the file and be done with it."
     "I  think we'd better answer him, or the crazy old man will be dropping
in  five  times a day to find out  about  the outcome of his  application. I
assure you, it'll be  quite impossible  to work in  the office," the section
chief objected. A few minutes later he dictated an answer to his secretary.

        WHO IS MOST FAMOUS?

     Hottabych had acted unwisely in giving Volka's address for a  reply. It
was only by the merest chance that Volka met the postman on the stairs. What
if this  lucky meeting  had  not taken place?  The letter  from  the Central
Excursion Bureau would  have  been delivered  to  his parents; all sorts  of
questions would have followed, resulting in such a mess, that he didn't even
care to think of it.
     The younger Kostylkov did not  often receive  mail  addressed  to  him,
personally. In fact, not more than three or four times in all his life. That
is  why, when the postman said he  had  a letter  for him, Volka was greatly
surprised. When he saw the return address of the Central Excursion Bureau he
was stunned.  He examined the envelope carefully and even smelled it, but it
only  smelled  of the paste on the flap. With trembling fingers he opened it
and read  the section chief's  short but polite  reply  several  times  over
without understanding a thing:

     "Dear Citizen H. Abdurrakhmanov,
     "We regret to inform you that we received your  request too late. There
are no cabins left on the 'Ladoga.'
     "My best regards to your princes and sheiks.
     "Sincerely yours,
     I. Domosedov, Section Chief of Long-Range Cruises."

     "Can  it be that the old man tried  to  get  us on  the  'Ladoga'?"  it
suddenly occurred to Volka.  He was deeply touched.  "What a  wonderful  old
man!  But I  don't  understand which  princes and  sheiks this Domosedov  is
sending his regards to. I'll find out right away, though."
     "Hottabych! Hey, Hottabych!" he shouted when he reached the river bank.
"Come here for a minute, will  you?" The  old man was dozing in the shade of
the great oak. When he heard Volka calling, he started, jumped  to his feet,
and shuffled over to the boy.
     "Here I am, 0 goalie of my soul," he panted. "I await your orders."
     "Come clean now. Did you write to the Central Excursion Bureau?"
     "Yes, but  I wanted  it  to be  a surprise. Did  you receive an  answer
already?"
     "Sure, here it is," Volka said, showing the old man the letter.
     Hottabych snatched the paper from him. After reading the tactful answer
slowly,  syllable  by syllable,  he turned purple  and began to tremble  all
over.  His  eyes  became  bloodshot.  In a  great  rage  he ripped  open his
embroidered collar.
     "I beg your pardon," he wheezed,  "I beg your pardon! I must  leave you
for a few minutes to take care of that most despicable Domosedov. Oh, I know
what  I'll do to  him! I'll annihilate him!  No, that's  no good! He doesn't
deserve  such merciful punishment. Better still, I'll turn him into a filthy
rag,  and on rainy  days people will wipe  their dirty  shoes on him  before
entering  a  house.  No!  That's  not enough  to repay him for  his insolent
refusal!"
     With these words the old man  zoomed  into  the air.  But Volka shouted
sternly:
     "Come back! Come back this minute!"
     The  old man  returned obediently.  His  heavy grey  brows  were  drawn
together gloomily.
     "Really  now!"  Volka  shouted, truly alarmed on  the  section  chief's
account. "What's the matter! Are you crazy? Is it his fault there's  no more
room on the ship? After all, it's  not made of rubber, it can't stretch. And
will you please tell me who the sheiks and princes he refers to are?"
     "You, 0  Volka ibn Alyosha, you and our friend Zhenya  ibn  Kolya,  may
Allah grant you both a long life. I wrote and told this most degraded of all
section chiefs that  he  need not worry about your  not being famous enough,
for no matter how famous the other passengers aboard the 'Ladoga' are, I can
make  you,  my  friends,  more famous  still.  I  wrote  this  small-brained
Domosedov-may Allah  forget  him completely-that he may regard you as sheiks
or princes or tsars without even having seen you."
     Despite the tenseness of the  situation, Volka could not help laughing.
He laughed so loudly, that several very serious-minded jackdaws rose noisily
from the nearest tree and flew off indignantly.
     "Help! That means I'm a  prince!"  Volka choked the  words out  through
peals of laughter.
     "I must  admit,  I  cannot understand the  reason for  your  laughter,"
Hottabych said  in a wounded tone. "But if  we are to  discuss  the question
seriously,  I had planned on making Zhenya a prince. I  think you deserve to
be a sultan."
     "Honestly, you'll  be  the  death  of me  yet!  Then Zhenya would  be a
prince, while  I'd be a  sultan?  What political backwardness!" Volka gasped
when  he had  finally stopped  laughing.  "What's so glorious about being  a
prince or a king?  Why,  they're  the most  good-for-nothing  people in  the
world!"
     "I'm afraid you've gone  out  of your  mind,"  Hottabych  said, looking
anxiously  at his young companion. "As I  understand it, even sultans aren't
good enough for  you.  Whom then do you  consider  to be  famous? Name me at
least one such person."
     "Why, Chutkikh, or Lunin, or Kozhedub, or Pasha Angelina."
     "Who is this Chutkikh, a sultan?"
     "Much higher than that! He's one of the best textile specialists in the
country!"
     "And Lunin?"
     "Lunin is the best engine driver!"
     "And Kozhedub?"
     "He's one of the very, very best pilots!"
     "And  whose  wife is Pasha Angelina for you to consider her more famous
than a sheik or a king?"
     "She's famous in her own right. It has nothing at all  to  do  with her
husband. She's a famous tractor driver."
     "0 precious Volka, how can you  play such tricks on an old man like me!
Do you want to convince me that  a  plain weaver or a locomotive  driver  is
more famous than a tsar?"
     "In  the first place,  Chutkikh isn't a  plain  weaver.  He's  a famous
innovator,  known  to  the entire  textile industry;  and Lunin  is a famous
engineer. And in the second place,  the  most ordinary worker in our country
is more respected than the  tsar of tsars.  Don't you believe me? Here, read
this."
     Volka handed Hottabych  the paper and there, with his own eyes, he read
the following heading: "Famous People  of Our  Country," beneath which  were
over  a  dozen  photographs  of  fitters,  agronomists,  pilots,  collective
farmers, weavers, teachers and carpenters.
     "I would never have believed you," Hottabych said with a sigh. "I would
never have believed you if your words had not been corroborated on the pages
of this newspaper I  so respect. I beg you,  0 Volka, explain why everything
is so different in this wonderful country of yours?"
     "With pleasure," Volka answered. And sitting down on the river bank, he
spoke  at length and with great pride,  explaining the essence of the Soviet
system to Hottabych.
     There is no use repeating their long conversation.
     "All  you have  said is as wise as  it is noble.  And to anyone who  is
honest  and just  all  this gives  plenty to  think  about,"  Hottabych said
candidly when  his first lesson  in current events was  over. After  a short
pause he added:
     "That is all  the more reason why I want you and your friend to sail on
the 'Ladoga.' Believe me, I will see that it is arranged."
     "But please, no rough stuff," Volka warned.  "And  no  monkey-business.
That  means no  fakery.  For instance, don't think of  making me out to be a
straight 'A' pupil. I have 'B's in three subjects."
     "Your every wish is my command," Hottabych replied and bowed low.
     The old  man  was  as  good as his word.  He did not lay  a finger on a
single employee of the Central Excursion Bureau.
     He  just arranged  matters so, that  when our three friends boarded the
"Ladoga,"  they were met very warmly and were given an excellent  cabin; and
no  one  ever inquired  why  in the  world  they had been  included  in  the
passenger list-it simply did not occur to anyone to ask such a question.
     To the captain's great surprise, twenty  minutes before sailing  time a
hundred and fifty crates of oranges, as many crates of excellent grapes, two
hundred  crates  of  dates and a  ton  and  a half  of  the  finest  Eastern
delicacies were delivered to the ship. The  following message was stencilled
on each and every crate:
     "For  the  passengers and  the  members  of the  fearless  crew  of the
'Ladoga,' from a citizen who wishes to remain anonymous."
     One  does  not  have to be especially  clever to guess  that these were
Hottabych's gifts: he did not want the  three of them  to  take  part in the
expedition at someone else's expense.
     And if you  ask  any  of  the former passengers, they still cherish the
kindest feelings for the "citizen who wished to remain anonymous." His gifts
were well liked by all.
     Now, having made it sufficiently clear  to the readers  how our friends
found themselves aboard the "Ladoga," we can continue our story with a clear
conscience.

        THE UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER

     If  you  recall,  dear  readers,  it  was  a  hot  July noon  when  the
ice-breaker "Ladoga" sailed from  the Red  Pier in  the port of  Arkhangelsk
with a large group of excursionists on board. Our three  friends, Hottabych,
Volka  and Zhenya, were among the passengers. Hottabych was sitting on deck,
conversing  solemnly  with  a  middle-aged  fitter  from  Sverdlovsk on  the
advantages of cloth shoes  as compared to leather  ones,  pointing  out  the
comfort people suffering from old corns found in cloth shoes.
     Volka and Zhenya were leaning on the railing of the top deck. They were
as happy as only boys can be who are aboard a real ice-breaker for the first
time in their lives, and, to top it all, are sailing away for a whole month,
not to just any old place, but to the Arctic.
     After  exchanging  opinions  on   boats,  diesel  ships,  ice-breakers,
tug-boats, schooners,  trawlers, cutters, and other types of craft  skimming
over the surface of the Northern  Dvina,  the boys fell silent, enchanted by
the beauty of the great river.
     "Isn't that something!" Volka said  in a voice that seemed to imply  he
was responsible for all this beauty.
     "Uh-huh."
     "Nobody'd believe it if you told them."
     "Uh-huh!"
     "I'm really glad that we. .." Volka began after a long pause and looked
around cautiously to see if Hottabych was anywhere  nearby. Just in case, he
continued in a whisper, "... that we've taken the old  man away from Varvara
Stepanovna for at least a month."
     "Sure," Zhenya agreed.
     "There's  the  Mate  in  charge  of the  passengers," Volka  whispered,
nodding towards a young sailor with a freckled face.
     They looked with awe at the man who carried his high and romantic title
so nonchalantly.  His glance  slid over the  young passengers unseeingly and
came to rest on a sailor who was leaning on the railing nearby.
     "What's the matter, are you feeling homesick?"
     "Well,  here  we  are,  off  again  for  a whole month  to  the  end of
nowheres."
     The boys were amazed to discover that someone might  not  want to go to
the Arctic! What a strange fellow!
     "A real sailor is a  guest on  shore and at home at sea!" the Passenger
Mate said weightily. "Did you ever hear that saying?"
     "Well, I can't say I'm a real sailor, since I'm only a waiter."
     "Then get one dinner in the  galley and take it  to Cabin 14, to a lady
named Koltsova."
     "That's  the same last name as Varvara  Stepanovna has," Volka remarked
to Zhenya.
     "Uh-huh."
     "She's  a middle-aged lady and  she caught cold on the  way here,"  the
Mate  explained. "It's nothing  very serious," he said,  as  if to  calm the
waiter, though the latter did not appear  in  any  way alarmed at the lady's
state  of health. "She  only  ought  to stay in  her  cabin a day or two and
she'll  be all  right. And  please be  especially  nice. She's  an  Honoured
Teacher of the Republic."
     "An  Honoured  Teacher!   And  her  last  name  is  Koltsova.   What  a
coincidence!" Volka whispered.
     "Well, it's a very common last name, just like Ivanov," Zhenya objected
in a voice that was suddenly hoarse.
     "Her name and patronymic are Varvara Stepanovna," the Mate went on.
     The boys saw spots before their eyes.
     "It's no  matter that she's Varvara Stepanovna,  too. That doesn't mean
she's our Varvara  Stepanovna," Zhenya said in an effort to reassure himself
and his friend.
     At this point, however, Volka  recalled the conversation that had taken
place in the principal's  office when he  was there  to  take his  geography
examination. He merely shrugged hopelessly.
     "It's  she  all  right. That's exactly who it  is.  I'm scared to think
what'll happen to her. Why couldn't she go some place else!"
     "We'll save her anyway,  we just have to think of a way,"  Zhenya  said
darkly after a short but painful silence.
     They sat down on a bench, thought a while, and complained of their  bad
luck: such a  journey was really something wonderful for anyone else, but it
would be nothing but a headache  for them from now on.  Yet, since this  was
the way things had turned out,  they must  save their teacher. But how? Why,
it was all quite simple: by distracting Hottabych.
     They had no need to worry today, for she would certainly be confined to
her cabin till  the  morrow. Then they would plan their strategy as follows:
one would go strolling with Varvara Stepanovna, or sit on a bench talking to
her, while the other would be distracting Hottabych. For instance, Volka and
Hottabych might play a game of  chess,  while Zhenya and  Varvara Stepanovna
took  a stroll  down  the deck. Volka and Hottabych could  be on deck, while
Zhenya and Varvara Stepanovna were talking somewhere far away, in a cabin or
someplace.  The only points  remaining to be cleared up were  what they were
supposed to  do when everyone  went ashore together or gathered for meals in
the mess hall.
     "What if we disguise her?" Volka suggested.
     "What  do  you  want  to do-stick  a  beard  on her?"  Zhenya  snapped.
"Nonsense. Make-up won't save her. We'll have to think it over carefully."
     "Ahoy, my young friends! Where are you?" Hottabych shouted from below.
     "We're here, we're coming right down."
     They went down to the promenade deck.
     "I and my honourable friend here are having an argument about the Union
of South Africa," Hottabych said, introducing them to his companion.
     Things were going from bad  to worse. If the old  man began advertising
his knowledge of  geography,  the passengers would surely laugh at  him;  he
might very well become offended,  and  what  might  happen then did not bear
thinking about.
     "Who's right, my young friends? Isn't Pretoria the capital of the Union
of South Africa?"
     "Sure it is," the boys agreed.
     They were amazed. How had the old man come by this correct information?
Maybe from the papers? Naturally. That was the only answer.
     "My  honourable  friend  here insists  it's  Cape Town,  not Pretoria,"
Hottabych  said triumphantly.  "We  also argued  about how far above  us the
stratosphere is. I said that one could not draw a  definite line between the
troposphere and the  stratosphere, since  it is higher or  lower in  various
parts of the world. And also that the line of the horizon, which, as one can
ascertain from the science  of geography,  is no more  than a figment of our
imagination...." .
     "Hottabych,  I  want  a word with you  in private,"  Volka  interrupted
sternly. They  walked off  to a side. "Tell  me  the truth,  was it you  who
filched my geography book?"
     "May  I be permitted to know what  you mean by that strange "  word? If
you mean, 0 Volka, that I.... What's the matter  now,  0 anchor of my heart?
You're as pale as a ghost."
     Volka's jaw dropped. His gaze became fixed  on something behind the old
Genie's back.
     Hottabych was about to turn round to see what it was, but Volka wailed:
     "Don't  turn around! Please, don't  turn  around! Hottabych, my  sweet,
dear Hottabych!"
     Nevertheless, the old man did turn around.
     Coming towards them, arm  in arm with another elderly lady, was Varvara
Stepanovna Koltsova, an  Honoured Teacher of the Republic, the 6B  geography
teacher of Moscow Secondary School No. 245.
     Hottabych  approached her slowly. With a practised gesture he  yanked a
hair from his beard, and then another.
     "Don't!" Volka yelled in horror, as he grabbed Hottabych's hand. "She's
not to blame! You've no right to!"
     Zhenya silently tackled Hottabych  from the rear  and  gripped  him  as
firmly as he could.
     The  old  man's  companion  looked  at  this  strange  scene  in  utter
amazement.
     "Boys!" Varvara Stepanovna commanded,  apparently not at all  surprised
at meeting her pupils on the ice-breaker.  "Behave yourselves! Leave the old
man alone! Didn't you hear me?! Kostylkov! Bogorad! Do you hear?"
     "He'll turn you into a toad if we do!" Volka cried frantically, feeling
that he could not manage Hottabych.
     "Or  into  a  chopping-block on  which  butchers carve  mutton!" Zhenya
added. "Run, Varvara Stepanovna! Hurry  up and hide before he  breaks loose!
What Volka said is true!"
     "What nonsense!" Varvara Stepanovna said, raising her voice. "Children,
did you hear what I said?!"
     By then  Hottabych had wrenched free from his young friends and quickly
tore the hairs in two. The boys shut their eyes in horror.
     However,  they opened them  when they heard Varvara Stepanovna thanking
someone.  She was holding  a  bouquet of flowers and a  large bunch of  ripe
bananas.
     Hottabych replied  by bowing  with  a  nourish  and  touching first his
forehead and then his heart.
     When they were back in their cabin, the three friends had a show-down.
     "Oh,  Volka, why  didn't  you  tell  me  right  away, right  after  the
examination, the very first day of our happy acquaintance, that I failed you
by my over-confident and ignorant prompting? You've offended  me. If you had
only told me, I wouldn't have bothered you with my annoying  gratitude. Then
you could  have easily prepared for  your  re-examination, as is becoming an
enlightened youth like you."
     So spoke Hottabych, and there was real hurt in his voice.
     "But you'd have  turned Varvara  Stepanovna into  a chopping-block  for
carving mutton. No, Hottabych, I know you only too well. We spent all  these
days in terrible fear for her life. Tell me, would you have changed her into
a chopping-block?"
     Hottabych sighed.
     "Yes, I would  have, there's no use denying it.  Either that or  into a
terrible toad."
     "See! Is that what she deserves?"
     "Why,  if   anyone  ever  dares  to   turn  this  noble  woman  into  a
chopping-block  or a toad he'll  have  to deal with me first!" the  old  man
cried hotly and added, "I bless the day you induced me to learn the alphabet
and taught me how to read the papers. Now  I am  always up-to-date and  well
informed on which sea is being  built, and  where. And I also bless the  day
Allah gave me  the wisdom to  'filch' your geography  book-that's  the right
expression, isn't it, 0  Volka?  For that truly wise and  absorbing book has
opened before me the blessed expanses of true science and has  saved me from
administering  that  which  I,  in  my  blindness,  considered  a  deserving
punishment for your highly respected teacher. I mean Varvara Stepanovna."
     "I guess that takes care of that!" Volka said.
     "It sure does," Zhenya agreed.


        WHAT INTERFERES WITH SLEEPING?

     They were having  good sailing weather. For three days and three nights
they sailed in open seas and only towards the end of the third  day did they
enter a region of scattered ice.
     The boys were playing checkers in the lounge, when an excited Hottabych
burst in on them, holding on to the brim of his old straw hat.
     "My friends," he said with a broad  smile, "go  and have  a  look:  the
whole world, as far as the eye can see, is covered with sugar and diamonds!"
     We can  excuse Hottabych  these  funny  words, as never  before  in his
nearly forty centuries  of living had he seen  a single  mound  of ice worth
speaking of.
     Everyone  in the  lounge rushed on  deck and  discovered  thousands  of
snow-white drifting ice-floes sparkling and glittering in the bright rays of
the  midnight sun,  moving silently towards the  "Ladoga."  Soon  the  first
ice-floes crunched and crashed against the rounded steel stem of the boat.
     Late that night (but it was as bright  and sunny as on a clear noonday)
the passengers saw a group  of islands in  the distance. This was the  first
glimpse they had of the majestic  and sombre panorama of Franz Joseph  Land.
They saw  the  gloomy, naked cliffs  and  mountains covered  with glittering
glaciers which resembled sharp,  pointed clouds that had been  pressed close
to the harsh land.
     "It's time to go to bed, I guess," Volka said when everyone had had his
fill  of looking at the far islands.  "There's  really nothing to do, but  I
don't feel like sleeping. It all comes from not being used to sleeping while
the sun is shining!"
     "0  blessed  one,  it seems to  me that  it is  not the  sun  which  is
interfering, but something else entirely," Hottabych suggested timidly.
     However, no one paid attention to his words.
     For a while, the boys wandered up and down the decks. There  were  less
and less people  aboard. Finally they,  too, went back to their  cabin. Soon
the only  people on the ship who were not  asleep  were the  crew members on
duty.
     It was quiet and  peaceful aboard the "Ladoga." From every cabin  there
came  the sound of snoring  or deep  breathing, as if  this  were not taking
place on a ship some two and a  half thousand kilometres from  the mainland,
in the harsh and treacherous Barents  Sea, but in a cosy rest home somewhere
near Moscow, during the afternoon "quiet hour." The shades were drawn on the
port-holes, just  as on the  windows  in rest homes, to keep out  the bright
sunshine.

        SHIPWRECKED?

     However, it soon became clear that there was a very tangible difference
between the "Ladoga" and a rest  home.  Apart  from  the Crimean earthquake,
old-timers at rest homes do not recall having  been tossed out of their beds
in  their sleep. The passengers had  just fallen  asleep when  a  sharp jerk
threw them from their berths.
     That very  moment the steady hum of the engines stopped. In the silence
which  followed,  one could hear  the slamming  of  doors  and  the sound of
running feet, as the people rushed out of their cabins to  find out what had
happened. There were shouts of command coming from the deck. Volka was lucky
in  tumbling  out  of the top berth without  major  injuries. He immediately
jumped to  his feet and began to rub his sore  spots.  As he was still  half
asleep, he  decided that it had been his own fault and was about to climb up
again when  the murmur of  anxious voices coming from the corridor convinced
him that the reason was much more serious than he thought.
     "Perhaps we  hit  an underground  reef?"  he wondered,  pulling on  his
clothes. This thought,  far  from  frightening him, gave  him  a strange and
burning  feeling of  anxious exhilaration. "Golly! This is a real adventure!
Gee! There isn't a single ship  within a thousand kilometres, and maybe  our
wireless doesn't work!"
     He imagined  a  most  exciting  picture:  they were  shipwrecked, their
supplies of drinking  water  and  food  were  coming  to  an  end,  but  the
passengers  and  crew of  the  "Ladoga"  were calm  and courageous-as Soviet
people should be.  Naturally,  he,  Volka Kostylkov, had  the  greatest will
power. Yes,  Vladimir Kostylkov  could look  danger  in  the face.  He would
always be cheerful and outwardly carefree,  he would comfort those who  were
despondent. When  the  captain of the "Ladoga" would succumb to the  inhuman
strain and  deprivation, he, Volka,  would  rightly take over command of the
ship.
     "What has  disturbed  the sleep so  necessary  to your  young  system?"
Hottabych asked and yawned, interrupting Volka's day-dreams.
     "I'll find out right away, Hottabych. I  don't want you  to worry about
anything," Volka said comfortingly and ran off.
     Gathered on  the spardeck near  the  captain's bridge were about twenty
half-dressed passengers.  They were  all discussing  something  quietly.  In
order to raise  their spirits, Volka assumed a cheerful, carefree expression
and said courageously:
     "Be calm, everyone! Calmness above all! There's no need to panic!"
     "That's very true. Those are  golden words,  young man! And that is why
you should go right back to your cabin and go to sleep without fear," one of
the passengers replied with a smile.  "By the way, no one here is feeling at
all panicky."
     Everyone laughed,  to Volka's considerable embarrassment.  Besides,  it
was rather chilly on deck and he decided to run down and get his coat.
     "Calmness above all!" he said  to Hottabych, who was  waiting  for  him
below. "There's no reason to get panicky.  Before two days  are out, a giant
ice-breaker will  come  for  us and  set us afloat once  again. We certainly
could  have done it ourselves, but  can you hear?  The engines  have stopped
working.  Something went wrong,  but no one can find out  what  it is. There
will surely be deprivations, but let's hope that no one will die."
     Volka was listening to himself speak with pleasure. He had never dreamt
he could calm people so easily and convincingly.
     "0  woe is me!" the old  man cried suddenly, shoving his bare feet into
his  famous  slippers. "If you perish, I'll not survive  you. Have we really
come upon a shoal? Alas, alas!  It would be much better  if the engines were
making noise. And just look at me! Instead of using my magic powers for more
important things, I...."
     "Hottabych," Volka interrupted sternly, "tell me this minute: what have
you done?"
     "Why, nothing much. It's just  that I  so  wanted you to sleep soundly,
that I permitted myself to order the engines to stop making noise."
     "Oh, no!" Volka cried in horror. "Now I know what happened! You ordered
the engines to be still, but they  can't work silently.  That's why the ship
stopped so suddenly. Take back your order before the boilers explode!"
     "I hear and I obey," a rather frightened Hottabych answered shakily.
     That  very moment  the  engines began  to hum  again and  the  "Ladoga"
continued on its way as  before. Meanwhile, the captain, the chief  engineer
and everyone else  on board were  at  a loss to explain why  the engines had
stopped so  suddenly and mysteriously and had resumed  working again just as
suddenly and mysteriously.
     Only  Hottabych and  Volka  knew what  had  happened,  but  for obvious
reasons  they said nothing.  Not even to Zhenya. But then, Zhenya  had slept
soundly through it all.
     "If  there was ever  an international contest to see who's the soundest
sleeper,  I bet  Zhenya would  get  first prize and be  the world champion,"
Volka said.
     Hottabych giggled ingratiatingly, though he had no idea what  a contest
was, and especially an international one, or what a champion was. But he was
trying to appease Volka.
     Yet, this in no way staved off  the unpleasant conversation. Volka  sat
down on the edge of Hottabych's berth and said:
     "You know what? Let's have a man-to-man talk."
     "I  am  all  ears,   0   Volka,"  Hottabych  replied  with  exaggerated
cheerfulness.
     "Did you ever try counting how many years older you are than me?"
     "Somehow, the thought never entered my  head, but  if you permit me to,
I'll gladly do so."
     "Never mind,  I figured it  out  already. You're three thousand,  seven
hundred  and  nineteen  years  older  than  me-or  exactly  two  hundred and
eighty-seven  times!  And when people see us  together on the deck or in the
lounge they probably  think: how nice  it is  that  these  boys  have such a
respectable, wise and elderly gentleman  to keep an  eye on them. Isn't that
right? What's the matter? Why don't you answer?"
     But Hottabych,  hanging  his unruly grey head, seemed to have  taken  a
mouthful of water.
     "But  how do things really  stand? Actually,  I  find that I'm suddenly
responsible for your life and the lives of all the passengers, because since
it was me who  let you  out of  the bottle an since you nearly sank  a whole
ice-breaker, it means I'm responsible for everything. I  deserve to have  my
head chopped off."
     "Just  let anyone try to chop off such a noble head as yours! Hottabych
cried.
     "All right, never mind that. Don't interrupt. To continue: Pi sick  and
tired of  your miracles. There's no doubt  about  it, you're  really a  very
mighty Genie (Hottabych puffed  out his chest),  bi as concerns modern times
and modern technical development; you don't know much  more than  a new-born
babe. Is the clear?"
     "Alas, it is."
     "Well  then,  let's agree:  whenever  you  feel  like  performing  some
miracle, consult other people."
     "I'll consult you, 0  Volka,  and if you  won't be on hand, or : you're
busy  preparing  for a  re-examination  (Volka  winced),  the  I'll  consult
Zhenya."
     "Do you swear?"
     "I swear," the old man exclaimed and struck his chest wit his fist.
     "And now, back to bed," Volka ordered.
     "Aye,  aye, Sir!" Hottabych answered loudly. He had  already managed to
pick up some nautical terms.


        HOTTABYCH AT HIS BEST

     By morning the  "Ladoga" had entered  a zone  of heavy  fogs. ; crawled
ahead slowly and every  five  minutes its siren wailed  loudly, breaking the
eternal silence.
     This was done in accordance with the  rules  of navigation. then it  is
foggy, all vessels must sound their fog horns, no matter whether they are in
the busiest harbours or in  the  empty wastes of  the Arctic Ocean.  This is
done to prevent collisions.
     The sound of the "Ladoga's" siren depressed the passengers.
     It was dull and  damp on deck,  and boring  in the cabins. That is  why
every seat  in the lounge was occupied. Some passengers  were playing chess,
some  were playing checkers, others were  reading. Then they tired of  these
pastimes, too. Finally they decided to sing.
     They sang  all  together  and  one  at  a  time;  they  danced  to  the
accompaniment  of  a guitar and an  accordion. A famous Uzbek  cotton-grower
danced to an accompaniment provided by Zhenya. There really should have been
a  tambourine, but since  there was none, Zhenya tapped out the rhythm quite
well on an enamelled tray. Everyone was pleased except the Uzbek, but he was
very polite  and praised Zhenya, too. Then a young man from a Moscow factory
began doing card tricks. This time everyone except  Hottabych thought it was
grand.
     He called Volka out into the corridor.
     "Permit me, 0 Volka, to entertain these kind people with several simple
miracles."
     Volka recalled  how  these "simple  miracles"  had nearly ended  in the
circus and protested vigorously, "Don't even think of it!" Finally, however,
he agreed, because Hottabych was looking at him with such sad-dog eyes.
     "All right,  but remember-just card tricks and maybe something with the
ping-pong balls, if you want to."
     "I shall never forget your wise generosity," Hottabych said gratefully,
and they returned to the  lounge. The  young  worker was in the midst  of  a
really good trick.  He offered anyone in the audience to choose a card, look
at it, replace  it, and then shuffle the  deck. Then he shuffled it too, and
the top card always turned out to be the right one.
     After he had  received  his well-earned  applause and  returned  to his
seat,  Hottabych asked to  be  permitted  to  entertain the  gathering  with
several simple tricks. That's how the boastful old man put it-simple.
     Naturally, everyone agreed. They applauded before he even began.
     Bowing  smartly to all sides like an old-timer on the stage,  Hottabych
took two ping-pong balls from a table and threw them into the air. Suddenly,
there were four balls; he  threw  them up again  and they became eight, then
thirty-two.  He  began  juggling  all  thirty-two   balls,   and  then  they
disappeared  and were found to be in thirty-two pockets of thirty-two people
in the audience. Then they flew out of the pockets, formed a chain and began
spinning around  a bowing Hottabych like sputniks until  they became a white
hoop. Hottabych put this large hoop  on Varvara Stepanovna's lap with a  low
bow. The hoop began to flatten out  until it turned into a roll of excellent
silk. Hottabych  cut it  into pieces with Volka's  pen-knife. The pieces  of
silk flew into  the  air  like birds and  wound themselves  into turbans  of
remarkable beauty around the heads of the amazed audience.
     Hottabych  listened to  the applause  blissfully.  Then  he snapped his
fingers. The turbans  turned into  pigeons which flew out  through the  open
port-holes and  disappeared. Everyone was now convinced that  the old man in
the funny oriental slippers was one of the greatest conjurors.
     Hottabych wallowed  in the  applause. The  boys knew him well enough to
understand how dangerous such unanimous and exciting approval was for him.
     "Just wait  and see! Watch him go to town now,"  Zhenya whispered in  a
worried voice. "I have a funny feeling, that's all."
     "Don't worry, we have a very strict agreement on this point."
     "One minute, my friends," Hottabych said  to the applauding passengers.
"Will you permit me to...."
     He  yanked a single hair from  his  beard.  Suddenly  a  shrill whistle
sounded on deck. They could hear the heavy clatter of running feet.
     "That's the militia  coming to fine someone!" Zhenya joked. "Somebody's
jumped overboard  at full speed!" No  one  had  time  to laugh, because  the
"Ladoga" shuddered  and something  clanged menacingly  below. For the second
time that day the ship came to a stop.
     "See! What did I  say!"  Zhenya  hissed  and looked  at Hottabych  with
loathing. "He couldn't control himself.  Just look at him boast! Golly! I've
never met a more conceited, boastful and undisciplined  Genie  in  my  whole
life!"
     "Are you up to your  old tricks  again, Hottabych?  You swore yesterday
that...."
     There was such shouting in the lounge that Volka didn't bother lowering
his voice.
     "Oh, no! No! Do not  insult  me with  such  suspicions, 0 serpent among
boys, for  I have never broken the  smallest  promise, to say nothing of  an
oath. I  swear I know no more than you  do about the  reasons for our sudden
stop."
     "A  snake?" Volka shouted  angrily. "Oh, so  on top of everything else,
I'm a snake! Thank you, Hottabych! My best merci to you!"
     "Not  a snake,  a  serpent, for know ye that a  serpent  is  the living
embodiment of wisdom."
     This time the old man was really not to  blame. The  "Ladoga"  had lost
its  way in the fog and gone aground.  Passengers crowded the deck, but they
had  difficulty in  even  making out the rails. However, by leaning over the
side  near the bow  they  could see the  propellers  churning  up  the  dark
unfriendly waters.
     Half an hour passed, but all attempts to get the ship off  the shoal by
putting it in reverse  ended in  failure. Then the captain ordered  the spry
boatswain to pipe all on deck.
     Everyone  except those  standing watch  gathered  on  the spardeck. The
captain said, "Comrades, this is  an emergency. There's only one way to  get
off the  shoal under our own steam and that's transfer the coal from the bow
to the stern; then we'll be able make free of the shoal. If everyone pitches
in, it won't take more than ten or twelve hours to do the job. The boatswain
will  divide you into teams. Put  on your worst clothes  and let's start the
ball rolling.
     "You, boys, and  you, Hassan Hottabych, need not  worry. its  is no job
for you: the boys are too young and it's a  little too late for you to carry
heavy loads."
     "What do  you mean  by  saying I  can't carry heavy  loads?"  Hottabych
replied scornfully. "Please be informed that no one present here  can  equal
me in weight-lifting, 0 most respected captain."
     The other passengers began to smile.
     "What  an  old  man!"  "Listen  to  him  boast."  "Just  look  at  that
muscle-man!"
     "There's nothing to laugh at, he feels offended. It's no fun be old."
     "See for yourself!" Hottabych shouted. He grabbed his two young friends
and, to the general amazement,  began juggling them as  if they were plastic
billiard balls  stead of sturdy thirteen-year-old  boys. The  applause which
followed was so deafening, the whole scene might very well have taken  place
at a weight-lifting contest and not on board a ship in danger.
     "I  take  my words back," the captain said  solemnly after the applause
had died down. "And now, let's get to work! There's time to waste!"
     "Hottabych," Volka said,  -taking the old man off to a side "what's the
use of dragging coal from one hold to another for twelve long hours? I think
you should do something to get the ship off the shoal."
     "That's not within my powers," the old man answered sadly "I thought of
it already. Naturally, I can pull it off the rocks, but then the bottom will
be all scratched and ripped, and I won't  b able to fix it, because I  never
saw what a ship looks like on the  bottom. Then we'll certainly drown  in no
time."
     "Think again, Hottabych! Maybe you'll think of some thing!"
     "I'll try my best, 0  compass of my soul," the old man replied. After a
short pause he asked, "What if I make the rocks disappear?"
     "Oh, Hottabych! How smart you are!" Volka said  and  began to shake his
hand. "That's a wonderful idea."
     "I hear and I obey."
     The first emergency  team was down in the hold, loading  the first iron
bins with coal, when  the "Ladoga"  suddenly lurched and then began  to spin
around in a  whirlpool over the  spot where there had just  been a shoal. In
another  minute,  the  ship would  have broken to bits, had  not Volka sense
enough to tell  Hottabych to  make  the  whirlpool disappear. The sea became
calm; the "Ladoga" spun  around a while longer from  sheer force of inertia.
Then it continued on its way.
     Once again, no one but Hottabych and Volka knew what he happened.
     Ahead were more exciting days, each unlike the other, as they journeyed
across  little-known  seas  and channels, past bleak  islands  upon which no
human foot had ever stepped. The passengers often left the ship to go ashore
on  deserted cliffs  and  on  islands where polar station teams greeted them
with  rifle salvos. Our three friends joined the rest in climbing  glaciers,
wandering over the naked stones of basalt plateaux, jumping from ice-floe to
ice-floe  over black  open  patches  of water, and  hunting polar bears. The
fearless Hottabych dragged one bear aboard the "Ladoga" by the scruff of its
neck. Under his  influence the  animal soon became  as tame and playful as a
cat, and so provided many happy hours for both  passengers and crew. Now the
bear often tours with circuses,  and many of  our  readers  have undoubtedly
seen him. His name is Kuzya.

        "SALAAM, SWEET OMAR!"

     After  stopping off  at Rudolph Island, the "Ladoga" began  its  return
journey. The passengers were worn out from the mass of new impressions, from
the  sun  which shone round the  clock from the frequent  fogs  and  endless
crashing of ice against the stem and sides  of  the ship. At each stop there
were  less and less passengers who  wished to go ashore on deserted islands,
and  towards the end of  the  journey  our friends  and two  or three  other
tireless explorers  were the only ones to take advantage o a chance to climb
the inhospitable cliffs.
     One morning the captain said, "Well, this is the last time you're going
ashore. There's no sense stopping the ship for six or seven people."
     That is why Volka  talked the others going ashore into staying there as
long as possible, in order to really have one good last look at the islands.
They could do it  in peace since Hottabych, who was usually in a rush to get
back, was staying behind to play chess with the captain.
     "Volka," Zhenya said  mysteriously when they dragged their feet  aboard
the "Ladoga" three hours  later. "Come on down to  the cabin! I want to show
you something.  Here, look at this," he continued,  after shutting  the door
tightly.  He pulled a longish object from under  his coat. "What d'you think
it is? I found it on the opposite side of the island. Right near the water."
     Zhenya was holding a small copper vessel the size of a decanter. It was
all green from age and brine.
     "We should give it  to the captain right away," Volka  said  excitedly.
"Some expedition probably put  a letter inside and threw it  into the water,
hoping someone would come to the rescue."
     "That's what I thought at first, too, but then I decided  nothing would
happen if we opened it first to have a look  inside. It's interesting, isn't
it?"
     "It sure is."
     Zhenya turned pale from excitement. He quickly knocked off the tar-like
substance that  covered the mouth of  the  bottle. Under it was a heavy lead
cap covered with a seal. Zhenya had great difficulty prying it loose.
     "And now we'll see what's inside," he said, turning it upside-down over
his berth.
     Before he had  time to finish the sentence, clouds of black smoke began
pouring from the bottle, filling the entire cabin. It became dark and choky.
Presently, the  thick vapour condensed and became an unsightly  old man with
an angry face and a pair of eyes that burnt like coals. He fell to his knees
and knocked his forehead on the floor so hard that the things hanging on the
cabin wall swayed as if the ship was rolling.
     "0 Prophet of Allah, do not kill me!" he shouted.
     "I'd  like  to  ask  you something,"  a  frightened  but curious  Volka
interrupted  his wailing. "If  I'm not  mistaken,  you mean the  former King
Solomon, don't you?"
     "Yes, 0 miserable youth! Sulayman, the Son  of David (may  the  days of
the twain be prolonged on earth!)."
     "I don't know about who's miserable,"  Volka  objected calmly,  "but as
far as  your  Sulayman is concerned-his  days can in no  way  be  prolonged.
That's out completely: he's dead."
     "You lie, wretch, and will pay dearly for it!"
     "There's  nothing to get mad  about. That Eastern king die two thousand
nine  hundred  and  nineteen  years   ago.  You  ca   look  it  up   in  the
Encyclopaedia."
     "Who  opened the bottle?"  the  old man asked  in a  business like way,
having obviously accepted Volka's information an not  appearing  to  be  too
saddened by it.
     "I did, but you really shouldn't thank me," Zhenya said modestly.
     "There  is  no God  but  Allah!"  the  stranger  exclaimed. "Rejoice, 0
undeserving brat."
     "Why should I rejoice? It's you who've been freed from your prison, and
you should be the one to rejoice. What's there for me to rejoice about?"
     "Rejoice, because you must die an ill death this very hour"
     "That's what I  call real mean! After all, I  freed you from the copper
vessel.  If not  for me, who-knows how many thousands of  years longer you'd
have to lie around in smoke and soot."
     "Don't tire me with idle chatter! Ask of me only what mode of death you
choose and in what manner I shall slay you! Gr-r-r!
     "I'll  thank you  not to  act so  fierce!  And  anyway, what's that all
about?" Zhenya flared up.
     "Know,  0  undeserving boy,  that I am  one of the Genies who disobeyed
Sulayman,  David's Son (on the twain be peace!), whereupon Sulayman sent his
minister,  Asaf,  son of Barakhiya, to seize me. And  this Vizier brought me
against  my  will and led me in  bonds to Sulayman and he placed me standing
before  him.  When Sulayman  saw me,  he sent for this  bottle, shut  me  up
therein and stoppered it over with lead."
     "Good for him!" Zhenya whispered to Volka.
     "What are you whispering about?" the old man asked suspiciously.
     "Nothing, nothing at all," Zhenya answered hurriedly.
     "Take care!"  the  old man warned. "I am not one to have tricks  played
upon me. To continue: he imprisoned me in the bottle and ordered his  Genies
to throw me into the ocean. There I abode a hundred years, during which time
I said in my heart, 'Whoso shall  release me, him will I enrich for ever and
ever.' But the full century went  by and, when no one set me free, I entered
upon the second five score  saying, 'Whoso shall release me, for him I shall
open the  hoards of the Earth.'  Still,  no  one set me free, and  thus four
hundred years passed away. Then quoth I, 'Whoso shall  release  me, for  him
will I fulfil three wishes.' Yet ho one set me free. Thereupon I waxed wroth
and said to myself, 'Whoso shall release me from this time forth, him will I
slay, and I will give him choice of what death he will die,' and now, as you
have released me, I give you full choice of death."
     "But it's not at all logical to kill your saviour!  It's  illogical and
downright ungrateful," Zhenya objected heatedly.
     "Logic  has nothing  to  do  with it,"  the Genie interrupted  harshly.
"Choose the death that most  appeals to you and do not detain  me, for I  am
terrible in my wrath!"
     "May I ask you something?" Volka said, raising his hand.
     But the  Genie glared  at  him  so  frightfully, it made  Volka's knees
tremble.
     "Well then,  will  you at least  permit me to  ask a  question?" Zhenya
pleaded with such despair that the Genie relented.
     "All right. But be brief."
     "You say that you  spent several thousand years in  this copper vessel,
but  it's even too small to hold your hand. How  should the whole of you fit
in it?"
     "What! Do you not believe that I was there?"
     "I'll never believe it until I see you inside with my own eyes."
     "Well then, look  and be  convinced," the  Genie roared. He  shook  and
became a smoke which condensed and  entered the jar  little by little, while
the boys clapped softly in excitement.
     More than half the vapour had disappeared into the vessel. Zhenya, with
bated  breath,  had the  stopper ready to imprison the Genie once again, but
the old man seemed to change his mind, for he filtered out again and assumed
a human form.
     "Oh, no you  don't!" he said, squinting slyly and shaking  a hooked and
dirty finger in front of  Zhenya's face, while the boy hurriedly slipped the
stopper  in  his  pocket.  "You  didn't  want  to  outsmart  me, did  you, 0
despicable  brat? What a  terrible  memory I have!  I  nearly forgot  that a
thousand  one hundred and forty-two  years ago a fisherman fooled me in just
the same manner.  He asked me the very same question and I trustingly wished
to prove that I had indeed been  in the vessel. So I turned into smoke again
and entered the jar, while the fisherman snatched up the leaden cap with the
seal and stoppered therewith  the mouth  of  it. Then he tossed it back into
the sea. Oh no, you can't play that trick on me twice!"
     "Why, I had no intention of fooling you," Zhenya lied in a shaky voice,
feeling that now he was a goner for sure.
     "Hurry and choose what  manner  of death you will die  and detain me no
longer, for I am weary of all this talk!"
     "All right," Zhenya said  after thinking a  bit.  "But promise me  that
I'll die in exactly the way I choose."
     "I  swear!"  the  Genie promised  solemnly and  his eyes  burnt with  a
devilish fire.
     "Well, then," Zhenya  said and  swallowed hard. "Well then... I want to
die of old age."
     "Good for you!" Volka shouted.
     The Genie turned purple from rage and cried, "But your old age is still
very far off. You are still so young!"
     "That's all right," Zhenya answered courageously, "I can wait."
     When Volka heard this, he laughed happily, but the Genie began to curse
in Arabic as he dashed back and forth in the cabin, tossing aside everything
in his way in helpless rage.
     This went on for a good five minutes until he finally seemed to come to
a decision. He laughed so  fiendishly  as  to  give the  boys goose-pimples.
Standing before Zhenya, he said maliciously:
     "There  is no denying it, you are cunning. But Omar  Asaf ibn Hottab is
more cunning than you, 0 despicable one."
     "Omar  Asaf  ibn  Hottab?" the boys  cried  in unison.  The  Genie  was
trembling with wrath and bellowed:
     "Silence! Or  I'll destroy you  immediately! Yes,  I  am Omar Asaf  ibn
Hottab,  and I am more cunning  than this  brat! I'll fulfil his wish and he
will surely die of old age. But," he said, looking at the boys triumphantly,
"his old age will come upon him before you count to a hundred!"
     "Help!" Zhenya cried in his usual voice.  "Help!" he  groaned in a deep
basso  a few  seconds later.  "Help!" he  squeaked  in a trembling old man's
voice a few" moment's later. "Help! I'm dying!"
     Volka looked on horror-struck as Zhenya  quickly turned into  a  youth,
then into a grown man with a long black beard; then his beard turned to grey
and he became middle-aged; and, finally, he became a bald, bony, scrawny old
man.  All  would  have been  over  in a few  seconds if Omar  Asaf,  who was
gleefully watching Zhenya's quick deterioration, had not exclaimed:
     "Oh,  if my unfortunate brother were  only here now! How happy he would
be at my triumph!"
     "Wait!"  Volka  shouted.  "Tell me,  was  your  brother's  name  Hassan
Abdurrakhman?"
     "How  did you  discover  that?" Omar  Asaf asked  in amazement. "Do not
remind me of him, for my heart is rent at the memory of poor Hassan. Yes,  I
had a brother named so, but all the worse for you, for reopening my terrible
wounds!"
     "If  I tell you your brother is alive and bring  him to you, alive  and
healthy, will you spare Zhenya then?"
     "Oh, if  I could only see  my dear Hassan! Oh, then  your  friend would
remain alive until he aged  naturally and that  will not happen for many and
many a  year. But if you deceive  me ... I swear, neither of you will escape
my rightful wrath!"
     "Then wait a minute, just one minute!" Volka shouted.
     A few  moments later, he rushed into  the  lounge where  Hottabych  was
engrossed in his game of chess with the captain.
     "Dear Hottabych,  hurry! Let's  run back  to the cabin, there's a great
joy awaiting you there."
     "I can think of no  greater joy than  to check-mate my sweetest friend,
the captain," Hottabych replied solemnly, studying the board intently.
     "Hottabych, we can't spare a minute! I beg you, come below with me!"
     "All right," Hottabych replied and moved his castle. "Check! Run along,
Volka. I'll be with you as soon as I win, and, according to my calculations,
this will be in about three more moves."
     "We'll see  about that  yet," the captain  replied  cheerfully.  "Three
moves indeed! Just you let me see...."
     "Yes, yes,  do see," the old man chuckled. "You won't think of anything
anyway. I can wait. I'll be only too happy to wait."
     "We've no time to wait!" Volka wailed in despair, and  knocked all  the
figures off the board. "If  you don't come below  with me  this minute, both
Zhenya and I will die a horrible death! Hurry! Run!"
     "You're behaving atrociously," Hottabych  grumbled, but  followed Volka
out nonetheless.
     "That means it's a draw!" the captain  shouted happily, pleased to have
escaped a completely hopeless situation.
     "No, sir! What do you mean a draw?" Hottabych objected and was ready to
turn back.
     But Volka shouted angrily:
     "Sure it's a draw!  It's a  typical draw!" and shoved the  old man into
their cabin, where Omar Asaf was about to fulfil his terrible threat.
     "Who's the old man?" Hottabych asked, seeing a decrepit old man moaning
on  the  berth.  Actually,  but  a  few short moments ago,  he  had  been  a
thirteen-year-old boy named  Zhenya Bogorad. "And who's that other old man?"
he continued, noticing Omar Asaf. Suddenly  he turned pale. Not trusting his
eyes, he took several hesitant  steps forward and  whispered, "Salaam, sweet
Omar!"
     "Is that you, 0 my dear Hassan Abdurrakhman?" Omar Asaf cried.
     The  brothers fell into each other's arms, for  they had been separated
for nearly three thousand years.
     At first,  Volka was so touched by this unusual meeting of  brothers in
the midst of the Arctic icebergs, and so happy for Hottabych's sake, that he
completely forgot about the unfortunate Zhenya. Soon a barely  audible groan
from the berth reminded him that urgent aid was needed.
     "Help!" he cried and  rushed to separate Hottab's two sons. "A person's
dying and they...."
     "Help, I'm dying! "the old man Zhenya croaked,  as  if  to  corroborate
Volka's words. Hottabych looked at him in surprise and asked:
     "Who is this white-haired  old man, and how does he come to be lying in
our friend Zhenya's bed?"
     "But this is Zhenya," Volka wailed. "Save him, Hottabych!"
     "I  beg your pardon, 0 dearest Hassan," Omar Asaf said irritably to his
newly-found  brother.  "I  shall have to interrupt these pleasant moments of
reunion in order to fulfil my promise."
     With these words he went  over to the berth, touched Zhenya's shoulder,
and hissed:
     "Ask forgiveness before it is too late."
     "Forgiveness? Of whom?" the old man Zhenya croaked.
     "Of me, 0 despicable youth!"
     "What for?"
     "For trying to trick me."
     "You should ask my  forgiveness," Zhenya objected. "I saved you and you
want to kill me for it. I won't ask your forgiveness!"
     "Be it  as you wish," Omar Asaf agreed maliciously. "I  do not  insist.
But bear in mind that you shall die in a few seconds if you do not."
     "So what?  Who cares?"  Zhenya whispered  proudly if weakly,  though he
certainly did care.
     "Omar, my sweet!" Hottabych interrupted kindly but firmly. "Don't cloud
our  long-awaited  reunion  by  a dishonest act.  You  must  immediately and
unconditionally fulfil the  promise  given  to my precious friend, Volka ibn
Alyosha. And please  bear in mind that the most noble Zhenya is a very  good
friend of mine to."
     Omar  Asaf  ground his  teeth  in helpless rage.  Yet,  he took hold of
himself and muttered:
     "Change,  0 insolent  youth, and be as  you were  before!" "Now  you're
talking," Zhenya said.
     Everyone present had the pleasure of witnessing a most unusual sight: a
dying old man turned into a thirteen-year-old boy.
     First, his withered, sunken cheeks became rosy; then, his bald head was
covered  with white hair which soon  turned black,  as did his  heavy beard.
Feeling  stronger,  Zhenya  hopped off the  berth and winked  at his friends
happily. Standing before them  was a husky man of  forty, who differed  from
other men  of his age in that his beard kept on shrinking  until it  finally
turned into a  barely  noticeable  fringe  of  fluff which soon  disappeared
completely.  The man  was  becoming  smaller in  height and narrower in  the
shoulders. Finally, he took on Zhenya Bogorad's usual appearance.
     Thus, Zhenya was now the only person  in the world who could say. "Long
ago. when  I was  still an old man," the same as  millions  of old  men say,
"When I was still a young rascal."

        OMAR ASAF BARES HIS CLAWS

     "There's one thing I  can't understand," Omar Asaf said thoughtfully as
he shivered with cold. "I clearly heard Sulayman's Genies  say, 'Let's throw
him-meaning  me-into the West Ethiopian Sea.' That's why I thought that if I
was ever lucky enough to look upon the sun and earth again, it would be near
the shores of sunny Africa. But this,"  and  he pointed  to the island  fast
disappearing through the port-hole, "this is  not  at all like Africa. Isn't
it so, my dear brother Hassan?"
     "You  are right, my dear Omar Asaf, one so pleasing to my heart. We are
now near other shores, quite a distance from Africa. We are now...."
     "I  know!  Really,  I  know!"  Volka interrupted  and did  a  jig  from
excitement. "Golly! Now I know! Now I know!"
     "What do you know?" Omar Asaf asked haughtily.
     "Now I know how you came to be in the Arctic."
     "0 insolent and boastful boy, how unpleasant I find your undue  pride!"
Omar Asaf said in disgust. "How can you understand something which remains a
mystery even to me, the wisest  and most powerful of all Genies!  Well then,
express your opinion, so that I and my dear brother may have a good laugh at
your expense."
     "That's as you wish. You can laugh if you want to. But it's all because
of the Gulf Stream."
     "Because of what?" Omar Asaf asked acidly.
     "The Gulf Stream, the warm current which brought you to the Arctic from
the Southern Seas."
     "What nonsense!" Omar Asaf smirked, turning to his brother for support.
     But his brother said nothing.
     "It's not rubbish at all," Volka began.
     But Omar Asaf corrected him:
     "I did not say 'rubbish,' I said 'nonsense.' "
     "It's neither rubbish  nor nonsense," Volka replied  with annoyance. "I
got an 'A' in geography for the Gulf Stream."
     Since  Zhenya  supported  Volka's  scientific  theory,  Hottabych  also
supported him.
     Omar  Asaf, seeing  that he was a minority of  one,  pretended to agree
about the Gulf Stream, but actually concealed a grudge against Volka and his
friend.
     "I am tired of  arguing with  you, 0 conceited boy," he said, f