In one of my conversations with Boris Natanovich Strugatsky, I asked how he felt about the writer Gennady Prashkevich. BNS answered me like this: “Who can I compare Gennady Prashkevich with? No one. I would venture to add: since the time of Ivan Antonovich Efremov - not with anyone. Sometimes it seems like he knows everything—and can do everything, too. A historical novel in the best traditions of Tynyanov or Chapygin? Maybe. Proven. A dystopia of the most modern color and style? Please. A completely ethnographic study about the strange life of northern people - easily, in one breath, and even now for Parajanov. Any paleontological essays? No problem! Fantastic detective? For God's sake! Diverse, knowledgeable, multi-talented, highly experienced - with whom can you compare him today? No one! And there is no need to compare, this is an empty exercise, you just need to read it and re-read it.” Several years ago, Alexander Etoev and I, preparing for the seventieth birthday of Gennady Martovich Prashkevich, a native Siberian, one of the oldest Russian science fiction writers, poet, translator, science fiction historian, decided to give a gift to our big (he is two meters tall) friend. And they wrote a strange book for Martovich’s anniversary, each chapter of which is dedicated to a certain period in the life of this wonderful writer. The chapters begin with my conversations with Gennady Prashkevich, and end with free comments from Alexander Etoev. Vladimir LARIONOV