to cognac." That was our usual warm-up before a good talk. They brought cognac and wine for the lady. We drank, satisfied our first hunger with sturgeon in aspic and then stared at each other expectantly again. There were parties going on around us. A tubby man standing at two joined tables was toasting "mother science." (They were drinking to a completed dissertation.) A tipsy fellow all alone at a neighboring table was threatening a carafe of vodka, muttering: "I'm quiet... I'm quiet!" He was bursting to tell some secret. "Listen, Val!" "Listen, Valery!" We looked at each other. "Well, you go first." I nodded. "Listen, Val," his eyes glistening invitingly behind his glasses, "drop your systemology and come over to us. I'll arrange your transfer. We're working on such an interesting project now! A microelectric complex, a machine that makes machines. Do you get it?" "Solid-state circuits?" "Ah, what are solid-state circuits-obsolete now. Electronic and plasma rays plus electrophotography plus cathode spraying of film plus... in a word, here's the idea. The circuit of an electronic machine evolves in bundles of ions and electrons, like the image on a TV screen-and that's it. It's finished; it can work. A density of elements as in the human brain. See that?" "And does that exist now?" "Well, you see, ..." he raised his eyebrows. "If it did, then why would I call on you? We'll do it in the time allotted." (Well, of course, I had to drop systemology and follow him! Not him follow me; oh, no ... of course not! That's the way it always was.) "What about the Americans?" "They're trying, too. The question is who'll be first. We're working at full blast. I've already made a dozen depositions. Do you get it?" "Well, what's the goal?" "Very simple: to make computers as easily mass produced and cheap as newspapers. Do you know the code name I gave to the project? 'Poem.' And it really is a technological poem!" The booze made Valery's nose glow. He was putting in a big effort and was probably sure of success. I was always easy to talk into things. "A computer factory no bigger than a TV set, can you imagine that? A factory that's a machine! It receives a technical assignment by teletype for new computers, recalculates the assignment into circuits, encodes the result into electric impulses, which run the beams on the screen and print out the circuit. Twenty seconds-and the computer is finished. A thin plate that contains the same circuitry it now takes a whole room to house, understand? They send the thin plate in an envelope to the buyer, and he installs it in the unit. The command panel of a chemcial plant, a system for controlling traffic lights in a city, a car-wherever-everything that in the past had been done slowly, clumsily, and with mistakes by man can now be done with electronic precision by the wise microelectronic plate! So you see what I mean?" Lena was watching Valery rapturously. Really, the picture he painted was so marvelous that I didn't realize right away that he was talking about the same film circuits that I created in the tank of the computer-womb. Of course, they were simpler ones, but in principle, more complex ones could be made, too. "But why the vacuum and various rays? Why not chemistry? Probably, you could do it that way, too." "Chemistry. Personally, ever since Professor Varfolomeyev used to lecture us, I haven't been too hot on chemistry. [Lena giggled.] But if you have some ideas on chemical microelectronics-let's have them. I'm for it. You can handle that end of it. In the long run, it's not important how we do it, as long as it gets done. And then... and then we'll be able to do so much...." He leaned back dreamily. "Judge for yourself. Why should the computer-factory be assigned to create circuits? That's extra work. All it has to do is receive information on the problems. After all, we have computers working in production, in services, in transport, in defense. Why translate their impulses into human speech if they will only have to be retranslated back into impulses! Imagine: the computer-factories receive radioed information about other computers from industry, planning, production, shipping .. . from everywhere, even on the weather, the crops, the needs of people. They work it out into the necessary circuits and send them out." "Microelectrical recommendations?" "Directives, my good fellow! What recommendations? Mathematically based electronic circuits are the reflexes of production. You don't argue with mathematics." We drank. "Valery," I said, "if you do this, you'll be so famous that they'll even print your picture on bathroom paper!" "Yours, too," he added generously. "We'll be famous together." "But, Valery," Lena said, "in your complex there's no room for people. How can that be?" "Lena, you're an engineer." Ivanov condescended. "Let's look at this subject, man I mean, from an engineering point of view. Why should there be room for him? Can a man receive radiosignals, ultra and infrared, heat, ultraviolet rays and X-rays, radiation? Can he withstand a vacuum, gas pressure at hundreds of Gs, vibrations, thermal shocks from minus 120 degrees Celsius to plus 120 with hourly frequency or the temperature of liquid helium? Can he fly with the speed of a jet, submerge to the ocean floor or plunge into molten metal? Can he figure out a problem with ten factors-only ten-in a fraction of a second? No." "He can with the help of machines," Lena said, supporting humanity. "Yes, but machines can do it without his help! So all that's left him in our harsh electronic and atomic age is to push buttons. But that's the easiest operation to automate. You know, in modern technology, man is the least dependable element. That's why there are all those breakers and buffers and other defenses against fools." "I'm not saying nothing," the drunk growled. "But man could be perfected," I muttered. "Perfected? Don't make me laugh! That's like perfecting steam engines-instead of replacing them with diesels or electric engines. The flaw is in the physical principles of man, the ion reactions and metabolism. Look around," he said, waving his arm around the room. "That damn process is draining all of man's strength." I looked around. At the joined tables the revelers were kissing the brand-new candidate, a bald youth, worn out by work and tension. Next to him was his wife. At a nearby table twelve tourists were feeding decorously. There were smoke and noise over every table. On the stage, a saxophonist, leaning over to the side and jutting out his belly, was wailing a solo with variations; the brass section was busy syncopating and the drummer was in a frenzy. The band was doing a rock version of an old folk song. Near the stage, without moving their feet, couples agitated all the parts of their bodies. "I'm not saying nothing!" our neighbor announced, staring into the empty carafe. "Actually, man's only redeeming feature is his universality," Ivanov noted. "Even though he does it badly, he can do a lot. But universality is a product of complexity, and complexity is a quantitative factor. When we learn to make computers tens of billions of times more complex with the use of electro-ion beams, it'll be all over. Man's song will be sung." "What do you mean?" Lena demanded. "Nothing terrible will happen, don't worry. Simply a situation will come about quietly, with dignity, in which machines will be able to do without man. Of course, the computers, respecting the memory of their creators, will be kind to all the rest. They'll satisfy their simple-minded needs in terms of metabolism and such. The majority of people will be very pleased with the situation. In their unflappable conceit they will even imagine that the machines are serving them. And for the computers it will be like a secondary unconditioned reflex, an inherited habit. And maybe the computers won't have habits like that. After all, the basis of a computer is rationality. What would they need habit for?" "By the way, those rational machines are serving us now," Lena interrupted hotly. "They satisfy our needs, no?" I said nothing. Valery laughed. "That depends on how you look at it, Lenochka! The computers have every reason to think that we satisfy their needs. If I were, say, a Ural-4 I wouldn't have any grudges against people: you live in a bright air-conditioned room with a steady supply of alternating current-the equivalent of hot and cold water. A servant in a white lab coat scurries about, fulfilling your every whim, and they write about you in the papers. And the work is clean: switch those currents and transmit those impulses. What a life!" "I'm not saying nothing!" our neighbor announced for the last time, then stood up and shouted an obscenity at the room. The maitre d' and company ran over to him. "So what if I'm drunk," the man yelled, as he was assisted out of the restaurant. "I'm drinking on my own money-money I earned. Robbery is a job, too, you know." "There he is, the object of your concern, in all his glory!" Valery compressed his thin lips. "A worthy descendant of the parasite who shouted 'Man-that has a proud ring!' Not any more. Well, how about it, Val?" he turned to me. "Come on over. Get in on the project. This way you and I will leave something for the future. Thinking computer-factories, active and omnipotent electronic brains-and in them your ideas, your work, the best of us all. What do you think? Man the creator-that still sounds good. And the best will stay on and develop even when that semiliterate broad, Nature, will finally uncrown her homo sapiens!" "But that's terrible, what you're saying!" Lena was incensed. "You're... a robot! You just don't like people!" Ivanov gave her a gentle, condescending look: "We're not arguing, Lena. I'm just explaining what's what." That was the limit. Lena clicked off and said nothing. I didn't reply either. The silence was getting uncomfortable. I called the waiter and paid. We went out on Marx Prospect, on the "Broadway of Dneprovsk." The pedestrians defiled it. Suddenly Valery grabbed me by the hand. "Val, do you hear? Do you see?" At first I didn't know what I was supposed to see or hear. A teenage couple walked past, both in thick sweaters and the same hairdo. The boy had a transistor radio around his neck in a yellow pearlized shell with a rocket on it. The pure sounds of the saxophone and the clear syncopations of the brass resounded on the street. I would have recognized the sound of that radio among a hundred brands like a mother recognizes the voice of her child in the din of a kindergarten. The low-noise, wide-band amplifier that was in it was one of the things Valery and I had invented. "That means they've started production on it," I concluded. "We can ask for our royalties. Hey, fella, how much did you pay for the radio?" "Fifty dollars," the punk announced proudly. "There you see, fifty dollars, that equals forty-five Mongolian tugriks. A clear markup for quality. You should be pleased!" "Pleased? You be pleased! You said it was terrible [actually that was Lena, not me]. Better terrible, than that!" Once upon a time, we had delved into quantum physics, were amazed by the duality of the particle wave of the electron, studied the theory and technology of semiconductors, mastered the most refined lab equipment. Semiconducting equipment was the future of electronics in those days. Pop science writers praised them and engineers dreamed about them. There was a lot in those dreams. Some came true-the rest was discarded by technology. But we had never dreamed that transistors would figure among the accoutrements of pimply punks on the prospect. And how Valery and I had struggled with the noise problem! The problem was that electrons distribute themselves in a semiconducting crystal like particles of color in water-the same old chaotic Brownian motion. That's why there's noise in earphones, sounding like the hiss of a phonograph needle and the distant murmur of the surf. It's an involved story. I had the first invention, and the official phraseology of the application to the Committee on Inventions of the USSR was music to my ears: "Submitting with this the above-mentioned documents, we request an inventor's certificate for the invention called...." So, all right; someone lived through the joy of learning, ignited in creative search, experienced engineering triumphs, but what does that poor punk care? He didn't get anything from all that joy. So there it is: turn over the bloody tugriks, push the button, turn the handle... and go around like a jerk with a clean neck. We walked Valery back to his hotel. "So?" he asked as we shook hands. "I have to think about it, Valery." "Think!" Lena gave me a hostile look. "You're going to think about it?" She really has no self-control. She could have held her tongue. The funny part was that Valery didn't even ask what I was doing. It was obvious to him that there could be nothing good going on at the institute and that I had to come over to work with him. I'll think about it. October 2 7. Ivanov called: "Have you thought about it?" "Not yet." "Ah, those women! I understand you, of course. Decide, Val. We'll work together. I'll call you tomorrow before I leave, all right?" If back then, in March, when my complex was only beginning to plan and build itself, I had stopped the experiment and analyzed the possible paths of development, everything would have turned to the synthesis of microelectronic units. Because that was something I understood. And now I would be way ahead of Valery. The work would have gone down different channels, and it would never have occurred to me or to anyone else that we had overlooked a method of synthesizing living organisms. But I didn't overlook it. How pleasant it had been using my engineering thought to create those plates with microcircuits in the tank: flip-flops, inverters, decoders! That 'Poem' of his, if you added my computer-womb to it, would be a sure thing. In fact, it would be his computer-factory. I was on top of things in that area. It's not too late to turn around .... And work like that really could lead to a world or society of machines totally independent of man-not robots, but machines that complement one another. Perhaps that is the natural evolution of things? If you look at it objectively, there's nothing so terrible about it. Well, there were protein (ion-chemical) systems on earth, and on the basis of their information electron crystal systems developed. Evolution continues. Yes, but if you look at things objectively, nothing so horrible would happen if there was a thermonuclear catastrophe, either. Well, so something exploded, and the radioactive foundation of the atmosphere increased. But is the earth still spinning on its axis? Yes. And around the sun? Yes. That means the stability of the solar system has not been harmed, and everything is all right. "You don't like people!" Lena had said to Ivanov. What's so is so. Hilobok's stink, quitting the institute, bumping into our invention yesterday-they were all steps on the stairway to misanthropy. And there are plenty of such steps in the life of every active person. If you compare life experience with engineering experience you could really come to the conclusion that it's easier to develop machines in which everything is rational and clear. But, all right; but do I like people? It will all depend on that, what I continue working on. I had never thought about it.... Well, I love me, however terrible that may be. I loved my father. I love (let's say) Lena. If I ever have children, I guess I'll love them. I don't exactly love Valery, but I respect him. But as for all the people that walk around on the street, that I run across in my work, in public places, that I read about in the newspapers and hear about-what are they to me? And who am I to them? I like good-looking women, smart, cheerful men, but I despise fools and drunks, can't stand auto inspectors, and am cool toward old people. And in the morning rush hour I sometimes get the TBB-the trolley and bus bananas-when I want to smash everyone on the head and jump out the window. In a word, I have the most varied feelings about people. Aha, that's the point. We feel respect, love, contempt, shame, fear, pride, sympathy, and so on about people. And about machines? Well, they elicit emotions, too. It's pleasant to work with a good machine, and you feel sorry if you've ruined a machine or piece of equipment. You might curse yourself before you find the trouble .. . but that's completely different. These are feelings not about the machines, but the people who made them and used them. Or could use them. Even the fear of the atom bomb is merely the reflection of our fear of the people who made it and plan to put it into use. And the plans of people who build machines that will push man into the background also elicit fear. I love life. I love feeling everything-that's for sure. And what kind of life could there be without people? That's ridiculous. Naturally, if you juxtapose Ivanov's computer-factory to my computer-womb.... It's clear. I choose people! And the wise and strong Valery is even weaker than I am. He doesn't pick his work; his work picks him. (Come on, be honest-deep-down honest, Krivoshein. If you didn't have a method for creating man on your hands, wouldn't you espouse the point of view in favor of computers? Every one of us specialists is always trying to give our work an ideological base. You can't simply admit that you're doing the work only because you don't know how to do anything else! A confession like that for a creative worker is tantamount to bankruptcy. By the way, do I know how to do what I'm planning to do? ...) Enough! Of course, all this is very intellectual and nice: putting myself down, bemoaning my imperfections, worrying about the discrepancy between my dreams and actions. But where is that knight of the spirit with a higher education and experience in the field to whom I could turn over the project with a clear conscience? Ivanov? No. Azarov? I never got a chance to find out. And the work is waiting. So whatever I may be, my finger will rest on the button for now. October 28, A phone call at the lab. "Well, Val, have you decided to do it?" "No, Valery." "Too bad. We would have done some fine work. But, I understand. Give her my regards. She's a nice woman; I'm happy for you." "Thanks. I'll tell her." "Well, so long. Drop in when you're in Leningrad." "Without fail! Have a good flight, Valery." You don't understand a damn thing, Valery. The hell with it. It's over! I think I've gotten my itch to work back. Thanks for that, Valery, at least for that! Chapter 18 You never know what's good and what's bad. Stenography came about because of poor penmanship and the theory of reliability from breakdowns in machines. -K. Prutkov-enzhener, Thought 100 November 1. And so, without wanting to, I've proven that in controlling synthesis, you can create a psychopath and a slave on the basis of information on, say, an average person. It happened because the introduction of auxiliary information was done through crude violence (oh, I just can't couch this "result" in academic phrases!). Now as a minimum goal, I must prove the opposite possibility. The positive aspect of the experiment with Adam was that he came out physically unharmed. And he looked the way I wanted him to look. Now I have experience in transforming the form of the human body. The negative aspects? The "convenient" method of many transformations and dissolutions is ruled out categorically; everything has to be done in one session. And the "it-not it" method of correction must only be used in those situations when I know for sure what "it" is and can control the changes, simply, by changing only minor external flaws. In a word, I have to start from scratch yet a third time. I want to create an improved version of myself, handsomer and smarter. The only possible way is to record my wishes along with my information in the computer. It can either react to them or not. The worst that can happen is there'll be another exact copy of Krivoshein-and that's it. As long as he's not worse. The physical part seems rather simple. I'll put on Monomakh's Crown and picture myself to the point of hallucinations in a better form-without facial defects (get rid of the freckles and the scar over my eyebrow, fix the nose, reduce the jaw, etc.) and body flaws (get rid of the fat, fix the knee). And the hair should be darker. But as for increasing his mental capacity. How? Just wish that my new double be smarter than me? The computer-womb won't register that. It deals only with constructive information. I have to think about it. November 2. I have an idea. It's primitive, but it's an idea. I'm not equally bright at different times of the day. You get dull after a meal-there is even a biological reason for it (the blood is drained from the brain). Therefore, I'll record information on me when I've not eaten for a while. Or smoked. And here's one more aspect of my mental ability to take into account: the closer it is to night, the more my sober and rational thoughts are crowded out by dreams, imagination, and feelings. That can be gotten rid of, too. My dreaming has already gotten me into enough hot water. Therefore, as soon as evening comes on-out of the chamber. Let my new double be somber-minded, reasonable, and well-balanced! November 17. It's been three weeks that I've been getting the computer-womb to perfect me. I keep wanting to say "You may!" through the crown, to see what will happen. But no, there's a man in there! Let the computer absorb my thoughts, ideas, and desires some more. Let it understand what I want. November 25, evening. The snow is falling on the white lamp post, falling and falling, as if it's determined to overfulfill the plan. There goes that girl on crutches past our house again, coming home from school. She probably had polio and lost the use of her legs. Everytime that I see her-with a big knapsack on her sharp shoulders, limping uncomfortably with the crutches, her body hanging loosely between them-I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I'm healthy as a horse; ashamed that I, a smart and educated man, can't help her. Ashamed by a feeling of a great impotence that exists in life. Children should not be on crutches. What's the point of all the science and technology in the world, if children use crutches! Could it be that I'm still doing something wrong? Not what people really need? This method of mine won't help the girl in any way. It'll soon be a month that I've been planning what I'll think about and entering the information chamber, affixing the sensors to my body, putting on Monomakh's Crown, and thinking aloud. Sometimes I'm gripped by doubts. What if the computer-womb is doing something wrong again? There's no control, Goddamn it! And I get scared, so scared that I'm afraid it might have an effect on the personality of the future double. The next entry was made in pencil. December 4 Well... in principle, I should be exulting. It worked. But I don't have the strength, the energy, the thoughts, the emotions for it. I'm tired. Oh, how tired I am! I'm too tired to look for my pen. The computer took all my desires into account in the physical aspect. I fixed a few things up in the synthesis process. As the double was appearing, I didn't have to measure or guess-my practiced eye immediately picked up on the "not its" in his construction and controlled the computer as it corrected them. I set up a ladder in the tank and helped him get out. He stood before me, naked, well-built, muscular, handsome, dark-haired-still resembling me but not resembling me. Puddles of the liquid spread at his feet. "Well?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "Everything's in order," he smiled. And then... then my lips trembled. My face trembled. My hands shook. I couldn't even light a cigarette. He lit one for me, poured me some alcohol, muttering: "It's all right, everything's fine, don't...." He comforted me. That was funny. I'm going to try to sleep now. December 5. Today I tested the logical capabilities of double number 3. First round (playing crosswits): 5-3 in his favor. Round two (playing words): in ten minutes he built eight more words than I did from "abbreviation" and twelve more than me from "retrogression." Round three: we solved logic puzzles from the college text by Azarov, beginning with number 223. I only reached number 235 in two hours of work; he got up to 240. I wasn't faking-I was really caught up in the contest. That means that he thinks 25-30 percent faster than I do-and that's from a simple-minded clumsy attempt at improvement. Just think what could have been done scientifically! We'll see how he is at work. December 7. Our work so far isn't intellectual. We're cleaning up the lab. And not only because of the intertwined wires and living hoses. We're dusting and vacuuming and removing mildew from flasks, and equipment and panels. "Tell me, how do you feel about biology?" "Biology?" he looked at me in surprise, then remembered. "Oh, I see where you're leading. You know, I don't understand him either. I think it was some kind of fixation coming from trying to prove himself." "Wow!" said student Krivoshein and even bounced on his chair. "Now that's something!" But how... after all, double number 3 was also a continuation of the computer-womb! That meant... that meant that the computer had learned how to construct the human organism? Well, of course. He was the first. That's why all that complex searching and retrieval had been necessary. And now the computer remembered all the attempts and picked from among them those that led directly to the goal, constructing a program for synthesizing man. That meant that his discovery of inner transformations was truly unique. It had to be saved. The best thing would be to re-record himself in the computer-womb, not with a vague memory of the search, but with precise and proven knowledge on transforming himself. But why? "Ah, how much can you think about that!" He frowned and went back to the diary. December 18. I don't remember. Are these frosts the ones called Epiphany frosts or the ones in January? The northeast wind had brought us a real Siberian winter and the steam heat can barely hold its own. The grounds are all white and the lab is brighter. I don't know if all the biblical rules were followed but the new double has been christened. And the godfather was none other than Harry Hilobok. This is how it happened. Students from Kharkov U. came for their year of probation work. The day before yesterday I dropped by the dorms for the young specialists and borrowed "for psychological experimentation" a student card and a directive to work here. The students gaped at me with awe and their eyes were aglow with a readiness to give not only their cards but their shoes for the good of science. I borrowed a passport from Pasha Fartkin. Then we familiarized the computer-womb with the appearance and contents of the documents. We manipulated them in front of the objectives, rustled the pages.... When the passport, the student card, and the form appeared in the tank, I put on the crown and with the "it-not it" method corrected all the information. Double number 3 is now called Victor Vitalyevich Kravets. He is twenty-three, Russian, subject to military service, a fifth-year student in the physics department at Kharkov State U, lives in Kharkov, 17 Kholodnaya Gora. Pleased to meet you. Am I? During the operation the newly hatched Kravets and I talked in whispers and felt like counterfeiters who were about to be caught. The engrained respect for the law in intellectuals showed itself again. We also felt strange the next day when we went to see Hilobok: Kravets, to report in, and me, to ask that he be assigned to my lab. My biggest worry was that Hilobok would assign him to another lab. But it worked out. There were more students that year than snow. When Hilobok heard that I would guarantee the material needed for student Kravets's diploma thesis, he tried to foist another two on me. Harry, naturally, noted the resemblance between us. "He's not a relative of yours, is he, Valentin Vasilyevich?" "Well, sort of. A nephew three times removed." "Well, then it's understandable! Of course, of course....." His face expressed understanding of my familial feelings and his tolerance of them. "And will be be living with you?" "No, why? Let him stay in the dorms." "Oh, of course." Harry's face made it clear that my relationship with Lena was no secret to him either. "I understand you, Valentin Vasileyvich. Oh, how I understand!" God, how disgusting it is when Hilobok "oh, understands" you. "And how are things with your doctoral dissertation, Harry Har-itonovich?" I asked, to change the subject. "The doctoral?" He looked at me very carefully. "It's all right. Why do you ask, Valentin Vasilyevich? You're in discrete phenomena; analog electronics isn't in your field." "Right now I don't know what's in my field and what isn't, Harry Haritonovich," I replied honestly. "Ah, so? Well, that's laudable. But I won't be up for a defense for a while. My work keeps pulling me away. Current events don't give me time for creative work. You'll do your defense before I do, Valentin Vasilyevich, both your candidate and doctoral dissertations, he-he...." We walked back to the lab in lousy humor. There was a creepy duality in our work: in the lab we were gods, but when we had to come into contact with the environment, we had to politic, sneak, wheedle. What was it-a characteristic of research? Or of reality? Or, perhaps, of our personality? "After all, it wasn't I who invented a system of ticketing humanity: passports, passes, requisitions, reports, and so on," I said. "Without papers you're a gnat; with papers you're a man." Victor Kravets said nothing. December 20. Well, our work together is beginning! "Don't you think that we went overboard with our vow?" "?!" "Well, not the whole vow, but that sacred part." "To use the discovery for the benefit of mankind with absolute dependability?" "Precisely. We've realized four methods: synthesis of information about man into man; synthesis of rabbits with improvements and without; synthesis of electronic circuits; and synthesis of man with improvements. Does even one of them have an absolute guarantee of benefits?" "Hmmmm. No. But the last method at least in principle-" "-can create 'knights without fear or flaw,' cavaliers of Saint George, and fiery warriors?" "Let's just say good people. Any objections?" "We're not voting yet. We're discussing. And I think that that idea is based-please forgive me-on very jejune ideas of so-called good people. There are no abstractly good and bad people. Every man is good for some and bad for others. That's why the real knights without fear and flaw had more enemies than anyone else. The only one who's good for everyone is a smart and sneaky egotist, who tries to get along with everyone in order to achieve his ends. There is, however, a quasi-objective criterion: he is good who is supported by the majority. Are you willing to use that criterion as the basis for this method?" "Hmm... let me think." "What for? If I've already thought about it, after all, you'll come to the same conclusion-that the criterion is no good. The majority has supported God knows who since time immemorial. But there are two other criteria: good is what I think is good (or who I think is good) and good is what is good for me. Like all people who care professionally about the welfare of mankind, we operated on the basis of both-only in our simplicity we thought that we were only using the first one, and considered it objective at that." "Now you're exaggerating!" "Not a bit! I won't remind you about poor Adam, but even when you were synthesizing me you were worried that it should be good for me (rather, what you thought was good) and that it should be good for you, too. Right? But that's a subjective criterion and other people-" "-with this method could do what they thought was good for them?" "Precisely." "Hmmm. All right, let's say you're right. Then we have to look for another method of synthesizing and transforming information in man." "Like what?" "I don't know." "I'll tell you what method is needed. We have to convert our computer-womb into an apparatus that continually turns out 'good' at the rate of... say, a million and a half good deeds a second. And at the same time, it should do away with bad deeds at the same rate. Actually, a million and a half-that's just a drop in the ocean. There are three and a half billion people on earth and every one of them performs several dozen acts a day that can never be construed as neutral. And we still have to figure out a method of equal distribution of this production across the surface of the earth. In a word, it had to be something like an ensilage harrow on magnetrons of unfired brick." "You're mocking me, right?" "Yes. I'm trampling your dream-otherwise it will lead us into God knows where." "You think that I...?" "No. I don't think that you were working wrong. It would be very strange if I thought so. But understand: subjectively you dreamed and thought, but objectively you did only what the possibilities of the discovery permitted you to do. And that's the point! You have to coordinate your plans with the possibilities of the work. And you were hoping to counterbalance a hundred billion varied acts of humanity a day with your little machine. And it's those hundred billion, plus uncounted past actions, that determine the social processes on earth, their goodness and evil. All of science is incapable of counterbalancing those mighty processes, that avalanche of acts and deeds, first of all because science makes up a small part of life on earth, and secondly because that is not its specialty. Science doesn't develop good or evil-it develops new information and gives new opportunities. And that's all. Now the application of that information and the use of the opportunities determine the above-mentioned social processes and powers. We will give people nothing more than new opportunities to produce people in their own image, and it's up to them to use these opportunities to their benefit or harm or not at all." "You mean we should publish the discovery and wash our hands of it? Well, I never! If we don't give a damn what happens to it, certainly no one else will!" "Don't be angry. I don't think we should publish and wash our hands of it. We have to go on working, studying the possibilities the way everyone does. But in the research, and the ideas, even in the dreams on project 154, you must keep in mind that what happens to this project in real life depends primarily on life itself, or to put it in a more cultured way, on the socio-political situation in the world. If the situation develops in a safe, good direction, then we can publish. If not-we'll have to hold off or destroy the project, as foreseen by the vow. It's not in our power to save humanity, but it is in our power not to inflict any harm on it." "Hm . . . that's very modest. I think you're underestimating the possibilities of modern science. We now have the capability of destroying humanity by pushing a button-or several buttons. Why shouldn't there be an alternative method to save or at least protect humanity by pushing a button? And why, damn it, shouldn't that method be in our field of research?" "It doesn't lie there. Our direction is constructive. It's much, much harder to build a bridge than to blow it up." "I agree. But they do build bridges." "But no one's built a bridge that can't be blown up." We found ourselves at a dead end. But he's okay. He essentially laid out all my vague doubts in a clear-cut fashion; they had been bothering me for a long time. I don't know whether to be happy or sad. December 28. So, it's been a year since I sat in the new lab on an unpacked impulse generator and thought about an indefinite experiment. Just a year? No, time is measured by events and not by the rotation of the earth. I think at least a decade has passed. And not only because so much was done-there was so much experienced. I've started thinking about life more, understanding myself and others better, I've even changed a little-pray God, for the better. And still there is a dissatisfaction-too much dreaming, I suppose. Everything that I've thought of has happened, but the wrong way somehow: with difficulties, with horrible complications, with disillusionment. That's the way it is in life. Man never dreams about where he could fall flat on his face or find disillusionment; that happens on its own. I understand that perfectly well with my mind, but I still can't resign myself to it. When I was synthesizing double number 3 (Kravets in civilian life), I hoped vaguely that something would click in the computer-womb and I would get a knight without fear or flaw! Nothing clicked. He's fine, can't argue with that, but he's no knight. He's sober-minded, reasonable, and careful. And where was the knight supposed to come from-me? Jerk, dreamy jerk! You keep hoping that nature will find and hand you the absolutely dependable method-it never will. It doesn't have that information. Damn, is it really impossible? Is the perfected Krivoshein-Kravets really right? There is one method of saving the world by pushing a button; it can be used in case of thermonuclear war. You hide several computer-wombs that have been fed information on people (men and women) deep in a mine shaft with a large supply of reagents. And if there are no people left in the ashes of the earth, the computers will save and resurrect humanity. That's one way out of the situation. But even then it won't work like that. If you give the world a method like that, it will destroy the balance that exists and push the world into nuclear war. "People will still live. Atom bombs aren't so terrible-let's set them off!" some idiot politician will think. "The problem of the Near East? There is no Near East! The Vietnam problem? What Vietnam? Buy personal bomb shelters for your soul!" Then that's "not it" either. What is "it?" Is there an "it?" PART THREE * AWAKENING Chapter 19 Sleep is the best weapon against sleepiness. -K. Prutkov-enzhener A Sketch for an Encyclopedia A quick-flowing June night: the purple sunset had gone out in the west a short time ago and now in the southeast, beyond the Dneiper, the sk