encouraging  that's it's were
superfluous. The feeling of pain had given  rise to rather eloquent biowaves
in my brain as it was.
     It looks like the computer-womb  plugs into  a person with  a signal of
imbalance in  the system.  But this  signal wouldn't necessarily have  to be
pain: it could  be  a willed command to  change something in  yourself or  a
dissatisfaction ("not it"). And then it could be controlled with sensation.
     A  minor,  ineffective  experiment  compared with everything  that came
before it.  After all the cut could have been doused with  iodine, bandaged,
and it would have healed on its own.
     But it's the most important experiment we've done in a year's work! Now
our discovery  can be used  not  only to synthesize  and  perfect artificial
doubles but to transform complex informational systems that are contained in
a  highly  complex  biological solution,  which  we  simply  call  man.  The
transformation of any person!
     February 20. Yes, the liquid  circuit  plugs into a human organism on a
willed command, too. Today  I removed  the  hair from  my arm up to my elbow
this  way. I  put  my hand  in  the  tank,  put  on  the  crown.  "Not  it,"
concentrating  on the  hair.  The prickling and itching increased. The  skin
became transparent. A minute later the hair had dissolved.
     Kravets  used  the  method to  grow nails on his pinky and index finger
that  were over  an  inch long. He  dipped both plams  into the  liquid  and
changed his  usual fingerprint sworls into something resembling the tread on
a winter tire.  Then he tried to restore the original pattern, but he didn't
remember what it looked like.
     Now  I   see   why  nothing  worked  with  the  rabbits-they   have  no
consciousness, no will, no satisfaction with self. This is a method for man.
And only for man!


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


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


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



        Chapter 21


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

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


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


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

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

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


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


     May 29.  Today  I was called onto Azarov's  thick carpet. He  has  just
gotten back from a trip.
     "So you realize what you've done?"
     "But, Arkady Arkadievich, the dissertation-"
     "We're  not  talking about Harry Haritonovich's dissertation, but about
your  behavior! You've  undermined the institute's prestige, and in no small
way!"
     "I expressed my opinion."
     "Yes, but where? How? Is it so  difficult to comprehend that in another
organization you are not simply an engineer trying to even a scholarly score
with  someone (well, Harry  told  his side!) but  a  representative  of  the
Institute  of Systemology!  Why  didn't  you  express  your opinion  at  the
preliminary defense?"
     "I didn't know about it."
     "Nevertheless  you  could  have told  it  to my  replacement after  the
defense. It would have been taken into account!"
     (He's talking about Voltampernov-a likely story!)
     "It wouldn't have been taken into account."
     "I see we  won't reach  an  agreement.  What  are  your  plans for  the
future?"
     "I don't intend to resign."
     "I'm not asking you to.  But  it seems  to me that you're not ready  to
head a laboratory. A scientist working in a collective must bear the good of
the  collective  in  mind and at  any rate, certainly not deal it any  death
blows  by  his behavior. I  imagine that you will have  trouble, at the next
qualifying session, passing to lab head. That's all. I won't keep you."
     So that's how it is. The whole institute is  abuzz with turkey gobbles:
"An engineer against a candidate! Keeping him from his doctorate!" Thanks to
Harry everybody thinks that I was trying to settle a score with him. They're
dragging  out my old sins:  the chewing out,  the  accident in  Ivanov's lab
(Matyushin,  the  head janitor, is planning  to sue  me for  damages).  They
realized that  I  haven't  turned  in an annual  report  on my project, even
though topic 154 isn't  over until  this year. They say that a commission to
check on the lab's work should be set up.
     My  enemies shout. My  friends  whisper  carefully,  looking over their
shoulders: "You really  gave it  to  Hilobok.  The  jerk  deserves it. Well,
they'll  get you now." And they suggest  where  I should tranfer. "Why don't
you  intercede?" "Well, you see...."  Even good old  Fenya  Zagrebnyak  just
spreads his hands apart. "What can I do? It's not in my field."
     A narrow specialist has a  lousy life. Well-fed, secure, but lousy. All
his interests are  concentrated on elements of passive memory, say,  and not
on  any  old  elements  but only  on  cryotron  elements, and only  on  film
cryotrons and only on those made of lead-tin films.  The worker, the farmer,
the technician, the  broad-based engineer, the teacher,  and even the office
worker can apply his knowledge  and skills  to many activities, enterprises,
and companies,  but  there are only  two  or three  institutes in  the whole
Soviet Union studying those damned cryotrons. What can poor Fedya do? He has
to sit there and not make waves.  In effect, a  narrow speciality is a means
of self-enslavement.
     That's why  it's rare among us specialists to find all for one  (unless
the  one  is Azarov).  All  against  one  is  the more usual picture; that's
easier.  That's why passions flare up at the first sign  of insubordination.
"Anyone could be  failed like that!" yelped Voltampernov-and it went  on and
on.
     All  right, I'll bear it. I  can  take it. The important thing is  that
it's  done.  I  knew what  I  was  getting  into. But  it's  repulsive. It's
unbelievably disgusting.
     Onisimov put  out his  cigarette and  stared at the computer. Something
had changed slowly and imperceptibly in the distribution  of the hoses. They
seemed to  be  tensed. A  shudder of contractions traveled  through some  of
them. And-Onisimov jumped-the first drop fell loudly from the left gray hose
into the tank.
     Onisimov moved the stairs  over to the tank and climbed up.  He put his
hand under the hose. In a minute it was full of the golden liquid. The lines
in  his skin  were visible through it, as if under  a  magnifying glass.  He
concentrated, and the skin disappeared, revealing the red muscles, the white
bones,  the tendons.... "Ah,  if they  had only  known how to do  this,"  he
sighed.  "The experiment wouldn't have gone like this. They didn't know. And
it had an effect."
     He let the liquid splash into the tank, got back down to the floor, and
washed  his hand in the sink. The patter  of  drops from all  the hoses rang
merrily and springlike in the lab.
     "Work! You're strong, computer," Onisimov-Krivoshein said respectfully.
"As strong as life."
     He obviously didn't want to leave the laboratory. But he glanced at his
watch, put on his jacket, and hurried.
     "Good morning, Matvei Apollonovich!" Hilobok greeted  him  rapturously.
"Working already? I've been waiting for you. I wanted to report  something,"
he  whispered, bringing  his  mustache close  to Onisimov's  ear, "Yesterday
that. . . woman of his, Elena  Ivanovna Kolomiets,  came  to  his apartment,
took  something,  and  left. And there was someone else in there,  too.  The
light was on all night."
     "I  see.  You  did  the  right  thing  in  telling  me.  As  they  say,
jurisprudence will not forget you."
     "Oh, any time, it's my duty!"
     "Duty aside," Onisimov said in a stern voice, "aren't you motivated  by
other, stronger motives, comrade Hilobok?"
     "What motives?"
     "For   instance  the   fact   that   Krivoshein  ruined  your  doctoral
dissertation defense."
     Harry Haritonovich's face sagged for a  moment and then quickly took on
a look of injury at the hands of humanity.
     "Some people! Someone already had time to report that to you. What kind
of  people  work  here,  I  ask  you,  tsk,  tsk?  Don't  be  silly,  Matvei
Apollonovich.  How  could you doubt  the sincerity of my motives! Krivoshein
didn't have as tremendous an influence at the defense as you might have been
told. There were more serious experts there than  him, and  many approved of
it, but  he, obviously, was jealou