leave something for the future. Thinking computer-factories, active and
omnipotent electronic brains-and in them your ideas, your work, the best of
us all. What do you think? Man the creator-that still sounds good. And the
best will stay on and develop even when that semiliterate broad, Nature,
will finally uncrown her homo sapiens!"
"But that's terrible, what you're saying!" Lena was incensed.
"You're... a robot! You just don't like people!"
Ivanov gave her a gentle, condescending look:
"We're not arguing, Lena. I'm just explaining what's what."
That was the limit. Lena clicked off and said nothing. I didn't reply
either. The silence was getting uncomfortable. I called the waiter and paid.
We went out on Marx Prospect, on the "Broadway of Dneprovsk." The
pedestrians defiled it.
Suddenly Valery grabbed me by the hand.
"Val, do you hear? Do you see?"
At first I didn't know what I was supposed to see or hear.
A teenage couple walked past, both in thick sweaters and the same
hairdo. The boy had a transistor radio around his neck in a yellow pearlized
shell with a rocket on it. The pure sounds of the saxophone and the clear
syncopations of the brass resounded on the street. I would have recognized
the sound of that radio among a hundred brands like a mother recognizes the
voice of her child in the din of a kindergarten. The low-noise, wide-band
amplifier that was in it was one of the things Valery and I had invented.
"That means they've started production on it," I concluded. "We can ask
for our royalties. Hey, fella, how much did you pay for the radio?"
"Fifty dollars," the punk announced proudly.
"There you see, fifty dollars, that equals forty-five Mongolian
tugriks. A clear markup for quality. You should be pleased!"
"Pleased? You be pleased! You said it was terrible [actually that was
Lena, not me]. Better terrible, than that!"
Once upon a time, we had delved into quantum physics, were amazed by
the duality of the particle wave of the electron, studied the theory and
technology of semiconductors, mastered the most refined lab equipment.
Semiconducting equipment was the future of electronics in those days. Pop
science writers praised them and engineers dreamed about them. There was a
lot in those dreams. Some came true-the rest was discarded by technology.
But we had never dreamed that transistors would figure among the
accoutrements of pimply punks on the prospect.
And how Valery and I had struggled with the noise problem! The problem
was that electrons distribute themselves in a semiconducting crystal like
particles of color in water-the same old chaotic Brownian motion. That's why
there's noise in earphones, sounding like the hiss of a phonograph needle
and the distant murmur of the surf. It's an involved story. I had the first
invention, and the official phraseology of the application to the Committee
on Inventions of the USSR was music to my ears: "Submitting with this the
above-mentioned documents, we request an inventor's certificate for the
invention called...."
So, all right; someone lived through the joy of learning, ignited in
creative search, experienced engineering triumphs, but what does that poor
punk care? He didn't get anything from all that joy. So there it is: turn
over the bloody tugriks, push the button, turn the handle... and go around
like a jerk with a clean neck.
We walked Valery back to his hotel.
"So?" he asked as we shook hands.
"I have to think about it, Valery."
"Think!" Lena gave me a hostile look. "You're going to think about it?"
She really has no self-control. She could have held her tongue.
The funny part was that Valery didn't even ask what I was doing. It was
obvious to him that there could be nothing good going on at the institute
and that I had to come over to work with him.
I'll think about it.
October 2 7.
Ivanov called:
"Have you thought about it?"
"Not yet."
"Ah, those women! I understand you, of course. Decide, Val. We'll work
together. I'll call you tomorrow before I leave, all right?"
If back then, in March, when my complex was only beginning to plan and
build itself, I had stopped the experiment and analyzed the possible paths
of development, everything would have turned to the synthesis of
microelectronic units. Because that was something I understood. And now I
would be way ahead of Valery. The work would have gone down different
channels, and it would never have occurred to me or to anyone else that we
had overlooked a method of synthesizing living organisms.
But I didn't overlook it.
How pleasant it had been using my engineering thought to create those
plates with microcircuits in the tank: flip-flops, inverters, decoders! That
'Poem' of his, if you added my computer-womb to it, would be a sure thing.
In fact, it would be his computer-factory. I was on top of things in that
area. It's not too late to turn around ....
And work like that really could lead to a world or society of machines
totally independent of man-not robots, but machines that complement one
another. Perhaps that is the natural evolution of things? If you look at it
objectively, there's nothing so terrible about it. Well, there were protein
(ion-chemical) systems on earth, and on the basis of their information
electron crystal systems developed. Evolution continues.
Yes, but if you look at things objectively, nothing so horrible would
happen if there was a thermonuclear catastrophe, either. Well, so something
exploded, and the radioactive foundation of the atmosphere increased. But is
the earth still spinning on its axis? Yes. And around the sun? Yes. That
means the stability of the solar system has not been harmed, and everything
is all right.
"You don't like people!" Lena had said to Ivanov. What's so is so.
Hilobok's stink, quitting the institute, bumping into our invention
yesterday-they were all steps on the stairway to misanthropy. And there are
plenty of such steps in the life of every active person. If you compare life
experience with engineering experience you could really come to the
conclusion that it's easier to develop machines in which everything is
rational and clear.
But, all right; but do I like people? It will all depend on that, what
I continue working on.
I had never thought about it.... Well, I love me, however terrible that
may be. I loved my father. I love (let's say) Lena. If I ever have children,
I guess I'll love them. I don't exactly love Valery, but I respect him. But
as for all the people that walk around on the street, that I run across in
my work, in public places, that I read about in the newspapers and hear
about-what are they to me? And who am I to them? I like good-looking women,
smart, cheerful men, but I despise fools and drunks, can't stand auto
inspectors, and am cool toward old people. And in the morning rush hour I
sometimes get the TBB-the trolley and bus bananas-when I want to smash
everyone on the head and jump out the window. In a word, I have the most
varied feelings about people.
Aha, that's the point. We feel respect, love, contempt, shame, fear,
pride, sympathy, and so on about people. And about machines? Well, they
elicit emotions, too. It's pleasant to work with a good machine, and you
feel sorry if you've ruined a machine or piece of equipment. You might curse
yourself before you find the trouble .. . but that's completely different.
These are feelings not about the machines, but the people who made them and
used them. Or could use them. Even the fear of the atom bomb is merely the
reflection of our fear of the people who made it and plan to put it into
use. And the plans of people who build machines that will push man into the
background also elicit fear.
I love life. I love feeling everything-that's for sure. And what kind
of life could there be without people? That's ridiculous. Naturally, if you
juxtapose Ivanov's computer-factory to my computer-womb....
It's clear. I choose people!
And the wise and strong Valery is even weaker than I am. He doesn't
pick his work; his work picks him.
(Come on, be honest-deep-down honest, Krivoshein. If you didn't have a
method for creating man on your hands, wouldn't you espouse the point of
view in favor of computers? Every one of us specialists is always trying to
give our work an ideological base. You can't simply admit that you're doing
the work only because you don't know how to do anything else! A confession
like that for a creative worker is tantamount to bankruptcy.
By the way, do I know how to do what I'm planning to do? ...)
Enough! Of course, all this is very intellectual and nice: putting
myself down, bemoaning my imperfections, worrying about the discrepancy
between my dreams and actions. But where is that knight of the spirit with a
higher education and experience in the field to whom I could turn over the
project with a clear conscience? Ivanov? No. Azarov? I never got a chance to
find out. And the work is waiting.
So whatever I may be, my finger will rest on the button for now.
October 28, A phone call at the lab.
"Well, Val, have you decided to do it?"
"No, Valery."
"Too bad. We would have done some fine work. But, I understand. Give
her my regards. She's a nice woman; I'm happy for you."
"Thanks. I'll tell her."
"Well, so long. Drop in when you're in Leningrad."
"Without fail! Have a good flight, Valery."
You don't understand a damn thing, Valery. The hell with it. It's over!
I think I've gotten my itch to work back. Thanks for that, Valery, at least
for that!
You never know what's good and what's bad. Stenography came about
because of poor penmanship and the theory of reliability from breakdowns in
machines.
-K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 100
November 1. And so, without wanting to, I've proven that in controlling
synthesis, you can create a psychopath and a slave on the basis of
information on, say, an average person. It happened because the introduction
of auxiliary information was done through crude violence (oh, I just can't
couch this "result" in academic phrases!). Now as a minimum goal, I must
prove the opposite possibility.
The positive aspect of the experiment with Adam was that he came out
physically unharmed. And he looked the way I wanted him to look. Now I have
experience in transforming the form of the human body. The negative aspects?
The "convenient" method of many transformations and dissolutions is ruled
out categorically; everything has to be done in one session. And the "it-not
it" method of correction must only be used in those situations when I know
for sure what "it" is and can control the changes, simply, by changing only
minor external flaws.
In a word, I have to start from scratch yet a third time.
I want to create an improved version of myself, handsomer and smarter.
The only possible way is to record my wishes along with my information in
the computer. It can either react to them or not. The worst that can happen
is there'll be another exact copy of Krivoshein-and that's it. As long as
he's not worse.
The physical part seems rather simple. I'll put on Monomakh's Crown and
picture myself to the point of hallucinations in a better form-without
facial defects (get rid of the freckles and the scar over my eyebrow, fix
the nose, reduce the jaw, etc.) and body flaws (get rid of the fat, fix the
knee). And the hair should be darker.
But as for increasing his mental capacity. How? Just wish that my new
double be smarter than me? The computer-womb won't register that. It deals
only with constructive information. I have to think about it.
November 2. I have an idea. It's primitive, but it's an idea. I'm not
equally bright at different times of the day. You get dull after a
meal-there is even a biological reason for it (the blood is drained from the
brain). Therefore, I'll record information on me when I've not eaten for a
while. Or smoked.
And here's one more aspect of my mental ability to take into account:
the closer it is to night, the more my sober and rational thoughts are
crowded out by dreams, imagination, and feelings. That can be gotten rid of,
too. My dreaming has already gotten me into enough hot water. Therefore, as
soon as evening comes on-out of the chamber. Let my new double be
somber-minded, reasonable, and well-balanced!
November 17. It's been three weeks that I've been getting the
computer-womb to perfect me. I keep wanting to say "You may!" through the
crown, to see what will happen. But no, there's a man in there! Let the
computer absorb my thoughts, ideas, and desires some more. Let it understand
what I want.
November 25, evening. The snow is falling on the white lamp post,
falling and falling, as if it's determined to overfulfill the plan. There
goes that girl on crutches past our house again, coming home from school.
She probably had polio and lost the use of her legs.
Everytime that I see her-with a big knapsack on her sharp shoulders,
limping uncomfortably with the crutches, her body hanging loosely between
them-I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I'm healthy as a horse; ashamed that I, a
smart and educated man, can't help her. Ashamed by a feeling of a great
impotence that exists in life.
Children should not be on crutches. What's the point of all the science
and technology in the world, if children use crutches!
Could it be that I'm still doing something wrong? Not what people
really need? This method of mine won't help the girl in any way.
It'll soon be a month that I've been planning what I'll think about and
entering the information chamber, affixing the sensors to my body, putting
on Monomakh's Crown, and thinking aloud. Sometimes I'm gripped by doubts.
What if the computer-womb is doing something wrong again? There's no
control, Goddamn it! And I get scared, so scared that I'm afraid it might
have an effect on the personality of the future double.
The next entry was made in pencil.
December 4 Well... in principle, I should be exulting. It worked. But I
don't have the strength, the energy, the thoughts, the emotions for it. I'm
tired. Oh, how tired I am! I'm too tired to look for my pen.
The computer took all my desires into account in the physical aspect. I
fixed a few things up in the synthesis process. As the double was appearing,
I didn't have to measure or guess-my practiced eye immediately picked up on
the "not its" in his construction and controlled the computer as it
corrected them.
I set up a ladder in the tank and helped him get out. He stood before
me, naked, well-built, muscular, handsome, dark-haired-still resembling me
but not resembling me. Puddles of the liquid spread at his feet.
"Well?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
"Everything's in order," he smiled.
And then... then my lips trembled. My face trembled. My hands shook. I
couldn't even light a cigarette. He lit one for me, poured me some alcohol,
muttering: "It's all right, everything's fine, don't...." He comforted me.
That was funny.
I'm going to try to sleep now.
December 5. Today I tested the logical capabilities of double number 3.
First round (playing crosswits): 5-3 in his favor. Round two (playing
words): in ten minutes he built eight more words than I did from
"abbreviation" and twelve more than me from "retrogression." Round three: we
solved logic puzzles from the college text by Azarov, beginning with number
223. I only reached number 235 in two hours of work; he got up to 240.
I wasn't faking-I was really caught up in the contest. That means that
he thinks 25-30 percent faster than I do-and that's from a simple-minded
clumsy attempt at improvement. Just think what could have been done
scientifically!
We'll see how he is at work.
December 7. Our work so far isn't intellectual. We're cleaning up the
lab. And not only because of the intertwined wires and living hoses. We're
dusting and vacuuming and removing mildew from flasks, and equipment and
panels.
"Tell me, how do you feel about biology?"
"Biology?" he looked at me in surprise, then remembered. "Oh, I see
where you're leading. You know, I don't understand him either. I think it
was some kind of fixation coming from trying to prove himself."
"Wow!" said student Krivoshein and even bounced on his chair. "Now
that's something!"
But how... after all, double number 3 was also a continuation of the
computer-womb! That meant... that meant that the computer had learned how to
construct the human organism? Well, of course. He was the first. That's why
all that complex searching and retrieval had been necessary. And now the
computer remembered all the attempts and picked from among them those that
led directly to the goal, constructing a program for synthesizing man.
That meant that his discovery of inner transformations was truly
unique. It had to be saved. The best thing would be to re-record himself in
the computer-womb, not with a vague memory of the search, but with precise
and proven knowledge on transforming himself. But why?
"Ah, how much can you think about that!" He frowned and went back to
the diary.
December 18. I don't remember. Are these frosts the ones called
Epiphany frosts or the ones in January? The northeast wind had brought us a
real Siberian winter and the steam heat can barely hold its own. The grounds
are all white and the lab is brighter.
I don't know if all the biblical rules were followed but the new double
has been christened. And the godfather was none other than Harry Hilobok.
This is how it happened. Students from Kharkov U. came for their year
of probation work. The day before yesterday I dropped by the dorms for the
young specialists and borrowed "for psychological experimentation" a student
card and a directive to work here. The students gaped at me with awe and
their eyes were aglow with a readiness to give not only their cards but
their shoes for the good of science. I borrowed a passport from Pasha
Fartkin.
Then we familiarized the computer-womb with the appearance and contents
of the documents. We manipulated them in front of the objectives, rustled
the pages.... When the passport, the student card, and the form appeared in
the tank, I put on the crown and with the "it-not it" method corrected all
the information.
Double number 3 is now called Victor Vitalyevich Kravets. He is
twenty-three, Russian, subject to military service, a fifth-year student in
the physics department at Kharkov State U, lives in Kharkov, 17 Kholodnaya
Gora. Pleased to meet you.
Am I? During the operation the newly hatched Kravets and I talked in
whispers and felt like counterfeiters who were about to be caught. The
engrained respect for the law in intellectuals showed itself again.
We also felt strange the next day when we went to see Hilobok: Kravets,
to report in, and me, to ask that he be assigned to my lab. My biggest worry
was that Hilobok would assign him to another lab. But it worked out. There
were more students that year than snow. When Hilobok heard that I would
guarantee the material needed for student Kravets's diploma thesis, he tried
to foist another two on me.
Harry, naturally, noted the resemblance between us.
"He's not a relative of yours, is he, Valentin Vasilyevich?"
"Well, sort of. A nephew three times removed."
"Well, then it's understandable! Of course, of course....." His face
expressed understanding of my familial feelings and his tolerance of them.
"And will be be living with you?"
"No, why? Let him stay in the dorms."
"Oh, of course." Harry's face made it clear that my relationship with
Lena was no secret to him either. "I understand you, Valentin Vasileyvich.
Oh, how I understand!"
God, how disgusting it is when Hilobok "oh, understands" you.
"And how are things with your doctoral dissertation, Harry
Har-itonovich?" I asked, to change the subject.
"The doctoral?" He looked at me very carefully. "It's all right. Why do
you ask, Valentin Vasilyevich? You're in discrete phenomena; analog
electronics isn't in your field."
"Right now I don't know what's in my field and what isn't, Harry
Haritonovich," I replied honestly.
"Ah, so? Well, that's laudable. But I won't be up for a defense for a
while. My work keeps pulling me away. Current events don't give me time for
creative work. You'll do your defense before I do, Valentin Vasilyevich,
both your candidate and doctoral dissertations, he-he...."
We walked back to the lab in lousy humor. There was a creepy duality in
our work: in the lab we were gods, but when we had to come into contact with
the environment, we had to politic, sneak, wheedle. What was it-a
characteristic of research? Or of reality? Or, perhaps, of our personality?
"After all, it wasn't I who invented a system of ticketing humanity:
passports, passes, requisitions, reports, and so on," I said. "Without
papers you're a gnat; with papers you're a man."
Victor Kravets said nothing.
December 20. Well, our work together is beginning!
"Don't you think that we went overboard with our vow?"
"?!"
"Well, not the whole vow, but that sacred part."
"To use the discovery for the benefit of mankind with absolute
dependability?"
"Precisely. We've realized four methods: synthesis of information about
man into man; synthesis of rabbits with improvements and without; synthesis
of electronic circuits; and synthesis of man with improvements. Does even
one of them have an absolute guarantee of benefits?"
"Hmmmm. No. But the last method at least in principle-"
"-can create 'knights without fear or flaw,' cavaliers of Saint George,
and fiery warriors?"
"Let's just say good people. Any objections?"
"We're not voting yet. We're discussing. And I think that that idea is
based-please forgive me-on very jejune ideas of so-called good people. There
are no abstractly good and bad people. Every man is good for some and bad
for others. That's why the real knights without fear and flaw had more
enemies than anyone else. The only one who's good for everyone is a smart
and sneaky egotist, who tries to get along with everyone in order to achieve
his ends. There is, however, a quasi-objective criterion: he is good who is
supported by the majority. Are you willing to use that criterion as the
basis for this method?"
"Hmm... let me think."
"What for? If I've already thought about it, after all, you'll come to
the same conclusion-that the criterion is no good. The majority has
supported God knows who since time immemorial. But there are two other
criteria: good is what I think is good (or who I think is good) and good is
what is good for me. Like all people who care professionally about the
welfare of mankind, we operated on the basis of both-only in our simplicity
we thought that we were only using the first one, and considered it
objective at that."
"Now you're exaggerating!"
"Not a bit! I won't remind you about poor Adam, but even when you were
synthesizing me you were worried that it should be good for me (rather, what
you thought was good) and that it should be good for you, too. Right? But
that's a subjective criterion and other people-"
"-with this method could do what they thought was good for them?"
"Precisely."
"Hmmm. All right, let's say you're right. Then we have to look for
another method of synthesizing and transforming information in man."
"Like what?"
"I don't know."
"I'll tell you what method is needed. We have to convert our
computer-womb into an apparatus that continually turns out 'good' at the
rate of... say, a million and a half good deeds a second. And at the same
time, it should do away with bad deeds at the same rate. Actually, a million
and a half-that's just a drop in the ocean. There are three and a half
billion people on earth and every one of them performs several dozen acts a
day that can never be construed as neutral. And we still have to figure out
a method of equal distribution of this production across the surface of the
earth. In a word, it had to be something like an ensilage harrow on
magnetrons of unfired brick."
"You're mocking me, right?"
"Yes. I'm trampling your dream-otherwise it will lead us into God knows
where."
"You think that I...?"
"No. I don't think that you were working wrong. It would be very
strange if I thought so. But understand: subjectively you dreamed and
thought, but objectively you did only what the possibilities of the
discovery permitted you to do. And that's the point! You have to coordinate
your plans with the possibilities of the work. And you were hoping to
counterbalance a hundred billion varied acts of humanity a day with your
little machine. And it's those hundred billion, plus uncounted past actions,
that determine the social processes on earth, their goodness and evil. All
of science is incapable of counterbalancing those mighty processes, that
avalanche of acts and deeds, first of all because science makes up a small
part of life on earth, and secondly because that is not its specialty.
Science doesn't develop good or evil-it develops new information and gives
new opportunities. And that's all. Now the application of that information
and the use of the opportunities determine the above-mentioned social
processes and powers. We will give people nothing more than new
opportunities to produce people in their own image, and it's up to them to
use these opportunities to their benefit or harm or not at all."
"You mean we should publish the discovery and wash our hands of it?
Well, I never! If we don't give a damn what happens to it, certainly no one
else will!"
"Don't be angry. I don't think we should publish and wash our hands of
it. We have to go on working, studying the possibilities the way everyone
does. But in the research, and the ideas, even in the dreams on project 154,
you must keep in mind that what happens to this project in real life depends
primarily on life itself, or to put it in a more cultured way, on the
socio-political situation in the world. If the situation develops in a safe,
good direction, then we can publish. If not-we'll have to hold off or
destroy the project, as foreseen by the vow. It's not in our power to save
humanity, but it is in our power not to inflict any harm on it."
"Hm . . . that's very modest. I think you're underestimating the
possibilities of modern science. We now have the capability of destroying
humanity by pushing a button-or several buttons. Why shouldn't there be an
alternative method to save or at least protect humanity by pushing a button?
And why, damn it, shouldn't that method be in our field of research?"
"It doesn't lie there. Our direction is constructive. It's much, much
harder to build a bridge than to blow it up."
"I agree. But they do build bridges."
"But no one's built a bridge that can't be blown up."
We found ourselves at a dead end.
But he's okay. He essentially laid out all my vague doubts in a
clear-cut fashion; they had been bothering me for a long time. I don't know
whether to be happy or sad.
December 28. So, it's been a year since I sat in the new lab on an
unpacked impulse generator and thought about an indefinite experiment. Just
a year? No, time is measured by events and not by the rotation of the earth.
I think at least a decade has passed. And not only because so much was
done-there was so much experienced. I've started thinking about life more,
understanding myself and others better, I've even changed a little-pray God,
for the better.
And still there is a dissatisfaction-too much dreaming, I suppose.
Everything that I've thought of has happened, but the wrong way somehow:
with difficulties, with horrible complications, with disillusionment. That's
the way it is in life. Man never dreams about where he could fall flat on
his face or find disillusionment; that happens on its own. I understand that
perfectly well with my mind, but I still can't resign myself to it.
When I was synthesizing double number 3 (Kravets in civilian life), I
hoped vaguely that something would click in the computer-womb and I would
get a knight without fear or flaw! Nothing clicked. He's fine, can't argue
with that, but he's no knight. He's sober-minded, reasonable, and careful.
And where was the knight supposed to come from-me?
Jerk, dreamy jerk! You keep hoping that nature will find and hand you
the absolutely dependable method-it never will. It doesn't have that
information.
Damn, is it really impossible? Is the perfected Krivoshein-Kravets
really right?
There is one method of saving the world by pushing a button; it can be
used in case of thermonuclear war. You hide several computer-wombs that have
been fed information on people (men and women) deep in a mine shaft with a
large supply of reagents. And if there are no people left in the ashes of
the earth, the computers will save and resurrect humanity. That's one way
out of the situation.
But even then it won't work like that. If you give the world a method
like that, it will destroy the balance that exists and push the world into
nuclear war. "People will still live. Atom bombs aren't so terrible-let's
set them off!" some idiot politician will think. "The problem of the Near
East? There is no Near East! The Vietnam problem? What Vietnam? Buy personal
bomb shelters for your soul!"
Then that's "not it" either. What is "it?" Is there an "it?"
Sleep is the best weapon against sleepiness. -K. Prutkov-enzhener
A Sketch for an Encyclopedia
A quick-flowing June night: the purple sunset had gone out in the west
a short time ago and now in the southeast, beyond the Dneiper, the sky was
growing light again. But even a short night is a night; it has the same
effect on people. The inhabitants of the shaded parts of the planet sleep.
The citizens of Dneprovsk were sleeping. Many of the participants in the
described events were sleeping.
Matvei Apollonovich Onisimov was sleeping fitfully. He had a lot of
trouble falling asleep: he smoked, tossed and turned, and bothered his wife
while he thought about what had happened. When he did fall asleep,
exhausted, his overstimulated mind offered a terrible dream. It seemed three
bodies killed by fire throwers were found in three city parks. Medical
Examiner Zubato, too lazy to examine all three bodies, came up with the
theory that all three were killed with one shot. To probe the veracity of
his theory, he sat the bodies down on a marble bench in the autopsy room,
arms around one another; their wounds matched up.
Matvei Apollonovich, who usually had black and murky dreams that looked
as if they were an old, used film, experienced this picture in 3-D, with
color and smell; there were three Krivosheins in a row-huge, naked, pink
ones smelling of meat-and they were staring at him with photogenic smiles.
Onisimov woke up in protest. But (the dream had helped) he had the
beginnings of a good theory when he woke up: they were boiling the murdered
Krivoshein's body in that lab! After all-a body is the most important clue
and it's risky to hide it or bury it; it could be found. And so they were
boiling or disintegrating the body in a special liquid, and since this
wasn't an easy matter, they miscalculated and the tank turned over. And
that's why the body seemed warm when Prakhov the technician found it in the
tank! That's why it melted so fast, soaked as it was in their chemicals,
leaving only a skeleton. The lab assistant had been knocked out by the tank,
and the other conspirator-the one who was pulling all those tricks in front
of him yesterday-ran off. (It was clear that the mystifier or circus
performer was either using masks or else was well trained in mimicry.) And
then he arranged for an alibi-he could have fooled that Moscow professor
with his masks and mime. And his papers were just very good fakes.
Matvei Apollonovich lit another cigarette. And still this was no simple
crime. If the perpetrators were working both here and in Moscow and there
was no motive of greed, personal vendetta, or sex, then . . . probably
Krivoshein had made a serious invention or discovery. No, tomorrow he would
insist to his chief that they bring in the security organs on this case!
(Although Onisimov will never know what happened, we must give credit to his
detective ability. Really: not knowing anything about the essence of the
case and using only the external accidental facts, he managed to build a
logical, consistent theory-not everyone can do that!)
Having made the decision, Matvei Apollonovich slept soundly. Now he was
having pleasant dreams: he'd been promoted for solving the case. But dreams
are even less subject to our control than reality, and the investigator
began groaning and tossing. His awakened wife asked: "Matvei, what's the
matter?" Onisimov had dreamed that there was a fire in the department and
the new promotion list had been destroyed.
Arkady Arkadievich Azarov had just fallen asleep, and only with the
help of two sleeping pills. (He'll wake up in the morning with
neurasthenia.) He was also tormented by thoughts of the events in the New
Systems Lab. He had already gotten a phone call from the Party City
Committee: "Another accident, Arkady Arkadievich? With a loss of human
life?" How do they find out so fast? Now it would all begin: reports,
commissions, explanations.... But that's why he was a director and got a fat
salary, so that he could be driven crazy! These are the things, for which
he's not responsible and couldn't possibly be responsible, that cast
aspersions on his honest, productive, positive work! Arkady Arkadievich felt
alone and miserable.
"I should never have set up that lab of 'random retrieval.' I didn't
listen to myself. I mean the whole idea of random test and free-form
combinations being a path that would bring truth and correct solutions to
science went deep against my own grain. And it still does. The Monte Carlo
Method-just look at the name! Belief in chance-what could be worse in a
researcher? Instead of analyzing the problem logically and confidently and
slowly reaching its solution, you try your luck, even with the aid of lab
equipment and computers! Of course, you can build pseudoscientific systems
and algorithms that way, but don't they resemble the 'systems' gamblers have
for beating the bank and which always make them bankrupt? Big deal, so you
changed the name of the lab. But the essence was the same. You let it
develop, because there is this tendency in world systemology. And so let it
develop in our institute, too. It's developed all right!"
Arkady Arkadievich hadn't expressed his misgivings to Krivoshein back
then, because he didn't want to dampen his enthusiasm. He merely asked:
"What are you planning to achieve... through random retrieval?" "First and
foremost to master the methodology," Krivoshein had answered, and that had
pleased Azarov more than if he had spewed out hundreds of ideas.
"But he wasn't just mastering the methodology/'Arkady Arkadievich
remembered the laboratory, the setup that looked like an octopus, the
expensive collection of test tubes and flasks. "He was doing some vast
experiment. Could he have really been doing what he had reported on at the
scientific council? But it ended up with a corpse. A corpse that turned into
a skeleton!" Azarov felt revulsion and anger. "I have to put an end to
experimentation; something always goes wrong! Always! Systemology is
essentially a cerebral science. The analysis and synthesis of any system
must be promoted! And if you want to work with computers-please do, program
your tasks and go into the computer room. And basically with all these
experiments," the academician laughed lightly, calming down, "you never know
what you've got: a hugh mistake or a discovery!"
Arkady Arkadievich had a long-time score to settle with experimental
science, and his opinions on it were firm and definite. Some thirty years
ago the young physicist Azarov was studying the process of liquifying
helium. Once he stuck two glass stirrers into his Dewar flask, and the
liquid, cooled down to 2 on the absolute scale, evaporated very quickly.
Two liters of then precious helium disappeared and the experiment was
ruined! Arkady accused the lab's glass man of sticking him with a faulty
Dewar flask. He had been penalized ... and two years later a classmate of
Azarov's at the university, Pyotr Kapitsa, in an analogous experiment
(lowering capillary stirrers into a vessel) discovered the superfluidity of
helium!
Arkady Arkadievich grew disillusioned in experimental physics and came
to love the dependable and strict world of mathematics. It was math that
elevated him-the mathematical approach to the solution of nonmathematical
problems. In the thirties he applied his methods to the problems of the
general theory of relativity, which had all science enthralled; later his
research helped solve important problems in the theory of chain reactions in
uranium and plutonium. Then he applied his methods to the problems of
chemical catalysis of polymers; and now he was head of the discrete systems
direction in systemology.
"Eh, I'm still thinking about the wrong thing!" Azarov complained.
"What did happen in Krivoshein's lab? I remember last autumn he came to me,
wanted to talk about something. What? Work, naturally. And I waved him off.
I was too busy. Somehow you always consider things that can't be put off as
the most important. I should have talked to him; I'd know now what happened.
Krivoshein never approached me again. Of course, people like that are proud
and shy. Wait-what kind of people? What's Krivoshein like? What do I know
about him? A few lectures at seminars, an appearance at the scientific
council, several exchanges with other lecturers, and a nodding acquaintance.
Can I base a judgement on that? Yes, I can. I'm not so bad at judging
people. He was an active and creative person. You recognize people like that
by their questions and by their answers. You can see the constant thought
flow-not everyone can see it, but I'm the same way; I can recognize it. A
man eats, goes to work, greets friends, goes to the movies, argues with his
co-workers, lends money, tans at the beach-he does it all wholeheartedly-and
yet all the time he's thinking. On one subject. The idea has no relation to
his actions or daily cares, but there is nothing that will distract him from
that idea. It's the most important part of him: new things are born from it.
And Krivoshein was like that. And it's too bad that's in the past tense-life
loses something very necessary with the death of a man like that. And you
feel even more alone.... Well, enough, what am I going on about?" Arkady
Arkadievich looked at the time. "I must sleep."
Harry Haritonovich Hilobok couldn't fall asleep that night either. He
kept looking at the lighted window across the way in Krivoshein's apartment
and tried to guess who was that in there. Lena Kolomiets left rapidly after
ten (Harry Haritonvich recognized her figure and walk, and thought: "I
should get to know her better. There's a lot to her"), but the light stayed
on. Hilobok turned out his lights, and seated himself at the window with a
pair of binoculars, but the angle was wrong-he could only see part of the
book shelf and the Olympic-ring logo on the wall. "Did she forget to put out
the light? Or is there someone else in there? Should I call the police? Ah,
the hell with them. Let them figure it out." Harry Haritonovich yawned
deliciously. "Maybe it's the police in there investigating...."
He went back into his room and lit the night-light, a naked woman made
out of fake marble with a light bulb inside. The soft light fell on the
bearskin rug on the floor, the walls covered with blue wallpaper with golden
storks, the polished grain of the desk, the bookshelves, the closet, the
television set, the quilted pink couch, the dark red carpet with a scene of
ancient feasting-everything was meant to be conducive to sensuousness. Harry
Haritonovich undressed and went to look at himself in the mirror. He liked
his face: the straight large nose; the smooth, but not fat, cheeks; the dark
mustache-there was something of Guy de Maupassant about him. Very recently
he had been trying on his doctor-of-technical-sciences look. "Why did he
have to do that, that Krivoshein?" Harry Haritonovich felt his heart beating
madly. "What had I ever done to him? I even voted for his project and helped
his relative get a job at the lab. He doesn't have a dissertation and he
envies the rest! Or was it because I didn't fill his request for the SES-2?
Well, it doesn't matter-there is no more Krivoshein. He's gone. That's the
way it is. The winner in life is gone. That's the way it is. The winner in
life is the one who outlives his adversary."
Hilobok was pleased with the humor of his thought and wanted to
remember it. It should be noted that Harry Haritonovich was not as stupid as
one might assume from his behavior. It's just that he based his formula for
success on the following: they expect less from a fool. No one ever expected
great ideas or knowledge from him; thus on those rare occasions when he
would display some knowledge or the tiniest idea, it came as such a pleasant
surprise that his colleagues would think: "We underestimate Harry
Haritonovich," and try to compensate for that evaluation in their
disposition toward him. And that's how his articles got into the anthology
Questions of Systemology-the editors, naturally expecting nothing very good,
were bowled over by the few grains of reason in them. Harry Haritonovich
turned in work to people who were already demoralized by his talk and
behavior. But something went wrong with his dissertation... but, never mind,
he would get his!
Harry Haritonovich was lulled by pleasant thoughts and rain-bowlike
hopes. He was sleeping soundly and without dreams, the way they must have
slept in the Stone Age.
Officer Gayevoy was sleeping and smiling, just returned from his night
shift.
After a good cry about Krivoshein and herself, Lena fell asleep.
But not everyone was asleep. The police guard Golovorezov was fighting
off sleepiness at his post watching the New Systems Lab; he was sitting on
the steps of the lodge, smoking, and looking at the stars over the trees.
Something rustled in the grass not far away. He shined his flashlight: a
red-eyed albino rabbit looked at him from the bushes. The guard shooed him
away. Golovorezov had no idea just what kind of a rabbit it was.
Victor Kravets tossed and turned on the hard cot under a cloth blanket
that smelled of disinfectant in the solitary confinement cell of the prison.
He was in that state of nervous agitation when sleep is impossible.
"What will happen now? What will happen? Did graduate student
Krivoshein get out of it, or will the laboratory and the project perish?
What else can I do to help? Fight back? Confess? To what? Citizen
investigator, I'm guilty of good intentions-good intentions that didn't help
anything. I guess that's a heavy guilt, if that's how it's worked out. We
kept rushing-hurry! hurry!-to master the discovery, to reach that method
'with absolute dependability.' And even though I didn't admit it to myself,
I expected us to come up with it too. Evolution brought new information into
man gradually, by the method of small trials and small errors, testing its
benefit with innumerable experiments. And we-we tried to do it all in one
experiment!
"We should have dropped the idea of possible social repercussions right
off the bat and worked openly and calmly like everyone else. In the long
run, people aren't children. They must understand what's what on their own.
We figured out everything: that man is a super complex, protein
quantal-molecular system, that he is the product of natural evolution, that
he is information recorded in the liquid. The one thing we missed was that
omnipotent electronic brains-and in them your ideas, your work, the best of
us all. What do you think? Man the creator-that still sounds good. And the
best will stay on and develop even when that semiliterate broad, Nature,
will finally uncrown her homo sapiens!"
"But that's terrible, what you're saying!" Lena was incensed.
"You're... a robot! You just don't like people!"
Ivanov gave her a gentle, condescending look:
"We're not arguing, Lena. I'm just explaining what's what."
That was the limit. Lena clicked off and said nothing. I didn't reply
either. The silence was getting uncomfortable. I called the waiter and paid.
We went out on Marx Prospect, on the "Broadway of Dneprovsk." The
pedestrians defiled it.
Suddenly Valery grabbed me by the hand.
"Val, do you hear? Do you see?"
At first I didn't know what I was supposed to see or hear.
A teenage couple walked past, both in thick sweaters and the same
hairdo. The boy had a transistor radio around his neck in a yellow pearlized
shell with a rocket on it. The pure sounds of the saxophone and the clear
syncopations of the brass resounded on the street. I would have recognized
the sound of that radio among a hundred brands like a mother recognizes the
voice of her child in the din of a kindergarten. The low-noise, wide-band
amplifier that was in it was one of the things Valery and I had invented.
"That means they've started production on it," I concluded. "We can ask
for our royalties. Hey, fella, how much did you pay for the radio?"
"Fifty dollars," the punk announced proudly.
"There you see, fifty dollars, that equals forty-five Mongolian
tugriks. A clear markup for quality. You should be pleased!"
"Pleased? You be pleased! You said it was terrible [actually that was
Lena, not me]. Better terrible, than that!"
Once upon a time, we had delved into quantum physics, were amazed by
the duality of the particle wave of the electron, studied the theory and
technology of semiconductors, mastered the most refined lab equipment.
Semiconducting equipment was the future of electronics in those days. Pop
science writers praised them and engineers dreamed about them. There was a
lot in those dreams. Some came true-the rest was discarded by technology.
But we had never dreamed that transistors would figure among the
accoutrements of pimply punks on the prospect.
And how Valery and I had struggled with the noise problem! The problem
was that electrons distribute themselves in a semiconducting crystal like
particles of color in water-the same old chaotic Brownian motion. That's why
there's noise in earphones, sounding like the hiss of a phonograph needle
and the distant murmur of the surf. It's an involved story. I had the first
invention, and the official phraseology of the application to the Committee
on Inventions of the USSR was music to my ears: "Submitting with this the
above-mentioned documents, we request an inventor's certificate for the
invention called...."
So, all right; someone lived through the joy of learning, ignited in
creative search, experienced engineering triumphs, but what does that poor
punk care? He didn't get anything from all that joy. So there it is: turn
over the bloody tugriks, push the button, turn the handle... and go around
like a jerk with a clean neck.
We walked Valery back to his hotel.
"So?" he asked as we shook hands.
"I have to think about it, Valery."
"Think!" Lena gave me a hostile look. "You're going to think about it?"
She really has no self-control. She could have held her tongue.
The funny part was that Valery didn't even ask what I was doing. It was
obvious to him that there could be nothing good going on at the institute
and that I had to come over to work with him.
I'll think about it.
October 2 7.
Ivanov called:
"Have you thought about it?"
"Not yet."
"Ah, those women! I understand you, of course. Decide, Val. We'll work
together. I'll call you tomorrow before I leave, all right?"
If back then, in March, when my complex was only beginning to plan and
build itself, I had stopped the experiment and analyzed the possible paths
of development, everything would have turned to the synthesis of
microelectronic units. Because that was something I understood. And now I
would be way ahead of Valery. The work would have gone down different
channels, and it would never have occurred to me or to anyone else that we
had overlooked a method of synthesizing living organisms.
But I didn't overlook it.
How pleasant it had been using my engineering thought to create those
plates with microcircuits in the tank: flip-flops, inverters, decoders! That
'Poem' of his, if you added my computer-womb to it, would be a sure thing.
In fact, it would be his computer-factory. I was on top of things in that
area. It's not too late to turn around ....
And work like that really could lead to a world or society of machines
totally independent of man-not robots, but machines that complement one
another. Perhaps that is the natural evolution of things? If you look at it
objectively, there's nothing so terrible about it. Well, there were protein
(ion-chemical) systems on earth, and on the basis of their information
electron crystal systems developed. Evolution continues.
Yes, but if you look at things objectively, nothing so horrible would
happen if there was a thermonuclear catastrophe, either. Well, so something
exploded, and the radioactive foundation of the atmosphere increased. But is
the earth still spinning on its axis? Yes. And around the sun? Yes. That
means the stability of the solar system has not been harmed, and everything
is all right.
"You don't like people!" Lena had said to Ivanov. What's so is so.
Hilobok's stink, quitting the institute, bumping into our invention
yesterday-they were all steps on the stairway to misanthropy. And there are
plenty of such steps in the life of every active person. If you compare life
experience with engineering experience you could really come to the
conclusion that it's easier to develop machines in which everything is
rational and clear.
But, all right; but do I like people? It will all depend on that, what
I continue working on.
I had never thought about it.... Well, I love me, however terrible that
may be. I loved my father. I love (let's say) Lena. If I ever have children,
I guess I'll love them. I don't exactly love Valery, but I respect him. But
as for all the people that walk around on the street, that I run across in
my work, in public places, that I read about in the newspapers and hear
about-what are they to me? And who am I to them? I like good-looking women,
smart, cheerful men, but I despise fools and drunks, can't stand auto
inspectors, and am cool toward old people. And in the morning rush hour I
sometimes get the TBB-the trolley and bus bananas-when I want to smash
everyone on the head and jump out the window. In a word, I have the most
varied feelings about people.
Aha, that's the point. We feel respect, love, contempt, shame, fear,
pride, sympathy, and so on about people. And about machines? Well, they
elicit emotions, too. It's pleasant to work with a good machine, and you
feel sorry if you've ruined a machine or piece of equipment. You might curse
yourself before you find the trouble .. . but that's completely different.
These are feelings not about the machines, but the people who made them and
used them. Or could use them. Even the fear of the atom bomb is merely the
reflection of our fear of the people who made it and plan to put it into
use. And the plans of people who build machines that will push man into the
background also elicit fear.
I love life. I love feeling everything-that's for sure. And what kind
of life could there be without people? That's ridiculous. Naturally, if you
juxtapose Ivanov's computer-factory to my computer-womb....
It's clear. I choose people!
And the wise and strong Valery is even weaker than I am. He doesn't
pick his work; his work picks him.
(Come on, be honest-deep-down honest, Krivoshein. If you didn't have a
method for creating man on your hands, wouldn't you espouse the point of
view in favor of computers? Every one of us specialists is always trying to
give our work an ideological base. You can't simply admit that you're doing
the work only because you don't know how to do anything else! A confession
like that for a creative worker is tantamount to bankruptcy.
By the way, do I know how to do what I'm planning to do? ...)
Enough! Of course, all this is very intellectual and nice: putting
myself down, bemoaning my imperfections, worrying about the discrepancy
between my dreams and actions. But where is that knight of the spirit with a
higher education and experience in the field to whom I could turn over the
project with a clear conscience? Ivanov? No. Azarov? I never got a chance to
find out. And the work is waiting.
So whatever I may be, my finger will rest on the button for now.
October 28, A phone call at the lab.
"Well, Val, have you decided to do it?"
"No, Valery."
"Too bad. We would have done some fine work. But, I understand. Give
her my regards. She's a nice woman; I'm happy for you."
"Thanks. I'll tell her."
"Well, so long. Drop in when you're in Leningrad."
"Without fail! Have a good flight, Valery."
You don't understand a damn thing, Valery. The hell with it. It's over!
I think I've gotten my itch to work back. Thanks for that, Valery, at least
for that!
You never know what's good and what's bad. Stenography came about
because of poor penmanship and the theory of reliability from breakdowns in
machines.
-K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 100
November 1. And so, without wanting to, I've proven that in controlling
synthesis, you can create a psychopath and a slave on the basis of
information on, say, an average person. It happened because the introduction
of auxiliary information was done through crude violence (oh, I just can't
couch this "result" in academic phrases!). Now as a minimum goal, I must
prove the opposite possibility.
The positive aspect of the experiment with Adam was that he came out
physically unharmed. And he looked the way I wanted him to look. Now I have
experience in transforming the form of the human body. The negative aspects?
The "convenient" method of many transformations and dissolutions is ruled
out categorically; everything has to be done in one session. And the "it-not
it" method of correction must only be used in those situations when I know
for sure what "it" is and can control the changes, simply, by changing only
minor external flaws.
In a word, I have to start from scratch yet a third time.
I want to create an improved version of myself, handsomer and smarter.
The only possible way is to record my wishes along with my information in
the computer. It can either react to them or not. The worst that can happen
is there'll be another exact copy of Krivoshein-and that's it. As long as
he's not worse.
The physical part seems rather simple. I'll put on Monomakh's Crown and
picture myself to the point of hallucinations in a better form-without
facial defects (get rid of the freckles and the scar over my eyebrow, fix
the nose, reduce the jaw, etc.) and body flaws (get rid of the fat, fix the
knee). And the hair should be darker.
But as for increasing his mental capacity. How? Just wish that my new
double be smarter than me? The computer-womb won't register that. It deals
only with constructive information. I have to think about it.
November 2. I have an idea. It's primitive, but it's an idea. I'm not
equally bright at different times of the day. You get dull after a
meal-there is even a biological reason for it (the blood is drained from the
brain). Therefore, I'll record information on me when I've not eaten for a
while. Or smoked.
And here's one more aspect of my mental ability to take into account:
the closer it is to night, the more my sober and rational thoughts are
crowded out by dreams, imagination, and feelings. That can be gotten rid of,
too. My dreaming has already gotten me into enough hot water. Therefore, as
soon as evening comes on-out of the chamber. Let my new double be
somber-minded, reasonable, and well-balanced!
November 17. It's been three weeks that I've been getting the
computer-womb to perfect me. I keep wanting to say "You may!" through the
crown, to see what will happen. But no, there's a man in there! Let the
computer absorb my thoughts, ideas, and desires some more. Let it understand
what I want.
November 25, evening. The snow is falling on the white lamp post,
falling and falling, as if it's determined to overfulfill the plan. There
goes that girl on crutches past our house again, coming home from school.
She probably had polio and lost the use of her legs.
Everytime that I see her-with a big knapsack on her sharp shoulders,
limping uncomfortably with the crutches, her body hanging loosely between
them-I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I'm healthy as a horse; ashamed that I, a
smart and educated man, can't help her. Ashamed by a feeling of a great
impotence that exists in life.
Children should not be on crutches. What's the point of all the science
and technology in the world, if children use crutches!
Could it be that I'm still doing something wrong? Not what people
really need? This method of mine won't help the girl in any way.
It'll soon be a month that I've been planning what I'll think about and
entering the information chamber, affixing the sensors to my body, putting
on Monomakh's Crown, and thinking aloud. Sometimes I'm gripped by doubts.
What if the computer-womb is doing something wrong again? There's no
control, Goddamn it! And I get scared, so scared that I'm afraid it might
have an effect on the personality of the future double.
The next entry was made in pencil.
December 4 Well... in principle, I should be exulting. It worked. But I
don't have the strength, the energy, the thoughts, the emotions for it. I'm
tired. Oh, how tired I am! I'm too tired to look for my pen.
The computer took all my desires into account in the physical aspect. I
fixed a few things up in the synthesis process. As the double was appearing,
I didn't have to measure or guess-my practiced eye immediately picked up on
the "not its" in his construction and controlled the computer as it
corrected them.
I set up a ladder in the tank and helped him get out. He stood before
me, naked, well-built, muscular, handsome, dark-haired-still resembling me
but not resembling me. Puddles of the liquid spread at his feet.
"Well?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
"Everything's in order," he smiled.
And then... then my lips trembled. My face trembled. My hands shook. I
couldn't even light a cigarette. He lit one for me, poured me some alcohol,
muttering: "It's all right, everything's fine, don't...." He comforted me.
That was funny.
I'm going to try to sleep now.
December 5. Today I tested the logical capabilities of double number 3.
First round (playing crosswits): 5-3 in his favor. Round two (playing
words): in ten minutes he built eight more words than I did from
"abbreviation" and twelve more than me from "retrogression." Round three: we
solved logic puzzles from the college text by Azarov, beginning with number
223. I only reached number 235 in two hours of work; he got up to 240.
I wasn't faking-I was really caught up in the contest. That means that
he thinks 25-30 percent faster than I do-and that's from a simple-minded
clumsy attempt at improvement. Just think what could have been done
scientifically!
We'll see how he is at work.
December 7. Our work so far isn't intellectual. We're cleaning up the
lab. And not only because of the intertwined wires and living hoses. We're
dusting and vacuuming and removing mildew from flasks, and equipment and
panels.
"Tell me, how do you feel about biology?"
"Biology?" he looked at me in surprise, then remembered. "Oh, I see
where you're leading. You know, I don't understand him either. I think it
was some kind of fixation coming from trying to prove himself."
"Wow!" said student Krivoshein and even bounced on his chair. "Now
that's something!"
But how... after all, double number 3 was also a continuation of the
computer-womb! That meant... that meant that the computer had learned how to
construct the human organism? Well, of course. He was the first. That's why
all that complex searching and retrieval had been necessary. And now the
computer remembered all the attempts and picked from among them those that
led directly to the goal, constructing a program for synthesizing man.
That meant that his discovery of inner transformations was truly
unique. It had to be saved. The best thing would be to re-record himself in
the computer-womb, not with a vague memory of the search, but with precise
and proven knowledge on transforming himself. But why?
"Ah, how much can you think about that!" He frowned and went back to
the diary.
December 18. I don't remember. Are these frosts the ones called
Epiphany frosts or the ones in January? The northeast wind had brought us a
real Siberian winter and the steam heat can barely hold its own. The grounds
are all white and the lab is brighter.
I don't know if all the biblical rules were followed but the new double
has been christened. And the godfather was none other than Harry Hilobok.
This is how it happened. Students from Kharkov U. came for their year
of probation work. The day before yesterday I dropped by the dorms for the
young specialists and borrowed "for psychological experimentation" a student
card and a directive to work here. The students gaped at me with awe and
their eyes were aglow with a readiness to give not only their cards but
their shoes for the good of science. I borrowed a passport from Pasha
Fartkin.
Then we familiarized the computer-womb with the appearance and contents
of the documents. We manipulated them in front of the objectives, rustled
the pages.... When the passport, the student card, and the form appeared in
the tank, I put on the crown and with the "it-not it" method corrected all
the information.
Double number 3 is now called Victor Vitalyevich Kravets. He is
twenty-three, Russian, subject to military service, a fifth-year student in
the physics department at Kharkov State U, lives in Kharkov, 17 Kholodnaya
Gora. Pleased to meet you.
Am I? During the operation the newly hatched Kravets and I talked in
whispers and felt like counterfeiters who were about to be caught. The
engrained respect for the law in intellectuals showed itself again.
We also felt strange the next day when we went to see Hilobok: Kravets,
to report in, and me, to ask that he be assigned to my lab. My biggest worry
was that Hilobok would assign him to another lab. But it worked out. There
were more students that year than snow. When Hilobok heard that I would
guarantee the material needed for student Kravets's diploma thesis, he tried
to foist another two on me.
Harry, naturally, noted the resemblance between us.
"He's not a relative of yours, is he, Valentin Vasilyevich?"
"Well, sort of. A nephew three times removed."
"Well, then it's understandable! Of course, of course....." His face
expressed understanding of my familial feelings and his tolerance of them.
"And will be be living with you?"
"No, why? Let him stay in the dorms."
"Oh, of course." Harry's face made it clear that my relationship with
Lena was no secret to him either. "I understand you, Valentin Vasileyvich.
Oh, how I understand!"
God, how disgusting it is when Hilobok "oh, understands" you.
"And how are things with your doctoral dissertation, Harry
Har-itonovich?" I asked, to change the subject.
"The doctoral?" He looked at me very carefully. "It's all right. Why do
you ask, Valentin Vasilyevich? You're in discrete phenomena; analog
electronics isn't in your field."
"Right now I don't know what's in my field and what isn't, Harry
Haritonovich," I replied honestly.
"Ah, so? Well, that's laudable. But I won't be up for a defense for a
while. My work keeps pulling me away. Current events don't give me time for
creative work. You'll do your defense before I do, Valentin Vasilyevich,
both your candidate and doctoral dissertations, he-he...."
We walked back to the lab in lousy humor. There was a creepy duality in
our work: in the lab we were gods, but when we had to come into contact with
the environment, we had to politic, sneak, wheedle. What was it-a
characteristic of research? Or of reality? Or, perhaps, of our personality?
"After all, it wasn't I who invented a system of ticketing humanity:
passports, passes, requisitions, reports, and so on," I said. "Without
papers you're a gnat; with papers you're a man."
Victor Kravets said nothing.
December 20. Well, our work together is beginning!
"Don't you think that we went overboard with our vow?"
"?!"
"Well, not the whole vow, but that sacred part."
"To use the discovery for the benefit of mankind with absolute
dependability?"
"Precisely. We've realized four methods: synthesis of information about
man into man; synthesis of rabbits with improvements and without; synthesis
of electronic circuits; and synthesis of man with improvements. Does even
one of them have an absolute guarantee of benefits?"
"Hmmmm. No. But the last method at least in principle-"
"-can create 'knights without fear or flaw,' cavaliers of Saint George,
and fiery warriors?"
"Let's just say good people. Any objections?"
"We're not voting yet. We're discussing. And I think that that idea is
based-please forgive me-on very jejune ideas of so-called good people. There
are no abstractly good and bad people. Every man is good for some and bad
for others. That's why the real knights without fear and flaw had more
enemies than anyone else. The only one who's good for everyone is a smart
and sneaky egotist, who tries to get along with everyone in order to achieve
his ends. There is, however, a quasi-objective criterion: he is good who is
supported by the majority. Are you willing to use that criterion as the
basis for this method?"
"Hmm... let me think."
"What for? If I've already thought about it, after all, you'll come to
the same conclusion-that the criterion is no good. The majority has
supported God knows who since time immemorial. But there are two other
criteria: good is what I think is good (or who I think is good) and good is
what is good for me. Like all people who care professionally about the
welfare of mankind, we operated on the basis of both-only in our simplicity
we thought that we were only using the first one, and considered it
objective at that."
"Now you're exaggerating!"
"Not a bit! I won't remind you about poor Adam, but even when you were
synthesizing me you were worried that it should be good for me (rather, what
you thought was good) and that it should be good for you, too. Right? But
that's a subjective criterion and other people-"
"-with this method could do what they thought was good for them?"
"Precisely."
"Hmmm. All right, let's say you're right. Then we have to look for
another method of synthesizing and transforming information in man."
"Like what?"
"I don't know."
"I'll tell you what method is needed. We have to convert our
computer-womb into an apparatus that continually turns out 'good' at the
rate of... say, a million and a half good deeds a second. And at the same
time, it should do away with bad deeds at the same rate. Actually, a million
and a half-that's just a drop in the ocean. There are three and a half
billion people on earth and every one of them performs several dozen acts a
day that can never be construed as neutral. And we still have to figure out
a method of equal distribution of this production across the surface of the
earth. In a word, it had to be something like an ensilage harrow on
magnetrons of unfired brick."
"You're mocking me, right?"
"Yes. I'm trampling your dream-otherwise it will lead us into God knows
where."
"You think that I...?"
"No. I don't think that you were working wrong. It would be very
strange if I thought so. But understand: subjectively you dreamed and
thought, but objectively you did only what the possibilities of the
discovery permitted you to do. And that's the point! You have to coordinate
your plans with the possibilities of the work. And you were hoping to
counterbalance a hundred billion varied acts of humanity a day with your
little machine. And it's those hundred billion, plus uncounted past actions,
that determine the social processes on earth, their goodness and evil. All
of science is incapable of counterbalancing those mighty processes, that
avalanche of acts and deeds, first of all because science makes up a small
part of life on earth, and secondly because that is not its specialty.
Science doesn't develop good or evil-it develops new information and gives
new opportunities. And that's all. Now the application of that information
and the use of the opportunities determine the above-mentioned social
processes and powers. We will give people nothing more than new
opportunities to produce people in their own image, and it's up to them to
use these opportunities to their benefit or harm or not at all."
"You mean we should publish the discovery and wash our hands of it?
Well, I never! If we don't give a damn what happens to it, certainly no one
else will!"
"Don't be angry. I don't think we should publish and wash our hands of
it. We have to go on working, studying the possibilities the way everyone
does. But in the research, and the ideas, even in the dreams on project 154,
you must keep in mind that what happens to this project in real life depends
primarily on life itself, or to put it in a more cultured way, on the
socio-political situation in the world. If the situation develops in a safe,
good direction, then we can publish. If not-we'll have to hold off or
destroy the project, as foreseen by the vow. It's not in our power to save
humanity, but it is in our power not to inflict any harm on it."
"Hm . . . that's very modest. I think you're underestimating the
possibilities of modern science. We now have the capability of destroying
humanity by pushing a button-or several buttons. Why shouldn't there be an
alternative method to save or at least protect humanity by pushing a button?
And why, damn it, shouldn't that method be in our field of research?"
"It doesn't lie there. Our direction is constructive. It's much, much
harder to build a bridge than to blow it up."
"I agree. But they do build bridges."
"But no one's built a bridge that can't be blown up."
We found ourselves at a dead end.
But he's okay. He essentially laid out all my vague doubts in a
clear-cut fashion; they had been bothering me for a long time. I don't know
whether to be happy or sad.
December 28. So, it's been a year since I sat in the new lab on an
unpacked impulse generator and thought about an indefinite experiment. Just
a year? No, time is measured by events and not by the rotation of the earth.
I think at least a decade has passed. And not only because so much was
done-there was so much experienced. I've started thinking about life more,
understanding myself and others better, I've even changed a little-pray God,
for the better.
And still there is a dissatisfaction-too much dreaming, I suppose.
Everything that I've thought of has happened, but the wrong way somehow:
with difficulties, with horrible complications, with disillusionment. That's
the way it is in life. Man never dreams about where he could fall flat on
his face or find disillusionment; that happens on its own. I understand that
perfectly well with my mind, but I still can't resign myself to it.
When I was synthesizing double number 3 (Kravets in civilian life), I
hoped vaguely that something would click in the computer-womb and I would
get a knight without fear or flaw! Nothing clicked. He's fine, can't argue
with that, but he's no knight. He's sober-minded, reasonable, and careful.
And where was the knight supposed to come from-me?
Jerk, dreamy jerk! You keep hoping that nature will find and hand you
the absolutely dependable method-it never will. It doesn't have that
information.
Damn, is it really impossible? Is the perfected Krivoshein-Kravets
really right?
There is one method of saving the world by pushing a button; it can be
used in case of thermonuclear war. You hide several computer-wombs that have
been fed information on people (men and women) deep in a mine shaft with a
large supply of reagents. And if there are no people left in the ashes of
the earth, the computers will save and resurrect humanity. That's one way
out of the situation.
But even then it won't work like that. If you give the world a method
like that, it will destroy the balance that exists and push the world into
nuclear war. "People will still live. Atom bombs aren't so terrible-let's
set them off!" some idiot politician will think. "The problem of the Near
East? There is no Near East! The Vietnam problem? What Vietnam? Buy personal
bomb shelters for your soul!"
Then that's "not it" either. What is "it?" Is there an "it?"
Sleep is the best weapon against sleepiness. -K. Prutkov-enzhener
A Sketch for an Encyclopedia
A quick-flowing June night: the purple sunset had gone out in the west
a short time ago and now in the southeast, beyond the Dneiper, the sky was
growing light again. But even a short night is a night; it has the same
effect on people. The inhabitants of the shaded parts of the planet sleep.
The citizens of Dneprovsk were sleeping. Many of the participants in the
described events were sleeping.
Matvei Apollonovich Onisimov was sleeping fitfully. He had a lot of
trouble falling asleep: he smoked, tossed and turned, and bothered his wife
while he thought about what had happened. When he did fall asleep,
exhausted, his overstimulated mind offered a terrible dream. It seemed three
bodies killed by fire throwers were found in three city parks. Medical
Examiner Zubato, too lazy to examine all three bodies, came up with the
theory that all three were killed with one shot. To probe the veracity of
his theory, he sat the bodies down on a marble bench in the autopsy room,
arms around one another; their wounds matched up.
Matvei Apollonovich, who usually had black and murky dreams that looked
as if they were an old, used film, experienced this picture in 3-D, with
color and smell; there were three Krivosheins in a row-huge, naked, pink
ones smelling of meat-and they were staring at him with photogenic smiles.
Onisimov woke up in protest. But (the dream had helped) he had the
beginnings of a good theory when he woke up: they were boiling the murdered
Krivoshein's body in that lab! After all-a body is the most important clue
and it's risky to hide it or bury it; it could be found. And so they were
boiling or disintegrating the body in a special liquid, and since this
wasn't an easy matter, they miscalculated and the tank turned over. And
that's why the body seemed warm when Prakhov the technician found it in the
tank! That's why it melted so fast, soaked as it was in their chemicals,
leaving only a skeleton. The lab assistant had been knocked out by the tank,
and the other conspirator-the one who was pulling all those tricks in front
of him yesterday-ran off. (It was clear that the mystifier or circus
performer was either using masks or else was well trained in mimicry.) And
then he arranged for an alibi-he could have fooled that Moscow professor
with his masks and mime. And his papers were just very good fakes.
Matvei Apollonovich lit another cigarette. And still this was no simple
crime. If the perpetrators were working both here and in Moscow and there
was no motive of greed, personal vendetta, or sex, then . . . probably
Krivoshein had made a serious invention or discovery. No, tomorrow he would
insist to his chief that they bring in the security organs on this case!
(Although Onisimov will never know what happened, we must give credit to his
detective ability. Really: not knowing anything about the essence of the
case and using only the external accidental facts, he managed to build a
logical, consistent theory-not everyone can do that!)
Having made the decision, Matvei Apollonovich slept soundly. Now he was
having pleasant dreams: he'd been promoted for solving the case. But dreams
are even less subject to our control than reality, and the investigator
began groaning and tossing. His awakened wife asked: "Matvei, what's the
matter?" Onisimov had dreamed that there was a fire in the department and
the new promotion list had been destroyed.
Arkady Arkadievich Azarov had just fallen asleep, and only with the
help of two sleeping pills. (He'll wake up in the morning with
neurasthenia.) He was also tormented by thoughts of the events in the New
Systems Lab. He had already gotten a phone call from the Party City
Committee: "Another accident, Arkady Arkadievich? With a loss of human
life?" How do they find out so fast? Now it would all begin: reports,
commissions, explanations.... But that's why he was a director and got a fat
salary, so that he could be driven crazy! These are the things, for which
he's not responsible and couldn't possibly be responsible, that cast
aspersions on his honest, productive, positive work! Arkady Arkadievich felt
alone and miserable.
"I should never have set up that lab of 'random retrieval.' I didn't
listen to myself. I mean the whole idea of random test and free-form
combinations being a path that would bring truth and correct solutions to
science went deep against my own grain. And it still does. The Monte Carlo
Method-just look at the name! Belief in chance-what could be worse in a
researcher? Instead of analyzing the problem logically and confidently and
slowly reaching its solution, you try your luck, even with the aid of lab
equipment and computers! Of course, you can build pseudoscientific systems
and algorithms that way, but don't they resemble the 'systems' gamblers have
for beating the bank and which always make them bankrupt? Big deal, so you
changed the name of the lab. But the essence was the same. You let it
develop, because there is this tendency in world systemology. And so let it
develop in our institute, too. It's developed all right!"
Arkady Arkadievich hadn't expressed his misgivings to Krivoshein back
then, because he didn't want to dampen his enthusiasm. He merely asked:
"What are you planning to achieve... through random retrieval?" "First and
foremost to master the methodology," Krivoshein had answered, and that had
pleased Azarov more than if he had spewed out hundreds of ideas.
"But he wasn't just mastering the methodology/'Arkady Arkadievich
remembered the laboratory, the setup that looked like an octopus, the
expensive collection of test tubes and flasks. "He was doing some vast
experiment. Could he have really been doing what he had reported on at the
scientific council? But it ended up with a corpse. A corpse that turned into
a skeleton!" Azarov felt revulsion and anger. "I have to put an end to
experimentation; something always goes wrong! Always! Systemology is
essentially a cerebral science. The analysis and synthesis of any system
must be promoted! And if you want to work with computers-please do, program
your tasks and go into the computer room. And basically with all these
experiments," the academician laughed lightly, calming down, "you never know
what you've got: a hugh mistake or a discovery!"
Arkady Arkadievich had a long-time score to settle with experimental
science, and his opinions on it were firm and definite. Some thirty years
ago the young physicist Azarov was studying the process of liquifying
helium. Once he stuck two glass stirrers into his Dewar flask, and the
liquid, cooled down to 2 on the absolute scale, evaporated very quickly.
Two liters of then precious helium disappeared and the experiment was
ruined! Arkady accused the lab's glass man of sticking him with a faulty
Dewar flask. He had been penalized ... and two years later a classmate of
Azarov's at the university, Pyotr Kapitsa, in an analogous experiment
(lowering capillary stirrers into a vessel) discovered the superfluidity of
helium!
Arkady Arkadievich grew disillusioned in experimental physics and came
to love the dependable and strict world of mathematics. It was math that
elevated him-the mathematical approach to the solution of nonmathematical
problems. In the thirties he applied his methods to the problems of the
general theory of relativity, which had all science enthralled; later his
research helped solve important problems in the theory of chain reactions in
uranium and plutonium. Then he applied his methods to the problems of
chemical catalysis of polymers; and now he was head of the discrete systems
direction in systemology.
"Eh, I'm still thinking about the wrong thing!" Azarov complained.
"What did happen in Krivoshein's lab? I remember last autumn he came to me,
wanted to talk about something. What? Work, naturally. And I waved him off.
I was too busy. Somehow you always consider things that can't be put off as
the most important. I should have talked to him; I'd know now what happened.
Krivoshein never approached me again. Of course, people like that are proud
and shy. Wait-what kind of people? What's Krivoshein like? What do I know
about him? A few lectures at seminars, an appearance at the scientific
council, several exchanges with other lecturers, and a nodding acquaintance.
Can I base a judgement on that? Yes, I can. I'm not so bad at judging
people. He was an active and creative person. You recognize people like that
by their questions and by their answers. You can see the constant thought
flow-not everyone can see it, but I'm the same way; I can recognize it. A
man eats, goes to work, greets friends, goes to the movies, argues with his
co-workers, lends money, tans at the beach-he does it all wholeheartedly-and
yet all the time he's thinking. On one subject. The idea has no relation to
his actions or daily cares, but there is nothing that will distract him from
that idea. It's the most important part of him: new things are born from it.
And Krivoshein was like that. And it's too bad that's in the past tense-life
loses something very necessary with the death of a man like that. And you
feel even more alone.... Well, enough, what am I going on about?" Arkady
Arkadievich looked at the time. "I must sleep."
Harry Haritonovich Hilobok couldn't fall asleep that night either. He
kept looking at the lighted window across the way in Krivoshein's apartment
and tried to guess who was that in there. Lena Kolomiets left rapidly after
ten (Harry Haritonvich recognized her figure and walk, and thought: "I
should get to know her better. There's a lot to her"), but the light stayed
on. Hilobok turned out his lights, and seated himself at the window with a
pair of binoculars, but the angle was wrong-he could only see part of the
book shelf and the Olympic-ring logo on the wall. "Did she forget to put out
the light? Or is there someone else in there? Should I call the police? Ah,
the hell with them. Let them figure it out." Harry Haritonovich yawned
deliciously. "Maybe it's the police in there investigating...."
He went back into his room and lit the night-light, a naked woman made
out of fake marble with a light bulb inside. The soft light fell on the
bearskin rug on the floor, the walls covered with blue wallpaper with golden
storks, the polished grain of the desk, the bookshelves, the closet, the
television set, the quilted pink couch, the dark red carpet with a scene of
ancient feasting-everything was meant to be conducive to sensuousness. Harry
Haritonovich undressed and went to look at himself in the mirror. He liked
his face: the straight large nose; the smooth, but not fat, cheeks; the dark
mustache-there was something of Guy de Maupassant about him. Very recently
he had been trying on his doctor-of-technical-sciences look. "Why did he
have to do that, that Krivoshein?" Harry Haritonovich felt his heart beating
madly. "What had I ever done to him? I even voted for his project and helped
his relative get a job at the lab. He doesn't have a dissertation and he
envies the rest! Or was it because I didn't fill his request for the SES-2?
Well, it doesn't matter-there is no more Krivoshein. He's gone. That's the
way it is. The winner in life is gone. That's the way it is. The winner in
life is the one who outlives his adversary."
Hilobok was pleased with the humor of his thought and wanted to
remember it. It should be noted that Harry Haritonovich was not as stupid as
one might assume from his behavior. It's just that he based his formula for
success on the following: they expect less from a fool. No one ever expected
great ideas or knowledge from him; thus on those rare occasions when he
would display some knowledge or the tiniest idea, it came as such a pleasant
surprise that his colleagues would think: "We underestimate Harry
Haritonovich," and try to compensate for that evaluation in their
disposition toward him. And that's how his articles got into the anthology
Questions of Systemology-the editors, naturally expecting nothing very good,
were bowled over by the few grains of reason in them. Harry Haritonovich
turned in work to people who were already demoralized by his talk and
behavior. But something went wrong with his dissertation... but, never mind,
he would get his!
Harry Haritonovich was lulled by pleasant thoughts and rain-bowlike
hopes. He was sleeping soundly and without dreams, the way they must have
slept in the Stone Age.
Officer Gayevoy was sleeping and smiling, just returned from his night
shift.
After a good cry about Krivoshein and herself, Lena fell asleep.
But not everyone was asleep. The police guard Golovorezov was fighting
off sleepiness at his post watching the New Systems Lab; he was sitting on
the steps of the lodge, smoking, and looking at the stars over the trees.
Something rustled in the grass not far away. He shined his flashlight: a
red-eyed albino rabbit looked at him from the bushes. The guard shooed him
away. Golovorezov had no idea just what kind of a rabbit it was.
Victor Kravets tossed and turned on the hard cot under a cloth blanket
that smelled of disinfectant in the solitary confinement cell of the prison.
He was in that state of nervous agitation when sleep is impossible.
"What will happen now? What will happen? Did graduate student
Krivoshein get out of it, or will the laboratory and the project perish?
What else can I do to help? Fight back? Confess? To what? Citizen
investigator, I'm guilty of good intentions-good intentions that didn't help
anything. I guess that's a heavy guilt, if that's how it's worked out. We
kept rushing-hurry! hurry!-to master the discovery, to reach that method
'with absolute dependability.' And even though I didn't admit it to myself,
I expected us to come up with it too. Evolution brought new information into
man gradually, by the method of small trials and small errors, testing its
benefit with innumerable experiments. And we-we tried to do it all in one
experiment!
"We should have dropped the idea of possible social repercussions right
off the bat and worked openly and calmly like everyone else. In the long
run, people aren't children. They must understand what's what on their own.
We figured out everything: that man is a super complex, protein
quantal-molecular system, that he is the product of natural evolution, that
he is information recorded in the liquid. The one thing we missed was that