“Where are you going?” Volka shouted to Zhenya, who was swimming off rapidly. “You won’t reach the shore anyway, Don’t waste your energy! Turn over and float on your back.”
Zhenya took his advice. Hottabych also turned over, holding his hat carefully above water.
Thus began the only conference of shipwrecked people in the history of sailing, in which the speakers expressed their opinions while floating on their backs.
“Well, we’re shipwrecked!” Volka said with something close to satisfaction. He had taken upon himself the duties of chairman. “What are you planning to do?” he asked, noticing that Hottabych had begun yanking hairs from his beard with his free hand.
“I want to return our ship. It’s a great stroke of luck that my beard is completely dry.”
“There’s no hurry,” Volka interrupted. “The question is: do we want to return to it or not? I, for one, do not. To tell you the truth, there are inhuman rules aboard. It’s disgusting to even think of it.”
“I agree. The ‘Sweet Omar’ is out of the question,” Zhenya added. “But you know, Hottabych, you’ll have to act quickly to save the sailors, otherwise they’ll go down with the ship!”
Hottabych frowned.
“The fate of my unworthy servants should not bother you at all. They have been in Arabia for not less than five minutes already. That is where they reside, that is where they are now awaiting my orders. But please tell me, O masts of my heart, why should we not continue our journey aboard the ‘Sweet Omar’?”
“I thought we made that clear,” Volka said.
“And anyway, a sailing ship is too slow and unreliable. We’re dependent on every little change in the weather. No, the ‘Sweet Omar’ is out,” Zhenya said.
“O anchors of my happiness!” Hottabych whined pitifully. “I’ll do anything to…”
“No, it’s out, and that’s the end of it,” Volka interrupted and shivered. It was most unpleasant to lie in the water fully dressed. “It remains to be seen what else Hottabych can suggest.”
“I can take you under my arms and fly.”
“No good!” Volka said. “Who wants to fly under somebody’s arms!”
“Not somebody’s — mine!” Hottabych replied in a hurt voice.
“It makes no difference.”
“Then I would venture to suggest to your enlightened attention the magic carpet. It is an excellent means of transportation, O my choosy friends!”
“There’s nothing excellent about it. You freeze on it, and it’s too slow, and there’s no comforts at all,” Volka said thoughtfully and suddenly exclaimed, “I’ve got it! Upon my word of honour, I have a wonderful idea!”
At this, he went under, as in his excitement he could think of nothing better to do than clap his hands. He bobbed up again, huffing and spitting water, and then resumed his comfortable position on his back, continuing as if nothing had happened:
“We have to modernize the magic carpet: it should be streamlined and cold-resistant, and it should have bunks and be on pontoons.”
It was most difficult to explain Volka’s idea to Hottabych. In the first place, the old man did not know what “streamlined” meant. In the second place, he could not visualize a pair of pontoons.
It would seem that “streamlined” was such a simple word, but they had to explain and explain until they finally hit upon the thought of saying that a streamlined magic carpet should look like a hollowed-out cucumber. It also took a great deal of explaining to make Hottabych understand what pontoons were like. Finally, a streamlined “VK-1” magic-carpet-seaplane soared into the air and set its course at South-South-West. In translation to ordinary words, “VK-1” meant “Vladimir Kostylkov. First Model.”
This magic-carpet-seaplane, resembling a huge cucumber with a tiny stem in back, had three berths and two windows on each side, cut through the heavy carpeting.
The flying qualities of Volka’s plane were immeasurably superior to those of an ordinary magic carpet. The Black Sea, the Bosporus, the Dardanelles, Asia Minor and the sun-parched plateau of Arabia flashed by below. Then they saw the yellow sands of the Sinai Desert . The thin ribbon of the Suez Canal separated it from the no less yellow sands of the Arabian Desert, which was Africa, Egypt . Hottabych had planned to begin his search for Omar Asaf here, in the Mediterranean , from its eastern point to its western end. But no sooner had the “VK-1” descended to an altitude of 200 metres, than Hottabych groaned and said he was an old fool. The magic-carpet-seaplane gained altitude and headed west. After spending so many years in the vessel, Hottabych had forgotten that this was where the Nile discharged into the Mediterranean and where the water was always muddy from the slime and sand the great river carried far out to sea. How could one even attempt a search in such sticky yellow mire? It would only irritate the eyes.
Hottabych decided to put off the exploration of this inconvenient area till last, if their search for Omar Asaf in other parts of the Mediterranean proved futile.
A short while later they landed in a quiet blue lagoon close to the Italian city of Genoa .