"E.Voiskunsky, I.Lukodyanov. The Crew Of The Mekong (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

his fingertips because he was the man in charge of the key aspect of a
Caspian-level scheme at the Research Institute of Marine Physics.
Although the level of the Caspian had dropped, the sea was still more
than deep enough for the Uzbekistan. The town came into view, rising slowly
out of the blue bay. Smokestacks and the delicate tracery of TV aerials
could be seen with the naked eye.
The decks now swarmed with passengers. Many were holiday-makers
returning home from a cruise along the Volga.
A trio of sailing enthusiasts leaned on the rail as they discussed the
merits of a white sailboat that was overtaking the ship.
Young men and women in blue jerseys with white numbers on their backs
tirelessly took snapshots of one another.
A husky, well-built man in a striped shirt worn over his trousers
strolled along the deck with his plump wife on his arm. From time to time he
paused to give a young photographer some pointers about which aperture to
set and which shutter speed to use.
"What a pity our holiday is coming to an end, Anatole," a woman
somewhere behind Opratin remarked in a high-pitched voice.
"Thank goodness it's over-that's what I say," a man's voice replied.
"Just think of all the time lost." The voice struck Opratin as familiar. He
turned round to see a slender young blonde in a red sun-dress, and a
middle-aged man in a crumpled pongee suit. The man had a broad,
large-featured face, puffy eyelids and an unruly shock of brown hair.
The couple, deep in conversation, stopped by the rail not far from
Opratin's deck chair.
Opratin rose, straightened his jacket, and walked over to them. "Good
afternoon, Benedictov," he said in a low voice.
The man in the pongee suit stared at him coldly. "Ah, the expert who
writes reviews," he remarked. He reeked of brandy.
"I saw you in the restaurant during lunch but didn't venture to impose
on you," said Opratin. He turned to Benedictov's companion with a slight
bow. "My name is Nikolai Opratin."
"How do you do," she replied. "I'm Rita Benedictov. I've heard about
you."
Opratin lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile. "I don't doubt it.
Nothing very flattering, I'll wager." His tone was half-questioning,
half-affirmative. The young woman merely shrugged. With the sun on her face,
her brown eyes were warm and clear, but there was a hint of melancholy in
them.
"Were you on the Volga cruise too?" she asked.
"No, I came aboard last night at Derbent. Business. By the way, a
curious thing happened to me in Derbent-"
A glance at Benedictov's face told Opratin that he couldn't care less
about anything that had happened at Derbent.
"Tut-tut, he still holds a grudge against me," Opratin thought.
That spring a scientific journal had asked Nikolai Opratin to write a
review of an article submitted for publication by a biophysicist named
Anatole Benedictov. The article had impressed him. Benedictov began by
analysing, in the light of modern physics, the phenomenon of ionophoresis,
known since 1807 when Professor Reiss of Moscow discovered that drops of one