Artem looked around and saw Lida lying beside him at the foot of a white cliff. She was lying motionless on her back, her eyes closed and seemingly lifeless. Further away on the same cliff, he saw Dmitro Borisovich — also motionless — and close to him, Ivan Semenovich. They seemed to be unconscious. Or… no, he couldn’t even think of the other possibility; that would be too horrible!
Only then did Artem realize that he could still hear the strange song. So he had not dreamt it? No doubt now — this monotonous, stark, moody song was still in the air. But who could be singing it here? And for that matter, where was “here”?
For the next few seconds, he listened thoughtfully to the distant song and then almost * cried out in horror when something touched his shoulder.
“Who’s that? Oh, it’s you, Diana! You sure did give me a fright!”
The dog was standing beside him. She was making sounds of joy and tried to lick Artem’s face.
“Where are we, Diana? What is this place? You don’t know? Me neither.”
The dog rushed to Lida, sniffed at her, then went over to Dmitro Borisovich and the geologist. After that, she returned to Artem and began tugging him at his sleeve as if inviting him to follow her.
uYes, Diana, I would have gone over to them long before if I only could get up! You think I’m sitting here like this for nothing? That I don’t want to know what’s wrong with them or help them? Ah, you don’t know me very well if it’s what you think. However, maybe I’ll try to get up.”
In fact, Artem didn’t feel as weak as he was just a few minutes before. His strength was returning quickly. He rose to his feet and walked unsteadily over to Lida. He stooped over her and touched her hand and forehead. Lida made an almost imperceptible movement; a quiver passed over her lips. ’
“Lida, my dear Lida, my love, wake up! Lida!”
He touched her face with his hand. An arch though weak smile brightened her face.
“My dear and my love?” she said in a low voice, without opening her eyes. “You’re much too sentimental today, my little one!”
She sat up, her movements slow. Her eyes were fastened on the young man who felt greatly embarrassed — he had not thought she would hear him. But he hadn’t said anything special, had he?
Meanwhile Lida took a quick look around and her smile disappeared from her face. She grabbed Artem’s hand.
“Why so much light! Where are we, Artem?”
“I don’t know, Lida. I’m as baffled as you are.”
“Isn’t it a wood?… leaves… and the grass is such an unusual color… It’s all beyond me, Artem!”
“The same here, Lida.”
“Everything’s yellow and pink… Maybe I’m dreaming?” Lida was looking around herself, greatly puzzled, not believing her own eyes.
“How did we get here?”
Artem only shrugged his shoulders — how could he explain anything to her if it was an absolute enigma to him?
“And where are Ivan Semenovich and the archeologist?” Artem pointed in the direction where both the men were lying.
“What’s the matter with them? We must do something!” Lida tried to get to her feet but failed.
“Oh damn!” she said under her breath.
“I was like that at first, too,” Artem said. “Don’t worry, in a few minutes you’ll be quite all right.”
“Artem, I just don’t understand…”
“Neither do I.”
He made a gesture of resignation.
“Where are we?” they suddenly heard the surprised voice of Dmitro Borisovich. “What kind of stage scenery is this? It was rather foolish to paint leaves and grass yellow and pink!”
Then Ivan Semenovich replied:
“It’s not scenery at all, my dear friend. It’s quite a real forest, but of such preposterous colors…”
“Wait a minute!” the archeologist cried out. “Things like this don’t exist, so I must be dreaming!”
“Then we must be dreaming collectively one and the same dream — Artem and Lida also wondered whether they were dreaming. Yes, my friend, that’s how things are. Not only you, but even such an old hand at geology as myself cannot find any plausible explanations. By the way, have a look at this unusual cliff we’re lying on.”
Artem took another look around. Tall trees with pink leaves stood close to what looked like an almost vertical cliff, rising high, with jagged rocks sticking out of it. In fact he could not see where the cliff ended. It even seemed to Artem that it pierced the thick gray clouds overhead.
“I can’t understand what’s going on, Ivan Semenovich,” Artem said at last, noticing that the geologist’s gaze was directed at him.
“Well, I must admit once again that I can make no more out of all this than you.”
“And who is singing that song?” said Lida.
“A song? Oh, somebody’s really singing!”
“And the song is getting nearer!”
“Quite a few people must be singing it…”
“The song is absolutely unfamiliar to me. I’ve never heard anything like it before.” As the geologist said it, he raised his hand in warning. “Listen, just listen, and keep quiet.”
In the ensuing silence, they heard a distant shout, then another one… Then the sounds of something like a tambourine could be heard; other tambourines still further away joined in; then more shouts — cheerful, triumphant, solemn. But how could it all be happening two hundred meters underground?
All four explorers were sitting now, in silence, glancing at each other from time to time. Something impossible and incomprehensible was going on! The strange sounds did not abate; on the contrary they grew louder as though thousands of people had raised a shout, drowning the beat of the drums.
“Is it a sort of a parade or something?” Artem attempted a joke, but it sounded very inappropriate. Nobody smiled or paid any attention to his words for that matter. Discom- fitted, Artem did not pursue the matter. He felt a growing anxiety; the others also looked quite disturbed.
“Look over there!” Lida cried out.
A long arrow pierced the dense pinkish-yellow folliage, swished past them, then struck the ground, its feathers quivering in the air, its slim shaft sticking out from the grass, the harbinger of an unknown menace.
Ivan Semenovich was the first to regain control of himself. Overcoming his weakness, he rose to his feet, walked over to the arrow, and pulled it from the ground. His gray eyes studied the unexpected messenger thoroughly. At last he shook his head disapprovingly. His face had acquired an I-don’t-like-the-look-of-it expression.
“Have a look at this thing, Dmitro Borisovich,” he said, handing the arrow to the archeologist. “It’s not a toy. And it is not the kind of arrow used in archery for sport these days either. It’s a combat arrow if I’ve ever seen one. The arrowhead is made of bronze, you know.”
“What? Made of bronze you say?”
The archeologist immediately stopped thinking about his weakness and fatigue, sprang to his feet, and ran to Ivan Semenovich.
“A combat arrow you say? Oh, give it to me!”
He took the proffered arrow and began examining it. He alternately brought it quite close to his short-sighted eyes and then held at his arm’s length, bending his neck in a funny manner, as though taking aim at it from under the spectacles.
“What do you say about it?” Ivan Semenovich asked impatiently, this arrow evidently becoming suddenly a very important thing for his musings.
“Just a moment, wait just a bit. I can’t come to a conclusion so quickly. My eyeglasses are all smutty.”
Dmitro Borisovich put the arrow on the bag nearest him, handling it as though it were the most precious of jewels. Then he took off his spectacles and wiped them very carefully with his handkerchief, all this without taking his eyes off the arrow one instant. Putting his glasses back on, he peered at the arrow, his head bent apprehensively and mistrustfully, but some hope glinted in his eyes.