Self-discovery

by Vladimir Savchenko

  “I told you,” he said triumphantly.

  “Not the one….” sighed the operative. “Some guy called Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein. But if you go by the photo and the description, he’s definitely Kravets.”

  “Description, description… what’s a description?” Gayevoy was angry. “I saw him, you know: he had no gray hair, was about ten years younger, and a lot thinner.”

  “Let’s go over to the railroad station, fellows,” the second operative suggested. “After all, he’s no fool. He’s not going to stroll down the avenue!”

  Victor Kravets was at that moment making his way down a dark, deserted side street.

  After he jumped out of the moving police car, he went through the park to the banks of the Dnieper and lay in the bushes, waiting for dark. He wanted to smoke and to eat. The low sun gilded the sand of Beach Island, dotted with bright mushrooms; there were still bathers there. A small tug, spreading watery whiskers from shore to shore, was hurrying upriver to the freight yards to get a new barge. Cars and buses moved noisily below the cliff.

  “We finally got there. We thought everything through: the method of the experiments, the variants in using the method, even its influence on the world situation. This was the only variant we didn’t foresee. What a fall from great heights face down into the mud! From researcher to criminal. My God, what kind of work is this — one failed experiment and everything flies out the window. I’m not prepared for this game with investigators and medical experts, so unprepared that I might as well go down to the library and start reading up on the criminal code and the — what else is there? — the judicial code. I don’t know the rules of the game, and I might lose. I guess, I already have lost. The library… how could I have time for the library now?”

  The cooling towers of the electrostation on the other side of the Dnieper exhaled fat columns of steam as though they were trying to make clouds. The low edge of the sun touched them.

  “What should I do now? Go back to the police, tell them everything, make a clean breast of it’ and give away (despicably) the secret we tried to keep from evil eyes? And give it away not to save the project, but to save myself? This won’t save the work: in two or three days everything will start rotting in the laboratory, and I won’t be able to prove a thing, and no one will believe me, and no one will know what happened there. I won’t save myself that way either: Krivoshein died. The weight of his death is on me, as they say. Should I go to Azarov and explain things to him? There’s no way I could explain anything to him now. I’m less than a student on probation to him — I’m a shady character with forged papers. If he’s been informed of my escape, then as a loyal administrator, he must cooperate with the police. There it is, man’s problem, in full view. The source of all our troubles. We simply can’t solve it through the laboratory method. We! That’s a laugh. We who have achieved such greatness. We in whose hands lie the unheard — of possibilities of synthesizing information. What the hell. We can’t handle this problem; time to fess up. And what sense is there in the rest without it?”

  The sun was setting. Kravets got up, brushed off his trousers, and went up the path, not knowing where or why. Loose change jangled in his pockets. He counted it: enough for a pack of cigarettes and a very light supper. “And then?” Two young coeds, comfortably studying for exams on a bench in the bushes, looked with interest at the handsome young man, shook their heads to dispel evil thoughts, and went back to their notes. “Mmm… I guess I won’t be completely lost. Should I go see Lena? But she’s probably under surveillance, and they’ll catch me….”

  The path led out onto a quiet, uninhabited street. Branches heavy with ripening cherries hung over the fences. At the street’s end, a cloud blazed, underlit with red.

  It was getting dark fast. The evening coolness was creeping up under his shirt, onto his bare chest. On the opposite side of the street, a half block away from Victor, two men in caps walked out of the shadows. “Police!” Kravets ducked into an alley. He ran a block and then stopped to calm his heart.

  “To think of it! I’ve never run from anyone in twenty years, and now I’m like a boy chased out of somebody’s yard.” His helplessness and degradation made the desire for a cigarette unbearable. “The game is lost. I just have to admit that and leave. Follow my feet. After all, everyone of us has experienced the desire to get away from some situation or other. Now it’s my turn, damn it! What else can I do?”

  The alley led out into the glow of blue lights. The sight brought on a wave of animal hunger: he hadn’t eaten in twenty — four hours. “Hm… so there are restaurants still open. I’ll go. Nobody’s going to look for me on Marx Prospect.”

  The concrete posts extended their snake — headed street lights over the pavement. In the store windows elegant dummies stood in casual poses; radios, televisions, and pots and pans shone brightly; bottles of Sovetskoe Champagne beckoned, and cans of fish and preserves tumbled in artful disarray. Under the blazing neon sign that read: “Here’s what you can win for thirty kopeks!” glistened a Dniepr refrigerator, and Dniepr — 12 tape recorder, a Dniepr sewing machine, and a Slavutich — 409 automobile. Even the trimmed lindens along the wide sidewalks looked like industrial products.

  Victor stepped out onto the most crowded area, the three — block stretch between the Dynamo Restaurant and the Dniepr movie theater. There were plenty of pedestrians. Unkempt young men, trying to pass for bohemian artists, walked stiffly down the street, their eyes glazed. Elderly couples moved at a dignified pace. Dandies, arms around their girl friends, headed for the park. Men with bangs over their shifty eyes darted in and out of the crowd — the kind who don’t work anywhere but have connections. Girls carefully balanced their various hairdos, including such masterpieces of tonsorial art as “cavewoman,” “after a ladies’ free — for — all,” and “let them love me for my mind.” Young singles wandered around, torn between desire and shyness.

  Kravets first walked around circumspectly, but then he became angry.

  “Look at all of them walking around, to show themselves off and to see others. It’s as though time has stopped for them, and nothing is happening. They used to stroll down this street when it was called Gubernatorskaya, before the Revolution — wearing out the wooden sidewalks, checking out fashions and each other. And they strolled after the war — from the ruins of the Dynamo Restaurant to the ruins of the Dniepr Theater under the lights hanging by a single wire, cracking their sunflower seeds. They’ve paved the avenue, dressed it in high rises made of concrete, aluminum, and glass, lit it up, planted trees and flowers — and they stroll around, sucking caramels, listening to their transistors, proving the indomitability of the consumer spirit! Show themselves off, look at others, look at others, and show themselves off. Take a walk, drop in at the automat, consume a meat pie, walk around, drop in at the well — tended toilet behind the post office, take care of their needs, take a walk, have a drink, meet someone, take a walk… an insect’s life!”

  He circumvented the crowd that had collected on the corner of Engels Street near the lottery ticket vending machine. The machine, made to look like a cyborg, played music, hawked customers with a recorded voice, and for two five — kopek pieces, after wildly spinning a wheel made out of glass and chrome, dispensed a “lucky” ticket. Kravets gritted his teeth.

  “And we, we idiots, decided to transform people with mere laboratory technology! What can we do with these consumers? What has changed for them is the fact that there are taxis instead of hackney cabs, semitransistorized tape recorders instead of accordions, telephones instead of “face — to — face” gossip, and synthetic raincoats to wear in good weather instead of new rubber galoshes? They used to sit around their samovars and now they spend evenings around the TV.”

  He heard snatches of conversation from the crowd: “Just between us, I can tell you frankly: a man is a man, and a woman is a woman.” “So he says ‘Valya? and I say ‘No. He says ‘Lusya? and I say ‘No.

  He says
‘Sonya? and I say ‘No. “Abram went oh a business trip, and his wife….” “Learn to be satisfied with the present moment, girls!” “And what will change as a result of progress in science and technology? So the store windows will overflow with polyester clothes, atomic wristwatches that never need winding, and with solid — state refrigerators and microwave ovens. Luminescent plastic moving sidewalks will transport pedestrians from the 3 — D Dniepr Theater to the fully automated Dynamo Restaurant — they won’t even have to use their legs. They’ll take strolls with microelectric walkie — talkies so that they won’t even have to turn to their friends or risk tiring their voices to exchange such brilliant gems as:

  ‘Just between us, I can tell you frankly: a robot is a robot, and a mezzanine is a mezzanine! ‘Abram went off to an antiworld, and his wife….

  Team to be satisfied with the present microsecond! “And a vending machine made to look like a space ship will sell ‘Greetings from Venus! postcards: a view of the Venerian space port framed by kissing doves. And so what?”

  Harry Haritonovich Hilobok paraded past Kravets. A girl weak with laughter was hanging from his arm. The assistant professor was busy amusing her and didn’t notice the fugitive student duck into the shadows of the lindens. “Harry has a new one,” thought Kravets, laughing. He bought some cigarettes at a kiosk, lit one, and moved on. He was engulfed in such anger that he lost his appetite, and if he had fallen into the arms of the operatives, there would have been quite a brawl.

  There was no room at the Theater Hotel either. The arrival walked along the prospect in the direction of the House of the Collective Farmer, grumpily observing the people around him.

  Walk, walk, walk… every city in every country has a street where the populace walks in the evenings, back and forth, the crowd becoming a single entity. Show themselves, look at each other. Walk, walk, walk — and the planet trembles under their feet! It must be some collective instinct that lures them here, like the swallows to Capistrano. And others sit in front of the TV. How many of them are there, people who have relegated themselves to rot away? (‘We know how to do something; we make good money; we have everything we need; we live no worse than others — so leave us alone!) Solitary people, afraid to be alone with themselves, confused by the complexity of life and unwilling to think about it. They remember the one rule of safety: to be happy in life you must be like everybody else. So they walk around and look to see how everybody else is. They expect a revelation.

  Overshadowed by the glowing glory of the avenue, the moon wandered behind the translucent clouds. But nobody had time to look at it.

  “And when they were young they dreamed about living exciting, interesting, meaningful lives, about discovering new worlds. Who didn’t have that dream? And they probably still dream about it, passionately and impotently. What’s wrong? They didn’t have the spirit to follow their dreams? And what for? Why give free rein to your dreams and deepest feelings — who knows where it might lead! — when you can buy ready — made dreams and feelings, when you can safely party at a feast for invented heroes? And so they partied themselves sick, wasted their spiritual strength on trifles, and what they have left is enough power to muster a walk down the avenue.”

  Hilobok walked past him with a young girl. “So Harry has a new one!” the arrival thought.

  He watched him walk on. Should he catch up with him and inquire about Krivoshein? “Nah, in any case it’s best to stay away from Hilobok.” The arrival and Kravets stepped onto the same block.

  “At one time the humanoid apes diverged: some picked up rocks and sticks and began working, thinking; and others stayed to swing in the trees. And now on earth another transition is beginning, more powerful and driving than the ancient ice age: the world is about to leap into a new qualitative state. But what do they care? They are willing to stay safe in front of the TV — it’s easy to satisfy their simple demands through technology!” the angry Victor Kravets muttered to himself. “What do they care about all the new vistas opened up by science, technology, industry? What’s our work to them? You can increase intelligence, cleverness, and work capabilities — so what? They’ll learn something not for the pleasure of mastery and satisfying intellectual curiosity, but in order to earn more, to have easy work, and to get ahead of others. They will buy and hoard so that people will notice their success, to fill their empty lives with worries about their possessions. And about a rainy day. It might never come but because of it, all their other days are cloudy. boring! I’m going to go to Vladivostok, on my own, before I’m sent there officially. The project will die off naturally. It won’t help them in any way: in order to take advantage of an opportunity like that you have to have high goals, spiritual strength, and a dissatisfaction with yourself. And they are only dissatisfied with their surroundings: the situation, their friends, life, the government — you name it, as long as it’s not themselves. Well, let them walk around. As they say, science is helpless here….” They were separated only by the post office building. The angry thoughts ebbed away. There was only an inexplicable uneasiness before the people who walked past Kravets.

  “Someone said: no one despises the crowd more than the mediocrity who manages to climb above it. Who?” he frowned as he thought. “Wait a minute, I said that myself about someone else. Of course, about someone else, I wouldn’t have said it about me….” He was disgusted. “In trampling them, I trample myself. I haven’t come so far; I used to be just like them. Wait up! Does this mean that I simply want to disappear? And to keep from being terribly embarrassed and not to lose my self — respect, I’m trying to give this flight a philosophical basis? I haven’t sold out anyone: everything is true; science is helpless, and that’s how it should be. My God, an intellectual’s mind is wondrously base and self — serving! (By the way, I’ve thought or said that about someone else, too; all of life’s verities are nicer when applied to others.) And that intelligent one is me. All my gears are going full blast, contempt for the crowd, theoretical discursiveness…. Hmmmm!” He blushed and felt hot. “So this is where disaster can lead. Well, all right, let’s see what else there is for me to do.”

  Suddenly his legs were rooted to the pavement! Walking toward him with an easy stride was a young man with a backpack and a raincoat over his arm. “Adam!” Kravets felt a chill and his heart sank. It wasn’t a man but a living pang of his conscience coming toward him on that street. Adam’s eyes were thoughtful and angry, and the corners of his mouth drooped forbiddingly. “He’s going to see me, recognize me….” Victor looked away so as not to give himself away, but curiosity won out: he stared at him. No, Adam didn’t look like a “slave” now — that was a confident, strong, and decisive man. A memory floated up of a disheveled head against a background of dusky wallpaper, eyes wide with hatred, and a ten — pound iron dumbbell raised over his face.

  The arrival walked on past him. “Of course, how could he recognize me?” Kravets sighed in relief. “But why is he back? What does he want?”

  He watched the man disappear into the crowd. “Maybe I should catch up with him and tell him what happened? All the help that… No. Who knows why he’s here.” He was overwhelmed with despair again. “This is where all outwork and experiments have led. Damn it! We’re afraid of each other. Wait… that is the other variant! But will it help?” Victor bit his lip, thinking hard.

  Adam had disappeared.

  “Well, enough self — torture!” Kravets said, shaking his head. “This isn’t my work alone. And I can’t escape — the work must be saved.”

  He pulled out the change from his pocket, counted it, swallowed a hungry gulp, and went into the post office.

  He just had enough to pay for a short telegram: MOSCOW, MOSCOW STATE U., BIOLOGY DEPT. TO KRIVOSHEIN. FLY OUT IMMEDIATELY. VALENTIN.

  He sent the telegram and went out on the street. He turned down a street that led to the Institute of Systemology. After a few steps he turned to see if anyone was following him. The street was empty, and the only pers
on watching was the pretty woman with the bankbook in the brightly lit ad on the department store that said, “Save your money at the bank” in foot — high letters. Her eyes promised to love anyone who saved.

  The sign over the administrator’s window in the House of the Collective Farmer read:

  Room for a man — 60 kopeks.

  Room for a horse — 1 ruble 20 kopeks.

  The man who had arrived from Vladivostok sighed and handed his passport through the window. “Give me a sixty — kopek room, please.”

  Chapter 4

  The impossible is impossible. For instance, it is impossible to move faster than the speed of light. But even if it were possible, would it be worth the trouble? After all, no one could see it to appreciate it.

  K. Prutkov — engineer, Thought 17

  The next morning the officer on duty in the city department handed Investigator Onisimov the report of the policeman on guard at the sealed laboratory. It stated that during the night, approximately between 1:00 and 2:00 A.M., an unknown man in a white shirt attempted to enter the lab through a window. The policeman’s shout scared him off into the park.

  “I see!” Matvei Apollonovich rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “Returning to the scene of the crime….”

  Yesterday he had sent notice to citizen Azarov and to citizen Kolomiets. Matvei Apollonovich wasn’t really counting on the academician’s showing up in his office — but the stub of the notice would be handy to have around. Elena Ivanovna Kolomiets, an engineer at a construction design bureau near the Systemology Institute, showed up promptly at ten.

  When she entered his office, Hilobok’s wavy hand gestures came to mind; she was a beautiful woman. “Isn’t she just fine?” thought Onisimov. Any single feature of Elena Ivanovna’s, taken out of context, was ordinary — her dark hair was like any hair, and her nose was only a nose (perhaps even too upturned), and the oval of her face was just an oval — but together they created such a harmonious picture, a picture that needed no analysis but simply called to be enjoyed and remarked upon as an example of nature’s great sense of proportion.