dressed in white.
"You may ask questions - your memory will come back."
"What's the matter with me?"
"You had an operation. A heart transplant. After an accident. Do you
remember?"
"Now I remember," I cried. "Is it plastic?"
"Is what plastic?"
"The heart, naturally. Or is it a metal one?"
She laughed with the superiority of a school-teacher who receives a
stupid answer from a pupil.
"It's not for nothing that they say you live in the twentieth century."
I was frightened. Could they know everything? But perhaps that was even
better.... I wouldn't have to explain anything, not make up stories. But
just in case, I asked: "Why?"
"But don't you? Artificial hearts were employed very long ago. We
changed that, and use organic material grown in a special medium. But you
think in terms of the twentieth century: the usual thing with historians.
They say you know all about the twentieth century. Even what kind of shoos
were worn."
"Heels on spikes," I laughed.
"What's that?"
"Spike-heel shoes."
"I don't understand."
I gave a start. The wide-spread, century-old daily word which had lived
to the age of nuclear physics apparently had disappeared from the vocabulary
of the twenty-first century. What do they use in place of nails or spikes, I
wonder? Glue?
"Look here, my dear girl..." I began.
But she interrupted with a laugh.
"Is that how they spoke in that century - 'my dear girl'?"
"Absolutely," I assured her seriously. "I'm fed up lying here. I want
to get dressed and go out."
She frowned.
"You may get dressed: clothes will be given you. But you mustn't go out
yet. The process of observation is still not over. The more so after shock
with loss of memory. We shall still check your organism as to the
neuro-functions habitual to you."
"Here?"
"Of course. You will receive your 'mechanical historian', the best and
latest model, by the way. Without any button controls. Fully automatic,
responds to your voice."
"And will you look and listen?"
"Certainly."
"Then it's no go," I said. "I'm not going to get dressed and work in
front of you."
A merry surprise was reflected in her eyes. She had difficulty in
muffling her laughter.
"Why not?" she asked, her hand covering her mouth.
"Because I live in the twentieth century," I snapped.
"All right," she said. "I'll turn off the video-graph. But the inner
organic processes will remain under observation."
"All right," I said. "You may be the seventh, but you're smart."
Again she failed to catch my meaning, but I only waved good-bye. Either
she had never read Chekhov or had forgotten. Her sweet face had already
disappeared from the screen. Suddenly, part of the wall melted away, letting
into the room something resembling a radiator made of interlaced
right-angled pipes. The 'something' turned out to be an ordinary mobile
wardrobe hanger, on which my proposed clothes were conveniently hung.
I chose narrow, light-coloured trousers, which fastened at the ankle
like our ski-pants; then a sweater to match that reminded me of our familiar
West-Side style. The reflection in the mirrored surface of the screen was
not much like me, but quite respectable and nice to look at. It wouldn't do
to meet the people of this new century in underclothing! I turned round when
I heard a noise behind me, as if someone was tip-toeing in. However, it
wasn't a person, but an object somewhat reminiscent of a refrigerator or a
fire-proof safe. How it came in I don't know: it seemed to appear out of the
air in place of the disappearing mobile clothes hanger. It came in and
stopped, winking the green eye of its indicator.
"I wonder," I said aloud, "if this could be my 'mechanical historian'?"
The green eye turned red.
"Mist-12 for short," said the safe in an even, hollow voice lacking all
richness of intonation. "I'm at your service."
MIST'S GLOSSARY
I was long silent before I opened the conversation. I trusted the girl:
she wouldn't eavesdrop or watch. But what could I talk to this mechanical
Cyclops about? Couldn't carry on social talk.
"How great is your information?" I asked carefully.
"Encyclopaedic," came the quick answer. "More than a million
references. I can name the exact figure."
"No need of that. And the subjects of the references? "
"The limit of the glossary extends to the start of the twentieth
century. The nature of the references is unlimited."
I wanted to check up on it.
"Give me the name and surname of the third cosmonaut."
"Andriyan Nikolaev."
It was quite correct - the answers coincided with the facts. I
pondered, and asked another question.
"Who won the Nobel Prize in literature in 1964?"
"Sartre. But he refused it."
"And who is Sartre?"
"A French writer and an existentialist-philosopher. I can formulate the
essence of existentialism."
"No need for that either. When was the Aswan Dam built?"
"The first part was finished in 1969. The second...."
"Enough," I interrupted him, thinking with satisfaction that we had
built it five years earlier. Apparently, not everything in this world
coincided literally with ours.
The Mist was silent. It knew a great deal. I could begin a conversation
about our experiment, the next important topic for me. But I couldn't decide
to approach it directly.
"Tell me what the biggest scientific discovery was in the early part of
the century," I began, choosing my way carefully.
"The theory of relativity," it replied without hesitation.
"And at the end of the century?"
"The scientists Nikodimov and Janovski discovered the phase
trajectories of space."
I almost jumped up on the spot, ready to kiss this impassive Cyclops
with the winking eye-it winked at me every time he rapped out an answer. But
all I did was ask another question.
"Why Janovski and not Zargaryan?"
"At the end of the eighties, the Polish mathematician Janovski brought
out additional corrections to the theory. Zargaryan did not take part, save
in the early experiments. He died in a motor accident long before the
success of the first cross-world traveller permitted Nikodimov to publish
the discovery."
I understood, of course, that it wasn't my Zargaryan, but just the same
my heart missed a beat.
"Who was the first cross-world traveller then?"
"Sergei Gromov, your great grandfather," rapped out the Mist in its
hollow, metallic voice.
It was not at all surprised at the stupidity of my question. Who should
know all about the doings of his forefather if not his descendant? But
surprise had not been programmed into the crystals of the Mist's cybernetic
brain.
"Do you need the bibliographic references?" he asked.
"No," I said, and sat on the bed gripping my temples.
However, my invisible Vera-seven hadn't forgotten me.
"Your pulse is fast," she said.
"That's possible."
"I'll turn on the videograph."
"Wait," I stopped her. "I'm very interested in working with the Mist.
It's an amazing machine. Thank you for sending it."
The Mist waited. Its red eye was again green.
"Did Nikodimov have scientific opponents?" I asked.
"Even Einstein had them," said the Mist. "Who pays them any attention?"
"What were their objections?"
"The theory was completely refuted by the church. A World Congress of
Church Organizations, held in Brussels in the eighties, looked upon the
theory as the most harmful heresy to be proclaimed over the last two
thousand years. Three years before that, a special Papal Bull had declared
it a blasphemous perversion of the teachings of Jesus Christ, the Son of
God, and a return to the pagan doctrine of many gods. As many Christs for as
many worlds. This could not be endured by either bishops or patriarchs. And
an eminent scientist, the Italian physiologist Pirelli, called the phase
theory the most effective scientific discovery of the century as far as its
anti-religious trend went which was absolutely incompatible with the idea of
one God. It is true, however, that something was done to make it compatible.
The American philosopher Hellman, for instance, explained that the
Berkeleian 'thing in itself ' was a phase movement of material."
"Ravings of the Old Grey Mare," I said.
"I do not understand," responded my Cyclops. "A mare is a sexual gender
of a horse. Grey is a colour. Ravings are disconnected speech. A crazy
horse? No, I do not understand."
"Simply an idiom of speech. The approximate idea is absurd, below
normal. Comes from 'The old grey mare, she ain't what she used to be' - a
song."
"I shall programme it," said the Mist. "Correction of Gromov to
idiomatic speech."
"All right," I stopped him. "Better tell me about phases. Are they all
similar?"
"Marxist science affirms they are. By way of experiment, it has been
shown that many are similar. Theoretically, it relates to all of them."
"And were there any objections to the idea?"
"Of course. Opponents of the materialistic conception of history
insisted that similarity was not obligatory. They proceeded from the premise
that chance plays a role in the life of man and society. If it weren't for
the crusades, they said, the history of the Middle Ages would have been
different. Without Napoleon, the map of new Europe would have differed. And
if Hitler had been absent from German political life, the world would not
have been led into World War Two. All this has long been disproved.
Historical and social processes do not depend on chance which changes one or
another individual destiny. Such processes are obedient to the laws of
historical development that are common to all."
I remembered my argument with Klenov and my question: 'But, you see,
there is such a possibility - there is no Hitler. He was never born. What
then?'
And the Mist repeated Klenov's answer almost word for word: 'There
would have appeared another fuehrer. A little earlier, or a bit later, but
he would have appeared. You see, the deciding factor is not a matter of
personality, but the economic situation of the thirties. The objective
chance of the appearance of such a personality obeys the law of historical
necessity.'
"So everywhere it is one and the same thing?" I asked. "In all phases,
in all worlds? The same historical figures? The same crusades, wars,
revolutions? The same changes of social formations? "
"Everywhere. The difference is only in time, but not in development.
The changes of the social and economic formations in any phase are akin.
They are dictated by the development of the productive forces."
"So they thought last century. But now?"
"I don't know. I am not programmed on that. But my design conforms with
the probability theory and I can make conclusions independent of
programming. The laws of dialectical materialism remain true not only for
the past."
"Another question, Mist. Is the mathematical expression of the phase
theory very complicated?"
"It includes the general formulas, the calculations of Janovski and
Shual's system of equations. There are three pages on it in the textbooks. I
can recite them."
"Only orally?"
"I can give them graphically."
"Will it take long?"
"One minute."
I heard a slight noise, like the buzzing of an electric razor, and the
front panel of the machine lowered to become a shelf on metal hinges. On the
shelf lay two white accurate right-angled cards, closely covered with
certain ciphers and signs. When I picked them up, the panel closed so tight
I could not see any line of demarcation.
Behind me came a thin, childish voice.
"I'm here, Pop. Are you angry?"
I turned. A boy of six or seven years stood by the white wall. He wore
a sky-blue suit tightly outlining his body. He looked like a picture from a
children's fashion magazine where they always draw such handsome,
athletic-looking boys.
A FATHER'S RIGHT
"How did you come in?" I asked.
He walked backward and disappeared. The wall was as even and white as
before. Then a cunning face peeked through it, and the boy appeared in the
room like 'the man who walked through walls'.
"Light and sound protectors," I remembered. Here they used white to
give a complete illusion of walls.
"I sneaked in secretly," admitted the boy. "Mom didn't see, and Vera
turned off the eye."
"How do you know?"
"The eye looks in here through the gym. When you run in there, she
cries out: 'Go away, Ram. You're in the field of vision.'"
"Where does she cry out from?"
"From far away. In the hospital." He pointed off somewhere as if
pointing to it.
I didn't say the probably expected 'Clear enough' because it wasn't
clear at all.
"And Julia's been crying," Ram informed me.
"Why is that?"
"Over you. You objected to the experiment. That's bad, Pop. That's no
way to act."
"What experiment is it?" I asked out of curiosity.
"They want to turn her into an invisible cloud. Like in a fairy story.
The cloud will fly and fly away, and then return. And it will become Julia
again."
"And I wouldn't give my permission?"
"You refused to. You're afraid the cloud won't come back."
Now I was completely lost. Lost in the woods.
Vera came to my rescue by reminding me of my pulse again.
"Vera," I begged, "can you clear this up? Why did I refuse to let Julia
become invisible? It's all my rotten memory!"
I heard a familiar laugh.
"How oddly you talk. Rot-ten.... It sounds so funny. As for Julia, you
must decide that for yourself - it's a family matter. That's why Aglaya
tries to get in to see you. I wouldn't let her, afraid of exciting you. But
she insists."
"Let her in," I said. "I'll try to keep calm."
I couldn't risk asking who Aglaya was. I'd get by somehow. I looked at
the place where Ram had just vanished, but Aglaya came in from the opposite
side. She came in as if she had every right to be here, and sat across from
me. She was a tall woman, under forty, and wore a dress of marvellous cut
and colour. She would have looked just right in our world on the platform at
any kind of international festival.
"You look well," she remarked, looking at me closely. "Even better than
before the operation. And with a new heart you'll probably live to a
hundred."
"But what if I won't live to a hundred?"
"Why shouldn't you? Biological incompatibility was frightening only in
your favourite century."
I hesitantly shrugged, leaving the conversation in her hands. A game of
surprises was beginning. Who was she to me? And I to her? What did she want
of me? The ground was getting slippery, every step called for a quick wit,
and fast thinking.
Our talk began at once.
"So you've agreed?" she asked unexpectedly.
"To what?"
"As if you don't know. I spoke with Anna."
"About what?"
"Don't pretend. You know what I'm talking about. You agreed to the
experiment."
What experiment? And who was Anna? Why must I agree or disagree?
"Did they force you to?" she asked me.
"Who?"
"Don't mention names, the child will hear. And after such an operation.
Before you're yourself again. A new heart. Blood vessels with cosmetic
seals! And they come to you with an ultimatum: agree, and that's all!"
"There's no need to exaggerate," I said, feeling my way.
"I'm not. I know all about it. And Anna supports it because she's all
wrapped up in science. She simply has no biological feelings! Julia's not
her daughter. But she's yours. And she's my granddaughter."
I thought that for a father and grandmother, we were too young-looking
to have a grown-up daughter who was going in for some kind of complex
scientific experiment. I remembered Ram's story and smiled.
"And he can still smile!" cried out my companion.
I had to tell her the story of the invisible cloud, as Ram had
interpreted it.
"So Anna hasn't told her. That was wise. Now you can withdraw your
permission."
"Why should I?"
"And you will permit them to turn your daughter into some kind of
cloud? What if it melts away? Or the atomic structure cannot be restored?
Let Bogomolov experiment on himself! They won't let him, d'you see. Too old,
they say, and weak. Is it any easier for you and I that she is young and
strong?" Aglaya paced around the room like an angry Brunhilda. "I don't
understand you, Sergei. You were so hotly against it."
"But I agreed, you see," I objected.
"I don't believe there was an agreement!" she screamed. "And Julia
doesn't know anything about it. You tell her they'll have to cancel the
experiment ... she'll be here in a minute. A person is not the sole master
of his fate when he has a mother or father."
I had a flash of hope: "Maybe the experiment won't take place very
soon?"
"It's arranged for today."
I thought it over. Julia, apparently, was around twenty, maybe a bit
younger or older. She was the assistant of a professor, or something like
that. They were going to carry out an experiment which to us would seem
utterly fantastic. And here, too, it was apparently associated with mortal
danger. A father had the right to interfere, and not permit the risk to be
taken. Now I had been handed this right. And I couldn't even refuse to use
it without giving myself away and creating a far more critical situation.
Aglaya's eyes stared at me with unconcealed anger but I could not answer her
at once. To say 'no' to the experiment and eliminate the alarm of those
people to whom the girl's fate was so dear? But her place would be taken by
another, I was sure of that. Somebody else would just as readily take the
risk as Julia. So how could I take away from her the right to do this brave
act? But to say 'yes' and perhaps deal a death blow to the person who was
unable now to interfere and correct me?
"So man is not the sole master of his fate when he has a mother or
father," I repeated thoughtfully.
"Such is the tradition of this century," she snapped back.
"A good tradition when the risk is merely a foolhardy one. But if not?
If a man or a girl takes the risk in the name of a higher interest than the
happiness or grief of his or her dear ones?"
"Whose interests are higher?" asked Aglaya.
"Those of one's native land, of course."
"It is not threatened with danger."
"Then those of science!"
"It doesn't need human lives. If somebody dies, the scientists are to
blame who permit death to occur."
"And if there's no blame, if the risk was a brave act?"
'Brunhilda' again rose to her feet, magnificent as a monument.
"They did not only transplant your heart."
Without another glance at me, she swept through the wall which parted
before her like the obedient Red Sea in the Bible.
"You did right," said Vera.
I sighed. "But if not?"
"One more talk, and then we'll take off the observation."
The person I was to talk with was already in the room. It is difficult
to describe her appearance, for men usually don't understand all the fine
points about hair-do and dress. The latter was severe in cut, bright, and
not so far in advance of our styles. The face had something in common with
the photographs in my family album - the Gromov look.
I automatically studied the purity of her features, her discreet charm.
"I'm waiting, Daddy," she said dryly. "And they are waiting to hear at
the institute."
"Didn't they tell you?" I asked.
"What?"
"That I'm no longer against it."
She sat down and got up again. Her lips trembled.
"Daddykins, you dear..." she sobbed, and buried her face in my sweater.
I was aware of a faint, strange scent. Like flowers on a meadow after
rain when all the dust is washed away.
"Have you a bit of time to spare?" I asked.
"Tell me about the experiment. After the shock, I seem to have
forgotten things."
"I know. But it will pass."
"Of course. But that's why I ask. Is it your discovery?"
"Well, really," she laughed. "Naturally it's not mine, nor Bogomolov's
either. It's a discovery from the future, from some adjacent phase. Just
picture any object in the shape of a rarefied electronic cloud. The speed of
displacement is terrific. No obstacle can withstand it, it goes through
anything. As the experiments have shown, you can throw anything you wish for
an unlimited distance - transmit pictures, statues, trees, houses. By this
means a day or so ago, they transmitted from near Moscow a single-span
bridge right across the Caspian Sea, setting it down right on the spot
between Baku and Krasnovodsk. And now the experiment is to be made on man.
So far, only within the city limits."
"All the same, I don't see how...."
"Of course you wouldn't understand, Daddy, my dear old historian. But,
roughly speaking, schematically, it's about like this: in any solid body the
atoms are packed tight. They cannot spread out, nor do they penetrate each
other because of the presence of electrostatic forces of attraction and
repulsion. Now imagine that a way has been found to reconstruct these inner
connections between the atoms and, without changing the atomic structure of
the body, to reduce it to a rarefied state in which, let us say, atoms are
found in gases. What do we get? An atomic-electronic cloud which one can
again condense into the molecular-crystalline structure of a solid body."
"But if...."
"What 'if? The technological process was mastered long ago." She rose.
"Wish me good luck, Daddy."
"One question, child." I took her hand. "Do you know the phase theory?"
"Of course. It's taught in school now."
"Well, but I never had it. And I need to memorize everything about it,
even if I do so mechanically."
"There's nothing simpler. Tell Eric, he's Mother's chief hypnotist.
You've forgotten everything, Dad. We have a suggestion-concentrator and a
dispersion unit." She raised her wrist to her face and spoke into a tiny
microphone on a bracelet.
"In a minute... just a minute. Everything's ready, and it's all right.
No, that's not necessary, don't send for me ... I'll come by the movement.
Of course, it's simpler. And more convenient. No rising, no landing, no
noise or wind. I'll stand on the pavement ... and be there in two minutes."
She hugged me and, saying good-bye, added: "Only no watching. I've
turned off the super. You'll be kept regularly informed and in good time.
And tell Eric and Dir no tricks, and not to switch into the network."
And all in flight, tense and ethereal, as if skimming over waves, she
disappeared through the white swirling wall which closed after her.
I walked over to what looked to me like a wall. Vera never raised her
voice. Glancing over my shoulder like a thief, I walked through the wall.
Before me stretched a long corridor leading, apparently, to a verandah.
Through the glass door, if it was glass, I saw a twilight-darkened sky and
the rather distant outline of a skyscraper. When I came closer, there was
neither glass nor door. I just walked through. A woman and two men sat at a
low table. Ram was hopping on one foot along the verandah which was guarded
by low, clipped bushes in place of a railing. They were covered by large
creamy flowers, gleaming with evening dew, that reminded me of bright
Christmas tree ornaments.
"Daddy's come," cried Ram, hanging on my neck.
"Leave Daddy alone, Ram," said the woman severely.
A soft light, falling from somewhere above, slipped past and left her
in the shadow. "Probably Anna," I thought.
"Observation has been removed," she continued.
"So now you've complete freedom to move about," laughed the older man,
who must have been Eric.
"Not complete," corrected the woman. "No farther than the verandah."
The younger man, Dir apparently, jumped up and walked along by the
bushes, not glancing at me. Long-legged, dressed in shorts that fitted his
waist snugly, he looked like an athlete in training.
"Julia just left," I said.
"You shouldn't have given permission," snapped Dir over his shoulder.
"We all heard it," explained Anna.
I was annoyed. Everybody in this house hears and sees all. Just try to
be alone. Like living on a stage, I thought.
"But you really have changed," smiled Anna. "Only I can't put my finger
on just what it is. Perhaps it's for the better?"
I was silent, meeting Eric's attentive and observant glance.
"Gromova has entered the eino-chamber," said a voice, but where it came
from I couldn't make out.
"Do you hear that?" Dir turned to us. "All the time it was Julia-two,
and now she's already Gromova!"
"Glory begins with a surname," laughed Eric.
I reminded him that the super was turned off, adding that Julia had
asked the guests not to tune into the network.
"WHAT did you say - guests?" asked Anna in surprise.
"So what?" I asked guardedly.
"There certainly is something wrong with your memory. We haven't used
the word 'guest' in its former meaning for half a century. Are you so buried
in history that you've forgotten?"
"Now we use the word 'guests' only for visitors from other phases of
space and time," explained Eric in a rather odd tone.
I didn't manage to answer - the voice again interrupted.
"Preparations for the experiment are proceeding in cycles," he rapped
out. "No deviations have been observed."
"In twenty minutes," said Dir. "They won't begin earlier."
Everybody was silent. Eric did not take his attentive curious gaze off
me. There was nothing unpleasant in his look, but it aroused my involuntary
alarm.
"I heard your request about formulas, when you were speaking with
Julia," he said suddenly, with a quite benevolent intonation. "I'd be glad
to help you. There's plenty of time, so come along."
I got up, glancing down past the green border. The verandah hung at
skyscraper height. Beneath were the dark crowns of trees, probably the
corner of a city park. I went out with Eric.
"Light!" said Eric as we entered a room, apparently not addressing
anyone in particular. "Only on our faces and on the table."
The light in the room, as if compressed, was condensed into an
invisible projector that picked out of the darkness my face and Eric's, and
a small table I found beside me.
"Have you the formulas with you?" asked Eric. I gave him the cards from
the Mist.
"I don't need them," he laughed. "This is your lesson. Put them on the
table and give them your complete attention. Only the upper rows, the lower
ones aren't necessary. Those are calculations which are filled out by the
electronic computer. Now read the upper rows line by line."
"I shan't remember them," I protested.
"That isn't necessary. Merely look at them."
"For very long?"
"Until I tell you not to."
"Somewhere you have a suggestion concentrator," I remembered Julia's
words.
"What for?" laughed Eric. "I work by the old methods. Now look at my
face."
I saw only the pupils of the eyes, as big as burning icon-lamps.
"Sleep!" he cried.
Exactly what happened after that I don't remember. I think I opened my
eyes and saw an empty table.
"Where are the formulas?"
"I threw them away."
"But look here, I remember nothing."
"It only seems that way. You'll remember later when you get home. You
are a guest, aren't you? Am I right?"
"Quite right," I said decisively.
"From what time?"
"From the last century, in the sixties."
He laughed softly in delight. "I knew it from the results of the
medical observations. Both the shock and loss of memory looked very
suspicious. I studied you by videograph when Julia was speaking to
Bogomolov. You had such a look on your face, as if you were seeing a
miracle. When she said that she'd go by the 'movement', I realized you had
never once stepped on a travelling panel-pavement. And we've had them for
half a century. You had forgotten all that has come into being in our times,
right up to the semantics of the word 'guest'. You might deceive surgeons,
but not a parapsychologist."
"All the better," I said. "Lucky for me that I met you. I'm only sorry
I must leave without seeing anything, neither the houses nor the streets,
neither the travelling-panels, nor your technology, nor even your social
system. To be on the heights of communist society - and not see anything but
a hospital room!"
"Why on the heights? Communism isn't stationary, it's a developing
system. We have to go far yet before we reach the heights. Now we are making
a gigantic leap into the future ... with the conclusion of Julia's dream.
Your world will do the same after you take back the formulas of our century
that are imprinted in your memory. Although only minds meet so far, all the
same these meetings of worlds enrich us, and advance the dreams of mankind."
I wanted to leave a remembrance behind me in this world, to a man whose
brain I had usurped.
"May I leave a note for him?" I asked Eric.
"Why a note? Simply tell him. It will be his voice, but your words."
I looked around, perplexed.
"You're looking for a tape-recorder? We have another and better means
of reproducing speech. Too long to explain. Simply talk."
"I beg you to forgive me, Gromov, for usurping your place in life for
these nine or ten hours," I began hesitantly, but a sympathetic nod from
Eric urged me on. "I am only a guest, Gromov, and I'm leaving as suddenly as
I came. But I want to tell you that I've been very happy living these hours
of your life. I interfered in it by giving Julia my blessing and letting her
do this brave deed. But I couldn't do otherwise. To refuse would have been
cowardly, and to stop her - obscurantism. I regret only one thing: I cannot
wait for the victory of your daughter, nor for the victory of your science
and system. That great happiness will belong to you."
"Sergei, Eric!" cried Dir, running in. "It's starting!"
"Too late," I said, feeling the familiar approach of the dark,
soundless abyss. "I'm leaving you. Good-bye."
Outside my window lies the street lashed by wind and rain. The electric
lamps in the murky rain-curtain are like spiders lost in their own webs. A
bus goes tearing through the gloom of the slanting shield of water. It is an
ordinary autumn evening in Moscow.
I have finished the last lines of the essay or memoirs, or perhaps
personal diary - I don't know what to call it - which I shall not risk
publishing. But it had to be written. Klenov rang up early this morning,
stating the exact number of lines for the column. By the way, he immediately
made a reservation; it all depended on the reaction of world scientific
societies. Maybe I'd be given a whole page.
The Academy of Sciences starts its session tomorrow at ten in the
morning, and nobody knows when it will end. There will be Nikodimov's report
and Zargaryan's, then my speech and those of foreign scientists and ours.
According to Klenov, more than two hundred people have arrived. All the
stars of our physico-mathematical galaxies, not counting visitors and
correspondents. I shall not cite the government's communique, for everybody
knows it. After it came out, not only my scientific friends but reporter
Sergei Gromov woke up famous.
More than two months have passed since my return, but it seems like it
was only yesterday that I woke up in Faust's laboratory in the familiar
chair with its electrodes and pick-ups. I woke up tired and with a feeling
of bitter, almost unbearable loss. Zargaryan was asking me something, but I
answered unwillingly and uncertainly. Nikodimov silently looked at me,
studying the oscillograph results.
"We began at 10.15," he said suddenly, "and at one o'clock we lost
you."
"Not completely," said Zargaryan.
"Right. Brightness fell first to zero, then it revived but was very
faint, and rose to the supreme point. Even with a more exact direction
sighting. To tell the truth, I was all at sea."
"At one o'clock," I repeated thoughtfully, looking at Zargaryan, "at
exactly one or a bit earlier, I was with you in the Sofia restaurant."
"Are you delirious?" he asked, after a moment's silence.
"Yes, with you older by twenty years and wearing a 'Kurchatov' beard
that covered half your chest. In a word, it was Moscow at the close of the
century. In that same Sofia. By the way, it's quite different from ours. And
Mayakovsky, too. He stands taller than the Nelson column." I drew in a whole
lungful of air, and blurted out: "And you got hold of me and threw me ahead
by a whole century. That's when you lost me ... during the second
transmission."
Now they were both looking at me, not so much with distrust as with
sharp suspicion. But I went on, not even leaving the chair for I hadn't the
strength to rise.
"You don't believe me? It's hard to believe, naturally. Fantastic.
Incidentally, the screens in their lab are in one line forming a parabola,
and with a mobile control panel. And on the roof there's a swimming
pool...." I swallowed, and was silent.
"You need some doping," said Zargaryan. He mixed two egg yolks with
half a glass of cognac and gave it to me, almost spilling it his hands were
so shaky. The drink revived me. Now I could go on.... And I talked and
talked without stopping for breath, and they listened as if bewitched, with
the reverence of habitues of premiere performances at the conservatoire.
Then they interrupted, shooting questions like machine-gun bursts. They
questioned and cross-examined me. Zargaryan cried out something in Armenian,
and over and over again I had to repeat my recollections: now about the
monorail track, now the gold and crystal Sofia, now the chair without the
helmet or pick-ups, now the white revitalizing room and the unseen
Vera-seven, then about the Mist with its glossary and the story of Julia in
which the mysterious image of a century was reflected as in frosted glass. I
still could not bring myself to describe the most important thing of all -
my meeting with Eric. And when I got to it, something suddenly erupted in my
memory like a blinding flash of magnesium.
"Paper," I cried out hoarsely. "Quickly! And a pencil."
Zargaryan handed me a fountain pen and pad. I closed my eyes. Now I saw
them absolutely clear-cut, as if held before my eyes - all the rows of
ciphers and letters expressing the formulas on the Mist's cards. I could
write them one after another without missing a thing, without getting mixed
up, reproducing exactly everything engraved in my memory in that other
world, all of which appeared with indelible vividness. I wrote blindly,
vaguely hearing Zargaryan's whisper: "Look, look ... he's writing
automatically with closed eyes." And that is how I wrote, not opening my
eyes, not stopping, with feverish swiftness and clarity until I had
reproduced on paper the last concluding equation of mathematical symbols.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Nikodimov's face
leaning over me, whiter than the sheet of paper I'd been writing on.
"That's all," I said, throwing down the pen.
Nikodimov took the pad and raised it close to his short-sighted eyes.
Then he froze motionless - it was as if a cinema reel had suddenly been
brought to a stop in the middle of a film showing.
"This needs a wiser mathematician than I," he said finally, passing the
pad to Zargaryan. "And he won't manage without an electronic computer. It
will have to be computed."
It took Nikodimov and Zargaryan one and a half to two months to do it,
working in Moscow and the Brain centre in Novosibirsk. Academicians and
post-graduate researchers worked with them. The baffling calculation secrets
of the mathematics of the future were finally solved by Yuri Privalov, the
youngest Doctor of Mathematical Science in the world. The phase theory of
Nikodimov-Zargaryan was now firmly established on a sound mathematical basis
proved by experiments from the future. The equations translated into
mathematical language became the Shual-Privalov equations. And tomorrow they
would be made available to all mankind.
Olga's asleep, faintly lit by a pencil gleam from my lamp. She doesn't
seem very content, in fact there is a slightly frightened look on her face.
She already told Galya and me of her fear that fame and popularity, all this
sensational excitement that awaits me tomorrow, will become a barrier
between us that might break up our life together. Of course, the talk of a
barrier is nonsense, but even now my life is beginning to look like an
idiotic Hollywood true story.
Foreign correspondents, who earlier sniffed out that something was
brewing, follow me through the streets. The telephone rings all day and we
have to smother it with a pillow at night, so that the sound of its ringing
doesn't awaken us. Already a certain American publishing house has made me a
wild offer for my impressions. And I, parrot-like, have to repeat over and
over that no impressions are to be printed as yet; and when they are they
can be read in Soviet publications. And Klenov chaffs me in a friendly way
that all the same I shall have to write about my JOURNEY ACROSS THREE
WORLDS.
I don't agree - not three! Many more. And among them there will
definitely be the one that I never really saw - that wonderful, inimitable
world of Julia and Eric.
"You may ask questions - your memory will come back."
"What's the matter with me?"
"You had an operation. A heart transplant. After an accident. Do you
remember?"
"Now I remember," I cried. "Is it plastic?"
"Is what plastic?"
"The heart, naturally. Or is it a metal one?"
She laughed with the superiority of a school-teacher who receives a
stupid answer from a pupil.
"It's not for nothing that they say you live in the twentieth century."
I was frightened. Could they know everything? But perhaps that was even
better.... I wouldn't have to explain anything, not make up stories. But
just in case, I asked: "Why?"
"But don't you? Artificial hearts were employed very long ago. We
changed that, and use organic material grown in a special medium. But you
think in terms of the twentieth century: the usual thing with historians.
They say you know all about the twentieth century. Even what kind of shoos
were worn."
"Heels on spikes," I laughed.
"What's that?"
"Spike-heel shoes."
"I don't understand."
I gave a start. The wide-spread, century-old daily word which had lived
to the age of nuclear physics apparently had disappeared from the vocabulary
of the twenty-first century. What do they use in place of nails or spikes, I
wonder? Glue?
"Look here, my dear girl..." I began.
But she interrupted with a laugh.
"Is that how they spoke in that century - 'my dear girl'?"
"Absolutely," I assured her seriously. "I'm fed up lying here. I want
to get dressed and go out."
She frowned.
"You may get dressed: clothes will be given you. But you mustn't go out
yet. The process of observation is still not over. The more so after shock
with loss of memory. We shall still check your organism as to the
neuro-functions habitual to you."
"Here?"
"Of course. You will receive your 'mechanical historian', the best and
latest model, by the way. Without any button controls. Fully automatic,
responds to your voice."
"And will you look and listen?"
"Certainly."
"Then it's no go," I said. "I'm not going to get dressed and work in
front of you."
A merry surprise was reflected in her eyes. She had difficulty in
muffling her laughter.
"Why not?" she asked, her hand covering her mouth.
"Because I live in the twentieth century," I snapped.
"All right," she said. "I'll turn off the video-graph. But the inner
organic processes will remain under observation."
"All right," I said. "You may be the seventh, but you're smart."
Again she failed to catch my meaning, but I only waved good-bye. Either
she had never read Chekhov or had forgotten. Her sweet face had already
disappeared from the screen. Suddenly, part of the wall melted away, letting
into the room something resembling a radiator made of interlaced
right-angled pipes. The 'something' turned out to be an ordinary mobile
wardrobe hanger, on which my proposed clothes were conveniently hung.
I chose narrow, light-coloured trousers, which fastened at the ankle
like our ski-pants; then a sweater to match that reminded me of our familiar
West-Side style. The reflection in the mirrored surface of the screen was
not much like me, but quite respectable and nice to look at. It wouldn't do
to meet the people of this new century in underclothing! I turned round when
I heard a noise behind me, as if someone was tip-toeing in. However, it
wasn't a person, but an object somewhat reminiscent of a refrigerator or a
fire-proof safe. How it came in I don't know: it seemed to appear out of the
air in place of the disappearing mobile clothes hanger. It came in and
stopped, winking the green eye of its indicator.
"I wonder," I said aloud, "if this could be my 'mechanical historian'?"
The green eye turned red.
"Mist-12 for short," said the safe in an even, hollow voice lacking all
richness of intonation. "I'm at your service."
MIST'S GLOSSARY
I was long silent before I opened the conversation. I trusted the girl:
she wouldn't eavesdrop or watch. But what could I talk to this mechanical
Cyclops about? Couldn't carry on social talk.
"How great is your information?" I asked carefully.
"Encyclopaedic," came the quick answer. "More than a million
references. I can name the exact figure."
"No need of that. And the subjects of the references? "
"The limit of the glossary extends to the start of the twentieth
century. The nature of the references is unlimited."
I wanted to check up on it.
"Give me the name and surname of the third cosmonaut."
"Andriyan Nikolaev."
It was quite correct - the answers coincided with the facts. I
pondered, and asked another question.
"Who won the Nobel Prize in literature in 1964?"
"Sartre. But he refused it."
"And who is Sartre?"
"A French writer and an existentialist-philosopher. I can formulate the
essence of existentialism."
"No need for that either. When was the Aswan Dam built?"
"The first part was finished in 1969. The second...."
"Enough," I interrupted him, thinking with satisfaction that we had
built it five years earlier. Apparently, not everything in this world
coincided literally with ours.
The Mist was silent. It knew a great deal. I could begin a conversation
about our experiment, the next important topic for me. But I couldn't decide
to approach it directly.
"Tell me what the biggest scientific discovery was in the early part of
the century," I began, choosing my way carefully.
"The theory of relativity," it replied without hesitation.
"And at the end of the century?"
"The scientists Nikodimov and Janovski discovered the phase
trajectories of space."
I almost jumped up on the spot, ready to kiss this impassive Cyclops
with the winking eye-it winked at me every time he rapped out an answer. But
all I did was ask another question.
"Why Janovski and not Zargaryan?"
"At the end of the eighties, the Polish mathematician Janovski brought
out additional corrections to the theory. Zargaryan did not take part, save
in the early experiments. He died in a motor accident long before the
success of the first cross-world traveller permitted Nikodimov to publish
the discovery."
I understood, of course, that it wasn't my Zargaryan, but just the same
my heart missed a beat.
"Who was the first cross-world traveller then?"
"Sergei Gromov, your great grandfather," rapped out the Mist in its
hollow, metallic voice.
It was not at all surprised at the stupidity of my question. Who should
know all about the doings of his forefather if not his descendant? But
surprise had not been programmed into the crystals of the Mist's cybernetic
brain.
"Do you need the bibliographic references?" he asked.
"No," I said, and sat on the bed gripping my temples.
However, my invisible Vera-seven hadn't forgotten me.
"Your pulse is fast," she said.
"That's possible."
"I'll turn on the videograph."
"Wait," I stopped her. "I'm very interested in working with the Mist.
It's an amazing machine. Thank you for sending it."
The Mist waited. Its red eye was again green.
"Did Nikodimov have scientific opponents?" I asked.
"Even Einstein had them," said the Mist. "Who pays them any attention?"
"What were their objections?"
"The theory was completely refuted by the church. A World Congress of
Church Organizations, held in Brussels in the eighties, looked upon the
theory as the most harmful heresy to be proclaimed over the last two
thousand years. Three years before that, a special Papal Bull had declared
it a blasphemous perversion of the teachings of Jesus Christ, the Son of
God, and a return to the pagan doctrine of many gods. As many Christs for as
many worlds. This could not be endured by either bishops or patriarchs. And
an eminent scientist, the Italian physiologist Pirelli, called the phase
theory the most effective scientific discovery of the century as far as its
anti-religious trend went which was absolutely incompatible with the idea of
one God. It is true, however, that something was done to make it compatible.
The American philosopher Hellman, for instance, explained that the
Berkeleian 'thing in itself ' was a phase movement of material."
"Ravings of the Old Grey Mare," I said.
"I do not understand," responded my Cyclops. "A mare is a sexual gender
of a horse. Grey is a colour. Ravings are disconnected speech. A crazy
horse? No, I do not understand."
"Simply an idiom of speech. The approximate idea is absurd, below
normal. Comes from 'The old grey mare, she ain't what she used to be' - a
song."
"I shall programme it," said the Mist. "Correction of Gromov to
idiomatic speech."
"All right," I stopped him. "Better tell me about phases. Are they all
similar?"
"Marxist science affirms they are. By way of experiment, it has been
shown that many are similar. Theoretically, it relates to all of them."
"And were there any objections to the idea?"
"Of course. Opponents of the materialistic conception of history
insisted that similarity was not obligatory. They proceeded from the premise
that chance plays a role in the life of man and society. If it weren't for
the crusades, they said, the history of the Middle Ages would have been
different. Without Napoleon, the map of new Europe would have differed. And
if Hitler had been absent from German political life, the world would not
have been led into World War Two. All this has long been disproved.
Historical and social processes do not depend on chance which changes one or
another individual destiny. Such processes are obedient to the laws of
historical development that are common to all."
I remembered my argument with Klenov and my question: 'But, you see,
there is such a possibility - there is no Hitler. He was never born. What
then?'
And the Mist repeated Klenov's answer almost word for word: 'There
would have appeared another fuehrer. A little earlier, or a bit later, but
he would have appeared. You see, the deciding factor is not a matter of
personality, but the economic situation of the thirties. The objective
chance of the appearance of such a personality obeys the law of historical
necessity.'
"So everywhere it is one and the same thing?" I asked. "In all phases,
in all worlds? The same historical figures? The same crusades, wars,
revolutions? The same changes of social formations? "
"Everywhere. The difference is only in time, but not in development.
The changes of the social and economic formations in any phase are akin.
They are dictated by the development of the productive forces."
"So they thought last century. But now?"
"I don't know. I am not programmed on that. But my design conforms with
the probability theory and I can make conclusions independent of
programming. The laws of dialectical materialism remain true not only for
the past."
"Another question, Mist. Is the mathematical expression of the phase
theory very complicated?"
"It includes the general formulas, the calculations of Janovski and
Shual's system of equations. There are three pages on it in the textbooks. I
can recite them."
"Only orally?"
"I can give them graphically."
"Will it take long?"
"One minute."
I heard a slight noise, like the buzzing of an electric razor, and the
front panel of the machine lowered to become a shelf on metal hinges. On the
shelf lay two white accurate right-angled cards, closely covered with
certain ciphers and signs. When I picked them up, the panel closed so tight
I could not see any line of demarcation.
Behind me came a thin, childish voice.
"I'm here, Pop. Are you angry?"
I turned. A boy of six or seven years stood by the white wall. He wore
a sky-blue suit tightly outlining his body. He looked like a picture from a
children's fashion magazine where they always draw such handsome,
athletic-looking boys.
A FATHER'S RIGHT
"How did you come in?" I asked.
He walked backward and disappeared. The wall was as even and white as
before. Then a cunning face peeked through it, and the boy appeared in the
room like 'the man who walked through walls'.
"Light and sound protectors," I remembered. Here they used white to
give a complete illusion of walls.
"I sneaked in secretly," admitted the boy. "Mom didn't see, and Vera
turned off the eye."
"How do you know?"
"The eye looks in here through the gym. When you run in there, she
cries out: 'Go away, Ram. You're in the field of vision.'"
"Where does she cry out from?"
"From far away. In the hospital." He pointed off somewhere as if
pointing to it.
I didn't say the probably expected 'Clear enough' because it wasn't
clear at all.
"And Julia's been crying," Ram informed me.
"Why is that?"
"Over you. You objected to the experiment. That's bad, Pop. That's no
way to act."
"What experiment is it?" I asked out of curiosity.
"They want to turn her into an invisible cloud. Like in a fairy story.
The cloud will fly and fly away, and then return. And it will become Julia
again."
"And I wouldn't give my permission?"
"You refused to. You're afraid the cloud won't come back."
Now I was completely lost. Lost in the woods.
Vera came to my rescue by reminding me of my pulse again.
"Vera," I begged, "can you clear this up? Why did I refuse to let Julia
become invisible? It's all my rotten memory!"
I heard a familiar laugh.
"How oddly you talk. Rot-ten.... It sounds so funny. As for Julia, you
must decide that for yourself - it's a family matter. That's why Aglaya
tries to get in to see you. I wouldn't let her, afraid of exciting you. But
she insists."
"Let her in," I said. "I'll try to keep calm."
I couldn't risk asking who Aglaya was. I'd get by somehow. I looked at
the place where Ram had just vanished, but Aglaya came in from the opposite
side. She came in as if she had every right to be here, and sat across from
me. She was a tall woman, under forty, and wore a dress of marvellous cut
and colour. She would have looked just right in our world on the platform at
any kind of international festival.
"You look well," she remarked, looking at me closely. "Even better than
before the operation. And with a new heart you'll probably live to a
hundred."
"But what if I won't live to a hundred?"
"Why shouldn't you? Biological incompatibility was frightening only in
your favourite century."
I hesitantly shrugged, leaving the conversation in her hands. A game of
surprises was beginning. Who was she to me? And I to her? What did she want
of me? The ground was getting slippery, every step called for a quick wit,
and fast thinking.
Our talk began at once.
"So you've agreed?" she asked unexpectedly.
"To what?"
"As if you don't know. I spoke with Anna."
"About what?"
"Don't pretend. You know what I'm talking about. You agreed to the
experiment."
What experiment? And who was Anna? Why must I agree or disagree?
"Did they force you to?" she asked me.
"Who?"
"Don't mention names, the child will hear. And after such an operation.
Before you're yourself again. A new heart. Blood vessels with cosmetic
seals! And they come to you with an ultimatum: agree, and that's all!"
"There's no need to exaggerate," I said, feeling my way.
"I'm not. I know all about it. And Anna supports it because she's all
wrapped up in science. She simply has no biological feelings! Julia's not
her daughter. But she's yours. And she's my granddaughter."
I thought that for a father and grandmother, we were too young-looking
to have a grown-up daughter who was going in for some kind of complex
scientific experiment. I remembered Ram's story and smiled.
"And he can still smile!" cried out my companion.
I had to tell her the story of the invisible cloud, as Ram had
interpreted it.
"So Anna hasn't told her. That was wise. Now you can withdraw your
permission."
"Why should I?"
"And you will permit them to turn your daughter into some kind of
cloud? What if it melts away? Or the atomic structure cannot be restored?
Let Bogomolov experiment on himself! They won't let him, d'you see. Too old,
they say, and weak. Is it any easier for you and I that she is young and
strong?" Aglaya paced around the room like an angry Brunhilda. "I don't
understand you, Sergei. You were so hotly against it."
"But I agreed, you see," I objected.
"I don't believe there was an agreement!" she screamed. "And Julia
doesn't know anything about it. You tell her they'll have to cancel the
experiment ... she'll be here in a minute. A person is not the sole master
of his fate when he has a mother or father."
I had a flash of hope: "Maybe the experiment won't take place very
soon?"
"It's arranged for today."
I thought it over. Julia, apparently, was around twenty, maybe a bit
younger or older. She was the assistant of a professor, or something like
that. They were going to carry out an experiment which to us would seem
utterly fantastic. And here, too, it was apparently associated with mortal
danger. A father had the right to interfere, and not permit the risk to be
taken. Now I had been handed this right. And I couldn't even refuse to use
it without giving myself away and creating a far more critical situation.
Aglaya's eyes stared at me with unconcealed anger but I could not answer her
at once. To say 'no' to the experiment and eliminate the alarm of those
people to whom the girl's fate was so dear? But her place would be taken by
another, I was sure of that. Somebody else would just as readily take the
risk as Julia. So how could I take away from her the right to do this brave
act? But to say 'yes' and perhaps deal a death blow to the person who was
unable now to interfere and correct me?
"So man is not the sole master of his fate when he has a mother or
father," I repeated thoughtfully.
"Such is the tradition of this century," she snapped back.
"A good tradition when the risk is merely a foolhardy one. But if not?
If a man or a girl takes the risk in the name of a higher interest than the
happiness or grief of his or her dear ones?"
"Whose interests are higher?" asked Aglaya.
"Those of one's native land, of course."
"It is not threatened with danger."
"Then those of science!"
"It doesn't need human lives. If somebody dies, the scientists are to
blame who permit death to occur."
"And if there's no blame, if the risk was a brave act?"
'Brunhilda' again rose to her feet, magnificent as a monument.
"They did not only transplant your heart."
Without another glance at me, she swept through the wall which parted
before her like the obedient Red Sea in the Bible.
"You did right," said Vera.
I sighed. "But if not?"
"One more talk, and then we'll take off the observation."
The person I was to talk with was already in the room. It is difficult
to describe her appearance, for men usually don't understand all the fine
points about hair-do and dress. The latter was severe in cut, bright, and
not so far in advance of our styles. The face had something in common with
the photographs in my family album - the Gromov look.
I automatically studied the purity of her features, her discreet charm.
"I'm waiting, Daddy," she said dryly. "And they are waiting to hear at
the institute."
"Didn't they tell you?" I asked.
"What?"
"That I'm no longer against it."
She sat down and got up again. Her lips trembled.
"Daddykins, you dear..." she sobbed, and buried her face in my sweater.
I was aware of a faint, strange scent. Like flowers on a meadow after
rain when all the dust is washed away.
"Have you a bit of time to spare?" I asked.
"Tell me about the experiment. After the shock, I seem to have
forgotten things."
"I know. But it will pass."
"Of course. But that's why I ask. Is it your discovery?"
"Well, really," she laughed. "Naturally it's not mine, nor Bogomolov's
either. It's a discovery from the future, from some adjacent phase. Just
picture any object in the shape of a rarefied electronic cloud. The speed of
displacement is terrific. No obstacle can withstand it, it goes through
anything. As the experiments have shown, you can throw anything you wish for
an unlimited distance - transmit pictures, statues, trees, houses. By this
means a day or so ago, they transmitted from near Moscow a single-span
bridge right across the Caspian Sea, setting it down right on the spot
between Baku and Krasnovodsk. And now the experiment is to be made on man.
So far, only within the city limits."
"All the same, I don't see how...."
"Of course you wouldn't understand, Daddy, my dear old historian. But,
roughly speaking, schematically, it's about like this: in any solid body the
atoms are packed tight. They cannot spread out, nor do they penetrate each
other because of the presence of electrostatic forces of attraction and
repulsion. Now imagine that a way has been found to reconstruct these inner
connections between the atoms and, without changing the atomic structure of
the body, to reduce it to a rarefied state in which, let us say, atoms are
found in gases. What do we get? An atomic-electronic cloud which one can
again condense into the molecular-crystalline structure of a solid body."
"But if...."
"What 'if? The technological process was mastered long ago." She rose.
"Wish me good luck, Daddy."
"One question, child." I took her hand. "Do you know the phase theory?"
"Of course. It's taught in school now."
"Well, but I never had it. And I need to memorize everything about it,
even if I do so mechanically."
"There's nothing simpler. Tell Eric, he's Mother's chief hypnotist.
You've forgotten everything, Dad. We have a suggestion-concentrator and a
dispersion unit." She raised her wrist to her face and spoke into a tiny
microphone on a bracelet.
"In a minute... just a minute. Everything's ready, and it's all right.
No, that's not necessary, don't send for me ... I'll come by the movement.
Of course, it's simpler. And more convenient. No rising, no landing, no
noise or wind. I'll stand on the pavement ... and be there in two minutes."
She hugged me and, saying good-bye, added: "Only no watching. I've
turned off the super. You'll be kept regularly informed and in good time.
And tell Eric and Dir no tricks, and not to switch into the network."
And all in flight, tense and ethereal, as if skimming over waves, she
disappeared through the white swirling wall which closed after her.
I walked over to what looked to me like a wall. Vera never raised her
voice. Glancing over my shoulder like a thief, I walked through the wall.
Before me stretched a long corridor leading, apparently, to a verandah.
Through the glass door, if it was glass, I saw a twilight-darkened sky and
the rather distant outline of a skyscraper. When I came closer, there was
neither glass nor door. I just walked through. A woman and two men sat at a
low table. Ram was hopping on one foot along the verandah which was guarded
by low, clipped bushes in place of a railing. They were covered by large
creamy flowers, gleaming with evening dew, that reminded me of bright
Christmas tree ornaments.
"Daddy's come," cried Ram, hanging on my neck.
"Leave Daddy alone, Ram," said the woman severely.
A soft light, falling from somewhere above, slipped past and left her
in the shadow. "Probably Anna," I thought.
"Observation has been removed," she continued.
"So now you've complete freedom to move about," laughed the older man,
who must have been Eric.
"Not complete," corrected the woman. "No farther than the verandah."
The younger man, Dir apparently, jumped up and walked along by the
bushes, not glancing at me. Long-legged, dressed in shorts that fitted his
waist snugly, he looked like an athlete in training.
"Julia just left," I said.
"You shouldn't have given permission," snapped Dir over his shoulder.
"We all heard it," explained Anna.
I was annoyed. Everybody in this house hears and sees all. Just try to
be alone. Like living on a stage, I thought.
"But you really have changed," smiled Anna. "Only I can't put my finger
on just what it is. Perhaps it's for the better?"
I was silent, meeting Eric's attentive and observant glance.
"Gromova has entered the eino-chamber," said a voice, but where it came
from I couldn't make out.
"Do you hear that?" Dir turned to us. "All the time it was Julia-two,
and now she's already Gromova!"
"Glory begins with a surname," laughed Eric.
I reminded him that the super was turned off, adding that Julia had
asked the guests not to tune into the network.
"WHAT did you say - guests?" asked Anna in surprise.
"So what?" I asked guardedly.
"There certainly is something wrong with your memory. We haven't used
the word 'guest' in its former meaning for half a century. Are you so buried
in history that you've forgotten?"
"Now we use the word 'guests' only for visitors from other phases of
space and time," explained Eric in a rather odd tone.
I didn't manage to answer - the voice again interrupted.
"Preparations for the experiment are proceeding in cycles," he rapped
out. "No deviations have been observed."
"In twenty minutes," said Dir. "They won't begin earlier."
Everybody was silent. Eric did not take his attentive curious gaze off
me. There was nothing unpleasant in his look, but it aroused my involuntary
alarm.
"I heard your request about formulas, when you were speaking with
Julia," he said suddenly, with a quite benevolent intonation. "I'd be glad
to help you. There's plenty of time, so come along."
I got up, glancing down past the green border. The verandah hung at
skyscraper height. Beneath were the dark crowns of trees, probably the
corner of a city park. I went out with Eric.
"Light!" said Eric as we entered a room, apparently not addressing
anyone in particular. "Only on our faces and on the table."
The light in the room, as if compressed, was condensed into an
invisible projector that picked out of the darkness my face and Eric's, and
a small table I found beside me.
"Have you the formulas with you?" asked Eric. I gave him the cards from
the Mist.
"I don't need them," he laughed. "This is your lesson. Put them on the
table and give them your complete attention. Only the upper rows, the lower
ones aren't necessary. Those are calculations which are filled out by the
electronic computer. Now read the upper rows line by line."
"I shan't remember them," I protested.
"That isn't necessary. Merely look at them."
"For very long?"
"Until I tell you not to."
"Somewhere you have a suggestion concentrator," I remembered Julia's
words.
"What for?" laughed Eric. "I work by the old methods. Now look at my
face."
I saw only the pupils of the eyes, as big as burning icon-lamps.
"Sleep!" he cried.
Exactly what happened after that I don't remember. I think I opened my
eyes and saw an empty table.
"Where are the formulas?"
"I threw them away."
"But look here, I remember nothing."
"It only seems that way. You'll remember later when you get home. You
are a guest, aren't you? Am I right?"
"Quite right," I said decisively.
"From what time?"
"From the last century, in the sixties."
He laughed softly in delight. "I knew it from the results of the
medical observations. Both the shock and loss of memory looked very
suspicious. I studied you by videograph when Julia was speaking to
Bogomolov. You had such a look on your face, as if you were seeing a
miracle. When she said that she'd go by the 'movement', I realized you had
never once stepped on a travelling panel-pavement. And we've had them for
half a century. You had forgotten all that has come into being in our times,
right up to the semantics of the word 'guest'. You might deceive surgeons,
but not a parapsychologist."
"All the better," I said. "Lucky for me that I met you. I'm only sorry
I must leave without seeing anything, neither the houses nor the streets,
neither the travelling-panels, nor your technology, nor even your social
system. To be on the heights of communist society - and not see anything but
a hospital room!"
"Why on the heights? Communism isn't stationary, it's a developing
system. We have to go far yet before we reach the heights. Now we are making
a gigantic leap into the future ... with the conclusion of Julia's dream.
Your world will do the same after you take back the formulas of our century
that are imprinted in your memory. Although only minds meet so far, all the
same these meetings of worlds enrich us, and advance the dreams of mankind."
I wanted to leave a remembrance behind me in this world, to a man whose
brain I had usurped.
"May I leave a note for him?" I asked Eric.
"Why a note? Simply tell him. It will be his voice, but your words."
I looked around, perplexed.
"You're looking for a tape-recorder? We have another and better means
of reproducing speech. Too long to explain. Simply talk."
"I beg you to forgive me, Gromov, for usurping your place in life for
these nine or ten hours," I began hesitantly, but a sympathetic nod from
Eric urged me on. "I am only a guest, Gromov, and I'm leaving as suddenly as
I came. But I want to tell you that I've been very happy living these hours
of your life. I interfered in it by giving Julia my blessing and letting her
do this brave deed. But I couldn't do otherwise. To refuse would have been
cowardly, and to stop her - obscurantism. I regret only one thing: I cannot
wait for the victory of your daughter, nor for the victory of your science
and system. That great happiness will belong to you."
"Sergei, Eric!" cried Dir, running in. "It's starting!"
"Too late," I said, feeling the familiar approach of the dark,
soundless abyss. "I'm leaving you. Good-bye."
Outside my window lies the street lashed by wind and rain. The electric
lamps in the murky rain-curtain are like spiders lost in their own webs. A
bus goes tearing through the gloom of the slanting shield of water. It is an
ordinary autumn evening in Moscow.
I have finished the last lines of the essay or memoirs, or perhaps
personal diary - I don't know what to call it - which I shall not risk
publishing. But it had to be written. Klenov rang up early this morning,
stating the exact number of lines for the column. By the way, he immediately
made a reservation; it all depended on the reaction of world scientific
societies. Maybe I'd be given a whole page.
The Academy of Sciences starts its session tomorrow at ten in the
morning, and nobody knows when it will end. There will be Nikodimov's report
and Zargaryan's, then my speech and those of foreign scientists and ours.
According to Klenov, more than two hundred people have arrived. All the
stars of our physico-mathematical galaxies, not counting visitors and
correspondents. I shall not cite the government's communique, for everybody
knows it. After it came out, not only my scientific friends but reporter
Sergei Gromov woke up famous.
More than two months have passed since my return, but it seems like it
was only yesterday that I woke up in Faust's laboratory in the familiar
chair with its electrodes and pick-ups. I woke up tired and with a feeling
of bitter, almost unbearable loss. Zargaryan was asking me something, but I
answered unwillingly and uncertainly. Nikodimov silently looked at me,
studying the oscillograph results.
"We began at 10.15," he said suddenly, "and at one o'clock we lost
you."
"Not completely," said Zargaryan.
"Right. Brightness fell first to zero, then it revived but was very
faint, and rose to the supreme point. Even with a more exact direction
sighting. To tell the truth, I was all at sea."
"At one o'clock," I repeated thoughtfully, looking at Zargaryan, "at
exactly one or a bit earlier, I was with you in the Sofia restaurant."
"Are you delirious?" he asked, after a moment's silence.
"Yes, with you older by twenty years and wearing a 'Kurchatov' beard
that covered half your chest. In a word, it was Moscow at the close of the
century. In that same Sofia. By the way, it's quite different from ours. And
Mayakovsky, too. He stands taller than the Nelson column." I drew in a whole
lungful of air, and blurted out: "And you got hold of me and threw me ahead
by a whole century. That's when you lost me ... during the second
transmission."
Now they were both looking at me, not so much with distrust as with
sharp suspicion. But I went on, not even leaving the chair for I hadn't the
strength to rise.
"You don't believe me? It's hard to believe, naturally. Fantastic.
Incidentally, the screens in their lab are in one line forming a parabola,
and with a mobile control panel. And on the roof there's a swimming
pool...." I swallowed, and was silent.
"You need some doping," said Zargaryan. He mixed two egg yolks with
half a glass of cognac and gave it to me, almost spilling it his hands were
so shaky. The drink revived me. Now I could go on.... And I talked and
talked without stopping for breath, and they listened as if bewitched, with
the reverence of habitues of premiere performances at the conservatoire.
Then they interrupted, shooting questions like machine-gun bursts. They
questioned and cross-examined me. Zargaryan cried out something in Armenian,
and over and over again I had to repeat my recollections: now about the
monorail track, now the gold and crystal Sofia, now the chair without the
helmet or pick-ups, now the white revitalizing room and the unseen
Vera-seven, then about the Mist with its glossary and the story of Julia in
which the mysterious image of a century was reflected as in frosted glass. I
still could not bring myself to describe the most important thing of all -
my meeting with Eric. And when I got to it, something suddenly erupted in my
memory like a blinding flash of magnesium.
"Paper," I cried out hoarsely. "Quickly! And a pencil."
Zargaryan handed me a fountain pen and pad. I closed my eyes. Now I saw
them absolutely clear-cut, as if held before my eyes - all the rows of
ciphers and letters expressing the formulas on the Mist's cards. I could
write them one after another without missing a thing, without getting mixed
up, reproducing exactly everything engraved in my memory in that other
world, all of which appeared with indelible vividness. I wrote blindly,
vaguely hearing Zargaryan's whisper: "Look, look ... he's writing
automatically with closed eyes." And that is how I wrote, not opening my
eyes, not stopping, with feverish swiftness and clarity until I had
reproduced on paper the last concluding equation of mathematical symbols.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Nikodimov's face
leaning over me, whiter than the sheet of paper I'd been writing on.
"That's all," I said, throwing down the pen.
Nikodimov took the pad and raised it close to his short-sighted eyes.
Then he froze motionless - it was as if a cinema reel had suddenly been
brought to a stop in the middle of a film showing.
"This needs a wiser mathematician than I," he said finally, passing the
pad to Zargaryan. "And he won't manage without an electronic computer. It
will have to be computed."
It took Nikodimov and Zargaryan one and a half to two months to do it,
working in Moscow and the Brain centre in Novosibirsk. Academicians and
post-graduate researchers worked with them. The baffling calculation secrets
of the mathematics of the future were finally solved by Yuri Privalov, the
youngest Doctor of Mathematical Science in the world. The phase theory of
Nikodimov-Zargaryan was now firmly established on a sound mathematical basis
proved by experiments from the future. The equations translated into
mathematical language became the Shual-Privalov equations. And tomorrow they
would be made available to all mankind.
Olga's asleep, faintly lit by a pencil gleam from my lamp. She doesn't
seem very content, in fact there is a slightly frightened look on her face.
She already told Galya and me of her fear that fame and popularity, all this
sensational excitement that awaits me tomorrow, will become a barrier
between us that might break up our life together. Of course, the talk of a
barrier is nonsense, but even now my life is beginning to look like an
idiotic Hollywood true story.
Foreign correspondents, who earlier sniffed out that something was
brewing, follow me through the streets. The telephone rings all day and we
have to smother it with a pillow at night, so that the sound of its ringing
doesn't awaken us. Already a certain American publishing house has made me a
wild offer for my impressions. And I, parrot-like, have to repeat over and
over that no impressions are to be printed as yet; and when they are they
can be read in Soviet publications. And Klenov chaffs me in a friendly way
that all the same I shall have to write about my JOURNEY ACROSS THREE
WORLDS.
I don't agree - not three! Many more. And among them there will
definitely be the one that I never really saw - that wonderful, inimitable
world of Julia and Eric.