or  repeat  ourselves.  But   that  damned  lab  of
experimental apparatus could drive anyone to distraction.
     Back in the winter I had ordered a universal system of  biosensors from
the  lab. I  prepared the blueprints, a mounting diagram,  ordered  all  the
necessary materials and parts-they only had to put it together. And it still
wasn't finished! I needed to install the system in the chamber, and I didn't
have  it. The trouble  was that the lab  was chronically changing directors.
One guy  turns over the work; the other accepts  it-naturally there's no one
to do the  work.  Then  the  new director has to  acquaint himself  with the
situation, introduce reforms and  changes (a new broom sweeps clean), and no
work gets done. Meanwhile the people who have placed orders scream and fume,
go  to Azarov with their complaints, and a new  director is put on  the job.
See above. I even tried influencing the workers directly, slipping them some
booze, getting P657 transistors for their radios-and to no avail. Eventually
the reserve of people willing to head that lab dried  out, and H. H. Hilobok
took  over,  while continuing his other duties,  at half pay-Harry  is  like
this: he'll take on any job. He'll organize anything, reorganize, so long as
he  is  not  left one  on one  with  nature, with those  horrible  pieces of
equipment that  can't be  bossed  and  bullied but which show things as they
really are and what needs to be done.
     That day I  had called  Gavryushenko  at  the lab. And I heard the same
vague muttering about a lack of mounting wire. I freaked out and rushed over
to have it out with Harry.
     I was so mad that I didn't notice that  Harry seemed a little confused,
and  I told him off. I promised to turn the work over to schoolchildren  and
shame the lab completely.
     And when I got back to the lodge, I encountered my sweet double, pacing
and cooling off. It seems he had just seen Hilobok  five minutes earlier and
had the exact same conversation with him.
     Damn... at least we hadn't bumped into each other.
     In  our first experiments we decided to  make do  without the universal
system. The sensors we had were enough for the rabbits. And when we moved on
to homo sapiens  ... by then maybe the  lab of  experimental apparatus might
even have an efficient director.
     The scientific  council took place on May 16. The might before, we went
over what should be said and what should be omitted. We decided to introduce
the  original idea,  that  a  computer with elements of random  transmission
might and  must construct itself  under the influence of random information.
The  work would be an experimental test of that idea. In order  to determine
the limits that the computer can reach in constructing itself, the following
equipment, material and apparatus would be necessary-see appended list.
     "To prepare their minds, just like the supply department,  this will be
just right," I said. "So, that's what I'll report."
     "But, why, does it have to be you?" my double asked, militantly raising
his  eyebrows.  "When  the rabbits  need  cleaning it's  me;  when  it's the
scientific  council, it's you,  huh?  What  kind  of  discrimination against
artificial people is this? I demand we do it by lot!"
     And that's how I innocently earned a  talking to for "tactless behavior
at the scientific council of the institute and for rudeness toward Doctor of
Technical Sciences Professor 1.1. Voltampernov."
     No, it really hurt. If it  had been to me that the  former  hotshot  of
lamp electronics, honored worker of the republic  in science and technology,
doctor   of   technical  sciences,  and  professor,   Ippolit  Illarionovich
Voltampernov (oh, why wasn't  I a master of  ceremonies?) had let loose his:
"And  does engineer Krivoshein know, since he bids us to give a computer its
head, so  to speak, without  rudder or wheel,  what it will  want  to  do in
building itself, and how  much thought-out, I  dare add, work  our qualified
specialists here at  the institute put into the  planning  and projecting of
computer systems? Into the development of  blocks of these systems? And  the
elements  of  these systems?  Does he have any  idea,  this  engineer  who's
vulgarizing  principles here before us, of at  least the methodology, so  to
speak, of the optimal projection of flip-flops on the 6N5  bulb? And doesn't
it  seem to  engineer  Krivoshein  that  his  ideas-regarding  the fact  the
computer, so to speak, will  manage the optimal construction better than the
specialists-are an insult to  the  majority of the workers of this institute
who  are fulfilling, I dare say,  work that  is important for our  country's
economy?  I  would  ask the  engineer what this would give the...." And each
time the word "engineer" sounded like a  cross between "student" and "son of
a bitch."
     I wish  I could have reminded the respected professor in my  reply that
apparently  the same sort  of insult was the motive force of  his pen in the
past,  when he wrote the  exposes  about "the  reactionary pseudoscience  of
cybernetics," but a  shift in wind  made him take up  the work, too. If  the
professor was worried about being left out after the  success of the present
work,  he  shouldn't  have been: he  could  always return to  semiscientific
journalism. And  in general, it's about time to learn that science functions
with the use  of statements  on the heart of the matter and not with the aid
of demagogic attacks and sputterings.
     It  was  after  these  words, taken  down  by  the  stenographer,  that
Voltampernov began yawning convulsively and clutching his breast pocket.
     But  citizens, that was not me!  The report was given by my  artificial
double, made exactly like  me by the proposed method. Voltampernov was angry
and embarrassed for three days after that.
     I could understand him!
     (But,  by the way, at  the moment when Azarov signed the official order
for a reprimand and it reached the office, I was the one who was around. And
it was at me that Aglaya Mitrofanovna Garazha,  the tough woman  head of the
office, yelled in front of a large group:
     "Comrade  Krivoshein, here's a reprimand  for you! Come in and sign for
it!"
     And like a lamb, I went in and signed. Isn't fate cruel?)
     Actually,  the hell with the reprimand. The important thing is that the
topic was supported! By Azarov himself. "An interesting idea," he said, "and
a  rather simple  one;  it can be checked."  "But this isn't an  algorithmic
problem,  Arkady Arkadievich,"  assistant  professor  Prishchepa,  the  most
orthodox  mathematician of  our  institute, interjected.  "And  if it  isn't
algorithmic, it  shouldn't exist?"  the academician parried. (Listen  to the
man.) "In our times the algorithm of scientific retrieval  is not reduced to
a collection  of  rules of formal logic." Now  that's talking! Azarov  never
liked "random retrieval," I  knew that.  What was this? Could my double have
conquered  him  with his logic?  Or had our  chief  suddenly developed  some
scientific tolerance? Then we would get along fine.
     In a word, the vote was eighteen yea's and one (Voltampernov) nay.  The
careful Prishchepa  abstained. My double,  who did not have a learned degree
and title, did not vote.  Even Hilobok voted for  it, and he believes in the
success of our work. We won't let you down, not to worry.
     By  the  way, my  double brought some amazing news: Hilobok was writing
his dissertation.
     "On what?"
     "An undisclosed topic.  The scientific council  was  hearing the agenda
for the  next meeting, and  on point it was: "Discussion of  the work on his
dissertation for a learned degree as doctor of  technical  sciences by H. H.
Hilobok. The topic is marked top secret." See,  we sit here in  the lab, cut
off from the mainstream of science."
     "An undisclosed topic-that's fantastic!" I even disconnected my welding
iron. We  were in the lab,  mounting sensors in  the chamber. 'Terrific.  No
open publication, no audience at the defense ... shhh, comrades, top secret!
Everyone walks around respecting it from the start."
     The  news hurt me to the quick. I couldn't do my masters and here Harry
was going to be a doctor. And he was. The technique involved was well known:
you  take a secret circuit or construction that is being developed  (or even
has been developed)  somewhere, and add  on  some compilative verbiage using
secret primary sources.
     "Ah, he's not the first, and he's not the last!" I said,  picking up my
soldering  iron. "Good old Harry! Of course, we could  give him a  bit of...
but is the game worth the candle?"
     We were a  little  uneasy about it. 1 was always angry when  I  had  to
watch  a  bootlicker  making  progress at full  speed;  I  experience  angry
thoughts and begin to despise myself for the  reasonable recalcitrance of my
extremities. But  really, the game  wasn't worth the candle. We had  so much
serious work for just the two of us, and my  position  was not  yet secure-I
shouldn't get involved. Especially not with Harry Hilobok. Ivanov and I once
tried to catch Harry  in  plagiarism. Valery  appeared  at a seminar, proved
everything.  But  all  that   happened  was  that  the  scientific   council
recommended that Hilobok  rework his  article. And then he tried ruining our
lives for ever after....
     And these public face slappings in front of an audience-with the  usual
discussions afterward, when  people  no longer greet each other-are  not  my
piece of cake.  When they  occur I experience an uncontrollable urge to beat
it to my lab, turn  on all the equipment, take down  data in my journal, and
try to do something worthwhile. Now if there were  some way to fix guys like
Harry with lab methods-you know, the power of engineering thought....
     It  was  worth  thinking  about.  The  act  that  the Voltampernovs and
Hiloboks roll out onto the broad highway of science  is proof that there are
not enough smart people around. And this is in  science, where the intellect
is the fundamental measuring stick of a man's  qualities. How about in other
fields? They put up want ads:  "Lathe workers wanted" or "Wanted: engineers,
technicians, accountants, and supply personnel." But no  one writes "Wanted:
smart people. Apartment  comes  with job." Are they too embarrassed?  Or are
there no apartments? You could start off without the apartments.... Why hide
it?  Smart  people  are wanted,  and how! They're  wanted for life, for  the
development of society.
     "We must... make doubles of smart  people!" I shouted.  "Smart, active,
decent people! Val, that's the best application!"
     He looked at me with undisguised sadness.
     "You beat me to it, you bum."
     "And this will be  a reward for those people  for  living,"  I went on.
"Society needs you. You know how to work fruitfully, live honestly. And that
means there should be more like you! Maybe even several; there'll be  enough
work for all. Then we'll crowd out the Hiloboks...."
     This  idea revived our self-respect. We felt ourselves on top of things
once  more and spent the day dreaming about  how we would multiply  talented
scholars, writers, musicians, inventors, heroes....  It really wasn't  a bad
idea!



        Chapter 12


     A scientific fact: the  sound "a" is pronounced without any pressure of
the tongue, by exhaling; if at the same time you open and  close your mouth,
you get "ma... ma ...." That is the origin of a child's first word.
     That  means that the child is taking the path of least resistance. What
are the parents so happy about?
     -K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 53

     The first few weeks I was still wary of  my double: what if he suddenly
disintegrated  or dissolved? Or went berserk? He was an artificial creation.
Who knew? But no way! He fiercely put away  sausage and yogurt drinks in the
evening after  a tough day at the lab, enjoyed his long baths, liked to have
a smoke before going to sleep-in a word, just like me.
     After  the Hilobok incident, we  carefully plotted  out the  day  every
morning: where would we be, doing what? When would we eat at  the cafeteria?
At what  time would each of  us go through the entryway, so  that Vakhterych
would  forget  in the rush that one Krivoshein had already gone  through. In
the evening we would tell each other whom we had seen and what we had talked
about.
     The only thing we didn't discuss was Lena. It was as though she did not
exist. I  even  took  her photo  off my desk.  And she  didn't come over  or
call-she was mad at me. And I didn't call her. And neither did he... but she
was still there.
     It was  May,  a poetic,  glorious  southern  May-with  blue  twilights,
nightingales in the  park, and huge  stars  above  the  trees. The  chestnut
blooms were falling and  the acacias were  flowering.  The  sweet, troubling
scent  penetrated the lab,  disturbing our work.  We both  felt  gypped. Ah,
Lena, my dear,  passionate Lena, reveling in love, why is there only one  of
you on earth?
     That's the childishness the appearance of my double and  "rival" bought
out  in me!  Until then  Lena  and I had the usual  relationship between two
worldly-wise people (Lena had divorced her husband the year before;  I'd had
my share of  broken affairs, which turned me into a confirmed bachelor) that
comes not so much as the result of mutual attraction but of loneliness. In a
relationship  like  that  neither gives himself  completely. We enjoyed  our
dates and tried to  pass time in an  interesting  way; she  would  spend the
night at my place  or I would stay at hers; in the mornings we would both be
a  little uncomfortable and  separate with relief. Then  I would be drawn to
her again and she to  me... and so on. I was in love with her beauty (it was
great to watch men looking at her  in the street or in a  restaurant), but I
was often bored by her conversation. And as for her... well, who understands
a  woman's heart? I  often had the feeling that Lena expected something more
from me, but I never tried to find out what. And now, where there was danger
of losing  Lena, I suddenly  felt  that  I needed her  desperately, and that
without her my life would be empty. And we're all like that!
     But the construction  of  the chamber  was going along  swimmingly.  In
complex  work like that  it's important to understand each other-and in that
sense it was an  ideal arrangement: my double and I never explained anything
to each other;  one  simply replaced the other and went on working. We never
argued once  about  placement of sensors, or where to  set up the  plugs and
sockets or screens.
     "Listen, are you getting a little worried by our idyl?" my double asked
one day, as we changed guard. "No questions, no doubts. We're going to  make
mistakes in complete harmony."
     "What else? You and  I have four arms, four legs, two stomachs, and one
head for the two of us-the same knowledge, the same life experience ...."
     "But we argued, contradicted each other!"
     "We  were simply thinking aloud together. You  can argue with yourself.
Man's  thoughts   are  mere  variants   of  actions  and   they  are  always
contradictory. But we strive to act together."
     "Yes... but that's no good! We're not working now, we're plugging away.
An  extra pair of  hands doubles the work capacity. But our main function is
to think. And here... listen, original, we have to become different."
     I  couldn't   imagine   what   serious   repercussions   this  innocent
conversation  would have. And, as they  write  in novels, the  repercussions
didn't make us wait.
     It  began with  my  double buying a volume of Human Physiology intended
for secondary  phys ed courses. I  won't try to  guess whether he had really
planned to distinguish himself from me or whether he was simply attracted by
the bright green cover and  gold lettering, but  as soon as he opened it, he
began muttering "Aha!  Now that's something,..."  as if  he  were reading  a
catchy mystery, and then he bombarded me with questions:
     "Do you know that nerve cells can be up to a meter long?"
     "Do you know what controls the sympathetic nervous system?"
     "Do you know what protective inhibition is?"
     Naturally, I didn't know. And  he  went on telling me with a neophyte's
enthusiasm about the sympathetic nervous system regulating the  functions of
the internal organs, that protective inhibition or pessimum, occurs in nerve
tissue when the strength of excitation exceeds the permissible level.
     "You  understand,  the  nerve  cell can refuse  to react  to a powerful
stimulus in order not to destroy itself! Transistors can't do that!"
     After  that textbook he bought  up a whole batch of  biology  books and
journals,  read  them cover to cover, quoting his favorite passages, and got
mad when I didn't share his enthusiasm. And why should I have?


     Graduate student Krivoshein set  aside the diary. Yes, that's precisely
how it all  began. In the dry academic lines  of  the books  and articles on
biology he suddenly sensed the proximity  of truth that he had earlier  felt
only when reading the works of great writers, when, delving into the actions
and emotions  of  invented  characters, you  begin to learn something  about
yourself.  Then  he did  not  realize it, because the  physiology facts  had
enthralled him, so to  speak.  But he was upset that original Krivoshein was
left cold  by it all. How could that be? They were the same; that meant that
they had  to  react  to things the  same  way.  Did that mean  that  he, the
artificial Krivoshein, wasn't the same? That was the first hint.
     The second time he overslept-sitting up reading until dawn-I blew up:
     "Why  can't you get interested in mineralogy-or production economics-if
you want so badly to be different! At least you'd get some sleep."
     We were  talking  in the lab, after my double arrived past noon, sleepy
and unshaven; I had  shaved in  the morning.  That  kind of discrepancy  was
enough to worry our institute friends.
     He gave me a haughty and surprised look.
     "Tell me, what's that liquid?" and he pointed at the tank. "What is its
composition?"
     "Organic, of course, why?"
     "It's not tricky. Why did the computer-womb use ammonia  and phosphoric
acid? Remember? It kept  spewing out formulas and amounts and you ran around
all the stores like a crazy man, trying to find it all. Why did you get it?!
You  don't know?  I'll  explain:  the computer was  synthesizing  atpase and
phosphocreatine-the sources of muscle energy. Understand?"
     "I understand. But what about Galosha brand gas? And calcium rhodanate?
And the methylviolet? And the other three hundred reagents?"
     "I don't know yet. I have to read up on biochemistry...."
     "Uh-huh... and  now  I'll  explain  to you why I  got those  disgusting
things:  I was fulfilling the logical conditions of the experiment-the rules
of the game, and nothing else. I did not know about your superphosphate. And
the computer  probably  didn't know that the formulas it  was turning out in
binary  code had  such  fancy names-because  nature is made up of structural
elements and not  names. And yet it asked for  ammonia, phosphoric acid, and
sugar,  and  not  for  vodka or  strichnine. It figured out  for istelf, and
without textbooks,  that  vodka is a  poison.  And it  created  you  without
textbooks and medical encyclopedias-it modeled you from life."
     "I don't see why  you're so uptight about biology. It has everything we
need: knowledge about life  and man.  For example  . .  ."-he  was trying to
convince  me, it was obvious-"did  you  know that conditioned  reflexes  are
created  only when  the conditioning stimulus precedes an unconditioned one?
The cause precedes  the effect, understand? The nervous system has a greater
sense of  causality than any philosophy book! And biology uses  more precise
terms  than  everyday  life.  You  know, how  they  write  in  novels:  'The
unconscious terror  widened  his pupils and made his heart beat faster.' The
sympathetic  system  went to  work. There you  go...." He leafed through his
green  bible.  "  'Under  the  influence  of  impulses passing  through  the
sympathetic nerves, the following occurs: a) dilation of pupils  through the
contraction of  the radial muscles of the iris; b) increase in frequency and
strength of heart contractions....' That's more like it, eh?"
     "It's more  like it, but how much more? It doesn't occur to you that if
biology had made giant strides in this business, then it would be biologists
and not us who are synthesizing man?"
     "But on the  basis  of this knowledge we'll be able to make an analysis
of man."
     "An  analysis!"  I   remembered   the  "streptocidal  striptease   with
trembling,..." my near breakdown, the punchtape  bonfire-and I got mad. "All
right, let's  drop  our work,  memorize all the  textbooks and  pharmacology
manuals,  master a mass of terms, acquire  degrees and baldspots, and thirty
years or so from  now let's return to our work so that we  can  label it all
properly. This is  phosphocreatine, and this  is gluten... a hundred billion
labels. I've  already tried to analyze  your appearance.  I've had  it.  The
analytic path will take us the devil knows where."
     In  a  word, we didn't reach an agreement. This was the  first instance
when  each of  us retained his opinion.  I still don't  understand why he, a
systems  technologist, engineer, electronics man... well,  the same as  I...
why  he turned to biology. We have  an experimental setup the likes of which
he'll never find in any other lab. We have to run experiments, systemize the
results  and  observations,  establish general  laws-I  mean  general  ones,
informational  ones!  Biological laws are  a step  backward  in  comparison.
That's the way it's done.  And that's the only way to study the best  way to
control the computer-womb-after all, it's a computer first and foremost.
     The  arguments  continued  during the  next  few  days.  We got  angry,
attacking one another. Each one used arguments in his favor.
     'Technology shouldn't be copying nature; it should be complementing it.
We plan to double good  people. And what if the good man is limp? Or lost an
arm in the war?  Or is in lousy health? After all, a man's worth is  usually
known when he has reached a ripe old age; and then his health isn't  what it
used to  be, and maybe senility is creeping  up ...  and we should re-create
all that, too?"
     "No. We have to find a way to iron out the wrinkles in the doubles. Let
them be healthy, attractive."
     'There, you see!"
     "What see?"
     "In order to correct the  doubles  you need biological information on a
good constitution and attractive looks. Biological!"
     "I don't see that. If the computer, without any biological preparation,
can re-create  an  entire person, then why does  it need information when it
will be  creating parts of a person? Biological  information won't  help you
construct a  person  or an arm. You crazy  person, why can't you see that we
can't delve into all  the details of the human organism? We can't. We'll get
bogged  down. There  are untold billions of them, and no two are  the  same.
Nature didn't follow a few state plans, you know. That's why the question of
correcting doubles must be  reduced to tuning the computer-womb  by external
integral characteristics  ...  in other words, so  that we just  have  a few
dials to spin!"
     "Well, really!" He would spread his hands in shock and walk away.
     This  situation  was  getting  on  our nerves. We  had wandered  into a
logistical dead end.  A  difference in opinion on future work is nothing  so
terrible; finally you can try it both ways and let the results be the judge.
The unbearable part  was  that we  did  not understand  each  other!  Us-two
informationally  identical people. Is there any  truth in the world in  that
case?
     I began reading  his collection of biology  opuses (when he was on duty
at the lab).  Maybe I just had an antibiology hangover from  my  school days
and now I would read it, and be amazed, and start mumbling: "Now that's it!"
I didn't. There was no question; it  was an  interesting science, and  there
were  a lot of edifying  details (but only details!) about  the functions of
the organism. It was good for one's general development,  but it wasn't what
we needed. It  was a descriptive  and approximate  science, another  form of
geography. What did he see in it?
     I'm an  engineer-that  says it all. After  ten  years of work, machines
have  entered  my soul, and I feel confident working with them. In machines,
everything is subject to  reason and  my  hands; everything is definite.  If
it's  yes, then it's yes; if it's no, then  it's  no. Not like  with people:
"Yes, but..."  followed by  a phrase that crosses out the "yes." And yet the
double was me....
     We began avoiding  our painful argument  and  worked  in silence. Maybe
everything  would  work  out  and  we  would  understand   each  other.  The
information chamber was almost  ready. Another day or two and we  could  let
the  rabbits  in.  And then what  had to  happen  sooner  or  later  finally
happened: the phone rang in the laboratory.
     It  had  rung  before.  "Valentin  Vasilyevich, either  produce a  form
requisitioning the  reagents by June 1 or we'll  close the supply department
as  far  as  you're  concerned!"  The call  was  from  accounting.  "Comrade
Krivoshein, drop  into department one," said Johann Johannovich Kliapp. "Old
man, can  you lend me  your silver-nickel battery for a week?" said good old
Fenya  Zagrebnyak. And  so  on. But this was an absolutely special  call. As
soon as my double had said "Krivoshein here," he looked beatifically dumb.
     "Yes, Lena," he murmured,  "yes ... no, no, dearest.  Don't be silly...
every day and every hour!"
     Pliers in hand, I froze by the chamber. My beloved was being taken away
from me before my  very eyes.  My beloved! I  knew that  for sure now. I got
hot.  I coughed wheezily.  My double looked up at me with eyes  clouded with
tender desire and came to. He was grim and sad.
     "Just  a  second, Lena,  . .  ."  and  he  handed  me  the phone. "It's
basically for you."
     I grabbed the phone and shouted: "I'm listening, darling. Go on!"
     Actually, there's no need to  describe  what we  talked  about. She, it
turned out,  was away on a business trip and had only returned yesterday. Of
course,  she was mad about  the May 1 holidays. She had expected a call from
me.
     When  I hung  up, the double was  gone from the lab. I didn't feel like
working any  more either. I locked up the  lodge  and headed  off  for home,
whistling, to shave and change for that evening.
     My double was packing.
     "Going far?"
     "To the  village  to  visit my  aunt,  to the  sticks, to  Saratov!  To
Vladivostok to lick salt spray from my lips. It's none of your business."
     "No, drop the jokes. Where are you going? What's up?"
     He looked up at me:
     "You really don't understand? Well, that makes sense. You're not me."
     "No, why  not? You are  me, and I am you. That, anyway,  was always our
starting point."
     'That's  the point-it's not so." He lit up  a cigarette and took a book
from  the  shelf. "I'll take  Introduction to Systemology.  You can use  the
library. You are  number one,  and  I'm the second. You were born, grew  up,
developed,  took on a certain position in society. Every man has  some place
in  life. Whether  it's  good  or bad,  it's his own. I  have no place. It's
taken! Everything's taken, from girl  friend to civil position, from the bed
to the apartment."
     "You  can  sleep  on  the  bed,  for  God's  sake,  I  don't  have  any
objections."
     "Don't talk nonsense. The bed isn't the point."
     "Listen,  if  you're  leaving  over Lena,  then  .  .  . maybe  we  can
experiment a little more, and ... maybe we can try it?"
     "Re-create a second Lena,  an artificial one?" He laughed  darkly.  "So
that she can  hang around life like  a ticketless passenger. A reward for  a
good life...  what a stupid idea  that was! The best pupils, they're a bunch
of  spoiled   privileged   people.  Imagine  Arkady  Arkadievich's   double:
Academician  A.  A.  Azarov, but  without an  institute to  run,  without  a
framework,  without  membership  in  the   academy,   without  a   car   and
apartment-without  anything  except  his  personal  qualities  and  pleasant
memories. What would  his  life be  like?" He put a  towel, toothbrush,  and
toothpaste into the suitcase. "In a word, I've had it. I can't lead a double
entendre life any more-worrying about being seen together, looking around in
the  cafeteria, taking money from you. Yes, I'm taking your money  from you,
being jealous of you and Lena. Why should I suffer  like that-for what sins?
I'm a man, not an experimental subject and not somebody's double!"
     "How about the work?"
     "And who says  I'm planning to  drop the work?  The  chamber  is almost
ready, and you can run the experiments yourself. There's little for me to do
here. I'll go away and study  the problem of man  and machine from the other
end."
     He told me his  plan.  He was going to Moscow  to  enter  the  graduate
biology department  of  MSU. The work was dividing up  into  two  streams: I
would study  the computer-womb  and  determine  its possibilities;  he would
study  man  and  his possibilities.  Then-different by  then, with different
experiences and ideas-we'd put the work together.
     "But why biology?  Why  not philosophy, sociology, psychology, or  life
studies, or fine arts? They all deal with man and human society. Why?"
     He looked at me thoughtfully.
     "Do you believe in intuition?"
     "Well, maybe."
     "My intuition tells me that if we overlook biological research, we will
lose  something  very important. I don't know  yet just  what. I'll  try  to
explain in a year."
     "But why doesn't my intuition say any such thing?"
     "Damned  if  I know!"  he sighed with his  old expressiveness. His good
mood was returning. "Maybe you're just a dumb jackass."
     "Sure, sure. And you're brilliant  and sensitive-like the dog that  can
feel everything but can't express any of it!"
     In a word, we had a talk.
     Everything was clear:  he had  to  gather  individual  information,  to
become his own person. And I accepted the  fact that in order to do  that he
had  to  be  away  from me,  somewhere on his own. To  tell  the truth,  our
"double" situation  was beginning  to  wear  on  me,  too. But  that biology
stuff-I really didn't understand that at all....
     The graduate  student  leaned back  in his  chair  and  stretched. "And
couldn't  understand it." he said aloud. In those days he didn't  understand
himself.



        Chapter 13


     In Lieu of an Epigraph
     "The theme of today's  lecture is: why does the student sweat at exams?
Quiet, comrades! I suggest you take notes-the material is on the subject....
Thus, let us examine the physiological aspects of the situation that all  of
you present have had to experience. The oral exam is on. The student through
various  contractions  of  the  lungs,  thorax, and tongue  is  creating air
vibrations-answering his question. His visual analyzers control the accuracy
of his response  by the notes in his hand and by the nods of  the examiners.
Let us sketch the reflex chain: the executive apparatus of the second signal
system utters a phrase-the visual organs register  a reinforcing stimulus, a
nod-and the signal is passed to the brain  and  supports the  stimulation of
nerve cells in the proper part of the cortex. A new phrase... a  nod...  and
so on. This is often accompanied by a secondary reflex reaction: the student
gesticulates, which makes his answer all the more convincing.
     Meanwhile  the  unconditioned  reflex  chains  operate  on  their  own,
inexorably and  unconstrainedly. The trapezoid bone and broad muscles of the
back support the student's body in an  upright sitting  position-as  natural
for  us  as  the position of walking was for our predecessors. The chest and
intercostal muscles  maintain  rhythmic breathing. Other muscles  are tensed
just  enough to counteract gravity. The heart beats evenly;  the sympathetic
nervous  system has stopped the digestive process so as not to distract  the
student. . . and everything is in order.
     But now the student registers a new aural stimulus through his eardrums
and membranes  of the ears: the examiner  has asked him a  question. I never
tire of observing what follows-and I assure you, there is no sadism in this.
It's simply pleasant to watch  how quickly and clearly,  taking the millions
of years experience of our ancestors into account, our nervous system reacts
to the slightest hint of danger! Look: new air vibrations first bring on the
end of the previous activity of the unconditioned reflexes-the student stops
talking, often in mid-word. Then the  signals  from the hearing cells  reach
the medulla, excite the nerve cells of the rear  tubers of the lamina  tecti
which  commands the unconditioned reflex  of caution:  the student turns his
head in  the direction  of the  examiner! Simultaneously  the signals of the
aural stimulus  branch off into the  diencephalon,  and  from there into the
temporal lobes of the cortex, where a hurried meaning analysis is undertaken
of the air vibrations.
     I want to direct your  attention to the high  expediency level  of  the
location  of  the  analyzers  of  aural  stimuli in the cortex-right next to
theears. Evolution naturally took into account that a sound in the air moves
very  slowly:  some  300 meters a  second,  almost the same  as the speed of
signals traveling along  nerve  fiber. Yet a sound could be the rustle of  a
lurking tiger, the hissing of  a  snake, or-in our times-the noise of  a car
careening around the corner. You can't lose even a fraction  of a  second to
transmit the sound through the brain!
     But in the present situation the student recognized not the rustle of a
tiger but a question posed in a quiet, polite voice. Hah, I think some would
prefer  the tiger! I  assume  that  I  don't have to explain that a question
asked during an oral exam is taken as a signal of danger. After all, broadly
speaking,  danger  is  an  obstacle  in the path  toward a  given  goal.  In
ourwell-ordered times there are few dangers that threaten the basic goals of
a living being  which are  protection of life and health, propagation of the
species,  and  satisfaction  of  hunger  and  thirst.  That's  why secondary
dangers-the protection of dignity, respect, scholarships, the opportunity to
study and then have an interesting job and so on-take on primary prominence.
Thus,  the  student's  unconditioned  reflex  reaction   to   danger  worked
beautifully. Let's see how he reflects it.
     In biochemistry lectures you have been familiarized with the properties
of ribonucleic acid, which is found in all the brain cells. Under the action
of electrical nervous signals RNA changes the continous distribution of  its
bases: thymine, uracil, cytosine, and guanine. These bases are  the  letters
of our  memory; we can write down any information in the cortex of the brain
using combinations  of them.  And  so, this  is the  picture:  the question,
understood in  the temporal sites of  the cortex leads to  the excitation of
nerve  cells  that  take care of abstract  knowledge in the student's brain.
Weak  response impulses arise  in neighboring areas of the  cortex:  "Aha, I
read something  about that!" So the  stimulation  concentrates  in the  most
hopeful of  these areas, takes it over, and-oh  horrors!-there with the help
of thymine, uracil, cytosine,  and guanine there is recorded God  only knows
what in long molecules of RNA, for instance: "Drop your studying,  Alex!  We
need a fourth!" Quiet down, comrades, don't be distracted.
     And  then  a quiet  panic  in the  brain sets  in-or,  less  colorfully
speaking, a total irradiation of stimulation. The  nerve impulses arouse the
areas of logical analysis (maybe I'll  figure something  out!) and the cells
of visual memory (maybe I've seen it?). Vision,  hearing, and sense of smell
sharpen. The  student sees with amazing  acuity the ink  spot on the edge of
the desk and  a bunch of  scribbles,  hears the  leaves rustling outside the
window, someone's footsteps in the hall, and even the whisper:  "Guys,  Alex
is in trouble!" But that's not it. And so  stimulation passes to greater and
newer parts  of the brain-danger, danger-spilling  over the motor centers in
the frontal convolution,  penetrating  into the  midbrain, the medulla,  and
finally, into  the  spinal cord.  And  here I want  to  move away  from  the
dramatic  situation to sing  the praises  of  the soft grayish white  growth
about  a  half meter in  length that  penetrates our  spine to the waist-the
spinal cord.
     The spinal cord ...oh,  we are greatly mistaken  if we think that it is
nothing more  than an intermediary between the brain and  the body's nerves,
that  it  is subjugated to  the  brain  and  can only control  a few  simple
reflexes  of  natural functions! It's  still  a  moot point  as to which  is
subordinate to which! The spinal cord is an older and more venerable process
than the  brain. It saved man in those  days when his brain wasn't developed
enough, when in fact he wasn't yet  man. Our spinal cord guards memories  of
the  Paleozoic, when our distant ancestors, the lizards,  wandered, crawled,
and flew among  giant ferns; of the Cenozoic, the period when the first apes
appeared.  It  has  sorted  and  stored  synapses and  reflexes  proven over
millions  of years to be effective in  the struggle for survival. The spinal
cord, if you will, is our inner seat of rational conservatism.
     Of course  nowadays,  that  old  cord  of man, which can  react to  the
complex  stimulation of  contemporary  reality  in only two positions-saving
life and propagating the species-can't  help us  out all the time, as it did
in the Mesozoic Era. But it still has influence on many things! For example,
I would  posit that it is the spinal cord that often determines our literary
and cinematic tastes. What? No, the spinal cord is not literate and does not
contain  any  special  reflexes  for  viewing film. But, tell me,  why do we
soften prefer  detective movies and  novels,  no  matter how poorly they are
made  or  written? Why  do so many of  us like love  stories-everything from
jokes and  gossip to the  Decameron? Because  it's interesting? Interesting?
Why is it interesting? Because  the  firmly engrained instincts for survival
and  propagation   encoded  in  our   spinal  cords  force  us   to   gather
information-what can  you die of?-so that  we  can  save ourselves  in  that
situation. How  and why does happy  and true  love come about, the kind that
results in offspring? What destroys it?-so that you  don't blow it yourself.
And  it doesn't matter that  such a dangerous situation may never come up in
your safe, comfortable lives. And  it doesn't matter that  there is love and
more  descendants  than you  know what to do with-the  spinal cord  tows its
line. I'm not going to call these desires in the viewer and reader base,  as
so  many  critics  do. Why? These are healthy,  natural  desires,  admirable
desires. If cows in their evolution ever learn  to read, then  they'll  also
begin with mysteries and romances.
     But  let us return to the student whose brain failed him  in responding
to  the  examiner's question. "Ah, you greenhorn," the spinal  cord seems to
say to its colleague  as it receives the panic signals and goes into action.
First, it sends signals to the motor  nerves of the entire body; the muscles
tense  into  a  position  of  readiness.  The  primary  sources of  muscular
energy-adenosine triphosphate and phosphocreatine-break  down in tissue into
adenosine diphosphate and creatine, releasing phosphoric acid  and the first
amounts of heat and energy. And I want to direct your attention once more to
the biological expediency of raising  muscle tone. After  all, danger in the
old  days  required quick  energetic movement,  to leap away,  strike, bend,
climb a tree. And since it is not yet clear  which way you will have to jump
or strike, all the muscles are brought into readiness.
     Simultaneously, the  sympathetic nervous system  is also stimulated and
begins to command the whole kitchen array of metabolism in the organism. Its
signals  reach  the  adrenal  gland, which throws adrenaline into the blood,
stimulating  everything. The liver  and  spleen, like sponges,  squeeze  out
several  liters of  extra  blood into the circulatory system.  Blood vessels
expand in the  muscles,  lungs,  and brain. The  heart beats faster, pumping
blood into all the organs, and with it, oxygen  and glucose. The spinal cord
and the autonomous nervous system prepare thestudent's bodyforheavy, fierce,
and long fighting for life or death!
     But the examiner cannot be stunned with  a cudgel or even with a marble
inkwell. And  you  can't run away from him either.  The  examiner  won't  be
satisfied  even if the student, overflowing with muscular energy, performs a
handstand on  the  desk instead  of  answering the question. That's why  the
secret,  stormy activity of the student's organism ends in a useless burning
up of  glucose in the muscles  and heat  generation.  The thermoreceptors in
different  parts of the body send hysterical  signals  of overheating to the
brain  and spinal cord. And  the brain  responds in the only way it knows-by
expanding the vessels of the  skin. Blood rushes to the  skin (incidentally,
also causing the student to blush) and heats up the air between the body and
the clothes. The  sweat  glands open up to help the student with evaporation
of moisture. The reflex chain, stimulated by the question, is finally over.
     I'm sure you will make your own conclusions about the role of knowledge
in the correct regulation of the  human organism in our complex environment,
and about  its role  in the regulation of the student organism at  our  next
session..."
     From  a lecture by Professor V. A. Androsiashvili  in his course, Human
Physiology.


     Yes, he was leaving  in order to become himself, and not the Krivoshein
who lived and worked in Dneprovsk. He threw the apartment key which Val  had
tucked into his  pocket out of the  train  window. He  crossed  out all  the
addresses and phone numbers of Moscow acquaintances from his book, including
his  Aunt  Lapanalda. He  had no friends, no  relatives,  no  past-only  the
present, from the moment he entered the biology department,  and the future.
He  knew a simple but dependable way of  establishing himself in the future;
the method had never let him down. It was work.
     And he had more than that.
     Once upon a time physicists had perfected  the methods of measuring the
speed of light, just so that they could achieve the greatest accuracy.  They
did.  And they  determined  a scandalous fact: the speed  of light  did  not
depend  on  the  speed  of  motion of  the light  source.  "Impossible!  The
equipment  is  wrong!  The  results  contradict classical  mechanics!"  They
checked. They measured the speed of light another way-with the same results.
And   the  almost  completed,  logically  perfect  universe  rising  in  the
scaffolding of  right-angled coordinates, crumbled, raising an awful  lot of
dust. The "crisis of physics" began.
     The human mind often  strives for a reconciliation of all  the facts in
the world rather  than for a  deeper knowledge of those facts: the important
thing  is  for everything to  become simpler and more logical. And then some
sneaky  little fact floats  out, irreconcilable with the neat  theories, and
you have to start all over again....
     They had  also  created a simple and  understandable  picture in  their
minds  of  how  a  computer creates a  man from information  about  man. The
computer-womb was playing children's games  with blocks. In a  liquid medium
via  electrical impulse  it combined molecules  into  molecular chains,  the
molecular  chains  into  cells,  and the  cells  into  tissue-with  the sole
difference that there were  untold  billions of  "informational blocks." The
fact that  the result of  the game was not a monster or even another person,
but  Krivoshein's  informational  double,  proves  that there  was  only one
solution to  the puzzle.  Well, naturally,  it couldn't have been  any other
way: blocks can only fit into  a picture that exists  in their surfaces. The
variants (a fragmented  Lena, a fragmented father, the "delirium of memory,"
the eyes and feelers) were merely informational garbage that could not exist
independent of the computer.
     This concept was not incorrect, merely superficial. It suited them,  as
long as the facts supported  the theory that they were  the same  externally
and  in  thoughts and  deeds. But when irreconcilable differences came up on
the use of biology in their work, this concept turned out to be inadequate.
     Yes, it  was their inability  to  understand  each other,  and  not the
interest in biology (which might have passed in Krivoshein-2 with no harmful
effects), that became to  his  discovery  what the constancy of the speed of
light was to the  theory of relativity. A man never knows what's banal about
him and  what's original;  that only  comes  in comparsion  with others. And
unlike  other people, Krivoshein-2 could compare  himself  to  not  only his
acquaintances, but to "himself" as well.
     Now  it became very  clear  to  graduate  student Krivoshein  what  the
difference  between  them  was:  their  ways  of  appearing were  different.
Valentin  Krivoshein  appeared over three decades ago the  way every  living
thing  did-from an  embryo,  in which a program for building  a human  being
developed  over thousands of  centuries  and  in which  generations had been
encoded by a specific arrangement of protein and DNA. But the computer-womb,
even though it was working from individual Krivoshein information, was still
dealing  with  random information;  it  had  to  seek out the principles  of
formation and all the  details of the biological information system. And the
computer found a way different from nature's: a biochemical assembly instead
of embryonic development.
     Yes,  now there was much that  he understood.  In a year he had  passed
from sensations  to knowledge  and from knowledge to mastery of himself. And
then... then it had merely  been a powerful attraction to  biology  and  the
inexpressible certainty that this  was where he had to seek his answers.  He
couldn't even explain  it  well to Krivoshein. He came to  Moscow  with  the
vague feeling that something was wrong with him. He wasn't sick or imagining
things, but he had to figure himself out, to make  sure that his feeling was
reality and not an idee fixe or a hypochondriacal hallucination.
     He worked so hard that he  could look back on the days at the institute
in Dneprovsk as if they had been a vacation. Lectures, lab work, the anatomy
theater,  the library, lectures, seminars, lab work, lectures,  the  clinic,
the library, lab  work.... He never left the Lenin Hills  campus  during the
first semester; he would  walk down to the parapet before going  to bed,  to
look  down  at  the Moscow River, smoke,  enjoy  the  lights  glimmering and
blending with the stars on the horizon.
     A gray-eyed, second-year student  who resembled Lena always sat next to
him in Androsiashvili's class, which he attended. Once she asked: "You're so
solid, so serious-were you  in the  Army?" "In prison," he replied,  jutting
out his jaw. The girl lost interest in him. It had to be. Girls take  up too
much time.
     And he was convinced by every experiment, every calculation. Yes, in  a
cross section  of  a nerve bundle that goes from  the brain to the pituitary
gland,  under a microscope you  can  actually count approximately a  hundred
thousand fibers-and that  means that the pituitary is  closely  monitored by
the brain. Yes,  if you  add beta-active calcium to a  lab  monkey's diet of
bananas and then use a Geiger counter on  its excretions, it  really is true
that bone tissue renews itself approximately twice a year. Yes, if you stick
electrode needles into muscle tissue  and  conduct sound into earphones, you
can  really hear  a rhythmic  quacking or  a fragmented pulse  of  the nerve
signals,  and these sounds corresponded with what  he was feeling! Yes, skin
cells actually do move up toward the surface, changing structure,  dying, so
that they can slough off and make room for new ones.
     He  studied  his own body. He took blood samples and lymphatic samples;
he got a piece of muscle tissue from his right hip and  examined it under an
optical microscope and then an electronic one; he calumnied himself to get a
Wassermann  at the  school clinic. And he determined that  everything in him
was normal. Even the amount and distribution of nerves in the tissue was the
same as in the bodies they dissected in anatomy class. The nerves went up to
the  brain,  but  he  couldn't  get in  there  with  the  use  of laboratory
technology. He would have to  implant too many electrodes into his skull and
plug into too many oscilloscopes to understand the  secrets of his self. And
would  he  understand  them then?  Or  would  he come up with  "streptocidal
striptease"-not  in   binary  alphabet,  but  in  the  jagged  lines  of  an
electroencephalogram?
     The situation-a  living  person studying his  own organism  can't  even
breech the mysteries of his body with  laboratory equipment-was paradoxical.
After all, this wasn't a  question  of discovering invisible "radiostars" or
synthesizing  antiparticles.  All  the  information  was  in  man. All  that
remained  was  to  translate  the code of the  molecules,  cells,  and nerve
impulses into the code of the secondary signal system-words and sentences.
     Words and  phrases are  necessary  (but  not  always)  for  one  man to
understand another. But are they necessary to understand oneself? Krivoshein
didn't know. That's why  he tried everything:  analysis, imagination, books,
monitoring the sensations of his body, conversations with Androsiashvili and
other teachers, observation of patients at the clinic, autopsies....
     Everything  that  Vano  Aleksandrovich  had  argued in  that  memorable
December conversation was  right,  since  it was defined by Androsiashvili's
knowledge  of the  world and  his faith in the  indisputable  expediency  of
everything created by nature.
     But the professor did not  know one thing: that  he was conversing with
an artificial man.
     Even Vano Aleksandrovich's  doubts  about the success of his plan  were
solidly  based,  because Krivoshein's  starting  point  was  an  engineering
computer solution.  That  December  he began planning  an  "electropotential
inductor"-a continuation of the idea of Monomakh's Crown. A hundred thousand
microscopic electrode needles,  connected to the matrices of a self-learning
automated machine (in the lab the bionics people modeled  reflex actions  on
it),  were  supposed  to  supply  the  brain  cells  with auxiliary charges,
bringing artificial biowaves through  the  skull, and thereby connecting the
thinking centers of the cortex with the autonomous nervous system.
     Krivoshein laughed. How  silly to  think that such primitive  apparatus
could  have  punched up  his  organism!  At  least  he  hadn't  dropped  his
physiology  studies  for  that  project.  When  he  performed an autopsy, he
mentally  revived  the  corpse:  he imagined  that  he himself  lay  on  the
dissecting table, that  it  was  his white nerve  fibers running through the
muscles  and  cartilage  to  the purple, yellow fat-encrusted heart, to  the
watery clusters of  salivary glands under  the  chin,  to  the gray rags  of
collapsed lungs. Other fibers  wove into white cords of nerves that went  to
the  pelvis, the spinal  cord  and  up, through  the  neck, under the skull.
Signal  commands ran along them from there: contract  the  muscles, speed up
the heart, squeeze out saliva!
     In the student cafeteria he followed the movement of every gulp of food
to  his  stomach, trying to  imagine and  feel how, in  the darkness, it was
slowly kneaded  by  the smooth muscles, broken down by hydrochloric acid and
enzymes,  how  the dull yellow  mash was  absorbed  into  the  walls  of the
intestine. Sometimes he spent two hours sitting over a cold cutlet.
     Actually, he was  remembering.  Nine-tenths of his discoveries were due
to the fact that he remembered and understood how it had happened.
     The computer-womb  had no reason to  begin with a fetus; it  had enough
material  to assemble an adult.  Krivoshein, the original, had made sure  of
that.  At  first the  vague  biological mixture in the  tank contained  only
"wandering"  currents and "floating" potentials from external circuits-these
colorful terms from theoretical electronics were quite literal in this case.
Then the  transparent nerve fibers and cells  appeared-a continuation of the
electronic   circuits  of  the  computer.  The  search   for   informational
equilibrium  continued.  The  nervous  system  was  becoming  more and  more
voluminous and complex, and the layers of nerve cells turned into the cortex
and subcortex.  That's when his brain appeared, and  from that moment on, he
existed.
     At  first his brain was also a continuation of the computer's circuits.
But now  he received impulses of  external information,  sifted it and tried
combinations,  and  looked for  a  way  to  realize  the  information  in  a
biological  medium. He was  assembling  himself! In  the  vat  a  system  of
nerves-for now still random-spread. Muscle tissue, vessels, bones, and inner
organs began  appearing around the  nerves-in that practically liquid  state
when they could dissolve, blend, change structure under orders of the  nerve
impulses.  No, this  wasn't an intelligent  assembly  of a body  following a
blueprint, since there was no  blueprint. The building block game continued,
a sifting through many variants and choosing of the only one among them that
reflected the information on Krivoshein. But  now,  like the computer  which
evaluated  every variant of the solution with  binary signals, his  computer
brain evaluated the synthesis of a body with a binary code of sensation: Yes
meant it felt good, No, that it  hurt.  Unsuccessful  combinations of cells,
the incorrect distribution of organs were transmitted to the brain as a dull
or sharp pain; the successful and correct one, as delicious satisfaction.
     And the memory of the search, the memory of the sensations of  the body
under construction remained within him.
     Life  creates  people  who  differ  little in  the  properties  of  the
organism,  but  are  very  different   in   their  psychology,  personality,
knowledge, and spiritual refinement  or crudity. The computer-womb acted  in
the  opposite  manner. The  graduate  student  Krivoshein  was identical  to
Krivoshein  in psychology and intellect,  but that was understandable. Those
qualities in  a person develop through the same process of random  retrieval
and  choice.  The  computer merely  repeated the retrieval. But biologically
they differed  the way  a  book differs from  its rough draft.  Not just one
draft, but  all the drafts and sketches  that went into  creating a finished
and polished work. Of  course, the contents were the  same,  but the  drafts
retain  the  path   of  finding  and  choosing  the  right  words  in  their
corrections, additions, and deletions.
     "Actually,  that  comparison is imperfect, too," the  frowning  student
mused. "The drafts of books appear before the books,  not afterwards. And if
you show a scribbler all the drafts of War and Peace  would that make him  a
genius? Well,  I guess they would  teach him something.... No, I guess  it's
better to leave comparisons out of this!" Man  recalls what he knows in only
two  situations:  when  he must  recall  it-goal  recollection-and  when  he
encounters something that even remotely  resembles  the code  in his  brain.
This  is called associative recall. The biology books  were  the  hint  that
stimulated his  memory. But  the difficulty lay in the fact  that he did not
remember  words  or  even  images, but only sensations. Even now he couldn't
convey it all in words-and probably would never be able to.
     Of  course, that's  not the  important thing. What is important is  the
fact  that  such information  exists. Because  "knowledge in sensation" gave
birth to a clear, thought-out idea in him to control his own metabolism.
     It happened the first  time on the evening of January 28  in the forms.
It turned out just like Pavlov's dogs-artificial salivation. But  he  wasn't
thinking  about  food (he had had a dinner of kefir  and sausage), but about
the nerve regulation of  the salivary glands. As usual he tried to visualize
the entire path of the nerve impulses from the taste receptors in the tongue
through the brain to the salivary glands and suddenly felt his mouth fill up
with saliva!
     Still  only fully  aware of how it had  happened, he concentrated  on a
frightened protest-"No!"-and his mouth went dry instantly!
     That evening he repeated  the mental  orders  "Saliva!" and "no!" until
his mouth convulsed.
     He spent  the  rest of  the week in his  room-luckily it  was a  school
vacation,  and he didn't have  to be distracted  by lectures and labs. Other
organs listened to  his mental orders.  At first he could only command  them
crudely. Streams of tears poured from his eyes; sweat appeared in  profusion
all over his skin or  immediately dried up; his heart either quieted down to
a  near comatose  rate  or  else  beat wildly  at a  hundred forty  beats  a
minute-there was no middle ground, And when he commanded his stomach to stop
excreting hydrochloric acid he had such intense  diarrhea that he barely had
time to  get  to the bathroom. But gradually he learned to  control external
excretions gently  and  locally;  once  he even  managed to  spell out "IT'S
WORKING!" on his back with beads of sweat, like a tattoo.
     Then he moved his experiments to the lab and first of  all repeated the
effect  of the sugar injection made famous by Claude  Bernard.  But  now  he
didn't  have to open the skull and  inject the midbrain. The amount of sugar
in his blood increased as a result of a mental command.
     But  in  general  it  was  much  more  complex  dealing  with  internal
secretion.  The  results  were not so apparent or so fast.  He made puncture
marks  all over  his fingers  and  muscles checking whether the glands  were
obeying his  commands to secrete  adrenaline, insulin, glucose, or hormones.
He irritated his gullet with probes trying  to determine the reaction to his
commands on changing acidity. Everything was working-and everything was very
difficult.
     Then  he caught on. He should give  his organism a specific goal, to do
this and that, produce certain changes. And really when he walked, he didn't
command   the   muscles:   "Right  rectus-contract...   biceps-now...   left
gastrocnemius...." He didn't have  time for that. The conscious  mind sets a
specific goal:  go  faster or  slower, go around  the  post, turn  into  the
driveway. And the nerve centers of  the brain take care  of the muscles. And
that's how it should be with  this. It wasn't his  business which glands and
vessels would  produce individual  reactions,  as  long as they did  what he
wanted!
     Words and  images got in the way. He  was overexplaining.  He  told the
liver  how to synthesive glycogen from amino acids  and fats, break down the
glycogen into glucose, and excrete it into the blood; he told the thyroid to
contract and squeeze out  drops  of thyroxin  into  the blood;  he told  the
circulatory system to  expand the capillaries in the large chest muscles and
to contract the  other  vessels-and nothing happened,  his pectorals  didn't
grow  bigger.  After all, the liver  didn't know it was the  liver, and  the
thyroid  didn't  have  the slightest  idea what  thyroxin was  and  couldn't
picture a  drop  of it. Krivoshein cursed himself for excessive attention at
his lectures and in the library. The result of all this exertion was only  a
headache.
     The problem was that in  order to control metabolism within himself, he
had to avoid numbers, terms, and even images, and  think only in sensations.
The problem came down to changing  "knowledge in  sensation" into a tertiary
signal system of controlling internal secretions with the aid of sensations.
     The funniest part  was that he  didn't  need  lab  apparatus or control
circuits. All he had to do was lie in a  darkened room, eyes closed and ears
plugged, and listen to himself in a  half-dreaming state. Strange sensations
came from  within: the  spleen,  changing the blood,  itched, and intestines
tickled  when they contracted; the salivary glands felt cold under his chin;
the adrenals reacted to nerve signals with a delicious shudder, and the part
of the blood enriched with  adrenalin and glucose spread  warmth through the
body like a sip of wine. The sick cells in the muscles made themselves known
with a gentle prickling.
     Using engineering terminology, he was checking out his body with nerves
the way an assembler checks out a circuit with a tester.
     By  this time he had  a clear understanding of the binary arithmetic of
sensation: painful-pleasant. And it occurred to him that the simplest way of
subjugating  the  cellular processes to his consciousness  was to  make them
hurt. It was quite  possible that the incident with the icicle prompted this
discovery; the idea came to him right after it.
     Of course, the cells that were  deteriorating  and  dying  from various
causes let  themselves be known very palpably.  The organism itself, without
any  orders  from "above"  sent  leucocytes, feverish  tissue,  enzymes, and
hormones to help.  All he had to  do was either speed up or slow  down these
microscopic struggles for life.
     He injected and cut muscles everywhere he could reach with a  needle or
a scalpel. He injected fatal doses of typhus  and cholera bacteria cultures.
He inhaled  mercury  vapor, drank mixtures of corrosive  sublimate  and wood
alcohol. (He didn't have the nerve to  try faster-acting poisons,  however.)
And the more he tried the better his organism handled all the dangers he was
aware of.
     And  then he  caused cancer  in himself. Cause cancer! Any doctor would
spit  in his eye for  an announcement like that. To cause cancer you have to
know what causes cancer. To be  perfectly  honest, he wouldn't maintain that
he  knew the causes  of  cancer, but  this  was  simply  because he couldn't
translate  into words all the  feelings that accompanied the changes in  the
skin on  his  right side.  He began with questioning the patients  who  were
undertaking gamma  therapy  at  the lab. What  did they  feel? This was  not
kind-asking terrified,  exhausted people,  contorted  by  pain, about  their
experiences  and  not  promising  anything  in  return-but that  was  how he
understood the image of a cancer patient.
     The  growth  was  getting  bigger  and  harder.  Smaller growths  began
branching  off  from it-strange greenish purple ones, like cauliflower. Pain
chewed up his side and shoulder. At the university clinic, where he went for
a diagnosis, they suggested an immediate operation, without even letting him
leave the place.  He  got out  of it  by lying and saying  that he wanted to
undergo radiation therapy first.


     Graduate  student Krivoshein,  crumpling a cigarette,  stepped out onto
the balcony. It was a warm night. A car, waving its headlights, raced down a
side  road.  Two little  lights,  a red one and a  green one, traveled  from
Cygnus to Lyra. Behind them followed the roar of a jet engine.  Like a match
across a cover, a meteor struck the sky.
     Back in his room, standing in front of the mirror, he concentrated  his
will and feelings, and the  growth  melted  away in  fifteen minutes. Twenty
minutes  later  there  was nothing  but  a purple spot the size of a saucer.
Another ten  minutes later there was just  his usual skin, in goose bumps-it
was chilly in the room.
     But  he couldn't express his  knowledge about stopping cancer in either
prescriptions or  medical  advice.  What he could describe in words wouldn't
heal anyone, except  maybe other doubles  like himself. So all his knowledge
applied only to them.
     With time, probably, he would learn to overcome the barrier between the
doubles of  the  computer-womb and regular  people. After all,  biologically
they  were  not too  different. And  the  knowledge  was  there. Even  if he
couldn't express  it  verbally, they could  record  the  fluctuations of his
biopotentials,  graph his  temperatures,  develop  numbers  of  analysis  in
computers-medicine was a precise  science  now. And  finally they would come
around to  recording  and transmitting precise  sensations.  Words  were not
necessary. The important thing for a sick person was to get well, and not to
write a dissertation on his recovery. That wasn't the point.


     The  student's attention  was riveted  by  a light exploding below.  He
looked closely: leaning against  a lamp  post, the fellow  in the  cape from
yesterday, the detective,  was lighting a cigarette. He tossed the match and
walked away slowly.
     "So he found  me, the  damn creep!  He's stuck  on  me  like  a  burr!"
Krivoshein's mood was ruined. He  went  back inside and sat down to read the
diary.



        Chapter 14


     Life is short. There is barely enough time to make an adequate
     number of mistakes. Repeating them, that's an unforgivable
     luxury.
     -K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 22

     Now the student was reading the notations with envious curiosity. Well,
what had he achieved, when all he wanted was to twirl knobs?
     June I. Phew... finished! The information chamber is ready. I begin the
experiments with the rabbits tomorrow. If I follow tradition, I should begin
with frogs . . . but I would never pick the disgusting things up! No, let my
double play with toads. He's a brilliant student, quite industrious.
     I wonder how he's doing.
     June 2.1 equipped the  rabbits with electrodes and sensors and put them
all in the chamber. Let them overload it with information.
     June  7.  The rabbits lived in the chamber  for four days. They munched
carrots  and  cabbage  leaves, wriggled their noses,  fought, copulated, and
napped.  I did my  first tests today. I put  on Monomakh's  Crown,  mentally
ordered "Proceed!"-and the  computer-womb  worked. Four rabbit doubles in an
hour and a half.
     What a relief-the machine worked.
     An  interesting  detail:  the  visual appearance  of the rabbits  (what
happens before that, I don't know) begins  with the  circulatory system; the
blue red vessels  show up in the golden fluid just as they do in the yolk of
a fertilized chicken egg.
     As they came to life, the rabbits  floated up. I pulled them out by the
ears, bathed them in a tub, all warm  and trembling,  and  then put them  in
with  the  regular ones.  The encounter between the natural  and  artificial
doubles had an even more  banal character  than  my meeting with  my double.
They stared at each other in disbelief, sniffed each other,  and (since they
don't  have a secondary signal  system, to  explain) fought. Then  they  got
tired, sniffed some more and went on with the normal rabbit routine.
     The  important  thing is that the computer works on my command, without
any additions.  You  put on  the crown, remember (preferably with  a  mental
image) which  rabbit  you  want  copied,  give  permission  mentally-and  in
twenty-five to thirty minutes it's flopping  around in the tank. The reverse
operation-dissolving  an  appearing  rabbit  with   the  command   "No!"-the
computer-womb also does without reproach.
     For  its  success and  hard  work I feed  it  salts,  acids, glycerine,
vitamins, and reagents. Just like giving fish to a trained seal.
     June 20. When it works, it  works. And when  it doesn't you  could just
beat your head on  the wall.  All  this time I've  been  trying to  stop the
synthesis of a rabbit at  some  stage. No matter  what  command  I've tried:
"Stop!" "Halt!" "Enough!"  "Cut  it out!"-both mentally and verbally-nothing
helps. Either the synthesis goes on to the end, or there is dissolution.
     It  looks like  the computer-womb  works like a  flip-flop circuit in a
computer,  that is, either open  or closed, and has no in-between positions.
But you would  expect a complex machine  to be more flexible than that silly
circuit.
     I'll keep trying....
     July 6.  Life cannot be  stopped.  That must be it. Any interruption of
life is  death. But death is only an instant, after which begins the process
of decay or in  this case, dissolution. And I'm synthesizing living systems.
And the computer-womb itself is a living  organism.  That's why nothing  can
freeze  in  it. Too bad, it  would have been  very convenient.... The  first
offspring of  an artificial male  and  regular  female appeared  today-eight
white bunnies. That  must be an important fact. But I have plenty of rabbits
without that.
     Damn it, but the  machine must obey orders more complex than "You may!"
and "No!" I  must control the synthesis process,  otherwise all my ideas fly
out the window.
     July 7. So that's how you work, computer-womb! And it's so simple.
     Today I  ordered the machine to re-create  Albino Vaska one  more time.
When  it  appeared as  a translucent apparition in  the middle of the vat, I
concentrated on its tail and imagine  that  it  was no  longer.  No  changes
followed.  That  wasn't  it. And I thought sadly,  "That's  not it..  ."-and
everything began  changing in  the rabbit. The  body's  contour wavered in a
slow rhythm: the body, ears, and feet and tail either grew longer and fatter
or shorter and thinner; the internal organs  pulsed in the same rhythm. Even
the color of the blood changed color  from dark cherry to light red and back
again.
     I jumped up  from  my chair. The rabbit was  still being  "shaken!" Its
shape kept  changing,  being distorted and caricatured; the trembling became
more  frequent and  wild. Finally the albino  dissolved into a purplish gray
cloud and dissolved.
     At first I  was scared:  the picture reminded me of the computer's  old
delirium. Except for the rhythm. All the fluctuations of size and shade were
amazingly coordinated.
     And then I understood. I figured it out myself, I might add, damn it!
     The  computer's  original information  on the  rabbit was concrete  and
definite.  It  combined all the  informational  details,  searching for  the
precise  variation;  but  search  or  not,  you  can  only re-create  what's
recorded. You can't make a vacuum cleaner from motorcycle parts.
     And  then  the computer  receives  the  signal "That's  not it"-neither
confirming  nor  negating-a signal  of doubt.  It disrupts the informational
stability of the  synthesis of the rabbit; to put it  bluntly, it throws the
computer  off the track.  And it begins searching-what is  "it"-through  the
simple method of trial and error  (a little more, a little less so as not to
destroy the  system.... But the computer doesn't  know what "it" is, and  it
doesn't get confirmation from  me. Complete  disruption  of the  system  and
dissolution follow.
     And  then (this is what's good about a researcher's job: if you hit the
right vein you can do in a day, with the aid of one or two ideas, what would
ordinarily take years and  years!) I put  on Monomakh's Crown and  told  the
computer "You  may!" Now I  knew what I would do with the rabbit double.  It
appeared. I concentrated on the tail (the connection  chain: the bioimpulses
from my retinas with the image of the rabbit tail went into  the brain, into
the  crown,  into  the  computer,  and  there-comparison  and  selection  of
information-the computer fixed my attention) and I even  frowned, to make it
more expressive: "That's not it." A  powerful unbalancing impulse went  into
the computer. The tail got shorter. A tiny bit.... "That's not it!"
     The tail quivered, and got longer..., "That's it; that's it!"
     The  tail froze. "That's not it!" It  got even longer. "That's it!"  It
froze.  "That's it!  That's not  it! It! Not it!"-and things got moving. The
hardest part was to catch the fluctuation in the right direction. Later I no
longer  gave the computer the elemental  commands  "It-not  it,"  but simple
silent approval. The tail got longer; a chain of small vertebrae grew in it,
they were covered  with muscle tissue,  pink skin, white  fur...  and in ten
minutes  Vaska  the  double  was  whipping his sides with  his  tail like an
irritated tiger.
     And  I sat in  a chair wearing  Monomakh's  Crown,  and an unbelievable
swirl of  "well, well, well, now we're cooking. Oh, boy! Phew!" went through
my mind, the  way  it does when you can't express it in words  yet,  but you
know that you've  understood,  and  you're not going to lose it now! And  my
face  probably reflected  that extreme state  of bliss that is  usually seen
only in drooling idiots.
     That was  it. No mysticism. The  computer-womb was working on the  same
"yes-no" system that regular computers do.
     "That's  right,"  nodded the graduate student. "But that's rather crude
control. Of course, for  a machine. What am I quibbling about? That's a fine
job!"


     Damn it, this is terrific! At my commands  of "yes," "not it," and "no"
the computer forms cells, tissue,  bone. Only living organisms  can do that,
and much more slowly.
     Well, baby, I'm going to squeeze everything I can out of you!
     July  15.  Now the machine  and  I  are  working  well  together.  More
accurately, it's  learned to receive, decipher, and execute commands from my
brain  that  are  not  broken  down into  "it" and  "not it." The  essential
feedback and content of the commands remained the  same, except that it  all
took place very quickly. I imagine  what has to be changed in the developing
double and how. As if I were drawing or sculpting the rabbit.
     The computer is  now my electronic biochemical hand. It's marvelous and
luxurious to  mold  different kinds of rabbit freaks with my mind. With  six
legs,  with  three tails, two heads, without  ears, or with long floppy mutt
ears. Dr. Moreau with his scalpel and  carbolic acid was an amateur! My only
tool was Monomakh's Crown. I didn't even have to twirl dials.
     The  most  amusing part was that  the monsters  continue to live.  They
scratch with four legs and stuff carrots into two mouths ...


     "Easy work," muttered the graduate student with envy. "Just like in the
movies: sit  back and  watch. Nothing  hurts,  nothing  to be afraid of.  No
violent passions-only engineering work."
     He  sighed,  remembering  his suffering.  He  got  used to  the various
autovivisections  rather quickly. When you know that the  pain will pass and
the  wound will heal, then pain becomes  another irritant, like bright light
or loud  noise-unpleasant but not terrible. When you know.... In his planned
experiments  he knew it. He also began any new change  on a small  scale. He
checked  to  see  how  the organism put  up with the changes; he always  had
medicine on  hand: ampules of neutralizers and antibiotics, and the phone to
call emergency. But there had been one unplanned experiment, in which he had
almost died. Actually, it wasn't even an experiment.
     There was a department seminar in radiobiology. The third-year students
surrounded the uranium reactor and watched the dark cellular cylinder in its
depths  respectfully.  It  gave  off a  green,  calm  light  in  the  water,
illuminating the wires, the nickel-plated bars, levers,  and wheels  of  the
control board above it.
     "That beautiful light, the color of young grass, around the body of the
reactor," said Professor Valerno in his rich  deep baritone,  "is called the
Cherenkovsky  glow. It  is caused by the movement of superfast  electrons in
the  water,  which are  created, in  turn, by  the  division  of  nuclei  of
uranium-235."
     Krivoshein assisted; that  is, he sat around, bored, and waited for the
professor to ask him  to run the demonstration. Actually, Valerno could have
easily done the  experiment  himself, or asked  a student to do  it, but his
scholarly rank rated a qualified  assistant. "So just sit there," Krivoshein
thought  gloomily.  Then he got the idea that he hadn't  tried out radiation
sickness on  himself.  He  sat up and started planning  how to go about  it.
"Take  a flask  of  water from  the  reactor and for starters give  myself a
slight radiation burn. This was serious stuff!"
     "The presence of intense Cherenkovsky glow in the  water is evidence of
intense radiation in the body of the reactor," Valerno  droned on, "which is
not surprising.  It's a chain reaction. The growth in  the brightness of the
light is  evidence of the growth of  the intensity  of the radiation,  and a
dimming-of the opposite.  Here, please  look." He  turned  the wheel  on the
panel to the left and the right. The green light in the tank blinked.
     "And  if  you turn  it  all  the  way to  the  right,  there'll  be  an
explosion?" a red-haired, freckled boy in glasses demanded.
     "No,"  replied the professor, barely suppressing a  yawn (that question
came up every time). "There's a governor on it. And besides, the reactor can
be automatically  blocked. As  soon as  the intensity of  the chain reaction
exceeds certain limits, the automatic device throws additional graphite rods
into  the reactor-those,  see? They  consume  the  neutrons  and quench  the
reaction.   And  now  let's  familiarize  ourselves   with  the   action  of
radioactivity on  a living organism. Valentin  Vasilyevich,  could  you join
us?"
     Krivoshein rolled a cart with a fish tank over to the reactor; the tank
contained a half-dead eel, with fins and sharp teeth.
     "This is a freshwater eel, Anguilliformes," Valerno announced,  without
even looking, "the most hardy of river fish. When Valentin Vasilyevich dumps
it into the pool, the eel, heeding its instincts, will immediately go to the
bottom... hmm... something that  I wouldn't do  in its place, since even the
luckiest  ones come floating belly  up from there in two minutes.  Well, see
for yourselves. Mark the time, please. Valentin Vasilyevich, you're on."
     Krivoshein  tipped  the  fish  tank  over  the  pool  and  started  the
stopwatch.  The students leaned over the  edge. A streak of  black lightning
sped to the  gray-tiled bottom of the pool,  made a circle, another, crossed
the  green light  over the cylinder.  Apparently blinded  by that,  the  eel
bumped into the opposite wall and reeled back.
     Suddenly  the light  in the pool  got brighter-and  in  the green light
Krivoshein saw something that made his  skin  crawl: the eel got trapped  in
the  wires that held the graphite rods, the  regulators of the  reactor, and
was struggling among them! One rod  fell out of its case and flew off like a
green stick into the water. The light got even brighter.
     "Everyone  back!"  Quickly  appraising the situation,  the pale Valerno
barked a command. His  baritone was flat. "Please leave at  once!" He pulled
the  emergency alarm. The contacts of the automatic blocking device clicked.
The light in the water blinked, as though they were doing arc welding in the
pool, and  got even brighter. The students, covering their faces, raced from
the exits. There was a crush at the door.
     "Please stay calm, comrades!"  Valerno shouted in a real falsetto. "The
concentration of  uranium-235 in the heat-generating elements is not  enough
for an  atomic  explosion! There will only  be a heat explosion,  like  in a
steam engine!" "Oh, God!" some exclaimed.
     The  doors  cracked.  A girl screamed.  Someone  cursed.  The  freckled
four-eyes,  not  losing his head, grabbed a  very  heavy Sl-8 synchronoscope
from the table, and  threw it  through the window, following  it rapidly....
The room was empty in a few seconds.
     In the first moment of  panic Krivoshein followed the rest, but stopped
himself and went  over to  the reactor.  Rapid, large bubbles rose  from the
cylinder  and the water churned. Instead of the quiet glow there was a green
bonfire  in the water. The  eel was quiet, but the graphite rods that it had
knocked out were crisscrossed and wedged against one another.
     "When the water splashes up, there'll be  a cloud of radioactive  steam
all over," Krivoshein thought feverishly. "That's as bad as an atomic blast.
Can  I do  it? I'm  scared. Well! What good  are all my experiments, if  I'm
scared? And what if I end up like the eel? The hell with it!"
     (Even now Krivoshein couldn't believe  it. How  could he have  done it?
Had he  decided  that  he was  invincible?  Or  was  it  the  thinking of  a
motorcyclist who has to pass between two oncoming trucks-the important thing
is don't think, just go forward!  The  intoxicating instant of  danger,  the
roar of  the trucks, and with a beating heart  you tear out into the asphalt
expanse! But this  wasn't an instant-and it was quite possible he  could end
up along with the dead eel on the pool bottom.)
     The  motorcyclist's  daring  hit  him.  Tearing  off  his  buttons,  he
undressed, put  his leg over the  edge, and-"Stop, Val! Think!"-went  to the
counter, and put on rubber gloves and goggles ("Wish  I had an Aqua-lung!").
He filled his lungs with air and plunged into the pool.
     Even at a  distance from  the reactor  the water was  warm. "A thousand
one,  a thousand  two...."  Krivoshein, instinctively turning his face away,
walked  across  the slippery tiles  to  the middle of the  pool. His  rubber
gloves were in contact with something, and he had  to look: the eel, hanging
in a loop between the wires, was there. "A thousand ten, a thousand eleven,"
and carefully, so  as  not to disturb the  rods, he pulled at the dead fish.
"Thousand  sixteen...." His hands  got hot, and  he instinctively wanted  to
pull  away, but he controlled the impulse and slowly  extracted the eel from
the  jumble. The  goggles  weren't so hermetic, and streams  of  radioactive
water  seeped  into  his  eyes. He squinted.  "Thousand  twenty,  a thousand
twenty-one"-he got it out! The green glow flickered,  and the rods  silently
slipped back into the cylinder. It got dark in the pool.
     "A  thousand twenty-five!" With a  sharp push Krivoshein came up to the
wall,  jumped out  of the  water, grabbed the  edge,  and  climbed  over. "A
thousand thirty...."
     He had the presence of mind to  hop around to get  the excess water off
his body; he even rolled around on the floor. He wiped his face and eyes dry
with his pants. "Just don't let me get blind before I get there." He dressed
haphazardly and ran out of the room.
     The  radiation counter  howled  harshly  as  he went by.  An  automatic
barrier blocked  his path. He jumped  over it and ran across the freshly dug
lawn to his dorm.
     "A  thousand seventy;  a  thousand seventy-one," his brain continued to
count.  It was twilight  and  he avoided meeting acquaintances;  but someone
called after him near zone B: "Hey, Val, where's the fire? He thought it was
Nechinorov,   a   graduate   student.  "A   thousand   eighty,  a   thousand
eighty-one...." His  skin  ached  and itched and then  it  was  pierced by a
million needles. That was his nervous system, honed in previous experiments,
telling him that the protons and gamma-quanta from the decayed  nuclei  were
shooting the  molecules of protein  in  the cells  of the epithelium, in the
nerve endings of the skin, breaking through the  walls of the blood vessels,
and wounding  the  red  and  white  corpuscles.  "A  thousand hundred  . . .
thousand hundred  five...."  Now the  prickling had  moved  to his  muscles,
stomach,  and under his skull. His lungs  were  congested as  though he  had
taken a deep draw  on  the crudest homegrown tobacco in  the world. That was
the  blood carrying the exploded atoms and fractured  proteins all over  his
body.
     "A thousand two  hundred five... two hundred  eight... idiot, what have
you done? Two hundred twelve...." He no longer had  the  idea,  the impetus.
There was  only fear. He wanted to live. He was getting nauseating cramps in
his stomach, and his  mouth  was filled  with copper-tasting saliva. Bumping
into  the massive front door as he ran in,  Krivoshein realized that  he was
dizzy. He was  seeing black. "Two hundred forty-one...  will I make it?"  He
had  to get up to the fourth  floor. He slapped  himself as  he ran, and his
head got clearer.
     Twilight rushed into the dark room with him.  For the first few seconds
Krivoshein  circled the room aimlessly and weakly. The fear, that biological
fear  that cannot  be controlled,  that makes a wounded animal head for  his
lair, had  almost killed him: he had forgotten what  to do. He felt terribly
sorry  for himself.  His body  was  filled with a  ringing weakness and  his
consciousness was  slipping away.  "Well, so go ahead and perish, you fool,"
he thought listlessly  and  felt  a wave of extreme anger. And  that's  what
saved him.
     His  clothes, spotted  with green  like  lichen  on trees, fell  on the
floor. The room  got even lighter; his feet glowed, and his  hair  and  vein
pattern were visible on his hands. Krivoshein ran into the shower and turned
it  on.  The cold water  poured over him, sobering him up, over his head and
body,  forming an  irridescent  pool  of emerald  green  on the  floor,  and
refreshed him long enough to gather his thoughts and will power.
     Now, like  a strategist, he commanded the battle for  survival that was
raging  in  his body. Blood,  blood,  blood, was rushing through  his entire
body!  The  feverish pounding of his heart resounded in  his temples. Myriad
capillaries washed damaged molecules  and  particles from every cell in  his
muscles and glands and sucked  them out  from  the  lymph  nodes.  The white
corpuscles  surrounded them, breaking them down to elemental  particles, and
carried them off into the spleen, the lungs, the liver, kidneys, intestines,
tossed them into the  sweat glands.  "Cover the bone vessels!" he instructed
the  nerves,  remembering in time that  radioactivity could settle  in  bone
marrow, which produced blood cells.
     Several  minutes  passed.  Now  he was  exhaling radioactive  air  with
faintly glowing vapors, spitting out glowing saliva that  had  collected the
decayed radioactive  cells  of the brain  and muscles,  washing off greenish
drops  of  sweat  from his  body, and  urinating  a beautiful emerald  green
stream. After an hour his excretions  no  longer glowed, but  his body still
ached.
     And  so he  spent three hours in the shower. He  swallowed water washed
himself off, and threw out all the harmful radiation from  his body. He came
back  to  his room after midnight, unsteady on  his  feet from  weakness and
physical emaciation.  He pushed  his glowing clothes into a  corner and fell
onto his bed. Sleep!
     The next day he was very  thirsty. He dropped by the radiometrics  lab,
used the Geiger counter all over his body. The apparatus crackled as  usual,
noting random cosmic particles.
     "My God, when did you lose all that weight?" Nechinorov asked as he ran
into him at a lecture....


     "Yes, in terms of  results, that was a major experiment,"  chuckled the
graduate student.  "I  conquered a fatal dose of radiation! But in  terms of
performance... no,  those experiments are no joke.  It's better to do it his
way."


     July 27.  I have a great  quantity  of doubles and monsters.  I set the
normal rabbits  free on the  grounds, and the monsters I take  out  one at a
time in a satchel and take them to the other side of the Dnieper.
     That's it. The pleasure of the novelty  has worn  off. I'm disgusted by
this mockery of nature: it's only  a rabbit, but it  is alive.  The ones who
squint at themselves suspiciously, two heads on the  same body ... ugh! But,
what the hell! I've discovered a method of controlling biological synthesis.
I  tested it and developed  it. Science in the long run creates methods, not
constructions, not things, not objects, but methods-how to do it all. And no
researcher would ever pass up a chance to squeeze every possibility from his
method.
     By  the  way,   yesterday  there  was  a  new  dish  at  the  institute
cafeteria-roast rabbit with new potatoes, forty-five kopeks. Let's just call
it  a coincidence. But even that's a  possible application of the discovery:
breeding rabbits,  as well as cows, for meat, improving the breeds. With  an
industrial  application  this method would have to be  better than  standard
methods.
     Tomorrow  I'm  going  back to experiment on the  synthesis  of man. The
methodology is clear, there's  no  point in dragging it  out.  And  the very
thought of it makes  me drool. To go back to the synthesis of man ... it was
one thing when my double appeared on his own, almost by accident, the way it
happens  in   life;  it'll  be  another  thing  to  prepare  a  human  being
consciously, like a rabbit. In  essence,  I won't be 'going  back'  to this,
I'll be beginning.
     What kind of a creature is man, that I can't work with him as calmly as
I do with a rabbit?
     Let's set up some  perspective  here. The megagalaxy, a cloud of stars,
floats in the black  void. There  is a  lentil-shaped dust mote of stars  in
it-our Milky Way. At the edge of it, our Sun, and around it, the planets. On
one  of them-not  the largest, and not the smallest-live people. Three and a
half  billion, that's not so many. If you line  them up in formation, all of
humanity can be  seen from the Eiffel Tower. If you put  them  together, you
would get  a  cube with  each side  a  kilometer  long, that's  all. A cubic
kilometer of living  and thinking matter, a molecule in the universe.... And
so what?
     What? That I'm a human being too. One  of them. Not  the lowest and not
the highest. Not the smartest, and  not the dumbest. Not the  first, and not
the last. And yet I feel that I  am all  of that. And I feel responsible for
everything.



        Chapter 15


     In caring about your neighbor, the important thing is not to overdo it.
     -K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 33

     July 29. I'm sitting in the information chamber, surrounded by sensors,
the  Monomakh's Crown  on  my  head. I'm  keeping  a diary  because  there's
absolutely nothing else to do.  I'll  be sleeping here  this week, too, on a
cot.
     So I'm sitting around, thinking wise thoughts.
     Thus, man. The highest form of living matter.
     A  carcass of  hollow bones, flexible clumps of protein,  which contain
what scientists and engineers are trying to analyze and re-create in logical
circuits and electronic models-life, a complex,  constantly  functioning and
constantly changing  system.  Millions  of bits  of information penetrate us
every second  through the  nerve endings of our eyes, ears, skin, nose,  and
tongue  and are turned into electrical impulses. If  they are amplified, you
can hear the characteristic "Drrrr ... dr..." in their dynamics. The bionics
people played  it for me  once. The machine-gun volleys  of  impulses spread
along the nerves, increase or engulf one another, and stick in the molecular
memory cells.  A huge processing unit, the  brain, sorts them, compares them
with  the  chemical  recording   of  the  internal   program  that  contains
everything-dreams and wishes, duty and  goal,  survival instinct and hunger,
love and hate, habits and knowledge, superstition and curiosity-and makes up
the  commands  for the executive  organs. And people talk,  run, kiss, write
poetry and denunciations, orbit in space, scratch  their heads, shoot,  push
buttons, bring up children, meditate....
     What's the most important thing?
     I'm getting a  picture of  method for the controlled synthesis  of man.
You  can  introduce additional information  and thereby alter  the form  and
content of man. This will come-we're moving toward it. But  what information
should  be  introduced?  What  alterations  should  be  made?  Take me,  for
instance. Let's  say that a computer  will  be synthesizing  me  (especially
since it already has): what would I like changed?
     You can't  answer  that off the bat.  I'm used to myself. I'm much more
interested in people around me than in myself. We all know what we want from
other people: that they don't interfere with our lives.  But what do we want
from ourselves?
     Yesterday I had the following conversation:
     "Tell me, Lena, what kind of a son would you like?"
     "Why?"
     "Well, I mean how would you like to see him as an adult?"
     "Handsome, healthy,  smart, and talented .  . . honest and  kind. About
your height,  say... no, maybe a little taller! He could become a violinist,
and I  would go to his concerts. He could look like ... oh, God, why did you
bring it up? Oh, I see. You've decided to  propose! Right? How  interesting!
Do it right, according to all the traditions, and I might say yes. Well!"
     "Hmmmmmm ... no, I was just asking...."
     "Oh, just asking! An abstract son, so to speak?"
     "Precisely."
     "Then you should be discussing it with an abstract woman, not with me!"
     Women take things very concretely.
     However, from  what she  said,  one quality  can  be  singled out-to be
smart. That's what I know about.
     Logical thought in humans works at  a much lower level  than it does in
electronic systems. The speed of processing information is pathetic: fifteen
to twenty bits per second. That's why they always have to plug in "buffers."
Ask a person, unexpectedly, something very simple, like
     "What time is it?" and you'll get an answer like "huh?" or "what?" This
doesn't mean he is deaf-simply that in the time that  you take to repeat the
question  he's  thinking  furiously for an answer. Sometimes that time isn't
enough, and  then you get "hmmm, well... let's  see ...  the best way to put
it... is ... hmmmm...."
     Time for a smoke break. I've been here too long. Freedom!
     The morning is like a violin  melody. The greenery is fresh. The sky is
blue. The air is pure.
     There goes  Pasha Fartkin on his way to the  institute  garage.  He's a
lathe operator, a drunkard, and a sneak; he manfully bears the burden of his
last name on his sloping shoulders. I'll test it out on him!
     "Tell me, Pasha, what do you want from life on a morning like this?"
     "Valentin  Vasilyevich!"  He seemed to  be  waiting  for the  question,
looking  at me  with joy  and amazement. "I'll be  honest  with you,  like a
brother: ten rubles until payday! I swear to God I'll pay you back!"
     In  my  confusion,  I take out a  ten,  give it to him,  and  only then
realize that Pasha never pays his debts to anyone, it's never been recorded.
     "Thanks,  Valentin  Vasilyevisch.  I'll  never  forget  you  for this!"
Fartkin put away the money quickly. His puffy face expressed sadness that he
hadn't  asked  for more. "And  what do you want  from life on this beautiful
morning?"
     "Well...  actually... you see...  well...  to get  the  money  back  at
least."
     "Don't you worry!" Pasha said and went on.
     Hmmmmmm... what happened?  Does that mean that  my  logical thinking is
weak, too? Strange. My nervous system processes a veritable Niagara Falls of
information, and with its help  I make complex movements impossible for  any
machine (writing, for instance) and  yet I can't think fast enough to.... In
a word  I should prepare information on how to  be smart and think  fast for
introduction into  the computer-womb. If God didn't give it to me, the least
I can do is make sure my double has it. Let him be smarter than me.
     August 3. Yes, but in order to introduce information into the computer,
you have to have it. And it doesn't exist.
     I'm  dividing  my  time now  between  the  information chamber and  the
library. I've gone through a ton of books-and nothing.
     I could  increase  the  volume of the double's brain. That  wouldn't be
hard.  I can watch the  brain appear. But there is  no  correlation  between
brain  weight  and  the mind: Anatole  France's  brain  weighed a  kilogram;
Turgenev's brain, two kilos; and one cretin's brain almost made three kilos:
2 kilos 850 grams.
     I could increase  the surface  of the cortex  or  the number of ridges.
That's  just as  easy.  But  there  is no correlation between  the number of
ridges and  intellect:  a woodpecker has many  more ridges  than  our  close
relative the orangutan. So much for birdbrains!
     I know  what man's  mind  is related to: the  quick action of our nerve
cells. This is perfectly clear, and for electronic machines the quickness is
the most important thing. If the computer doesn't  solve the problem  in the
short time it takes for the fuel to burn in the launching rocket-the rocket,
instead of going into orbit, will fall on the ground.
     Most mistakes we make  are analogous: we don't solve the problem in the
given  time; we don't have time to figure  things out.  The problems in life
are  no  simpler  than  bringing a  rocket into orbit.  And  time  is always
critical.  It's terrifying to think how many mistakes are made in  the world
just  because we can only process two dozen bits of  information in a second
instead of two hundred bits!
     And so what? There are zillions of articles, reports, and monographs on
the  perfection  of  logic and  the  speeding  up of work of computers (even
though they can already do  close to  ten  million operations  a second)-and
nothing  about  improving the logic and speed of human thought.  The dobbler
goes around without boots.
     In  a  word,  how sad that  this idea will have  to be left for  better
times....
     Graduate student Krivoshein rubbed  his  neck thoughtfully.  "Yes, he's
right...." He  hadn't thought about that; it  never occurred to  him.  Maybe
because on a fellowship you don't  go  around lending  money very often. The
only thing that  occupied him was  improving his memory, and that came about
on its own. There was too much to remember at once to transform oneself. And
when the experiment was over, unnecessary information  cluttered up his mind
and interfered  with the new work. So he mastered  the chemistry of directed
forgetting: he erased from his cortex those  little details of new knowledge
that were easier to figure out again than to remember.
     But that  was  something else. He hadn't  thought  about  speed  of the
brain's  logic.  He felt  funny. He was so  engrossed in biology that he had
forgotten he came there as a systems engineer  to probe new possibilities in
man.  Did  that mean that he didn't direct the work, that the work had taken
him  astray? He  did what fell into  his  hands.  "Humanity could  perish if
everyone did only what he  could handle," Androsiashvili  had said. And that
was no joke.


     But  it's  easy  to approach  this  problem.  In humans, information is
transported by  ions,  and  you  can't  make  them go  any  faster,  the way
computers can. Oh, oh, I seem to be justifying myself! Man can solve complex
problems very easily:  move, work, talk, but when it comes to  logic he just
doesn't have the biological  experience. Animals in evolution didn't have to
think, they  had to  take action-bite,  howl, leap, crawl-and the faster the
better.  Now if animals  had  had  to solve systems  of  equations, carry on
diplomatic talks,  do  business,  and  make  sense of the world in  order to
survive-then what wonderful logic they would have developed! I have to think
about this, look around....
     August 4. The blinking lights on the control panel  of the TsVM-12 have
stopped. That means that all the  information  about me is recorded  in  the
computer-womb. Where  are they  now,  my  dreams, my  character  flaws,  the
construction of my intestines, thoughts,  and  average looks-in the cubes of
magnetic memory? In the cells of the crystal unit? Or are  they dissolved in
the golden liquid of the tank? I don't know, and it doesn't matter.
     Tomorrow, a trial re-creation. Only a trial, and nothing more.
     August 5.  2:05 P.M. "You may!" A new,  spectral me began appearing  in
the sunny liquid of the vat. The picture is the  same as a rabbit appearing,
but  at the same  moment as the circulatory  system  appears so does a fuzzy
gray mass at  the top of the vat; that becomes  the brain. The  brain that I
can't improve upon  with  new information. The eye sees but  the tooth can't
bite.
     But by four  in the afternoon the  new  double  has  reached the opaque
stage; there are intimations of underwear....
     If six months ago someone had  told me that questions of life and death
and  morality and criminal law  would  enter my methodology, I doubt that  I
would have been able  to appreciate the depth of the wit. And now I stood in
front of the tank and thought: "He's going to come to life now, climb out of
the liquid. Why? What will I do with him?"
     "I existed before I appeared in the computer," my first  double said to
me. "I was you."
     And he was unhappy with  his situation. But we'll