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How and why did I come to this discovery? In the summer of 1988, as I was examining under a microscope the chitin shells of insects, their pinnate (feathery) feelers, and the thinnest structure of butterflies' wings, I got interested in an amazingly rhythmical microstructure of one large insect detail.
It was an extremely well-ordered composition, as though pressed on a complex machine according to special blueprints and calculations. As I saw it, the intricate sponginess was clearly not necessary either for the durability of the detail, or for its decoration. I had never observed anything like this unusual micro-ornament either in nature, in technology, or in art.
Because its structure is three-dimensional, so far I have been unable to capture it in a drawing, or a photograph. Why does an insect need it? Besides, other than in flight, this structure at the bottom of the wing case is always hidden from the eye-no one would ever see it properly. Was it perhaps the wave beacon with "my" multiple cavernous structures effect? That truly lucky summer there were very many insects of this species, and I would capture them at night: neither before, nor after was I able to observe these insects.
I put the small, concave chitin plate on the microscope shelf in order again to examine under strong magnification its strangely star-shaped cells. I again admired this masterpiece of nature, and almost purposelessly placed it on top of another, identical plate that had the same unusual cells on one of its sides.
But no!-the detail broke loose from my tweezers; for a few seconds it hung suspended above the other plate on the microscope shelf, turned a few degrees clockwise, slid to the right, turned counterclockwise, swung, and only then abruptly fell on the desk.
You can imagine what I felt at that moment... When I came to my senses, I tied a few panels with a wire-it wasn't an easy thing to do, and I only succeeded when I positioned them vertically. What I got was a multi-layered chitin block. I put it on the desk.
Even a relatively large object-such as a paper tack-could not fall on it-something pushed it up and aside. When I attached the tack on top of the "block", I witnessed such incredible, impossible things (for example, the tack for a few moments was lost from sight) that I realized it was no beacon, but something else entirely.
And again I got so excited that all the objects around me became foggy and shaky. It was with a huge effort that I managed to pull myself together in a couple of hours and continue working.
So, this is how it started. Of course, much still remains to be understood, verified, and tested. I will certainly tell my readers about the finer details of my machine, about its propulsion principles, about distances, heights, speeds, equipment, and all the rest-but in my next book.
...I conducted my first, very unsuccessful and highly dangerous flight on the night of March 17, 1990. I didn't have the patience to wait till the warm season and neglected to go to a deserted area. I already knew that night was the most dangerous time for this kind of work.
I had bad luck from the very beginning: the panel blocks of the right part of the bearing platform periodically got stuck. I should have fixed the problem immediately, but neglected to do so. I took off right in the middle of the Agricultural Academy campus, erroneously assuming that at 1 AM everyone was asleep, and nobody would see me. The lift-off went well, but in a few seconds, when the lit windows of buildings sank beneath me, I felt dizzy. I should have landed right then but remained airborne, which was wrong because a powerful force snatched away my control over the movement and weight, and it pulled me in the direction of the city.
Drawn by this unexpected, uncontrollable power, I crossed the second circle of nine-story buildings in the city's residential area (they are laid out in two huge circles with five-story buildings, including ours, inside them), then I crossed a snow-covered, narrow field, and the Academy City highway... The dark immensity of Novosibirsk was closing in upon me, and it was closing in fast. I was already near a bunch of tall factory chimneys many of which fumed thick smoke-night shift was on. I had to do something quickly.
I got on top of the situation only with a great effort. Finally I managed to conduct an emergency adjustment of the panel blocks. My horizontal movement slowed down, but then I again felt sick.
Only at fourth try did I succeed in stopping the horizontal movement, at which point my platform was hanging over Zatulinka, the city's industrial district. The sinister chimneys silently continued to fume right underneath me. I rested for a few minutes-if one could call hanging over a lighted factory fence rest-and after I made sure the "evil power" has passed, I glided back-yet not in the direction of our Agricultural Academy campus but to the right from it, toward the airport. I did this to foul the trail, in case someone had seen me.
Only about halfway to the airport, over some dark, night fields where there was clearly no one around, I abruptly turned home... Next day I naturally couldn't get out of bed.
News on TV and in newspapers was more than alarming. Headlines, such as "UFO over Zatulinka" and "Aliens again?" meant that my flight had been detected. But how! Some perceived the "phenomenon" as glowing spheres or disks-many actually saw not one sphere but two! Others claimed they had seen a "real saucer" with windows and rays.
I am not discounting the possibility that some Zatulino residents saw not my near-emergency evolutions, but something else entirely that had nothing to do with those. Besides, March of 1990 was particularly rich in UFO sightings in Siberia, near Nalchik, and especially in Belgium where, according to Pravda, on March 31 the engineer Marcel Alferlane took a two-minute film of the flight of a huge triangular craft which, according to Belgian scientists, were none other than "material objects with a capacity no civilization can currently create."
Is it really so? As for me, I would suggest that the gravitational filter platforms (or as I call them, panel blocks) of these machines were in fact small, triangular, and made here on Earth-but with more sophistication than my half-wooden contraption.
I too wanted to make the platform triangular-it is much safer and more efficient that way-but I chose a rectangular design because it is easier to fold, and when folded, it resembles a suitcase, a painter's case, or a briefcase that can be thus disguised so as not to arouse suspicion. I, naturally, disguised it as a painter's case.
I had nothing to do with the sightings in Nalchik or Belgium. Besides, as it may appear, I am very impractical in the use of my discovery-I only fly to my entomological preserves. These are far more important to me than any technological finds.
At the moment, I have eleven such preserves: eight in Omsk region, one in Voronezh region, and one near Novosibirsk. There used to be six of them in Novosibirsk region, all of them created, or rather salvaged by me and my family, but they don't like them here. Neither the Agricultural Academy (still more obsessed with "chemistry" than with anything else), nor the Environmental Protection Committee were willing to help me salvage these little preserves from evil, ignorant people.
Thus I am continuing my journey westward under the magnificent, fluffy clouds at noon. The blue shadows of the clouds, the intricately shaped coppices, and the multicolored rectangles of fields float backwards below me.
The speed of my flight is quite high, but there is no wind in my ears-the platform's force field has "carved out" from space an upward-diverging, invisible column that cuts the platform off the earth's gravitational pull. But it left me and the air inside the column intact. I think that all this, as it were, parts space in flight, and then closes it behind me.
This must be the reason for the invisibility, or the distorted visibility, of the device and its "rider"-as was the case with my flight over Novosibirsk's Zatulinka suburb.
But the protection from gravity is regulated, even though it is incomplete: if you move your head forward, you already feel the turbulence of the wind that clearly smells either of sweet clover, of buckwheat, or of the colored weeds of Siberian meadows.
I leave Isilkul with its huge grain elevator on my right and gradually begin to descend over the highway, making sure that I am invisible to drivers, passengers, and people working in the field.
My platform and I cast no shadow (although the shadow occasionally appears): I see three kids on the edge of a forest, go down, drop my speed, and fly right near them. They show no reaction, which means that everything is fine-neither I, nor my shadow are visible. Or heard: the propulsion principle of my device is such that the platform makes no sound whatsoever, because there is practically no air friction. My journey was long-at least forty minutes from Novosibirsk. My hands are tired as I can't take them off the controls, so are my legs and body-I have to stand up straight, tied to the vertical pole with a belt. And even though I can travel faster, I am still afraid to do so-my hand-made machine is still too small and fragile.
I again go up and ahead, and soon I see the familiar landmarks-a road intersection, a passenger terminal on the right side of the highway. Another five kilometers, and finally I see orange columns of the Preserve fence. The Preserve is this year-come to think of it-twenty years old! How many times I saved this child of mine from trouble and bureaucrats, from chemicals-loaded aircraft, from fires, and many other evil deeds. And the Land of Insects is alive and well!
Descending and braking, which is done by cross-shifting filter blinds under the platform board, I already see the thicket of carrot weed, make out the light heads of their flowers resembling azure balls-they are of course covered with insects, and an incredible joy comes over me, taking away my fatigue, for it was I who saved this piece of Earth, even if a small one, less than seven hectares.
Already for twenty years no one has driven here, no one has cut the grass, tended cattle, and the soil has risen in places to fourteen centimeters high. Not only several locally extinct species of insects have returned, but also such weeds as feather grass of rare varieties, purple Scorzonera whose large flowers in the morning smell of chocolate, and many other plants. I feel the thick smell of cuckoo flower-only this Middle Glade smells like that, it is right behind the fence of the preserve, and fills me with yet again with the joyful anticipation of another encounter with the World of Insects. Here they are, I can see them very well even from ten meters above the ground on the wide umbrellas and azure balls of angelica and carrot plants: dark orange butterflies sit on them in groups; heavy hornets bow the white and yellow inflorescences of lady's bedstraws; ginger and blue dragonflies with trembling wide wings and a fine network of veins hover next to my head. I slow down even more, and see a sudden flash below: my shadow, hitherto invisible, has finally appeared and now slowly glides along weeds and bushes. But I am already safe-there is not a soul around, and the highway three hundred meters north of the preserve is now empty. I can land. The stems of the tallest weeds rustle against the bottom of my "podium"-the platform with the panel blocks.
But before putting it down on a little bump, I, in a fit of joy, again spread the blinds with my control handle, and vertically go up. The landscape below quickly shrinks, shrivels as it were: the shrubs of the preserve, its edges and fences, all the surrounding coppices and fields. The horizon begins to curve on all sides in a huge groove, opening up the railroad that runs two kilometers on the left, then a village on the right-it twinkles with its light slate roofs.
Further on the right is Roslavka, the central estate of Lesnoy State Farm-it already looks like a small city. Left from the railroad are cow farms of Lesnoy's Komsomolsk branch; they are surrounded by a yellow ring of straw and dry, foot-worn manure. In the far west, where the smooth curve of the railroad disappears (this is actually confusing: the railway is straight as an arrow), there are small houses and the neat white cube of the Yunino railroad terminal, six km away. Beyond Yunino, there are limitless expanses of Kazakhstan drowning in the hot, bluish haze.
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