Vladimir Savchenko. Self-discovery


     Translated from the Russian by Antonina W. Bouis
     Introduction by Theodore Sturgeon
     MACMILLAN PUBLISHING CO., INC. NEW YORK
     COLLIER MACMILLAN PUBLISHERS LONDON
     Copyright (c) 1979 by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc.
     Translation of Otkrytie sebia.
     OCR: Tuocs


     Contents

     INTRODUCTION
     PART ONE: Footsteps from Behind
     PART TWO: Self-Discovery
     PART THREE: Awakening

        Introduction

     Are you one self or many selves?
     Robert  Anton Wilson, in his Cosmic Trigger, describes his reactions to
various  events  as  those  of  The  Author,  The  Skeptic,  The  Sage,  The
Neurologician, The  Shaman,  and other  personae  -  all Wilson  himself, of
course, and by no means the "multiple personality" image  first made popular
by Dr. Morton Prince in  the early years of this century; facets, rather, of
any whole human being, and not a host of separate entities.
     Who, inside yourself, calmly watches you flying into a rage or drifting
in  ecstasy or capturing an  audience? Do you,  as so  many do, refer  to "a
little person  who  watches"  or  "the part of  myself that always observes,
never participates"?
     (And  why do  so many of us describe the  watcher  as a little  person?
Sometimes I suspect that mine is big-maybe bigger than I.)
     These are the questions-the kinds of questions, of provocations -evoked
by Vladimir  Savchenko and  his  astonishing  novel, for at the heart of his
story  is  the  problem of  self  and  personal  identity.  Krivoshein,  the
brilliant  young experimenter in cybernetics  who is the hero of the  novel,
discovers a way to duplicate human beings and, working secretly, brings into
the world many versions of himself.
     So you  will encounter many Krivosheins here; but  in  no  way are they
identical. This is not cloning, nor  is it the kind of duplication described
by Eric  Temple Bell in The Four-sided Triangle, nor the rather unbelievable
one  I  used  in When  You  Care,  When You Love.  This is  something  quite
different  and,  as  far  as  I  know,  unique.  It's  a computer-controlled
biological matrix, an intelligent fluid, if you like, capable of organizing,
balancing,  integrating organic  substances.  Add  such new  concepts  as  a
holographic  model  as  applied  to  brain function-wherein each cell  of  a
section seems to contain all functions of that section, just as each segment
of a  holograph contains all parts of  its picture-and  you come close to an
understanding  of  Krivoshein's scientific  accomplishment. Fascinating, and
described with such realism that one is tempted to apply for a  grant, build
it, check it out.
     Apply  for  a grant.  .  .  Savchenko  has woven  into  his narrative a
devastating  and  delicious  analysis of  the  internal  politics of a great
research  center doing  erudite  science  which  politicians cannot  hope to
comprehend, but to whom the scientific community must turn for funding. Then
follows the same dreadful situation  so brilliantly described-decried?  - by
Leo Szilard, which  takes the best scientists out of the laboratory and puts
them  in  administration,  where  they must work  shoulder to  shoulder with
administrators who would be hopeless in a  lab. Millions of words have  been
written  about  the  differences  in customs,  cultures, political  systems,
philosophies; how amazing it is to see how very similar  are the symptoms of
this  plague wherever  it  strikes!  Ignorance is  ignorance,  pomposity  is
pomposity, and self-aggrandizement is the  same in any language,  common  as
frustration.  Whoever reads this  and  does not  recognize the administrator
Harry  Hilobok, for  example,  or  the outwardly  grumpy, inwardly sensitive
Androsiashvili, has never been  exposed  to  the internal  workings of large
research centers anywhere.


     It has been observed that a writer says, basically, one thing, and says
it over and over, no matter  how wide  his spectrum or in how many different
ways he  may say it.  I am,  regretfully, unfamiliar with  Savchenko's other
works, but his thrust is clear here. Let me give you some of it by quoting:
     "Man is the most complex and most highly organized system known. I want
to  figure  it  out  completely-how  things are  constructed  in  the  human
organism, what influences it....
     "You  see ... it wasn't always like  this. Once man was up against heat
and frost; exertion from a hunt or from running away from danger; hunger, or
rough, unsanitary food  like raw  meat; heavy mechanical  overloads in work;
fights which tested the durability of the skull with an oak staff-in a word,
once upon  a time the  physical environment made  the  same  demands on  man
that-well,  that  today's  military  customers   make  on  rockets....  That
environment over the  millennia formed homo sapiens-the reasoning vertebrate
mammal. But  in the last two hundred years,  if you start from the invention
of   the   steam  engine,  everything  changed.  We  created  an  artificial
environment  out of electric motors, explosives, pharmaceuticals, conveyors,
communal service  systems,  computers,  immunization,  transport,  increased
radiation   in  the  atmosphere,  paved   roads,  carbon   monoxide,  narrow
specialization  in work-you know: contemporary  life. As an engineer, I with
others  am  furthering  this artificial environment  that determines  ninety
percent of the life of homo sapiens  and soon  will determine it one hundred
percent. Nature will exist only for Sunday outings. But  as a human being, I
am somewhat uneasy....
     "This  artificial  environment frees  man of many of  the qualities and
functions  he  developed  in  ancient   evolution.  Strength,  agility,  and
endurance  are now cultivated  only in  sports,  while logical thought,  the
pride  of  the  Greeks, has  been  taken over by machines. But  man  is  not
developing any  new  qualities-the  environment  is changing  too  fast  and
biological organisms can't keep up. Technological progress is accompanied by
soothing,  but  poorly  substantiated babble that man will always be on top.
Nevertheless-if  you talk not about man, but about people, the many  and the
varied-then that  is  not  true even now, and it will  only get worse. Many,
many  do not  have the inherent capabilities to be  masters  of contemporary
life: to know a lot, know how to do a lot, learn new things quickly, to work
creatively, and structure one's behavior optimally....
     "I would like to study the question of  the untapped resources of man's
organism. For example, the obsolescent functions, like our common ancestor's
ability  to leap from tree to tree or to sleep in  the branches. Now that is
no longer necessary, but the cells are still  there. Or take the "goosebump"
phenomenon-it happens on skin  that has almost no hair now. It is created by
a vast nervous  network. Perhaps these  old  reflexes  can  be restructured,
re-programmed to meet new needs?"


     What an  astonishing,  what  an exciting concept! The  pursuit  of  the
"optimum man" is  certainly not original with Savchenko; it  has thrived for
years  in science fiction as well in what  is termed  the mainstream, and it
powers the current flurry of self-realization, self-actualization movements;
it  exists  in  Shakespeare and Steinbeck, whether  by  exemplifications  of
nobility or  by stark representations of  flawed and faulted people. What is
arresting  in Savchenko  is his idea of retrieving and reprogramming that in
mankind which is present but truly obsolete, rather than that which could be
functional but is merely inactive.
     And  he  resists  the  reductio  ad  absurdum;  witness  this whimsical
interchange:


     "So! You dream  of modernizing and rationalizing man?  Instead of  homo
sapiens we'll have homo modernus  rationalis, hm? Don't  you  think, my dear
systemology technologist, that a rational path might lead to a man who is no
more than  a suitcase  with a  single appendage  to push buttons?  You could
probably manage without that appended arm, if you use brain waves."
     "If  you  want  to  be  truly  rational,  you  can manage  without  the
suitcase," Krivoshein noted.


     Krivoshein-and  Savchenko-are  far too  enamored  of humanity to go for
that.


     Science  fiction  has been  termed a medicine for future shock.  Future
shock  is  that  sense  of disorientation  brought  about  by  the  rush  of
invention, the impact of technical  events  evolving  infinitely faster than
the  bodies and minds of the  common man.  One wonders if Savchenko has read
Alvin Toffler (who invented the term) while realizing that he need not have;
the phenomenon and its effects  are  quite  evident to  anyone who  cares to
look.  Science  fiction writers  and  their proliferating  and  increasingly
addicted readers are, and have been  all along, the people who care to look.
They look with practiced eyes, not only at what is and what will be, but  at
that  entrancing  infinity  of what might  be:  alternate  worlds, alternate
cultures and mores, extrapolations of the known, be  it  space flight, organ
transplants, social  security, ecological  awareness, or any  other current,
idea, or force in a perpetually moving universe: if this goes on, where will
it go? For stasis, and stasis  alone, is unnatural and unachievable and  has
failed every time  mankind has been tempted  to try it.  The  very nature of
science  fiction  is to  be aware  of  this and to  recognize that the  only
security  lies in dynamic equilibrium, like that of the gull in flight,  the
planet in orbit, the balanced churning of the galaxies themselves ... and of
course, the demonstrable fact  that the cells of your body and the molecules
which compose  them are  not at all what they were when  you picked  up this
book. The future can shock only those who are wedded to stasis.
     (Parenthetically,  science fiction writers  are not  immune  to  future
shock,  though  it  may  take  the  form  of  an overpowering  urge to  kick
themselves. Example: up  until very recently there was-as  far as I know-not
one single science fiction story which included a device like the wristwatch
my wife wears, which delivers the time, day, date, adjusts itself for months
of varying  lengths, is a stopwatch  and  elapsed-time  recorder, and  has a
solar panel which gulps down  any available light and recharges its battery.
The development  of  these  microelectronic  devices, now  quite  common and
inexpensive, was simply  unthought of by  science fiction professionals, and
is by no means the only example  of technological quantum leaps which season
our arrogance. It is beneficial  to  all concerned  when our dignitaries are
observed, from time to time, to slip and sit down in mud puddles.)
     Mud puddles, or their narrative equivalent, are far from absent in this
book, for Savchenko has a delicious sense of humor and a lovely appreciation
of the  outrageous. Let us posit, for example, that you are a brilliant  but
not particularly attractive  man with little  concern for the  more gracious
amenities, who happens to be loved by a beautiful and forgiving lady. In the
course of your work you produce a living, breathing version  of yourself who
is a physical  Adonis  and who, further,  has  a clear recollection of every
word, every intimacy, that has ever passed between you and the woman.
     And they meet, and she likes him.
     How do you feel?
     Why?
     And   then   there's  Onisimov-poor,  devoted,   duty-bound  Onisimov-a
detective  in whose veins runs the essence of the Keystone Kop, up against a
case  with a perfectly  rational solution which  he is utterly unequipped to
solve-not  at  all because he  is unable  to understand it,  but  because he
simply cannot believe it.
     Then there's the offensive Hilobok, unfortunately  (as mentioned above)
not   quite   a  parody,  but  the  object   of  not  a  few  instances   of
Krivoshein/Savchenko's irrepressible puckishness, and  a gatekeeper  who  is
certainly  Rosenkrantz   and  Guildenstern  rolled  into  one,  and  a  fine
sprinkling of smiles amid the cascades of heavy ideation.
     Over and above everything else, however-the  mind-bending ideation, the
unexpected narrative  turns,  the  wide spectrum  of  characterization,  the
humor, the suspense-shines the author's love  for and faith  in the species.
As  he  says  through  his  protagonist, he talks  not about man, but  about
people. And at the end, the  very last words of the novel bespeak this faith
and this optimism.
     There's no point in looking  at those last words  now, by the way. They
will carry no freight until you put it there by reading the novel.
     -THEODORE STURGEON
     Los Angeles.



        FOOTSTEPS FROM BEHIND * PART ONE


        FOOTSTEPS FROM BEHIND


        Chapter 1

     "When checking the wiring, disconnect power.'
     -A poster on industrial safety

     The brief short circuit in the line that fed the New Systems Laboratory
occurred  at  three  A.M.  The circuit  breaker  at the  substation  of  the
Dneprovsk Institute of Systemology did what all automatic  safety devices do
in these  cases:  it  disconnected the line from  the  transformer, lit up a
blinking red light on the board in the office, and turned on the alarm.
     Zhora Prakhov, the  electrician on duty,  turned off  the  alarm signal
immediately so  as not  to  be distracted  from his  study  of The Beginning
Motorcyclist (Zhora was  about to take the driver's test) and he glanced  at
the blinking  light  with hostility and  expectancy. Usually localized short
circuits in the lab were taken care of at the site.
     Realizing  after an  hour  that there  was  no getting around  it,  the
electrician shut his book, picked up his instrument case and his gloves, set
the pointer  on the  door at "New Syst. Lab." and left the office.  The dark
trees of the institute grounds were waist-deep in fog. The  transformers  of
the  substation  stood  with their oil-cooling pipes  akimbo,  looking  like
shapeless old women. The old institute building hovered in the distance like
a washed-out  snowbank against the graying sky. It  had heavy  balconies and
ornate  towers.  To  the  left,  the  parallelepiped  of  the  new  research
department tried vainly to block out the early June dawn.
     Zhora  glanced at  his  watch  (it  was  4:10),  lit a  cigarette,  and
scattering the fog with his bag, headed right, into the far  corner  of  the
park where the  New  Systems  Lab was  located, housed in a  small lodge. At
4:30,  in  answer to electrician  Prakhov's call,  two cars  appeared on the
scene: an ambulance and a squad car of the Dneprovsk City Police.
     The tall,  thin  man  in  the  light  suit  strode  through  the  park,
disregarding the paved paths. His shoes  left dark  prints  on the  dew-gray
grass. A light breeze ruffled his thinning  gray hair. A blindingly pink and
yellow  sunrise filled the space  between  the old  and new buildings; birds
chattered in the trees.  But Arkady  Arkadievich Azarov had no time for  all
that.
     "Something happened  in  the New Systems Lab, comrade director,"  a dry
voice  had informed him  over the phone a few minutes  earlier.  "There were
victims. Please come."
     Being  wakened  too early gave  Azarov  neurasthenia;  his body  seemed
stuffed  with cotton, his head empty, and life terrible. "Something happened
in the lab....  Please come.... It  must  have been a cop." This ran through
his mind  instead of  thoughts." 'There were  victims....' What a ridiculous
word! Who  were the victims? And of what? Killed, wounded, trousers  burned?
What? Looks serious. Again! There was  that student who got  under the gamma
rays to speed up the experiment, and  then there was ... the second incident
in six months. But Krivoshein is not a student; he's experienced. What could
have happened? They were working  at night, and got  tired, and... I'll have
to put a stop to night work! Absolutely!"
     When  he had  accepted  the offer to  direct the Dneprovsk  Systemology
Institute, Academician Azarov hoped to create a scientific system that would
be a continuation of his own brain. In his dreams,  he  saw the structure of
the  institute developing along  the vertical  branching principle: he would
give general ideas for research and system construction to  the section  and
laboratory directors,  who would  work out the  details  and  plan  specific
projects  for  the  workers,  who  would  try  to....  Then  he  would  draw
conclusions from  the  data obtained and produce  new fundamental ideas  and
principles. But reality intruded harshly on  his dreams. A lot of it was due
to  acts  of  God:  the slow-wittedness  of  some  scientists and  excessive
independence of others; the changes in the construction plans, which was why
the storerooms  and  storage yards  of  the  institute  were piled high with
unopened crates of equipment; the backbiting among  purchasing sections; the
arguments that erupted from time  to time among the institute's members; and
the accidents and incidents.... Arkady  Arkadievich thought bitterly that he
was no closer now to realizing his dream than he had been five years ago.
     The  one-story  lodge  with  the tile  roof shone  white in its idyllic
setting among the flowering  lindens, whose  delicate scent filled  the air.
There  were  two cars  bruising  the lawn by  the concrete  porch:  a  white
ambulance and a  blue Volga with a red stripe. As soon as Arkady Arkadievich
was in sight of the  lab, he  slowed down and started thinking. In  eighteen
months  of its existence he  had  been  in  the  lab only  once, in the very
beginning,  and only  briefly for  a general  tour, and  he really  couldn't
picture what there was behind the door.
     The New Systems Lab  . . . actually, there was no reason yet for Azarov
to take it seriously, particularly since it had come about not as one of his
pet projects, but as the result of an unhappy series of coincidences: eighty
thousand in the budget was  "burning" to be used. There was only a month and
a half  until  the end of the year, and it was impossible to spend the money
according to the  letter of the  law  (Introducing  New  Laboratories).  The
builders, who had  originally promised  the new building by May 1,  then the
October holidays, and then Constitution Day, were now talking about May 1 of
the following year.  The crates  and  boxes of equipment  were crowding  the
parking  grounds. Besides, unused monies were always dangerous  because they
could lead the planning  organizations to cut the budget the  next year. And
so, Arkady  Arkadievich  announced a "contest" at the institute seminar: who
could come up with the best  plan for using the eighty thousand  before  the
year  was out? Krivoshein suggested a "Lab of Random  Research." Since there
were no other suggestions, he had to agree to this one.
     Arkady Arkadievich did so against his better judgment and even  changed
the name to the more proper "Lab for New Systems." Labs were created to suit
people,  and for now, Krivoshein  was  a loner-a fair schematic  engineering
technician  but  nothing  more.  Let  him get  his fill of independence  and
overextend  himself, and  when it came down  to  research,  he'd  beg for  a
director himself. Then they  could look for a good candidate of sciences, or
better yet, a Ph.D., and create the lab's profile to suit him.
     Of  course, Arkady  Arkadievich  did  not discount  the possibility  of
Krivoshein's shaping up. The idea he had proposed at the senior council last
summer  on ...  on  what  had it been?  Oh,  yes, the  self-organization  of
electronic  systems  through the introduction  of  arbitrary information ...
this  idea  could  be  the  basis  for  a  master's  thesis  or  a  doctoral
dissertation. But with his penchant for disagreeing with people and  his hot
temper, Azarov doubted it. Back at that  council meeting,  he shouldn't have
dealt  with  Professor  Voltampernov's   remarks  that  way;   poor  Ippolit
Illarionovich  had to  take  pills after  the  meeting. No, no, Krivoshein's
insubordination was completely inexcusable! There was still no  data to show
that he had proved his ideas; of course, a year wasn't a very long time, but
an  engineer was  no Ph.D.  who  could  get  away with getting  involved  in
research that takes decades.
     And that latest scandal-Arkady Arkadievich winced-it  was  so fresh and
unpleasant.  Krivoshein  had   argued  against  the  institute's  scientific
secretary's  defense of his  dissertation at the  nearby construction design
bureau six weeks ago. Without telling anyone  ahead of time, he  had gone to
an  outside organization and shown up one of his own  colleagues! That was a
slur on the  institute,  on  Academician  Azarov  himself....  Of course, he
himself shouldn't have been  so easy on  the dissertation in the first place
and shouldn't  have  reacted so positively to  it; but he rationalized it by
saying that it would have been nice to have a homegrown institute Ph.D., and
that dissertations  worse than  this one  had been  passed. But  Krivoshein!
Arkady  Arkadievich let him know in spades that he  was not inclined to keep
him in  the institute. But now was hardly the time to be bringing  all  this
up.
     There was a lot of activity in the lodge. The thought of going in there
now to look at it, deal  with it, and explain things gave Arkady Arkadievich
a sensation not unlike a toothache. "Krivoshein again!" he thought fiercely.
"If he's at fault  in this  incident as well...!" Arkady Arkadievich went up
the steps, quickly walked  down  the narrow corridor crammed with crates and
apparatus, entered the room, and looked around.
     The  large room  with six windows only remotely resembled  a laboratory
for electronic and mathematical research. The parallelepiped generators made
of metal and plastic  and the oscilloscopes with ventilation  slots in their
sides stood on the floor,  tables,  and shelves, mingling with flasks, jars,
test tubes,  and bowls. There  were  dozens  of  test tubes  huddled on  the
shelves and cluttering  up the boxes of selenium rectifiers.  The  middle of
the  room  was  taken  up by  a  shapeless apparatus overgrown  with wiring,
tubing, and extension cords;  a control panel was barely visible through the
spaghetti. What was that octopus?
     "I can feel his pulse," a woman said to the left of the academician.
     Arkady Arkadievich turned.  The space  between the door and  the  wall,
free of  flasks  and equipment,  was in  semidarkness.  Two  orderlies  were
carefully transferring a man wearing  a gray lab  coat  from  the floor to a
stretcher; his  head was tilted back and strands of his hair were  damp from
the puddle of some oily  liquid on  the floor.  A petite doctor bustled near
the man.
     "He's in shock," she pronounced.  "Give him an  adrenalin injection and
pump him."
     The academician took a step closer. It was a young man, handsome,  very
pale, with chestnut  hair. "No, that's not Krivoshein,  but who  is it? I've
seen  him somewhere...." An orderly  got the shot ready. Azarov took a  deep
breath and almost choked.  The room  was filled with the acrid odors of acid
solutions, burned insulation, and some  other  sharp  smell-the vague, heavy
smells of disasters. The floor was covered with a thick liquid through which
the doctor and orderlies kept walking.
     A  thin  man  in a blue  suit  entered the  room in an official manner.
Everything about him but his suit was bland and inexpressive: gray hair with
a side part, small gray eyes unexpectedly close together on a bony face with
high cheekbones, and taut, poorly shaved cheeks. He nodded drily to  Azarov,
who  returned an equally  formal bow. There was  no  need for introductions,
since  it had  been Investigator Onisimov  who  had handled  the case of lab
assistant Gorshkov's radiation death last February.
     "Let's begin by identifying the  body,"  the detective said, and Arkady
Arkadievich's heart skipped a beat. "Would you please come here."
     Azarov followed him to the corner by the door to something covered with
a gray oilcloth.  It  was full of angular bumps, and yellow, bony toes stuck
out from the ends.
     "The  work ID found in the clothing we  saw in the laboratory gives the
name of Valentin Vasilyevich  Krivoshein," the detective said in an official
voice, bending back the oilcloth. "Do you corroborate the identification?"
     Life had not often  placed Arkady Arkadievich  face to face with death.
He  felt faint and  unbuttoned  his collar.  The  raised  oilcloth  revealed
sticky, short hair, bulging  eyes,  sunken cheeks,  a mouth  drooping at the
corners,  then   a  prominent   Adam's   apple   on  a  sinewy  neck,   thin
collarbones.... "He's lost so much weight!" he thought. . "Yes."
     "Thank you,"  the detective  said  and lowered the  cloth.  So,  it was
Krivoshein. They had seen each other  the day  before yesterday near the old
building, walked past each other, and bowed formally as usual. Then, he  had
been a heavyset, living man,  albeit an unpleasant one. And now... it was as
though  life had  sucked out all  his vital  juices, dried  out  his  flesh,
leaving  only  the  bones  covered  with  gray  skin.  "Probably  Krivoshein
understood  what his  role  was  to  be  in  establishing this lab,"  Azarov
suddenly thought for no reason. The detective left.
     "Oh,  dear. Tsk, tsk, tsk,..." Arkady Arkadievich heard. He turned. The
scientific secretary  Harry Haritonovich Hilobok  was in  the  doorway.  His
sleek  face was still puffy from sleep.  Harry  Haritonovich  was considered
attractive: a good physique in  a light suit, a well-shaped head, intriguing
gray at  the temples, dark eyes, and a good straight nose, set off by a dark
mustache. His  appearance was somewhat  marred  by  the  harsh  lines at the
corners of  his mouth, the  kind caused  by constant  forced  smiling, and a
weakish  chin.  The  assistant  professor's  dark   eyes  shone  with  timid
curiosity.
     "Good morning, Arkady Arkadievich! What's happened here at Krivoshein's
now?  I was just walking by and wondered why these vehicles were outside the
lab? So I  came in. By the way, have you  noticed that his  digital printing
machines  are  just lounging in the halls here, Arkady  Arkadievich?  In the
middle of all sorts of garbage. And Valentin Vasilyevich worked so  hard  at
getting them, writing endless  streams of memos. I  mean, he could give them
to  somebody  else  if he has no  use for them  himself." Harry Haritonovich
sighed deeply and looked over to the  right. "Must  be another student! Tsk,
tsk, dear, dear! Another student,  there's a  plague  on  them here...."  He
noticed that the detective had returned.  "Oh, good day, Apollon Matveevich!
Seeing us once more, eh?"
     "Matvei Apollonovich," Onisimov corrected.
     He opened a yellow box marked "Material Evidence" with a black stencil,
took out a test tube, and crouched over the puddle.
     "I mean Matvei  Apollonovich-please forgive me. I do remember you  very
well  from last  time. I just scrambled name and patronymic a little. Matvei
Apollonovich, of course. How could  I? We  talked about  you for a long time
after,  how  organized and efficient you  were, and everything...."  Hilobok
went on and on.
     "Comrade  Director,  what  was  the  nature of  the  work done  in this
laboratory?" the detective  interrupted,  catching some liquid  in the  test
tube.
     "Research on self-organizing electronic systems with an integral  input
of information,"  the  academician  replied. "Anyway, that was  how Valentin
Vasilyevich had formulated his thesis at the beginning of the year."
     "I see." Onisimov got up, sniffed the liquid, wiped the tube clean with
a  piece of cotton,  and  put it away. "Was  the  use of poisonous chemicals
ruled out?"
     "I don't  know.  I  would think that nothing was forbidden. Research is
done by the researcher as he best sees fit."
     "So what went so  wrong here in  Krivoshein's lab that even you, Arkady
Arkadievich,  were  disturbed  so  early  in  the  morning?" Hilobok  asked,
lowering  his voice. "Precisely-what?" Onisimov  was directing his questions
to the academician. "The short  circuit had  nothing to  do with it. It  was
merely an accident, and not the cause. We've determined that much. There  is
no sign of electrocution, no traumas on the body... and the man is gone. And
what is this contraption? What's it for?"
     He picked  up  an  object from the  floor  that looked like an  ancient
warrior's helmet; but this helmet was chrome-plated and covered with buttons
and bundles of thin multicolored wires. The wires extended beyond  the tubes
and flasks  of the clumsy apparatus into the  far corner of  the room,  to a
computer.
     "This?" The academician shrugged. "Hmm."
     "Monomakh's  Crown,  I mean,  that's what we  call them  around  here,"
Hilobok offered. "More precisely, it's an SEP-1-System of Electronic Pickups
for  Computing  the  Biopotentials  of the  Human  Brain. The reason I know,
Arkady Arkadievich, is that Krivoshein kept bugging  me to make him one like
it."
     "All  right, I  understand.  With your  permission, I'll take it  for a
while, since it was found on the victim."
     Onisimov, winding the wires,  disappeared into  the far  reaches of the
room.
     "Who was the victim, Arkady Arkadievich?" Hilobok whispered.
     "Krivoshein."
     "Oh,  dear, how can that be? His eccentricities finally led to this ...
and more troubles for you, Arkady Arkadievich."
     The detective was back. He wrapped the "crown" in paper and put it into
his box.  The  only sound in the quiet lab was the panting of the orderlies,
who were working on the unconscious assistant.
     "And why was Krivoshein naked?" Onisimov suddenly asked.
     "He was naked?" The academician was stunned.  "You  mean  it wasn't the
doctors who undressed him? I don't know! I can't even imagine."
     "Hm ... I see. And what do  you  think they used this tank for? Perhaps
for bathing?"
     The detective pointed to  the rectangular plastic tank that lay  on its
side on top  of the  shards of  the flasks  its fall  had crushed; drips and
icicles  of yellow gray stuff hung from its transparent sides. Pieces  of  a
large mirror lay next to the tub.
     "For  bathing?" The academician was  getting  tired of these questions.
"I'm afraid that you have a peculiar idea of what a scientific laboratory is
used for, comrade... eh, investigator!"
     "And  there was  a mirror right next to it.  A good one,  full-length/'
Onisimov droned on. "What use could it have served?"
     "I don't know! I can't delve into every technical detail of all hundred
sixty projects that are under way in my institute!"
     "You see, Apollon  Marve...  I mean,  Matvei  Apollonovich-forgive me,"
Hilobok  interrupted,  "Arkady  Arkadievich  is  in  charge  of  the  entire
institute,  is  a  member  of  five  interdisciplinary commissions, edits  a
scholarly journal,  and of  course, cannot  deal with every detail of  every
project  specifically.  That's what  the  project  directors  are  for.  And
besides, the  late-oh  dear,  what  a  pity-the  late  Valentin  Vasilyevich
Krivoshein was  a  man of too much independence. He  did  not like to confer
with anyone, to share his thoughts or results. And he often ignored, it must
be  said, many of the basic safety rules. Of course,  I know that you should
not  speak ill  of the dead-de mortius  bene aut nihil, as they say-but what
was, was. Remember, Arkady  Arkadievich, how a year ago January-no, maybe it
was February-no, I think it was January, or it could  even have been back in
December-anyway,  remember, how he flooded the first  floor,  causing  great
damage and stopping work on many projects, when he was working with Ivanov?"
     "You are  a viper,  Hilobok!"  A voice  came from  the  stretcher.  The
student lab assistant, clutching the edges, was  trying to get up. "Oh,  you
... too bad we didn't take care of you then!"
     Everyone turned to  him.  A  chill went through  Azarov: the  student's
voice, the hoarseness, the slurred endings,  were absolutely  identical with
Krivoshein's. The  assistant fell back weakly,  his head touching the floor.
The orderlies wiped their  brows  in satisfaction: he was  alive! The doctor
gave  an  order  and  they picked  up the  stretcher and  took him out.  The
academician took a  close look at  the fellow. And his heart  skipped a beat
again. The lab assistant resembled Krivoshein-he didn't know exactly how-and
not even the live Krivoshein, but the one down there under the oilcloth.
     "See, he's even managed to set the lab assistant against me,"
     Hilobok nodded in his direction with unbelievable meekness.
     "Why was he so  angry with you?" Onisimov turned to him. "Were  you two
in conflict?"
     "Heaven  forbid!"  The  assistant  professor  shrugged  innocently  and
sincerely. "I've only talked  to him once, when I interviewed him to work in
Krivoshein's lab at Valentin Vasilyevich's personal request, since he-"
     "Victor Vitalyevich Kravets," Onisimov read from his notes.
     "Yes ... well, he's a  relative of  Krivoshein's. He's  a  student from
Kharkov  University, and they  sent  us fifteen people in the  winter for  a
year's  practical  work. And Krivoshein made  him an  assistant  in his  lab
through nepotism. But why should we object? We're all human-"
     "Enough, Harry Haritonovich," Azarov cut him off.
     "I  see,"  Onisimov nodded.  "Tell  me,  aside  from Kravets,  did  the
deceased have any relatives?"
     "What  can I tell  you, Matvei Apollonovich?"  Hilobok  sighed  deeply.
"Officially, no, but  unofficially, he  was visited by a woman here. I don't
know if she's his  fiancee, or what.  Her name  is Elena Ivanovna Kolomiets,
and she works in a neighboring construction design bureau, a nice woman-"
     "I see.  You're on  top of things around here, I see." Onisimov laughed
as he headed for the door.
     A  minute  later he  was  back with a  camera and directed the exposure
meter at the corner.
     "The laboratory will  have to be sealed during  the investigation.  The
body will be sent to the coroner for an autopsy. The people in charge of the
funeral  will  have  to contact him."  The  detective went to the corner and
picked up the cloth that was covering Krivoshein's body.  "Please move  away
from the window. There'll be more light. Actually, I do not need to keep you
any longer, comrades, please forgive the trouble-"
     He  paled  and  pulled  up  the cloth in a single move. Under it  lay a
skeleton! A  yellow  puddle  was spreading  around it,  retaining  a blurred
caricature of a body's outline.
     "Oh!" Hilobok exclaimed and backed out onto the porch.
     Arkady Arkadievich  felt his knees buckle and held on to the  wall. The
detective was methodically folding the oilcloth and staring at the skeleton,
which was  smiling  a  mocking thirty-toothed grin. A lock of dark red  hair
silently fell from the skull into the puddle,
     "I see,"  Onisimov  muttered.  Then  he turned  to  Azarov  and  looked
disapprovingly  into  the wide  eyes  behind the  rectangular  lenses. "Fine
goings-on here, comrade director."



        Chapter 2


     "What can you say in your defense?"
     "Well, you see-"
     "Enough! Shoot him. Next!"
     -A conversation


     Actually, Investigator Onisimov didn't see anything yet; the expression
was a linguistic hangover from better days. He had tried to break himself of
the  habit, but couldn't.  Besides that, Matvei Apollonovich was preoccupied
and very upset  by such  a turn of events. A  half hour before the call from
the  Institute of Systemology, Zubato, the medical examiner on duty with him
that night, had been called to a  highway accident outside of town. Onisimov
had to go to the institute alone. And he ended up with a skeleton instead of
a warm corpse. Nothing like this had ever been  encountered  in criminology.
Nobody would believe that the body turned into a skeleton on its own-he'd be
a laughing  stock. The ambulance had left already, and so they couldn't back
him up. And he hadn't had time to photograph the body.
     In  a word, what had happened seemed like nothing more than a series of
serious  oversights  in  the investigation. That's  why he made sure  he had
written  statements  from  Prakhov, the  technician, and  academician Azarov
before he left the institute grounds.
     The electrical technician Georgii Danilovich Prakhov, twenty years old,
Russian, unmarried, draftable, and not a Party member, wrote:
     "When I entered  the laboratory, the overhead light  was on;  only  the
power network was disrupted. The stench in the room was so bad that I almost
threw up-it was like a hospital. The first thing that I  noticed was a naked
man lying in an overturned tank, his head and arms dangling, with a metallic
contraption on  his head.  Something was  leaking out of  the tub; it looked
like a thick ichor. The other one, a new student (I've seen him around), was
lying  nearby, face  up, his arms outspread. I rushed over to the one in the
tub and pulled  him out.  He  was  still warm  and very slippery, so that  I
couldn't  get a good grip on him. I tried to awaken him, but he seemed dead.
I recognized him. It was Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein. I had run into him
often at the institute. We always said hello. The student was breathing, but
remained unconscious. Since there is no one at the  institute except for the
outside  guards, I called an  ambulance  and  the  police  on the laboratory
phone.
     "The temporary short circuit  had occurred in the power cable that goes
to the laboratory electroshield along the wall in an aluminum  pipe. The tub
broke a bottle that apparently contained acid which ate through in that spot
and the cable shorted out like a second-class conductor."
     Zhora wisely left out the fact that he did not investigate the scene of
the accident until an hour after the alarm had gone off.
     Arkady Arkadievich Azarov, the  director of the institute, a  doctor of
physics  and mathematics, and an  active member of the Academy  of Sciences,
fifty-eight, Russian, married, not subject to the draft, and a member of the
CPSU,  corroborated the  fact  that  he recognized the features of the  body
shown to him at the scene of the accident by Investigator Onisimov, M.A., as
belonging to Valentin Vasilyevich  Krivoshein, acting  director of  the  New
Systems  Laboratory,  and  besides  that, with  the  scientific  objectivity
characteristic  of  an  academician noted that he  "had been  amazed by  the
abnormal emaciation of the deceased, the  abnormal physical  state which did
not correspond to his usual appearance."
     At  10:30 in  the  morning Onisimov  returned to headquarters  and  his
office on the first  floor, where  his windows,  hatched with  the  vertical
bars, opened onto Marx Prospect, which was busy at almost any hour of day or
night. Matvei  Apollonovich  gave a brief account  of the  events  to  Major
Rabinovich,  sent a test tube with  the liquid to the  medical examiner, and
called  up  the  emergency  room  to find  out  the  condition  of the  only
eyewitness. They replied that the  lab assistant felt  fine and asked to  be
released.
     "Fine, go ahead, I'll send a car for him," Onisimov said.
     No  sooner  had  he  arranged  for  the  car than  Zubato, the  medical
examiner, rushed into his office. He  was a red-blooded, loud man with hairy
arms.
     "Matvei, what  did you bring me?" He  sank into  a chair  with emphatic
disgust. "Some  practical joke! How am I supposed to  determine the cause of
death on a skeleton?"
     "I brought you what was left," Onisimov explained, shrugging. "I'm glad
you showed up. I want to know, off  the top of your  head,  how does  a body
turn into a skeleton?"
     "Off the top of  my  head, as a result of the deterioration of tissues,
which  under normal circumstances  takes weeks and even months.  That's  all
that the body can do about it."
     "All right... then how can you turn a body into a skeleton?"
     "Skin the  body,  cut off the soft  tissues, and boil it in water until
the bones are completely exposed. It is recommended to change the water. Can
you tell me clearly what happened?"
     Onisimov told him.
     "That's something! I'm really sorry I missed it!" He slapped his knee.
     "What happened on the highway?"
     "A drunk  cyclist hit  a  cow.  Both  survived.  So you  say your  body
melted?" The expert  squinted skeptically  and  brought  his face  closer to
Onisimov. "Matvei,  that doesn't ring true. It  just doesn't  happen, I  can
tell you for sure. A man is no icicle, even if he is dead. They didn't trick
you?"
     "How?"
     "You  know,  switch the body for a skeleton while  you were out...  and
discard the evidence."
     "What  are  you  blabbering about? You mean while  an academician stood
guard for them? Come  on,  here's his  deposition." Onisimov  fretted as  he
looked for Azarov's statement.
     "Ahh, now they'll  show you!  The people there...." Zubato wriggled his
hairy fingers. "Remember, when that  student was  exposed to  radiation, how
the  head of the lab  tried to  blame it all on science, how he said that it
was a little-studied phenomenon,  that the gamma rays  destroyed the crystal
cells of the dosimeter. And when we checked, it turned out the students were
signed up to work on  isotopes  without reading about them! Nobody wants  to
take  responsibility, even academicians, if it's  a  fishy situation. Try to
think: did you leave them alone with the body?"
     "I did," the detective's voice fell. "Twice."
     "And  that's when  your  body melted!"  Zubato broke out  in the hearty
laugh of a man who knows that disaster has not struck him.
     The detective thought about it and then shook his head.
     "Now,  you're not  going to  throw me off  the  track  here. I  saw for
myself... but what are we going to do with this skeleton now?"
     "The  hell with it.  Wait, here's an idea.  Send it  over  to  the city
sculpture  studio.  Let them  reconstruct  the face according  to  Professor
Gerasimov's method; they are familiar with it.  If it's him, you'll have the
crime sensation of the  century  on your hands.  If not-"Zubato  gave Matvei
Apollonovich a sympathetic look. "I wouldn't want to be  in  your shoes when
you  talk  with  Aleksei  Ignatievich. All right,  I'll send  it  over there
myself. So be  it."  He rose.  "And  while  I'm at  it, I'll  do  the  death
certificate. I'll settle for a skeleton, if you can't come up with a body."
     Zubato left.
     "What  if  they did  trick  me?"  Onisimov  recalled the  academician's
hostility, Assistant Professor Hilobok's flattery, and he shuddered. "I lost
the body, the most important thing. Good show there!"
     He dialed the chemistry lab.
     "Viktoriya Stepanovna, this is Onisimov. Did you analyze the liquid?"
     "Yes, Matvei Apollonovich. The report is being typed, but I'll read you
the  conclusion. "Water-85  percent,  protein-13  percent,  amino  acids-0.5
percent, fatty acids-0.4 percent and so on. In other words, it's human blood
plasma.  According  to  the  hemoglutins,  it's classified  as type A,  with
lowered water content."
     "Yes, I see. Could it be toxic?"
     "I doubt it."
     "Even, if say, you bathed in it?"
     "Well, you could swallow some and drown. Does that help?"
     "Thank you!" Matvei Apollonovich slammed down the phone. "Wise ass! But
I guess  that  means accidental death is ruled out. Could the assistant have
drowned him in the tub? No, it doesn't look like a drowning."
     Onisimov  liked the  entire business  less and less with every  passing
minute. He  spread  out  the  documents he got  at the institute's personnel
department and  at  the laboratory and lost himself  in  their study. He was
distracted by the phone.
     "Matvei,  you owe me!" boomed Zubato's triumphant voice.  "I've managed
to establish a few things from the skeleton. There are deep vertical  cracks
in the middle of  the sixth and seventh ribs on the right side.  Such cracks
are the result of  a  blow by  a heavy blunt  instrument or against a  blunt
object, whatever. The surface has minute cracks, fresh-"
     "I see!"
     "These cracks  in themselves  can not  be the  cause of  death.  But  a
violent  blow could  have seriously  injured  the  internal  organs,  which,
unfortunately, are missing. Well, that's about it. I hope it helps."
     "And how! Did you send out the skull for identification?"
     "Just now. And  I called ahead.  They  promised  to  do it as  fast  as
possible."
     "So, this is no accident. Liquid and short circuits don't break a man's
ribs. Oh, oh.  It looks  as  if  there were  two accident victims there:  an
injured  victim  and a dead  victim. And it  looks  as  though the two had a
serious fight."
     Onisimov felt better. The case was taking on familiar aspects. He began
composing an urgent telegram to Kharkov.
     The June day was getting hotter. The sun  melted the asphalt.  The heat
seeped into Onisimov's office, and he turned on the fan on his desk.
     The answer  from  the Kharkov police came  at  exactly  1:00  P.M.  Lab
assistant  Kravets was  brought  in at 1:30.  As  he  entered the office, he
looked around, and smirked as he noticed the barred windows.
     "Is that to make people confess faster?"
     "No-no," Matvei Apollonovich drawled gently. "This building  used to be
a wholesale warehouse and so the  entire first floor has reinforced windows.
We'll be removing them soon; not too many robbers try breaking into a police
station,  heh-heh. Sit down. Are  you feeling  all right now? Can you make a
statement?"
     "I can."
     The assistant walked across  the room and  sat in a  chair opposite the
window. The detective looked him over. He was  young, maybe twenty-four, not
older  than  that. He looked like Krivoshein, the way he might have been ten
years ago. "Actually, he didn't look like that," Matvei Apollonovich thought
as  he  looked at the  photo in Krivoshein's personnel file. "This fellow is
much more handsome." And there really was something of a model's  or actor's
perfection in Kravets's face. The impression of perfection was marred by the
eyes-actually  not  the eyes themselves, which were blue and had a  youthful
clarity, but in the marksman's squint of the lids. "He has eyes that seem to
have lived a lot," the detective  noted. "He  seems to have gotten over  the
experience quickly enough. Let's see."
     "You know, you resemble the deceased."
     "The deceased!" The assistant clenched his jaw and shut his  eyes for a
second. "That means-"
     "Yes, it does," Onisimov said harshly. "He's jumpy," he thought. "Well,
let's do this in order." He reached for a piece  of paper  and unscrewed his
pen. "Your name, patronymic, age, place of work or study, address?"
     "But you must know all that already?"
     "Know or  not,  that's the regulation; the witness  must  give all that
information himself."
     "So he's  dead....  What  should  I do now?  What should I say?  It's a
catastrophe. Damn it, I shouldn't have come to the police. I should have run
off from the clinic. What will happen now?" Kravets thought.
     "Please,  write down the  following: Viktor  Vitalyevich  Kravets,  age
twenty-four,  a  student  in  the fifth  year  in the  physics department of
Kharkov University. I reside in Kharkov, on Kholodnaya  Gora. I'm here to do
my practical work."
     "I  see," the detective said, and instead of  writing  it down, twisted
his  pen  rapidly  and  aimlessly.  "You were related to  Krivoshein.  How?"
"Distantly,"  the  student  laughed  uncomfortably.  "Seventh  cousin  twice
removed, you know."
     "I see!"  Onisimov put  down his pen and  picked up the telegraph;  his
voice became  severe. "Look  here,  citizen, it doesn't  check  out."  "What
doesn't check out?"
     "Your  story, that you're Kravets, that you live and study  in Kharkov,
and  so  on. There's no student by that name in Kharkov.  And the person you
name has never  lived  at 17, Kholodnaya Gora, either." The suspect's cheeks
suddenly dropped, and his  face turned red. "They  got me. How stupid of me!
Damn  it!  Of  course, they checked all that out immediately.  Boy,  lack of
experience shows every time. But what can I say now?" he thought.
     "Tell the truth. And in detail. Don't forget  that we're dealing with a
homicide here."
     Kravets  thought: "The  truth. Easier said  than done."  "You see,  the
truth...  how can I  put  it... that's too  much  and  too complicated," the
assistant  began  mumbling, hating and  despising himself for this  lack  of
control. "I'd have to  discuss information theory and the modeling of random
processes."
     "Just don't try to cloud the issues, citizen," Onisimov said,  frowning
disdainfully.  "People  aren't  killed  by   theories-this   was  definitely
practical application and fact."
     "But... you  must  understand, actually no one at all may have died. It
can   be  proven  ...  or  attempted   to  be   proven.  You  see,   citizen
investigator-(Why did I  call him that? I  haven't been  arrested  yet.)-You
see, first of all, a man is not, well, not a hunk of protoplasm weighing 150
pounds.  There are the fifty quarts of  water, forty-four pounds of protein,
fats and  carbohydrates, enzymes, and so on. No,  man is  first and foremost
information. A concentration of information. And  if it has not disappeared,
then the man is still alive."
     He  stopped and bit his lip. "No, this is  nonsense. It's hopeless," he
thought.
     "Yes, I'm listening. Go on," the  detective said, laughing  to himself.
The assistant glanced up at him, got more comfortable in his chair, and said
with a small smile:
     "In short,  if you  don't  want  to  hear the theories,  then  Valentin
Vasilyevich  Krivoshein-that's  me.  You  can  put that  into  the  official
record."
     It was so  unexpected and daring that  Matvei Apollonovich was  stunned
for a second. "Should  I send him to the psychiatrist?" he thought. But  the
suspect's blue eyes  looked at him reasonably and there was mockery in their
depths. That's what brought Onisimov out of his suspended animation.
     "I see!" He got up.  "Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I haven't
familiarized myself with his file, that I wasn't present at the scene of the
accident, that I don't remember his face?"  He leaned on the desk top.  " If
you refuse to identify yourself, it's only  worse for  you. We'll  find  out
anyway. Do you admit your papers are forged?"
     "That's it. We have to stop playing," Kravets thought, and said:
     "No. You  still  have to  prove that. You  might  as well consider me a
forgery while you're at it!"
     The assistant turned to look out the window.
     "Don't clown around  with me,  citizen!" The detective had  raised  his
voice. "What was your purpose in entering the lab?  Answer me! What happened
between you and Krivoshein? Answer!"
     "I'm not answering anything!"
     Matvei  Apollonovich scolded himself for losing his temper. He sat down
and after a pause started talking in a heartfelt manner:
     "Listen, don't think that  I'm trying to pin anything on you. My job is
to  investigate thoroughly,  to fill in the  missing  blanks, and  then  the
prosecutor's  office evaluates it,  and  the court  makes the  decision. But
you're hurting yourself.  You don't  understand one  thing:  if  you confess
later, under duress  as they say,  it won't count as much  as making a clean
breast of  things  now.  It  might not  all  be so  terrible.  But  for now,
everything  points against you.  Proof  of  an assault on  the body,  expert
testimony, and other circumstances. And it all boils down to  one thing." He
leaned across  the desk  and lowered  his voice.  "It looks  as  if you  ...
alleviated the victim's suffering."
     The suspect  lowered  his head  and rubbed his face. He was  seeing the
scene again. The skeleton  with Krivoshein's head twitching convulsively  in
the tank,  his own hands holding  on to  the  tank's edge, the warm,  gentle
liquid touching them and then-the blow!
     "I'm not sure  myself,  if it's me or not," he muttered in a  depressed
voice. "I can't understand it." He looked up. "Listen, I have to get back to
the lab!"
     Matvei Apollonovich almost jumped up:  he hadn't expected such a  rapid
victory.  "Listen, that can happen  too,"  he said, nodding sympathetically.
"In a state of frenzy  from an  insult or through overzealous  self-defense.
Let's  go down  to  the lab,  and you can  explain  on  the  scene just what
transpired there." He picked up Monomakh's Crown from his desk  and casually
asked: "Was this what you hit him on the chest with? It's a heavy thing."
     "That's enough!" The suspect  spoke  harshly and  almost  haughtily. He
straightened up. "I see no reason to continue this discussion. You're trying
to put me into a corner.  By  the way,  that 'heavy thing' costs  over  five
thousand rubles. Be careful with it."
     "Does this mean that you don't want to tell me anything?" "Yes."
     "I see."  The detective pushed a button. "You'll have to be held  until
this is cleared up."
     A gangly  policeman  with a  long face and droopy nose  appeared at the
door.  In the  Ukraine, people like him  are described  as  "tall but  still
bends."
     "Gayevoy?" the detective looked at him uncertainly. "Aren't any of  the
guards around?"
     'They're  all out in the field, comrade captain," he replied. "A lot of
them are at the beaches, maintaining law and order." "Do you have a car?" "A
small GAZ."
     "Convey the detained suspect to the city jail.  It's too bad you refuse
to help yourself and us, citizen. You're just making it worse for yourself."
     The  lab assistant turned  in  the  doorway. "And it's too bad that you
think  Krivoshein  is dead."  "One of those characters who likes  to make  a
grand exit. Always have the last word." Onisimov chuckled. "I've seen plenty
like him. But he'll come round after a while."
     Matvei  Apollonovich lit  a cigarette and  drummed  his fingers on  the
desk.  At   first  all  the   clues  (faked   papers,   medical   testimony,
circumstances) led him to think that the assistant, if he wasn't the killer,
was at least actively involved in Krivoshein's death. But  this conversation
had  changed his mind.  Not  what the suspect had said,  but how. He did not
sense in him the forethought, the game playing, that fatal game playing that
gives away the criminal long before there is any evidence.
     "It is looking like an  unpremeditated murder. He said himself, 1 don't
know if it was me or not.' But  what about the skeleton?  How did it happen?
And  did  it happen?  And  what about  the  attempt to pass himself  off  as
Krivoshein by using a theoretical explanation? Is he faking? And what if the
absence of game playing is just the most subtle game of all? No, where would
such a young, inexperienced fellow develop that? And then, what  motives are
there for  a premeditated murder? What was going on between  them?  And what
about the forged documents?"
     Matvei  Apollonovich's mind hit a dead end. "All right, let's look into
the circumstances."  He  stood  up and looked  out into the  hall. Assistant
Professor Hilobok was pacing up and down.
     "Please come in! I asked you here, comrade Hilobok, to-"
     "Yes,  yes, I understand,"  Hilobok nodded. "Others experience tragedy,
and I clean up the  messes. People do die of  old age, and may God  grant us
both such ends,  Matvei Apollonovich, eh? But  Krivoshein never did anything
the way everyone  else did. No,  no,  I'm sorry for him. Don't think... it's
always a pity when a man dies, right? But Valentin Vasilyevich had caused me
so many problems in the past. And all because  he was a stubborn  character,
with no respect  for anyone, no consideration, diverging from the collective
time and time again."
     "I  see. But I would like to ascertain what it was Krivoshein was doing
in that lab that was under  his jurisdiction. Since you  are  the scientific
secretary, I thought-"
     "I  just knew  you'd  ask!" Harry Haritonovich smiled happily.  "I even
brought along a copy of  the thematic  plans with me, naturally." He rustled
the papers in his briefcase. "Here it is, theme 152, specific goals-research
on  NIR, title-'The self-organization of  complex electronic systems with an
integral introduction  of information/ contents of the work-'Research on the
possibilities of self-organization of complex system into a more complex one
with an  integral  (not differentiated  according  to signals  and  symbols)
introduction of varying information by adding a superstructure of its output
to the system/ financing-here's the budget, nature of the work-mathematical,
logical,  and  experimental,   director  of   the  project-engineer   V.  V.
Krivoshein, executor, the same-" "What was the gist of his research?"
     'The  gist? Hmmm." Hilobok's face grew serious.  "The self-organization
of  systems  ... so  that a machine could build  itself, understand? They're
doing intensive work on this in America. Very. In the USA-"
     "And  what was Krivoshein actually doing?"  "Actually.... He proposed a
new  approach to  forming  these  systems  through...  integralization.  No,
self-organization. It's just  not clear if he managed to do anything with it
or not." Harry Haritonovich smiled  broadly and winningly. "You know, Matvei
Apollonovich,  there are so many  projects at  the institute, and  I have to
look into all of them. I just can't keep everything straight in my mind. You
would be better off  reading the minutes of the academic council's meeting."
"You mean, he reported on his work to the academic council?" "Of course! All
our projects are  considered  before they  are  incorporated into  the plan.
After  all, how could we distribute funds without any factual basis?"  "What
was his basis?"
     "What do you mean?" The scientific secretary  raised his eyebrows. "His
idea regarding the new approach to the problem  of self-organization? You're
best off reading  the  minutes,  Matvei  Apollonovich." He  sighed. "It  all
happened a year ago, and we  have meetings and debates and commissions every
week, if not more frequently. Can  you imagine? And I have to be  present at
every one, organize  the  speakers,  speak myself,  issue  invitations.  For
instance, right now, I have to go from  here to the Society on Distribution,
where there's a  meeting on the  question of attracting scientific personnel
to  lecture at  collective farms  during harvest. I won't even have time for
lunch. I can't wait for my vacation!"
     "I see. But the academic council approved his topic?"
     "Of  course! There were many who argued against it. Ah, you should have
heard  how  crudely  Valentin  Vasilyevich  answered  them. It  was  totally
unforgivable. Poor Professor Voltampernov  had to be tranquilized afterward.
Can you  imagine?  The board recommended that Krivoshein  be reprimanded for
his rudeness, I wrote  out the  decree myself. But the topic was passed,  of
course.  A man proposes new ideas, a  new approach-why shouldn't he  try it?
That's the way it  is  in science.  And  besides, Arkady Arkadievich himself
supported him. Arkady Arkadievich is a wonderfully generous soul; in fact he
set him up in his own  lab because  Krivoshein  could  never get along  with
anybody.  Of course, the lab was a joke, unstructured with a staff of one...
but the academic council had discussed the situation  and voted yes. I voted
for it myself."
     "What was  the it you  all  voted  for?" Onisimov wiped his brow with a
handkerchief.
     "What do you mean? To  include it in the  plan, to allot funds for  it.
You know, planning is the basis of our society."
     "I see. Tell me, Harry Haritonovich, what do you think happened?"
     "Hmmm ... I must make it clear  to  you, my  dear Matvei  Apollonovich,
that I would have  no way  of knowing. I'm the  scientific secretary; all my
work is paperwork. They've been  working together just the two of them since
last winter. The  lab assistant is  the one who would know. Besides, he's an
eyewitness."
     "Did you know that the assistant is  not  who he  says he is?" Onisimov
demanded. "He's not Kravets and he's not a student."
     "Really? That's why  you arrested  him,  I  see." Hilobok's  eyes  grew
round. "No, really,  how  would I know? That was  an oversight in personnel.
Who is he?"
     "We'll find out. So you  say the Americans are doing the  same  kind of
work now?"
     "Yes. So you think he's the one?"
     "Why  be  so hasty?"  Onisimov  laughed.  "I'm  just exploring all  the
possibilities." He glanced over  at  the paper with the questions. 'Tell me,
Harry Haritonovich, did you notice psychiatric problems in Krivoshein?"
     Hilobok smiled.
     "You know, on my way over here, I was debating whether  or not I should
mention  it. Maybe it's a trifle and there's no point? But since you ask ...
he had these lapses. I remember, last July, when I was combining  my  duties
with heading the  laboratory  of  experimental  setups-we couldn't find  the
right specialist to run it-we needed  a candidate of science-so  I was doing
it-so that we wouldn't lose the slot  for  the position,  because, you know,
they  can  take  away the allocation, and  then  you can never  get it back.
That's the way it is. And so,  just a while back,  my laboratory  received a
request  from Krivoshein  to  prepare  a  new  system  for  encephalographic
biopotential  sensors,  like that SEP-1, Monomakh's Crown, that  you have on
your desk, but of a more complex construction, so that it would fit  in with
all kinds of his schemes. Why they ever accepted the order from him, instead
of doing their own work, I'll never know."
     This  submersion in  scientific  data brought on a  deep drowsiness  in
Matvei  Apollonovich.  Usually he cut through  any tangential deviation from
the topic that interested him in an interrogation, but now-he was a man with
a  Russian soul-he could not overcome his innate  respect  for science,  for
learned titles, terms, and situations. He had  always  had this respect, and
after his last  case  at  the institute when he also learned the salaries of
scientific workers his  respect had doubled. And  so Matvei Apollonovich did
not try to stem Harry Haritonovich's free-flowing mouth; after all,  he  was
dealing  with a man whose salary was more than twice  his  own, as  a police
captain, and legal at that.
     "So, you can imagine, I was sitting in the laboratory one day," Hilobok
rambled on, "and Valentin Vasilyevich came to see me-without his lab coat, I
might add! That is  unacceptable. There is a specific rule promulgated about
this at  the institute,  a rule stating  that all engineering and scientific
workers must wear white coats and the technicians and lab assistants gray or
blue ones. After all, we are often visited by foreign delegations. It  can't
be otherwise. But he always disregarded convention,  and he asked  me  in  a
really nasty tone: 'When are you going to fill my order for the new system?'
Well, I tried to explain everything calmly to him. 'It's like this and that,
Valentin Vasilyevich. We will when we can. It's not so easy to do everything
you  drew up for us. The circuitry becomes  very complicated, and we have to
reject  too many transistors.' In  a word, I gave him a good explanation, so
that  the man would not  have any  misunderstandings.  But he just  went  on
harping:  'If you can't do  it on schedule, you shouldn't have agreed  to do
it!' I tried  to  explain about the difficulties  once more, and that we had
orders backed up at the lab, but Krivoshein interrupted me: 'If the order is
not completed in two weeks, I will file a  complaint about you and turn over
the work to the  science club in a grammar school! And they'll do it  faster
than you,  and it will be a lot cheaper, too!' That  was a  dig at me,  that
last part. He had  always made cracks, but I  was used  to it.  And  then he
slammed the door, and stalked out."
     The  investigator nodded rhythmically and  clenched his jaw to hide the
yawns. Hilobok buzzed on:
     "And five minutes later-note that no more than five minutes had passed;
I hadn't even had time to talk to the workshop by phone-Valentin Vasilyevich
burst in again wearing a coat this time (he had managed to dig up a gray one
somewhere),  and  said:  'Harry  Haritonovich,  when will that order for the
sensor system  be  ready?'  'Please,' I said,  'take  pity  on  me, Valentin
Vasilyevich. I explained it to  you!' And  I went into my explanation again.
He  interrupted like last  time:  'If you can't do it, don't try . .  .' and
then went on  about  the complaint, the  schoolboys, and expenses."  Hilobok
brought his  face closer to the investigator. "In other  words,  he repeated
exactly what he  had said five minutes ago, in the same  exact  wording! Can
you imagine?"
     "That's curious," the investigator nodded.
     "And  that wasn't  the only time  he got  confused like that.  Once  he
forgot to turn off the  water  for the night, and the  whole floor under the
laboratory was flooded. Once-the janitor complained to me-he  started a huge
bonfire  of perforated  tape  on the lawn. The professor meaningfully pursed
his  fat  red  lips,  funereally outlined  with  a black mustache,  "and  so
anything might have happened. And why? Because he wanted to get ahead and he
was constantly overworking himself.
     No matter what time you left the institute the lights in his lodge were
always blazing. Many of us at the institute joked about it. Maybe Krivoshein
wasn't  aiming for his  doctorate  but  for  a break-through  right  off the
bat.... He discovered enough, now go try to figure it all out."
     "I  see,"  the investigator said and looked down at the sheet  of paper
once more. "You mentioned that Krivoshein had a woman who was close to  him.
Do you know her?"
     "Elena Ivanovna Kolomiets?  Of course! There aren't many women like her
in our  town-very  attractive,  elegant, sweet, in  a word, you  know-"Harry
Haritonovich   described  Elena   Ivanovna's  inexpressible  beauty  with  a
zigzagging  motion of  the hands. His brown  eyes glistened. "I could  never
figure out, nor  could others, what she saw in him. After  all, Krivoshein-I
know, de mortius aut bene nut nihil, but why hide it?-you  saw for yourself,
he was no  looker.  She would  come to see  him. Our houses are next door in
Academic Town, so I  saw it. And he never knew how to dress well either. But
I haven't  seen her around lately. I guess they broke up, like ships  in the
night, heh-heh! Do you think she had anything to do with this?"
     "I  don't think anyone has as yet, Harry Haritonovich. I'm  only trying
to  clear things up." Onisimov got up with relief. "Well, thank you. I  hope
that I don't need to warn you about gossiping, because-"
     "It doesn't need to be mentioned! And don't thank me, I  was only doing
my duty. I'm always ready...."
     After he left, Matvei  Apollonovich put his head directly under the fan
and sat for a few minutes without moving or  thinking. Hilobok's  voice rang
in his head like a fly buzzing on a windowpane.
     "Wait!" The  detective shook his  head to  clear it. "We wasted a whole
hour, and he didn't clear up a thing. And  all the time it seemed 'as though
we  were  on  the  topic,  but  it was  all  nothing.  Scientific secretary,
assistant professor, sciences  candidate-could he have been  trying to throw
me off? Something's wrong here."
     The phone rang. "Onisimov here."
     There was only panting on  the  phone for a few seconds. It was obvious
the speaker couldn't get his breath.
     "Comrade  .. . captain  .. . this is  Gayevoy .. .  reporting. The  ...
suspect... escaped!"
     "Escaped? What do you mean escaped? Give me a full report!"
     "Well,  we were  in the  GAZ.  Timofeyev was driving and I was  next to
that...." The  policeman was muttering into  the phone.  "That's the way  we
transport all  detained  suspects. After all, comrade  captain,  you  hadn't
warned us about strict observation, and I couldn't imagine where he could go
since  you have all his papers. Well, we were driving past the city park and
he jumped out when we were going at full speed. Over the fence, and  he  was
gone! Well, Timofeyev and I  went after him.  Boy,  is he good at clambering
over uneven ground! Well, I didn't want to open fire since I didn't have any
instructions about it from you. So... that's it."
     "I see. Go to  the department and write out a report for the captain on
duty. You don't do your job very well, Gayevoy!"
     "Well, is there  anything  you'd like me to  do, comrade  captain?" His
voice was glum.
     "We'll  manage  without  you. Hurry back here;  you'll be  part  of the
search party. That's all." Onisimov hung up.
     "Well, well, the man's an artist, a real artist! And I had doubted him!
Of course, it's him. It  had to be! So. He had no identification papers. Nor
any money. And almost no clothes, just the  shirt and trousers he had on. He
won't get far. Unless he has confederates ... then it'll be harder."
     Ten  minutes later Gayevoy, even more bent over by his guilt, appeared.
Onisimov organized a  search  party,  distributing photos, and a description
with identifying marks. The operatives went into town.
     Then  Matvei  Apollonovich called the  fingerprint  expert. He told him
that some  of  the prints  he collected in the lab matched those  of the lab
assistant; others belonged  to another man. Neither set matched up with  any
known criminal.
     "The other man is naturally the victim, of course.... Ho,  ho,  this is
becoming serious business. It doesn't look anything like a regular crime. It
doesn't  look  like  anything with that damn melted skeleton! What can  I do
about that?"
     Onisimov  stared gloomily out the  window. The shadows of the trees  on
the sidewalks were lengthening, but it hadn't gotten any cooler. Young women
in  print shifts  and sunglasses  crowded near the bus  stop. "Going  to the
beach...."
     The worst part was that Onisimov still didn't have a working version of
the incident.
     At the end of the day, when Matvei  Apollonovich was writing out a list
for the morning, the  commander of the department came in to  see him. "Here
it comes," Matvei Apollonovich thought.
     "Sit down." The colonel lowered himself into the chair. "You seem to be
having  complications  in this case: no body,  suspect escaped. Hm?  Tell me
about it." Onisimov told him.
     "Hm...."  The commander's heavy eyebrows met. "Well,  we'll catch  that
fellow;  there's no question about that. Do you have  the airport, railroad,
and bus stations under surveillance?
     "Of course, Aleksei Ignatievich, I sent out the order immediately."
     "That  means  he'll never get out of the city. But as for the corpse...
that's really  something  very curious. Damn  it  all!  Maybe  they switched
things on  you  at  the scene?" He looked  up  at  the investigator with his
small,  wise eyes. "Maybe...  remember Gorky's  story  Klim  Samgin where  a
character says, 'Maybe there was no boy?'"
     "But...  the doctor  in  the  ambulance  certified  the  death, Aleksei
Ignatievich."
     "Doctors can make mistakes, too. Besides, the doctor was not an expert,
and she didn't list a cause of death. And there's no body. And our Zubato is
having problems with  the skeleton....  Of course, it's  up to you.  I'm not
insisting, but if you can't explain how the corpse turned into a skeleton in
fifteen minutes, and whose skeleton it is, and what caused the death-no jury
is going to  pay any attention to  the  evidence. Even  clear-cut  cases are
being sent back by the courts for lack of evidence, or dismissed completely.
Of course, it's  good that the law is strict and  careful, but..." he sighed
noisily,  "a... a difficult case, no? Do you have an official version  yet?"
"I have a draft," Onisimov  explained shyly, "but I  don't know  how  you're
going  to  take  it,  Aleksei Ignatievich. I don't think this is a  criminal
case. According to the institute's  scientific  secretary, the United States
is very  interested in  the case that Krivoshein  was  studying in  his lab.
That's point one. Lab assistant Kravets, by his demeanor and cultural level,
I guess is neither a student nor a criminal. He escaped masterfully,  that's
for sure. Point two: Kravets's fingerprints don't match any criminal ones on
record.  Three:  so,   perhaps-"Matvei   Apollonovich  stopped,  and  looked
inquiringly at his chief.
     "-we should palm  off  the  case  on the KGB?" The colonel finished his
thought  with  a soldier's  directness  and shook his head. "Don't  be in  a
hurry! If  we, the police, discover  a crime with, say, a foreign accent, it
will bring society and us nothing but good. But if the state security organs
discover  a  simple  civilian  crime  or a violation  of  safety procedures,
then... well, you  understand. And  in  the last  six months we've  hit  the
bottom of the local list for percentage of solved crimes." He gave  Onisimov
a  good-natured look of reproach. "Don't give up!  You know the  saying that
the most complicated crimes are the easiest: theses and projects, scientific
mumbo-jumbo... it boggles the mind. Don't rush  with your version. Check out
all  the possibilities and maybe it  will be like the  fable: 'The box had a
simple  lock.'  Well, I  wish you luck  and success."  The  chief  rose  and
extended his hand. "I'm sure that you can handle this case."
     Matvei Apollonovich got up too, shook hands, and followed the commander
out  with clear and bright  eyes. Say what you will, but when  the boss  has
confidence in you, it makes all the difference!



        Chapter 3


     People who think  that human  life has changed only externally  and not
radically since ancient  times  compare the fire,  around  which Troglodites
spent  the evening,  with television, which amuses  our contemporaries. This
comparison is  disputable, since  a fire both  warms  and  lights,  and  the
television only glows, and then only from one side.
     -K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 111


     The plump,  blonde, middle-aged passenger in the express  train between
Novosibirsk and Dneprovsk  was agitated by the fellow in the upper berth. He
had rough-hewn but handsome features, a windblown face, dark curly hair with
a  lot  of  gray in  it, strong, tanned  hands  with  thick  fingers and old
calluses  on the palms-and yet he  had a gentle smile, charm (he had offered
her the lower berth when she  got on at Kharkov), and  an intelligent manner
of  speaking. The fellow lay  with  his square  chin on  his hands, greedily
looking at the trees, houses, streams, and road  signs flashing  by. And  he
smiled. "Handsome!" she thought.
     "Probably familiar territory?" she asked.
     "Yes."
     "You've been away a long time?"
     "A year."
     He was recognizing things: they went under the highway where he used to
ride his motorcycle with Lena. There was the oak grove where the locals went
picnicking. There was Staroe Ruslo, a place of secluded beaches, clean sand,
and calm  water.  There was  the Vytrebenki farm-and  hey! new construction!
Probably a chemical plant.... He  smiled  and frowned as  the  memories came
back.
     Actually, he had never ridden a motorcycle  anywhere with any Lena, nor
had he ever been in  the  grove or  on those  beaches-it  had all been  done
without him. It was simply  that  once there had been a conversation, and to
be accurate, even that took place without his active participation.
     "Here's  an  application.  (The  variants  of  human  life!)  Look:  'A
Vladivostok shipbuilding concern is looking for an electrical engineer to do
fitting  work on  location.  Apartment  supplied.' Aren't  I  an  electrical
engineer?  Fitting on location-what could be better? A Pacific  wave lapping
up against the fittings!  You  pay  out  the cable, lick the salt from  your
lips-you against the elements!"
     "Yes, but."
     "No, I can understand. Before it was impossible.  Before! You and I are
men  of  duty-how  can you  just  quit  a  job and go off  to  satisfy  your
wanderlust? So  we all stay where we  are-and the longing  for places  we've
never seen  and  never will stays with us  too, and for people  we'll  never
meet, and for events and occasions that we'll never participate in. We drown
this longing in books, movies, and dreams-it's impossible for a man  to lead
several parallel lives. But now-"
     "But now it's the same thing. You'll go off to Vladivostok to lick your
sea spray, and I'll remain behind with my dissatisfaction."
     "But... we can trade. Once every six months. No one  would notice . . .
no, that's nonsense. We'd  be distinguished by six  months of practical work
experience."
     "That's just it! By heading down one of life's paths, a person  becomes
different from the person he would have been had he taken another path."
     But he headed for Vladivostok  anyway.  He didn't  leave  to  still his
longings-he  ran away from the horrors of memory.  He  would have  gone even
farther, but farther there was  only ocean. Of course, the job  opening as a
fitter in the ports had been filled, but he found work excavating underwater
cliffs, to  clear space for ship berths-that wasn't bad  work  either. There
was enough romance: he dove into the blue green depths with his  scuba gear,
saw  his quivering shadow  on the bottom rocks, dug out holes in the cliffs,
set  the  dynamite, lit the fuse,  and  scattering  the  fish  that would be
floating belly up in a minute,  swam at breakneck speeds for the power boat.
And  then,  missing  engineering  work,  he  introduced an  electrohydraulic
charge, which was safer than dynamite and more effective. He left behind all
memories of himself.
     "Are  you coming  from  far?"  the  woman  insisted,  interrupting  his
reverie.
     "From the Far East."
     "Were you recruited to work there or did you just go?"
     The man stared at her and laughed curtly.
     "I went for a cure."
     His traveling  companion nodded warily.  She had  lost all  desire  for
conversation. She pulled out a book and buried herself in it.
     Yes, the healing began there. The guys  on the  team were amazed by his
fearlessness.   He   really   had   no  fear:   strength,   agility,   exact
calculation-and no deep wave could touch him. He literally held his own life
in his  hands-what was there to be afraid of? The  most terrifying  times he
had  lived  through had been here, in Dneprovsk, when Krivoshein played  God
with  his  life and  death. With many  deaths. You see,  Krivoshein  did not
understand  that what he was doing was much worse than torturing  a helpless
person.
     The man's body tensed automatically. A chill of anger puckered his skin
into goose bumps. The monsoons  had blown a lot out of his system in a year:
depression,  panicky  fear,  even  his  tender  feelings for Lena.  But this
remained.
     "Maybe I shouldn't have  come back? I had the ocean  that made  me feel
small  and simple,  good  pals,  and  hard  and  interesting  work. Everyone
respected  me. I became myself out  there. But here ... who knows how things
will go for him?"
     But  he could  no more not return than  forget  the  past. At first, it
would creep up on him,  after work, on days off, when the whole  team took a
speedboat into  Vladivostok.  The  thought  would  pound through  his  head:
"Krivoshein is working. He's alone there." Then the idea came to him.
     Once  when  they  were  clearing  the bottom in  a  nameless cove  near
Khabarovsk, where there were warm mineral springs along the shore, he jumped
from the boat and fell into a stream. He almost  screamed  from the horrible
memories  in  his  body! The  water tasted  just like that  liquid, and  the
sensationless,  warm gentleness seemed to conceal  that  ancient  threat  to
dissolve,  destroy,  and extinguish  consciousness. He moved ahead,  and the
cold ocean water  sobered and calmed  him. But  the impression remained.  By
evening  it had  turned into  a  thought:  "The  experiment could  be run in
reverse."
     And, while healing from his former memories,  he "caught" this one. His
researcher's  imagination  was aflame. How  enticing it would be to  plan an
experiment, to try to predict the enormous  results that would  bring  great
benefit!  The  underwater explosions seemed  like  a dull, gray  waste.  Now
without fear, he played  back everything that had happened to him, projected
the variations  of the experiment. And he could not remain  there  with  the
idea that Krivoshein had probably  not thought of it yet. You  couldn't come
up  with  it by pure  reason alone. You had to have lived through everything
that he had.
     But-the implacable logic of their work  brought another idea forward in
his  mind: all right, so  they would find a new way of processing a man with
information.  What  would it  give them?  This  thought was harder  than the
first.  On the way from Vladivostok to Dneprovsk he turned to it often,  and
he still had not thought it all the way through.
     Outside the  window, the girders  of a bridge reflected  the clattering
wheels  of  the train: they  were crossing the  Dnieper  River.  The man was
distracted for a moment, watching a powerboat  skim the water's surface down
the  river's  current, and looking at the green slope of the right bank. The
bridge ended and little houses, gardens, and hedges flashed by the window.
     "It all boils  down to the problem of how and with what information can
man be perfected. All the other  problems rest on this  one. The system is a
given:  the  human brain  and the mechanisms for introducing information-the
eyes, ears,  nose,  etc.  Three streams of information feed the brain: daily
life, science, and art. We must distinguish the  most  effective  one in its
action  on man-and  the most  directed  one. So that it  would perfect  him,
ennoble him.  The most effective  is naturally the  daily information: it is
concrete and real,  forming man's life experience. It's life itself; nothing
else  to it. I suppose that in reality it has a mutual relationship with man
according to the laws  of  feedback: life affects man, but by his actions he
affects life. But the action of daily life can be most varied: it can change
man for the better or the worse. So, that can't be it.
     "Let's  look  at  scientific   information.  It   is   also  real,  and
objective-but it's abstract.  In essence, it's the  universalized experience
of  the activity  of  humanity.  That's  why  it's  applicable in  many life
situations, and  that's  also why its effect  on life  is so  great.  And  a
reverse  connection  exists here with  life, too, even though  it is not  an
individual one for  each and every person, but a general one: science solves
life's problems, thus changing life-and a changed life sets new problems for
science. But still, the action of science  on  life in general and on man in
particular can be either  positive or negative. There are many  examples  to
support this. And there is another problem: science is hard for the  average
man  to comprehend. Yes, it's hard. All right,  if you  think about the same
thing  all the time,  sooner or later, you'll come up with  the  answer. The
important thing is to think systematically."
     He was distracted by sobbing from below. He looked down: his companion,
never  taking her  eyes  from  the book,  was dabbing  her wet  eyes  with a
handkerchief. "What are you reading?"
     She  looked up  angrily and  showed  him  the  cover: Remarque's  Three
Comrades.
     "The hell with them," she said and lost herself in  the book again. "Hm
...  a tubercular girl,  loving and  sensitive,  is dying. And my  well-fed,
healthy neighbor feels for her, empathizes. I guess there's no point beating
around the bush. The information of art is it! Anyway, its general direction
is  intended for the  best that  is  in man.  Over  the millennia,  art  has
developed  the   highest   quality   information   about  people:  thoughts,
descriptions  of  refined  spiritual  actions,  strong and  noble  feelings,
colorful  personalities,  beautiful and wise actions....  All  this has been
working from the beginning of  time to develop in people an understanding of
each  other and  of  life, to correct their  morals, to awaken  thoughts and
feelings, and  to  eradicate  the  animal  baseness of the spirit. And  this
information gets through-to be precise, it is marvelously  encoded, couldn't
be better, to function in the computer called  Man. In  this  sense, neither
daily information  nor scientific  information can  come close  to  artistic
information."
     The  train,  passing  through  Dneprovsk's  suburbs,  slowed  down. His
companion  set aside her book  and started pulling  out her  suitcases  from
under the seats. The man still lay on his berth, lost in thought:
     "Yes,  but  how  about  effectiveness?  People  have  been  trying  for
millennia-of course,  until the  middle  of the  last century,  art was only
accessible  to  the few.  But  then  technology  took  over: mass  printing,
lithography, expositions, records, movies, radio, television-art information
is available to  everyone.  For a contemporary man the volume of information
that he obtains from books,  movies,  radio, magazines, and TV is comparable
to life information and certainly much greater than science information. And
so?  Hm  ...  the  effect of art is  not  measured  technically and  is  not
determined through  experiments. All  that  we  have  to  do is  compare the
actions,  say, of  science and the  arts  during the last  fifty years. God,
there can be no comparison!"
     The  train pulled  into the station,  into the crowd of waiting friends
and relatives, porters and ice cream  vendors.  The man jumped down from the
berth, pulled down his backpack, and folded his blue raincoat  over his arm.
His companion was still struggling with her heavy suitcases.
     "My, how much luggage you have!  Let me  help," he offered, picking  up
the largest one.
     "No, thanks." The woman quickly sat  on  one suitcase, flinging a plump
leg over another, and clutched  a third with both hands. "Oh, no, thank you!
No, thanks!"
     She  looked up at him with a face that  no longer had any  pleasantness
about  it.  Her cheeks were  not plump but blowsy, and her eyes,  now watery
instead of blue, were hostile. There were no eyebrows, just two thin stripes
of pencil  marks. He could tell that  one  move from him and she would start
screaming.
     "Excuse me!" He let go and left. He was disgusted.
     "There  you go:  an illustration  of  the comparative effects  of daily
information and art information!" he thought, angrily  striding  through the
station  square.  "Lots  of  people  could  have come  from  distant  parts:
salesman, Party  worker,  athlete,  fisherman  ... but no,  she  thought the
worst,  suspected me of vile intentions!  It's the  principle of getting by:
better not  trust them than be  mistaken.  And  don't we make a much greater
mistake by  adhering to this principle?" In  the train he had been  thinking
because there was nothing else to do. Now he was thinking  to calm down, and
still about the same thing. "Of course, if you tell about a man in a book or
on screen-people will  understand him, believe in him, forgive his drawbacks
and love him for his good points. But it's much more complicated and prosaic
in real life. Why blame the little lady-I'm just as bad  myself. For a time,
I didn't believe  my own  father.  I loved him,  but I didn't believe him. I
didn't believe that he had fought in revolutions, in the Civil  War, that he
served under Chapayev, that he had met  Lenin.  It all began with  the movie
Chapayev:  my  father  wasn't in  it! There  was  Chapayev and all the other
certified  heroes-they  declaimed  colorful,  curt  slogans   with  powerful
voices-and Dad wasn't there! And anyway, how could my Dad be a Chapayev man?
He didn't get along with mother. He spoke in a wavering voice, caused by his
ill-fitting dentures, which he kept in  a glass overnight.  He mispronounced
words (not like in the movies). And he had been arrested in 1937. He used to
tell  the neighbor women  over the back fence how during Kerensky's  time he
was forced,  because of Bolshevik agitation, to stand two hours at attention
in full battle gear on the breastwork  of  a trench. He said that he brought
silver coins from the soldiers at the front to Lenin in the Smolny Institute
for the revolution's coffers. He talked about how, condemned to death by the
cossacks,  he sat in  a  cellar... and  the  local women  oohed  and  aahed,
clasping their hands: 'Our Karpych  is  a hero-ah! ah!' And I would laugh at
him and  not  believe him.  I  knew exactly  what heroes were like-because I
watched movies and listened to the radio."
     He frowned at these memories.
     "It  wasn't really me. But  the  important point is  that it was-but it
looks like there is a  hitch in the great method of transferring information
via art. People watch a movie or a play, read a book and say: 'I like it...'
and go on living just  as  before. Some  live well,  some not badly, and the
rest awfully. Art historians and critics often find a  flaw in the consumers
of the information: the public is  foolish, the readers aren't ready, and so
on.  To accept that I would have to admit  that I'm a fool and  that I'm not
ready either. No, I don't agree! And anyway, blaming things  on the people's
dullness  and  ignorance-that's  not a  constructive  approach.  People  are
capable of understanding and realization. Most  of  them are not dullards or
ignoramuses. So it would be better to seek the flaw in the method-especially
since I need that method for my experimental work."
     He saw a telephone booth and  he stared at it dully: was he supposed to
do  something  in that object?  He remembered. He sighed, entered the booth,
dialed the number of  the  New Systems Laboratory-Waiting for an answer, his
heart  began beating harder and his throat went dry. "I'm nervous and that's
bad."  There was nothing  but long ringing.  Then, with second thoughts,  he
called the evening duty phone at the institute.
     "Could you  help me reach Krivoshein? Is he on  vacation?" "Krivoshein?
He's ... no, he's not on vacation. Who's calling?" "If he should show up  at
the  institute today, please tell him that... Adam is  here." "Adam? No last
name?" "He knows. Please don't forget." "All right. I won't."
     The man  left the phone booth  with a sense of relief: he  had suddenly
realized that  he was not prepared to see him. "Well, I'm here.  I might  as
well try. Maybe he's at home?"
     He got on  a bus. He was not interested in the  city streets swathed in
blue twilight: he had left in summer  and he came back in summer. Everything
was green, and it seemed that nothing had changed.
     "Now, really, how can we use art information in our work? And can it be
used?  The whole problem is that  this information doesn't become part of  a
man's life experience, or his exact knowledge, and  it is on  experience and
knowledge that people base their actions. It really should go something like
this: a man  reads a book, begins to understand  himself  and his friends; a
louse  sees a  play, becomes horrified and turns into a decent man; a coward
goes down to the movies and comes out a hero. And it should last a lifetime,
not  just five minutes. That's probably what writers  and painters hope  for
when they  create.  Why  doesn't  it happen? Let's think. Art information is
constructed  along  the lines  of  everyday  information.  It  is  concrete,
contains subtle and flexible generalizations,  but it is not real. It's only
realistic,  probable. That must  be its weakness. It cannot be  applied like
scientific information: a man cannot plan out  his life  based on  it. It is
not  universal and objective enough  for that.  And you can't use it  for  a
guideline  the way  daily information can be  used because its  concreteness
never coincides with the concrete life of the given reader. "And  even if it
did  coincide, who  wants to lead a copycat  life?  You  can  copy a hairdo,
that's  all right,  but to  copy  a  life recommended  by a  large printing.
Apparently, the  idea of 'rearing along literary examples'  springs from the
idea that man comes from the apes and that imitation comes naturally to him.
But man  has  been  man  for  a  long time, millions  of  years. Now  he  is
characterized by self-determination and original behavior which he  knows to
be the better course." "Academic Town!" the driver announced.
     The man got off the  trolley and saw immediately that his trip had been
in vain. Two rows of standardized five-story houses, joining at the horizon,
gazed upon one another with lighted windows. But there were no lights in the
corner apartment on the fifth floor of house No. 33.
     A feeling of relief that the unpleasant meeting with Krivoshein was put
off,  once  again mingled with regret: he had no  place  to sleep. He took a
trolley back downtown  and  started checking out the hotels. Naturally, they
were all full.
     And he started thinking again, his thoughts coloring his  glum attempts
to find a place for the night.
     "The  longer  we live,  the  more we  see  that  there  are  many  life
situations  in which the decisions described in books or shown in movies are
inapplicable.  And we begin to see the information from art as a quasi-life,
in which things are not really like that. It's  a good place to live through
a dangerous adventure (even with a fatal ending) or to test one's principles
without  jeopardizing one's  job-in a word,  to  feel,  if  only for a brief
moment,  that  you are  someone else:  smarter, handsomer,  braver  than you
really  are.  It's  no secret  that people  who  live  humdrum  lives  adore
adventure and mystery  novels...."  He was  on Marx Prospect, with  its neon
signs and bright lights. "And we use this marvelous information for trifles,
for amusement to pass some  time. Or  to charm  a girl with the  right poem.
That information does  not belong to us. We didn't reach the conclusions and
truths about ourselves. We can just sit back, watch or read, as  an invented
life  goes beyond a  glass screen-we are merely 'information  receptors!' Of
course, there have been instances when the 'receptors' couldn't stand it and
tried to influence it: Dad used to tell about the Red Army soldier in Samara
who once  shot  at an actor  who played Admiral Kolchak in  a  play for  the
troops, and  earlier  in Nizhny Novgorod, the audience beat up the actor who
was portraying lago-for his good acting. The idea of breaking down the glass
barrier and acting on art is a good one. There's something to it...."
     A  thought, still unverbalized, unclear,  more a hunch,  ripened in his
mind. But  someone tapped him on the shoulder  just then. He looked  around:
there were three men in civilian  clothes. One of them casually  waved a red
book under his nose.
     "Show your documents, citizen."
     The man shrugged, put down his backpack, and took his passport from his
pocket. The operative read the first page, looked at the photograph and  his
face and the photograph again, and returned the passport.
     "Everything is in order. Excuse us, please."
     "Ooofff!"  The man picked  up  his pack,  and trying  not  to walk  any
faster, moved on  toward  the Theater  Hotel. His  mood was  worse. "I don't
think I should have come."
     The three men  walked over to  a  tobacco kiosk.  Officer Gayevoy, also
dressed as a plainclothesman, was waiting for them.
     "I told you," he said triumphantly.
     "Not the  one,..."  sighed the  operative. "Some  guy  called  Valentin
Vasilyevich Krivoshein. But if you go by the photo and the description, he's
definitely Kravets."
     "Description, description ... what's a description?" Gayevoy was angry.
"I saw him, you know: he had no gray  hair, was about ten years younger, and
a lot thinner."
     "Let's  go over to the railroad station, fellows," the second operative
suggested.  "After  all, he's  no  fool. He's  not  going to stroll down the
avenue!"


     Victor Kravets was at  that moment making his way down a dark, deserted
side street.
     After he jumped out of the moving police car, he went through the  park
to the banks of  the  Dnieper  and lay in  the bushes, waiting  for dark. He
wanted to  smoke and to eat.  The low sun  gilded  the sand of Beach Island,
dotted with bright mushrooms; there were still bathers  there. A  small tug,
spreading  watery whiskers from shore to shore, was hurrying upriver  to the
freight yards to  get  a new barge. Cars  and buses  moved noisily below the
cliff.
     "We finally got there. We thought everything through: the method of the
experiments, the  variants in  using the method, even  its influence on  the
world  situation.  This was the only variant we didn't foresee. What a  fall
from great heights face down into the  mud! From  researcher to criminal. My
God, what kind of work is  this-one  failed  experiment and everything flies
out  the window.  I'm  not  prepared  for this game  with investigators  and
medical experts, so unprepared that I  might  as well go down to the library
and  start reading up on the criminal code  and the-what  else is there?-the
judicial code.  I  don't know  the rules of the  game, and  I might lose.  I
guess, I  already have lost. The library...  how  could I have  time for the
library now?"
     The  cooling  towers of  the electrostation  on the other  side of  the
Dnieper  exhaled  fat columns of steam as though  they  were trying to  make
clouds. The low edge of the sun touched them.
     "What  should  I do now? Go back to the police,  tell them  everything,
make a clean breast of it' and give away (despicably) the secret we tried to
keep from evil eyes? And give it  away not  to save the project, but to save
myself? This won't save the work: in two or three days everything will start
rotting in the laboratory, and I won't be able to prove a thing, and  no one
will believe me,  and no one will  know what happened  there.  I won't  save
myself that  way either: Krivoshein died. The  weight of his death is on me,
as they say. Should I go to Azarov and explain things to him? There's no way
I could explain anything to him now. I'm less than a student on probation to
him-I'm a shady  character with forged papers. If he's  been informed of  my
escape, then as a  loyal administrator, he must  cooperate with  the police.
There it is, man's problem, in full view. The source of all our troubles. We
simply can't solve it through the laboratory  method. We! That's a laugh. We
who  have  achieved such  greatness. We  in  whose  hands lie the unheard-of
possibilities of synthesizing information. What  the hell. We  can't  handle
this problem; time to fess  up. And what sense  is there in the rest without
it?"
     The sun was setting. Kravets got up, brushed off his trousers, and went
up the path, not knowing where or why.  Loose change jangled in his pockets.
He counted it: enough for a pack of cigarettes and a very light supper. "And
then?" Two  young coeds, comfortably studying for  exams on a  bench in  the
bushes, looked with interest at the handsome young man, shook their heads to
dispel evil thoughts, and went back to their notes. "Mmm... I guess  I won't
be  completely  lost.  Should  I  go see  Lena?  But  she's  probably  under
surveillance, and they'll catch me...."
     The path led out onto a quiet, uninhabited street.  Branches heavy with
ripening cherries hung over the fences. At the street's end, a cloud blazed,
underlit with red.
     It  was getting dark fast. The  evening coolness was creeping up  under
his shirt, onto his  bare chest. On the opposite side  of the street, a half
block away from Victor, two men in caps walked out of the shadows. "Police!"
Kravets ducked  into  an alley. He ran  a block and then stopped to calm his
heart.
     "To think of it! I've never run  from anyone  in twenty years, and  now
I'm like  a boy  chased  out  of  somebody's  yard."  His  helplessness  and
degradation made the desire for a cigarette unbearable. "The game is lost. I
just have to admit that and leave. Follow my feet. After all, everyone of us
has experienced  the  desire to  get away from some situation or other.  Now
it's my turn, damn it! What else can I do?"
     The alley led out into the glow  of blue lights. The sight brought on a
wave  of animal hunger: he hadn't  eaten in  twenty-four  hours.  "Hm ... so
there are restaurants still open. I'll go. Nobody's going to look  for me on
Marx Prospect."
     The  concrete  posts extended their snake-headed street lights over the
pavement.  In the  store windows  elegant dummies  stood  in  casual  poses;
radios, televisions, and pots and pans  shone brightly; bottles of Sovetskoe
Champagne  beckoned,  and  cans  of  fish and  preserves  tumbled in  artful
disarray.  Under the blazing neon sign that read: "Here's  what you  can win
for  thirty kopeks!"  glistened a  Dniepr refrigerator, and  Dniepr-12  tape
recorder, a Dniepr sewing  machine, and a Slavutich-409 automobile. Even the
trimmed lindens along the wide sidewalks looked like industrial products.
     Victor stepped out onto the most  crowded area, the three-block stretch
between  the  Dy