THE GOLDEN BIRD

Sci-fi short story

When everybody in the Temporal Academy began to talk about celebrations in honor of its founding, we asked Professor Sacks, without waiting for the anniversary lectures,

“Tell us professor, please, about the first experiment and the probe’s journey through time? You started with this, didn’t you?”

Sacks nodded affirmatively and froze, looking out the open window of the auditorium. The garden around the academic building smelled of lilacs, and we all enjoyed its aroma in the pre-exam days in May. And its subtle scent probably took the professor back to his youth and times when many were still afraid and opposed to travel, as if the concepts of the Cauchy horizon and the Novikov principle were not embraced a long time ago. Yes, of course, Sacks had not yet formulated his principle of invariance, but even then there were many scientists who understood that crushing butterflies in the Mesozoic was as safe as in our time.

“Every year, during a diploma trip into the past,” Sachs finally said, looking up from the window, “the cadets of our Academy are convinced from personal experience that it is impossible to change the past, and you can save your beloved hero only by moving him into the future, replacing his “cooled body” onto a dummy. And forty years ago we were not yet completely sure that the invariance of time is similar to the conservation of energy, and absolutely “nothing” will change in the past. But if a guest accidentally or deliberately crosses the Cauchy horizon, he may remain forever in that time or simply die.

We conducted our first experiment with a droid made in the form of a bird for conspiracy purposes. We sent it to the Ancient World and … lost it in time. How many times later did we look for it and could not spot it. You are right, this story is worth describing in detail. Well, I’ll practice telling it to you…

* * *

It was impossible to approach the main Physics Laboratory that day. A probe was sending into the past for the first time in history. A drone, or rather a droid, in the form of a bird, was on its way to Ancient Egypt, engulfed in plague. He was programmed to protect the pharaoh from death and this way to protect the country from a collapse, while we were preparing to discover traces of its presence in the past. And every historian-intelligence intended to be the first to do this.

I have no doubt that everyone was just waiting for a successful launch in order to clarify the time coordinates and location of the probe’s exit. But, alas, something went wrong, and our probe came out unknown where and when. Now everyone had has more trouble: to experimenters – to look for errors in calculations, and to historians – to rummage at their own risk in any era, in the hope of thus finding traces of flying mechanical birds. And, to tell you honestly, there were such traces…”

1

“Oh, great Neferusobek, luminous Meritra!” the voice of the high priest of the temple of Ptah and the chief adviser to the female pharaoh was quiet, but insistent,

“I understand the full weight of your lot – your father and brothers have passed away, there is no husband, and the entire burden of rule lies on the weak shoulders of the queen. But the gods advise you to think many times before taking a stranger as your husband. Even if his name is Hyksos – “the ruler from foreign lands,” the Canaanite king will not help protect our lands from the invasion of his fellow countrymen. Hopefully he wouldn’t interfere. He may lull you with sweet words, and his envious people will suddenly strike and crush Egypt!”

“What are you talking about, Menemhet? Has the flying guard of our borders lost the ability to protect them from a sudden attack?”

“No. Like you, it is firm and adamant in its actions. Every day it rises into the clouds and inspects distant lands. If the enemy dares to violate the border, the golden bird will sit on a pole, turn in that direction and will scream in alarm. The hand of God directs of the bird, but believe me, sun-faced queen, the constancy of the gods has limits.”

“Do you believe that I exceeded these limits and angered the gods?”

“Not yet, but you can, my pharaoh. Do not offend Horus with your choice of husband, otherwise he will send his golden bird on you.”

“Woe to me, foolish, but even in my childhood my father Amenemhet III said that the magic bird is the fiery phoenix of the Atlanteans, and not the golden falcon of Horus.”

“Whatever the bird’s nature, it is a gift from an ancient, bygone civilization, and we are only standing on the shoulders of giants. Know, queen, in difficult times for the country, the bird stops serving the kings and even pecks them. In Heliopolis, in the Temple of Ra, a papyrus is kept describing how the golden phoenix pecked all the Atlantean rulers during the Cataclysm.”

“Do the gods foretell a cataclysm for Egypt?”

“Not directly, but indirectly. Everything is in your hands, our great and luminous queen.”

“It would be better if the priests cared more about the heir to the throne than worried that the new pharaoh would cut their income. I order that messengers be sent to the Canaanite king Hyksos and marriage negotiations begin!”

“I listen and obey,” Menemhet answered, bowing before the queen.

If she could see his gaze, full of rage and disobedience, she would certainly wonder was not such an adviser dangerous?

Menemhet immediately went to his office in the palace, where, on his order, the chief of the guard, the head of the chancellery and two scribes appeared. Last two of them carefully wrote down his orders about the embassy to the king of Hyksos, and about the careful protection of the pharaoh in connection with the upcoming visit of foreign guests. He sent one copy of each papyrus to Queen Neferusobek, and the others to the office. After that he ordered to be taken to the temple of Ptah, where in the cool of the dungeon he kept a secret collection of poisons and potions, both for treating diseases and for punishing the disobedient people.

Entering the temple through the North Gate, built by Amenemhet III, the queen’s father, the high priest thought,

“We will still fight… In my name, compared to the name of the last great pharaoh, the queen’s father, the just first letter “A” is missing. It is not for nothing that this letter is depicted as the hieroglyph of a Black Kite. Let’s see whose bird will win! Ptah will help his faithful servant call the queen to the afterlife.”

A few days later, Menemhet came to the queen and reported,

“My scouts report that the king of Hyksos with his retinue and a small army is going to cross the border of Egypt today. We will check and make sure that our golden bird is guarding it well. You can watch from the tower of the Temple of Ptah, but you can see even further from the top of the Pyramid of Khufu. Before you marry a foreigner, you, the great queen, must learn about the structure of the Great Pyramid.”

Neferusobek appreciated this advice, and the cortege from the capital moved toward the northern cemetery of Memphis – the Great Pyramid of Cheops.

* * *

It was hot in the desert even in the morning. Not a single person was left with uncovered head. Queen Neferusobek in the royal striped blue and gold nemes, the high priest in white and yellow, the warriors in white and red and the servants in simple white nemes-shawls steadily moved towards the goal. The palanquins of the queen and Menemhet swayed slightly over the hot sand. Both sat in carved wooden chairs under linen awnings, fanned by the fans of Nubian slaves, and talked quietly.

“Every pharaoh gets acquainted with the structure of the “Khufu Horizon” before marriage. This is what we call the entire structure: both a refuge for a living pharaoh and a tomb in which no one is buried.”

“Since when does a living pharaoh need a shelter?”

“Only in case the gods are angry with him.”

“Don’t start your song, Menemhet. You have no other candidates, and my decision is firm. The dynasty needs an heir to the throne of royal blood. Better tell us about the structure of this shelter.”

“The times of the IV dynasty were turbulent, and Khufu ordered a secret shelter to be installed in the tomb, the structure of which the high priest revealed to the pharaoh preparing for marriage. Family instability is one possible reason why a pharaoh might need this secret knowledge. Look, O great one, we are approaching the Sphinx, another four to five hundred cubits, and we will reach the northern side of the pyramid, where the entrance to its interior is located.”

Indeed, at a height of thirty cubits above the ground, on the northern edge of the pyramid, an arched entrance could be seen. Deft warriors climbed up there and made a lift for noble people. First they raised Menemhet, who was convinced of the safety and quality of the structure, and then the queen. From here an inclined corridor led deeper into the pyramid. Two warriors with torches illuminated the road, followed by the priest with the queen and the head of the guard.

The slow descent continued for about ten minutes, after which they reached a fork, from which one road continued to go underground, and the other rose steeply.

“Pay attention,” said the priest, “do you see this giant block of granite? This is a plug that can be used to close the entrance in case of danger.”

On the road up there stood a boat suspended on chains that were wound around a drum. The warriors, having stuck torches into the wall brackets, began to rotate the winch handles, and the boat with three passengers began to slowly rise upward. As a result, the guests reached a heavy yew door, behind which there was a large gallery made as an amphitheater. The queen was surprised – the air in it was fresh and cool.

“This is the room for the retinue and the guard. There are many air ducts, so even a large group of people can breathe easily. There is also a red glass vessel that is “never empty” – this room is connected to an underground grotto and a well, from which drinking water always flows. There is also a drain for sewage. But now we have to climb the steps to the main hall – the place for the pharaoh and his entourage.”

They went out through the opening at the top of the amphitheater and, by weak light of the lantern, began to climb up. Twice they stopped to rest, but finally came to a new door. Behind it was a room no smaller than a gallery, with a flat floor, but a ceiling sloping like the edges of a pyramid.

“We are at the very top,” Menemhet said. “Now I will show you the desert.”

He climbed up a ladder with wide, comfortable rungs and unscrewed the locks. At his order, the head of security pressed the lever, and the top of the pyramid moved to the side. A stream of sunlight poured into the dark, cool room, blinding people accustomed to the darkness. But vision was soon restored.

“Rise up, Oh wise queen, and look who is flying in the sky above us.”

Nephrusobek fulfilled the priest’s request with interest. A golden phoenix-bird, guardian of borders, soared in a sky whitish from the heat, but clear as azure. Suddenly it folded its wings and began to rapidly fall down. Menemhet quickly displayed a golden pole through the opening, on which the bird has landed. Then it turned to the southeast and, sparkling with fire under the sun, shouted three times piercingly in a musical voice.

“Does this mean that enemies are coming?” Nephrusobek was amazed.

“No, it was Hyksos with his retinue and guards who crossed the border of Egypt,” the adviser explained. “Know, the most luminous queen, soon we will meet your chosen one. In honor of his visit, my cook invented a new sweet with nuts – incomparably tender and surprisingly tasty. Taste and approve it for the gala dinner. The distinguished guest will be in Memphis soon.”

The queen, a lover of sweets, could not deny herself this. The delicacy turned out to be just as Menemhet described it. Hyksos will immediately understand what joys await him in Egypt.

The return journey might seem quick. The queen dozed in the palanquin, dreaming of her chosen one, until sleep completely sealed her eyelids.

In the evening, the queen was transferred to her bedchamber. By nightfall she began to develop a fever. Menemhet prayed to Ptah in the temple to prolong the days of Pharaoh. However, at dawn a messenger came running with bad news. The doctors were unable to awaken the queen; her breathing remained heavy and uneven.

The priest with a golden bird in his hands went to the chambers of the pharaoh. The picture of a serious illness was obvious. Suddenly the bird flew out of Menemhet’s hands. Having made a circle above the queen’s head, it suddenly fell on her, pecked her shoulder with a flourish and flew out through the window into the pre-dawn sky.

A drop of blood appeared on the queen’s pale skin. The priests’ prayers did not help. The last pharaoh from the XII dynasty, a female pharaoh, never managed to get a husband.

2

Late at night in the fall of 1660, there was a loud knock on the mansion of Pierre Vattier, a professor of Arabic at the Royal College de France. He was still awake, sitting, as usual, over his manuscripts, and looked outside in surprise. The Fronde had been quiet for a couple of years, and he was a stranger to politics. At the gate stood a carriage with horse guards; their lieutenant pounded his fist into the bound oak boards and shouted,

“Open, in the name of the cardinal!”

The servant, awakened by the knock, immediately let the lieutenant into the house, and Vattier learned that he had to immediately appear before the First Minister of France, Cardinal Mazarin. Soon the carriage drove to the Louvre, where they were indeed waiting for him. A quick search, and the majordomo on duty took Pierre to the cardinal’s chambers. They entered the hallway, with the guards in chairs against the walls, and the secretary at a table with papers.

The majordomo introduced Vattier and gave him final instructions,

“Bow from the waist and call the cardinal Your Eminence.”

Vattier, perplexed as to the reason for the night visit, followed the footman to the chambers of the First Minister.

The man who had ruled France, its queen, and its young king for more than fifteen years, now was seating in a chair, leaning back against pillows at a large inlaid table in the bright light of candlesticks.

“Was it you, who had translated the works of Avicenna?” asked the cardinal. “I liked your work, and I want to order you to translate an old manuscript from my personal collection. You will be satisfied with the payment, but the translation can be published no earlier than five years after my death. Will you take this job?”

“It is an honor for me, Your Eminence.”

“How long will the work take?”

“To compose a manuscript in French?”

“No, just to retell me its contents.”

“I think I can do it in a day or two, if…”

“It’s great! You can start. You will be fed and taken to the library.”

* * *

The manuscript that Vattier received turned out to be not so voluminous. These were tales and legends of ancient Egypt, composed or retold by an author hiding behind the pseudonym Murtaz ben Hafif. By morning, Vattier had devoured them all. The shortest ones were about breaking into the pyramids and about secret passages inside the tombs of the pharaohs, about the treasures found there – a golden rooster that guards the borders of the country from enemies and a magic vessel made of red glass that always remains full of fresh water, and the greatest fairy tale about the punishment of a sorceress by a golden bird. But what was completely impossible to read was the long narrow ribbon with hieroglyphs and holes that came with the manuscript.

The next morning, Vattier wrote a report to the cardinal. He was ready to meet and retell the contents of the manuscript. A couple of hours after a hearty dinner, when his excitement from the stormy night had finally subsided and he had fallen asleep on the sofa in the library, the translator was awakened again and shown to the cardinal’s office. Mazarin sat in a soft comfortable chair with a white Persian cat on his lap.

“Your Eminence,” Vattier bowed, “the task is completed.”

And he retold all the stories, and then added, “The manuscript is accompanied by a roll of papyrus with holes. Its purpose is unclear to me, and I cannot read the hieroglyphs on it.”

“Very good work. And the papyri, the holes… This is the task for another specialist. If everyone had your zeal, Monsieur Vattier, France would prosper. Receive the first half of the reward and start composing your written translation. I will need it soon too. You can go home, but show up at my library every day. So the golden bird must fly? I knew it!” the minister exclaimed, but immediately pulled himself together and stroked the cat’s white ears, which stood up straight from his exclamation.

* * *

As soon as Vattier left Mazarin’s office, the cardinal immediately began drafting a letter to Blaise Pascal, whom he greatly respected and hoped for help. In recent years, the scientist lived in the Port-Royal monastery in the Chevreuse valley. This temple of advanced religious, political and philosophical thought was located ten leagues southwest of Paris. Having sent a messenger with a letter, one could expect a response in five to six hours, but two “little things” were embarrassing the first minister – the complex relationship of the Vatican with the followers of Jansen, to whom Pascal counted himself, and, most importantly, the poor health of the mathematician.

Each of these reasons could have frustrated the cardinal’s attempts to restore the golden bird – an automaton, he was sure. And who, if not Pascal, the creator of the mechanical calculating machine, was up to this task? About five years ago, unexpectedly for everyone, Mazarin spoke highly of Pascal’s treatise “Letters to a Provincial,” in which the author ridiculed the Jesuits. If it were not for the support of the cardinal, Blaise Pascal would undoubtedly have ended up in the Bastille for his “Letters.” Mazarin’s approval was not just a political intrigue, but also in a certain way reflected the cardinal’s views on the decline of morality in the ranks of the highest level church ministers. He had already begun to think about taking the papal throne himself and putting things in order, but his health…

The same misfortune, if not worse, befell Pascal. Spies reported that he was ill, aged beyond his years, and at thirty-seven years old looked like a decrepit invalid.

But it was necessary to take a risk, and the gambler Mazarin did not fail to take advantage of the opportunity. He resolutely shook the white cat off his lap and pulled a blank sheet of paper towards him.

* * *

Blaise, lying on a modest monastic bed in the cell of the monastery, was re-reading the cardinal’s letter for the umpteenth time. The cunning politician wrote as if they broke up yesterday, and over the past years nothing has changed in their relationship. Yes, this is probably true – Mazarin actually saved him from the Bastille with his support, and the debt should be repaid. He must gain strength and examine the ancient toy – the golden bird of the all-powerful minister. What is he waiting for? That the automaton will protect France from enemies? Incredible! Will he just be able to take off? Very unlikely.

The last word seemed to give him strength. He thought that he no longer would ever return to scientific and philosophical ideas, but would only prepare for the transition to another world. But now the word suddenly turned on his scientific acumen and interest in mysteries. Blaise rolled the word around like a caramel in his mouth: unlikely, un-likely, unlike-ly… but worth a try. He smiled at his “new” thoughts.

“How should I answer? Probably this way: at the call of my heart and in response to the cardinal’s invitation, I will come to Paris and stay in the city’s abbey Port Royal. A week after the trip, when the headaches have subsided, I will come to my senses and will be able to secretly meet with His Eminence and examine all the ancient exhibits of his collection. Perhaps by then the translation of Arabic tales will be ready, if only it will provide something rational. Let them find an experienced watchmaker-mechanic in case of possible work, which, alas, I am not able to do.”

This plan seemed reasonable to Blaise, and he wrote a reply letter, which was immediately sent back with cardinal’s messenger.

* * *

A week later, Mazarin finally came closer to his dream – restoring the ancient golden bird. He did not expect any miracles from the automaton, this titled priest was too pragmatic, but protecting the borders became an increasingly urgent task year by year, and the flying guardian of France would not be an extra help.

They met in Mazarin’s personal pavilion at the Château de Vincennes, where Pascal was taken by order of the cardinal in a recumbent palanquin on a carriage with springs to reduce shaking.

“You are absolutely right, your Eminence,” Pascal told the minister. “This rooster or phoenix is not a stuffed animal, but an automaton. If we make a key and start it, we can expect movements of the wings, head, paws … singing, screaming and other mechanics. I can’t imagine how an automaton could fly into the air. The flapping movements of the wings are not enough to develop thrust capable of lifting the bird’s body into the air.”

But the very idea of ​​testing the ancient automaton captured Pascal so much that he immediately instructed the watchmaker to select the key to wind the golden bird.

An examination of the bird showed that it was only called golden – its surface sparkled like gold, but in fact it was made of an unknown material, soft and pliable to the touch. The main thing was that it didn’t weigh as much as it seemed to Pascal at first and… God knows, perhaps it could take off. In the upper part of the body, he discovered a gap into which a narrow tape with holes fit very precisely. Pascal had no doubt that the holes corresponded to pins inside the bird, like mechanical musical pipe organs controlled by perforated tape.

A day later the key was ready. In the presence of the cardinal in the park of the Vincennes Palace, the scientist started the automaton with the key. The sound of moving parts could be heard from inside. Then Pascal inserted a perforated tape into the slot and pushed it. There was a chirping sound as the tape went all the way in and then came out all the way back. The bird’s eyes lit up with a ruby light, it began to move its wings, some rotating parts unknown to Pascal emerged from it, and it soared vertically upward. This miracle of flight amazed Blaise so much that he could only compare it with the mystical insight that gripped him years ago…

But the bird did not return. Mazarin believed that it would fly around the borders of France and return. Pascal believed that the automaton broke and fell somewhere in Vincennes forest. He subsequently learned from his confessor that the golden bird returned six months later to the dying Mazarin in the Vincennes Palace and even pecked him, and then, in the resulting bustle and panic, flew out and disappeared into the spring sky.

3

Two carriages pulled together side by side two hundred fathoms from the Imperial Tsarskoye Selo (King’s Village) Lyceum. Their doors opened slightly, and the passengers exchanged things. First, the man sitting in the mail carriage handed a Chinese lacquered snuffbox to a short, curly-haired man of oriental appearance, dressed in the latest French fashion. The dandy then handed the visitor a thick stack of banknotes and, as a result, received a package of impressive size, which he handed over to his companion – a tall, corpulent man, a diplomat and a lover of science, Prince Kozlovsky. It appears that both buyer and seller were pleased with the transaction.

“Let’s move, my amiable one!” the buyer ordered the coachman, and the carriages drove off in different directions.

The first drove west, and the second, with two passengers and a mysterious package, headed north, towards St. Petersburg.

“You see, Pyotr Borisovich, I took you on this journey so that you would witness the facts, and not just my words, no matter how much you like them,” said the impeccably dressed passenger to the prince.

“Come on Alexander Sergeevich. If I agree to write an article for Sovremennik (The Contemporary) about hope in gambling, based on the works of Pascal, then I certainly will not refuse from, so called, scientific adventures. However, really, I still haven’t believed that you discovered the same golden bird that Pascal repaired for Mazarin… If it weren’t for the American Washington Irving’s Coptic fairy tale about the golden cockerel, which I read in London about five years ago, and which you so brilliantly retold in verse, I would never have known that Cardinal Mazarin tried to restore the flying automaton of Ancient Egypt.”

“And even before I heard Monsieur Irving’s fairy tale, published in Paris and London, I saw the flying golden rooster with my own eyes.”

“Wow?” Prince Kozlovsky surprised, “Have you seen the automaton?”

“I believe so,” Pushkin modestly confirmed. “In Bessarabia, I happened to stay in a gypsy camp… “Would you like, master, to see the wonder of the world?” the old gypsy asked me,” continued Pushkin his story.

“Apparently, I looked at him with such expressiveness that the old man immediately stood up and offered to take a walk to the ruins of the old castle, which the villagers avoided in every possible way and called the palace of Prince Tepes. I thought that my volunteer counselor wanted to scare me with stories about vampires, but he only pointed to the silhouette of a bird in the night sky. Who would have thought that a bird was mechanical? But when the moon came out, the bird’s body began to glow with golden light. It was a flying golden rooster, and the most amazing thing is that it could rise up and fall down strictly vertically!

“Tell me, Almaz,” I turned to the old man, “is it possible to buy this wonderful bird? It must be shown to learned men at the Academy of Sciences.”

“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll ask around.” Leave a deposit; if the case succeeds, I will send it to you as a conventional sign and tell you the ransom amount.”

We agreed on a connection, I left him a Chinese snuff box, thanked the old man and began to delve into the history of the golden rooster. Imagine my surprise when I learned that it dates back to the era of the twelfth dynasty of the pharaohs.

“I won’t be surprised that this is not the limit!” Prince Kozlovsky exclaimed. “Herodotus wrote about the ancient Atlantean people, and German scientists began to decipher the cuneiform script of Mesopotamia, which is more than three thousand years old.”

“Oh, how many wonderful discoveries the spirit of enlightenment is preparing for us!” Pushkin exclaimed.

* * *

“My friend, Danzas, I want to share a secret with you. Swear that it will stay between us.”

“Have I ever given out at least one secret?”

“You’re right, but this is an unusual case. I bought an automatic machine, the “Golden Rooster”, invested a fortune in it, but I’m afraid that I won’t have time to test it in action. I would like to release it into the sky tomorrow, before the duel. If it is Providence itself, let it peck at the culprit. God knows, if it’s me, I don’t want to live!”

“Sasha, I will fulfill any of your requests, but as to a military man, reality is much closer for me than your fantasies and superstitions.”

“But this, Konstantin, you are saying in vain! Do you know my ring with turquoise, enchanted? It’s a talisman against bullets. Wait, don’t contradict!” Pushkin made a protesting gesture with his hand towards his comrade Danzas. “Take it as a souvenir of tomorrow’s duel; I refuse all benefits and give this ring to you. And the golden bird is not personal benefit, but an opportunity to test the secret of antiquity. It’s like casting lots!”

Danzas, who had his own ideas about how to honestly eliminate the fatal result of a duel, decided not to argue with his friend.

“This is my secret request. The bird is hidden with Prince Kozlovsky, who will hand it over to the courier in exchange for a Chinese snuff box. Here it is. You will need to take the bird’s automaton with you and launch it into the air, the prince will teach you how to do this.”

* * *

“No, this is some kind of sorcery or stupidity! – thought Lieutenant Colonel Danzas. At the request of his friend, he added the delivery of the “golden bird” received from Prince Kozlovsky to the list of urgent matters.

On the prince’s instruction, in the morning Danzas tucked a roll of tape with holes into the slot on the bird’s chest and pulled it back out. Now all he had to do was turn on the key and the bird would take off on its own. Danzas decided that he would go away for a minute behind a tree or bush, from where the bird would fly, so that no one would associate its appearance with either him or Pushkin.

The only thing that confused Danzas was the soft golden material of the body, not metal at all, not cold, but rather warm to the touch. Well, yes, seven troubles – one answer. He still had to, together with D’Arshiac, the enemy’s second, according to their secret agreement, load the pistols with a half charge of gunpowder in order to reduce the destructive power of the bullets.

Pushkin behaved aloofly. He was not interested in anything around him, only one thing, to quickly end the damned fight. Danzas apologized, walked away for a minute and hastily started the bird with the key. There was a quiet buzz, some parts started working, and the Pushkin’s second immediately returned to his partner to load the pistols.

Out of the corner of his eye, Danzas saw a bird rise from the bushes into the sky, but none of those present cared about the birds.

Shots rang out. Both duelists fell, and when the seconds hurried to them, a miracle happened: a bird vertically swooped down on them from the sky, pecked at each wounded man and soared up.

At this time, a bright light appeared in the sky, like the light of lightning. In this light the bird seemed truly golden. But suddenly the glow stopped, and the bird disappeared without a trace in the dark sky, as if it had never existed.

4

“Of course, you understand well that the “golden bird” was the same droid launched into the Ancient World and lost in the past for a long time,” Professor Sachs finished his report. “As it turned out, it ended up in Atlantis just during the cataclysm. In the very first days, the flying doctor spent all his supplies of antibiotics. His injections were perceived by people as pecking. Later just pecking left without any benefits to people. However, this gave rise to legends about golden birds – a phoenix, a rooster, a falcon, which had fell from the sky onto the victims and pecked them. These were the kind of legends our historians expected. And they helped find the droid in time and return it home.”

In the Great Auditorium, filled with cadets – future “Temporal Sea Dogs,” the applause gradually increased.

Professor Sachs smiled, “How good it is to be young, when even errors in calculations can bring you joy!”