from them,  seek  the
correct  solutions!); he can be displayed to himself-instead of an  invented
hero-with his spiritual world, abilities,  qualities, and flaws. He can help
him find himself..  and then that great  information  will  become  his life
experience. It will take on the  universal  force  of truth that  comes from
scientific  information. This  will be a new kind  of  art-not written,  not
acted,  not  musical-everything  together,  expressed  in  biopotentials and
chemical reactions. The art of synthesizing man!"
     Suddenly he stopped. "Yes, but how do you do that in the computer-womb?
How do you create that kind of feedback? It won't be easy. Well-experiments,
experiments, and more experiments-we'll do it! We managed to create feedback
between the parts of the complex. The important thing is we have the idea!"


     Vano Aleksandrovich Androsiashvili wasn't sleeping either, in his dacha
outside Moscow. He was standing on the veranda, listening  to the rustle  of
the rain. Today at  a department meeting  they discussed  the work of  their
students. Krivoshein came out looking the  worst: in a year's time he hadn't
taken a single  exam; lately his attendance  at  lectures  and labs had been
erratic;  and  he  hadn't chosen a topic  for  his  dissertation.  Professor
Vladimir Veniaminovich Valerno expressed the opinion that the man was taking
up a place in the graduate department for nothing, getting a fellowship, and
that it wouldn't be a bad idea to free that spot for someone more deserving.
Vano Aleksandrovich had wanted to say nothing, but lost his temper, and said
many rash and angry things to Vladimir Veniaminovich about condescension and
disdain in judging  the work of young researchers.  Valerno was stunned, and
Androsiashvili himself felt bad: Vladimir Veniaminovich didn't  deserve that
kind of rebuke.
     Vano  Aleksandrovich had spent many an evening pondering the miraculous
healing  of  the student after he was hit  by the  icicle, remembering their
conversation about  controlling metabolism in  the organism, and came to the
conclusion  that Krivoshein  had  discovered and  developed  the  ability to
regenerate  tissue  rapidly,  an  ability  characteristic  of  the  simplest
coelenterates. He couldn't  imagine  how  he had done it. He was waiting for
Krivoshein to come  and tell him:  Vano Aleksandrovich was willing to forget
his injured feelings and  promise silence, if necessary. He'd do anything to
find out! But Krivoshein was silent.
     Now  Androsiashvili  was mad  at himself  for not  finding out why  the
police  were holding  the student  when he  had talked to them  yesterday on
their videophone. "Has he done something? When did  he have time? He came by
the department in the morning to announce that he had to go to Dneprovsk for
a few  days. Krivoshein's second mystery." The professor chuckled.  But  the
anxiety didn't go away. All right, there might  have been a mishap, but what
if  it was  something  serious?  Say what you will,  but Krivoshein  was the
discoverer  and bearer of  an important discovery about man. That  discovery
must not perish.
     "I have to go to Dneprovsk," the thought suddenly came to him. But then
the proud blood of  a  mountain  dweller  and  corresponding member  of  the
Academy boiled over:  he, Vano Aleksandrovich Androsiashvili, would  rush to
help out  a graduate student who  had gotten into a mess! A  student that he
took into the  department out of  pity and who had hurt him  deeply with his
lack of trust?
     "Yes,  rush off!" Vano Aleksandrovich shook  his head, calming himself.
"First of all, you, Vano, don't believe that Krivoshein committed any crime.
He's  not the  type. There's some problem or misunderstanding  there, that's
all. You have to help him. Second, you've been dreaming of a way to gain his
confidence and get closer to him. Well, here it is. Maybe he has good reason
for hiding. But don't let him think that Androsiashvili  is a man that can't
be counted on, who withdraws from  petty irritations. No! Of course, even in
Dneprovsk you won't begin to question him-he'll tell you if he wants to. But
that discovery must be saved. It's more important than your pride."
     Vano  Aleksandrovich  felt better because  he  had overcome himself and
reached a wise decision.


     Graduate  student Krivoshein  wasn't  sleeping  either.  He  was  still
reading the diary.



        Chapter 20


     According  to the  teachings of  Buddha,  the way  to rid  yourself  of
suffering is to rid yourself  of ties. Won't someone tell which  ties 1 must
sever to stop my eyetooth from aching? And hurry!
     -K. Prutkov-enzhener, an unumbered thought

     January 5. Here I am in the position  of a human rough draft for a more
perfect  copy.  And  even  though I'm the creator of the  copy,  it's  still
nothing to be happy about.
     "You  know,  your nephew is very  attractive," Lena said to me after  I
introduced them at a New Year's party. "Simpatico."
     Back at home, I spent a whole  hour staring  at myself in the mirror: a
depressing sight. And he was good at small talk; I was no match for him.
     No, Victor Kravets  was  behaving  himself like  a gentleman with Lena.
Either earlier memories  are  having an effect or he's just  feeling out his
possibilities in breaking hearts, but  he appears to be uninterested in her.
If he made the effort, though, I'd never see Lena again.
     When he and I walk around Academic Town or along the institute grounds,
girls who never  nodded to me before  greet me loudly  and joyously: "Hello,
Valentin Vasilyevich!"-with an eye on the handsome stranger next to me.
     And he's  so good on skis!  The three of us went out of town yesterday,
and he and Lena left me far behind.
     And how he danced at the New Year's ball!
     Even  Ninochka, the  secretary,  who didn't know the way  to the  lodge
before, always seems to be dropping by with a paper from the office for me.
     "Hello, Valentin Vasilyevich!  Hello, Vitya... oh,  it's so interesting
here, all these tubes!"
     In a word, I now can  observe myself every day the way  I am and myself
the  way  I would  be if  only... if only  what? If only it weren't for  the
hunger  during  and  after  the war, the  strong  resemblance to  my  father
who-alas!-was  not  too handsome  ("Pudgy-faced,  just like his father!" the
relatives used to say,  cooing  over me), the bumps and potholes in the road
of life. If only it weren't for my rather unhealthy life-style: the lab, the
library, my room, conversations, thinking, the miasmas from the reagents-and
no physical recreation. Really, I didn't try to become an ugly, fat, stooped
egghead-it just happened.
     In principle,  I should be  proud: I beat Mother Nature!  But something
gets in the way....
     No, there's something damaging about this idea.  Let's say  we  perfect
the method of controlled  synthesis. And we create marvelous  people-strong,
beautiful, talented, energetic, knowledgeable-you know, masters of life from
advertising  posters  like  "We  saved   at   the  bank   and  bought   this
refrigerator!"  But what about the  people that were  used  as  a basis  for
them-does  that mean that they were nothing more than rought drafts sketched
by life? Why should they be demeaned?  That's a fine reward for their lives:
regret for your imperfections, the  thought  that you will never be  perfect
because you were made by a regular mama and not a marvelous contraption?  It
turns out that with our  system people  will still be pitted against people.
And  not  only  against bad ones-against  everyone, since  we all  have some
imperfections. Does that mean that good but ordinary people (not artificial)
will have to be crowded out of life?
     (There! That's just like you, Krivoshein-you're so thick-skinned. Until
it  affects  you  personally you don't think  about  it.  "Whup  him  with a
two-by-four," as your daddy used to say. But all right, I got it now. That's
the important thing.)
     There's  plenty to think about  here. I  guess  all human flaws  have a
common nature-they're exaggerations. Take a quality that's pleasant to  have
in people around you: simplicity.  We're inculcated with it  from childhood.
But if nature flubs it, or your upbringing  spoils it, or if  life  goes the
wrong  way-you end up with sleepy  stupidity instead of  simplicity. You can
also get cowardice instead of reasonable caution, false conceit instead of a
necessary  confidence,  cynicism instead  of  sober  daring,  or  sneakiness
instead of brains.
     We use a  lot  of words  to  hide  our impotence  in the face  of human
imperfections: jokes  ("A bear stepped on  his ear,"  "He was  dropped  as a
baby"),  scientific  terms ("anemia," "personality breakdown/'  "inferiority
complex"),  and homilies  ("That's  not  for  him," or  "He has  a  gift for
that...."). We used to say "God's gift." Now in our materialistic age we say
"nature's  gift," but basically,  it's the same thing: man has  no  control.
Some have it and some don't.
     And  you can guess  why some don't. In  primitive societies  and  later
social  formations  man's  perfection was not compulsory. If you knew how to
live, work,  multiply, and be a little crafty-fine, it was enough! Only now,
when we  have  a constructive idea of communism, and not just a Utopian one,
we  are developing  real demands  to be  made  on man.  We  are taking man's
measure for this marvelous idea-and it's painful to see the things we hadn't
noticed before.
     January 8. I shared my thoughts with Kravets.
     "You want to employ the synthesis  method  on ordinary  people?" double
number 3 quickly deduced.
     "Yes. But how?" I looked at him hopefully. Maybe he knew?
     He understood my look and laughed.
     "Don't forget that I'm you. On the level of knowledge, anyway."
     "But maybe you have a better idea of what that liquid is?" I pointed at
the  tank.  "You  came out  of it after all... like  Aphrodite from the  sea
spray. You know, its composition and so on."
     "In two words?"
     "You can use three."
     "All right. That  liquid is  man. Its composition is the composition of
the human body. Besides that, the liquid is a  quantal-molecular biochemical
computer that can  teach itself and has a  huge memory, and each molecule of
the liquid  has some unique bit of information. In other words, do what  you
will, the liquid of the computer-womb is merely man in  a liquid state.  You
can draw scientific, practical, and organizational conclusions based on that
fact."
     I had the  feeling that this new problem hadn't captured him the way it
had me. I tried to stir up his imagination.
     "Vitya,  what if this  method is  really 'it? It's for ordinary people,
after all, and not-"
     "You go  to-(tsk, tsk, and an artificial  man at  that!).  I absolutely
refuse to look at our work from the 'it-not it' point of view and in keeping
with  a  vow I never made.  Nowadays you should  have a much cooler view  of
vows! (Well,  if  you  call that  a  cooler  view....) You want  to  use the
discovery to transform people?"
     "Into angels." I threw fat on the fire.
     "The  hell  with   angels!  An  informational  transformation  of  homo
sapiens-and that's  it! You have to look  at the problem  from the  academic
point of view!"
     It was my first opportunity to see  him lose control and turn  into ...
me. No  matter how you try to hide  it, the Krivoshein personality surfaces.
But  at  least he  was  churned up. That's the most important thing when you
begin a new research project-to get churned up and hate the work.
     As a result of a six-hour conversation with a dinner break we made four
steps in the realization of the new problem.
     Step  1: Artificial  and natural people, judging by  everything  (well,
even by the  fact  that  ordinary food wasn't  poison  for  the double)  are
biologically  identical.  Therefore, everything that the  computer-womb does
with  the doubles, can in principle (if you forget about the difficulties of
technical  realization, as  they  say in articles) be extended  to  ordinary
people.
     Step 2:  The computer-womb  obeys commands on  alternations in the tank
without any mechanical apparatus or control equipment. Therefore, the liquid
in the control circuit  is  the executive biochemical mechanism; it performs
controlled metabolism, as the biologist would say, in the tank-


     -"Damn it!" the student muttered and smoked nervously.


     -or  more accurately, transforms  external information into  structured
encoding in matter: organic molecules, cells, corpuscles, tissue....
     Step  3:  In  principle,  how  can  a  person  be  transformed  in  the
computer-womb? An artificial double  is  born  in  it  as  an  extension and
development  of the machine's circuitry. In the transparent stage he already
senses and feels like a person, but cannot function actively (the experience
with  Adam  and  Kravets's confirmation).  Then the double  continues to the
nontransparent stage,  detaches  himself  from  the  liquid  circuit  of the
computer-womb (or it from him), takes control of himself, and climbs out-no,
no, this  must be academic sounding-and unplugs from the  computer.  With an
ordinary  person, apparently, we would have to operate in reverse, that  is,
plugging the  person into the machine  first. Technically: immersing the man
in the liquid.
     Step 4: But can  a person be plugged into the computer-womb? After all,
what's needed here is  no  more and  no less that-I do know  something about
neurophysiology;  I've read Ashby-total contact of the entire nervous system
with  the  liquid.  Our  conductor-nerves  are  isolated from  the  external
environment  by skin, tissue,  and  the skull. In  order to get  to them the
liquid circuit would have to penetrate the person.
     We decided that it could penetrate. After all, man is a solution. Not a
water solution (otherwise people would  dissolve in water); there's not that
much  free  water  in a  person.  It's that damn quantitative  analysis that
confuses  everything, the hypnosis of numbers that comes when you take apart
human tissue  and get these  figures: water 75 percent, protein  20 percent,
fat 2 percent, salt 1 percent, and so on. Man  is a biological solution, and
all his components coexist  within him in unity and  interrelation. The body
contains  "liquid  liquids": saliva,  urine,  blood plasma,  lymph,  stomach
acids-they can  be poured  into  a  test tube. Other liquids  fill  the cell
tissues-the muscles, nerves, brain-and here each cell is a test tube itself.
Biological liquids even  permeate the bones, as if they were  sponges. Thus,
despite  a  lack  of proper vessels, man has  much more reason  to  consider
himself a liquid than, say, does a forty-percent solution of sodium hydrate.
     To be even more precise, man is  information  recorded in a  biological
solution.  Beginning  with  the moment  of conception, transformations  take
place in this solution; the muscles, intestines, nerves, brain, and skin all
form. The  same  thing-but faster  and in a different way-takes place in the
liquid of the computer-womb. So, however you look at it, the two liquids are
closely related, and their mutual penetration is quite possible.
     No matter how much  we wanted to  check  every  hypothesis  as soon  as
possible in the computer-womb, we controlled  ourselves and  spent the whole
day  on  theory.  We've  played enough  with chance.  This  time we'll  plan
everything thoroughly.
     So, the first thing is to plug in.
     February!. Ah, those were  good theories that  we were tailoring to fit
what had  already been done!  The building  block  game, the  mathematics of
"it-not  it"... it's nice to look back on how  smoothly it all went. Build a
theory to help you achieve new results that are much more complex.
     For now  the theoretical  liquid (the liquid  circuit) in  the  tank is
behaving like vulgar water. Just thicker.
     Do  I need to write how the very next day we ran to the lab bright and'
early,  and  in  trepidation  and  anticipation, stuck our fingers  into the
tank-"plugging in." And  nothing. The liquid  wasn't warm  or cool. We stood
around like that for an hour: no sensation, no changes.
     Do I need to describe  how we bathed the last two rabbits in the liquid
trying  to  plug them  into the computer?  The computer-womb didn't obey the
order "No!"  and didn't dissolve  them. It ended with the rabbits  drowning,
and we couldn't save them by pumping them out.
     Do  I need  to mention that we lowered  conductors into the  liquid and
watched  the  movements  of  floating potentials  on  the oscillograph?  The
potentials   vacillated  and  the  plotted   curve   looked  like  a  jagged
electroencephalogram. And so what?
     That's the way it always is. If I were a novice, I'd quit.
     February 6. An experiment: I lowered my finger into the liquid, Kravets
put on Monomakh's Crown and began touching various  objects with his finger.
J  could  feel what surfaces he was touching! There was something  warm (the
radiator), something cold and wet (he stuck his finger under the tap).
     That  meant  my finger  was  plugged in! ?  The computer was  giving me
information about  external  sensations through  my finger. Yes, but they're
the  wrong ones.  I  need signals  (even in  sensations) of the work of  the
liquid circuit in the tank.
     February 10. A small, innocent, trifling result. In scope it's inferior
even to making the rabbits. Simply, I cut the fleshy part  of my palm  today
and healed the cut.
     "You see," Kravets said  meditatively  in the morning, "for  the liquid
circuit  to have  the sensation  of working, it has to work. And  what is it
supposed to work on, I ask you?  Why should it plug  into you, or me, or the
rabbits? We're all complete. Everything is in informational balance."
     I don't know if I really figured  it out faster than he  did (I flatter
myself  into thinking yes) or whether  he just didn't want to  hurt himself.
But I began the experiment: I destroyed the  informational equilibrium in my
organism.
     The scalpel was sharp  and inexperienced. I sliced through my flesh all
the way to the bone. Blood drenched my hand. I put  my  hand in the tank and
the liquid turned crimson around it. The pain didn't disappear.
     "The crown-put on the crown!" Kravets shouted.
     "What crown? What  for?" The pain and the sight  of  blood kept me from
thinking straight.
     He  pushed Monomakh's Crown on my head, clicked the dials-and  the pain
disappeared instantly;  in a few seconds the liquid  was clear  of blood. My
hand was enveloped in  a  pleasant  tingle-and  the miracle  began: my  hand
became transparent before my eyes!
     First  the red plaits  of the  muscles showed. A minute later they  had
dissolved, and the white bones of the  fingers showed through the red jelly.
A violet blood vessel, thickening and thinning, pushed blood near the sinews
in my wrist.
     I grew scared and I pulled my hand out of the tank. Immediate pain. The
hand was whole, but  it shone as  if it had  been oiled; heavy drops dripped
off  from the tips of  my transparent  fingers. I tried wriggling my fingers
but  they wouldn't obey. And then I noticed  that my fingers were thickening
into droplet-shaped forms. That was terrifying.
     "Put it back or you'll lose your hand!" Kravets shouted.
     I put it back and concentrated on the  cut. There was  a delicious ache
there. "Yes, computer ... that's it.  That's  it,"  I  repeated.  The tingle
weakened and  the  wrist was losing  its transparency. Sighing in relief,  I
took out my hand: there was no more cut, just a big reddish blue scar. A few
transparent drops  of ichor  oozed in the crack. The scar  itched and buzzed
unbearably. This probably wasn't the end, then. I put my hand in  the liquid
again.  Again-transparency,  tingling.  "That's  it,  computer.  That's it."
Finally the tingling stopped and the hand was no longer transparent.
     The whole  experiment  lasted  twenty minutes. Now I couldn't show  you
where I cut myself with the scalpel.
     I have to figure this out. The most interesting aspect of this was that
I didn't have to give  the  computer-womb any special  information on how to
heal  a cut-as if I could. Probably  my little encouraging  that's it's were
superfluous. The feeling of pain had given  rise to rather eloquent biowaves
in my brain as it was.
     It looks like the computer-womb  plugs into  a person with  a signal of
imbalance in  the system.  But this  signal wouldn't necessarily have  to be
pain: it could  be  a willed command to  change something in  yourself or  a
dissatisfaction ("not it"). And then it could be controlled with sensation.
     A  minor,  ineffective  experiment  compared with everything  that came
before it.  After all the cut could have been doused with  iodine, bandaged,
and it would have healed on its own.
     But it's the most important experiment we've done in a year's work! Now
our discovery  can be used  not  only to synthesize  and  perfect artificial
doubles but to transform complex informational systems that are contained in
a  highly  complex  biological solution,  which  we  simply  call  man.  The
transformation of any person!
     February 20. Yes, the liquid  circuit  plugs into a human organism on a
willed command, too. Today  I removed  the  hair from  my arm up to my elbow
this  way. I  put  my hand  in  the  tank,  put  on  the  crown.  "Not  it,"
concentrating  on the  hair.  The prickling and itching increased. The  skin
became transparent. A minute later the hair had dissolved.
     Kravets  used  the  method to  grow nails on his pinky and index finger
that  were over  an  inch long. He  dipped both plams  into the  liquid  and
changed his  usual fingerprint sworls into something resembling the tread on
a winter tire.  Then he tried to restore the original pattern, but he didn't
remember what it looked like.
     Now  I   see   why  nothing  worked  with  the  rabbits-they   have  no
consciousness, no will, no satisfaction with self. This is a method for man.
And only for man!


     Graduate  student  Krivoshein  skimmed the  rest,  to  memorize it.  He
flipped through the pages of the diary,  photographing them with his memory.
It was  clear to him: Krivoshein  and  Kravets had  reached the same thing a
different  way-they  could  control  metabolism  in man.  But they needed  a
computer.
     And  it  was  important  that  they  needed  mechanical help.  Now  his
discovery wasn't unique, a  freak, but knowledge on how to alter oneself. It
wasn't enough to have a  method  of  transformation-you had to have complete
information on the human organism. They didn't have it and couldn't possibly
have  it.  And  his  "knowledge  in sensations"  could be  encoded into  the
computer and passed  on to the world. To  every human being. And every human
being could have unheard-of power.
     The student slitted his eyes in thought, and leaned  back in the chair.
The fight  against disease would soon be forgotten!  The  elements  would be
subordinate to man without machines.
     The  blue  ocean  depths,  where  he will  go  without  diving  gear or
bathyscaphe. A human dolphin will be able to grow fins and gills at will and
enjoy the water environment, live in it, work in it, travel through it.
     If he wants to go into the air, he can grow wings and fly, soar like an
eagle on the warm air currents.
     Hostile  alien  planets:  the poisonous  atmosphere of  chlorous gases,
heated by the sun and the uncooled magma or chilled by the cosmic cold, full
of fatal bacteria. And man will be able to live there as freely as on earth,
without  special suits or  biological shields. He will  merely transform his
organism to breathe chloride instead  of oxygen and perhaps change the usual
protein of his body to an organosilicon one.
     The important thing about man is  not that he  breathes oxygen. Not his
arms and legs. You can develop fins, gills, wings, breathe fluorine, replace
protein  with  organosilicon, and  still be  man. And  you  can have  normal
extremities, white skin, a head, and papers-and  not be  one! "Yes, but...."
Krivoshein leaned on the desk. His eyes fell on his original's notes.


     Disease and freakishness will disappear. Wounds  and poisons will be no
threat. Everyone  will be  able to become  strong, brave, beautiful, will be
able to mobilize the  resources of his organism to do work that  once seemed
impossible. People will be like gods! Well, what are you smiling wisely for?
This is really the method for the limitless perfection of man!"
     "I'm wise, so I'm smiling," Kravets answered coldly. "You're flying off
somewhere again. That's not the only possibility."
     "Oh,  come on!  Doesn't  every  person strive to  become  better,  more
perfect?"
     "Strives  in keeping with his concepts of good and perfection. For  one
thing, you might end up with "Krivoshein's cosmetic baths. "
     "What baths?"
     "You know... five  rubles  a session. A  citizen  shows  up,  undresses
behind  a  screen,  and sinks into the biological liquid.  The operator-some
Zhora Sherverpupa,  former hairdresser-puts  on  Mono-makh's Crown and asks:
'What would you desire?' This time I want to look like Brigitte Bardot,' his
client orders. 'But  make sure  my eyebrows are  thicker  and darker. My guy
really likes 'em dark.' Why are you frowning?  She'll even give Zhora a tip.
And the male clientele will  be turning  themselves  into Alain Delon or the
Nordic handsomeness of an  Oleg Strizhenov. And then next season the fashion
will be for Lollabrigidas and Vitaly Zubkovs, as seen in the picture...."
     "But  we  could program  a  minimal  retrieval of  information for  the
computer-womb... some kind of filter for banality and stupidity.  Or program
it to-"
     "-simultaneously instill inner qualities in the  mass consumer? What if
he  doesn't want  any? Doesn't  he have the right not  to  want any for  his
money? 'What  am I,' some little lady  will ask, 'abnormal or something. Why
do  you  think you  should  change me?  You're  the weirdos!'  You  see, the
reinforced concreteness of the  position of the middle-class boob stems from
his absolute certainty that his own behavior is the norm."
     "But we can make sure it's not the norm for the computer-womb."
     "Hmmm... I suggest a simple experiment. Please  put a  finger into  the
liquid."
     "Which one?"
     "Whichever one you won't miss."
     I dipped  my ring finger  into the liquid. The double put on the  crown
and went over to the medicine chest.
     "Attention!"
     "Ow,  what  are  you  doing?" I  pulled out the finger. It was cut  and
bleeding.
     Victor Kravets sucked his ring finger and then wiped the blood from the
scalpel.
     "Do you see  now?" The computer has no norms  of  behavior. It  doesn't
give a damn about anything. Whatever you command it to do, it does."
     We healed the cuts.
     Kravets brought  me down from the heavens-headlong down  a steep flight
of stairs.  We're a dreamy lot, inventors. And  Bell  probably thought  that
people would  use his telephone only for  pleasant  or  necessary news,  and
certainly  not  for gossip, or anonymous  denunciations,  or for  sending an
ambulance to perfectly  healthy  friends as a joke.  We all dream  about the
good thing, and when life turns our inventions inside out,  we just slap our
sides, like loggers in a forest, and ask: "What are you doing, people?"
     The  hellish  part of science  is that  it creates methods and  nothing
else. So we will have a "method for transforming information in a biological
system."  You can turn a  monkey into a  man. But you could  also turn a man
into a donkey.
     But I can't, I can't believe  that after our discovery things  would go
on  as  they were!  Not for the sake of science-for  the sake  of life.  Our
discovery  was  intended for  life:  it doesn't  shoot; it  doesn't  kill-it
creates. Maybe we're  looking in the wrong  place-the problem  isn't in  the
computer but in man?
     Graduate student  Krivoshein finished reading  the diary to  the  inner
accompaniment of these troubling thoughts. Had they worked for  nothing? Was
their discovery too soon, ahead of its time, and  could it harm  mankind? In
Moscow  he hadn't  given much thought  to it: the  discovery was only within
him-it  had nothing to do with anyone  else-and he just explored  it to  his
heart's content and said nothing.  Of course, after his bath  in the pool of
the reactor  he was  bursting to  share his knowledge  and  experiences with
Androsiashvili  and the guys  in the  form: radiation and radiation sickness
can  be  overcome!  But this  knowledge was  top  secret... "because  of the
dregs!" Krivoshein was angry. "Because of the dregs, of whom there are maybe
one in a thousand and for  whom that prostitute science prepares methods  of
destroying cities and nations! Only methods. I guess we'll have to just wipe
out those vipers. No one would catch me or shoot me... but then I'll be just
like them. No, that's not it, either.


     The student shut the diary and raised his eyes.  The table lamp was lit
without  illuminating anything. It was light. Beyond the window the matching
yellow  faces of the  buildings  of Academic Town  stared into  the  sun; it
looked  like  the herd of houses would  take off after the light any second.
The clock said 7:30 in the morning.
     Krivoshein lit up and went out on the balcony. People were gathering at
the  bus  stop. A  broad-shouldered man in a blue raincost  paced  under the
trees.  "Well,  well!" Krivoshein was  amazed by his tenacity. "All right, I
have to save what can be saved."
     He went back inside, undressed, and  took a cold shower. Then he opened
the closet,  critically  eyed the  meager selection  of  clothes. He chose a
Ukrainian shirt  with  embroidery. He gave  the worn  suit  a dubious stare,
sighed, and put it on.
     Then the student trained in front of the mirror for fifteen minutes and
left the apartment.



        Chapter 21


     "Hey! Stop! Don't be a jackass!"
     "Easier said than done,..." muttered the jackass, and
     rambled on.
     -A contemporary fable

     The man in the raincoat noticed Krivoshein, turned to him, and stared.
     "God,  what  a  bumbling  amateur  detective!"  Krivoshein  thought  to
himself. "None of  this watching my  reflection in store  windows or  hiding
behind a newspaper-he's pushing his way toward me like a preneanderthal on a
county bus!  Don't they  train  these guys?  They should at least read comic
books to improve their technique. A guy like this is really going to solve a
crime, hah!"
     He was angry. He walked right up to the man.
     "Listen,  don't you  ever get  relieved? Doesn't the seven-hour workday
law apply to detectives?"
     The man raised his eyebrows quizzically.
     "Val,..." he said in a soft baritone. "Val, don't you recognize me?"
     "Hm...." Krivoshein blinked, stared, and  whistled. "I  see... you must
be the double Adam-Hercules? So that's it! And I thought...."
     "And then, you're not Krivoshein? I mean, you are  Krivoshein, but  the
Moscow one?"
     "Right. Well, hello ... hello Val-Adam, you lost soul!"
     "Hello."
     They shook hands. Krivoshein examined  Adam's wind-burned, tanned face:
the  features  were coarse, but handsome. "Val did a good job, just  look at
him!" But the light eyes behind the bleached lashes hid a certain temerity.
     "There's going to be an awful  lot of Valentin  Vasilyevich Krivosheins
around here."
     "You can call me Adam. I think I'll adopt the name."
     "Where have you been, Adam?"
     "In Vladivostok. God...."He chuckled, as though not sure whether he had
the right to joke or not. "In Vladivostok and its environs."
     "Really? Teriffic!" Krivoshein looked at him  enviously. "Did you  work
on the ships?"
     "Not  quite. I  blew up  underwater cliffs. And  now I'm back  to  work
here."
     "And you're not scared?"
     Adam looked into Krivoshein's eyes.
     "I'm scared, but...  you see, I have an idea.  Instead  of synthesizing
artificial  people  I  want   to  try  to  transform  regular  ones  in  the
computer-womb. Well... you know, put them in the liquid and act on them with
external information. I guess that's possible, no?"
     Adam  was too diffident, he knew he was, and  was sorry that he put the
idea so clumsily.
     "It's a good idea,"  the  student  said. He  looked  at  Adam with  new
interest. "I guess we're not that different," he thought. "Or is it just the
internal logic of the discovery?" He went on. "But it's been done, Val. They
put  various parts of their bodies  into our native element. I think they've
even gotten in completely."
     "Is it working?"
     "It's working... only I'm not sure about the last experiment."
     "That's  marvelous!  You  see... then...  then  we  can  introduce  art
information into man with retrieval on  a feedback  basis."  And Adam, still
shy and confused, told Krivoshein his plan for ennobling man through art.
     The student understood.
     He  quoted  from  Krivoshein's diary: "We have  to base our work on the
fact  that man  strives  for  the  best,  that  no one,  or  almost no  one,
consciously wants to  perform  vile or stupid deeds,  that  such deeds are a
result of misunderstanding. Things are complicated in life; you can't figure
out right away  whether you're behaving the  right  way or  not. I know that
from  my own experience. And if you give a person clear information that his
psychology can respond to-about what's good, what's bad, what's stupid-and a
clear understanding that any of his vile or stupid acts will eventually turn
against him, then you don't have  to worry about him  or  his behavior. This
information could be introduced into the computer-womb as well-"
     "He's done that, too?" Adam was surprised.
     "No. There was only a vague idea  that it  was necessary. That the rest
would be meaningless without it. So your idea is right on the mark. It fills
in the blank, as  we say  in  academic circles. Listen!" Krivoshein suddenly
realized. "And with an idea like that you walked around, following me like a
detective instead of just hailing me or coming up to the apartment?"
     "You  see," Adam tried to explain, "I thought that you... were him. You
walked right past me, didn't recognize me, didn't acknowledge me. I  thought
you-or  rather he-didn't  want  to see me. We  parted  unpleasantly...."  He
lowered his head.
     "Yes.... Have you been to the lab?"
     "The lab? But I don't have a pass. And my papers are Krivoshein's, they
know them there."
     "How about over the fence?"
     "Over  the  fence?"  Adam  shrugged  in  embarrassment. The idea hadn't
occurred to him.
     "The man develops the most audacious, daring ideas but in real life ...
my God!" Krivoshein shook his head in disapproval and tried to explain: "You
have to get rid of that  lousy temerity  before life, before people or we'll
be  lost. And the  work  will be lost. Well, all right."  He  handed him the
keys. "Go  make  yourself  at  home and  get some rest. You've  been hanging
around all night; you need it!'
     "Where is... he?"
     "That's what I'd like to know: where he is, and  what happened to him."
The  student  looked  worried. "I'll try to clear all that up. I'll see  you
later. So long." He smiled. "It's really terriffic that you came."
     "No, a person can't be  thrown  off the track that easily!"  Krivoshein
thought as he headed for the institute. "A great project,  a major idea  can
subjugate  anything,  can make you  forget  insults and personal goals,  and
imperfections. Man strives for the best: he's absolutely right!"
     Overcrowded morning buses  rushed past him. The student noticed Lena in
one of the them: she was sitting by  the window and staring abstractly  into
space. "Ah,  Lena, Lena, how could you?" Reading the diary  had a tremendous
effect on him: he felt that he had spent that  year in Dneprovsk. Now he was
simply Krivoshein and his heart  contracted with the memory of the pain that
that woman had caused him (yes, him!).


     I know what our research is leading  up to, there's no point in kidding
ourselves: I have to get  into the tank. Kravets and I are  performing minor
educational experiments with our extremities. I even used the liquid circuit
to fix up my knee tendons, torn so long ago, and now I don't  limp. All this
represents  marvels in  medicine, but  we're aiming for something bigger-the
transformation  of  an entire person! We can't  putter around here, or we'll
spend another twenty years  around the tank. And I'm  the one who has to  go
in, an  ordinary, natural person. There's nothing more for Kravets  to do in
the tank.
     Actually,  I'll  be  testing  myself,  not the computer-womb.  All  our
knowledge and usage of the word "good" isn't worth a thing if man won't have
the will power  and determination to undergo informational transformation in
the liquid.
     Of course, I  won't come out  of the bath transformed. First of all, we
don't  have the  necessary information to  make substantial  changes  in the
organism  or  intellect; and secondly,  we don't need that for  a beginning.
It's  enough  to  experience  being plugged into the computer-womb, to prove
that it's  possible and not dangerous-and, well, to change something  in me.
Make that first orbit around the earth, so to speak.
     Is it  possible?  Is it  dangerous?  Will  I  return  from the orbiting
capsule, from the  experiments?  The  computer-womb is  a complicated thing.
We've  discovered  so many new  things  in  it,  and  we  still  don't  know
everything about it. I'm not too comfortable  with the  shining prospects of
our research.
     This  is the  very time I should get married. The hell  with my careful
relations with Lena; I  need her. I want her to be with me, take care of me,
worry about me, yell  at me when I come home late, but give me dinner first.
And (since  everything  is clear with  the synthesis of doubles)  let future
Krivosheins  appear not  from the computer  but as a result of good,  highly
moral relations  between parents. And let them  complicate our lives-I'm for
it. I'm getting married! Why didn't I think of it before?
     Of  course,  to get married now  when we're about to do this experiment
... well, at least there'll be a permanent reminder of me-a son or daughter.
People used to go  to war, leaving wives  and children behind. Why  can't  I
behave in the same way?
     This may  not be on the  up and  up-getting  married  when  there is  a
possibility of leaving a widow behind me. But let those who  have  done what
I'm doing condemn me. I'll accept it from them.
     May 12. "Marry me, Lena. Let's live together. And  we'll have  children
as beautiful as you and as smart as me. Hummmm?"
     "Do you really think you're smart?"
     "Why not?"
     "If you were smart you wouldn't make suggestions like that."
     "I don't understand."
     "There, you see. And you think you'll have smart children."
     "No, tell me. What's wrong? Why won't you marry me?
     She stuck the last pin into her hair and turned from the mirror to me.
     "I  love it when you pout. Darling Val! My lovely red-haired  bear. You
mean you've developed some honorable intentions? You sweetie!"
     "Wait! Are you agreeing to marry me?"
     "No, my love."
     "Why not?"
     "Because  I  understand a little more than  you do about  family  life.
Because I know nothing good will come of it for us. Just think back. Have we
ever  talked about  anything serious?  We just meet, spend  time....  Think.
Haven't there  been  times when I come to see you, and you're busy with your
thoughts  and you're not happy, even angry,  that I'm  there? Of course, you
make  believe-you  try hard, but  I  can  tell. What  will  happen  if we're
together constantly?"
     "Do you mean-you don't love me?"
     "No,  Val," she looked at me sadly. "And I won't fall in love with you.
I  don't  want to.  I  used  to ... to  tell  the  truth,  I worked at  this
relationship.  I  thought  a quiet and unattractive man  would love  me  and
appreciate me. You have no idea, Val, how I needed the warmth and comfort of
a relationship! But I didn't get warm near  you. You don't love me very much
either.  You  don't belong to me,  I can see that. You  have  another  love,
science!"  She  laughed  angrily.  "You've  invented all sorts  of  toys for
yourselves: science, technology, politics, war. And women are just something
on the side. Well,  I  don't want to  be  something on  the side.  It's well
known:  women are fools.  We take everything seriously. We know no bounds in
love and  can't do a  thing with ourselves...."  Her voice trembled and  she
turned away. "I would have said all this to you anyway. I was wrong again!"
     Actually, there's no  need for details. I  threw her out.  I'm  sitting
here over my diary.
     So, it was all planned.  Don't love  a handsome man, love a crummy one.
And I wanted to create a big family....
     I feel cold. Oh, so cold!
     Lena's not mercenary. Then what is she? Actually, she was right: I knew
that myself. And how! But this light relationship suited me before. "Will it
do?"-as they ask in the store, offering you margarine instead of butter.
     Nothing  happens  in  life to  no purpose. I'm the one who changed, who
realized things in time, and  she's  still the same. I  fell for a storybook
illusion, what a jerk. I wanted to get warm.
     And that's it. There will never be anything in my life. I'll never find
anyone like Lena. I'm not willing to go in for one-night stands.
     Lena didn't want to become my widow.
     It's cold....
     We've lost spontaneity, the ability to follow our feelings,  to believe
on  faith  because we  believe, to love because we're in love. It's possible
that it happened because everyone got burned  more than once, or because  in
the theater  and movies  we see  how  those  feelings are  manufactured,  or
because  life  is  so complicated  and  everything must be  thought  out and
planned-I don't  know. "Tenderness, in a  Taylor series expansion...."  I've
been expansive enough.
     Now  we  have to understand  with our  reason just how important solid,
strong feelings are in human life. Who knows, maybe it's good that it has to
be proven. And it will be proven. Then people will develop a new naturalness
of  feeling,  strengthened  by  reason,  and they'll understand that without
feelings there is no life.
     And for now... it's cold.
     Ah, Lena, Lena, my poor frightened girl! Now, I think, I really do love
you.


     Investigator Onisimov reached the New Systems Laboratory at 8:30 in the
morning.  The  guard  on  duty, Golovorezov,  was  sitting in the sun on the
porch, leaning against the door with  his cap  over  his  eyes.  Flies  were
crawling around his open mouth and on his cheeks. The guard moved his facial
muscles, but didn't wake up.
     "You'll get a bad burn on duty, comrade guard," Onisimov said sternly.
     The guard woke immediately, fixed his cap, and stood up.
     "Everything quiet here, comrade captain. There were no incidents in the
night."
     'I see. So you have the keys?"
     "Yes sir."  He pulled the  keys from his  pocket. "You gave them to me,
and I have them."
     "Don't let anyone in."
     Onisimov  unlocked  the  door and shut  it  behind  him. He  found  his
bearings in the dark hallway easily, maneuvering among the boxes and crates,
and reached the door to the lab.
     He looked around  carefully in the  laboratory.  There were  gelatinous
puddles  on  the  floor,  their dried edges  curling  up. The hoses  of  the
computer-womb hung limply from the  bottles and flasks.  The lights were out
on the control  panel.  The switches on the electric panel were sticking out
sideways.  Onisimov  inhaled the stale  air carefully  and  turned his head:
"Aha!" Then he took off his blue jacket,  hung  it neatly on  a  chair back,
rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.
     First of all  he rinsed the teflon tank with water, stood it back up on
the floor,  and removed  all  the  hoses and  conductors  from  it.  Then he
followed the power cable  and  found the burnt-out  part  that  had shorted,
eaten away  by acids, near the wall board.  He took  rubber  gloves from the
drawer,  got the right tools from  the cabinet, went back  to the cable  and
cleaned and patched it up with insulated tape.
     A few minutes  later  it was  all done.  Onisimov, taking  a  breather,
stretched and turned  on the electricity. The transformers  in  the  TsVM-12
began humming. The air vents rustled, and the exhaust fan whined, picking up
speed. The green, red, blue, and yellow lights  on the control panel blinked
aimlessly.
     Onisimov, biting  his  lower  lip  in  anxiety,  got  a  full  flask of
distilled  water and  added it to  all the flasks;  he got  Krivoshein's lab
journal  from  the  desk,  and  deciphering  the  notations, started  adding
reagents  to the bottles  and flasks. When he finished all this, he stood in
the middle of the room expectantly.
     The trembling light flitted from  one end of  the control  panel to the
other, and up and down  and down and up-tearing around  like a maddened bulb
on an electronic billboard.  But gradually the random movement began forming
a  pattern  of broken lines.  The green vertical lines were shaded with blue
and yellow lights. The red lights blinked more  slowly:  soon they  went out
completely. Onisimov kept waiting for the "Stop!" signal to go on at the top
of the panel. Five minutes, ten, fifteen... the signal didn't come on.
     "I think it's working." Onisimov rubbed his face with his hand.
     Now  he had to wait. So as not to sit  by idly,  he filled a  pail with
water  and washed the floor. Then he taped  up  the torn wires of Monomakh's
Crown, read the  notes in  the journal, got together some  more reagents and
poured them in. There was nothing else to do.
     He  heard  footsteps  in  the  hall.  Onisimov  turned toward the  door
sharply. Golovorezov came in.
     "Comrade captain, scientific secretary Hilobok  is out  there. He wants
to come in. He says he has something to tell you. Should I let him in?"
     "No. Let him wait. I have to talk to him, too."
     "Yes, sir."
     "Well,  I guess I'll  have to  talk to  Harry," Onisimov chuckled. "The
perfect time to remind him of recent events."
     May  17. But Harry Haritonovich bent the truth when he  said he  didn't
have time to write his dissertation!  He  lied. Yesterday, it turns out,  he
had  his  preliminary defense  of his  doctoral  at a closed session  of our
scientific council. We do what so many organizations do: before  letting one
of our people out into the world, we listen to  him in  our  private circle.
His  official  defense will take place  in a few days at Lena's construction
project bureau.
     Oh, Harry isn't lying for nothing! There's something going on.
     May 18.  Today I knocked at the  window next to which a local institute
poet, who wished to remain anonymous, had written in pencil:

     Be worthy of the first form.
     The enemy does not sleep!
     Major Pronin.

     I was  worthy. That's  why Joahann Johannovich let me into  the  closed
reading  room and gave  me a copy of the dissertation of  technical sciences
candidate H. H. Hilobok to attain the degree of doctor of technical sciences
on the top of... well, I can't write about that.
     Well,  brother....  First  of  all, the  topic deals  totally  with the
development of the blocks of memory that Valery and I had done long ago, and
it looks like Hilobok was at least the inventor and director of the project;
it doesn't come out  and say  so,  but you can  read  it  between the lines.
Secondly, he allowed himself  free  improvisation in part of the explanation
and interpretation of the results, and  made major mistakes. Thirdly, he has
long-proven facts,  determined  by  foreign  systemologists  and electronics
people,  introduced by "It has been  determined by experiments that...." How
could the scientific council  let that get by? It's May, and half the people
are on business trips or vacation.
     No, he won't get away with this.
     May  19. "Do you know math?" Kravets asked when I told him about it and
my plans for it.
     "Yes, why?"
     "Then add it up: two days to  prepare for participation in the defense,
plus a day for the defense,  plus a month of hassles afterward. You're not a
baby.  You  know you won't  get  by  with a  joke  like  this.  What's  more
important: you'll be squandering a month of our  work,  the results of which
will  influence the world more than all the technology extant today, or some
lousy  dissertation, which  won't affect anything?  One more or less in  the
world, no difference."
     "Hmm ...  and  now  I'll  show you a  different  math.  You and  I  are
identical  people with identical ability, and in some  ways you've surpassed
me. But if I were to go over to that Harry Hilobok and, without delving into
particulars, tell him that  student Kravets is stupid,  hasn't the slightest
understanding of  computers (even  is weak  in math), breaks  equipment, and
secretly drinks alcohol, what do  you think  would happen to Kravets? Kicked
out of the institute and out of  the dorms. And he's gone. He won't  be able
to prove anything  to anyone, because he's  only a  student. And  that's the
comparative power that Hilobok will have over us when he becomes a doctor of
sciences. Have I convinced you?"
     I convinced him so  well that he set off immediately for the library to
take notes from open sources.
     I  have another  justification: we have to  think  not  only about  our
research  but  also about defending the correct application of our discovery
some day. And we don't yet know how to do that. We have to learn.
     The hell with careful justification! I mean am I alive in this world or
is it only my imagination?
     May 22. It all  began normally enough. A small but  impressive audience
gathered in the hall  of the construction bureau. Harry  Haritonovich put up
several  sheets of  oaktag with  graphs  and  charts on the  board, struck a
picturesque pose next to them  and delivered  the  usual twenty-minute talk.
The audience  listened  with the usual discomfort. Some had no idea what  he
was talking about; others understood some of it; and still others understood
it  all: just what  this Hilobok was, and what  his dissertation was on, and
why he kept it secret. But all those present thought glumly that it was none
of their  business, and really, that they could not cast the first stone-the
usual sleepy  thoughts that permit thousands of inept and sneaky  louts into
science.
     Harry  finished. The chairman  read critical  response to the work. The
response was good (but who would submit unfavorable ones to his dissertation
defense?). The only serious unexpected thing was that Arkady Arkadievich had
written  a response to the work,  too.  Then the  official opponent took the
stage. Everyone knows what an  official opponent does: in order to  earn his
name,  he notes  several inconsistencies,  several  incomplete thoughts, and
"yet  in sum total  the work corresponds... the author is deserving  of...."
Well,  I won't lie about  this one: the opponent from  Moscow  was a  highly
qualified man  and  he mocked  all the propositions of the dissertation  and
made  it clear that  he could  expose  the whole  thing,  but he did  it  so
carefully and  subtly that  probably even Harry  didn't see it. "Yet  in sum
total the work deserves...."
     And  finally: "Who would like  to speak?" Usually by this time everyone
is disgusted by the proceedings; no one wants anything; the candidate thanks
everyone-and it's over.
     Laboratory  head  V. Krivoshein breathed in and out  deeply  (by then I
realized  how much trouble  this  would cause)  and raised  his hand.  Harry
Haritonovich was unpleasantly surprised. I spoke twenty minutes,  as he had,
and  in  unfolding my point  of view I  handed the council members journals,
magazines,  monographs,  brochures,  and so on  that contained  the  results
Hilobok  was defending without  any  mention of him.  Then  I re-created his
circuit for ... never  mind for what, particularly since its  only redeeming
feature was its "originality," and proved that the circuit would not work in
the frequencies of the required range. There was a hubbub in the hall.
     Then appeared candidate  of sciences V. Ivanov, who had  specially made
the trip from Leningrad (not without a phone call from me). He clarified the
borrowed  data  and  took  apart the  "original"  part  of the dissertation;
Valery's  speech  was full of erudition and  subtle humor. The audience grew
noisier-and then it began!
     My old friend  Zhalbek  Balbekovich Pshembakov  tried  to find out from
Harry how was it that in circuit number  two... it's not worth writing about
either.  Hilobok didn't know how it was, but he tried to get away with  some
bull and  babble. Then  the  other  colleagues  of the  construction  bureau
entered the  fray. The last speaker was the chief  engineer, a professor and
Nobel Prize winner  (I won't  mention his name in this context). "I had  the
feeling from the first that there was something wrong here," he began.
     So the  first form didn't help Hilobok;  they squashed his dissertation
like God can squash a turtle! Harry was  a pitiful sight. Everyone was going
off to his office and he  was taking  down his magnificent displays, and the
stiff oaktag rolled up and hit him in the mustache. I went over to help.
     "No, thank  you," Hilobok muttered. "Are you satisfied? You don't write
anything  and you don't let  anyone else do it, either. It's an  easy  life.
Valentin Vasilyevich, nature has endowed you with certain gifts...."
     "Sure, it's easy! My salary is  half  of yours,  and my  vacation time,
too. And I'm swamped with work and responsibilities."
     "You add  to  your  worries  unnecessarily. Why  did  you  have to  get
involved in this?" Harry, rolling up his displays, gave me a threatening and
angry look. "You have to think about the institute, not  just about yourself
and me. Well, this isn't the place to talk about it."
     So that's the ticket. Well, it doesn't matter. I feel wonderful now. As
though I had done something that was infinitely more valuable and meaningful
than even our discovery: I squashed a viper. That means  it's  possible. And
not as terrible as I had expected.
     Now  I'm not so worried about our work's future. Problems like this can
be surmounted, too.


     "But it did  have an effect on his work," muttered Onisimov-Krivoshein,
watching the computer-womb. "Everything has an effect on the work."


     May 29.  Today  I was called onto Azarov's  thick carpet. He  has  just
gotten back from a trip.
     "So you realize what you've done?"
     "But, Arkady Arkadievich, the dissertation-"
     "We're  not  talking about Harry Haritonovich's dissertation, but about
your  behavior! You've  undermined the institute's prestige, and in no small
way!"
     "I expressed my opinion."
     "Yes, but where? How? Is it so  difficult to comprehend that in another
organization you are not simply an engineer trying to even a scholarly score
with  someone (well, Harry  told  his side!) but  a  representative  of  the
Institute  of Systemology!  Why  didn't  you  express  your opinion  at  the
preliminary defense?"
     "I didn't know about it."
     "Nevertheless  you  could  have told  it  to my  replacement after  the
defense. It would have been taken into account!"
     (He's talking about Voltampernov-a likely story!)
     "It wouldn't have been taken into account."
     "I see we  won't reach  an  agreement.  What  are  your  plans for  the
future?"
     "I don't intend to resign."
     "I'm not asking you to.  But  it seems  to me that you're not ready  to
head a laboratory. A scientist working in a collective must bear the good of
the  collective  in  mind and at  any rate, certainly not deal it any  death
blows  by  his behavior. I  imagine that you will have  trouble, at the next
qualifying session, passing to lab head. That's all. I won't keep you."
     So that's how it is. The whole institute is  abuzz with turkey gobbles:
"An engineer against a candidate! Keeping him from his doctorate!" Thanks to
Harry everybody thinks that I was trying to settle a score with him. They're
dragging  out my old sins:  the chewing out,  the  accident in  Ivanov's lab
(Matyushin,  the  head janitor, is planning  to sue  me for  damages).  They
realized that  I  haven't  turned  in an annual  report  on my project, even
though topic 154 isn't  over until  this year. They say that a commission to
check on the lab's work should be set up.
     My  enemies shout. My  friends  whisper  carefully,  looking over their
shoulders: "You really  gave it  to  Hilobok.  The  jerk  deserves it. Well,
they'll  get you now." And they suggest  where  I should tranfer. "Why don't
you  intercede?" "Well, you see...."  Even good old  Fenya  Zagrebnyak  just
spreads his hands apart. "What can I do? It's not in my field."
     A narrow specialist has a  lousy life. Well-fed, secure, but lousy. All
his interests are  concentrated on elements of passive memory, say,  and not
on  any  old  elements  but only  on  cryotron  elements, and only  on  film
cryotrons and only on those made of lead-tin films.  The worker, the farmer,
the technician, the  broad-based engineer, the teacher,  and even the office
worker can apply his knowledge  and skills  to many activities, enterprises,
and companies,  but  there are only  two  or three  institutes in  the whole
Soviet Union studying those damned cryotrons. What can poor Fedya do? He has
to sit there and not make waves.  In effect, a  narrow speciality is a means
of self-enslavement.
     That's why  it's rare among us specialists to find all for one  (unless
the  one  is Azarov).  All  against  one  is  the more usual picture; that's
easier.  That's why passions flare up at the first sign  of insubordination.
"Anyone could be  failed like that!" yelped Voltampernov-and it went  on and
on.
     All  right, I'll bear it. I  can  take it. The important thing is  that
it's  done.  I  knew what  I  was  getting  into. But  it's  repulsive. It's
unbelievably disgusting.
     Onisimov put  out his  cigarette and  stared at the computer. Something
had changed slowly and imperceptibly in the distribution  of the hoses. They
seemed to  be  tensed. A  shudder of contractions traveled  through some  of
them. And-Onisimov jumped-the first drop fell loudly from the left gray hose
into the tank.
     Onisimov moved the stairs  over to the tank and climbed up.  He put his
hand under the hose. In a minute it was full of the golden liquid. The lines
in  his skin  were visible through it, as if under  a  magnifying glass.  He
concentrated, and the skin disappeared, revealing the red muscles, the white
bones,  the tendons.... "Ah,  if they  had only  known how to do  this,"  he
sighed.  "The experiment wouldn't have gone like this. They didn't know. And
it had an effect."
     He let the liquid splash into the tank, got back down to the floor, and
washed  his hand in the sink. The patter  of  drops from all  the hoses rang
merrily and springlike in the lab.
     "Work! You're strong, computer," Onisimov-Krivoshein said respectfully.
"As strong as life."
     He obviously didn't want to leave the laboratory. But he glanced at his
watch, put on his jacket, and hurried.
     "Good morning, Matvei Apollonovich!" Hilobok greeted  him  rapturously.
"Working already? I've been waiting for you. I wanted to report  something,"
he  whispered, bringing  his  mustache close  to Onisimov's  ear, "Yesterday
that. . . woman of his, Elena  Ivanovna Kolomiets,  came  to  his apartment,
took  something,  and  left. And there was someone else in there,  too.  The
light was on all night."
     "I  see.  You  did  the  right  thing  in  telling  me.  As  they  say,
jurisprudence will not forget you."
     "Oh, any time, it's my duty!"
     "Duty aside," Onisimov said in a stern voice, "aren't you motivated  by
other, stronger motives, comrade Hilobok?"
     "What motives?"
     "For   instance  the   fact   that   Krivoshein  ruined  your  doctoral
dissertation defense."
     Harry Haritonovich's face sagged for a  moment and then quickly took on
a look of injury at the hands of humanity.
     "Some people! Someone already had time to report that to you. What kind
of  people  work  here,  I  ask  you,  tsk,  tsk?  Don't  be  silly,  Matvei
Apollonovich.  How  could you doubt  the sincerity of my motives! Krivoshein
didn't have as tremendous an influence at the defense as you might have been
told. There were more serious experts there than  him, and  many approved of
it, but  he, obviously, was jealous,  and well, they  suggested  I make some
changes, nothing terrible. I'll be  up for it again soon. But, of course, if
you suspect me, that's up to you. Then check things out for yourself. It was
my duty to tell you, but now... good day!"
     "Good day."
     Harry Haritonovich left furious:  Krivoshein was  getting him from  the
other world, too!
     "You  really  let  him  have  it,  comrade  captain!"  the  guard  said
approvingly.
     Onisimov didn't hear. He was watching Hilobok leave.


     It leads to  one  thing.  But the question that comes up willy-nilly is
"Is it worth it?"
     Be straight,  Krivoshein: you can  kick the bucket in this  experiment.
It's that simple,  based on  your own statistics of  success and failure  in
your experiments. Science  and methodology aside, things never work the  way
they  should  the  first time-that's the old  law.  And  a  mistake  in this
experiment is more than a spoiled sample.
     I mean basically I'm climbing into the  tank as  a narrow specialist in
this work. That's my speciality, like cryotron film is for Fenya Zagrebnyak.
But I don't have to get in there-nobody's forcing me.  Funny,  I have to get
into  a  medium  that  easily  dissolves  live organisms  simply  because my
specialty worked out badly!
     For people? The hell with them! Do I need more than the rest? I'll just
live quietly for myself. And it'll be good.
     And everything  will  be  clear-with the lowest, coldest clarity  of  a
scoundrel. And I'll  have  to spend my life justifying my retreat  by saying
that all people  are like that, no better than  me, and even worse, everyone
lives only for  himself. And I'll have to drop  all  my hopes  and dreams of
better things quickly  so that they  don't remind me. I sold out! I sold out
and I have no right to expect anything better from anyone else.
     And then it will get really cold in the world....


     Golovorezov was asking him something.
     "What?"
     "I said, will my  replacement  be here soon, comrade captain? I came on
at twenty-two hundred."
     "Didn't  you  get enough  sleep?" Onisimov  squinted  at  him  merrily.
"You'll  have to stand it  another hour and  a half  or so. Then  you'll  be
relieved,  I  promise. I'll take  the keys with me. That's better. Don't let
anyone in here!"



        Chapter 22


     Einstein  had a boss, and  Faraday  had one, and Popov had  one ... but
somehow no one ever remembers them. Now that's a violation of subordination!
     -K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 40

     The window of Azarov's office opened on the institute grounds. He could
see the crowns of the lindens and the gray-glassed parallelepiped of the new
building rising above them. Arkady  Arkadievich never tired of the view.  In
the mornings it helped him chase away his neurasthenia and gave him  energy.
But today, looking out the window, he merely frowned and turned away.
     Yesterday's feeling  to loneliness and vague guilt hadn't passed. "Eh!"
Azarov tried to  wave it away. "Whenever anyone dies, you always feel guilty
just because you're still  alive. Especially if  the person was younger than
you. And loneliness  in science is natural and usual  for anyone  working in
the  creative  end. Each one of  us  only  knows his own field. It's hard to
understand one  another. That's why we  often  replace mutual  understanding
with an unspoken agreement not to pry into other people's business. But what
had he known? What was he doing?"
     "May I?  Good morning,  Arkady Arkadievich!"  Hilobok moved across  the
carpet, exuding cologne as he walked.
     Onisimov's subtle hint  had worried Harry Haritonovich. It occurred  to
him that someone might think that he was  evening the score  with Krivoshein
over the dissertation  by poisoning him to death. "It's  only  natural  that
when someone is killed  they look for  a killer. And around here, they could
easily,..." the assistant professor thought,  paranoid. He wasn't quite sure
who or what he had to be afraid of, but he  knew he had better be afraid, to
keep them from getting a jump on him.
     "So, Arkady  Arkadievich, I've prepared a draft of  an  order regarding
the  incident  with  Krivoshein, so that everything about him  ...  and this
incident  would  be formulated properly. There are only two  points here: in
regards to a commission and  in regards to the closing  of  the  laboratory.
Please read it over, Arkady Arkadievich, and if you have no objections-"
     Hilobok leaned over  the polished desk and placed a typewritten page in
front of the academician.
     "I've entered the following as members of the commission to investigate
the  incident: comrade  Bezmerny, safety  engineer-it's  just up  his alley,
heh-heh-Ippolit Illarionovich Voltampernov, as  a  specialist  in electronic
technology;  Aglaya Mitrofanovna Garazh, as a  member of the local committee
on  labor  defense; Lyudmila  Ivanova  from  the  office  as  the  technical
secretary  of  the commission ... and well, I'll head it myself if you don't
mind, Arkady Arkadievich. I'll take this burden on, too, heh-heh!" He looked
up carefully.
     Arkady Arkadievich was examining his faithful scientific secretary. The
man, as usual,  was  extremely well shaven and  groomed, his  narrow red tie
streaming  down a  starched shirt front like blood from  a  throat slit by a
collar, but for some reason the  sight and the sound of Harry Haritonovich's
mellow  voice  elicited  deep revulsion  in  the  academician.  "That  light
trembling  before  me  .  .   .  that  phony  subordinate  dumbness.  You're
transparent, Harry Haritonovich, through and  through!  Maybe  that's  why I
keep  you  around,  because  you are  transparent?  Because  I can't  expect
anything unexpected or great from you?  Because your goals are obvious? When
the  goals of a  functioning  system are  understood, it's a thousand  times
easier to foresee its behavior than when the goals are masked-there is a law
like that in systemology. Or is it just that I enjoy a daily comparison with
you?  Maybe that's why I feel this loneliness-because I surround myself with
people who are easy to tower over?"
     "And the second point is on the  ending, that is,  the stopping of work
in the  New Systems  Laboratory during the work  of  the commission And then
after the  commission we'll see  more  clearly  what  to do with the lab: to
disband it or turn it over to another department."
     "The  work there  had stopped of  its  own accord, Harry Haritonovich,"
Azarov laughed sadly. "There's no one to work there  now. And there's no one
to disband." He pictured Krivoshein's corpse again with its bulging eyes and
pained grin. The academician rubbed his temples and  sighed. "In principle I
accept your  idea  for  a  commission,  but  its  staff has  to  be  changed
slightly." He pulled the  sheet of paper over and took  out his pen. "We can
leave Ippolit Illarionovich, and the  engineer on safety procedures,  and we
need a technical secretary, too. But  not the rest. I'll head the commission
myself, taking on, as you put it, this burden myself, to spare  you. I  want
to find out what Krivoshein has been doing."
     "And .  .  .  what  about  me?"  the  scientific secretary  asked  in a
crestfallen voice.
     "And you  take  care of your own  duties, Harry  Haritonovich." Hilobok
felt very ill: his fears  were being justified. "He's estranging me!" He was
afraid now and hating  the dead Krivoshein much more than he had  ever hated
the live one.
     "There!  He's  really making trouble again, isn't  he?" Hilobok  spoke,
cocking  his head to one  side. "Look  at  all the  troubles now! Ah, Arkady
Arkadievich, don't you think I  can see how you're  taking  this? Don't  you
think I understand? You shouldn't pull yourself away from your  work and get
all upset by this. The  whole city will be talking,  saying that  Azarov had
another one  at the  Institute ... and that he's trying  to  cover it up-you
know what people are like  now. That Krivoshein, that  Valentin Vasilyevich!
Didn't I  tell  you, Arkady Arkadievich, didn't I  foretell that he would be
only trouble  and danger! You  shouldn't have supported his project,  Arkady
Arkadievich!"
     Azarov listened, frowned,  and felt his brain  being overpowered by the
usual  hopeless  numbness-like  his neurasthenia coming  back. This numbness
always hit him after a prolonged conversation with Hilobok and forced him to
agree  with him. Now his  head was buzzing with the thought that it probably
takes more  mental exertion to withstand babble like this than it does to do
mathematical research.
     "Why don't  I fire  him?" The idea popped into his mind. "Throw him out
of  the institute and that's that. This is humiliating. Yes, but  with  what
cause? He manages his responsibilities. He's  got eighteen works  published,
ten years' seniority. He passed the promotion test (of course,  there was no
one else  taking it at the time)-there's  nothing  to complain about! And  I
gave him that  favorable response on his dissertation like a fool. Should  I
fire him for  stupidity and ineptness? Well... that would certainly be a new
precedent in science."
     "He put  in  orders, used  up materials and equipment, took up a  whole
building, worked for two years-and here you go, this calamity is all yours!"
Hilobok  was whipping himself  up. "And  at my defense ... it wasn't just me
that  he  shamed.  I'm  not  that  important.  But  he  shamed  you,  Arkady
Arkadievich,  too!  If  I had  my way, Arkady  Arkadievich,  I'd  give  that
Krivoshein plenty for what he did to manage, I mean  managed to did, I mean,
to  do,  damn it!" He leaned over the  desk, his  brown eyes  flashing  with
intense hatred.  "It's too bad that we award only honors posthumously, write
pleasant obituaries  and  the like. De mortis aut bene aut  nihil, you know!
But that Krivoshein should be reprimanded posthumously, so that others would
learn a lesson! And a severe reprimand! And it should be entered-"
     "-on the tombstone. That's  an idea!" a voice added behind him. "What a
viper you are, Hilobok."
     Harry Haritonovich  straightened up so fast it looked as though someone
had given him a shot of rock salt in the rear.  Azarov looked up: Krivoshein
stood in the doorway.
     "Hello,  Arkady  Arkadievich,  forgive  me  for  showing up without  an
appointment. May I come in?"
     "H-he...  hello, Valentin Vasilyevich!" Azarov stood up. His  heart was
pounding wildly. "Hello... oof, I see you're not... I'm  happy to see you in
good health! Come in, please!"
     Krivoshein  shook  the  barely  proffered  hand  (the  academician  was
relieved  to  see the  hand was warm) and turned to  Hilobok.  Harry's mouth
opened and closed noiselessly.
     "Harry Haritonovich,  would  you please leave us alone? I would be very
grateful if you did."
     "Yes, Harry Haritonovich, go," Azarov said.
     Hilobok backed to  the door, bumping his head soundly on the wall, felt
for the doorknob, and rushed out.
     Gathering his wits about  him, Arkady Arkadievich took a deep breath to
calm his heart, sat behind his desk, and suddenly felt irritated. "Was I the
butt of a practical joke?" he thought.
     "Would you  be so  kind, Valentin Vasilyevich, to explain what all this
means?  What is this business with  your,  forgive me, corpse, the skeleton,
and so on?"
     "Nothing  criminal, Arkady Arkadievich-may I?" Krivoshein sank into the
leather armchair by the desk. "The  self-organizing computer, about which  I
spoke at the scientific council last summer, actually did develop...  and it
developed to the  point  that it tried to create a  person. Me. And, as they
say, the first pancake is a lump."
     "Why wasn't I kept informed?"  Azarov asked  angrily,  remembering  the
humiliating conversation the day before yesterday with  the investigator and
the  other experiences  of the last two days.  "Why?" Krivoshein flew into a
rage.
     "Damn it!" He  leaped  forward, banging his fist on the soft arm of the
chair. "Why  don't you ask how we did  it? How we managed to do  it? Why are
you more concerned with personal prestige,  subordination, the  relationship
of others to your directorial ego?"
     Krivoshein's announcement  had reached Azarov in its most general form:
he had gotten some result. Heads of departments and labs were always telling
Azarov about  their results, sitting in that very leather chair. And it  was
only as  a delayed reaction that Arkady Arkadievich began  to  realize  just
what kind  of a  result it was. The world shuddered and became unreal  for a
moment.  "Impossible!  No,  that's  just  the  point,  it is  possible!  Now
everything falls into place and I see." The academician spoke in a different
tone.  "Of  course, this  is ... monumental.  My  congratulations,  Valentin
Vasilyevich.  And...  my apologies.  I  jumped  the gun; it didn't  come out
right. A thousand pardons! This is a major . . .  invention, even though the
idea  of communicating  and synthesizing  the information  in  man has  been
expressed by the late Norbert Weiner. [Krivoshein chuckled.] Of  course this
doesn't diminish... I remember your idea, and the day before yesterday I saw
a  few...  results of your work. Since I am quite well versed in systemology
myself [Krivoshein chuckled again], I, naturally, am prepared to accept what
you've told me.  Naturally, I congratulate you from the bottom of my  heart!
But you must admit, Valentin Vasilyevich, that this happy event for  science
could have been  less worrisome and even less scandalous  if you had kept me
informed of your progress over the past year."
     "It's hard to get in to see you, Arkady Arkadievich."
     "You'll understand if I don't find that  a substantial excuse, Valentin
Vasilyevich!" Azarov frowned.  "I'll admit that  the procedure of getting in
to see me  might  be offensive to you (even  though all  the workers at  the
institute have to submit to  it at one time or another). But you could  have
telephoned  me,  left me a note  (not  necessarily  a  form  in  triplicate,
either), or visited me at my apartment, you know!"
     Arkady  Arkadievich couldn't repress  the  hurt.  "So... you  work  and
work..." kept  spinning  through his mind. For  a long time,  since the days
when his  unsuccessful  experiment with helium turned into the  discovery of
superfluidity in the  hands of a  colleague, Arkady Arkadievich had secretly
hoped to see, find, and understand something new in nature and the world. He
dreamed  about a  discovery with anticipation  and  trepidation,  like a boy
about to lose his virginity! But he had no luck. Others did, but not him! He
had high-level,  needed, much-valued and honored work to his credit, but  no
discovery-the height of comprehension.
     And now in the institute that had been entrusted to him a discovery had
been made without his knowledge, a discovery  so huge that it dwarfed all of
his work and  the work of  the entire institute!  They  managed without him.
More than that! It seemed that they avoided him. "How so? Did he think I was
dishonorable? What have I done to make him  think that?"  Academician Azarov
hadn't had to experience such strong feelings in a long time.
     "Hmmm .  .  .  while  sharing  your joy  for  this  discovery, Valentin
Vasilyevich," he went on, "I still am worried and saddened by your attitude.
This  may  shock  you,  but I'm  concerned  not as  a scientist  or as  your
director, but as a human being: why like this? Surely you could see that  my
knowing  about  the project  would do it no  harm, but could  only help: you
would have been guaranteed direction, consultations.
     If I had felt that you needed more workers or equipment, you would have
had that,  too. Then  why, Valentin Vasilyevich? I'm not  even  deigning  to
think that you were worried about your inventor's patents...."
     "But  that  didn't keep you  from  expressing  the thought," Krivoshein
laughed sadly. "Well, all right. In general, I'm glad that you're distressed
primarily  as  a human being; that gives  me  hope. For a while,  we debated
whether we should tell you about the work or not; we tried to meet with you.
We  couldn't make contact. And then  we decided that at  that stage  of  the
project it  was just as  well." He looked up at Azarov. "We didn't have much
faith in you, Arkady Arkadievich. Do you  know why? If  for no  other reason
than that even now, instead of finding out more about the work, you tried to
put the  discovery  and its  credit where  you  thought it  belonged: Weiner
said.... What does  Weiner's 'television' idea have to do  with this?  We've
done it completely  differently.  And you  know there wouldn't have been any
consultations: I can't see you, an academician, displaying your ignorance in
front of subordinate engineers. Another thing also: while you know very well
that  a researcher's  value is in no way determined by his degrees or title,
you  nevertheless have never missed a chance  to promote degreed and  titled
people into  positions  that others might have filled  better. You  think  I
didn't  know  from  the  start  what my  part  would be in creating  the new
laboratory? Do  you think  that your warning to  me after  the scandal  with
Hilobok didn't affect my last experiment? It did. That's why  I was rushing,
taking risks. Do you think that my attitude toward you isn't affected by the
fact  that in  your  institute  orders  for  exhibitions  and  other  public
relations nonsense always take precedence over things that are necessary for
our work?"
     "Now you're getting awfully  petty,  Valentin Vasilyevich!" Azarov said
in irritation.
     "Those were the  petty things that  I had to judge  you by;  there  was
nothing else. Or such a petty thing as the  fact  that a...  a... well, that
Hilobok  sets the tone for the institute-whether through your disinterest or
active support, I  don't know.  Of course, it's easy to feel  intellectually
superior next to Hilobok, even in a steam bath!"
     Color  rushed  to  Azarov's  face:  it's  one  thing when  you  realize
something for  yourself, and another when a  subordinate tells you about it.
Krivoshein realized he had gone too far and modified his tone.
     "Please  understand me correctly, Arkady Arkadievich. We had wanted you
to  participate  in our work-and  that's why I'm  telling  you  this, not to
insult you. There's  much  that we still don't understand in this discovery:
man is a complicated system, and the computer that creates  him is even more
so. There's work here for thousands of experiments and studies.  And  that's
our dream, to attract wise, knowledgeable, talented men to the project. But,
you see, it's not enough to be a scientist for this work."
     "I hope  that you will  familiarize me more thoroughly with this work."
Azarov was gradually getting himself under control,  and his sense of  humor
and superiority  was returning.  "Perhaps I  will  be of some service, as  a
scientist and as a human being."
     "Please  God! We'll familiarize you with it... probably. I'm  not alone
in this, and can't make decisions on my own. But we will. We need you."
     "Valentin  Vasilyevich,"  the  academician said, raising his shoulders,
"excuse me, but are you planning to decide  with your  lab assistant whether
or not  you will allow me near your work? As far  as I know, there is no one
else in your lab?"
     "Yes, and him too. Oh, my  God!" Krivoshein sighed. "You are willing to
accept the possibility that a computer can create  man, but you can't accept
the possibility that a lab assistant might know  more about  it than you! By
the way, Michael Faraday was a lab assistant, too. No one remembers that any
more. Arkady  Arkadievich, you must prepare yourself for the  fact that when
you join our project-and  I hope that you will!-there  won't be any  of that
academic 'you are  our fathers, we are your children' bull.  We'll work, and
that's it. None of us is a genius, but none of us is Hilobok, either."
     He looked at Azarov and grew pale, amazed: the academician was smiling!
It wasn't  one of his photogenic, only for the press, smiles  and not one of
the sly smiles that accompanied a witticism during a council or seminar.  It
was simple  and broad. It wasn't very attractive because of all the wrinkles
it created, but it was very nice.
     "Listen," said Azarov, "you've really  shaken  me up here, but... well,
all right. I'm  very glad that you're alive."  (The reader is reminded  that
this is science fiction.)
     "Me, too," was the only reply Krivoshein could muster.
     "What about the police now?"
     "I think that I can soothe them, even if I won't overjoy them."
     Krivoshein said good-bye and left. Arkady  Arkadievich sat at his desk,
drumming his fingers on it.
     "Hmmmmmm," he said.
     And that was all he said.


     "What else do I have to take care of?" Krivoshein  thought as  he stood
at the bus stop. "Oh, that's what!"


     May 3 0. It's interesting  to think about: I was  doing thirty-five, my
usual town speed and  that  idiot  in  the  green  Moskvich was blocking the
highway-his speed in relation to the highway was zero. And  his speed across
the road  wasn't  much  faster,  either.  He drove as  if he were driving  a
tractor. Who lets jackasses like that drive? If you're  crossing the highway
against  all the  rules,  then do it fast! But he would  drive a  yard, then
stop. By the time I realized the Moskvich was blocking my way, I didn't even
have time to brake.
     Victor Kravets, who  went  out there  to pick up  the  remains  of  the
motorcycle, still shakes his head over it:
     "You were lucky. I can't believe it!  If you had been doing forty-five,
I would  be making a  memorial stone out  of the remains and writing on  the
license plate, Here lies Krivoshein, engineer and motorcyclist!' "
     Yes, but if I had been doing  forty-five, I wouldn't have  crashed into
him!
     It's interesting what circumstances come into play in a fatal accident.
If I hadn't stopped  in the woods  for  a smoke  and listened  to the cuckoo
("Cuckoo, cuckoo, how  many years will I  live?"-it cuckooed at  least fifty
years), if I had taken two  or  three  turns a little  faster  or slower-our
paths  wouldn't  have  crossed.  But  this way-on  a  straight flat  road in
excellent visibility-I plowed into the only car in my path!
     The only thing I had time to think was "Cuckoo, cuckoo, how long will I
live?" as I flew over the bike.
     I  got  up myself.  The  Moskvich's side was bashed in.  The frightened
driver was wiping blood  from his unshaven face. I had broken the windshield
with my elbow. Served him right, the jerk! My poor  bike was on the road. It
was much shorter now. The headlight, front wheel, axle, and frame  and  tank
were smashed, squashed, destroyed.
     So  I went from seventeen yards per second to zero  in one yard. And my
body experienced fifteen g's. Ouch!
     The  human body is an excellent  machine!  In less than  a tenth  of  a
second my body had time to adjust to the best position for taking the crash:
elbow and shoulder first.  And Valery tried to prove that man had nothing on
technology!  No one's proved that yet!  If you translate the damage  done to
the motorcycle  into  human  terms,  it  lost  its  head,  broke  its  front
extremities, chest, and spine. It was such a good bike; it loved speed.
     Of course, my right  shoulder  and chest  took  more of a beating. It's
hard to lift my right arm. I guess I broke some ribs.
     Well,  it's for the best.  Now  I'll have something  to  repair in  the
liquid circuit  of the computer-womb. And not external, but inside my  body.
In that sense, the Moskvich was very handy. All for science.



        Chapter 23


     "Write  out a pass for  taking out a body." "Where's the body?" "Coming
up." (Shoots himself.) "Fine! But who's going to carry it?"
     -A legend from Singapore

     Policeman Gayevoy was sitting in the duty room, suffering from love and
writing  a  letter on  a  complaint form.  "Hello, Valya!  This is Aleksandr
Gayevoy  writing to you. I don't know if you remember me or not, but I can't
forget how you looked at me near the dance floor with the help of your black
and beautiful eyes.  The moon was big and concentric. Dear Valya! Come to T.
Shevchenko  Park tomorrow  night.  I'll be on  duty there  until twenty-four
hundred-"
     Onisimov  came in,  his eyebrows  furrowed into a  strict look. Gayevoy
jumped up, dropping his chair, and blushed.
     "Has Kravets been taken care of?"
     "Yes  sir,  comrade  captain!  He  was  brought in  at  nine-thirty  in
accordance with your orders. He's in a cell."
     "Take me there."
     Victor Kravets was sitting in a  small, high-ceilinged room on a bench,
smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke into  a sunbeam that came through the
barred window. There was a three-day stubble on his cheeks.  He squinted  at
the men as they entered, but didn't turn his head.
     "You should get up, like you're supposed to," Gayevoy said in reproach.
     "I don't consider myself a convict!"
     "And  you aren't,  comrade Victor  Vitalyevich  Kravets," Onisimov said
calmly. "You were detained for  questioning. Now  the situation is  becoming
clear, and I don't feel it is necessary to keep  you under guard any longer.
We'll call you if we need you. So, you're free."
     Kravets stood up, giving the investigator a suspicious look. Onisimov's
thin lips jerked into a short smile.
     "A high forehead, granite jaw, well-shaped nose . . . dark curls framed
his  handsome, round,  melon-shaped  head. Krivoshein the Original had  very
provincial  ideas   of  male   handsomeness.  But,   that's  understandable.
(Kravets's eyes bulged.) Where's the motorcycle?"
     "Wh-what motorcycle?"
     "License plate number 21-11 DNA. Being repaired?"
     "In ... in the shed."
     "All right. By the way," Onisimov's eyes narrowed  angrily, "you should
have sent the telegram before the experiment. Before, not after!"
     Kravets didn't know whether he was alive or not.
     "All right. We  will return your  documents to you  in a little while,"
the investigator continued in an official voice. "Good day, citizen Kravets.
Don't forget us. See him out, comrade Gayevoy."


     Matvei  Apollonovich showed  up  at  work  with a  headache  after  his
difficult night. He was  sitting  at  his desk, making out his plan for  the
day.
     "1.  Send  the liquid  for further analysis to  see  if  there are  any
undissolved human tissues in it;
     2. Inform the security organs (through Aleksei Ignatievich);
     3.-"
     "May I come  in?"  a voice asked softly, making Onisimov's skin  crawl.
"Good morning."
     Krivoshein was in his doorway.
     "Did  the  man  on  duty  send  me to  the right  place?  You  are  the
investigator Onisimov, who's in charge of the incident in my lab? How do you
do. May I?" He sat down, took out a handkerchief,  and wiped his face. "It's
only morning, but the heat is unbearable!"
     The investigator sat in stunned silence.
     "Well,  I'm Valentin  Vasilyevich Krivoshein, head of the  New  Systems
Laboratory at the Institute of Systemology," the visitor explained. "I  only
found out today, you see... that you're... that the police are interested in
this sad affair, and I hurried right over. Naturally, I would have given you
a thorough explanation yesterday or even the day  before, but... [shrugs] it
never even occurred to me that an unsuccessful experiment would lead to such
a to-do, involving the police! I  was resting in my apartment, rather unwell
after the experiment. You  see, comrade  Onisimov... excuse me, what's  your
name and patronymic?"
     "Apollon Matvei  ...  I  mean, Matvei Apollonovich," Onisimov  muttered
hoarsely and coughed to clear his throat.
     "You see, Matvei Apollonovich, it was like this: in the process  of the
experiment  I  had  to  immerse  myself  in  the  tank with  the  biological
informational medium. Unfortunately, the tank was unsteady  and turned over.
I fell with  it, hitting my head  on  the floor, and lost consciousness. I'm
afraid that  the tank must have hit my assistant too-I remember he tried  to
hold it up at the last second.  I came to under an  oilcloth on the floor. I
heard voices  in the  lab...." Krivoshein  gave  a  charming  smile. "You'll
admit, Matvei Apollonovich, that it would have been very embarrassing for me
to stand up in my own laboratory in  my birthday suit with a bashed-in head.
And that  liquid, it stings terribly, worse than soap suds! So I sneaked out
from under the oilcloth and scurried  into  the shower room to wash  up  and
change. I must admit that I don't know how long I was in the shower; my head
was spinning and my mind was fuzzy. I probably didn't  even  know what I was
doing. Anyway,  when I came out there was no one in the lab. And I went home
to  rest up. That's it in a nutshell. If you like,  I can give you a written
explanation, and we can end all this-
     "I see." Onisimov was gathering his wits about him gradually. "And what
experiments were you doing in the laboratory?"
     "You see ... I'm researching the biochemsitry of higher combinations in
a systemological aspect  with the addition  of polymorphous anthropologism,"
Krivoshein  explained blandly. "Or  the  systemology of  higher forms  in  a
biochemical aspect with the addition of anthropological polymorphism, if you
will."
     "I see.  And where  did  the skeleton  come from?" Matvei  Apollonovich
squinted at the box on the corner of his desk. "You just wait!" he thought.
     "Skeleton? Oh, the skeleton!" Krivoshein smiled. "You see,  we keep the
skeleton in the lab for educational purposes. It's always in the same corner
that I was put in when I was unconscious."
     "And what do you say to this?" Matvei Apollonovich removed the box that
covered the sculpted head of Krivoshein. The pale-gray plastic  eyes  stared
at the visitor who grew pale himself. "Do you recognize it?"
     Graduate student Krivoshein lowered his head.  Only now  was he certain
of what  he had  suspected,  and  what  he didn't want  to believe: Val  had
perished in the experiment.
     "Your story doesn't make sense, citizen! I don't know  your name or who
you are." Onisimov, controlling his feeling of triumph, leaned back  in  his
chair. "Yesterday you managed  to  mystify me but you won't get away with it
today.  I'm  going to arrange for  a  little  meeting  between  you and your
co-conspirator Kravets, and then what will you say?"
     He reached for the phone. But Krivoshein put his hand on the receiver.
     "Hey! What are you-" Onisimov  looked up angrily and  saw  himself... a
broad  face with narrow lips and a sharp  chin, a thin nose,  fine  wrinkles
around the mouth and small close-set eyes. Only now  did Matvei Apollonovich
notice the blue suit, just like his, and the Ukrainian shirt.
     "Don't fool around, Onisimov! It won't be what  you expect. You'll only
succeed in  making yourself look  foolish. No more  than twenty minutes  ago
investigator Onisimov released Kravets for lack of evidence."
     "So...." Onisimov stared as Krivoshein's  face relaxed  and took on its
former features:  blood drained from  his cheeks. He lost his breath. Matvei
Apollonovich had been in quite a few fixes in the line of duty:  he had been
shot at and he had done some shooting-but he had never  been this  scared in
his life. "Then you're... you?"
     "That is it: I'm me." Krivoshein stood up and walked over  to the desk.
Onisimov  squirmed  under  his  angry  gaze.  "Listen;  end  this  nonsense!
Everyone's  alive,  everything is in  place.  What  more  do  you  want?  No
sculpture or skeleton is going  to prove that  Krivoshein  died. Here he is,
Krivoshein, standing before  you! Nothing happened, do you  understand? It's
just the project."
     "But . . . how?" Matvei Apollonovich muttered. "Couldn't you explain?"
     Krivoshein frowned sadly.
     "Ah, Matvei Apollonovich, what could  I explain to you? You used all of
detection's    technology:    televideophones,    Gerasimov's   system    of
reconstructing the face... and  still... you couldn't even figure out a type
like Hilobok. And that's a clear-cut case with  him. There was no crime, you
can be sure of that."
     "But... I'll have to report. I  have to tell them something. What do  I
do?"
     "Now we're talking business." Krivoshein sat down again. "I'll give you
an explanation. Remember this part about the skeleton resembling me. It's  a
family  heirloom. My  maternal grandfather,  Andrei  Stepanovich Kotlyar,  a
famous  biologist in his day,  willed that he not be buried but embalmed and
his  skeleton  left to  his  descendants  who  went  into  science.  An  old
scientist's eccentricity, understand?  And apparently you  discovered broken
right ribs  in the  skeleton, which  naturally raised some  suspicion. Well,
grandfather died in  a road accident. The old man loved zooming around on  a
motorcycle  over  the speed  limit. Understand?"  "I  see."  Onisimov nodded
rapidly
     "That's better. I hope that this... family heirloom will be returned to
its owner after the case is closed. As  well as the other 'clues' taken from
the laboratory. The time will come," Krivoshein's  voice resounded dreamily,
"the time will come, Matvei Apollonovich, when that head will grace not your
desk but a memorial. Well, I'm off. I hope I've explained everything. Please
give me Kravets's  papers. Thank you.  Oh yes, the guard you were so kind to
leave at the lab has requested relief. Please let him go. Thanks."
     Krivoshein stuffed the papers in his pocket and headed  for  the  door.
But a thought struck him on the way. "Listen, Matvei Apollonovich," he said,
coming back to the desk, "please don't be hurt by my proposal, but would you
like to be  a  little  smarter?  You'll grasp things  quickly. You'll  think
broadly  and profoundly.  You'll see clues  and  delve  into the essence  of
things and phenomena. You'll understand  the human soul! And your mind  will
be  visited by marvelous ideas-things that will  make your cheeks cold  with
amazement. You see, life is complicated, and it will get  more so.  The only
way  to remain  at  a human being's  top  position  in it is  to  understand
everything. There is no other way. And that's possible, Matvei Apollonovich!
Would you like it? I can arrange it!"
     Onisimov's face, contorted in insult and injury, filled with blood.
     "You're mocking me," he  said. "It's not enough that you've . .. you're
mocking me too. Go on, citizen, out."
     Krivoshein shrugged and turned to the door.
     "Wait!"
     "What now?"
     "Just a second, citizen... Krivoshein. All right, I  don't  understand.
Perhaps you really  have the science for this.  I'll  accept your version of
the  story-I have  no choice. And  you  can think what  you want  of me...."
Matvei Apollonovich couldn't get  over the  insult. Krivoshein frowned: what
is he leading up  to? "But  if we accept your version, a man perished. Who's
guilty?"
     The graduate student looked at him carefully.
     "Everyone a little, Matvei Apollonovich. Himself,  and me,  and Azarov,
and others ...  and  even you are mixed up in it a little,  even though  you
didn't know him, because, without really knowing,  you suspected people. But
according to the criminal code, no one. That happens."


     "I think that's taken care of," the  student  said to himself as he got
into the bus.


     Tomorrow is the  experiment. Actually, not  even tomorrow, but tonight,
in  seven  or eight hours. I'm never sleepy before I have an important thing
to do, but I need the sleep.  That's  why I walked and  rode around town for
over four hours, to get worn out and distract myself.
     I was everywhere: midtown, suburbs, by the train station.  I  looked at
people, houses, trees, animals. I watched the parade of Life.
     A desiccated old man  hobbled toward me  with a yellowed mustache and a
red, wrinkly  face. He  had three  Saint George  crosses  and a  medal on  a
striped ribbon dangling from his gray sateen shirt. The old man  stopped  in
the short shadows of the lindens to catch his breath.
     Yes,  gramps,  you  had  your day  too! You've lived through a  lot and
obviously you want  more: you've  come out  to preen, you  cavalier of Saint
George! If we filled up your muscles with strength, cleared up your corneas,
wiped the sclerosis and fog from your brain, freshened up  your nerves-you'd
show the young punks a thing or two!
     Some boys wandering along, talking about the movies:
     "And then he gives it to him-pow-pow-with an atomic gun!"
     "And they go: bam-bam-bam!"
     "Why an atomic one?"
     "What other kind? On Venus-and with a regular gun?"
     A cat looks  at me  with  anxious  eyes.  Why do cats have such anxious
eyes?  Do they know something? They know,  but  they won't tell. "Shoo,  you
cat!" It skulked into a doorway.
     A man with  a  low forehead and  gray crewcut  walked  past: his  pants
hugged his  powerful calves and thighs  and his tee shirt barely covered his
well-developed  chest.  His face made it clear  that the fellow could handle
any of life's problems with  a quick uppercut to the jaw  or  by tossing you
over his shoulder.
     And we'll make muscles like that  for everyone-everyone will know about
boxing and judo-and then how will he feel about his ready answer?
     In  Shevchenko Park a  boy  and girl walked past me,  noticing no  one,
holding hands.
     You lovers don't need our  discovery. You're good for each  other  just
the way you are. But... anything can  happen  in  life. And danger threatens
your  love: life, misunderstandings,  good sense, relatives, boredom-lots of
things! If you manage on your own, more power to you. But if not, know this:
we can repair your love, fix it better than a TV set. It'll be like new-like
the day when you first saw each other in the movie ticket line.
     And  the woman  I ran  into  in front of the  department  store  on the
prospect! Her  body  was squeezed into a brocade  dress, a gold brooch, fake
amber  necklace,  with sweat spots the size of plates under her arms and  on
her back! The blue brocade glistened with all the colors of a stormy sea.
     Fie on you, madame! How can you  stuff yourself  into brocade  in  this
heat. It's not a Saint George  Cross,  you know! Your husband  doesn't  love
you,  does he,  madame? He stares  in horror at your arms, as  thick as  his
legs, at that fatty hump  on  your back. You  are  miserable madame. I don't
feel  sorry  for you, but I understand. Your husband  doesn't love you;  the
children  don't  appreciate  you;  the  doctors  don't  sympathize;  and the
neighbors-oof, the neighbors! All right,  madame, we'll figure out something
for you  as well. After all, you too have the right to an additional portion
of happiness in  the  human  line. But, speaking  of happiness, madame, your
taste worries  me.  No,  no, I  understand: you stuffed  yourself  into  the
brocade, put on the  horrible earrings and necklace that do nothing for you,
and  decorated your fingers with rings to  prove that you are no  worse than
anyone else, that you have everything. But, forgive me,  madame,  you  don't
have a  damn  thing.  And I'm  afraid that we'll have to  improve your taste
along with your body, as well as you mind and feelings. For the same  money,
madame, don't worry. Otherwise it's not worth it: you'll just waste your new
beauty and freshness in restaurants and parties and on lovers. In that case,
why should we  bother? The true beauty,  madame, lies in  the harmony of the
body, mind, and spirit.
     Two pretty girls  walked past without  giving me  a  glance. Why should
they? The sky is clear. The sun is high. Exams are behind them. And this bus
takes them to the beach.
     A little kid,  who wasn't  allowed  outside,  pressed his nose  to  the
windowpane. He caught my  eye and made a face. I made a face at him. Then he
did a whole act for me.
     I love life, oh, how I love life! I don't need it to be any better. Let
it stay just as it is, as long as ... as long as what? What? Oh, you!
     That's  the whole  point, it has to be better.  There's too much  wrong
with the world.
     And  I'll  go.  I haven't sold you out, people. We'll be  able to do so
many  things with this method:  give people looks and  wisdom, introduce new
abilities,  even new qualities in them. Let's say, we  could make a man have
radio feelings, so  that he could  see in the dark, hear  ultrasounds, sense
magnetic  waves,  count  time   to  the  fraction  of  a  second  without  a
chronometer, and  even  read people's thoughts  at a distance-would you