Vladimir Savchenko. Self-discovery
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... Harry finished. The chairman read critical response to the work. Theresponse was good (but who would submit unfavorable ones to his dissertation
defense?). The only serious unexpected thing was that Arkady Arkadievich had
written a response to the work, too. Then the official opponent took the
stage. Everyone knows what an official opponent does: in order to earn his
name, he notes several inconsistencies, several incomplete thoughts, and
"yet in sum total the work corresponds... the author is deserving of...."
Well, I won't lie about this one: the opponent from Moscow was a highly
qualified man and he mocked all the propositions of the dissertation and
made it clear that he could expose the whole thing, but he did it so
carefully and subtly that probably even Harry didn't see it. "Yet in sum
total the work deserves...."
And finally: "Who would like to speak?" Usually by this time everyone
is disgusted by the proceedings; no one wants anything; the candidate thanks
everyone-and it's over.
Laboratory head V. Krivoshein breathed in and out deeply (by then I
realized how much trouble this would cause) and raised his hand. Harry
Haritonovich was unpleasantly surprised. I spoke twenty minutes, as he had,
and in unfolding my point of view I handed the council members journals,
magazines, monographs, brochures, and so on that contained the results
Hilobok was defending without any mention of him. Then I re-created his
circuit for ... never mind for what, particularly since its only redeeming
feature was its "originality," and proved that the circuit would not work in
the frequencies of the required range. There was a hubbub in the hall.
Then appeared candidate of sciences V. Ivanov, who had specially made
the trip from Leningrad (not without a phone call from me). He clarified the
borrowed data and took apart the "original" part of the dissertation;
Valery's speech was full of erudition and subtle humor. The audience grew
noisier-and then it began!
My old friend Zhalbek Balbekovich Pshembakov tried to find out from
Harry how was it that in circuit number two... it's not worth writing about
either. Hilobok didn't know how it was, but he tried to get away with some
bull and babble. Then the other colleagues of the construction bureau
entered the fray. The last speaker was the chief engineer, a professor and
Nobel Prize winner (I won't mention his name in this context). "I had the
feeling from the first that there was something wrong here," he began.
So the first form didn't help Hilobok; they squashed his dissertation
like God can squash a turtle! Harry was a pitiful sight. Everyone was going
off to his office and he was taking down his magnificent displays, and the
stiff oaktag rolled up and hit him in the mustache. I went over to help.
"No, thank you," Hilobok muttered. "Are you satisfied? You don't write
anything and you don't let anyone else do it, either. It's an easy life.
Valentin Vasilyevich, nature has endowed you with certain gifts...."
"Sure, it's easy! My salary is half of yours, and my vacation time,
too. And I'm swamped with work and responsibilities."
"You add to your worries unnecessarily. Why did you have to get
involved in this?" Harry, rolling up his displays, gave me a threatening and
angry look. "You have to think about the institute, not just about yourself
and me. Well, this isn't the place to talk about it."
So that's the ticket. Well, it doesn't matter. I feel wonderful now. As
though I had done something that was infinitely more valuable and meaningful
than even our discovery: I squashed a viper. That means it's possible. And
not as terrible as I had expected.
Now I'm not so worried about our work's future. Problems like this can
be surmounted, too.
"But it did have an effect on his work," muttered Onisimov-Krivoshein,
watching the computer-womb. "Everything has an effect on the work."
May 29. Today I was called onto Azarov's thick carpet. He has just
gotten back from a trip.
"So you realize what you've done?"
"But, Arkady Arkadievich, the dissertation-"
"We're not talking about Harry Haritonovich's dissertation, but about
your behavior! You've undermined the institute's prestige, and in no small
way!"
"I expressed my opinion."
"Yes, but where? How? Is it so difficult to comprehend that in another
organization you are not simply an engineer trying to even a scholarly score
with someone (well, Harry told his side!) but a representative of the
Institute of Systemology! Why didn't you express your opinion at the
preliminary defense?"
"I didn't know about it."
"Nevertheless you could have told it to my replacement after the
defense. It would have been taken into account!"
(He's talking about Voltampernov-a likely story!)
"It wouldn't have been taken into account."
"I see we won't reach an agreement. What are your plans for the
future?"
"I don't intend to resign."
"I'm not asking you to. But it seems to me that you're not ready to
head a laboratory. A scientist working in a collective must bear the good of
the collective in mind and at any rate, certainly not deal it any death
blows by his behavior. I imagine that you will have trouble, at the next
qualifying session, passing to lab head. That's all. I won't keep you."
So that's how it is. The whole institute is abuzz with turkey gobbles:
"An engineer against a candidate! Keeping him from his doctorate!" Thanks to
Harry everybody thinks that I was trying to settle a score with him. They're
dragging out my old sins: the chewing out, the accident in Ivanov's lab
(Matyushin, the head janitor, is planning to sue me for damages). They
realized that I haven't turned in an annual report on my project, even
though topic 154 isn't over until this year. They say that a commission to
check on the lab's work should be set up.
My enemies shout. My friends whisper carefully, looking over their
shoulders: "You really gave it to Hilobok. The jerk deserves it. Well,
they'll get you now." And they suggest where I should tranfer. "Why don't
you intercede?" "Well, you see...." Even good old Fenya Zagrebnyak just
spreads his hands apart. "What can I do? It's not in my field."
A narrow specialist has a lousy life. Well-fed, secure, but lousy. All
his interests are concentrated on elements of passive memory, say, and not
on any old elements but only on cryotron elements, and only on film
cryotrons and only on those made of lead-tin films. The worker, the farmer,
the technician, the broad-based engineer, the teacher, and even the office
worker can apply his knowledge and skills to many activities, enterprises,
and companies, but there are only two or three institutes in the whole
Soviet Union studying those damned cryotrons. What can poor Fedya do? He has
to sit there and not make waves. In effect, a narrow speciality is a means
of self-enslavement.
That's why it's rare among us specialists to find all for one (unless
the one is Azarov). All against one is the more usual picture; that's
easier. That's why passions flare up at the first sign of insubordination.
"Anyone could be failed like that!" yelped Voltampernov-and it went on and
on.
All right, I'll bear it. I can take it. The important thing is that
it's done. I knew what I was getting into. But it's repulsive. It's
unbelievably disgusting.
Onisimov put out his cigarette and stared at the computer. Something
had changed slowly and imperceptibly in the distribution of the hoses. They
seemed to be tensed. A shudder of contractions traveled through some of
them. And-Onisimov jumped-the first drop fell loudly from the left gray hose
into the tank.
Onisimov moved the stairs over to the tank and climbed up. He put his
hand under the hose. In a minute it was full of the golden liquid. The lines
in his skin were visible through it, as if under a magnifying glass. He
concentrated, and the skin disappeared, revealing the red muscles, the white
bones, the tendons.... "Ah, if they had only known how to do this," he
sighed. "The experiment wouldn't have gone like this. They didn't know. And
it had an effect."
He let the liquid splash into the tank, got back down to the floor, and
washed his hand in the sink. The patter of drops from all the hoses rang
merrily and springlike in the lab.
"Work! You're strong, computer," Onisimov-Krivoshein said respectfully.
"As strong as life."
He obviously didn't want to leave the laboratory. But he glanced at his
watch, put on his jacket, and hurried.
"Good morning, Matvei Apollonovich!" Hilobok greeted him rapturously.
"Working already? I've been waiting for you. I wanted to report something,"
he whispered, bringing his mustache close to Onisimov's ear, "Yesterday
that. . . woman of his, Elena Ivanovna Kolomiets, came to his apartment,
took something, and left. And there was someone else in there, too. The
light was on all night."
"I see. You did the right thing in telling me. As they say,
jurisprudence will not forget you."
"Oh, any time, it's my duty!"
"Duty aside," Onisimov said in a stern voice, "aren't you motivated by
other, stronger motives, comrade Hilobok?"
"What motives?"
"For instance the fact that Krivoshein ruined your doctoral
dissertation defense."
Harry Haritonovich's face sagged for a moment and then quickly took on
a look of injury at the hands of humanity.
"Some people! Someone already had time to report that to you. What kind
of people work here, I ask you, tsk, tsk? Don't be silly, Matvei
Apollonovich. How could you doubt the sincerity of my motives! Krivoshein
didn't have as tremendous an influence at the defense as you might have been
told. There were more serious experts there than him, and many approved of
it, but he, obviously, was jealous, and well, they suggested I make some
changes, nothing terrible. I'll be up for it again soon. But, of course, if
you suspect me, that's up to you. Then check things out for yourself. It was
my duty to tell you, but now... good day!"
"Good day."
Harry Haritonovich left furious: Krivoshein was getting him from the
other world, too!
"You really let him have it, comrade captain!" the guard said
approvingly.
Onisimov didn't hear. He was watching Hilobok leave.
It leads to one thing. But the question that comes up willy-nilly is
"Is it worth it?"
Be straight, Krivoshein: you can kick the bucket in this experiment.
It's that simple, based on your own statistics of success and failure in
your experiments. Science and methodology aside, things never work the way
they should the first time-that's the old law. And a mistake in this
experiment is more than a spoiled sample.
I mean basically I'm climbing into the tank as a narrow specialist in
this work. That's my speciality, like cryotron film is for Fenya Zagrebnyak.
But I don't have to get in there-nobody's forcing me. Funny, I have to get
into a medium that easily dissolves live organisms simply because my
specialty worked out badly!
For people? The hell with them! Do I need more than the rest? I'll just
live quietly for myself. And it'll be good.
And everything will be clear-with the lowest, coldest clarity of a
scoundrel. And I'll have to spend my life justifying my retreat by saying
that all people are like that, no better than me, and even worse, everyone
lives only for himself. And I'll have to drop all my hopes and dreams of
better things quickly so that they don't remind me. I sold out! I sold out
and I have no right to expect anything better from anyone else.
And then it will get really cold in the world....
Golovorezov was asking him something.
"What?"
"I said, will my replacement be here soon, comrade captain? I came on
at twenty-two hundred."
"Didn't you get enough sleep?" Onisimov squinted at him merrily.
"You'll have to stand it another hour and a half or so. Then you'll be
relieved, I promise. I'll take the keys with me. That's better. Don't let
anyone in here!"
Chapter 22
Einstein had a boss, and Faraday had one, and Popov had one ... but
somehow no one ever remembers them. Now that's a violation of subordination!
-K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 40
The window of Azarov's office opened on the institute grounds. He could
see the crowns of the lindens and the gray-glassed parallelepiped of the new
building rising above them. Arkady Arkadievich never tired of the view. In
the mornings it helped him chase away his neurasthenia and gave him energy.
But today, looking out the window, he merely frowned and turned away.
Yesterday's feeling to loneliness and vague guilt hadn't passed. "Eh!"
Azarov tried to wave it away. "Whenever anyone dies, you always feel guilty
just because you're still alive. Especially if the person was younger than
you. And loneliness in science is natural and usual for anyone working in
the creative end. Each one of us only knows his own field. It's hard to
understand one another. That's why we often replace mutual understanding
with an unspoken agreement not to pry into other people's business. But what
had he known? What was he doing?"
"May I? Good morning, Arkady Arkadievich!" Hilobok moved across the
carpet, exuding cologne as he walked.
Onisimov's subtle hint had worried Harry Haritonovich. It occurred to
him that someone might think that he was evening the score with Krivoshein
over the dissertation by poisoning him to death. "It's only natural that
when someone is killed they look for a killer. And around here, they could
easily,..." the assistant professor thought, paranoid. He wasn't quite sure
who or what he had to be afraid of, but he knew he had better be afraid, to
keep them from getting a jump on him.
"So, Arkady Arkadievich, I've prepared a draft of an order regarding
the incident with Krivoshein, so that everything about him ... and this
incident would be formulated properly. There are only two points here: in
regards to a commission and in regards to the closing of the laboratory.
Please read it over, Arkady Arkadievich, and if you have no objections-"
Hilobok leaned over the polished desk and placed a typewritten page in
front of the academician.
"I've entered the following as members of the commission to investigate
the incident: comrade Bezmerny, safety engineer-it's just up his alley,
heh-heh-Ippolit Illarionovich Voltampernov, as a specialist in electronic
technology; Aglaya Mitrofanovna Garazh, as a member of the local committee
on labor defense; Lyudmila Ivanova from the office as the technical
secretary of the commission ... and well, I'll head it myself if you don't
mind, Arkady Arkadievich. I'll take this burden on, too, heh-heh!" He looked
up carefully.
Arkady Arkadievich was examining his faithful scientific secretary. The
man, as usual, was extremely well shaven and groomed, his narrow red tie
streaming down a starched shirt front like blood from a throat slit by a
collar, but for some reason the sight and the sound of Harry Haritonovich's
mellow voice elicited deep revulsion in the academician. "That light
trembling before me . . . that phony subordinate dumbness. You're
transparent, Harry Haritonovich, through and through! Maybe that's why I
keep you around, because you are transparent? Because I can't expect
anything unexpected or great from you? Because your goals are obvious? When
the goals of a functioning system are understood, it's a thousand times
easier to foresee its behavior than when the goals are masked-there is a law
like that in systemology. Or is it just that I enjoy a daily comparison with
you? Maybe that's why I feel this loneliness-because I surround myself with
people who are easy to tower over?"
"And the second point is on the ending, that is, the stopping of work
in the New Systems Laboratory during the work of the commission And then
after the commission we'll see more clearly what to do with the lab: to
disband it or turn it over to another department."
"The work there had stopped of its own accord, Harry Haritonovich,"
Azarov laughed sadly. "There's no one to work there now. And there's no one
to disband." He pictured Krivoshein's corpse again with its bulging eyes and
pained grin. The academician rubbed his temples and sighed. "In principle I
accept your idea for a commission, but its staff has to be changed
slightly." He pulled the sheet of paper over and took out his pen. "We can
leave Ippolit Illarionovich, and the engineer on safety procedures, and we
need a technical secretary, too. But not the rest. I'll head the commission
myself, taking on, as you put it, this burden myself, to spare you. I want
to find out what Krivoshein has been doing."
"And . . . what about me?" the scientific secretary asked in a
crestfallen voice.
"And you take care of your own duties, Harry Haritonovich." Hilobok
felt very ill: his fears were being justified. "He's estranging me!" He was
afraid now and hating the dead Krivoshein much more than he had ever hated
the live one.
"There! He's really making trouble again, isn't he?" Hilobok spoke,
cocking his head to one side. "Look at all the troubles now! Ah, Arkady
Arkadievich, don't you think I can see how you're taking this? Don't you
think I understand? You shouldn't pull yourself away from your work and get
all upset by this. The whole city will be talking, saying that Azarov had
another one at the Institute ... and that he's trying to cover it up-you
know what people are like now. That Krivoshein, that Valentin Vasilyevich!
Didn't I tell you, Arkady Arkadievich, didn't I foretell that he would be
only trouble and danger! You shouldn't have supported his project, Arkady
Arkadievich!"
Azarov listened, frowned, and felt his brain being overpowered by the
usual hopeless numbness-like his neurasthenia coming back. This numbness
always hit him after a prolonged conversation with Hilobok and forced him to
agree with him. Now his head was buzzing with the thought that it probably
takes more mental exertion to withstand babble like this than it does to do
mathematical research.
"Why don't I fire him?" The idea popped into his mind. "Throw him out
of the institute and that's that. This is humiliating. Yes, but with what
cause? He manages his responsibilities. He's got eighteen works published,
ten years' seniority. He passed the promotion test (of course, there was no
one else taking it at the time)-there's nothing to complain about! And I
gave him that favorable response on his dissertation like a fool. Should I
fire him for stupidity and ineptness? Well... that would certainly be a new
precedent in science."
"He put in orders, used up materials and equipment, took up a whole
building, worked for two years-and here you go, this calamity is all yours!"
Hilobok was whipping himself up. "And at my defense ... it wasn't just me
that he shamed. I'm not that important. But he shamed you, Arkady
Arkadievich, too! If I had my way, Arkady Arkadievich, I'd give that
Krivoshein plenty for what he did to manage, I mean managed to did, I mean,
to do, damn it!" He leaned over the desk, his brown eyes flashing with
intense hatred. "It's too bad that we award only honors posthumously, write
pleasant obituaries and the like. De mortis aut bene aut nihil, you know!
But that Krivoshein should be reprimanded posthumously, so that others would
learn a lesson! And a severe reprimand! And it should be entered-"
"-on the tombstone. That's an idea!" a voice added behind him. "What a
viper you are, Hilobok."
Harry Haritonovich straightened up so fast it looked as though someone
had given him a shot of rock salt in the rear. Azarov looked up: Krivoshein
stood in the doorway.
"Hello, Arkady Arkadievich, forgive me for showing up without an
appointment. May I come in?"
"H-he... hello, Valentin Vasilyevich!" Azarov stood up. His heart was
pounding wildly. "Hello... oof, I see you're not... I'm happy to see you in
good health! Come in, please!"
Krivoshein shook the barely proffered hand (the academician was
relieved to see the hand was warm) and turned to Hilobok. Harry's mouth
opened and closed noiselessly.
"Harry Haritonovich, would you please leave us alone? I would be very
grateful if you did."
"Yes, Harry Haritonovich, go," Azarov said.
Hilobok backed to the door, bumping his head soundly on the wall, felt
for the doorknob, and rushed out.
Gathering his wits about him, Arkady Arkadievich took a deep breath to
calm his heart, sat behind his desk, and suddenly felt irritated. "Was I the
butt of a practical joke?" he thought.
"Would you be so kind, Valentin Vasilyevich, to explain what all this
means? What is this business with your, forgive me, corpse, the skeleton,
and so on?"
"Nothing criminal, Arkady Arkadievich-may I?" Krivoshein sank into the
leather armchair by the desk. "The self-organizing computer, about which I
spoke at the scientific council last summer, actually did develop... and it
developed to the point that it tried to create a person. Me. And, as they
say, the first pancake is a lump."
"Why wasn't I kept informed?" Azarov asked angrily, remembering the
humiliating conversation the day before yesterday with the investigator and
the other experiences of the last two days. "Why?" Krivoshein flew into a
rage.
"Damn it!" He leaped forward, banging his fist on the soft arm of the
chair. "Why don't you ask how we did it? How we managed to do it? Why are
you more concerned with personal prestige, subordination, the relationship
of others to your directorial ego?"
Krivoshein's announcement had reached Azarov in its most general form:
he had gotten some result. Heads of departments and labs were always telling
Azarov about their results, sitting in that very leather chair. And it was
only as a delayed reaction that Arkady Arkadievich began to realize just
what kind of a result it was. The world shuddered and became unreal for a
moment. "Impossible! No, that's just the point, it is possible! Now
everything falls into place and I see." The academician spoke in a different
tone. "Of course, this is ... monumental. My congratulations, Valentin
Vasilyevich. And... my apologies. I jumped the gun; it didn't come out
right. A thousand pardons! This is a major . . . invention, even though the
idea of communicating and synthesizing the information in man has been
expressed by the late Norbert Weiner. [Krivoshein chuckled.] Of course this
doesn't diminish... I remember your idea, and the day before yesterday I saw
a few... results of your work. Since I am quite well versed in systemology
myself [Krivoshein chuckled again], I, naturally, am prepared to accept what
you've told me. Naturally, I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart!
But you must admit, Valentin Vasilyevich, that this happy event for science
could have been less worrisome and even less scandalous if you had kept me
informed of your progress over the past year."
"It's hard to get in to see you, Arkady Arkadievich."
"You'll understand if I don't find that a substantial excuse, Valentin
Vasilyevich!" Azarov frowned. "I'll admit that the procedure of getting in
to see me might be offensive to you (even though all the workers at the
institute have to submit to it at one time or another). But you could have
telephoned me, left me a note (not necessarily a form in triplicate,
either), or visited me at my apartment, you know!"
Arkady Arkadievich couldn't repress the hurt. "So... you work and
work..." kept spinning through his mind. For a long time, since the days
when his unsuccessful experiment with helium turned into the discovery of
superfluidity in the hands of a colleague, Arkady Arkadievich had secretly
hoped to see, find, and understand something new in nature and the world. He
dreamed about a discovery with anticipation and trepidation, like a boy
about to lose his virginity! But he had no luck. Others did, but not him! He
had high-level, needed, much-valued and honored work to his credit, but no
discovery-the height of comprehension.
And now in the institute that had been entrusted to him a discovery had
been made without his knowledge, a discovery so huge that it dwarfed all of
his work and the work of the entire institute! They managed without him.
More than that! It seemed that they avoided him. "How so? Did he think I was
dishonorable? What have I done to make him think that?" Academician Azarov
hadn't had to experience such strong feelings in a long time.
"Hmmm . . . while sharing your joy for this discovery, Valentin
Vasilyevich," he went on, "I still am worried and saddened by your attitude.
This may shock you, but I'm concerned not as a scientist or as your
director, but as a human being: why like this? Surely you could see that my
knowing about the project would do it no harm, but could only help: you
would have been guaranteed direction, consultations.
If I had felt that you needed more workers or equipment, you would have
had that, too. Then why, Valentin Vasilyevich? I'm not even deigning to
think that you were worried about your inventor's patents...."
"But that didn't keep you from expressing the thought," Krivoshein
laughed sadly. "Well, all right. In general, I'm glad that you're distressed
primarily as a human being; that gives me hope. For a while, we debated
whether we should tell you about the work or not; we tried to meet with you.
We couldn't make contact. And then we decided that at that stage of the
project it was just as well." He looked up at Azarov. "We didn't have much
faith in you, Arkady Arkadievich. Do you know why? If for no other reason
than that even now, instead of finding out more about the work, you tried to
put the discovery and its credit where you thought it belonged: Weiner
said.... What does Weiner's 'television' idea have to do with this? We've
done it completely differently. And you know there wouldn't have been any
consultations: I can't see you, an academician, displaying your ignorance in
front of subordinate engineers. Another thing also: while you know very well
that a researcher's value is in no way determined by his degrees or title,
you nevertheless have never missed a chance to promote degreed and titled
people into positions that others might have filled better. You think I
didn't know from the start what my part would be in creating the new
laboratory? Do you think that your warning to me after the scandal with
Hilobok didn't affect my last experiment? It did. That's why I was rushing,
taking risks. Do you think that my attitude toward you isn't affected by the
fact that in your institute orders for exhibitions and other public
relations nonsense always take precedence over things that are necessary for
our work?"
"Now you're getting awfully petty, Valentin Vasilyevich!" Azarov said
in irritation.
"Those were the petty things that I had to judge you by; there was
nothing else. Or such a petty thing as the fact that a... a... well, that
Hilobok sets the tone for the institute-whether through your disinterest or
active support, I don't know. Of course, it's easy to feel intellectually
superior next to Hilobok, even in a steam bath!"
Color rushed to Azarov's face: it's one thing when you realize
something for yourself, and another when a subordinate tells you about it.
Krivoshein realized he had gone too far and modified his tone.
"Please understand me correctly, Arkady Arkadievich. We had wanted you
to participate in our work-and that's why I'm telling you this, not to
insult you. There's much that we still don't understand in this discovery:
man is a complicated system, and the computer that creates him is even more
so. There's work here for thousands of experiments and studies. And that's
our dream, to attract wise, knowledgeable, talented men to the project. But,
you see, it's not enough to be a scientist for this work."
"I hope that you will familiarize me more thoroughly with this work."
Azarov was gradually getting himself under control, and his sense of humor
and superiority was returning. "Perhaps I will be of some service, as a
scientist and as a human being."
"Please God! We'll familiarize you with it... probably. I'm not alone
in this, and can't make decisions on my own. But we will. We need you."
"Valentin Vasilyevich," the academician said, raising his shoulders,
"excuse me, but are you planning to decide with your lab assistant whether
or not you will allow me near your work? As far as I know, there is no one
else in your lab?"
"Yes, and him too. Oh, my God!" Krivoshein sighed. "You are willing to
accept the possibility that a computer can create man, but you can't accept
the possibility that a lab assistant might know more about it than you! By
the way, Michael Faraday was a lab assistant, too. No one remembers that any
more. Arkady Arkadievich, you must prepare yourself for the fact that when
you join our project-and I hope that you will!-there won't be any of that
academic 'you are our fathers, we are your children' bull. We'll work, and
that's it. None of us is a genius, but none of us is Hilobok, either."
He looked at Azarov and grew pale, amazed: the academician was smiling!
It wasn't one of his photogenic, only for the press, smiles and not one of
the sly smiles that accompanied a witticism during a council or seminar. It
was simple and broad. It wasn't very attractive because of all the wrinkles
it created, but it was very nice.
"Listen," said Azarov, "you've really shaken me up here, but... well,
all right. I'm very glad that you're alive." (The reader is reminded that
this is science fiction.)
"Me, too," was the only reply Krivoshein could muster.
"What about the police now?"
"I think that I can soothe them, even if I won't overjoy them."
Krivoshein said good-bye and left. Arkady Arkadievich sat at his desk,
drumming his fingers on it.
"Hmmmmmm," he said.
And that was all he said.
"What else do I have to take care of?" Krivoshein thought as he stood
at the bus stop. "Oh, that's what!"
May 3 0. It's interesting to think about: I was doing thirty-five, my
usual town speed and that idiot in the green Moskvich was blocking the
highway-his speed in relation to the highway was zero. And his speed across
the road wasn't much faster, either. He drove as if he were driving a
tractor. Who lets jackasses like that drive? If you're crossing the highway
against all the rules, then do it fast! But he would drive a yard, then
stop. By the time I realized the Moskvich was blocking my way, I didn't even
have time to brake.
Victor Kravets, who went out there to pick up the remains of the
motorcycle, still shakes his head over it:
"You were lucky. I can't believe it! If you had been doing forty-five,
I would be making a memorial stone out of the remains and writing on the
license plate, Here lies Krivoshein, engineer and motorcyclist!' "
Yes, but if I had been doing forty-five, I wouldn't have crashed into
him!
It's interesting what circumstances come into play in a fatal accident.
If I hadn't stopped in the woods for a smoke and listened to the cuckoo
("Cuckoo, cuckoo, how many years will I live?"-it cuckooed at least fifty
years), if I had taken two or three turns a little faster or slower-our
paths wouldn't have crossed. But this way-on a straight flat road in
excellent visibility-I plowed into the only car in my path!
The only thing I had time to think was "Cuckoo, cuckoo, how long will I
live?" as I flew over the bike.
I got up myself. The Moskvich's side was bashed in. The frightened
driver was wiping blood from his unshaven face. I had broken the windshield
with my elbow. Served him right, the jerk! My poor bike was on the road. It
was much shorter now. The headlight, front wheel, axle, and frame and tank
were smashed, squashed, destroyed.
So I went from seventeen yards per second to zero in one yard. And my
body experienced fifteen g's. Ouch!
The human body is an excellent machine! In less than a tenth of a
second my body had time to adjust to the best position for taking the crash:
elbow and shoulder first. And Valery tried to prove that man had nothing on
technology! No one's proved that yet! If you translate the damage done to
the motorcycle into human terms, it lost its head, broke its front
extremities, chest, and spine. It was such a good bike; it loved speed.
Of course, my right shoulder and chest took more of a beating. It's
hard to lift my right arm. I guess I broke some ribs.
Well, it's for the best. Now I'll have something to repair in the
liquid circuit of the computer-womb. And not external, but inside my body.
In that sense, the Moskvich was very handy. All for science.
Chapter 23
"Write out a pass for taking out a body." "Where's the body?" "Coming
up." (Shoots himself.) "Fine! But who's going to carry it?"
-A legend from Singapore
Policeman Gayevoy was sitting in the duty room, suffering from love and
writing a letter on a complaint form. "Hello, Valya! This is Aleksandr
Gayevoy writing to you. I don't know if you remember me or not, but I can't
forget how you looked at me near the dance floor with the help of your black
and beautiful eyes. The moon was big and concentric. Dear Valya! Come to T.
Shevchenko Park tomorrow night. I'll be on duty there until twenty-four
hundred-"
Onisimov came in, his eyebrows furrowed into a strict look. Gayevoy
jumped up, dropping his chair, and blushed.
"Has Kravets been taken care of?"
"Yes sir, comrade captain! He was brought in at nine-thirty in
accordance with your orders. He's in a cell."
"Take me there."
Victor Kravets was sitting in a small, high-ceilinged room on a bench,
smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke into a sunbeam that came through the
barred window. There was a three-day stubble on his cheeks. He squinted at
the men as they entered, but didn't turn his head.
"You should get up, like you're supposed to," Gayevoy said in reproach.
"I don't consider myself a convict!"
"And you aren't, comrade Victor Vitalyevich Kravets," Onisimov said
calmly. "You were detained for questioning. Now the situation is becoming
clear, and I don't feel it is necessary to keep you under guard any longer.
We'll call you if we need you. So, you're free."
Kravets stood up, giving the investigator a suspicious look. Onisimov's
thin lips jerked into a short smile.
"A high forehead, granite jaw, well-shaped nose . . . dark curls framed
his handsome, round, melon-shaped head. Krivoshein the Original had very
provincial ideas of male handsomeness. But, that's understandable.
(Kravets's eyes bulged.) Where's the motorcycle?"
"Wh-what motorcycle?"
"License plate number 21-11 DNA. Being repaired?"
"In ... in the shed."
"All right. By the way," Onisimov's eyes narrowed angrily, "you should
have sent the telegram before the experiment. Before, not after!"
Kravets didn't know whether he was alive or not.
"All right. We will return your documents to you in a little while,"
the investigator continued in an official voice. "Good day, citizen Kravets.
Don't forget us. See him out, comrade Gayevoy."
Matvei Apollonovich showed up at work with a headache after his
difficult night. He was sitting at his desk, making out his plan for the
day.
"1. Send the liquid for further analysis to see if there are any
undissolved human tissues in it;
2. Inform the security organs (through Aleksei Ignatievich);
3.-"
"May I come in?" a voice asked softly, making Onisimov's skin crawl.
"Good morning."
Krivoshein was in his doorway.
"Did the man on duty send me to the right place? You are the
investigator Onisimov, who's in charge of the incident in my lab? How do you
do. May I?" He sat down, took out a handkerchief, and wiped his face. "It's
only morning, but the heat is unbearable!"
The investigator sat in stunned silence.
"Well, I'm Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein, head of the New Systems
Laboratory at the Institute of Systemology," the visitor explained. "I only
found out today, you see... that you're... that the police are interested in
this sad affair, and I hurried right over. Naturally, I would have given you
a thorough explanation yesterday or even the day before, but... [shrugs] it
never even occurred to me that an unsuccessful experiment would lead to such
a to-do, involving the police! I was resting in my apartment, rather unwell
after the experiment. You see, comrade Onisimov... excuse me, what's your
name and patronymic?"
"Apollon Matvei ... I mean, Matvei Apollonovich," Onisimov muttered
hoarsely and coughed to clear his throat.
"You see, Matvei Apollonovich, it was like this: in the process of the
experiment I had to immerse myself in the tank with the biological
informational medium. Unfortunately, the tank was unsteady and turned over.
I fell with it, hitting my head on the floor, and lost consciousness. I'm
afraid that the tank must have hit my assistant too-I remember he tried to
hold it up at the last second. I came to under an oilcloth on the floor. I
heard voices in the lab...." Krivoshein gave a charming smile. "You'll
admit, Matvei Apollonovich, that it would have been very embarrassing for me
to stand up in my own laboratory in my birthday suit with a bashed-in head.
And that liquid, it stings terribly, worse than soap suds! So I sneaked out
from under the oilcloth and scurried into the shower room to wash up and
change. I must admit that I don't know how long I was in the shower; my head
was spinning and my mind was fuzzy. I probably didn't even know what I was
doing. Anyway, when I came out there was no one in the lab. And I went home
to rest up. That's it in a nutshell. If you like, I can give you a written
explanation, and we can end all this-
"I see." Onisimov was gathering his wits about him gradually. "And what
experiments were you doing in the laboratory?"
"You see ... I'm researching the biochemsitry of higher combinations in
a systemological aspect with the addition of polymorphous anthropologism,"
Krivoshein explained blandly. "Or the systemology of higher forms in a
biochemical aspect with the addition of anthropological polymorphism, if you
will."
"I see. And where did the skeleton come from?" Matvei Apollonovich
squinted at the box on the corner of his desk. "You just wait!" he thought.
"Skeleton? Oh, the skeleton!" Krivoshein smiled. "You see, we keep the
skeleton in the lab for educational purposes. It's always in the same corner
that I was put in when I was unconscious."
"And what do you say to this?" Matvei Apollonovich removed the box that
covered the sculpted head of Krivoshein. The pale-gray plastic eyes stared
at the visitor who grew pale himself. "Do you recognize it?"
Graduate student Krivoshein lowered his head. Only now was he certain
of what he had suspected, and what he didn't want to believe: Val had
perished in the experiment.
"Your story doesn't make sense, citizen! I don't know your name or who
you are." Onisimov, controlling his feeling of triumph, leaned back in his
chair. "Yesterday you managed to mystify me but you won't get away with it
today. I'm going to arrange for a little meeting between you and your
co-conspirator Kravets, and then what will you say?"
He reached for the phone. But Krivoshein put his hand on the receiver.
"Hey! What are you-" Onisimov looked up angrily and saw himself... a
broad face with narrow lips and a sharp chin, a thin nose, fine wrinkles
around the mouth and small close-set eyes. Only now did Matvei Apollonovich
notice the blue suit, just like his, and the Ukrainian shirt.
"Don't fool around, Onisimov! It won't be what you expect. You'll only
succeed in making yourself look foolish. No more than twenty minutes ago
investigator Onisimov released Kravets for lack of evidence."
"So...." Onisimov stared as Krivoshein's face relaxed and took on its
former features: blood drained from his cheeks. He lost his breath. Matvei
Apollonovich had been in quite a few fixes in the line of duty: he had been
shot at and he had done some shooting-but he had never been this scared in
his life. "Then you're... you?"
"That is it: I'm me." Krivoshein stood up and walked over to the desk.
Onisimov squirmed under his angry gaze. "Listen; end this nonsense!
Everyone's alive, everything is in place. What more do you want? No
sculpture or skeleton is going to prove that Krivoshein died. Here he is,
Krivoshein, standing before you! Nothing happened, do you understand? It's
just the project."
"But . . . how?" Matvei Apollonovich muttered. "Couldn't you explain?"
Krivoshein frowned sadly.
"Ah, Matvei Apollonovich, what could I explain to you? You used all of
detection's technology: televideophones, Gerasimov's system of
reconstructing the face... and still... you couldn't even figure out a type
like Hilobok. And that's a clear-cut case with him. There was no crime, you
can be sure of that."
"But... I'll have to report. I have to tell them something. What do I
do?"
"Now we're talking business." Krivoshein sat down again. "I'll give you
an explanation. Remember this part about the skeleton resembling me. It's a
family heirloom. My maternal grandfather, Andrei Stepanovich Kotlyar, a
famous biologist in his day, willed that he not be buried but embalmed and
his skeleton left to his descendants who went into science. An old
scientist's eccentricity, understand? And apparently you discovered broken
right ribs in the skeleton, which naturally raised some suspicion. Well,
grandfather died in a road accident. The old man loved zooming around on a
motorcycle over the speed limit. Understand?" "I see." Onisimov nodded
rapidly
"That's better. I hope that this... family heirloom will be returned to
its owner after the case is closed. As well as the other 'clues' taken from
the laboratory. The time will come," Krivoshein's voice resounded dreamily,
"the time will come, Matvei Apollonovich, when that head will grace not your
desk but a memorial. Well, I'm off. I hope I've explained everything. Please
give me Kravets's papers. Thank you. Oh yes, the guard you were so kind to
leave at the lab has requested relief. Please let him go. Thanks."
Krivoshein stuffed the papers in his pocket and headed for the door.
But a thought struck him on the way. "Listen, Matvei Apollonovich," he said,
coming back to the desk, "please don't be hurt by my proposal, but would you
like to be a little smarter? You'll grasp things quickly. You'll think
broadly and profoundly. You'll see clues and delve into the essence of
things and phenomena. You'll understand the human soul! And your mind will
be visited by marvelous ideas-things that will make your cheeks cold with
amazement. You see, life is complicated, and it will get more so. The only
way to remain at a human being's top position in it is to understand
everything. There is no other way. And that's possible, Matvei Apollonovich!
Would you like it? I can arrange it!"
Onisimov's face, contorted in insult and injury, filled with blood.
"You're mocking me," he said. "It's not enough that you've . .. you're
mocking me too. Go on, citizen, out."
Krivoshein shrugged and turned to the door.
"Wait!"
"What now?"
"Just a second, citizen... Krivoshein. All right, I don't understand.
Perhaps you really have the science for this. I'll accept your version of
the story-I have no choice. And you can think what you want of me...."
Matvei Apollonovich couldn't get over the insult. Krivoshein frowned: what
is he leading up to? "But if we accept your version, a man perished. Who's
guilty?"
The graduate student looked at him carefully.
"Everyone a little, Matvei Apollonovich. Himself, and me, and Azarov,
and others ... and even you are mixed up in it a little, even though you
didn't know him, because, without really knowing, you suspected people. But
according to the criminal code, no one. That happens."
"I think that's taken care of," the student said to himself as he got
into the bus.
Tomorrow is the experiment. Actually, not even tomorrow, but tonight,
in seven or eight hours. I'm never sleepy before I have an important thing
to do, but I need the sleep. That's why I walked and rode around town for
over four hours, to get worn out and distract myself.
I was everywhere: midtown, suburbs, by the train station. I looked at
people, houses, trees, animals. I watched the parade of Life.
A desiccated old man hobbled toward me with a yellowed mustache and a
red, wrinkly face. He had three Saint George crosses and a medal on a
striped ribbon dangling from his gray sateen shirt. The old man stopped in
the short shadows of the lindens to catch his breath.
Yes, gramps, you had your day too! You've lived through a lot and
obviously you want more: you've come out to preen, you cavalier of Saint
George! If we filled up your muscles with strength, cleared up your corneas,
wiped the sclerosis and fog from your brain, freshened up your nerves-you'd
show the young punks a thing or two!
Some boys wandering along, talking about the movies:
"And then he gives it to him-pow-pow-with an atomic gun!"
"And they go: bam-bam-bam!"
"Why an atomic one?"
"What other kind? On Venus-and with a regular gun?"
A cat looks at me with anxious eyes. Why do cats have such anxious
eyes? Do they know something? They know, but they won't tell. "Shoo, you
cat!" It skulked into a doorway.
A man with a low forehead and gray crewcut walked past: his pants
hugged his powerful calves and thighs and his tee shirt barely covered his
well-developed chest. His face made it clear that the fellow could handle
any of life's problems with a quick uppercut to the jaw or by tossing you
over his shoulder.
And we'll make muscles like that for everyone-everyone will know about
boxing and judo-and then how will he feel about his ready answer?
In Shevchenko Park a boy and girl walked past me, noticing no one,
holding hands.
You lovers don't need our discovery. You're good for each other just
the way you are. But... anything can happen in life. And danger threatens
your love: life, misunderstandings, good sense, relatives, boredom-lots of
things! If you manage on your own, more power to you. But if not, know this:
we can repair your love, fix it better than a TV set. It'll be like new-like
the day when you first saw each other in the movie ticket line.
And the woman I ran into in front of the department store on the
prospect! Her body was squeezed into a brocade dress, a gold brooch, fake
amber necklace, with sweat spots the size of plates under her arms and on
her back! The blue brocade glistened with all the colors of a stormy sea.
Fie on you, madame! How can you stuff yourself into brocade in this
heat. It's not a Saint George Cross, you know! Your husband doesn't love
you, does he, madame? He stares in horror at your arms, as thick as his
legs, at that fatty hump on your back. You are miserable madame. I don't
feel sorry for you, but I understand. Your husband doesn't love you; the
children don't appreciate you; the doctors don't sympathize; and the
neighbors-oof, the neighbors! All right, madame, we'll figure out something
for you as well. After all, you too have the right to an additional portion
of happiness in the human line. But, speaking of happiness, madame, your
taste worries me. No, no, I understand: you stuffed yourself into the
brocade, put on the horrible earrings and necklace that do nothing for you,
and decorated your fingers with rings to prove that you are no worse than
anyone else, that you have everything. But, forgive me, madame, you don't
have a damn thing. And I'm afraid that we'll have to improve your taste
along with your body, as well as you mind and feelings. For the same money,
madame, don't worry. Otherwise it's not worth it: you'll just waste your new
beauty and freshness in restaurants and parties and on lovers. In that case,
why should we bother? The true beauty, madame, lies in the harmony of the
body, mind, and spirit.
Two pretty girls walked past without giving me a glance. Why should
they? The sky is clear. The sun is high. Exams are behind them. And this bus
takes them to the beach.
A little kid, who wasn't allowed outside, pressed his nose to the
windowpane. He caught my eye and made a face. I made a face at him. Then he
did a whole act for me.
I love life, oh, how I love life! I don't need it to be any better. Let
it stay just as it is, as long as ... as long as what? What? Oh, you!
That's the whole point, it has to be better. There's too much wrong
with the world.
And I'll go. I haven't sold you out, people. We'll be able to do so
many things with this method: give people looks and wisdom, introduce new
abilities, even new qualities in them. Let's say, we could make a man have
radio feelings, so that he could see in the dark, hear ultrasounds, sense
magnetic waves, count time to the fraction of a second without a
chronometer, and even read people's thoughts at a distance-would you...
