to
Onisimov. "Matvei,  that doesn't ring true. It  just doesn't  happen, I  can
tell you for sure. A man is no icicle, even if he is dead. They didn't trick
you?"
     "How?"
     "You  know,  switch the body for a skeleton while  you were out...  and
discard the evidence."
     "What  are  you  blabbering about? You mean while  an academician stood
guard for them? Come  on,  here's his  deposition." Onisimov  fretted as  he
looked for Azarov's statement.
     "Ahh, now they'll  show you!  The people there...." Zubato wriggled his
hairy fingers. "Remember, when that  student was  exposed to  radiation, how
the  head of the lab  tried to  blame it all on science, how he said that it
was a little-studied phenomenon,  that the gamma rays  destroyed the crystal
cells of the dosimeter. And when we checked, it turned out the students were
signed up to work on  isotopes  without reading about them! Nobody wants  to
take  responsibility, even academicians, if it's  a  fishy situation. Try to
think: did you leave them alone with the body?"
     "I did," the detective's voice fell. "Twice."
     "And  that's when  your  body melted!"  Zubato broke out  in the hearty
laugh of a man who knows that disaster has not struck him.
     The detective thought about it and then shook his head.
     "Now,  you're not  going to  throw me off  the  track  here. I  saw for
myself... but what are we going to do with this skeleton now?"
     "The  hell with it.  Wait, here's an idea.  Send it  over  to  the city
sculpture  studio.  Let them  reconstruct  the face according  to  Professor
Gerasimov's method; they are familiar with it.  If it's him, you'll have the
crime sensation of the  century  on your hands.  If not-"Zubato  gave Matvei
Apollonovich a sympathetic look. "I wouldn't want to be  in  your shoes when
you  talk  with  Aleksei  Ignatievich. All right,  I'll send  it  over there
myself. So be  it."  He rose.  "And  while  I'm at  it, I'll  do  the  death
certificate. I'll settle for a skeleton, if you can't come up with a body."
     Zubato left.
     "What  if  they did  trick  me?"  Onisimov  recalled the  academician's
hostility, Assistant Professor Hilobok's flattery, and he shuddered. "I lost
the body, the most important thing. Good show there!"
     He dialed the chemistry lab.
     "Viktoriya Stepanovna, this is Onisimov. Did you analyze the liquid?"
     "Yes, Matvei Apollonovich. The report is being typed, but I'll read you
the  conclusion. "Water-85  percent,  protein-13  percent,  amino  acids-0.5
percent, fatty acids-0.4 percent and so on. In other words, it's human blood
plasma.  According  to  the  hemoglutins,  it's classified  as type A,  with
lowered water content."
     "Yes, I see. Could it be toxic?"
     "I doubt it."
     "Even, if say, you bathed in it?"
     "Well, you could swallow some and drown. Does that help?"
     "Thank you!" Matvei Apollonovich slammed down the phone. "Wise ass! But
I guess  that  means accidental death is ruled out. Could the assistant have
drowned him in the tub? No, it doesn't look like a drowning."
     Onisimov  liked the  entire business  less and less with every  passing
minute. He  spread  out  the  documents he got  at the institute's personnel
department and  at  the laboratory and lost himself  in  their study. He was
distracted by the phone.
     "Matvei,  you owe me!" boomed Zubato's triumphant voice.  "I've managed
to establish a few things from the skeleton. There are deep vertical  cracks
in the middle of  the sixth and seventh ribs on the right side.  Such cracks
are the result of  a  blow by  a heavy blunt  instrument or against a  blunt
object, whatever. The surface has minute cracks, fresh-"
     "I see!"
     "These cracks  in themselves  can not  be the  cause of  death.  But  a
violent  blow could  have seriously  injured  the  internal  organs,  which,
unfortunately, are missing. Well, that's about it. I hope it helps."
     "And how! Did you send out the skull for identification?"
     "Just now. And  I called ahead.  They  promised  to  do it as  fast  as
possible."
     "So, this is no accident. Liquid and short circuits don't break a man's
ribs. Oh, oh.  It looks  as  if  there were  two accident victims there:  an
injured  victim  and a dead  victim. And it  looks  as  though the two had a
serious fight."
     Onisimov felt better. The case was taking on familiar aspects. He began
composing an urgent telegram to Kharkov.
     The June day was getting hotter. The sun  melted the asphalt.  The heat
seeped into Onisimov's office, and he turned on the fan on his desk.
     The answer  from  the Kharkov police came  at  exactly  1:00  P.M.  Lab
assistant  Kravets was  brought  in at 1:30.  As  he  entered the office, he
looked around, and smirked as he noticed the barred windows.
     "Is that to make people confess faster?"
     "No-no," Matvei Apollonovich drawled gently. "This building  used to be
a wholesale warehouse and so the  entire first floor has reinforced windows.
We'll be removing them soon; not too many robbers try breaking into a police
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!



        Chapter 3


     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