One more cavity! Here no cement will suffice! - that for an idiotic lay-out! - and what you want from Old Base? - Prickles,
prickles! As on saline soil...
Villi, do not climb there! - There it is empty, anybody is not present...
Companions, begin shooting eventually.
Good morning, Volodja! For a long time have already begun...
Look, and here traces of boots! - yes, someone here happens... Still...
Pathfinders, probably...
Natasha has looked at Felix. Felix has nodded.
It I, - have told it.
It has suddenly stopped, has sat down on hunkers and began to examine something.
Here, - he has told. - look, Natasha.
Natasha has bent. From a crack in cement the thick stalk of a prickle with a tiny flower on the end hanged down.
What charm! - she has told. - and I also did not know that the prickle blossoms. Beautifully as - red with dark blue...
The prickle gives a flower very seldom, - Felix has slowly told. - it is known that it blossoms time in five Martian years.
To us has carried, - Natasha has told.
Each time when the flower is showered, on its place acts new runaway, and there where there was a flower, there is a
brilliant ringlet. Such here, see? - It is interesting, - Natasha has told. - means, it is possible to count up, how many to a prickle
of years... Time... Two... Three... Four...
It has stopped and has looked at Felix.
Here eight obodkov, - she has told uncertainly.
Yes, - Felix has told. - eight. A flower - the ninth. To this crack in cement eighty terrestrial years.
I do not understand, - Natasha has told and has suddenly understood. - means, it not our base? - She has told in a whisper.
Not ours, - Felix has told and was straightened.
You knew about it! - Natasha has told.
Yes, we know about it, - Felix has told. Is a building people built not. It not cement. It not simply hill. And bloodsuckers
knowingly attack the biped upright.
Natasha looked some seconds at it, and then has turned and has cried at the top of the voice: - Companions! Here! More
likely! All here! Look! Look that here is! Here! The office of the director of system Warm Syrt has been filled to the full. The
director wiped a bald head a scarf and has become stupid wound a head. Areolog Livanov, having lost restraint and a
correctness, shouted, nadsazhivajas, trying to block noise: It is simple the mind boggles! Warm Syrt exists six years. For six
years have not understood that here ours and what not ours. To anybody and in a head has not come to take an interest in
Old Base!.