Self-discovery

by Vladimir Savchenko

  The wind whips the trees. It was all in the past: the days of research and discovery, the evenings of meditation, the nights of dreaming. And here you are, the cold, clear morn, wiser than the night. Merciless morning! It’s probably in this sober time that women who had dreamed all night of having a child go for an abortion. And I had an abortion. I dreamed. I wanted to bring happiness to the world, and I’ve created two miserable people already. I’ll never master this work. I’m weak, unneeded, and stupid. I must take up something mediocre, that I can handle — for an article, for a dissertation. And then everything will be fine.

  The wind whips the trees. The wind whips the trees….

  On the next balcony there’s a recording of Mozart’s Requiem playing. My neighbor, associate professor Prishchepa, wants to get into a mathematical mood first thing in the morning. “Requi. requiem….” The voices are bidding farewell to someone clearly and simply. This is good music to shoot oneself by. Nobody would notice the shot.

  The wind whips the trees.

  What have I done? And yet I had doubts, and then not doubts but knowledge. I knew that any change I made stayed with him, that the computer — womb remembered everything. I didn’t pay attention. Why?

  I had a thought, not expressed in words, so that I wouldn’t be ashamed, or a feeling of well — being and safety, I guess: “after all, it’s not me. It’s not happening to me….” And also a feeling of impunity: “Whatever I want, I’ll do. Nothing will happen to me….”

  You won’t shoot yourself, you animal! You won’t do anything to yourself — you’ll live to a ripe old age and even set yourself up as an example to others.

  The wind whips the trees. The bus licks people off the stops.

  I don’t want to go to work.

  September 20. Gray asphalt. Gray clouds. The motorcycle swallows up miles like noodles. A kid stops by the road, and I can tell from his position that he’s decided to be a motorcyclist on a red bike when he grows up. Be a motorcyclist, kid; just don’t become a researcher.

  I keep accelerating. The speedometer says over ninety. The wind is lashing my face. Here comes a dump truck, hogging most of the road, of course. Those bastard truckdrivers, they don’t take bikers for people. Always trying to ride us off the road. Well, I’m not yielding to this one!

  No, there was no crash. I’m alive. I’m writing down how I tore around glassy — eyed today. I have to write about something. The truck veered to the right at the last second. I watched in the rear view mirror as the driver pulled over and ran into the road, waving his fists at me.

  Actually, if I had crashed, what difference would it make? There’s a spare Krivoshein in Moscow. I can’t describe my repulsion and disgust for everything right now. Including me.

  How he shook, how he hugged my feet — the strong, handsome “not me.” And I could have foreseen it and spared him. I could have! But I thought: “It’ll work like this. What the hell! After all, he’s not me.”

  And it was so interesting, good, beautiful. We dreamed and talked, worried about the good of mankind, swore a vow. What shame! And in the work, I overlooked the fact that I was creating a man. I thought about everything — exquisite forms, intellectual content — but that it might hurt or scare him never entered my mind. I just decided that there was no informational death in the experiment — and fine. But death was a violence that I performed on him over and over.

  How did it happen? How?

  The white posts along the highway reflect the motor’s hum: but — but — but — but how did it happen? But — but — but — but how? The speedometer reads 110, the gray stripes of earth and trees whiz by. At this speed I could escape from pursuers or save someone, getting there in time! But I have no one to run away from and no one to save. I did have someone to save, but I had to do some honest thinking there… and I didn’t.

  I can master heights, elements, with my brain and brawn. It’s easy with the elements. They can be mastered. But how do you master yourself?

  I just went over the diary — and I’m frightened by how low and self — serving my thoughts are! Here I am discussing how troubles befall people because they are unprincipled, that they think they can live off to the side, not get involved, and a few pages later I cleverly make sure I’m off to the side: don’t get mixed up with Harry Hilobok, let him get his damn doctoral dissertation…. Here I’m thinking about how to derive benefit from my discovery, and here I call myself to do cruel acts with reference to wars and murders in the world. Here I (or me and the double, it doesn’t matter) lower myself to the level of an ordinary engineer, who can’t handle such difficult work — a moral insurance in case it doesn’t work; and when it does work, I compare myself to the gods. And I wrote all this sincerely, without noticing any contradictions.

  Without noticing? I didn’t want to notice them! It was so pleasant and convenient that way: preen, lie to myself with an open heart, adjust ideas and facts to fit my moral comfort. So it turns out I thought more about myself than about humanity? It turns out that this work, if evaluated not from a scientific but a moral position, was nothing more than showing off? Of course, where would I find the time to worry about my guinea pigs!

  What kind of a man are you, Krivoshein?

  September 22. I’m not working. I can’t work now. Today I rode down to Berdichev for some reason and by the way, I understood the hidden meaning of the mysterious phrase that was printed out one day. Twenty — six kopeks is what it costs to fuel up to get from Berdichev to Dneprovsk: five liters of gas, two hundred grams of oil. I’ve unearthed another discovery!

  Where is Adam now? Where did he go?

  And that creature that the machine tried to create after the first double: half — Lena, half — me. It, too, must have suffered the horrors of death when we ordered the computer to dissolve it? And my father. Oh damn! Why am I thinking about that?

  My father… the last cossack in the Krivoshein line. According to family tradition, my forefathers come from the Zaporozhian cossacks. There was a brave cossack whose neck was damaged in battle — and there you get the Krivoshein line. When Empress Catherine broke them up, they moved to this side of the Volga. My grandfather Karp Vasilyevich beat up the priest and the head of the village when they decided to get rid of the village school and set up a church school. I haven’t the slightest idea what the difference was between them, but my grandfather died at hard labor.

  Father took part in all the revolutions, and served under Chapayev in the Civil War.

  He fought in the last war as an old man, and only the first two years. They were retreating in the Ukraine and he led his battalion out from an ambush in Kharkov. Then because of wounds and age, they transferred him to the rear, as a commander on the other side of the Urals. There, in the camp, a soldier and peasant, he taught me how to ride, how to take care of a horse and saddle it, how to plow, mow, shoot from a rifle and a pistol, dig the earth, and chop brambles with a machette. He also made me kill chickens and pigs by stabbing them under the right shoulder blade with a small flat knife, so that I wouldn’t fear blood. “It’ll come in handy in life, sonny!”

  Shortly before his death he and I went down to his homeland in Mironovka, to see his cousin Egor Stepanovich Krivoshein. While we were sitting in his cottage drinking, Egor’s grandson rushed over:

  “Cramps, they dug out a body from the clay in Sheep’s Gully where they’re digging the dam!”

  “In Sheep’s Gully?” my father asked. The old men exchanged a look. “Let’s go see.”

  The crowd of workmen and onlookers made way for the two old men. The gray, chalky bones were piled up in one spot. Father poked the skull with a stick, and it turned over, revealing a hole over the right temple.

  “Mine!” father said looking at Egor Stepanovich triumphantly. “And you missed. Your hand shook, huh!”

  “How do you know it’s yours?” the other demanded sticking his beard into the air.

  “Have you forgotten? He was coming back to the villag
e. I was right on the side of the road, you were on the left….” and father drew a picture in the clay to prove his point.

  “Whose remains are these, old men?” a young foreman in a fancy shirt demanded.

  “The captain,” father explained, squinting. “In the first revolution the Ural cossacks were quartered here, and this here was their captain. Don’t bother the police with it, sonny. It’s been over a long time.”

  How marvelous it was to lie in wait in the steppe at night with father’s gun, waiting for the captain — both for the principle and the fact that the bastard ripped up men with his bayonet and raped girls! Or to fly on horseback, feeling the weight of your saber in your hand, taking measure: I’ll chop that one over there, with beard, from his epaulets all the way through!

  The last time I fought was eighteen years ago, and it wasn’t a fight to the death, only to the school bell. I never galloped in the days of old. All my bravado comes on a bike facing down a truck.

  And I’m not afraid, father, of blood or death. But your simple lessons never did come in handy. The revolution continues through different means, with discoveries and inventions — weapons more dangerous than sabers. And I’m afraid, father, of making mistakes.

  Liar! Liar! You’re preening again, you low — life! You have an ineradicable streak of showing off. Oh, it’s so pretty: “I’m scared of making mistakes, father,” and all about the revolution. Don’t you dare!

  You wanted to synthesize in people (yes, people, not artificial doubles!) the nobility of spirit that you lack, the beauty that you don’t have, the determination you’ll never have, and the selflessness you can’t even dream of.

  You come from a good family. Your forefathers knew how to work and to leave good work behind them, and to beat the bastards with fist or gun. They didn’t let up. And what are you? Have you fought for justice? Oh, you never had an opportunity? Maybe you’ve cleverly managed to avoid them? What, don’t feel like remembering?

  That’s the problem. I’m afraid of everything: life, people. I even love Lena in a cowardly way: I’m afraid to bring her close and I’m afraid to lose her. And God forbid, no children. Children complicate things.

  And the fact that I’m hiding my discovery — isn’t that also a fear that I won’t be able to develop it properly? And I probably won’t. I’m a weakling. One of those smart weaklings who are better off not being smart. Because their brain is only given them so that they can appreciate their lowness and impotence.

  Graduate student Krivoshein lit up a cigarette and paced the room nervously. It was painful reading the notes — it was about him, too. He sighed and returned to the desk.

  Easy, Krivoshein, easy. You can talk yourself into something hysterical this way. You still have the responsibility for the work… and everything isn’t lost yet. You’re not such a son of a bitch that you should drop dead immediately.

  I can even make you look good. I haven’t used the discovery for personal gain, and I won’t. I worked at peak capacity, and I didn’t cheat. Now I’m trying to figure things out. So I’m not worse than others. I made a mistake. And who doesn’t?

  Yes, but in this work comparisons on a relative scale — who’s better, who’s worse — don’t apply. Others study crystals or develop machines; they know their work, and that’s enough. Their character flaws only harm them, their co — workers at the lab, and their relatives. But I’m different. In order to create Man, it’s not enough to know, to have a scientific handle on the thing — you have to be a real Man yourself, not better or worse than others, but in the absolute sense a knight without fear or flaw. I wouldn’t mind that at all, but I don’t know how to go about it. I don’t have the information.

  Does that mean that I can’t handle this work?

  October 8. The yellow and red autumn is in the institute grounds, and I can’t work. It’s full of dry leaves, the lightest rain makes a lot of noise on them, and then there’s a coffee aroma of rotten leaves. And I can’t work….

  Maybe I shouldn’t, it’s not needed? A good generic stock, a quality education, a hygienic life — style…. Let smart people re — create themselves, have lots of children with good stock. They’ll be able to feed them, their salaries will stretch; after all, they’re smart people. And they’ll be able to bring them up. They’re smart people. No computers will be necessary.

  Harry Hilobok called today. They’re organizing a permanent exhibit at the institute: “The Achievements of Soviet Systemology,” and naturally, he’s the organizer.

  “Won’t you contribute something, Valentin Vasilyevich?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you like that? Now Ippolit Illarionovich Voltampernov’s department is giving three exhibits and other departments and labs are contributing. We should have at least one exhibit on your topic. Don’t you have anything yet?”

  “No. How’s the biosensor system moving, Harry Haritonovich?”

  “Eh, Valentin Vasilyevich, what’s one system compared to all of systemology, heh — heh! We’re working on it, but meanwhile you see, everyone’s demanding exhibit stands, mock — ups, tableaux, signs in three languages, and our heads are spinning. The lab and the workshops are full up, but if you should have anything for the show, we’ll manage. Things are going fast around here.”

  I almost said that it was the system that I needed to come up with an exhibit for your stupid show but I controlled myself. (Let him make it and then we’ll see.) Always being sneaky, Krivoshein!

  My exhibits were all over the world. One was in Moscow struggling with biology. The others were munching grass and cabbage in gardens. And another just ran off to who knows where.

  Should I exhibit the computer — womb to shock the academic world? Create two — headed and six — footed rabbits as part of the demonstration, at the rate of two an hour? That would create a stir.

  No, brother. This machine makes man. And there’s no way of getting around that.

  Chapter 17

  Every action carries obligations. Inaction doesn’t oblige you to anything.

  K. Prutkov — engineer

  October 11. I’m repeating the experiments in controlled synthesis of rabbits — just so that the mechanism doesn’t sit around for nothing. I’m filming it all. I’ll have a documentary. “Citizens, present your documentaries!”

  October 13. I’ve invented a method of destroying biological information in the computer — womb quickly and dependably. You can call it an “electric eraser.” I use tension from the noise generator as input for the crystal unit and TsVM — 12 and 15–20 minutes later the computer forgets everything about the rabbits. If I had had this method earlier instead of the order “No!” I would have destroyed Adam each time irreversibly and fundamentally.

  I just don’t know if he would have liked that any better.

  Time is making the leaves fall and the sky grow cold. And my work isn’t moving. I can’t undertake serious work now. I don’t have the stomach for it. I’m lost.

  Here, Krivoshein! You can now take it as conclusively demonstrated that you are neither God nor the hub of the earth. Thus, you should seek help from others. You must go to Arkady Arkadievich….

  “Aha,” graduate student Krivoshein exclaimed.

  I must follow procedure; he is my superior. Actually, that’s not the point. He’s smart, knowledgeable, influential, and a marvelous methodologist. He knows how to formulate any problem. And, “A formulated problem,” as it says in his Introduction to Systemology, “is the solution to the problem written in hidden form.” And that’s just what I need. And he supported my topic at the scientific council. Of course, he’s overly officious and conceited, but we’ll manage. He’s a smart man, after all. He’ll understand that glory is not the point of this work.

  Wait! Good intentions are one thing, but reasonable care can’t hurt. To let Azarov in on the deep, dark secret that the computer — womb can synthesize live systems — no, that can’t be allowed. I have to start with something simpler, and the
n we’ll see, as he likes to say.

  I have to synthesize electronic circuits in the computer. That was what old Voltampernov had attacked, and by the way, that’s my official topic for the next year and half.

  “You must, Valentin Vasilyevich, you must!”

  Here’s the plan. We place six wires into the liquid: two are feeders; two, the control oscillograph; and two, the impulse generator. I give the computer the parameters of the circuits and the approximate sizes through Monomakh’s Crown. I definitely know what’s “it” and “not it” in this — it’s familiar ground.

  October 15. Rounded brown squares are appearing in the tank. They look like laminated insulation. Metal lines of the circuits settle on top of the squares, then layers of insulation, condensers, strips of resistors, and diodes and transistors…. It looks a lot like film technology, which is being developed in microelectronics, but without the vacuum, electrical discharge, and other pyrotechnics.

  And how pleasant it is after all the headaches and nightmares to click the switches, adjust the brightness and contrast of the beam on the oscilloscope, and count off the microsecond impulses! Everything is clear, precise, understandable. It’s like coming home from distant shores. The devil lured me onto those shores, into the dark jungles called “man” without a guide or compass. But who is a guide and what’s a compass?

  All right. The parameters of the circuits agree, project 154 is half done. Won’t Ippolit Illarionovich be glad!

  I’ll go to see Azarov. I’ll show him the samples, explain a few things and hint at future prospects. I’ll go there tomorrow and say:

  “Arkady Arkadievich, I come to you as one smart man to another….”

  October 16. I went… flying into open arms.

  So, in the morning I thought through our conversation, took along the samples, and headed for the old building. The autumn sun shed light on the ornate walls, granite steps, and me, walking up them.