Self-discovery

by Vladimir Savchenko

  Arkady Arkadievich was examining his faithful scientific secretary. The man, as usual, was extremely well shaven and groomed, his narrow red tie streaming down a starched shirt front like blood from a throat slit by a collar, but for some reason the sight and the sound of Harry Haritonovich’s mellow voice elicited deep revulsion in the academician. “That light trembling before me. that phony subordinate dumbness. You’re transparent, Harry Haritonovich, through and through! Maybe that’s why I keep you around, because you are transparent? Because I can’t expect anything unexpected or great from you? Because your goals are obvious? When the goals of a functioning system are understood, it’s a thousand times easier to foresee its behavior than when the goals are masked — there is a law like that in systemology. Or is it just that I enjoy a daily comparison with you? Maybe that’s why I feel this loneliness — because I surround myself with people who are easy to tower over?”

  “And the second point is on the ending, that is, the stopping of work in the New Systems Laboratory during the work of the commission And then after the commission we’ll see more clearly what to do with the lab: to disband it or turn it over to another department.”

  “The work there had stopped of its own accord, Harry Haritonovich,” Azarov laughed sadly. “There’s no one to work there now. And there’s no one to disband.” He pictured Krivoshein’s corpse again with its bulging eyes and pained grin. The academician rubbed his temples and sighed. “In principle I accept your idea for a commission, but its staff has to be changed slightly.” He pulled the sheet of paper over and took out his pen. “We can leave Ippolit Illarionovich, and the engineer on safety procedures, and we need a technical secretary, too. But not the rest. I’ll head the commission myself, taking on, as you put it, this burden myself, to spare you. I want to find out what Krivoshein has been doing.”

  “And. what about me?” the scientific secretary asked in a crestfallen voice.

  “And you take care of your own duties, Harry Haritonovich.” Hilobok felt very ill: his fears were being justified. “He’s estranging me!” He was afraid now and hating the dead Krivoshein much more than he had ever hated the live one.

  “There! He’s really making trouble again, isn’t he?” Hilobok spoke, cocking his head to one side. “Look at all the troubles now! Ah, Arkady Arkadievich, don’t you think I can see how you’re taking this? Don’t you think I understand? You shouldn’t pull yourself away from your work and get all upset by this. The whole city will be talking, saying that Azarov had another one at the Institute… and that he’s trying to cover it up — you know what people are like now. That Krivoshein, that Valentin Vasilyevich! Didn’t I tell you, Arkady Arkadievich, didn’t I foretell that he would be only trouble and danger! You shouldn’t have supported his project, Arkady Arkadievich!”

  Azarov listened, frowned, and felt his brain being overpowered by the usual hopeless numbness — like his neurasthenia coming back. This numbness always hit him after a prolonged conversation with Hilobok and forced him to agree with him. Now his head was buzzing with the thought that it probably takes more mental exertion to withstand babble like this than it does to do mathematical research.

  “Why don’t I fire him?” The idea popped into his mind. “Throw him out of the institute and that’s that. This is humiliating. Yes, but with what cause? He manages his responsibilities. He’s got eighteen works published, ten years’ seniority. He passed the promotion test (of course, there was no one else taking it at the time) — there’s nothing to complain about! And I gave him that favorable response on his dissertation like a fool. Should I fire him for stupidity and ineptness? Well… that would certainly be a new precedent in science.”

  “He put in orders, used up materials and equipment, took up a whole building, worked for two years — and here you go, this calamity is all yours!” Hilobok was whipping himself up. “And at my defense… it wasn’t just me that he shamed. I’m not that important. But he shamed you, Arkady Arkadievich, too! If I had my way, Arkady Arkadievich, I’d give that Krivoshein plenty for what he did to manage, I mean managed to did, I mean, to do, damn it!” He leaned over the desk, his brown eyes flashing with intense hatred. “It’s too bad that we award only honors posthumously, write pleasant obituaries and the like. De mortis aut bene aut nihil, you know! But that Krivoshein should be reprimanded posthumously, so that others would learn a lesson! And a severe reprimand! And it should be entered — “

  “ — on the tombstone. That’s an idea!” a voice added behind him. “What a viper you are, Hilobok.”

  Harry Haritonovich straightened up so fast it looked as though someone had given him a shot of rock salt in the rear. Azarov looked up: Krivoshein stood in the doorway.

  “Hello, Arkady Arkadievich, forgive me for showing up without an appointment. May I come in?”

  “H — he… hello, Valentin Vasilyevich!” Azarov stood up. His heart was pounding wildly. “Hello… oof, I see you’re not… I’m happy to see you in good health! Come in, please!”

  Krivoshein shook the barely proffered hand (the academician was relieved to see the hand was warm) and turned to Hilobok. Harry’s mouth opened and closed noiselessly.

  “Harry Haritonovich, would you please leave us alone? I would be very grateful if you did.”

  “Yes, Harry Haritonovich, go,” Azarov said.

  Hilobok backed to the door, bumping his head soundly on the wall, felt for the doorknob, and rushed out.

  Gathering his wits about him, Arkady Arkadievich took a deep breath to calm his heart, sat behind his desk, and suddenly felt irritated. “Was I the butt of a practical joke?” he thought.

  “Would you be so kind, Valentin Vasilyevich, to explain what all this means? What is this business with your, forgive me, corpse, the skeleton, and so on?”

  “Nothing criminal, Arkady Arkadievich — may I?” Krivoshein sank into the leather armchair by the desk. “The self — organizing computer, about which I spoke at the scientific council last summer, actually did develop… and it developed to the point that it tried to create a person. Me. And, as they say, the first pancake is a lump.”

  “Why wasn’t I kept informed?” Azarov asked angrily, remembering the humiliating conversation the day before yesterday with the investigator and the other experiences of the last two days. “Why?” Krivoshein flew into a rage.

  “Damn it!” He leaped forward, banging his fist on the soft arm of the chair. “Why don’t you ask how we did it? How we managed to do it? Why are you more concerned with personal prestige, subordination, the relationship of others to your directorial ego?”

  Krivoshein’s announcement had reached Azarov in its most general form: he had gotten some result. Heads of departments and labs were always telling Azarov about their results, sitting in that very leather chair. And it was only as a delayed reaction that Arkady Arkadievich began to realize just what kind of a result it was. The world shuddered and became unreal for a moment. “Impossible! No, that’s just the point, it is possible! Now everything falls into place and I see.” The academician spoke in a different tone. “Of course, this is… monumental. My congratulations, Valentin Vasilyevich. And… my apologies. I jumped the gun; it didn’t come out right. A thousand pardons! This is a major. invention, even though the idea of communicating and synthesizing the information in man has been expressed by the late Norbert Weiner. [Krivoshein chuckled.] Of course this doesn’t diminish… I remember your idea, and the day before yesterday I saw a few… results of your work. Since I am quite well versed in systemology myself [Krivoshein chuckled again], I, naturally, am prepared to accept what you’ve told me. Naturally, I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart! But you must admit, Valentin Vasilyevich, that this happy event for science could have been less worrisome and even less scandalous if you had kept me informed of your progress over the past year.”

  “It’s hard to get in to see you, Arkady Arkadievich.”

  “You’ll understand if I don’t find that a substantial exc
use, Valentin Vasilyevich!” Azarov frowned. “I’ll admit that the procedure of getting in to see me might be offensive to you (even though all the workers at the institute have to submit to it at one time or another). But you could have telephoned me, left me a note (not necessarily a form in triplicate, either), or visited me at my apartment, you know!”

  Arkady Arkadievich couldn’t repress the hurt. “So… you work and work…” kept spinning through his mind. For a long time, since the days when his unsuccessful experiment with helium turned into the discovery of superfluidity in the hands of a colleague, Arkady Arkadievich had secretly hoped to see, find, and understand something new in nature and the world. He dreamed about a discovery with anticipation and trepidation, like a boy about to lose his virginity! But he had no luck. Others did, but not him! He had high — level, needed, much — valued and honored work to his credit, but no discovery — the height of comprehension.

  And now in the institute that had been entrusted to him a discovery had been made without his knowledge, a discovery so huge that it dwarfed all of his work and the work of the entire institute! They managed without him. More than that! It seemed that they avoided him. “How so? Did he think I was dishonorable? What have I done to make him think that?” Academician Azarov hadn’t had to experience such strong feelings in a long time.

  “Hmmm. while sharing your joy for this discovery, Valentin Vasilyevich,” he went on, “I still am worried and saddened by your attitude. This may shock you, but I’m concerned not as a scientist or as your director, but as a human being: why like this? Surely you could see that my knowing about the project would do it no harm, but could only help: you would have been guaranteed direction, consultations.

  If I had felt that you needed more workers or equipment, you would have had that, too. Then why, Valentin Vasilyevich? I’m not even deigning to think that you were worried about your inventor’s patents….”

  “But that didn’t keep you from expressing the thought,” Krivoshein laughed sadly. “Well, all right. In general, I’m glad that you’re distressed primarily as a human being; that gives me hope. For a while, we debated whether we should tell you about the work or not; we tried to meet with you. We couldn’t make contact. And then we decided that at that stage of the project it was just as well.” He looked up at Azarov. “We didn’t have much faith in you, Arkady Arkadievich. Do you know why? If for no other reason than that even now, instead of finding out more about the work, you tried to put the discovery and its credit where you thought it belonged: Weiner said…. What does Weiner’s ‘television’ idea have to do with this? We’ve done it completely differently. And you know there wouldn’t have been any consultations: I can’t see you, an academician, displaying your ignorance in front of subordinate engineers. Another thing also: while you know very well that a researcher’s value is in no way determined by his degrees or title, you nevertheless have never missed a chance to promote degreed and titled people into positions that others might have filled better. You think I didn’t know from the start what my part would be in creating the new laboratory? Do you think that your warning to me after the scandal with Hilobok didn’t affect my last experiment? It did. That’s why I was rushing, taking risks. Do you think that my attitude toward you isn’t affected by the fact that in your institute orders for exhibitions and other public relations nonsense always take precedence over things that are necessary for our work?”

  “Now you’re getting awfully petty, Valentin Vasilyevich!” Azarov said in irritation.

  “Those were the petty things that I had to judge you by; there was nothing else. Or such a petty thing as the fact that a… a… well, that Hilobok sets the tone for the institute — whether through your disinterest or active support, I don’t know. Of course, it’s easy to feel intellectually superior next to Hilobok, even in a steam bath!”

  Color rushed to Azarov’s face: it’s one thing when you realize something for yourself, and another when a subordinate tells you about it. Krivoshein realized he had gone too far and modified his tone.

  “Please understand me correctly, Arkady Arkadievich. We had wanted you to participate in our work — and that’s why I’m telling you this, not to insult you. There’s much that we still don’t understand in this discovery: man is a complicated system, and the computer that creates him is even more so. There’s work here for thousands of experiments and studies. And that’s our dream, to attract wise, knowledgeable, talented men to the project. But, you see, it’s not enough to be a scientist for this work.”

  “I hope that you will familiarize me more thoroughly with this work.” Azarov was gradually getting himself under control, and his sense of humor and superiority was returning. “Perhaps I will be of some service, as a scientist and as a human being.”

  “Please God! We’ll familiarize you with it… probably. I’m not alone in this, and can’t make decisions on my own. But we will. We need you.”

  “Valentin Vasilyevich,” the academician said, raising his shoulders, “excuse me, but are you planning to decide with your lab assistant whether or not you will allow me near your work? As far as I know, there is no one else in your lab?”

  “Yes, and him too. Oh, my God!” Krivoshein sighed. “You are willing to accept the possibility that a computer can create man, but you can’t accept the possibility that a lab assistant might know more about it than you! By the way, Michael Faraday was a lab assistant, too. No one remembers that any more. Arkady Arkadievich, you must prepare yourself for the fact that when you join our project — and I hope that you will! — there won’t be any of that academic ‘you are our fathers, we are your children’ bull. We’ll work, and that’s it. None of us is a genius, but none of us is Hilobok, either.”

  He looked at Azarov and grew pale, amazed: the academician was smiling! It wasn’t one of his photogenic, only for the press, smiles and not one of the sly smiles that accompanied a witticism during a council or seminar. It was simple and broad. It wasn’t very attractive because of all the wrinkles it created, but it was very nice.

  “Listen,” said Azarov, “you’ve really shaken me up here, but… well, all right. I’m very glad that you’re alive.” (The reader is reminded that this is science fiction.)

  “Me, too,” was the only reply Krivoshein could muster.

  “What about the police now?”

  “I think that I can soothe them, even if I won’t overjoy them.”

  Krivoshein said good — bye and left. Arkady Arkadievich sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on it.

  “Hmmmmmm,” he said.

  And that was all he said.

  “What else do I have to take care of?” Krivoshein thought as he stood at the bus stop. “Oh, that’s what!”

  May 3 0. It’s interesting to think about: I was doing thirty — five, my usual town speed and that idiot in the green Moskvich was blocking the highway — his speed in relation to the highway was zero. And his speed across the road wasn’t much faster, either. He drove as if he were driving a tractor. Who lets jackasses like that drive? If you’re crossing the highway against all the rules, then do it fast! But he would drive a yard, then stop. By the time I realized the Moskvich was blocking my way, I didn’t even have time to brake.

  Victor Kravets, who went out there to pick up the remains of the motorcycle, still shakes his head over it:

  “You were lucky. I can’t believe it! If you had been doing forty — five, I would be making a memorial stone out of the remains and writing on the license plate, Here lies Krivoshein, engineer and motorcyclist! “

  Yes, but if I had been doing forty — five, I wouldn’t have crashed into him!

  It’s interesting what circumstances come into play in a fatal accident. If I hadn’t stopped in the woods for a smoke and listened to the cuckoo (“Cuckoo, cuckoo, how many years will I live?” — it cuckooed at least fifty years), if I had taken two or three turns a little faster or slower — our paths wouldn’t have crossed. But this way — on a straight fl
at road in excellent visibility — I plowed into the only car in my path!

  The only thing I had time to think was “Cuckoo, cuckoo, how long will I live?” as I flew over the bike.

  I got up myself. The Moskvich’s side was bashed in. The frightened driver was wiping blood from his unshaven face. I had broken the windshield with my elbow. Served him right, the jerk! My poor bike was on the road. It was much shorter now. The headlight, front wheel, axle, and frame and tank were smashed, squashed, destroyed.

  So I went from seventeen yards per second to zero in one yard. And my body experienced fifteen g’s. Ouch!

  The human body is an excellent machine! In less than a tenth of a second my body had time to adjust to the best position for taking the crash: elbow and shoulder first. And Valery tried to prove that man had nothing on technology! No one’s proved that yet! If you translate the damage done to the motorcycle into human terms, it lost its head, broke its front extremities, chest, and spine. It was such a good bike; it loved speed.

  Of course, my right shoulder and chest took more of a beating. It’s hard to lift my right arm. I guess I broke some ribs.

  Well, it’s for the best. Now I’ll have something to repair in the liquid circuit of the computer — womb. And not external, but inside my body. In that sense, the Moskvich was very handy. All for science.

  Chapter 23

  “Write out a pass for taking out a body.” “Where’s the body?” “Coming up.” (Shoots himself.) “Fine! But who’s going to carry it?”

  A legend from Singapore

  Policeman Gayevoy was sitting in the duty room, suffering from love and writing a letter on a complaint form. “Hello, Valya! This is Aleksandr Gayevoy writing to you. I don’t know if you remember me or not, but I can’t forget how you looked at me near the dance floor with the help of your black and beautiful eyes. The moon was big and concentric. Dear Valya! Come to T. Shevchenko Park tomorrow night. I’ll be on duty there until twenty — four hundred — “