Vladimir Savchenko. Self-discovery


     Translated from the Russian by Antonina W. Bouis
     Introduction by Theodore Sturgeon
     MACMILLAN PUBLISHING CO., INC. NEW YORK
     COLLIER MACMILLAN PUBLISHERS LONDON
     Copyright (c) 1979 by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc.
     Translation of Otkrytie sebia.
     OCR: Tuocs


     Contents

     INTRODUCTION
     PART ONE: Footsteps from Behind
     PART TWO: Self-Discovery
     PART THREE: Awakening

        Introduction

     Are you one self or many selves?
     Robert  Anton Wilson, in his Cosmic Trigger, describes his reactions to
various  events  as  those  of  The  Author,  The  Skeptic,  The  Sage,  The
Neurologician, The  Shaman,  and other  personae  -  all Wilson  himself, of
course, and by no means the "multiple personality" image  first made popular
by Dr. Morton Prince in  the early years of this century; facets, rather, of
any whole human being, and not a host of separate entities.
     Who, inside yourself, calmly watches you flying into a rage or drifting
in  ecstasy or capturing an  audience? Do you,  as so  many do, refer  to "a
little person  who  watches"  or  "the part of  myself that always observes,
never participates"?
     (And  why do  so many of us describe the  watcher  as a little  person?
Sometimes I suspect that mine is big-maybe bigger than I.)
     These are the questions-the kinds of questions, of provocations -evoked
by Vladimir  Savchenko and  his  astonishing  novel, for at the heart of his
story  is  the  problem of  self  and  personal  identity.  Krivoshein,  the
brilliant  young experimenter in cybernetics  who is the hero of the  novel,
discovers a way to duplicate human beings and, working secretly, brings into
the world many versions of himself.
     So you  will encounter many Krivosheins here; but  in  no  way are they
identical. This is not cloning, nor  is it the kind of duplication described
by Eric  Temple Bell in The Four-sided Triangle, nor the rather unbelievable
one  I  used  in When  You  Care,  When You Love.  This is  something  quite
different  and,  as  far  as  I  know,  unique.  It's  a computer-controlled
biological matrix, an intelligent fluid, if you like, capable of organizing,
balancing,  integrating organic  substances.  Add  such new  concepts  as  a
holographic  model  as  applied  to  brain function-wherein each cell  of  a
section seems to contain all functions of that section, just as each segment
of a  holograph contains all parts of  its picture-and  you come close to an
understanding  of  Krivoshein's scientific  accomplishment. Fascinating, and
described with such realism that one is tempted to apply for a  grant, build
it, check it out.
     Apply  for  a grant.  .  .  Savchenko  has woven  into  his narrative a
devastating  and  delicious  analysis of  the  internal  politics of a great
research  center doing  erudite  science  which  politicians cannot  hope to
comprehend, but to whom the scientific community must turn for funding. Then
follows the same dreadful situation  so brilliantly described-decried?  - by
Leo Szilard, which  takes the best scientists out of the laboratory and puts
them  in  administration,  where  they must work  shoulder to  shoulder with
administrators who would be hopeless in a  lab. Millions of words have  been
written  about  the  differences  in customs,  cultures, political  systems,
philosophies; how amazing it is to see how very similar  are the symptoms of
this  plague wherever  it  strikes!  Ignorance is  ignorance,  pomposity  is
pomposity, and self-aggrandizement is the  same in any language,  common  as
frustration.  Whoever reads this  and  does not  recognize the administrator
Harry  Hilobok, for  example,  or  the outwardly  grumpy, inwardly sensitive
Androsiashvili, has never been  exposed  to  the internal  workings of large
research centers anywhere.


     It has been observed that a writer says, basically, one thing, and says
it over and over, no matter  how wide  his spectrum or in how many different
ways he  may say it.  I am,  regretfully, unfamiliar with  Savchenko's other
works, but his thrust is clear here. Let me give you some of it by quoting:
     "Man is the most complex and most highly organized system known. I want
to  figure  it  out  completely-how  things are  constructed  in  the  human
organism, what influences it....
     "You  see ... it wasn't always like  this. Once man was up against heat
and frost; exertion from a hunt or from running away from danger; hunger, or
rough, unsanitary food  like raw  meat; heavy mechanical  overloads in work;
fights which tested the durability of the skull with an oak staff-in a word,
once upon  a time the  physical environment made  the  same  demands on  man
that-well,  that  today's  military  customers   make  on  rockets....  That
environment over the  millennia formed homo sapiens-the reasoning vertebrate
mammal. But  in the last two hundred years,  if you start from the invention
of   the   steam  engine,  everything  changed.  We  created  an  artificial
environment  out of electric motors, explosives, pharmaceuticals, conveyors,
communal service  systems,  computers,  immunization,  transport,  increased
radiation   in  the  atmosphere,  paved   roads,  carbon   monoxide,  narrow
specialization  in work-you know: contemporary  life. As an engineer, I with
others  am  furthering  this artificial environment  that determines  ninety
percent of the life of homo sapiens  and soon  will determine it one hundred
percent. Nature will exist only for Sunday outings. But  as a human being, I
am somewhat uneasy....
     "This  artificial  environment frees  man of many of  the qualities and
functions  he  developed  in  ancient   evolution.  Strength,  agility,  and
endurance  are now cultivated  only in  sports,  while logical thought,  the
pride  of  the  Greeks, has  been  taken over by machines. But  man  is  not
developing any  new  qualities-the  environment  is changing  too  fast  and
biological organisms can't keep up. Technological progress is accompanied by
soothing,  but  poorly  substantiated babble that man will always be on top.
Nevertheless-if  you talk not about man, but about people, the many  and the
varied-then that  is  not  true even now, and it will  only get worse. Many,
many  do not  have the inherent capabilities to be  masters  of contemporary
life: to know a lot, know how to do a lot, learn new things quickly, to work
creatively, and structure one's behavior optimally....
     "I would like to study the question of  the untapped resources of man's
organism. For example, the obsolescent functions, like our common ancestor's
ability  to leap from tree to tree or to sleep in  the branches. Now that is
no longer necessary, but the cells are still  there. Or take the "goosebump"
phenomenon-it happens on skin  that has almost no hair now. It is created by
a vast nervous  network. Perhaps these  old  reflexes  can  be restructured,
re-programmed to meet new needs?"


     What an  astonishing,  what  an exciting concept! The  pursuit  of  the
"optimum man" is  certainly not original with Savchenko; it  has thrived for
years  in science fiction as well in what  is termed  the mainstream, and it
powers the current flurry of self-realization, self-actualization movements;
it  exists  in  Shakespeare and Steinbeck, whether  by  exemplifications  of
nobility or  by stark representations of  flawed and faulted people. What is
arresting  in Savchenko  is his idea of retrieving and reprogramming that in
mankind which is present but truly obsolete, rather than that which could be
functional but is merely inactive.
     And  he  resists  the  reductio  ad  absurdum;  witness  this whimsical
interchange:


     "So! You dream  of modernizing and rationalizing man?  Instead of  homo
sapiens we'll have homo modernus  rationalis, hm? Don't  you  think, my dear
systemology technologist, that a rational path might lead to a man who is no
more than  a suitcase  with a  single appendage  to push buttons?  You could
probably manage without that appended arm, if you use brain waves."
     "If  you  want  to  be  truly  rational,  you  can manage  without  the
suitcase," Krivoshein noted.


     Krivoshein-and  Savchenko-are  far too  enamored  of humanity to go for
that.


     Science  fiction  has been  termed a medicine for future shock.  Future
shock  is  that  sense  of disorientation  brought  about  by  the  rush  of
invention, the impact of technical  events  evolving  infinitely faster than
the  bodies and minds of the  common man.  One wonders if Savchenko has read
Alvin Toffler (who invented the term) while realizing that he need not have;
the phenomenon and its effects  are  quite  evident to  anyone who  cares to
look.  Science  fiction writers  and  their proliferating  and  increasingly
addicted readers are, and have been  all along, the people who care to look.
They look with practiced eyes, not only at what is and what will be, but  at
that  entrancing  infinity  of what might  be:  alternate  worlds, alternate
cultures and mores, extrapolations of the known, be  it  space flight, organ
transplants, social  security, ecological  awareness, or any  other current,
idea, or force in a perpetually moving universe: if this goes on, where will
it go? For stasis, and stasis  alone, is unnatural and unachievable and  has
failed every time  mankind has been tempted  to try it.  The  very nature of
science  fiction  is to  be aware  of  this and to  recognize that the  only
security  lies in dynamic equilibrium, like that of the gull in flight,  the
planet in orbit, the balanced churning of the galaxies themselves ... and of
course, the demonstrable fact  that the cells of your body and the molecules
which compose  them are  not at all what they were when  you picked  up this
book. The future can shock only those who are wedded to stasis.
     (Parenthetically,  science fiction writers  are not  immune  to  future
shock,  though  it  may  take  the  form  of  an overpowering  urge to  kick
themselves. Example: up  until very recently there was-as  far as I know-not
one single science fiction story which included a device like the wristwatch
my wife wears, which delivers the time, day, date, adjusts itself for months
of varying  lengths, is a stopwatch  and  elapsed-time  recorder, and  has a
solar panel which gulps down  any available light and recharges its battery.
The development  of  these  microelectronic  devices, now  quite  common and
inexpensive, was simply  unthought of by  science fiction professionals, and
is by no means the only example  of technological quantum leaps which season
our arrogance. It is beneficial  to  all concerned  when our dignitaries are
observed, from time to time, to slip and sit down in mud puddles.)
     Mud puddles, or their narrative equivalent, are far from absent in this
book, for Savchenko has a delicious sense of humor and a lovely appreciation
of the  outrageous. Let us posit, for example, that you are a brilliant  but
not particularly attractive  man with little  concern for the  more gracious
amenities, who happens to be loved by a beautiful and forgiving lady. In the
course of your work you produce a living, breathing version  of yourself who
is a physical  Adonis  and who, further,  has  a clear recollection of every
word, every intimacy, that has ever passed between you and the woman.
     And they meet, and she likes him.
     How do you feel?
     Why?
     And   then   there's  Onisimov-poor,  devoted,   duty-bound  Onisimov-a
detective  in whose veins runs the essence of the Keystone Kop, up against a
case  with a perfectly  rational solution which  he is utterly unequipped to
solve-not  at  all because he  is unable  to understand it,  but  because he
simply cannot believe it.
     Then there's the offensive Hilobok, unfortunately  (as mentioned above)
not   quite   a  parody,  but  the  object   of  not  a  few  instances   of
Krivoshein/Savchenko's irrepressible puckishness, and  a gatekeeper  who  is
certainly  Rosenkrantz   and  Guildenstern  rolled  into  one,  and  a  fine
sprinkling of smiles amid the cascades of heavy ideation.
     Over and above everything else, however-the  mind-bending ideation, the
unexpected narrative  turns,  the  wide spectrum  of  characterization,  the
humor, the suspense-shines the author's love  for and faith  in the species.
As  he  says  through  his  protagonist, he talks  not about man, but  about
people. And at the end, the  very last words of the novel bespeak this faith
and this optimism.
     There's no point in looking  at those last words  now, by the way. They
will carry no freight until you put it there by reading the novel.
     -THEODORE STURGEON
     Los Angeles.



        FOOTSTEPS FROM BEHIND * PART ONE


        FOOTSTEPS FROM BEHIND


        Chapter 1

     "When checking the wiring, disconnect power.'
     -A poster on industrial safety

     The brief short circuit in the line that fed the New Systems Laboratory
occurred  at  three  A.M.  The circuit  breaker  at the  substation  of  the
Dneprovsk Institute of Systemology did what all automatic  safety devices do
in these  cases:  it  disconnected the line from  the  transformer, lit up a
blinking red light on the board in the office, and turned on the alarm.
     Zhora Prakhov, the  electrician on duty,  turned off  the  alarm signal
immediately so  as not  to  be distracted  from his  study  of The Beginning
Motorcyclist (Zhora was  about to take the driver's test) and he glanced  at
the blinking  light  with hostility and  expectancy. Usually localized short
circuits in the lab were taken care of at the site.
     Realizing  after an  hour  that there  was  no getting around  it,  the
electrician shut his book, picked up his instrument case and his gloves, set
the pointer  on the  door at "New Syst. Lab." and left the office.  The dark
trees of the institute grounds were waist-deep in fog. The  transformers  of
the  substation  stood  with their oil-cooling pipes  akimbo,  looking  like
shapeless old women. The old institute building hovered in the distance like
a washed-out  snowbank against the graying sky. It  had heavy  balconies and
ornate  towers.  To  the  left,  the  parallelepiped  of  the  new  research
department tried vainly to block out the early June dawn.
     Zhora  glanced at  his  watch  (it  was  4:10),  lit a  cigarette,  and
scattering the fog with his bag, headed right, into the far  corner  of  the
park where the  New  Systems  Lab was  located, housed in a  small lodge. At
4:30,  in  answer to electrician  Prakhov's call,  two cars  appeared on the
scene: an ambulance and a squad car of the Dneprovsk City Police.
     The tall,  thin  man  in  the  light  suit  strode  through  the  park,
disregarding the paved paths. His shoes  left dark  prints  on the  dew-gray
grass. A light breeze ruffled his thinning  gray hair. A blindingly pink and
yellow  sunrise filled the space  between  the old  and new buildings; birds
chattered in the trees.  But Arkady  Arkadievich Azarov had no time for  all
that.
     "Something happened  in  the New Systems Lab, comrade director,"  a dry
voice  had informed him  over the phone a few minutes  earlier.  "There were
victims. Please come."
     Being  wakened  too early gave  Azarov  neurasthenia;  his body  seemed
stuffed  with cotton, his head empty, and life terrible. "Something happened
in the lab....  Please come.... It  must  have been a cop." This ran through
his mind  instead of  thoughts." 'There were  victims....' What a ridiculous
word! Who  were the victims? And of what? Killed, wounded, trousers  burned?
What? Looks serious. Again! There was  that student who got  under the gamma
rays to speed up the experiment, and  then there was ... the second incident
in six months. But Krivoshein is not a student; he's experienced. What could
have happened? They were working  at night, and got  tired, and... I'll have
to put a stop to night work! Absolutely!"
     When  he had  accepted  the offer to  direct the Dneprovsk  Systemology
Institute, Academician Azarov hoped to create a scientific system that would
be a continuation of his own brain. In his dreams,  he  saw the structure of
the  institute developing along  the vertical  branching principle: he would
give general ideas for research and system construction to  the section  and
laboratory directors,  who would  work out the  details  and  plan  specific
projects  for  the  workers,  who  would  try  to....  Then  he  would  draw
conclusions from  the  data obtained and produce  new fundamental ideas  and
principles. But reality intruded harshly on  his dreams. A lot of it was due
to  acts  of  God:  the slow-wittedness  of  some  scientists and  excessive
independence of others; the changes in the construction plans, which was why
the storerooms  and  storage yards  of  the  institute  were piled high with
unopened crates of equipment; the backbiting among  purchasing sections; the
arguments that erupted from time  to time among the institute's members; and
the accidents and incidents.... Arkady  Arkadievich thought bitterly that he
was no closer now to realizing his dream than he had been five years ago.
     The  one-story  lodge  with  the tile  roof shone  white in its idyllic
setting among the flowering  lindens, whose  delicate scent filled  the air.
There  were  two cars  bruising  the lawn by  the concrete  porch:  a  white
ambulance and a  blue Volga with a red stripe. As soon as Arkady Arkadievich
was in sight of the  lab, he  slowed down and started thinking. In  eighteen
months  of its existence he  had  been  in  the  lab only  once, in the very
beginning,  and only  briefly for  a general  tour, and  he really  couldn't
picture what there was behind the door.
     The New Systems Lab  . . . actually, there was no reason yet for Azarov
to take it seriously, particularly since it had come about not as one of his
pet projects, but as the result of an unhappy series of coincidences: eighty
thousand in the budget was  "burning" to be used. There was only a month and
a half  until  the end of the year, and it was impossible to spend the money
according to the  letter of the  law  (Introducing  New  Laboratories).  The
builders, who had  originally promised  the new building by May 1,  then the
October holidays, and then Constitution Day, were now talking about May 1 of
the following year.  The crates  and  boxes of equipment  were crowding  the
parking  grounds. Besides, unused monies were always dangerous  because they
could lead the planning  organizations to cut the budget the  next year. And
so, Arkady  Arkadievich  announced a "contest" at the institute seminar: who
could come up with the best  plan for using the eighty thousand  before  the
year  was out? Krivoshein suggested a "Lab of Random  Research." Since there
were no other suggestions, he had to agree to this one.
     Arkady Arkadievich did so against his better judgment and even  changed
the name to the more proper "Lab for New Systems." Labs were created to suit
people,  and for now, Krivoshein  was  a loner-a fair schematic  engineering
technician  but  nothing  more.  Let  him get  his fill of independence  and
overextend  himself, and  when it came down  to  research,  he'd  beg for  a
director himself. Then they  could look for a good candidate of sciences, or
better yet, a Ph.D., and create the lab's profile to suit him.
     Of  course, Arkady  Arkadievich  did  not discount  the possibility  of
Krivoshein's shaping up. The idea he had proposed at the senior council last
summer  on ...  on  what  had it been?  Oh,  yes, the  self-organization  of
electronic  systems  through the introduction  of  arbitrary information ...
this  idea  could  be  the  basis  for  a  master's  thesis  or  a  doctoral
dissertation. But with his penchant for disagreeing with people and  his hot
temper, Azarov doubted it. Back at that  council meeting,  he shouldn't have
dealt  with  Professor  Voltampernov's   remarks  that  way;   poor  Ippolit
Illarionovich  had to  take  pills after  the  meeting. No, no, Krivoshein's
insubordination was completely inexcusable! There was still no  data to show
that he had proved his ideas; of course, a year wasn't a very long time, but
an  engineer was  no Ph.D.  who  could  get  away with getting  involved  in
research that takes decades.
     And that latest scandal-Arkady Arkadievich winced-it  was  so fresh and
unpleasant.  Krivoshein  had   argued  against  the  institute's  scientific
secretary's  defense of his  dissertation at the  nearby construction design
bureau six weeks ago. Without telling anyone  ahead of time, he  had gone to
an  outside organization and shown up one of his own  colleagues! That was a
slur on the  institute,  on  Academician  Azarov  himself....  Of course, he
himself shouldn't have been  so easy on  the dissertation in the first place
and shouldn't  have  reacted so positively to  it; but he rationalized it by
saying that it would have been nice to have a homegrown institute Ph.D., and
that dissertations  worse than  this one  had been  passed. But  Krivoshein!
Arkady  Arkadievich let him know in spades that he  was not inclined to keep
him in  the institute. But now was hardly the time to be bringing  all  this
up.
     There was a lot of activity in the lodge. The thought of going in there
now to look at it, deal  with it, and explain things gave Arkady Arkadievich
a sensation not unlike a toothache. "Krivoshein again!" he thought fiercely.
"If he's at fault  in this  incident as well...!" Arkady Arkadievich went up
the steps, quickly walked  down  the narrow corridor crammed with crates and
apparatus, entered the room, and looked around.
     The  large room  with six windows only remotely resembled  a laboratory
for electronic and mathematical research. The parallelepiped generators made
of metal and plastic  and the oscilloscopes with ventilation  slots in their
sides stood on the floor,  tables,  and shelves, mingling with flasks, jars,
test tubes,  and bowls. There  were  dozens  of  test tubes  huddled on  the
shelves and cluttering  up the boxes of selenium rectifiers.  The  middle of
the  room  was  taken  up by  a  shapeless apparatus overgrown  with wiring,
tubing, and extension cords;  a control panel was barely visible through the
spaghetti. What was that octopus?
     "I can feel his pulse," a woman said to the left of the academician.
     Arkady Arkadievich turned.  The space  between the door and  the  wall,
free of  flasks  and equipment,  was in  semidarkness.  Two  orderlies  were
carefully transferring a man wearing  a gray lab  coat  from  the floor to a
stretcher; his  head was tilted back and strands of his hair were  damp from
the puddle of some oily  liquid on  the floor.  A petite doctor bustled near
the man.
     "He's in shock," she pronounced.  "Give him an  adrenalin injection and
pump him."
     The academician took a step closer. It was a young man, handsome,  very
pale, with chestnut  hair. "No, that's not Krivoshein,  but who  is it? I've
seen  him somewhere...." An orderly  got the shot ready. Azarov took a  deep
breath and almost choked.  The room  was filled with the acrid odors of acid
solutions, burned insulation, and some  other  sharp  smell-the vague, heavy
smells of disasters. The floor was covered with a thick liquid through which
the doctor and orderlies kept walking.
     A  thin  man  in a blue  suit  entered the  room in an official manner.
Everything about him but his suit was bland and inexpressive: gray hair with
a side part, small gray eyes unexpectedly close together on a bony face with
high cheekbones, and taut, poorly shaved cheeks. He nodded drily to  Azarov,
who  returned an equally  formal bow. There was  no  need for introductions,
since  it had  been Investigator Onisimov  who  had handled  the case of lab
assistant Gorshkov's radiation death last February.
     "Let's begin by identifying the  body,"  the detective said, and Arkady
Arkadievich's heart skipped a beat. "Would you please come here."
     Azarov followed him to the corner by the door to something covered with
a gray oilcloth.  It  was full of angular bumps, and yellow, bony toes stuck
out from the ends.
     "The  work ID found in the clothing we  saw in the laboratory gives the
name of Valentin Vasilyevich  Krivoshein," the detective said in an official
voice, bending back the oilcloth. "Do you corroborate the identification?"
     Life had not often  placed Arkady Arkadievich  face to face with death.
He  felt faint and  unbuttoned  his collar.  The  raised  oilcloth  revealed
sticky, short hair, bulging  eyes,  sunken cheeks,  a mouth  drooping at the
corners,  then   a  prominent   Adam's   apple   on  a  sinewy  neck,   thin
collarbones.... "He's lost so much weight!" he thought. . "Yes."
     "Thank you,"  the detective  said  and lowered the  cloth.  So,  it was
Krivoshein. They had seen each other  the day  before yesterday near the old
building, walked past each other, and bowed formally as usual. Then, he  had
been a heavyset, living man,  albeit an unpleasant one. And now... it was as
though  life had  sucked out all  his vital  juices, dried  out  his  flesh,
leaving  only  the  bones  covered  with  gray  skin.  "Probably  Krivoshein
understood  what his  role  was  to  be  in  establishing this lab,"  Azarov
suddenly thought for no reason. The detective left.
     "Oh,  dear. Tsk, tsk, tsk,..." Arkady Arkadievich heard. He turned. The
scientific secretary  Harry Haritonovich Hilobok  was in  the  doorway.  His
sleek  face was still puffy from sleep.  Harry  Haritonovich  was considered
attractive: a good physique in  a light suit, a well-shaped head, intriguing
gray at  the temples, dark eyes, and a good straight nose, set off by a dark
mustache. His  appearance was somewhat  marred  by  the  harsh  lines at the
corners of  his mouth, the  kind caused  by constant  forced  smiling, and a
weakish  chin.  The  assistant  professor's  dark   eyes  shone  with  timid
curiosity.
     "Good morning, Arkady Arkadievich! What's happened here at Krivoshein's
now?  I was just walking by and wondered why these vehicles were outside the
lab? So I  came in. By the way, have you  noticed that his  digital printing
machines  are  just lounging in the halls here, Arkady  Arkadievich?  In the
middle of all sorts of garbage. And Valentin Vasilyevich worked so  hard  at
getting them, writing endless  streams of memos. I  mean, he could give them
to  somebody  else  if he has no  use for them  himself." Harry Haritonovich
sighed deeply and looked over to the  right. "Must  be another student! Tsk,
tsk, dear, dear! Another student,  there's a  plague  on  them here...."  He
noticed that the detective had returned.  "Oh, good day, Apollon Matveevich!
Seeing us once more, eh?"
     "Matvei Apollonovich," Onisimov corrected.
     He opened a yellow box marked "Material Evidence" with a black stencil,
took out a test tube, and crouched over the puddle.
     "I mean Matvei  Apollonovich-please forgive me. I do remember you  very
well  from last  time. I just scrambled name and patronymic a little. Matvei
Apollonovich, of course. How could  I? We  talked about  you for a long time
after,  how  organized and efficient you  were, and everything...."  Hilobok
went on and on.
     "Comrade  Director,  what  was  the  nature of  the  work done  in this
laboratory?" the detective  interrupted,  catching some liquid  in the  test
tube.
     "Research on self-organizing electronic systems with an integral  input
of information,"  the  academician  replied. "Anyway, that was  how Valentin
Vasilyevich had formulated his thesis at the beginning of the year."
     "I see." Onisimov got up, sniffed the liquid, wiped the tube clean with
a  piece of cotton,  and  put it away. "Was  the  use of poisonous chemicals
ruled out?"
     "I don't  know.  I  would think that nothing was forbidden. Research is
done by the researcher as he best sees fit."
     "So what went so  wrong here in  Krivoshein's lab that even you, Arkady
Arkadievich,  were  disturbed  so  early  in  the  morning?" Hilobok  asked,
lowering  his voice. "Precisely-what?" Onisimov  was directing his questions
to the academician. "The short  circuit had  nothing to  do with it. It  was
merely an accident, and not the cause. We've determined that much. There  is
no sign of electrocution, no traumas on the body... and the man is gone. And
what is this contraption? What's it for?"
     He picked  up  an  object from the  floor  that looked like an  ancient
warrior's helmet; but this helmet was chrome-plated and covered with buttons
and bundles of thin multicolored wires. The wires extended beyond  the tubes
and flasks  of the clumsy apparatus into the  far corner of  the room,  to a
computer.
     "This?" The academician shrugged. "Hmm."
     "Monomakh's  Crown,  I mean,  that's what we  call them  around  here,"
Hilobok offered. "More precisely, it's an SEP-1-System of Electronic Pickups
for  Computing  the  Biopotentials  of the  Human  Brain. The reason I know,
Arkady Arkadievich, is that Krivoshein kept bugging  me to make him one like
it."
     "All  right, I  understand.  With your  permission, I'll take it  for a
while, since it was found on the victim."
     Onisimov, winding the wires,  disappeared into  the far  reaches of the
room.
     "Who was the victim, Arkady Arkadievich?" Hilobok whispered.
     "Krivoshein."
     "Oh,  dear, how can that be? His eccentricities finally led to this ...
and more troubles for you, Arkady Arkadievich."
     The detective was back. He wrapped the "crown" in paper and put it into
his box.  The  only sound in the quiet lab was the panting of the orderlies,
who were working on the unconscious assistant.
     "And why was Krivoshein naked?" Onisimov suddenly asked.
     "He was naked?" The academician was stunned.  "You  mean  it wasn't the
doctors who undressed him? I don't know! I can't even imagine."
     "Hm ... I see. And what do  you  think they used this tank for? Perhaps
for bathing?"
     The detective pointed to  the rectangular plastic tank that lay  on its
side on top  of the  shards of  the flasks  its fall  had crushed; drips and
icicles  of yellow gray stuff hung from its transparent sides. Pieces  of  a
large mirror lay next to the tub.
     "For  bathing?" The academician was  getting  tired of these questions.
"I'm afraid that you have a peculiar idea of what a scientific laboratory is
used for, comrade... eh, investigator!"
     "And  there was  a mirror right next to it.  A good one,  full-length/'
Onisimov droned on. "What use could it have served?"
     "I don't know! I can't delve into every technical detail of all hundred
sixty projects that are under way in my institute!"
     "You see, Apollon  Marve...  I mean,  Matvei  Apollonovich-forgive me,"
Hilobok  interrupted,  "Arkady  Arkadievich  is  in  charge  of  the  entire
institute,  is  a  member  of  five  interdisciplinary commissions, edits  a
scholarly journal,  and of  course, cannot  deal with every detail of  every
project  specifically.  That's what  the  project  directors  are  for.  And
besides, the  late-oh  dear,  what  a  pity-the  late  Valentin  Vasilyevich
Krivoshein was  a  man of too much independence. He  did  not like to confer
with anyone, to share his thoughts or results. And he often ignored, it must
be  said, many of the basic safety rules. Of course,  I know that you should
not  speak ill  of the dead-de mortius  bene aut nihil, as they say-but what
was, was. Remember, Arkady  Arkadievich, how a year ago January-no, maybe it
was February-no, I think it was January, or it could  even have been back in
December-anyway,  remember, how he flooded the first  floor,  causing  great
damage and stopping work on many projects, when he was working with Ivanov?"
     "You are  a viper,  Hilobok!"  A voice  came from  the  stretcher.  The
student lab assistant, clutching the edges, was  trying to get up. "Oh,  you
... too bad we didn't take care of you then!"
     Everyone turned to  him.  A  chill went through  Azarov: the  student's
voice, the hoarseness, the slurred endings,  were absolutely  identical with
Krivoshein's. The  assistant fell back weakly,  his head touching the floor.
The orderlies wiped their  brows  in satisfaction: he was  alive! The doctor
gave  an  order  and  they picked  up the  stretcher and  took him out.  The
academician took a  close look at  the fellow. And his heart  skipped a beat
again. The lab assistant resembled Krivoshein-he didn't know exactly how-and
not even the live Krivoshein, but the one down there under the oilcloth.
     "See, he's even managed to set the lab assistant against me,"
     Hilobok nodded in his direction with unbelievable meekness.
     "Why was he so  angry with you?" Onisimov turned to him. "Were  you two
in conflict?"
     "Heaven  forbid!"  The  assistant  professor  shrugged  innocently  and
sincerely. "I've only talked  to him once, when I interviewed him to work in
Krivoshein's lab at Valentin Vasilyevich's personal request, since he-"
     "Victor Vitalyevich Kravets," Onisimov read from his notes.
     "Yes ... well, he's a  relative of  Krivoshein's. He's  a  student from
Kharkov  University, and they  sent  us fifteen people in the  winter for  a
year's  practical  work. And Krivoshein made  him an  assistant  in his  lab
through nepotism. But why should we object? We're all human-"
     "Enough, Harry Haritonovich," Azarov cut him off.
     "I  see,"  Onisimov nodded.  "Tell  me,  aside  from Kravets,  did  the
deceased have any relatives?"
     "What  can I tell  you, Matvei Apollonovich?"  Hilobok  sighed  deeply.
"Officially, no, but  unofficially, he  was visited by a woman here. I don't
know if she's his  fiancee, or what.  Her name  is Elena Ivanovna Kolomiets,
and she works in a neighboring construction design bureau, a nice woman-"
     "I see.  You're on  top of things around here, I see." Onisimov laughed
as he headed for the door.
     A  minute  later he  was  back with a  camera and directed the exposure
meter at the corner.
     "The laboratory will  have to be sealed during  the investigation.  The
body will be sent to the coroner for an autopsy. The people in charge of the
funeral  will  have  to contact him."  The  detective went to the corner and
picked up the cloth that was covering Krivoshein's body.  "Please move  away
from the window. There'll be more light. Actually, I do not need to keep you
any longer, comrades, please forgive the trouble-"
     He  paled  and  pulled  up  the cloth in a single move. Under it  lay a
skeleton! A  yellow  puddle  was spreading  around it,  retaining  a blurred
caricature of a body's outline.
     "Oh!" Hilobok exclaimed and backed out onto the porch.
     Arkady Arkadievich  felt his knees buckle and held on to the  wall. The
detective was methodically folding the oilcloth and staring at the skeleton,
which was  smiling  a  mocking thirty-toothed grin. A lock of dark red  hair
silently fell from the skull into the puddle,
     "I see,"  Onisimov  muttered.  Then  he turned  to  Azarov  and  looked
disapprovingly  into  the wide  eyes  behind the  rectangular  lenses. "Fine
goings-on here, comrade director."



        Chapter 2


     "What can you say in your defense?"
     "Well, you see-"
     "Enough! Shoot him. Next!"
     -A conversation


     Actually, Investigator Onisimov didn't see anything yet; the expression
was a linguistic hangover from better days. He had tried to break himself of
the  habit, but couldn't.  Besides that, Matvei Apollonovich was preoccupied
and very upset  by such  a turn of events. A  half hour before the call from
the  Institute of Systemology, Zubato, the medical examiner on duty with him
that night, had been called to a  highway accident outside of town. Onisimov
had to go to the institute alone. And he ended up with a skeleton instead of
a warm corpse. Nothing like this had ever been  encountered  in criminology.
Nobody would believe that the body turned into a skeleton on its own-he'd be
a laughing  stock. The ambulance had left already, and so they couldn't back
him up. And he hadn't had time to photograph the body.
     In  a word, what had happened seemed like nothing more than a series of
serious  oversights  in  the investigation. That's  why he made sure  he had
written  statements  from  Prakhov, the  technician, and  academician Azarov
before he left the institute grounds.
     The electrical technician Georgii Danilovich Prakhov, twenty years old,
Russian, unmarried, draftable, and not a Party member, wrote:
     "When I entered  the laboratory, the overhead light  was on;  only  the
power network was disrupted. The stench in the room was so bad that I almost
threw up-it was like a hospital. The first thing that I  noticed was a naked
man lying in an overturned tank, his head and arms dangling, with a metallic
contraption on  his head.  Something was  leaking out of  the tub; it looked
like a thick ichor. The other one, a new student (I've seen him around), was
lying  nearby, face  up, his arms outspread. I rushed over to the one in the
tub and pulled  him out.  He  was  still warm  and very slippery, so that  I
couldn't  get a good grip on him. I tried to awaken him, but he seemed dead.
I recognized him. It was Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein. I had run into him
often at the institute. We always said hello. The student was breathing, but
remained unconscious. Since there is no one at the  institute except for the
outside  guards, I called an  ambulance  and  the  police  on the laboratory
phone.
     "The temporary short circuit  had occurred in the power cable that goes
to the laboratory electroshield along the wall in an aluminum  pipe. The tub
broke a bottle that apparently contained acid which ate through in that spot
and the cable shorted out like a second-class conductor."
     Zhora wisely left out the fact that he did not investigate the scene of
the accident until an hour after the alarm had gone off.
     Arkady Arkadievich Azarov, the  director of the institute, a  doctor of
physics  and mathematics, and an  active member of the Academy  of Sciences,
fifty-eight, Russian, married, not subject to the draft, and a member of the
CPSU,  corroborated the  fact  that  he recognized the features of the  body
shown to him at the scene of the accident by Investigator Onisimov, M.A., as
belonging to Valentin Vasilyevich  Krivoshein, acting  director of  the  New
Systems  Laboratory,  and  besides  that, with  the  scientific  objectivity
characteristic  of  an  academician noted that he  "had been  amazed by  the
abnormal emaciation of the deceased, the  abnormal physical  state which did
not correspond to his usual appearance."
     At  10:30 in  the  morning Onisimov  returned to headquarters  and  his
office on the first  floor, where  his windows,  hatched with  the  vertical
bars, opened onto Marx Prospect, which was busy at almost any hour of day or
night. Matvei  Apollonovich  gave a brief account  of the  events  to  Major
Rabinovich,  sent a test tube with  the liquid to the  medical examiner, and
called  up  the  emergency  room  to find  out  the  condition  of the  only
eyewitness. They replied that the  lab assistant felt  fine and asked to  be
released.
     "Fine, go ahead, I'll send a car for him," Onisimov said.
     No  sooner  had  he  arranged  for  the  car than  Zubato, the  medical
examiner, rushed into his office. He  was a red-blooded, loud man with hairy
arms.
     "Matvei, what  did you bring me?" He  sank into  a chair  with emphatic
disgust. "Some  practical joke! How am I supposed to  determine the cause of
death on a skeleton?"
     "I brought you what was left," Onisimov explained, shrugging. "I'm glad
you showed up. I want to know, off  the top of your  head,  how does  a body
turn into a skeleton?"
     "Off the top of  my  head, as a result of the deterioration of tissues,
which  under normal circumstances  takes weeks and even months.  That's  all
that the body can do about it."
     "All right... then how can you turn a body into a skeleton?"
     "Skin the  body,  cut off the soft  tissues, and boil it in water until
the bones are completely exposed. It is recommended to change the water. Can
you tell me clearly what happened?"
     Onisimov told him.
     "That's something! I'm really sorry I missed it!" He slapped his knee.
     "What happened on the highway?"
     "A drunk  cyclist hit  a  cow.  Both  survived.  So you  say your  body
melted?" The expert  squinted skeptically  and  brought  his face  closer