Staships & Other Stories

By Ivan Efremov

Welcome to the captivating world of Ivan Efremov, a visionary Russian writer whose mastery of science fiction has left an indelible mark on the genre. This anthology offers you a passport to explore the imaginative landscapes crafted by a true literary luminary.

 

Born in 1907, Efremov lived through a tumultuous period in Russian history, which profoundly influenced his writing. As a paleontologist, he blended his scientific expertise with a boundless imagination to conjure vivid worlds, remarkable civilizations, and profound philosophical questions. His stories are not just tales of futuristic technology; they are windows into the human condition, morality, and the cosmic mysteries that have tantalized thinkers for centuries.

In this anthology, you will embark on a thrilling odyssey through Efremov's most celebrated short stories. From the ethereal realms of space exploration to the depths of Earth's prehistoric past, his narratives transcend the boundaries of time and space. You will encounter sentient plants, enigmatic extraterrestrial beings, and characters grappling with profound moral dilemmas.

 

Efremov's writing is marked by its elegance, depth, and a unique ability to blend rigorous scientific principles with the wonderment of science fiction. His stories are not just flights of fancy but thoughtful meditations on the future of humanity and the complex tapestry of existence itself.

Prepare to be transported to the farthest reaches of the universe, where you will ponder the nature of consciousness, ethics, and the limitless potential of the human spirit. Ivan Efremov's stories are not just windows into the future but reflections of our own aspirations and the eternal quest for understanding.

 

Join us on this journey through Ivan Efremov's science fiction realms, where the boundaries of reality blur, and the horizons of human imagination stretch to infinity. It's a voyage you won't soon forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Royal Hawaiian Press
• Release date: Oct 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223617686

Book preview

Starships

Starships & Other Stories

By Ivn Efremov

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All material contained herein is Copyright © Ivan Efremov 2023.

All rights reserved.

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Originally published in Russian in 1958

Translated and published in English with permission.

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ePub ISBN: 979-8-2236176-8-6

Paperback ISBN: 979-8-8641552-5-7

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Written by Ivan Efremov

Published by Royal Hawaiian Press

Cover art by Tyrone Roshantha

Translated by Rafal Stachowski

Publishing Assistance by Dorota Reszke

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of Author’s rights is appreciated.

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

First Edition

Starships

& Other Stories

by Ivan Efremov

Table of Contents

Starships

Chapter I On the threshold of the invention

Chapter II Newcomers from the stars

Chapter IIIThe eyes of reason

Five Paintings

Cutty Sark

The Hellenic Secret

About the Author

Starships

Chapter I

On the threshold of the invention

When did you arrive, Aleksy Pyetrovich? A lot of people asked about you here!

I came today but I'm not present to everyone. Please close the window in the first room! The newcomer took off his old military coat, wiped his face with a handkerchief, smoothed his light, thinning on the crown hair and sat in an armchair. Then he lit a cigarette and started walking around the room filled with wardrobes and tables.

Is it possible?! He said thoughtfully.

He went to one of the wardrobes and with an effort opened the high oak door. The white bar of the shelves clearly outlined against the dark depth of the wardrobe. On one of them was a cube-shaped box made of yellow, shining like bone cardboard. Across one edge was a gray paper sticker dotted with thick black Chinese hieroglyphs. There were scattered postmark circles on the surface of the box.

The professor's long, pale fingers touched the cube lightly.

Tao-Li, unknown friend! The time has come when we must act!

Professor Shatrov quietly closed the wardrobe door, took a worn wallet and took out a moisture-damaged notebook in a gray cardboard cover. Carefully shearing off the sheets stuck together, the professor watched through the magnifying glass columns of numbers and from time to time made calculations in the large notebook.

The pile of stumps and matches increased in the ashtray, and the air in the room turned blue with cigarette smoke.

Shatrov's unusually bright eyes shone from under thick bushy eyebrows. The thinker's high forehead, square jaw and sharp nostrils intensified the impression of extraordinary spiritual power and gave the professor the appearance of a fanatic.

Finally, the scholar pushed the notebook aside.

Yes, seventy million years! Seventy million! Okay! Shatrov made a sudden gesture with his hand, as if he was piercing something that stood in his way, narrowed his eyes slyly and said again loudly: Seventy million! ... But don't worry!

The professor slowly and systematically removed everything from the desk, dressed and went home.

Shatrov quickly entered his room, cast a glance at the little bronzes arranged in all corners, as he called his collection of bronze artistic sculptures, sat down at a desk covered with dark oilcloth, on which a bronze crab carried a huge inkwell on its back, and began to browse the album.

The professor was an excellent self-taught painter and drawing gave him peace and solace. Today, however, even the ingenious composition he performed did not help him control his excitement. Shatrov closed the album nervously, got up from the table and reached for a packet of old, crumpled notes. Soon the old pump organ filled the room with the singing sounds of Brahms' intermezzo1. Shatrov played rarely and badly, but he always boldly took up difficult things and wasn't embarrassed by his lack of skill, because he only played when he was alone. Squinting his short-sighted eyes, the professor stared at the notes and remembered all the details of the journey he had recently made, so unusual for him, the hermit locked in the studio.

One of Shatrov's former students switched to the astronomy department and developed an original theory of solar system movement in space. Friendly and lasting relations arose between the professor and Viktor (that was the former student's name). Viktor went to the army as a volunteer and was sent to a tanker school, where he underwent longer training. During this period, he also dealt with his theory. In early 1943, Shatrov received a long letter from Viktor. The student wrote that he managed to finish his work. Viktor promised to send a notebook with a detailed explanation of his theory immediately after writing it up. It was the last letter the professor received from him. Soon the student was killed in a great tank battle.

So, Shatrov didn't receive the promised notebook. He took up the vigorous search that proved to be pointless. The professor suspected that Viktor's tank formation was suddenly thrown into battle and the student simply didn't have time to send him his calculations. Surprisingly, after the war, Shatrov found a major who was the pivot man of the late Viktor. The major took part in the battle in which Viktor was killed, and was now being treated in Leningrad, where Shatrov worked. The new friend assured the professor that Viktor's tank was heavily damaged by a projectile but didn't burn, and therefore there is hope to find the documents of the killed, of course, if they were in the tank. According to the major's supposition, the tank should still be on the battlefield, which was mined soon after. The professor and the major traveled to the place where Viktor had died.

And here before the professor from the lines of crumpled notes appeared images of recently experienced moments ...

1Intermezzo - a short piano piece. In this case, it is about the famous Brahms' intermezzo.

***

Please stop, professor! Not a step further! Shouted the major lagging behind.

Violent and busy Shatrov stopped obediently, bowing his head.

In front of him, in the sun-flooded field, tall, juicy grass protruded still. Pearly dewdrops gleamed on the leaves, on the fluffy tops of the sweet-smelling white flowers, on the lilac bunches of willowherb inflorescence. Insects buzzed laboriously over the high bright green grass in the warm morning sun. Next was the forest, which had been cleared by projectiles three years earlier, which cast an uneven, often brightened by sunshine shadow - reminiscent of the slowly healing wounds of war. The field was full of lush plant life. But there, in the thicket of grass, death was lurking, whose snares, set by the enemy, had not yet been destroyed and conquered, either by nature or time.

Lush grass covered the wounded soil, furrowed with projectiles of mines and bombs, plowed with tank tracks, strewn with debris and flooded with blood.

Shatrov saw broken tanks. Half-covered by weeds, they darkly slouched over the flowering meadow, and the streams of red rust seemed to flow from the broken armor of tanks, with raised or lowered cannon barrels. To the right, in a small depression were silhouetted three machines close together - burned and stationary. The German cannons were looking directly at Shatrov, as if helpless rage had forced them to attack white and fresh birches at the edge of the forest. Further, on a small hill, one tank stood as if rearing above another machine lying on its side. Except for the willowherb bushes, only part of the tower with a dirty whitish cross was visible. On the left, the broad, mottled gray-red mass of Ferdinand tilted down a long barrel of a cannon whose end was lost in a thicket of grass.

No path crossed the flowering field and no traces of human or animal could be seen in the weed thickets. Only somewhere above, a frightened jay was screaming terribly, and the noise of a tractor was coming from afar.

The major climbed the fallen tree and stood still for a long time. The two guides and the major's chauffeur were also silent - paying tribute to the fallen here Soviet people.

Shatrov, despite his will, remembered the solemn sadness of the Latin inscription, which was usually located above the entrance to the anatomical halls: 'Hic locus est, ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitam', which means: 'It is a place where death rejoices, helping life'.

A small sergeant - commander of a group of sappers approached the major. He was cheerful, which seemed inappropriate to the professor.

Can we start, Comrade Major? A sergeant asked in a resonant voice. Where do we start?

Here. The Major pointed to the hawthorn bush. Direction exactly to that birch.

The sergeant and four soldiers who came with him proceeded to remove mines.

Where's Viktor's tank here? Shatrov asked quietly. I can only see German ...

Please, look here, the major pointed to the left along this group of aspens. Do you see this birch on the hill? Yes? And to the right of it - the tank!

Shatrov looked closely. A small, miraculously surviving birch stood on the battlefield, and its delicate leaves were trembling slightly in the wind. At a distance of two meters, amongst the weeds, a pile of bent metal rose, reminiscent from afar of a red, dabbled with black shadows stain.

Can you see? Asked the major and in response to the affirmative gesture of the professor added: And even more to the left, slightly ahead - is my tank. This one, black and red, burned. That day I ...

The major fell silent unexpectedly and Shatrov didn't hear the end of the sentence.

Done! A sergeant who had already finished his work approached them.

The professor and major headed towards their goal. The tank seemed to Shatrov like a massive massacred skull, gaping with black holes of large bullet jags. Armor bent, rounded and melted, reddened with bloody rust spots.

With the help of the chauffeur, the major climbed onto the shattered machine and after sticking his head into the open hatch, watched something for a long time. Shatrov scaled after him and stood on the broken armor of the tank, facing the major. He finally got his head out of the hole, narrowed his eyes and said grimly:

There's no need for you to take the trouble. Please wait until the sergeant and I see everything. If we don't find anything, we'll ask you to get inside to check it yourself.

The skillful sergeant quickly jumped into the machine and helped the major enter. The air in the tank was stuffy, full of mustiness and a faint smell of lubricants. The major turned on the flashlight, though light came through the cracks inside the tank. He stood bent, trying to imagine in the chaos of bent metal parts, what had been completely destroyed. The major tried to imagine that he was in the tank commander's place, who was forced to hide something valuable in it: so he began to carefully check all the cubbies, compartments and recesses. The sergeant got into the part, where the tank motor was located, and long was wandering around there and moaning. Shatrov remained outside. Sand was creaking on the armor of the tank under his feet.

The fruitless search already tired the major, when he suddenly noticed on the survived seat, a map case, tucked behind pillows near the wall. He pulled it out quickly. The skin turned white and bloated but remained intact: a moldy map could be seen through the cloudy celluloid coating. The major frowned at the anticipation of disappointment and with an effort unfastened the rusted latches. Under a map folded several times he found a gray hardback notebook.

Yes, yes! The major couldn't abstain.

Have you found it? Shatrov asked thoughtfully, leaning over the hatch.

We found something, please, look. The major handed the map case through the hole.

Shatrov quickly pulled out the notebook, carefully opened the sheets stuck together, saw in the center a column of numbers, written in the nature of Viktor's handwriting, and shouted with joy.

The major got out of the tank.

A light breeze brought the honey scent of flowers. The slender birch rustling, was leaning over the tank, as if in some sort of inconsolable sadness. White clouds were flowing high, and from a distance a sleepy and steady scream of the cuckoo could be heard.

***

Shatrov didn't notice when the door opened quietly and his wife entered. With good blue eyes, she looked fearfully at her husband, who lowered his hands onto the keys thoughtfully.

Will we eat dinner, Aliosha? Shatrov closed the harmonium.

Are you planning something again, confess? The wife asked quietly, getting the plates out of the sideboard.

The day after tomorrow I'm going to the observatory for two or three days.

I don't recognize you, Aliosha. You are a homebody, for months I have seen you sitting without stretching your back, leaning over the desk, and suddenly ... What happened to you? I see the impact in this ...

Of course, of Davidov!? Shatrov laughed. "I give you my word, Olenka,