station, heh-heh. Sit down. Are you feeling all right now? Can you make a
statement?"
"I can."
The assistant walked across the room and sat in a chair opposite the
window. The detective looked him over. He was young, maybe twenty-four, not
older than that. He looked like Krivoshein, the way he might have been ten
years ago. "Actually, he didn't look like that," Matvei Apollonovich thought
as he looked at the photo in Krivoshein's personnel file. "This fellow is
much more handsome." And there really was something of a model's or actor's
perfection in Kravets's face. The impression of perfection was marred by the
eyes-actually not the eyes themselves, which were blue and had a youthful
clarity, but in the marksman's squint of the lids. "He has eyes that seem to
have lived a lot," the detective noted. "He seems to have gotten over the
experience quickly enough. Let's see."
"You know, you resemble the deceased."
"The deceased!" The assistant clenched his jaw and shut his eyes for a
second. "That means-"
"Yes, it does," Onisimov said harshly. "He's jumpy," he thought. "Well,
let's do this in order." He reached for a piece of paper and unscrewed his
pen. "Your name, patronymic, age, place of work or study, address?"
"But you must know all that already?"
"Know or not, that's the regulation; the witness must give all that
information himself."
"So he's dead.... What should I do now? What should I say? It's a
catastrophe. Damn it, I shouldn't have come to the police. I should have run
off from the clinic. What will happen now?" Kravets thought.
"Please, write down the following: Viktor Vitalyevich Kravets, age
twenty-four, a student in the fifth year in the physics department of
Kharkov University. I reside in Kharkov, on Kholodnaya Gora. I'm here to do
my practical work."
"I see," the detective said, and instead of writing it down, twisted
his pen rapidly and aimlessly. "You were related to Krivoshein. How?"
"Distantly," the student laughed uncomfortably. "Seventh cousin twice
removed, you know."
"I see!" Onisimov put down his pen and picked up the telegraph; his
voice became severe. "Look here, citizen, it doesn't check out." "What
doesn't check out?"
"Your story, that you're Kravets, that you live and study in Kharkov,
and so on. There's no student by that name in Kharkov. And the person you
name has never lived at 17, Kholodnaya Gora, either." The suspect's cheeks
suddenly dropped, and his face turned red. "They got me. How stupid of me!
Damn it! Of course, they checked all that out immediately. Boy, lack of
experience shows every time. But what can I say now?" he thought.
"Tell the truth. And in detail. Don't forget that we're dealing with a
homicide here."
Kravets thought: "The truth. Easier said than done." "You see, the
truth... how can I put it... that's too much and too complicated," the
assistant began mumbling, hating and despising himself for this lack of
control. "I'd have to discuss information theory and the modeling of random
processes."
"Just don't try to cloud the issues, citizen," Onisimov said, frowning
disdainfully. "People aren't killed by theories-this was definitely
practical application and fact."
"But... you must understand, actually no one at all may have died. It
can be proven ... or attempted to be proven. You see, citizen
investigator-(Why did I call him that? I haven't been arrested yet.)-You
see, first of all, a man is not, well, not a hunk of protoplasm weighing 150
pounds. There are the fifty quarts of water, forty-four pounds of protein,
fats and carbohydrates, enzymes, and so on. No, man is first and foremost
information. A concentration of information. And if it has not disappeared,
then the man is still alive."
He stopped and bit his lip. "No, this is nonsense. It's hopeless," he
thought.
"Yes, I'm listening. Go on," the detective said, laughing to himself.
The assistant glanced up at him, got more comfortable in his chair, and said
with a small smile:
"In short, if you don't want to hear the theories, then Valentin
Vasilyevich Krivoshein-that's me. You can put that into the official
record."
It was so unexpected and daring that Matvei Apollonovich was stunned
for a second. "Should I send him to the psychiatrist?" he thought. But the
suspect's blue eyes looked at him reasonably and there was mockery in their
depths. That's what brought Onisimov out of his suspended animation.
"I see!" He got up. "Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I haven't
familiarized myself with his file, that I wasn't present at the scene of the
accident, that I don't remember his face?" He leaned on the desk top. " If
you refuse to identify yourself, it's only worse for you. We'll find out
anyway. Do you admit your papers are forged?"
"That's it. We have to stop playing," Kravets thought, and said:
"No. You still have to prove that. You might as well consider me a
forgery while you're at it!"
The assistant turned to look out the window.
"Don't clown around with me, citizen!" The detective had raised his
voice. "What was your purpose in entering the lab? Answer me! What happened
between you and Krivoshein? Answer!"
"I'm not answering anything!"
Matvei Apollonovich scolded himself for losing his temper. He sat down
and after a pause started talking in a heartfelt manner:
"Listen, don't think that I'm trying to pin anything on you. My job is
to investigate thoroughly, to fill in the missing blanks, and then the
prosecutor's office evaluates it, and the court makes the decision. But
you're hurting yourself. You don't understand one thing: if you confess
later, under duress as they say, it won't count as much as making a clean
breast of things now. It might not all be so terrible. But for now,
everything points against you. Proof of an assault on the body, expert
testimony, and other circumstances. And it all boils down to one thing." He
leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. "It looks as if you ...
alleviated the victim's suffering."
The suspect lowered his head and rubbed his face. He was seeing the
scene again. The skeleton with Krivoshein's head twitching convulsively in
the tank, his own hands holding on to the tank's edge, the warm, gentle
liquid touching them and then-the blow!
"I'm not sure myself, if it's me or not," he muttered in a depressed
voice. "I can't understand it." He looked up. "Listen, I have to get back to
the lab!"
Matvei Apollonovich almost jumped up: he hadn't expected such a rapid
victory. "Listen, that can happen too," he said, nodding sympathetically.
"In a state of frenzy from an insult or through overzealous self-defense.
Let's go down to the lab, and you can explain on the scene just what
transpired there." He picked up Monomakh's Crown from his desk and casually
asked: "Was this what you hit him on the chest with? It's a heavy thing."
"That's enough!" The suspect spoke harshly and almost haughtily. He
straightened up. "I see no reason to continue this discussion. You're trying
to put me into a corner. By the way, that 'heavy thing' costs over five
thousand rubles. Be careful with it."
"Does this mean that you don't want to tell me anything?" "Yes."
"I see." The detective pushed a button. "You'll have to be held until
this is cleared up."
A gangly policeman with a long face and droopy nose appeared at the
door. In the Ukraine, people like him are described as "tall but still
bends."
"Gayevoy?" the detective looked at him uncertainly. "Aren't any of the
guards around?"
'They're all out in the field, comrade captain," he replied. "A lot of
them are at the beaches, maintaining law and order." "Do you have a car?" "A
small GAZ."
"Convey the detained suspect to the city jail. It's too bad you refuse
to help yourself and us, citizen. You're just making it worse for yourself."
The lab assistant turned in the doorway. "And it's too bad that you
think Krivoshein is dead." "One of those characters who likes to make a
grand exit. Always have the last word." Onisimov chuckled. "I've seen plenty
like him. But he'll come round after a while."
Matvei Apollonovich lit a cigarette and drummed his fingers on the
desk. At first all the clues (faked papers, medical testimony,
circumstances) led him to think that the assistant, if he wasn't the killer,
was at least actively involved in Krivoshein's death. But this conversation
had changed his mind. Not what the suspect had said, but how. He did not
sense in him the forethought, the game playing, that fatal game playing that
gives away the criminal long before there is any evidence.
"It is looking like an unpremeditated murder. He said himself, 1 don't
know if it was me or not.' But what about the skeleton? How did it happen?
And did it happen? And what about the attempt to pass himself off as
Krivoshein by using a theoretical explanation? Is he faking? And what if the
absence of game playing is just the most subtle game of all? No, where would
such a young, inexperienced fellow develop that? And then, what motives are
there for a premeditated murder? What was going on between them? And what
about the forged documents?"
Matvei Apollonovich's mind hit a dead end. "All right, let's look into
the circumstances." He stood up and looked out into the hall. Assistant
Professor Hilobok was pacing up and down.
"Please come in! I asked you here, comrade Hilobok, to-"
"Yes, yes, I understand," Hilobok nodded. "Others experience tragedy,
and I clean up the messes. People do die of old age, and may God grant us
both such ends, Matvei Apollonovich, eh? But Krivoshein never did anything
the way everyone else did. No, no, I'm sorry for him. Don't think... it's
always a pity when a man dies, right? But Valentin Vasilyevich had caused me
so many problems in the past. And all because he was a stubborn character,
with no respect for anyone, no consideration, diverging from the collective
time and time again."
"I see. But I would like to ascertain what it was Krivoshein was doing
in that lab that was under his jurisdiction. Since you are the scientific
secretary, I thought-"
"I just knew you'd ask!" Harry Haritonovich smiled happily. "I even
brought along a copy of the thematic plans with me, naturally." He rustled
the papers in his briefcase. "Here it is, theme 152, specific goals-research
on NIR, title-'The self-organization of complex electronic systems with an
integral introduction of information/ contents of the work-'Research on the
possibilities of self-organization of complex system into a more complex one
with an integral (not differentiated according to signals and symbols)
introduction of varying information by adding a superstructure of its output
to the system/ financing-here's the budget, nature of the work-mathematical,
logical, and experimental, director of the project-engineer V. V.
Krivoshein, executor, the same-" "What was the gist of his research?"
'The gist? Hmmm." Hilobok's face grew serious. "The self-organization
of systems ... so that a machine could build itself, understand? They're
doing intensive work on this in America. Very. In the USA-"
"And what was Krivoshein actually doing?" "Actually.... He proposed a
new approach to forming these systems through... integralization. No,
self-organization. It's just not clear if he managed to do anything with it
or not." Harry Haritonovich smiled broadly and winningly. "You know, Matvei
Apollonovich, there are so many projects at the institute, and I have to
look into all of them. I just can't keep everything straight in my mind. You
would be better off reading the minutes of the academic council's meeting."
"You mean, he reported on his work to the academic council?" "Of course! All
our projects are considered before they are incorporated into the plan.
After all, how could we distribute funds without any factual basis?" "What
was his basis?"
"What do you mean?" The scientific secretary raised his eyebrows. "His
idea regarding the new approach to the problem of self-organization? You're
best off reading the minutes, Matvei Apollonovich." He sighed. "It all
happened a year ago, and we have meetings and debates and commissions every
week, if not more frequently. Can you imagine? And I have to be present at
every one, organize the speakers, speak myself, issue invitations. For
instance, right now, I have to go from here to the Society on Distribution,
where there's a meeting on the question of attracting scientific personnel
to lecture at collective farms during harvest. I won't even have time for
lunch. I can't wait for my vacation!"
"I see. But the academic council approved his topic?"
"Of course! There were many who argued against it. Ah, you should have
heard how crudely Valentin Vasilyevich answered them. It was totally
unforgivable. Poor Professor Voltampernov had to be tranquilized afterward.
Can you imagine? The board recommended that Krivoshein be reprimanded for
his rudeness, I wrote out the decree myself. But the topic was passed, of
course. A man proposes new ideas, a new approach-why shouldn't he try it?
That's the way it is in science. And besides, Arkady Arkadievich himself
supported him. Arkady Arkadievich is a wonderfully generous soul; in fact he
set him up in his own lab because Krivoshein could never get along with
anybody. Of course, the lab was a joke, unstructured with a staff of one...
but the academic council had discussed the situation and voted yes. I voted
for it myself."
"What was the it you all voted for?" Onisimov wiped his brow with a
handkerchief.
"What do you mean? To include it in the plan, to allot funds for it.
You know, planning is the basis of our society."
"I see. Tell me, Harry Haritonovich, what do you think happened?"
"Hmmm ... I must make it clear to you, my dear Matvei Apollonovich,
that I would have no way of knowing. I'm the scientific secretary; all my
work is paperwork. They've been working together just the two of them since
last winter. The lab assistant is the one who would know. Besides, he's an
eyewitness."
"Did you know that the assistant is not who he says he is?" Onisimov
demanded. "He's not Kravets and he's not a student."
"Really? That's why you arrested him, I see." Hilobok's eyes grew
round. "No, really, how would I know? That was an oversight in personnel.
Who is he?"
"We'll find out. So you say the Americans are doing the same kind of
work now?"
"Yes. So you think he's the one?"
"Why be so hasty?" Onisimov laughed. "I'm just exploring all the
possibilities." He glanced over at the paper with the questions. 'Tell me,
Harry Haritonovich, did you notice psychiatric problems in Krivoshein?"
Hilobok smiled.
"You know, on my way over here, I was debating whether or not I should
mention it. Maybe it's a trifle and there's no point? But since you ask ...
he had these lapses. I remember, last July, when I was combining my duties
with heading the laboratory of experimental setups-we couldn't find the
right specialist to run it-we needed a candidate of science-so I was doing
it-so that we wouldn't lose the slot for the position, because, you know,
they can take away the allocation, and then you can never get it back.
That's the way it is. And so, just a while back, my laboratory received a
request from Krivoshein to prepare a new system for encephalographic
biopotential sensors, like that SEP-1, Monomakh's Crown, that you have on
your desk, but of a more complex construction, so that it would fit in with
all kinds of his schemes. Why they ever accepted the order from him, instead
of doing their own work, I'll never know."
This submersion in scientific data brought on a deep drowsiness in
Matvei Apollonovich. Usually he cut through any tangential deviation from
the topic that interested him in an interrogation, but now-he was a man with
a Russian soul-he could not overcome his innate respect for science, for
learned titles, terms, and situations. He had always had this respect, and
after his last case at the institute when he also learned the salaries of
scientific workers his respect had doubled. And so Matvei Apollonovich did
not try to stem Harry Haritonovich's free-flowing mouth; after all, he was
dealing with a man whose salary was more than twice his own, as a police
captain, and legal at that.
"So, you can imagine, I was sitting in the laboratory one day," Hilobok
rambled on, "and Valentin Vasilyevich came to see me-without his lab coat, I
might add! That is unacceptable. There is a specific rule promulgated about
this at the institute, a rule stating that all engineering and scientific
workers must wear white coats and the technicians and lab assistants gray or
blue ones. After all, we are often visited by foreign delegations. It can't
be otherwise. But he always disregarded convention, and he asked me in a
really nasty tone: 'When are you going to fill my order for the new system?'
Well, I tried to explain everything calmly to him. 'It's like this and that,
Valentin Vasilyevich. We will when we can. It's not so easy to do everything
you drew up for us. The circuitry becomes very complicated, and we have to
reject too many transistors.' In a word, I gave him a good explanation, so
that the man would not have any misunderstandings. But he just went on
harping: 'If you can't do it on schedule, you shouldn't have agreed to do
it!' I tried to explain about the difficulties once more, and that we had
orders backed up at the lab, but Krivoshein interrupted me: 'If the order is
not completed in two weeks, I will file a complaint about you and turn over
the work to the science club in a grammar school! And they'll do it faster
than you, and it will be a lot cheaper, too!' That was a dig at me, that
last part. He had always made cracks, but I was used to it. And then he
slammed the door, and stalked out."
The investigator nodded rhythmically and clenched his jaw to hide the
yawns. Hilobok buzzed on:
"And five minutes later-note that no more than five minutes had passed;
I hadn't even had time to talk to the workshop by phone-Valentin Vasilyevich
burst in again wearing a coat this time (he had managed to dig up a gray one
somewhere), and said: 'Harry Haritonovich, when will that order for the
sensor system be ready?' 'Please,' I said, 'take pity on me, Valentin
Vasilyevich. I explained it to you!' And I went into my explanation again.
He interrupted like last time: 'If you can't do it, don't try . . .' and
then went on about the complaint, the schoolboys, and expenses." Hilobok
brought his face closer to the investigator. "In other words, he repeated
exactly what he had said five minutes ago, in the same exact wording! Can
you imagine?"
"That's curious," the investigator nodded.
"And that wasn't the only time he got confused like that. Once he
forgot to turn off the water for the night, and the whole floor under the
laboratory was flooded. Once-the janitor complained to me-he started a huge
bonfire of perforated tape on the lawn. The professor meaningfully pursed
his fat red lips, funereally outlined with a black mustache, "and so
anything might have happened. And why? Because he wanted to get ahead and he
was constantly overworking himself.
No matter what time you left the institute the lights in his lodge were
always blazing. Many of us at the institute joked about it. Maybe Krivoshein
wasn't aiming for his doctorate but for a break-through right off the
bat.... He discovered enough, now go try to figure it all out."
"I see," the investigator said and looked down at the sheet of paper
once more. "You mentioned that Krivoshein had a woman who was close to him.
Do you know her?"
"Elena Ivanovna Kolomiets? Of course! There aren't many women like her
in our town-very attractive, elegant, sweet, in a word, you know-"Harry
Haritonovich described Elena Ivanovna's inexpressible beauty with a
zigzagging motion of the hands. His brown eyes glistened. "I could never
figure out, nor could others, what she saw in him. After all, Krivoshein-I
know, de mortius aut bene nut nihil, but why hide it?-you saw for yourself,
he was no looker. She would come to see him. Our houses are next door in
Academic Town, so I saw it. And he never knew how to dress well either. But
I haven't seen her around lately. I guess they broke up, like ships in the
night, heh-heh! Do you think she had anything to do with this?"
"I don't think anyone has as yet, Harry Haritonovich. I'm only trying
to clear things up." Onisimov got up with relief. "Well, thank you. I hope
that I don't need to warn you about gossiping, because-"
"It doesn't need to be mentioned! And don't thank me, I was only doing
my duty. I'm always ready...."
After he left, Matvei Apollonovich put his head directly under the fan
and sat for a few minutes without moving or thinking. Hilobok's voice rang
in his head like a fly buzzing on a windowpane.
"Wait!" The detective shook his head to clear it. "We wasted a whole
hour, and he didn't clear up a thing. And all the time it seemed 'as though
we were on the topic, but it was all nothing. Scientific secretary,
assistant professor, sciences candidate-could he have been trying to throw
me off? Something's wrong here."
The phone rang. "Onisimov here."
There was only panting on the phone for a few seconds. It was obvious
the speaker couldn't get his breath.
"Comrade .. . captain .. . this is Gayevoy .. . reporting. The ...
suspect... escaped!"
"Escaped? What do you mean escaped? Give me a full report!"
"Well, we were in the GAZ. Timofeyev was driving and I was next to
that...." The policeman was muttering into the phone. "That's the way we
transport all detained suspects. After all, comrade captain, you hadn't
warned us about strict observation, and I couldn't imagine where he could go
since you have all his papers. Well, we were driving past the city park and
he jumped out when we were going at full speed. Over the fence, and he was
gone! Well, Timofeyev and I went after him. Boy, is he good at clambering
over uneven ground! Well, I didn't want to open fire since I didn't have any
instructions about it from you. So... that's it."
"I see. Go to the department and write out a report for the captain on
duty. You don't do your job very well, Gayevoy!"
"Well, is there anything you'd like me to do, comrade captain?" His
voice was glum.
"We'll manage without you. Hurry back here; you'll be part of the
search party. That's all." Onisimov hung up.
"Well, well, the man's an artist, a real artist! And I had doubted him!
Of course, it's him. It had to be! So. He had no identification papers. Nor
any money. And almost no clothes, just the shirt and trousers he had on. He
won't get far. Unless he has confederates ... then it'll be harder."
Ten minutes later Gayevoy, even more bent over by his guilt, appeared.
Onisimov organized a search party, distributing photos, and a description
with identifying marks. The operatives went into town.
Then Matvei Apollonovich called the fingerprint expert. He told him
that some of the prints he collected in the lab matched those of the lab
assistant; others belonged to another man. Neither set matched up with any
known criminal.
"The other man is naturally the victim, of course.... Ho, ho, this is
becoming serious business. It doesn't look anything like a regular crime. It
doesn't look like anything with that damn melted skeleton! What can I do
about that?"
Onisimov stared gloomily out the window. The shadows of the trees on
the sidewalks were lengthening, but it hadn't gotten any cooler. Young women
in print shifts and sunglasses crowded near the bus stop. "Going to the
beach...."
The worst part was that Onisimov still didn't have a working version of
the incident.
At the end of the day, when Matvei Apollonovich was writing out a list
for the morning, the commander of the department came in to see him. "Here
it comes," Matvei Apollonovich thought.
"Sit down." The colonel lowered himself into the chair. "You seem to be
having complications in this case: no body, suspect escaped. Hm? Tell me
about it." Onisimov told him.
"Hm...." The commander's heavy eyebrows met. "Well, we'll catch that
fellow; there's no question about that. Do you have the airport, railroad,
and bus stations under surveillance?
"Of course, Aleksei Ignatievich, I sent out the order immediately."
"That means he'll never get out of the city. But as for the corpse...
that's really something very curious. Damn it all! Maybe they switched
things on you at the scene?" He looked up at the investigator with his
small, wise eyes. "Maybe... remember Gorky's story Klim Samgin where a
character says, 'Maybe there was no boy?'"
"But... the doctor in the ambulance certified the death, Aleksei
Ignatievich."
"Doctors can make mistakes, too. Besides, the doctor was not an expert,
and she didn't list a cause of death. And there's no body. And our Zubato is
having problems with the skeleton.... Of course, it's up to you. I'm not
insisting, but if you can't explain how the corpse turned into a skeleton in
fifteen minutes, and whose skeleton it is, and what caused the death-no jury
is going to pay any attention to the evidence. Even clear-cut cases are
being sent back by the courts for lack of evidence, or dismissed completely.
Of course, it's good that the law is strict and careful, but..." he sighed
noisily, "a... a difficult case, no? Do you have an official version yet?"
"I have a draft," Onisimov explained shyly, "but I don't know how you're
going to take it, Aleksei Ignatievich. I don't think this is a criminal
case. According to the institute's scientific secretary, the United States
is very interested in the case that Krivoshein was studying in his lab.
That's point one. Lab assistant Kravets, by his demeanor and cultural level,
I guess is neither a student nor a criminal. He escaped masterfully, that's
for sure. Point two: Kravets's fingerprints don't match any criminal ones on
record. Three: so, perhaps-"Matvei Apollonovich stopped, and looked
inquiringly at his chief.
"-we should palm off the case on the KGB?" The colonel finished his
thought with a soldier's directness and shook his head. "Don't be in a
hurry! If we, the police, discover a crime with, say, a foreign accent, it
will bring society and us nothing but good. But if the state security organs
discover a simple civilian crime or a violation of safety procedures,
then... well, you understand. And in the last six months we've hit the
bottom of the local list for percentage of solved crimes." He gave Onisimov
a good-natured look of reproach. "Don't give up! You know the saying that
the most complicated crimes are the easiest: theses and projects, scientific
mumbo-jumbo... it boggles the mind. Don't rush with your version. Check out
all the possibilities and maybe it will be like the fable: 'The box had a
simple lock.' Well, I wish you luck and success." The chief rose and
extended his hand. "I'm sure that you can handle this case."
Matvei Apollonovich got up too, shook hands, and followed the commander
out with clear and bright eyes. Say what you will, but when the boss has
confidence in you, it makes all the difference!
People who think that human life has changed only externally and not
radically since ancient times compare the fire, around which Troglodites
spent the evening, with television, which amuses our contemporaries. This
comparison is disputable, since a fire both warms and lights, and the
television only glows, and then only from one side.
-K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 111
The plump, blonde, middle-aged passenger in the express train between
Novosibirsk and Dneprovsk was agitated by the fellow in the upper berth. He
had rough-hewn but handsome features, a windblown face, dark curly hair with
a lot of gray in it, strong, tanned hands with thick fingers and old
calluses on the palms-and yet he had a gentle smile, charm (he had offered
her the lower berth when she got on at Kharkov), and an intelligent manner
of speaking. The fellow lay with his square chin on his hands, greedily
looking at the trees, houses, streams, and road signs flashing by. And he
smiled. "Handsome!" she thought.
"Probably familiar territory?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You've been away a long time?"
"A year."
He was recognizing things: they went under the highway where he used to
ride his motorcycle with Lena. There was the oak grove where the locals went
picnicking. There was Staroe Ruslo, a place of secluded beaches, clean sand,
and calm water. There was the Vytrebenki farm-and hey! new construction!
Probably a chemical plant.... He smiled and frowned as the memories came
back.
Actually, he had never ridden a motorcycle anywhere with any Lena, nor
had he ever been in the grove or on those beaches-it had all been done
without him. It was simply that once there had been a conversation, and to
be accurate, even that took place without his active participation.
"Here's an application. (The variants of human life!) Look: 'A
Vladivostok shipbuilding concern is looking for an electrical engineer to do
fitting work on location. Apartment supplied.' Aren't I an electrical
engineer? Fitting on location-what could be better? A Pacific wave lapping
up against the fittings! You pay out the cable, lick the salt from your
lips-you against the elements!"
"Yes, but."
"No, I can understand. Before it was impossible. Before! You and I are
men of duty-how can you just quit a job and go off to satisfy your
wanderlust? So we all stay where we are-and the longing for places we've
never seen and never will stays with us too, and for people we'll never
meet, and for events and occasions that we'll never participate in. We drown
this longing in books, movies, and dreams-it's impossible for a man to lead
several parallel lives. But now-"
"But now it's the same thing. You'll go off to Vladivostok to lick your
sea spray, and I'll remain behind with my dissatisfaction."
"But... we can trade. Once every six months. No one would notice . . .
no, that's nonsense. We'd be distinguished by six months of practical work
experience."
"That's just it! By heading down one of life's paths, a person becomes
different from the person he would have been had he taken another path."
But he headed for Vladivostok anyway. He didn't leave to still his
longings-he ran away from the horrors of memory. He would have gone even
farther, but farther there was only ocean. Of course, the job opening as a
fitter in the ports had been filled, but he found work excavating underwater
cliffs, to clear space for ship berths-that wasn't bad work either. There
was enough romance: he dove into the blue green depths with his scuba gear,
saw his quivering shadow on the bottom rocks, dug out holes in the cliffs,
set the dynamite, lit the fuse, and scattering the fish that would be
floating belly up in a minute, swam at breakneck speeds for the power boat.
And then, missing engineering work, he introduced an electrohydraulic
charge, which was safer than dynamite and more effective. He left behind all
memories of himself.
"Are you coming from far?" the woman insisted, interrupting his
reverie.
"From the Far East."
"Were you recruited to work there or did you just go?"
The man stared at her and laughed curtly.
"I went for a cure."
His traveling companion nodded warily. She had lost all desire for
conversation. She pulled out a book and buried herself in it.
Yes, the healing began there. The guys on the team were amazed by his
fearlessness. He really had no fear: strength, agility, exact
calculation-and no deep wave could touch him. He literally held his own life
in his hands-what was there to be afraid of? The most terrifying times he
had lived through had been here, in Dneprovsk, when Krivoshein played God
with his life and death. With many deaths. You see, Krivoshein did not
understand that what he was doing was much worse than torturing a helpless
person.
The man's body tensed automatically. A chill of anger puckered his skin
into goose bumps. The monsoons had blown a lot out of his system in a year:
depression, panicky fear, even his tender feelings for Lena. But this
remained.
"Maybe I shouldn't have come back? I had the ocean that made me feel
small and simple, good pals, and hard and interesting work. Everyone
respected me. I became myself out there. But here ... who knows how things
will go for him?"
But he could no more not return than forget the past. At first, it
would creep up on him, after work, on days off, when the whole team took a
speedboat into Vladivostok. The thought would pound through his head:
"Krivoshein is working. He's alone there." Then the idea came to him.
Once when they were clearing the bottom in a nameless cove near
Khabarovsk, where there were warm mineral springs along the shore, he jumped
from the boat and fell into a stream. He almost screamed from the horrible
memories in his body! The water tasted just like that liquid, and the
sensationless, warm gentleness seemed to conceal that ancient threat to
dissolve, destroy, and extinguish consciousness. He moved ahead, and the
cold ocean water sobered and calmed him. But the impression remained. By
evening it had turned into a thought: "The experiment could be run in
reverse."
And, while healing from his former memories, he "caught" this one. His
researcher's imagination was aflame. How enticing it would be to plan an
experiment, to try to predict the enormous results that would bring great
benefit! The underwater explosions seemed like a dull, gray waste. Now
without fear, he played back everything that had happened to him, projected
the variations of the experiment. And he could not remain there with the
idea that Krivoshein had probably not thought of it yet. You couldn't come
up with it by pure reason alone. You had to have lived through everything
that he had.
But-the implacable logic of their work brought another idea forward in
his mind: all right, so they would find a new way of processing a man with
information. What would it give them? This thought was harder than the
first. On the way from Vladivostok to Dneprovsk he turned to it often, and
he still had not thought it all the way through.
Outside the window, the girders of a bridge reflected the clattering
wheels of the train: they were crossing the Dnieper River. The man was
distracted for a moment, watching a powerboat skim the water's surface down
the river's current, and looking at the green slope of the right bank. The
bridge ended and little houses, gardens, and hedges flashed by the window.
"It all boils down to the problem of how and with what information can
man be perfected. All the other problems rest on this one. The system is a
given: the human brain and the mechanisms for introducing information-the
eyes, ears, nose, etc. Three streams of information feed the brain: daily
life, science, and art. We must distinguish the most effective one in its
action on man-and the most directed one. So that it would perfect him,
ennoble him. The most effective is naturally the daily information: it is
concrete and real, forming man's life experience. It's life itself; nothing
else to it. I suppose that in reality it has a mutual relationship with man
according to the laws of feedback: life affects man, but by his actions he
affects life. But the action of daily life can be most varied: it can change
man for the better or the worse. So, that can't be it.
"Let's look at scientific information. It is also real, and
objective-but it's abstract. In essence, it's the universalized experience
of the activity of humanity. That's why it's applicable in many life
situations, and that's also why its effect on life is so great. And a
reverse connection exists here with life, too, even though it is not an
individual one for each and every person, but a general one: science solves
life's problems, thus changing life-and a changed life sets new problems for
science. But still, the action of science on life in general and on man in
particular can be either positive or negative. There are many examples to
support this. And there is another problem: science is hard for the average
man to comprehend. Yes, it's hard. All right, if you think about the same
thing all the time, sooner or later, you'll come up with the answer. The
important thing is to think systematically."
He was distracted by sobbing from below. He looked down: his companion,
never taking her eyes from the book, was dabbing her wet eyes with a
handkerchief. "What are you reading?"
She looked up angrily and showed him the cover: Remarque's Three
Comrades.
"The hell with them," she said and lost herself in the book again. "Hm
... a tubercular girl, loving and sensitive, is dying. And my well-fed,
healthy neighbor feels for her, empathizes. I guess there's no point beating
around the bush. The information of art is it! Anyway, its general direction
is intended for the best that is in man. Over the millennia, art has
developed the highest quality information about people: thoughts,
descriptions of refined spiritual actions, strong and noble feelings,
colorful personalities, beautiful and wise actions.... All this has been
working from the beginning of time to develop in people an understanding of
each other and of life, to correct their morals, to awaken thoughts and
feelings, and to eradicate the animal baseness of the spirit. And this
information gets through-to be precise, it is marvelously encoded, couldn't
be better, to function in the computer called Man. In this sense, neither
daily information nor scientific information can come close to artistic
information."
The train, passing through Dneprovsk's suburbs, slowed down. His
companion set aside her book and started pulling out her suitcases from
under the seats. The man still lay on his berth, lost in thought:
"Yes, but how about effectiveness? People have been trying for
millennia-of course, until the middle of the last century, art was only
accessible to the few. But then technology took over: mass printing,
lithography, expositions, records, movies, radio, television-art information
is available to everyone. For a contemporary man the volume of information
that he obtains from books, movies, radio, magazines, and TV is comparable
to life information and certainly much greater than science information. And
so? Hm ... the effect of art is not measured technically and is not
determined through experiments. All that we have to do is compare the
actions, say, of science and the arts during the last fifty years. God,
there can be no comparison!"
The train pulled into the station, into the crowd of waiting friends
and relatives, porters and ice cream vendors. The man jumped down from the
berth, pulled down his backpack, and folded his blue raincoat over his arm.
His companion was still struggling with her heavy suitcases.
"My, how much luggage you have! Let me help," he offered, picking up
the largest one.
"No, thanks." The woman quickly sat on one suitcase, flinging a plump
leg over another, and clutched a third with both hands. "Oh, no, thank you!
No, thanks!"
She looked up at him with a face that no longer had any pleasantness
about it. Her cheeks were not plump but blowsy, and her eyes, now watery
instead of blue, were hostile. There were no eyebrows, just two thin stripes
of pencil marks. He could tell that one move from him and she would start
screaming.
"Excuse me!" He let go and left. He was disgusted.
"There you go: an illustration of the comparative effects of daily
information and art information!" he thought, angrily striding through the
station square. "Lots of people could have come from distant parts:
salesman, Party worker, athlete, fisherman ... but no, she thought the
worst, suspected me of vile intentions! It's the principle of getting by:
better not trust them than be mistaken. And don't we make a much greater
mistake by adhering to this principle?" In the train he had been thinking
because there was nothing else to do. Now he was thinking to calm down, and
still about the same thing. "Of course, if you tell about a man in a book or
on screen-people will understand him, believe in him, forgive his drawbacks
and love him for his good points. But it's much more complicated and prosaic
in real life. Why blame the little lady-I'm just as bad myself. For a time,
I didn't believe my own father. I loved him, but I didn't believe him. I
didn't believe that he had fought in revolutions, in the Civil War, that he
served under Chapayev, that he had met Lenin. It all began with the movie
Chapayev: my father wasn't in it! There was Chapayev and all the other
certified heroes-they declaimed colorful, curt slogans with powerful
voices-and Dad wasn't there! And anyway, how could my Dad be a Chapayev man?
He didn't get along with mother. He spoke in a wavering voice, caused by his
ill-fitting dentures, which he kept in a glass overnight. He mispronounced
words (not like in the movies). And he had been arrested in 1937. He used to
tell the neighbor women over the back fence how during Kerensky's time he
was forced, because of Bolshevik agitation, to stand two hours at attention
in full battle gear on the breastwork of a trench. He said that he brought
silver coins from the soldiers at the front to Lenin in the Smolny Institute
for the revolution's coffers. He talked about how, condemned to death by the
cossacks, he sat in a cellar... and the local women oohed and aahed,
clasping their hands: 'Our Karpych is a hero-ah! ah!' And I would laugh at
him and not believe him. I knew exactly what heroes were like-because I
watched movies and listened to the radio."
He frowned at these memories.
"It wasn't really me. But the important point is that it was-but it
looks like there is a hitch in the great method of transferring information
via art. People watch a movie or a play, read a book and say: 'I like it...'
and go on living just as before. Some live well, some not badly, and the
rest awfully. Art historians and critics often find a flaw in the consumers
of the information: the public is foolish, the readers aren't ready, and so
on. To accept that I would have to admit that I'm a fool and that I'm not
ready either. No, I don't agree! And anyway, blaming things on the people's
dullness and ignorance-that's not a constructive approach. People are
capable of understanding and realization. Most of them are not dullards or
ignoramuses. So it would be better to seek the flaw in the method-especially
since I need that method for my experimental work."
He saw a telephone booth and he stared at it dully: was he supposed to
do something in that object? He remembered. He sighed, entered the booth,
dialed the number of the New Systems Laboratory-Waiting for an answer, his
heart began beating harder and his throat went dry. "I'm nervous and that's
bad." There was nothing but long ringing. Then, with second thoughts, he
called the evening duty phone at the institute.
"Could you help me reach Krivoshein? Is he on vacation?" "Krivoshein?
He's ... no, he's not on vacation. Who's calling?" "If he should show up at
the institute today, please tell him that... Adam is here." "Adam? No last
name?" "He knows. Please don't forget." "All right. I won't."
The man left the phone booth with a sense of relief: he had suddenly
realized that he was not prepared to see him. "Well, I'm here. I might as
well try. Maybe he's at home?"
He got on a bus. He was not interested in the city streets swathed in
blue twilight: he had left in summer and he came back in summer. Everything
was green, and it seemed that nothing had changed.
"Now, really, how can we use art information in our work? And can it be
used? The whole problem is that this information doesn't become part of a
man's life experience, or his exact knowledge, and it is on experience and
knowledge that people base their actions. It really should go something like
statement?"
"I can."
The assistant walked across the room and sat in a chair opposite the
window. The detective looked him over. He was young, maybe twenty-four, not
older than that. He looked like Krivoshein, the way he might have been ten
years ago. "Actually, he didn't look like that," Matvei Apollonovich thought
as he looked at the photo in Krivoshein's personnel file. "This fellow is
much more handsome." And there really was something of a model's or actor's
perfection in Kravets's face. The impression of perfection was marred by the
eyes-actually not the eyes themselves, which were blue and had a youthful
clarity, but in the marksman's squint of the lids. "He has eyes that seem to
have lived a lot," the detective noted. "He seems to have gotten over the
experience quickly enough. Let's see."
"You know, you resemble the deceased."
"The deceased!" The assistant clenched his jaw and shut his eyes for a
second. "That means-"
"Yes, it does," Onisimov said harshly. "He's jumpy," he thought. "Well,
let's do this in order." He reached for a piece of paper and unscrewed his
pen. "Your name, patronymic, age, place of work or study, address?"
"But you must know all that already?"
"Know or not, that's the regulation; the witness must give all that
information himself."
"So he's dead.... What should I do now? What should I say? It's a
catastrophe. Damn it, I shouldn't have come to the police. I should have run
off from the clinic. What will happen now?" Kravets thought.
"Please, write down the following: Viktor Vitalyevich Kravets, age
twenty-four, a student in the fifth year in the physics department of
Kharkov University. I reside in Kharkov, on Kholodnaya Gora. I'm here to do
my practical work."
"I see," the detective said, and instead of writing it down, twisted
his pen rapidly and aimlessly. "You were related to Krivoshein. How?"
"Distantly," the student laughed uncomfortably. "Seventh cousin twice
removed, you know."
"I see!" Onisimov put down his pen and picked up the telegraph; his
voice became severe. "Look here, citizen, it doesn't check out." "What
doesn't check out?"
"Your story, that you're Kravets, that you live and study in Kharkov,
and so on. There's no student by that name in Kharkov. And the person you
name has never lived at 17, Kholodnaya Gora, either." The suspect's cheeks
suddenly dropped, and his face turned red. "They got me. How stupid of me!
Damn it! Of course, they checked all that out immediately. Boy, lack of
experience shows every time. But what can I say now?" he thought.
"Tell the truth. And in detail. Don't forget that we're dealing with a
homicide here."
Kravets thought: "The truth. Easier said than done." "You see, the
truth... how can I put it... that's too much and too complicated," the
assistant began mumbling, hating and despising himself for this lack of
control. "I'd have to discuss information theory and the modeling of random
processes."
"Just don't try to cloud the issues, citizen," Onisimov said, frowning
disdainfully. "People aren't killed by theories-this was definitely
practical application and fact."
"But... you must understand, actually no one at all may have died. It
can be proven ... or attempted to be proven. You see, citizen
investigator-(Why did I call him that? I haven't been arrested yet.)-You
see, first of all, a man is not, well, not a hunk of protoplasm weighing 150
pounds. There are the fifty quarts of water, forty-four pounds of protein,
fats and carbohydrates, enzymes, and so on. No, man is first and foremost
information. A concentration of information. And if it has not disappeared,
then the man is still alive."
He stopped and bit his lip. "No, this is nonsense. It's hopeless," he
thought.
"Yes, I'm listening. Go on," the detective said, laughing to himself.
The assistant glanced up at him, got more comfortable in his chair, and said
with a small smile:
"In short, if you don't want to hear the theories, then Valentin
Vasilyevich Krivoshein-that's me. You can put that into the official
record."
It was so unexpected and daring that Matvei Apollonovich was stunned
for a second. "Should I send him to the psychiatrist?" he thought. But the
suspect's blue eyes looked at him reasonably and there was mockery in their
depths. That's what brought Onisimov out of his suspended animation.
"I see!" He got up. "Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I haven't
familiarized myself with his file, that I wasn't present at the scene of the
accident, that I don't remember his face?" He leaned on the desk top. " If
you refuse to identify yourself, it's only worse for you. We'll find out
anyway. Do you admit your papers are forged?"
"That's it. We have to stop playing," Kravets thought, and said:
"No. You still have to prove that. You might as well consider me a
forgery while you're at it!"
The assistant turned to look out the window.
"Don't clown around with me, citizen!" The detective had raised his
voice. "What was your purpose in entering the lab? Answer me! What happened
between you and Krivoshein? Answer!"
"I'm not answering anything!"
Matvei Apollonovich scolded himself for losing his temper. He sat down
and after a pause started talking in a heartfelt manner:
"Listen, don't think that I'm trying to pin anything on you. My job is
to investigate thoroughly, to fill in the missing blanks, and then the
prosecutor's office evaluates it, and the court makes the decision. But
you're hurting yourself. You don't understand one thing: if you confess
later, under duress as they say, it won't count as much as making a clean
breast of things now. It might not all be so terrible. But for now,
everything points against you. Proof of an assault on the body, expert
testimony, and other circumstances. And it all boils down to one thing." He
leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. "It looks as if you ...
alleviated the victim's suffering."
The suspect lowered his head and rubbed his face. He was seeing the
scene again. The skeleton with Krivoshein's head twitching convulsively in
the tank, his own hands holding on to the tank's edge, the warm, gentle
liquid touching them and then-the blow!
"I'm not sure myself, if it's me or not," he muttered in a depressed
voice. "I can't understand it." He looked up. "Listen, I have to get back to
the lab!"
Matvei Apollonovich almost jumped up: he hadn't expected such a rapid
victory. "Listen, that can happen too," he said, nodding sympathetically.
"In a state of frenzy from an insult or through overzealous self-defense.
Let's go down to the lab, and you can explain on the scene just what
transpired there." He picked up Monomakh's Crown from his desk and casually
asked: "Was this what you hit him on the chest with? It's a heavy thing."
"That's enough!" The suspect spoke harshly and almost haughtily. He
straightened up. "I see no reason to continue this discussion. You're trying
to put me into a corner. By the way, that 'heavy thing' costs over five
thousand rubles. Be careful with it."
"Does this mean that you don't want to tell me anything?" "Yes."
"I see." The detective pushed a button. "You'll have to be held until
this is cleared up."
A gangly policeman with a long face and droopy nose appeared at the
door. In the Ukraine, people like him are described as "tall but still
bends."
"Gayevoy?" the detective looked at him uncertainly. "Aren't any of the
guards around?"
'They're all out in the field, comrade captain," he replied. "A lot of
them are at the beaches, maintaining law and order." "Do you have a car?" "A
small GAZ."
"Convey the detained suspect to the city jail. It's too bad you refuse
to help yourself and us, citizen. You're just making it worse for yourself."
The lab assistant turned in the doorway. "And it's too bad that you
think Krivoshein is dead." "One of those characters who likes to make a
grand exit. Always have the last word." Onisimov chuckled. "I've seen plenty
like him. But he'll come round after a while."
Matvei Apollonovich lit a cigarette and drummed his fingers on the
desk. At first all the clues (faked papers, medical testimony,
circumstances) led him to think that the assistant, if he wasn't the killer,
was at least actively involved in Krivoshein's death. But this conversation
had changed his mind. Not what the suspect had said, but how. He did not
sense in him the forethought, the game playing, that fatal game playing that
gives away the criminal long before there is any evidence.
"It is looking like an unpremeditated murder. He said himself, 1 don't
know if it was me or not.' But what about the skeleton? How did it happen?
And did it happen? And what about the attempt to pass himself off as
Krivoshein by using a theoretical explanation? Is he faking? And what if the
absence of game playing is just the most subtle game of all? No, where would
such a young, inexperienced fellow develop that? And then, what motives are
there for a premeditated murder? What was going on between them? And what
about the forged documents?"
Matvei Apollonovich's mind hit a dead end. "All right, let's look into
the circumstances." He stood up and looked out into the hall. Assistant
Professor Hilobok was pacing up and down.
"Please come in! I asked you here, comrade Hilobok, to-"
"Yes, yes, I understand," Hilobok nodded. "Others experience tragedy,
and I clean up the messes. People do die of old age, and may God grant us
both such ends, Matvei Apollonovich, eh? But Krivoshein never did anything
the way everyone else did. No, no, I'm sorry for him. Don't think... it's
always a pity when a man dies, right? But Valentin Vasilyevich had caused me
so many problems in the past. And all because he was a stubborn character,
with no respect for anyone, no consideration, diverging from the collective
time and time again."
"I see. But I would like to ascertain what it was Krivoshein was doing
in that lab that was under his jurisdiction. Since you are the scientific
secretary, I thought-"
"I just knew you'd ask!" Harry Haritonovich smiled happily. "I even
brought along a copy of the thematic plans with me, naturally." He rustled
the papers in his briefcase. "Here it is, theme 152, specific goals-research
on NIR, title-'The self-organization of complex electronic systems with an
integral introduction of information/ contents of the work-'Research on the
possibilities of self-organization of complex system into a more complex one
with an integral (not differentiated according to signals and symbols)
introduction of varying information by adding a superstructure of its output
to the system/ financing-here's the budget, nature of the work-mathematical,
logical, and experimental, director of the project-engineer V. V.
Krivoshein, executor, the same-" "What was the gist of his research?"
'The gist? Hmmm." Hilobok's face grew serious. "The self-organization
of systems ... so that a machine could build itself, understand? They're
doing intensive work on this in America. Very. In the USA-"
"And what was Krivoshein actually doing?" "Actually.... He proposed a
new approach to forming these systems through... integralization. No,
self-organization. It's just not clear if he managed to do anything with it
or not." Harry Haritonovich smiled broadly and winningly. "You know, Matvei
Apollonovich, there are so many projects at the institute, and I have to
look into all of them. I just can't keep everything straight in my mind. You
would be better off reading the minutes of the academic council's meeting."
"You mean, he reported on his work to the academic council?" "Of course! All
our projects are considered before they are incorporated into the plan.
After all, how could we distribute funds without any factual basis?" "What
was his basis?"
"What do you mean?" The scientific secretary raised his eyebrows. "His
idea regarding the new approach to the problem of self-organization? You're
best off reading the minutes, Matvei Apollonovich." He sighed. "It all
happened a year ago, and we have meetings and debates and commissions every
week, if not more frequently. Can you imagine? And I have to be present at
every one, organize the speakers, speak myself, issue invitations. For
instance, right now, I have to go from here to the Society on Distribution,
where there's a meeting on the question of attracting scientific personnel
to lecture at collective farms during harvest. I won't even have time for
lunch. I can't wait for my vacation!"
"I see. But the academic council approved his topic?"
"Of course! There were many who argued against it. Ah, you should have
heard how crudely Valentin Vasilyevich answered them. It was totally
unforgivable. Poor Professor Voltampernov had to be tranquilized afterward.
Can you imagine? The board recommended that Krivoshein be reprimanded for
his rudeness, I wrote out the decree myself. But the topic was passed, of
course. A man proposes new ideas, a new approach-why shouldn't he try it?
That's the way it is in science. And besides, Arkady Arkadievich himself
supported him. Arkady Arkadievich is a wonderfully generous soul; in fact he
set him up in his own lab because Krivoshein could never get along with
anybody. Of course, the lab was a joke, unstructured with a staff of one...
but the academic council had discussed the situation and voted yes. I voted
for it myself."
"What was the it you all voted for?" Onisimov wiped his brow with a
handkerchief.
"What do you mean? To include it in the plan, to allot funds for it.
You know, planning is the basis of our society."
"I see. Tell me, Harry Haritonovich, what do you think happened?"
"Hmmm ... I must make it clear to you, my dear Matvei Apollonovich,
that I would have no way of knowing. I'm the scientific secretary; all my
work is paperwork. They've been working together just the two of them since
last winter. The lab assistant is the one who would know. Besides, he's an
eyewitness."
"Did you know that the assistant is not who he says he is?" Onisimov
demanded. "He's not Kravets and he's not a student."
"Really? That's why you arrested him, I see." Hilobok's eyes grew
round. "No, really, how would I know? That was an oversight in personnel.
Who is he?"
"We'll find out. So you say the Americans are doing the same kind of
work now?"
"Yes. So you think he's the one?"
"Why be so hasty?" Onisimov laughed. "I'm just exploring all the
possibilities." He glanced over at the paper with the questions. 'Tell me,
Harry Haritonovich, did you notice psychiatric problems in Krivoshein?"
Hilobok smiled.
"You know, on my way over here, I was debating whether or not I should
mention it. Maybe it's a trifle and there's no point? But since you ask ...
he had these lapses. I remember, last July, when I was combining my duties
with heading the laboratory of experimental setups-we couldn't find the
right specialist to run it-we needed a candidate of science-so I was doing
it-so that we wouldn't lose the slot for the position, because, you know,
they can take away the allocation, and then you can never get it back.
That's the way it is. And so, just a while back, my laboratory received a
request from Krivoshein to prepare a new system for encephalographic
biopotential sensors, like that SEP-1, Monomakh's Crown, that you have on
your desk, but of a more complex construction, so that it would fit in with
all kinds of his schemes. Why they ever accepted the order from him, instead
of doing their own work, I'll never know."
This submersion in scientific data brought on a deep drowsiness in
Matvei Apollonovich. Usually he cut through any tangential deviation from
the topic that interested him in an interrogation, but now-he was a man with
a Russian soul-he could not overcome his innate respect for science, for
learned titles, terms, and situations. He had always had this respect, and
after his last case at the institute when he also learned the salaries of
scientific workers his respect had doubled. And so Matvei Apollonovich did
not try to stem Harry Haritonovich's free-flowing mouth; after all, he was
dealing with a man whose salary was more than twice his own, as a police
captain, and legal at that.
"So, you can imagine, I was sitting in the laboratory one day," Hilobok
rambled on, "and Valentin Vasilyevich came to see me-without his lab coat, I
might add! That is unacceptable. There is a specific rule promulgated about
this at the institute, a rule stating that all engineering and scientific
workers must wear white coats and the technicians and lab assistants gray or
blue ones. After all, we are often visited by foreign delegations. It can't
be otherwise. But he always disregarded convention, and he asked me in a
really nasty tone: 'When are you going to fill my order for the new system?'
Well, I tried to explain everything calmly to him. 'It's like this and that,
Valentin Vasilyevich. We will when we can. It's not so easy to do everything
you drew up for us. The circuitry becomes very complicated, and we have to
reject too many transistors.' In a word, I gave him a good explanation, so
that the man would not have any misunderstandings. But he just went on
harping: 'If you can't do it on schedule, you shouldn't have agreed to do
it!' I tried to explain about the difficulties once more, and that we had
orders backed up at the lab, but Krivoshein interrupted me: 'If the order is
not completed in two weeks, I will file a complaint about you and turn over
the work to the science club in a grammar school! And they'll do it faster
than you, and it will be a lot cheaper, too!' That was a dig at me, that
last part. He had always made cracks, but I was used to it. And then he
slammed the door, and stalked out."
The investigator nodded rhythmically and clenched his jaw to hide the
yawns. Hilobok buzzed on:
"And five minutes later-note that no more than five minutes had passed;
I hadn't even had time to talk to the workshop by phone-Valentin Vasilyevich
burst in again wearing a coat this time (he had managed to dig up a gray one
somewhere), and said: 'Harry Haritonovich, when will that order for the
sensor system be ready?' 'Please,' I said, 'take pity on me, Valentin
Vasilyevich. I explained it to you!' And I went into my explanation again.
He interrupted like last time: 'If you can't do it, don't try . . .' and
then went on about the complaint, the schoolboys, and expenses." Hilobok
brought his face closer to the investigator. "In other words, he repeated
exactly what he had said five minutes ago, in the same exact wording! Can
you imagine?"
"That's curious," the investigator nodded.
"And that wasn't the only time he got confused like that. Once he
forgot to turn off the water for the night, and the whole floor under the
laboratory was flooded. Once-the janitor complained to me-he started a huge
bonfire of perforated tape on the lawn. The professor meaningfully pursed
his fat red lips, funereally outlined with a black mustache, "and so
anything might have happened. And why? Because he wanted to get ahead and he
was constantly overworking himself.
No matter what time you left the institute the lights in his lodge were
always blazing. Many of us at the institute joked about it. Maybe Krivoshein
wasn't aiming for his doctorate but for a break-through right off the
bat.... He discovered enough, now go try to figure it all out."
"I see," the investigator said and looked down at the sheet of paper
once more. "You mentioned that Krivoshein had a woman who was close to him.
Do you know her?"
"Elena Ivanovna Kolomiets? Of course! There aren't many women like her
in our town-very attractive, elegant, sweet, in a word, you know-"Harry
Haritonovich described Elena Ivanovna's inexpressible beauty with a
zigzagging motion of the hands. His brown eyes glistened. "I could never
figure out, nor could others, what she saw in him. After all, Krivoshein-I
know, de mortius aut bene nut nihil, but why hide it?-you saw for yourself,
he was no looker. She would come to see him. Our houses are next door in
Academic Town, so I saw it. And he never knew how to dress well either. But
I haven't seen her around lately. I guess they broke up, like ships in the
night, heh-heh! Do you think she had anything to do with this?"
"I don't think anyone has as yet, Harry Haritonovich. I'm only trying
to clear things up." Onisimov got up with relief. "Well, thank you. I hope
that I don't need to warn you about gossiping, because-"
"It doesn't need to be mentioned! And don't thank me, I was only doing
my duty. I'm always ready...."
After he left, Matvei Apollonovich put his head directly under the fan
and sat for a few minutes without moving or thinking. Hilobok's voice rang
in his head like a fly buzzing on a windowpane.
"Wait!" The detective shook his head to clear it. "We wasted a whole
hour, and he didn't clear up a thing. And all the time it seemed 'as though
we were on the topic, but it was all nothing. Scientific secretary,
assistant professor, sciences candidate-could he have been trying to throw
me off? Something's wrong here."
The phone rang. "Onisimov here."
There was only panting on the phone for a few seconds. It was obvious
the speaker couldn't get his breath.
"Comrade .. . captain .. . this is Gayevoy .. . reporting. The ...
suspect... escaped!"
"Escaped? What do you mean escaped? Give me a full report!"
"Well, we were in the GAZ. Timofeyev was driving and I was next to
that...." The policeman was muttering into the phone. "That's the way we
transport all detained suspects. After all, comrade captain, you hadn't
warned us about strict observation, and I couldn't imagine where he could go
since you have all his papers. Well, we were driving past the city park and
he jumped out when we were going at full speed. Over the fence, and he was
gone! Well, Timofeyev and I went after him. Boy, is he good at clambering
over uneven ground! Well, I didn't want to open fire since I didn't have any
instructions about it from you. So... that's it."
"I see. Go to the department and write out a report for the captain on
duty. You don't do your job very well, Gayevoy!"
"Well, is there anything you'd like me to do, comrade captain?" His
voice was glum.
"We'll manage without you. Hurry back here; you'll be part of the
search party. That's all." Onisimov hung up.
"Well, well, the man's an artist, a real artist! And I had doubted him!
Of course, it's him. It had to be! So. He had no identification papers. Nor
any money. And almost no clothes, just the shirt and trousers he had on. He
won't get far. Unless he has confederates ... then it'll be harder."
Ten minutes later Gayevoy, even more bent over by his guilt, appeared.
Onisimov organized a search party, distributing photos, and a description
with identifying marks. The operatives went into town.
Then Matvei Apollonovich called the fingerprint expert. He told him
that some of the prints he collected in the lab matched those of the lab
assistant; others belonged to another man. Neither set matched up with any
known criminal.
"The other man is naturally the victim, of course.... Ho, ho, this is
becoming serious business. It doesn't look anything like a regular crime. It
doesn't look like anything with that damn melted skeleton! What can I do
about that?"
Onisimov stared gloomily out the window. The shadows of the trees on
the sidewalks were lengthening, but it hadn't gotten any cooler. Young women
in print shifts and sunglasses crowded near the bus stop. "Going to the
beach...."
The worst part was that Onisimov still didn't have a working version of
the incident.
At the end of the day, when Matvei Apollonovich was writing out a list
for the morning, the commander of the department came in to see him. "Here
it comes," Matvei Apollonovich thought.
"Sit down." The colonel lowered himself into the chair. "You seem to be
having complications in this case: no body, suspect escaped. Hm? Tell me
about it." Onisimov told him.
"Hm...." The commander's heavy eyebrows met. "Well, we'll catch that
fellow; there's no question about that. Do you have the airport, railroad,
and bus stations under surveillance?
"Of course, Aleksei Ignatievich, I sent out the order immediately."
"That means he'll never get out of the city. But as for the corpse...
that's really something very curious. Damn it all! Maybe they switched
things on you at the scene?" He looked up at the investigator with his
small, wise eyes. "Maybe... remember Gorky's story Klim Samgin where a
character says, 'Maybe there was no boy?'"
"But... the doctor in the ambulance certified the death, Aleksei
Ignatievich."
"Doctors can make mistakes, too. Besides, the doctor was not an expert,
and she didn't list a cause of death. And there's no body. And our Zubato is
having problems with the skeleton.... Of course, it's up to you. I'm not
insisting, but if you can't explain how the corpse turned into a skeleton in
fifteen minutes, and whose skeleton it is, and what caused the death-no jury
is going to pay any attention to the evidence. Even clear-cut cases are
being sent back by the courts for lack of evidence, or dismissed completely.
Of course, it's good that the law is strict and careful, but..." he sighed
noisily, "a... a difficult case, no? Do you have an official version yet?"
"I have a draft," Onisimov explained shyly, "but I don't know how you're
going to take it, Aleksei Ignatievich. I don't think this is a criminal
case. According to the institute's scientific secretary, the United States
is very interested in the case that Krivoshein was studying in his lab.
That's point one. Lab assistant Kravets, by his demeanor and cultural level,
I guess is neither a student nor a criminal. He escaped masterfully, that's
for sure. Point two: Kravets's fingerprints don't match any criminal ones on
record. Three: so, perhaps-"Matvei Apollonovich stopped, and looked
inquiringly at his chief.
"-we should palm off the case on the KGB?" The colonel finished his
thought with a soldier's directness and shook his head. "Don't be in a
hurry! If we, the police, discover a crime with, say, a foreign accent, it
will bring society and us nothing but good. But if the state security organs
discover a simple civilian crime or a violation of safety procedures,
then... well, you understand. And in the last six months we've hit the
bottom of the local list for percentage of solved crimes." He gave Onisimov
a good-natured look of reproach. "Don't give up! You know the saying that
the most complicated crimes are the easiest: theses and projects, scientific
mumbo-jumbo... it boggles the mind. Don't rush with your version. Check out
all the possibilities and maybe it will be like the fable: 'The box had a
simple lock.' Well, I wish you luck and success." The chief rose and
extended his hand. "I'm sure that you can handle this case."
Matvei Apollonovich got up too, shook hands, and followed the commander
out with clear and bright eyes. Say what you will, but when the boss has
confidence in you, it makes all the difference!
People who think that human life has changed only externally and not
radically since ancient times compare the fire, around which Troglodites
spent the evening, with television, which amuses our contemporaries. This
comparison is disputable, since a fire both warms and lights, and the
television only glows, and then only from one side.
-K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 111
The plump, blonde, middle-aged passenger in the express train between
Novosibirsk and Dneprovsk was agitated by the fellow in the upper berth. He
had rough-hewn but handsome features, a windblown face, dark curly hair with
a lot of gray in it, strong, tanned hands with thick fingers and old
calluses on the palms-and yet he had a gentle smile, charm (he had offered
her the lower berth when she got on at Kharkov), and an intelligent manner
of speaking. The fellow lay with his square chin on his hands, greedily
looking at the trees, houses, streams, and road signs flashing by. And he
smiled. "Handsome!" she thought.
"Probably familiar territory?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You've been away a long time?"
"A year."
He was recognizing things: they went under the highway where he used to
ride his motorcycle with Lena. There was the oak grove where the locals went
picnicking. There was Staroe Ruslo, a place of secluded beaches, clean sand,
and calm water. There was the Vytrebenki farm-and hey! new construction!
Probably a chemical plant.... He smiled and frowned as the memories came
back.
Actually, he had never ridden a motorcycle anywhere with any Lena, nor
had he ever been in the grove or on those beaches-it had all been done
without him. It was simply that once there had been a conversation, and to
be accurate, even that took place without his active participation.
"Here's an application. (The variants of human life!) Look: 'A
Vladivostok shipbuilding concern is looking for an electrical engineer to do
fitting work on location. Apartment supplied.' Aren't I an electrical
engineer? Fitting on location-what could be better? A Pacific wave lapping
up against the fittings! You pay out the cable, lick the salt from your
lips-you against the elements!"
"Yes, but."
"No, I can understand. Before it was impossible. Before! You and I are
men of duty-how can you just quit a job and go off to satisfy your
wanderlust? So we all stay where we are-and the longing for places we've
never seen and never will stays with us too, and for people we'll never
meet, and for events and occasions that we'll never participate in. We drown
this longing in books, movies, and dreams-it's impossible for a man to lead
several parallel lives. But now-"
"But now it's the same thing. You'll go off to Vladivostok to lick your
sea spray, and I'll remain behind with my dissatisfaction."
"But... we can trade. Once every six months. No one would notice . . .
no, that's nonsense. We'd be distinguished by six months of practical work
experience."
"That's just it! By heading down one of life's paths, a person becomes
different from the person he would have been had he taken another path."
But he headed for Vladivostok anyway. He didn't leave to still his
longings-he ran away from the horrors of memory. He would have gone even
farther, but farther there was only ocean. Of course, the job opening as a
fitter in the ports had been filled, but he found work excavating underwater
cliffs, to clear space for ship berths-that wasn't bad work either. There
was enough romance: he dove into the blue green depths with his scuba gear,
saw his quivering shadow on the bottom rocks, dug out holes in the cliffs,
set the dynamite, lit the fuse, and scattering the fish that would be
floating belly up in a minute, swam at breakneck speeds for the power boat.
And then, missing engineering work, he introduced an electrohydraulic
charge, which was safer than dynamite and more effective. He left behind all
memories of himself.
"Are you coming from far?" the woman insisted, interrupting his
reverie.
"From the Far East."
"Were you recruited to work there or did you just go?"
The man stared at her and laughed curtly.
"I went for a cure."
His traveling companion nodded warily. She had lost all desire for
conversation. She pulled out a book and buried herself in it.
Yes, the healing began there. The guys on the team were amazed by his
fearlessness. He really had no fear: strength, agility, exact
calculation-and no deep wave could touch him. He literally held his own life
in his hands-what was there to be afraid of? The most terrifying times he
had lived through had been here, in Dneprovsk, when Krivoshein played God
with his life and death. With many deaths. You see, Krivoshein did not
understand that what he was doing was much worse than torturing a helpless
person.
The man's body tensed automatically. A chill of anger puckered his skin
into goose bumps. The monsoons had blown a lot out of his system in a year:
depression, panicky fear, even his tender feelings for Lena. But this
remained.
"Maybe I shouldn't have come back? I had the ocean that made me feel
small and simple, good pals, and hard and interesting work. Everyone
respected me. I became myself out there. But here ... who knows how things
will go for him?"
But he could no more not return than forget the past. At first, it
would creep up on him, after work, on days off, when the whole team took a
speedboat into Vladivostok. The thought would pound through his head:
"Krivoshein is working. He's alone there." Then the idea came to him.
Once when they were clearing the bottom in a nameless cove near
Khabarovsk, where there were warm mineral springs along the shore, he jumped
from the boat and fell into a stream. He almost screamed from the horrible
memories in his body! The water tasted just like that liquid, and the
sensationless, warm gentleness seemed to conceal that ancient threat to
dissolve, destroy, and extinguish consciousness. He moved ahead, and the
cold ocean water sobered and calmed him. But the impression remained. By
evening it had turned into a thought: "The experiment could be run in
reverse."
And, while healing from his former memories, he "caught" this one. His
researcher's imagination was aflame. How enticing it would be to plan an
experiment, to try to predict the enormous results that would bring great
benefit! The underwater explosions seemed like a dull, gray waste. Now
without fear, he played back everything that had happened to him, projected
the variations of the experiment. And he could not remain there with the
idea that Krivoshein had probably not thought of it yet. You couldn't come
up with it by pure reason alone. You had to have lived through everything
that he had.
But-the implacable logic of their work brought another idea forward in
his mind: all right, so they would find a new way of processing a man with
information. What would it give them? This thought was harder than the
first. On the way from Vladivostok to Dneprovsk he turned to it often, and
he still had not thought it all the way through.
Outside the window, the girders of a bridge reflected the clattering
wheels of the train: they were crossing the Dnieper River. The man was
distracted for a moment, watching a powerboat skim the water's surface down
the river's current, and looking at the green slope of the right bank. The
bridge ended and little houses, gardens, and hedges flashed by the window.
"It all boils down to the problem of how and with what information can
man be perfected. All the other problems rest on this one. The system is a
given: the human brain and the mechanisms for introducing information-the
eyes, ears, nose, etc. Three streams of information feed the brain: daily
life, science, and art. We must distinguish the most effective one in its
action on man-and the most directed one. So that it would perfect him,
ennoble him. The most effective is naturally the daily information: it is
concrete and real, forming man's life experience. It's life itself; nothing
else to it. I suppose that in reality it has a mutual relationship with man
according to the laws of feedback: life affects man, but by his actions he
affects life. But the action of daily life can be most varied: it can change
man for the better or the worse. So, that can't be it.
"Let's look at scientific information. It is also real, and
objective-but it's abstract. In essence, it's the universalized experience
of the activity of humanity. That's why it's applicable in many life
situations, and that's also why its effect on life is so great. And a
reverse connection exists here with life, too, even though it is not an
individual one for each and every person, but a general one: science solves
life's problems, thus changing life-and a changed life sets new problems for
science. But still, the action of science on life in general and on man in
particular can be either positive or negative. There are many examples to
support this. And there is another problem: science is hard for the average
man to comprehend. Yes, it's hard. All right, if you think about the same
thing all the time, sooner or later, you'll come up with the answer. The
important thing is to think systematically."
He was distracted by sobbing from below. He looked down: his companion,
never taking her eyes from the book, was dabbing her wet eyes with a
handkerchief. "What are you reading?"
She looked up angrily and showed him the cover: Remarque's Three
Comrades.
"The hell with them," she said and lost herself in the book again. "Hm
... a tubercular girl, loving and sensitive, is dying. And my well-fed,
healthy neighbor feels for her, empathizes. I guess there's no point beating
around the bush. The information of art is it! Anyway, its general direction
is intended for the best that is in man. Over the millennia, art has
developed the highest quality information about people: thoughts,
descriptions of refined spiritual actions, strong and noble feelings,
colorful personalities, beautiful and wise actions.... All this has been
working from the beginning of time to develop in people an understanding of
each other and of life, to correct their morals, to awaken thoughts and
feelings, and to eradicate the animal baseness of the spirit. And this
information gets through-to be precise, it is marvelously encoded, couldn't
be better, to function in the computer called Man. In this sense, neither
daily information nor scientific information can come close to artistic
information."
The train, passing through Dneprovsk's suburbs, slowed down. His
companion set aside her book and started pulling out her suitcases from
under the seats. The man still lay on his berth, lost in thought:
"Yes, but how about effectiveness? People have been trying for
millennia-of course, until the middle of the last century, art was only
accessible to the few. But then technology took over: mass printing,
lithography, expositions, records, movies, radio, television-art information
is available to everyone. For a contemporary man the volume of information
that he obtains from books, movies, radio, magazines, and TV is comparable
to life information and certainly much greater than science information. And
so? Hm ... the effect of art is not measured technically and is not
determined through experiments. All that we have to do is compare the
actions, say, of science and the arts during the last fifty years. God,
there can be no comparison!"
The train pulled into the station, into the crowd of waiting friends
and relatives, porters and ice cream vendors. The man jumped down from the
berth, pulled down his backpack, and folded his blue raincoat over his arm.
His companion was still struggling with her heavy suitcases.
"My, how much luggage you have! Let me help," he offered, picking up
the largest one.
"No, thanks." The woman quickly sat on one suitcase, flinging a plump
leg over another, and clutched a third with both hands. "Oh, no, thank you!
No, thanks!"
She looked up at him with a face that no longer had any pleasantness
about it. Her cheeks were not plump but blowsy, and her eyes, now watery
instead of blue, were hostile. There were no eyebrows, just two thin stripes
of pencil marks. He could tell that one move from him and she would start
screaming.
"Excuse me!" He let go and left. He was disgusted.
"There you go: an illustration of the comparative effects of daily
information and art information!" he thought, angrily striding through the
station square. "Lots of people could have come from distant parts:
salesman, Party worker, athlete, fisherman ... but no, she thought the
worst, suspected me of vile intentions! It's the principle of getting by:
better not trust them than be mistaken. And don't we make a much greater
mistake by adhering to this principle?" In the train he had been thinking
because there was nothing else to do. Now he was thinking to calm down, and
still about the same thing. "Of course, if you tell about a man in a book or
on screen-people will understand him, believe in him, forgive his drawbacks
and love him for his good points. But it's much more complicated and prosaic
in real life. Why blame the little lady-I'm just as bad myself. For a time,
I didn't believe my own father. I loved him, but I didn't believe him. I
didn't believe that he had fought in revolutions, in the Civil War, that he
served under Chapayev, that he had met Lenin. It all began with the movie
Chapayev: my father wasn't in it! There was Chapayev and all the other
certified heroes-they declaimed colorful, curt slogans with powerful
voices-and Dad wasn't there! And anyway, how could my Dad be a Chapayev man?
He didn't get along with mother. He spoke in a wavering voice, caused by his
ill-fitting dentures, which he kept in a glass overnight. He mispronounced
words (not like in the movies). And he had been arrested in 1937. He used to
tell the neighbor women over the back fence how during Kerensky's time he
was forced, because of Bolshevik agitation, to stand two hours at attention
in full battle gear on the breastwork of a trench. He said that he brought
silver coins from the soldiers at the front to Lenin in the Smolny Institute
for the revolution's coffers. He talked about how, condemned to death by the
cossacks, he sat in a cellar... and the local women oohed and aahed,
clasping their hands: 'Our Karpych is a hero-ah! ah!' And I would laugh at
him and not believe him. I knew exactly what heroes were like-because I
watched movies and listened to the radio."
He frowned at these memories.
"It wasn't really me. But the important point is that it was-but it
looks like there is a hitch in the great method of transferring information
via art. People watch a movie or a play, read a book and say: 'I like it...'
and go on living just as before. Some live well, some not badly, and the
rest awfully. Art historians and critics often find a flaw in the consumers
of the information: the public is foolish, the readers aren't ready, and so
on. To accept that I would have to admit that I'm a fool and that I'm not
ready either. No, I don't agree! And anyway, blaming things on the people's
dullness and ignorance-that's not a constructive approach. People are
capable of understanding and realization. Most of them are not dullards or
ignoramuses. So it would be better to seek the flaw in the method-especially
since I need that method for my experimental work."
He saw a telephone booth and he stared at it dully: was he supposed to
do something in that object? He remembered. He sighed, entered the booth,
dialed the number of the New Systems Laboratory-Waiting for an answer, his
heart began beating harder and his throat went dry. "I'm nervous and that's
bad." There was nothing but long ringing. Then, with second thoughts, he
called the evening duty phone at the institute.
"Could you help me reach Krivoshein? Is he on vacation?" "Krivoshein?
He's ... no, he's not on vacation. Who's calling?" "If he should show up at
the institute today, please tell him that... Adam is here." "Adam? No last
name?" "He knows. Please don't forget." "All right. I won't."
The man left the phone booth with a sense of relief: he had suddenly
realized that he was not prepared to see him. "Well, I'm here. I might as
well try. Maybe he's at home?"
He got on a bus. He was not interested in the city streets swathed in
blue twilight: he had left in summer and he came back in summer. Everything
was green, and it seemed that nothing had changed.
"Now, really, how can we use art information in our work? And can it be
used? The whole problem is that this information doesn't become part of a
man's life experience, or his exact knowledge, and it is on experience and
knowledge that people base their actions. It really should go something like