y was
growing light again.  But even a short night is  a night;  it has  the  same
effect on people.  The inhabitants of the shaded parts  of the planet sleep.
The  citizens of Dneprovsk were sleeping.  Many of the  participants in  the
described events were sleeping.
     Matvei Apollonovich Onisimov  was sleeping  fitfully. He had a  lot  of
trouble falling asleep: he smoked,  tossed and turned, and bothered his wife
while  he  thought about  what  had  happened.  When  he  did  fall  asleep,
exhausted, his overstimulated mind offered a terrible dream. It seemed three
bodies  killed by  fire throwers  were found  in three  city parks.  Medical
Examiner Zubato, too lazy  to  examine  all  three bodies, came up  with the
theory that  all  three were killed with  one shot. To probe the veracity of
his theory,  he sat the bodies down on a marble  bench in  the autopsy room,
arms around one another; their wounds matched up.
     Matvei Apollonovich, who usually had black and murky dreams that looked
as  if  they were an old, used film, experienced this  picture in  3-D, with
color  and  smell; there were three Krivosheins in a  row-huge,  naked, pink
ones smelling of meat-and they were staring  at him with photogenic  smiles.
Onisimov  woke  up  in  protest.  But (the  dream  had helped)  he  had  the
beginnings  of a good theory when he woke up: they were boiling the murdered
Krivoshein's body in that  lab! After all-a body is the most important  clue
and it's risky  to hide  it or bury it;  it could be found. And so they were
boiling or disintegrating  the body  in  a special  liquid,  and  since this
wasn't an easy matter,  they  miscalculated and  the  tank turned over.  And
that's why the body seemed  warm when Prakhov the technician found it in the
tank!  That's  why it  melted so fast, soaked as it was  in their chemicals,
leaving only a skeleton. The lab assistant had been knocked out by the tank,
and the other conspirator-the  one who was pulling all those tricks in front
of  him  yesterday-ran off.  (It  was  clear  that the mystifier  or  circus
performer was  either using masks or else was well trained in mimicry.)  And
then  he arranged for an  alibi-he could  have  fooled that Moscow professor
with his masks and mime. And his papers were just very good fakes.
     Matvei Apollonovich lit another cigarette. And still this was no simple
crime. If the perpetrators were working both  here  and in  Moscow and there
was  no motive  of greed,  personal  vendetta,  or sex, then . . .  probably
Krivoshein had  made a serious invention or discovery. No, tomorrow he would
insist  to  his chief that they bring in  the security  organs on this case!
(Although Onisimov will never know what happened, we must give credit to his
detective  ability. Really: not  knowing  anything about  the essence of the
case and  using only the external  accidental facts, he managed to  build  a
logical, consistent theory-not everyone can do that!)
     Having made the decision, Matvei Apollonovich slept soundly. Now he was
having pleasant dreams: he'd been promoted for solving the case.  But dreams
are even less subject  to our  control  than  reality, and  the investigator
began  groaning  and tossing.  His awakened wife asked:  "Matvei, what's the
matter?"  Onisimov had dreamed that there  was a fire in the  department and
the new promotion list had been destroyed.


     Arkady Arkadievich  Azarov had  just fallen  asleep, and  only with the
help   of   two  sleeping  pills.  (He'll  wake  up  in  the  morning   with
neurasthenia.)  He was also tormented by thoughts of  the  events in the New
Systems  Lab.  He  had  already  gotten a  phone  call from the  Party  City
Committee:  "Another accident, Arkady Arkadievich?  With  a  loss  of  human
life?"  How do  they  find  out  so fast? Now  it  would all begin: reports,
commissions, explanations.... But that's why he was a director and got a fat
salary, so that he could be  driven crazy! These are  the things,  for which
he's  not  responsible  and couldn't  possibly  be  responsible,  that  cast
aspersions on his honest, productive, positive work! Arkady Arkadievich felt
alone and miserable.
     "I  should never have  set up that lab of 'random retrieval.'  I didn't
listen  to myself. I  mean the  whole  idea  of random  test  and  free-form
combinations  being a  path that would bring truth and correct  solutions to
science went deep  against my own  grain. And it still does. The Monte Carlo
Method-just  look at  the name!  Belief in  chance-what  could be worse in a
researcher?  Instead of analyzing  the problem logically and confidently and
slowly  reaching its  solution, you try your luck,  even with the aid of lab
equipment and computers! Of  course, you  can build pseudoscientific systems
and algorithms that way, but don't they resemble the 'systems' gamblers have
for beating  the bank and  which always make them bankrupt? Big deal, so you
changed the  name  of the  lab.  But  the  essence was the same. You let  it
develop, because there is  this tendency in world systemology. And so let it
develop in our institute, too. It's developed all right!"
     Arkady Arkadievich hadn't  expressed his misgivings  to Krivoshein back
then, because he didn't  want  to dampen  his enthusiasm.  He  merely asked:
"What  are you planning to achieve... through  random retrieval?" "First and
foremost  to master the methodology,"  Krivoshein had answered, and that had
pleased Azarov more than if he had spewed out hundreds of ideas.
     "But  he  wasn't  just  mastering  the  methodology/'Arkady Arkadievich
remembered  the  laboratory,  the setup  that  looked like  an octopus,  the
expensive  collection of test tubes  and  flasks. "He  was doing  some  vast
experiment. Could he have really been doing what he had  reported  on at the
scientific council? But it ended up with a corpse. A corpse that turned into
a  skeleton!" Azarov  felt revulsion and  anger.  "I  have to put an end  to
experimentation;  something  always   goes  wrong!  Always!  Systemology  is
essentially a cerebral science. The  analysis  and synthesis  of  any system
must  be promoted! And if you want to work with computers-please do, program
your  tasks and go  into the  computer  room. And  basically with  all these
experiments," the academician laughed lightly, calming down, "you never know
what you've got: a hugh mistake or a discovery!"
     Arkady Arkadievich  had a  long-time score to  settle with experimental
science, and his opinions on it were  firm  and definite.  Some thirty years
ago the  young  physicist  Azarov was  studying  the  process of  liquifying
helium. Once  he  stuck two glass  stirrers into his  Dewar  flask, and  the
liquid, cooled down  to 2° on the  absolute scale,  evaporated very quickly.
Two  liters of then  precious helium  disappeared  and  the  experiment  was
ruined! Arkady  accused  the lab's glass  man of sticking him with a  faulty
Dewar flask. He had  been penalized ... and two years later a  classmate  of
Azarov's  at  the  university, Pyotr Kapitsa,  in  an  analogous  experiment
(lowering capillary stirrers into a vessel) discovered the superfluidity  of
helium!
     Arkady Arkadievich grew  disillusioned in experimental physics and came
to love the  dependable and strict  world  of  mathematics. It was math that
elevated him-the mathematical  approach to the  solution of  nonmathematical
problems. In  the  thirties he applied his methods  to the  problems  of the
general  theory of relativity, which had all science  enthralled;  later his
research helped solve important problems in the theory of chain reactions in
uranium  and  plutonium.  Then he applied his  methods  to  the  problems of
chemical catalysis of polymers; and  now he was head of the discrete systems
direction in systemology.
     "Eh, I'm still  thinking  about the  wrong  thing!" Azarov  complained.
"What did happen in Krivoshein's lab?  I remember last autumn he came to me,
wanted to talk about something. What? Work, naturally. And  I waved him off.
I was too busy. Somehow you  always consider things that can't be put off as
the most important. I should have talked to him; I'd know now what happened.
Krivoshein never approached  me again. Of course, people like that are proud
and  shy. Wait-what kind of people? What's Krivoshein like? What  do  I know
about  him?  A few lectures at  seminars, an  appearance  at the  scientific
council, several exchanges with other lecturers, and a nodding acquaintance.
     Can I base a  judgement on that? Yes, I can.  I'm not so bad at judging
people. He was an active and creative person. You recognize people like that
by their  questions and by their answers. You can  see  the constant thought
flow-not  everyone can see it, but I'm the same way; I  can  recognize it. A
man eats, goes to work,  greets friends, goes to the movies, argues with his
co-workers, lends money, tans at the beach-he does it all wholeheartedly-and
yet all the time he's thinking. On one  subject. The idea has no relation to
his actions or daily cares, but there is nothing that will distract him from
that idea. It's the most important part of him: new things are born from it.
And Krivoshein was like that. And it's too bad that's in the past tense-life
loses something  very necessary with the death  of a man like that. And  you
feel even more  alone.... Well,  enough, what am I going  on about?"  Arkady
Arkadievich looked at the time. "I must sleep."


     Harry  Haritonovich Hilobok couldn't fall asleep that  night either. He
kept looking at  the lighted window across the way in Krivoshein's apartment
and tried to  guess who was that in there. Lena Kolomiets left rapidly after
ten  (Harry  Haritonvich  recognized  her figure  and walk,  and thought: "I
should get to know her better.  There's a lot to her"), but the light stayed
on.  Hilobok turned out his lights, and  seated himself at the window with a
pair  of binoculars, but the  angle was wrong-he could only see part  of the
book shelf and the Olympic-ring logo on the wall. "Did she forget to put out
the  light? Or is there someone else in there? Should I call the police? Ah,
the hell  with  them. Let them  figure  it  out."  Harry Haritonovich yawned
deliciously. "Maybe it's the police in there investigating...."
     He went back into  his room and lit the night-light, a naked woman made
out  of fake  marble with a light  bulb inside. The soft  light fell  on the
bearskin rug on the floor, the walls covered with blue wallpaper with golden
storks, the polished grain of  the desk,  the bookshelves,  the closet,  the
television set, the quilted pink couch, the  dark red carpet with a scene of
ancient feasting-everything was meant to be conducive to sensuousness. Harry
Haritonovich undressed and went to look  at himself in the mirror.  He liked
his face: the straight large nose; the smooth, but not fat, cheeks; the dark
mustache-there was something of Guy  de Maupassant about  him. Very recently
he had  been trying  on his doctor-of-technical-sciences  look.  "Why did he
have to do that, that Krivoshein?" Harry Haritonovich felt his heart beating
madly. "What had I ever done to him? I even voted for his project and helped
his relative get a  job at the lab.  He doesn't have  a  dissertation and he
envies the rest! Or was it because I didn't fill his request for the  SES-2?
Well, it doesn't matter-there is no more  Krivoshein.  He's gone. That's the
way it  is. The winner in life  is gone. That's the way it is. The winner in
life is the one who outlives his adversary."
     Hilobok was  pleased  with  the  humor  of  his  thought  and wanted to
remember it. It should be noted that Harry Haritonovich was not as stupid as
one might assume from his behavior. It's just that he based his formula  for
success on the following: they expect less from a fool. No one ever expected
great ideas or  knowledge  from  him; thus on  those rare  occasions when he
would display some knowledge or the tiniest idea, it came as such a pleasant
surprise  that   his  colleagues   would  think:  "We   underestimate  Harry
Haritonovich,"  and  try  to   compensate   for  that  evaluation  in  their
disposition toward him.  And that's  how his articles got into the anthology
Questions of Systemology-the editors, naturally expecting nothing very good,
were  bowled  over by the few grains of  reason  in them. Harry Haritonovich
turned  in  work to  people who  were  already demoralized  by his talk  and
behavior. But something went wrong with his dissertation... but, never mind,
he would get his!
     Harry  Haritonovich was lulled  by  pleasant thoughts and  rain-bowlike
hopes. He was sleeping soundly and without  dreams,  the way they  must have
slept in the Stone Age.


     Officer Gayevoy was sleeping  and smiling, just returned from his night
shift.


     After a good cry about Krivoshein and herself, Lena fell asleep.


     But not everyone was  asleep. The police guard Golovorezov was fighting
off sleepiness at his post watching the New Systems Lab; he  was sitting  on
the steps of  the lodge, smoking, and  looking at the stars over the  trees.
Something rustled in the  grass  not far away.  He shined  his flashlight: a
red-eyed albino rabbit looked at him from the  bushes.  The guard shooed him
away. Golovorezov had no idea just what kind of a rabbit it was.


     Victor Kravets tossed and turned on the hard cot under a cloth  blanket
that smelled of disinfectant in the solitary confinement cell of the prison.
He was in that state of nervous agitation when sleep is impossible.
     "What  will  happen  now?  What   will  happen?  Did  graduate  student
Krivoshein get  out of  it,  or will the laboratory and the  project perish?
What  else  can I  do  to  help?  Fight  back?  Confess?  To  what?  Citizen
investigator, I'm guilty of good intentions-good intentions that didn't help
anything. I guess  that's  a  heavy guilt, if that's how it's worked out. We
kept  rushing-hurry! hurry!-to master the  discovery, to reach  that  method
'with absolute dependability.' And even  though I didn't admit it to myself,
I expected us to come up with it too. Evolution brought new information into
man gradually, by  the  method of small trials and small errors, testing its
benefit with innumerable experiments. And we-we  tried to do  it  all in one
experiment!
     "We should have dropped the idea of possible social repercussions right
off the bat and worked  openly and  calmly like everyone  else. In the  long
run,  people aren't children. They must understand what's what on their own.
We  figured  out  everything:   that   man  is  a  super   complex,  protein
quantal-molecular system, that  he is the product of natural evolution, that
he is information recorded  in the liquid.  The one thing we missed was that
man is man.  A  free creature. The master of his fate and  his  actions. And
that freedom began  long before  all the rebellions and revolutions, on that
distant day when a humanlike ape thought: 'I  can climb up the  tree  to get
the  fruit but I can also knock it down with the stick  in my hand. Which is
better?' It wasn't just thinking, that ape-it  had seen storms make branches
knock down fruit.  Freedom  was  the opportunity  to  choose  a  variant  of
behavior based on  knowledge. From that day every discovery, every invention
has given people new opportunities, made them even freer.
     "Of  course, there have  been discoveries (not many) that  told people:
don't! You  can't build perpetual motion machines;  you can't pass the speed
of light; you can't accurately measure the speed and position of an electron
simultaneously.  But  our  discovery  forbids  nothing  and  doesn't  change
anything. It says: go ahead!
     "Freedom. It's  not  easy  to recognize  your  freedom  in  our  modern
society, and pick variations of  your behavior wisely and well.  Millions of
years of the past hang over man when biological laws determined the behavior
of  his  ancestors and everything was simple. And now he  is still trying to
lay the blame for his mistakes on circumstances, on cruel fate, and to place
hopes in  God, on  a strong personality, on  luck-just so  it's not him. And
when the hopes shatter, man looks and finds a scapegoat: the people  who had
raised the hopes are  free of guilt. In essence, people who take the path of
least resistance do not know freedom."
     The peephole in  the  door opened,  letting  in a ray  of light; it was
blocked by  the  guard's face. They  were probably checking to see if he was
planning another break. Victor Kravets laughed silently: naturally the clink
was  the best place to meditate  on freedom!  He acknowledged  with pleasure
that despite all the recent hassles he hadn't lost his sense of humor.


     Double Adam-Hercules was sitting and  reminiscing on a bench at the bus
stop  on an empty  street. Yesterday,  as he was  coming  from the  railroad
station,  thinking about  the three currents of information (science,  life,
art) that affect man,  he had the beginnings of a vague, but very  important
idea.  He was interrupted by  the  three men  with the  demand  to show  his
papers, those  so and so's.... He was left with the feeling that he had been
close  to  a valuable guess. He  would have been better off without it, that
feeling. Now he wouldn't get any sleep!
     "Let's try it again. I was thinking about what information can be used,
and  how,  to ennoble man? Krivoshein had  the idea of synthesizing a knight
'without  fear or flaw.' And now I've got it and I  can't reject it. I ruled
out information  from  the  environment  and  from  science,  because  their
influence on man can  be equally good  or bad.  There is only  the method of
awakening good thoughts with a lyre-art.
     True, it  does awaken them,  but the  lyre is an imperfect  instrument;
while it's being plinked,  man  is ennobled, but  when it stops, so does the
effect. There is something left, of course, but not much, just a superficial
memory of  seeing a  play or reading  a  book. Well,  all right, what  if we
introduce this information into the  computer-womb during  the  synthesis of
man. What if we record the  contents of  many books, show  several excellent
movies? It would  be the  same thing:  it  would  remain in the  superficial
memory-and that's all. After all, the book's not about him!
     "Aha, that's  what  I was  thinking about: there is a  transparent wall
between the source  of  art information and  its receptor-a  concrete  human
being. What is that wall? Damn  it, will life experience always be  the main
factor in the formation of the personality? Do you have to  suffer yourself,
to understand the suffering of others? Make mistakes to learn the right way?
Like a child  who has to burn himself to keep  from sticking his hand in the
fire. But that's a hard way to learn,  life experience, and not everyone can
master it. Life can ennoble you but it can also make you bitter and stupid."
     He lit a cigarette and paced back and forth in front of the bench.
     "Information from art is not processed thoroughly enough by man so that
he  can use it to solve his  own problems in life. Wait! The information  is
not processed to the point  of problem  solving....  I've heard that before!
When? In the beginning of the  experiment: the early complex sensors-crystal
unit-TsVMN-12  did not absorb my  information-Krivoshein's  information-it's
the same thing! And then I used feedback!"
     Adam was no longer pacing; he was running  on the spit-covered pavement
from the wastebasket to the lamp post.
     "Feedback,   that's  what  I  want!   Feedback,  which  increases   the
effectiveness of information systems a  thousand times. That's why there's a
wall. That's  why  the effect  of  art  information  is  so low-there  is no
feedback between the  source and  the receptor.  There  is some,  of course:
reviews, readers' conferences, critical magazines, and so on, but that's not
it. There has to be direct, technical feedback, so that the information from
art that is  being  introduced into a  person  can be changed  to  suit  his
individuality, character,  memory, abilities, even appearance and biography.
In  that way his own  behavior in  critical situations can be played for him
during  synthesis (let  him  make his mistakes,  learn from them,  seek  the
correct  solutions!); he can be displayed to himself-instead of an  invented
hero-with his spiritual world, abilities,  qualities, and flaws. He can help
him find himself..  and then that great  information  will  become  his life
experience. It will take on the  universal  force  of truth that  comes from
scientific  information. This  will be a new kind  of  art-not written,  not
acted,  not  musical-everything  together,  expressed  in  biopotentials and
chemical reactions. The art of synthesizing man!"
     Suddenly he stopped. "Yes, but how do you do that in the computer-womb?
How do you create that kind of feedback? It won't be easy. Well-experiments,
experiments, and more experiments-we'll do it! We managed to create feedback
between the parts of the complex. The important thing is we have the idea!"


     Vano Aleksandrovich Androsiashvili wasn't sleeping either, in his dacha
outside Moscow. He was standing on the veranda, listening  to the rustle  of
the rain. Today at  a department meeting  they discussed  the work of  their
students. Krivoshein came out looking the  worst: in a year's time he hadn't
taken a single  exam; lately his attendance  at  lectures  and labs had been
erratic;  and  he  hadn't chosen a topic  for  his  dissertation.  Professor
Vladimir Veniaminovich Valerno expressed the opinion that the man was taking
up a place in the graduate department for nothing, getting a fellowship, and
that it wouldn't be a bad idea to free that spot for someone more deserving.
Vano Aleksandrovich had wanted to say nothing, but lost his temper, and said
many rash and angry things to Vladimir Veniaminovich about condescension and
disdain in judging  the work of young researchers.  Valerno was stunned, and
Androsiashvili himself felt bad: Vladimir Veniaminovich didn't  deserve that
kind of rebuke.
     Vano  Aleksandrovich had spent many an evening pondering the miraculous
healing  of  the student after he was hit  by the  icicle, remembering their
conversation about  controlling metabolism in  the organism, and came to the
conclusion  that Krivoshein  had  discovered and  developed  the  ability to
regenerate  tissue  rapidly,  an  ability  characteristic  of  the  simplest
coelenterates. He couldn't  imagine  how  he had done it. He was waiting for
Krivoshein to come  and tell him:  Vano Aleksandrovich was willing to forget
his injured feelings and  promise silence, if necessary. He'd do anything to
find out! But Krivoshein was silent.
     Now  Androsiashvili  was mad  at himself  for not  finding out why  the
police  were holding  the student  when he  had talked to them  yesterday on
their videophone. "Has he done something? When did  he have time? He came by
the department in the morning to announce that he had to go to Dneprovsk for
a few  days. Krivoshein's second mystery." The professor chuckled.  But  the
anxiety didn't go away. All right, there might  have been a mishap, but what
if  it was  something  serious?  Say what you will,  but Krivoshein  was the
discoverer  and bearer of  an important discovery about man. That  discovery
must not perish.
     "I have to go to Dneprovsk," the thought suddenly came to him. But then
the proud blood of  a  mountain  dweller  and  corresponding member  of  the
Academy boiled over:  he, Vano Aleksandrovich Androsiashvili, would  rush to
help out  a graduate student who  had gotten into a mess! A  student that he
took into the  department out of  pity and who had hurt him  deeply with his
lack of trust?
     "Yes,  rush off!" Vano Aleksandrovich shook  his head, calming himself.
"First of all, you, Vano, don't believe that Krivoshein committed any crime.
He's  not the  type. There's some problem or misunderstanding  there, that's
all. You have to help him. Second, you've been dreaming of a way to gain his
confidence and get closer to him. Well, here it is. Maybe he has good reason
for hiding. But don't let him think that Androsiashvili  is a man that can't
be counted on, who withdraws from  petty irritations. No! Of course, even in
Dneprovsk you won't begin to question him-he'll tell you if he wants to. But
that discovery must be saved. It's more important than your pride."
     Vano  Aleksandrovich  felt better because  he  had overcome himself and
reached a wise decision.


     Graduate  student Krivoshein  wasn't  sleeping  either.  He  was  still
reading the diary.



        Chapter 20


     According  to the  teachings of  Buddha,  the way  to rid  yourself  of
suffering is to rid yourself  of ties. Won't someone tell which  ties 1 must
sever to stop my eyetooth from aching? And hurry!
     -K. Prutkov-enzhener, an unumbered thought

     January 5. Here I am in the position  of a human rough draft for a more
perfect  copy.  And  even  though I'm the creator of the  copy,  it's  still
nothing to be happy about.
     "You  know,  your nephew is very  attractive," Lena said to me after  I
introduced them at a New Year's party. "Simpatico."
     Back at home, I spent a whole  hour staring  at myself in the mirror: a
depressing sight. And he was good at small talk; I was no match for him.
     No, Victor Kravets  was  behaving  himself like  a gentleman with Lena.
Either earlier memories  are  having an effect or he's just  feeling out his
possibilities in breaking hearts, but  he appears to be uninterested in her.
If he made the effort, though, I'd never see Lena again.
     When he and I walk around Academic Town or along the institute grounds,
girls who never  nodded to me before  greet me loudly  and joyously: "Hello,
Valentin Vasilyevich!"-with an eye on the handsome stranger next to me.
     And he's  so good on skis!  The three of us went out of town yesterday,
and he and Lena left me far behind.
     And how he danced at the New Year's ball!
     Even  Ninochka, the  secretary,  who didn't know the way  to the  lodge
before, always seems to be dropping by with a paper from the office for me.
     "Hello, Valentin Vasilyevich!  Hello, Vitya... oh,  it's so interesting
here, all these tubes!"
     In a word, I now can  observe myself every day the way  I am and myself
the  way  I would  be if  only... if only  what? If only it weren't for  the
hunger  during  and  after  the war, the  strong  resemblance to  my  father
who-alas!-was  not  too handsome  ("Pudgy-faced,  just like his father!" the
relatives used to say,  cooing  over me), the bumps and potholes in the road
of life. If only it weren't for my rather unhealthy life-style: the lab, the
library, my room, conversations, thinking, the miasmas from the reagents-and
no physical recreation. Really, I didn't try to become an ugly, fat, stooped
egghead-it just happened.
     In principle,  I should be  proud: I beat Mother Nature!  But something
gets in the way....
     No, there's something damaging about this idea.  Let's say  we  perfect
the method of controlled  synthesis. And we create marvelous  people-strong,
beautiful, talented, energetic, knowledgeable-you know, masters of life from
advertising  posters  like  "We  saved   at   the  bank   and  bought   this
refrigerator!"  But what about the  people that were  used  as  a basis  for
them-does  that mean that they were nothing more than rought drafts sketched
by life? Why should they be demeaned?  That's a fine reward for their lives:
regret for your imperfections, the  thought  that you will never be  perfect
because you were made by a regular mama and not a marvelous contraption?  It
turns out that with our  system people  will still be pitted against people.
And  not  only  against bad ones-against  everyone, since  we all  have some
imperfections. Does that mean that good but ordinary people (not artificial)
will have to be crowded out of life?
     (There! That's just like you, Krivoshein-you're so thick-skinned. Until
it  affects  you  personally you don't think  about  it.  "Whup  him  with a
two-by-four," as your daddy used to say. But all right, I got it now. That's
the important thing.)
     There's  plenty to think about  here. I  guess  all human flaws  have a
common nature-they're exaggerations. Take a quality that's pleasant to  have
in people around you: simplicity.  We're inculcated with it  from childhood.
But if nature flubs it, or your upbringing  spoils it, or if  life  goes the
wrong  way-you end up with sleepy  stupidity instead of  simplicity. You can
also get cowardice instead of reasonable caution, false conceit instead of a
necessary  confidence,  cynicism instead  of  sober  daring,  or  sneakiness
instead of brains.
     We use a  lot  of words  to  hide  our impotence  in the face  of human
imperfections: jokes  ("A bear stepped on  his ear,"  "He was  dropped  as a
baby"),  scientific  terms ("anemia," "personality breakdown/'  "inferiority
complex"),  and homilies  ("That's  not  for  him," or  "He has  a  gift for
that...."). We used to say "God's gift." Now in our materialistic age we say
"nature's  gift," but basically,  it's the same thing: man has  no  control.
Some have it and some don't.
     And  you can guess  why some don't. In  primitive societies  and  later
social  formations  man's  perfection was not compulsory. If you knew how to
live, work,  multiply, and be a little crafty-fine, it was enough! Only now,
when we  have  a constructive idea of communism, and not just a Utopian one,
we  are developing  real demands  to be  made  on man.  We  are taking man's
measure for this marvelous idea-and it's painful to see the things we hadn't
noticed before.
     January 8. I shared my thoughts with Kravets.
     "You want to employ the synthesis  method  on ordinary  people?" double
number 3 quickly deduced.
     "Yes. But how?" I looked at him hopefully. Maybe he knew?
     He understood my look and laughed.
     "Don't forget that I'm you. On the level of knowledge, anyway."
     "But maybe you have a better idea of what that liquid is?" I pointed at
the  tank.  "You  came out  of it after all... like  Aphrodite from the  sea
spray. You know, its composition and so on."
     "In two words?"
     "You can use three."
     "All right. That  liquid is  man. Its composition is the composition of
the human body. Besides that, the liquid is a  quantal-molecular biochemical
computer that can  teach itself and has a  huge memory, and each molecule of
the liquid  has some unique bit of information. In other words, do what  you
will, the liquid of the computer-womb is merely man in  a liquid state.  You
can draw scientific, practical, and organizational conclusions based on that
fact."
     I had the  feeling that this new problem hadn't captured him the way it
had me. I tried to stir up his imagination.
     "Vitya,  what if this  method is  really 'it? It's for ordinary people,
after all, and not-"
     "You go  to-(tsk, tsk, and an artificial  man at  that!).  I absolutely
refuse to look at our work from the 'it-not it' point of view and in keeping
with  a  vow I never made.  Nowadays you should  have a much cooler view  of
vows! (Well,  if  you  call that  a  cooler  view....) You want  to  use the
discovery to transform people?"
     "Into angels." I threw fat on the fire.
     "The  hell  with   angels!  An  informational  transformation  of  homo
sapiens-and that's  it! You have to look  at the problem  from the  academic
point of view!"
     It was my first opportunity to see  him lose control and turn  into ...
me. No  matter how you try to hide  it, the Krivoshein personality surfaces.
But  at  least he  was  churned up. That's the most important thing when you
begin a new research project-to get churned up and hate the work.
     As a result of a six-hour conversation with a dinner break we made four
steps in the realization of the new problem.
     Step  1: Artificial  and natural people, judging by  everything  (well,
even by the  fact  that  ordinary food wasn't  poison  for  the double)  are
biologically  identical.  Therefore, everything that the  computer-womb does
with  the doubles, can in principle (if you forget about the difficulties of
technical  realization, as  they  say in articles) be extended  to  ordinary
people.
     Step 2:  The computer-womb  obeys commands on  alternations in the tank
without any mechanical apparatus or control equipment. Therefore, the liquid
in the control circuit  is  the executive biochemical mechanism; it performs
controlled metabolism, as the biologist would say, in the tank-


     -"Damn it!" the student muttered and smoked nervously.


     -or  more accurately, transforms  external information into  structured
encoding in matter: organic molecules, cells, corpuscles, tissue....
     Step  3:  In  principle,  how  can  a  person  be  transformed  in  the
computer-womb? An artificial double  is  born  in  it  as  an  extension and
development  of the machine's circuitry. In the transparent stage he already
senses and feels like a person, but cannot function actively (the experience
with  Adam  and  Kravets's confirmation).  Then the double  continues to the
nontransparent stage,  detaches  himself  from  the  liquid  circuit  of the
computer-womb (or it from him), takes control of himself, and climbs out-no,
no, this  must be academic sounding-and unplugs from the  computer.  With an
ordinary  person, apparently, we would have to operate in reverse, that  is,
plugging the  person into the machine  first. Technically: immersing the man
in the liquid.
     Step 4: But can  a person be plugged into the computer-womb? After all,
what's needed here is  no  more and  no less that-I do know  something about
neurophysiology;  I've read Ashby-total contact of the entire nervous system
with  the  liquid.  Our  conductor-nerves  are  isolated from  the  external
environment  by skin, tissue,  and  the skull. In  order to get  to them the
liquid circuit would have to penetrate the person.
     We decided that it could penetrate. After all, man is a solution. Not a
water solution (otherwise people would  dissolve in water); there's not that
much  free  water  in a  person.  It's that damn quantitative  analysis that
confuses  everything, the hypnosis of numbers that comes when you take apart
human tissue  and get these  figures: water 75 percent, protein  20 percent,
fat 2 percent, salt 1 percent, and so on. Man  is a biological solution, and
all his components coexist  within him in unity and  interrelation. The body
contains  "liquid  liquids": saliva,  urine,  blood plasma,  lymph,  stomach
acids-they can  be poured  into  a  test tube. Other liquids  fill  the cell
tissues-the muscles, nerves, brain-and here each cell is a test tube itself.
Biological liquids even  permeate the bones, as if they were  sponges. Thus,
despite  a  lack  of proper vessels, man has  much more reason  to  consider
himself a liquid than, say, does a forty-percent solution of sodium hydrate.
     To be even more precise, man is  information  recorded in a  biological
solution.  Beginning  with  the moment  of conception, transformations  take
place in this solution; the muscles, intestines, nerves, brain, and skin all
form. The  same  thing-but faster  and in a different way-takes place in the
liquid of the computer-womb. So, however you look at it, the two liquids are
closely related, and their mutual penetration is quite possible.
     No matter how much  we wanted to  check  every  hypothesis  as soon  as
possible in the computer-womb, we controlled  ourselves and  spent the whole
day  on  theory.  We've  played enough  with chance.  This  time we'll  plan
everything thoroughly.
     So, the first thing is to plug in.
     February!. Ah, those were  good theories that  we were tailoring to fit
what had  already been done!  The building  block  game, the  mathematics of
"it-not  it"... it's nice to look back on how  smoothly it all went. Build a
theory to help you achieve new results that are much more complex.
     For now  the theoretical  liquid (the liquid  circuit) in  the  tank is
behaving like vulgar water. Just thicker.
     Do  I need to write how the very next day we ran to the lab bright and'
early,  and  in  trepidation  and  anticipation, stuck our fingers  into the
tank-"plugging in." And  nothing. The liquid  wasn't warm  or cool. We stood
around like that for an hour: no sensation, no changes.
     Do I need to describe  how we bathed the last two rabbits in the liquid
trying  to  plug them  into the computer?  The computer-womb didn't obey the
order "No!"  and didn't dissolve  them. It ended with the rabbits  drowning,
and we couldn't save them by pumping them out.
     Do  I need  to mention that we lowered  conductors into the  liquid and
watched  the  movements  of  floating potentials  on  the oscillograph?  The
potentials   vacillated  and  the  plotted   curve   looked  like  a  jagged
electroencephalogram. And so what?
     That's the way it always is. If I were a novice, I'd quit.
     February 6. An experiment: I lowered my finger into the liquid, Kravets
put on Monomakh's Crown and began touching various  objects with his finger.
J  could  feel what surfaces he was touching! There was something  warm (the
radiator), something cold and wet (he stuck his finger under the tap).
     That  meant  my finger  was  plugged in! ?  The computer was  giving me
information about  external  sensations through  my finger. Yes, but they're
the  wrong ones.  I  need signals  (even in  sensations) of the work of  the
liquid circuit in the tank.
     February 10. A small, innocent, trifling result. In scope it's inferior
even to making the rabbits. Simply, I cut the fleshy part  of my palm  today
and healed the cut.
     "You see," Kravets said  meditatively  in the morning, "for  the liquid
circuit  to have  the sensation  of working, it has to work. And  what is it
supposed to work on, I ask you?  Why should it plug  into you, or me, or the
rabbits? We're all complete. Everything is in informational balance."
     I don't know if I really figured  it out faster than he  did (I flatter
myself  into thinking yes) or whether  he just didn't want to  hurt himself.
But I began the experiment: I destroyed the  informational equilibrium in my
organism.
     The scalpel was sharp  and inexperienced. I sliced through my flesh all
the way to the bone. Blood drenched my hand. I put  my  hand in the tank and
the liquid turned crimson around it. The pain didn't disappear.
     "The crown-put on the crown!" Kravets shouted.
     "What crown? What  for?" The pain and the sight  of  blood kept me from
thinking straight.
     He  pushed Monomakh's Crown on my head, clicked the dials-and  the pain
disappeared instantly;  in a few seconds the liquid  was clear  of blood. My
hand was enveloped in  a  pleasant  tingle-and  the miracle  began: my  hand
became transparent before my eyes!
     First  the red plaits  of the  muscles showed. A minute later they  had
dissolved, and the white bones of the  fingers showed through the red jelly.
A violet blood vessel, thickening and thinning, pushed blood near the sinews
in my wrist.
     I grew scared and I pulled my hand out of the tank. Immediate pain. The
hand was whole, but  it shone as  if it had  been oiled; heavy drops dripped
off  from the tips of  my transparent  fingers. I tried wriggling my fingers
but  they wouldn't obey. And then I noticed  that my fingers were thickening
into droplet-shaped forms. That was terrifying.
     "Put it back or you'll lose your hand!" Kravets shouted.
     I put it back and concentrated on the  cut. There was  a delicious ache
there. "Yes, computer ... that's it.  That's  it,"  I  repeated.  The tingle
weakened and  the  wrist was losing  its transparency. Sighing in relief,  I
took out my hand: there was no more cut, just a big reddish blue scar. A few
transparent drops  of ichor  oozed in the crack. The scar  itched and buzzed
unbearably. This probably wasn't the end, then. I put my hand in  the liquid
again.  Again-transparency,  tingling.  "That's  it,  computer.  That's it."
Finally the tingling stopped and the hand was no longer transparent.
     The whole  experiment  lasted  twenty minutes. Now I couldn't show  you
where I cut myself with the scalpel.
     I have to figure this out. The most interesting aspect of this was that
I didn't have to give  the  computer-womb any special  information on how to
heal  a cut-as if I could. Probably  my little