Well! Having said goodbye to companions, Michael Antonovich long still stood in a caisson, opershis elbows about edge of
the open hatch, and watched, how sparks on a forage of the "Boy" leaving in marsh jungle die away in a curling fog. They
have disappeared, and at once became more dark - the navigator of "Hiusa" remained one.
Have passed days, and over bogs dim day was poorly lighted. The gloom became pinkish. But still around there was a marsh
fog. Sticky, it is perceived dense, it soft, silent waves rose over a raging surface of the mud crater, a heavy veil has hung
over planetoletom, dense clubs enveloped whitish skeletons of huge plants - dimly painted mushrooms, zybko trembling
rosjanok and still any - colourless, fancifully bent, broken. In a reddish twilight their stalks that appeared, disappeared, and it
seemed that they, dreamily, float, float and cannot departure and disappear in any way. Sometimes nakrapyval a warm rain, a
haze it was condensed, and grumbling gurgle of hot wells was muffled by a monotonous rustle of falling drops.
Michael Antonovich has examined all planetolet, has replaced some devices which have suffered at landing, has checked
up serviceability of equipment, has carefully tidied up cabins of companions. From under a pillow of Dauge the pack of bluish
leaves with a red sawn-off shotgun - the letters printed on the machine has dropped out.
Letters from Maria Sergeevny. Michael Antonovich has accurately combined them, has hidden in a little table. In a cabin
Jurkovsky the thick writing-book in black leather cover rolled. Michael Antonovich has learnt it is there Volodja entered the
verses here some years. Ischirkannye pages dazzled with images of frigates and proud profiles with monotonously
humpbacked noses Last poem began так:Милая! The companion of autumn sulphur! You have not forgotten? You
remember? You wait? And, though all four stanzas (in the same spirit) have been crossed fatly out and supplied by the
resolute comment of the author (the most correct expression in this comment was "rubbish, sljuntjajstvo"), Michael
Antonovich has sighed, has sat down on bed edge, has run some lines and have thrust a writing-book in overalls pocket - to
esteem at bedtime. Jurkovsky never did secrets of the verses, especially for closest friends.