Worlds Apart

by Alexander Levitsky

  “I have been watching them for three days,” Persikov replied animatedly.

  Then there was a conversation between the two scientists, the idea of which may be summed up as follows: Assistant Professor Ivanov undertakes to construct a chamber with the aid of lenses and mirrors in which this ray will be produced in magnified form—and outside of the microscope. Ivanov hopes—indeed, he is absolutely sure—that this is quite simple. He will produce the ray, Vladimir Ipatievich cannot doubt that. Here there was a slight pause.

  “When I publish my work, Peter Stepanovich, I will write that the chambers were constructed by you,” Persikov put in, feeling that the pause needed to be resolved.

  “Oh, that’s not important … Still, of course …”

  And the pause was instantly resolved. From that moment on, the ray utterly absorbed Ivanov too. While Persikov, losing weight and getting exhausted, was sitting all day and half the night over the microscope, Ivanov bustled around the brilliantly-lit physics laboratory juggling lenses and mirrors. A technician assisted him.

  After a request was sent through the Commissariat of Education, Persikov received from Germany three parcels containing mirrors and polished lenses—biconvex, biconcave, and even convex-concave. This all ended with Ivanov finishing the construction of a chamber and actually capturing the red ray in it. And in all justice, it really was an expert job: the ray came out thick—almost four centimeters in diameter—sharp and powerful.

  On the first of June the chamber was installed in Persikov’s office, and avidly he began experiments with frog roe exposed to the ray. The results of these experiments were staggering. Within two days thousands of tadpoles hatched from the roe. But that is the least of it—within twenty-four hours, growing at a fantastic rate, the tadpoles developed into frogs, and they were so vicious and voracious that half of them immediately devoured the other half. Then the survivors began to spawn, ignoring all normal time-rules, and in another two days they had produced a new generation, this time without the ray, which was absolutely numberless. The devil only knows what had started in the scientist’s office: the tadpoles were crawling out of the office and spreading all over the institute, in the terraria, and on the floor, from every nook and cranny, stentorian choruses began to croak as if it were a bog. Pankrat, who had always feared Persikov like fire anyway, was now experiencing only one feeling for him—mortal terror. After a week, the scientist himself began to feel he was going crazy. The institute was pervaded with the odors of ether and prussic acid, which almost poisoned Pankrat, who had taken off his mask at the wrong time. They finally managed to exterminate the teeming swamp population with poisons, and the rooms were thoroughly aired out.

  Persikov said the following to Ivanov: “You know, Peter Stepanovich, the ray’s effect on the deutoplasm and the ovum in general is quite remarkable.”

  Ivanov, who was a cool and reserved gentleman, interrupted the professor in an unusual tone. “Vladimir Ipatich, why are you discussing petty details, deutoplasm? Let’s be frank—you have discovered something unprecedented!” Though it cost him obvious great effort, still Ivanov squeezed out the words: “Professor Persikov, you have discovered the ray of life!”

  A faint color appeared on Persikov’s pale, unshaven cheekbones. “Now, now, now,” he muttered.

  “You,” continued Ivanov, “you will make such a name for yourself … It makes my head spin. Do you understand,” he continued passionately, “Vladimir Ipatich, the heroes of H. G. Wells are simply push-overs compared to you … And I always thought his stories were fairy tales … Do you remember his The Food of the Gods?”

  “Oh, that’s a novel,” replied Persikov.

  “Why yes, good Lord, a famous one!”

  “I’ve forgotten it,” said Persikov.” I remember now, I did read it, but I’ve forgotten it.”

  “How can you not remember, why, just look …” From the glass-topped table Ivanov picked up a dead frog of incredible size with a bloated belly and held it up by the leg. Even after death it had a malevolent expression on its face. “Why, this is monstrous!”

  IV. DEACONESS DROZDOVA

  God knows how it happened, whether Ivanov was to blame for it or sensational news transmits itself through the air, but everyone in gigantic, seething Moscow suddenly started talking about the ray of Professor Persikov. True, this talk was casual and very vague. The news of the miraculous discovery hopped through the glittering capital like a wounded bird, sometimes disappearing, sometimes fluttering up again, until the middle of July when a brief notice treating the ray appeared on the twentieth page of the newspaper Izvestia, under the heading: “Science and Technology News.” It was stated obliquely that a well-known professor of the Fourth State University had invented a ray which greatly accelerated the vital processes of lower organisms and that this ray required further study. The name, of course, was garbled and printed as “Pevsikov,” [suggesting an entirely different morphology of his family name].

  Ivanov brought in the newspaper and showed the notice to Persikov.

  “Pevsikov,” grumbled Persikov, puttering around with the chamber in his office, “where do these tattlers learn everything?”

  Alas, the garbled name did not save the professor from events, and they began the very next day, immediately upsetting Persikov’s whole life.

  After a preliminary knock, Pankrat entered the office and handed Persikov a magnificent satiny calling card. “He’s out there,” Pankrat added timidly. Printed on the card in exquisite type was:

  Alfred Arkadievich

  Bronsky

  Contributor to the Moscow Publications

  Red Spark, Red Pepper, Red Journal, and Red Projector,

  and the newspaper Red Evening Moscow

  “Tell him to go to hell,” Persikov said in a monotone, and he threw the card under the table.

  Pankrat turned, walked out, and five minutes later he came back with a long-suffering face and a second specimen of the same card.

  “Are you making fun of me, or what?” Persikov croaked, and he looked terrifying.

  “From the GPU, the man says,” answered Pankrat, turning pale.

  Persikov grabbed the card with one hand, almost tearing it in half, and with the other hand he threw a pair of pincers onto the table. On the card there was a note written in curlicued handwriting: “I beg sincerely, with apologies, most esteemed professor, for you to receive me for three minutes in connection with a public matter of the press; I am also a contributor to the satirical journal The Red Raven, published by the GPU.”

  “Call him in,” said Persikov, choking.

  Immediately a young man with a smooth-shaven, oily face bobbed up behind Pankrat’s back. The face was striking for its permanently raised eyebrows, like an Asiatic’s, and the little agate eyes beneath them, which never for a second met the eyes of his interlocutor. The young man was dressed quite impeccably and fashionably: a long narrow jacket down to the knees, the widest of bell-bottomed trousers, and preternaturally wide patent-leather shoes with toes like hooves. In his hands the young man held a cane, a hat with a sharply pointed crown, and a notebook. “What do you want?” asked Persikov in a voice that made Pankrat step back behind the door immediately. “You were told I am busy.”

  Instead of answering, the young man bowed to the professor twice, once to the left and once to the right—and then his eyes wheeled all over the room, and immediately the young man made a mark in his notebook.

  “I’m busy,” said the professor, looking with revulsion into the guest’s little eyes, but he had no effect, since the eyes were impossible to catch.

  “A thousand apologies, esteemed professor, the young man began in a high-pitched voice, “for breaking in on you and taking up your precious time, but the news of your earth-shaking discovery—which has created a sensation all over the world—compels us to ask you for whatever explanations …”

  “What kind of explanations all over the world?” Persikov whined squeakily, turning yellow.
“I’m not obliged to give you any explanations or anything of the sort … I’m busy … terribly busy.”

  “What exactly is it you are working on?” the young man asked sweetly, making another mark in his notebook.

  “Oh, I … why do you ask? Do you intend to publish something?”

  “Yes,” answered the young man, and suddenly he started scribbling furiously in his notebook.

  “First of all, I have no intention of publishing anything until I complete my work—particularly in these papers of yours … Secondly, how do you know all this?” And Persikov suddenly felt that he was losing control.

  “Is the news that you have invented a ray of new life accurate?”

  “What new life?” the professor snapped angrily. “What kind of rubbish are you babbling? The ray I am working on has still not been investigated very much, and generally nothing is known about it as yet! It is possible that it may accelerate the vital processes of protoplasm.”

  “How much?” the young man inquired quickly. Persikov completely lost control. What a character! The devil only knows what this means! “What sort of philistine questions are these? Suppose I said, oh, a thousand times …”

  Rapacious joy flashed through the little eyes of the young man. “It produces giant organisms?”

  “Nothing of the sort! Well, true, the organisms I have obtained are larger than normal … Well, they do possess certain new characteristics … But, of course, the main thing is not the size, but the incredible speed of reproduction,” said Persikov to his misfortune, and he was immediately horrified by what he had said. The young man covered a page with his writing, turned it, and scribbled on.

  “But don’t you write that!” Persikov said hoarsely, in desperation, already surrendering and feeling that he was in the young man’s hands.

  “What are you writing there?”

  “Is it true that in forty-eight hours you can obtain two million tadpoles from frog roe?”

  “What quantity of roe?” Persikov shouted, again infuriated. “Have you ever seen a grain of roe … well, let’s say, of a tree frog?”

  “From half a pound?” the young man asked, undaunted.

  Persikov turned purple.

  “Who measures it like that? Ugh! What are you talking about? Well, of course, if you took half a pound of frog roe, then … perhaps … well, hell, perhaps about that number or maybe even many more.”

  Diamonds began to sparkle in the young man’s eyes, and in a single swoop he scratched out another page. “Is it true that this will cause a world revolution in animal husbandry?”

  “What kind of newspaper question is that?” howled Persikov. “And, generally, I’m not giving you permission to write rubbish. I can see by your face that you’re writing some sort of rotten trash!”

  “Your photograph, professor, I beg you urgently,” the young man said, slamming his notebook shut.

  “What? My photograph? For your stupid little journals? To go with that devilish garbage you’re scribbling there? No, no, no! … And I’m busy. I’II ask you to …”

  “Even if it’s an old one. And we’ll return it to you instantly.”

  “Pankrat!” the professor shouted in a rage.

  “My compliments,” the young man said and vanished.

  Instead of Pankrat, Persikov heard the strange rhythmic creaking of some machine behind the door, a metallic tapping across the floor, and in his office appeared a man of extraordinary bulk, dressed in a blouse and trousers made of blanket material. His left leg, a mechanical one, clicked and rattled, and in his hands he held a briefcase. His round shaven face, resembling a bulging yellow headcheese, offered an amiable smile. He bowed to the professor in military fashion and straightened up, causing his leg to twang like a spring. Persikov went numb.

  “Mr. Professor,” began the stranger in a pleasant, somewhat husky voice, “forgive an ordinary mortal for breaking in on your privacy.”

  “Are you a reporter?” asked Persikov. “Pankrat!”

  “Not at all, Mr. Professor,” replied the fat man. “Permit me to introduce myself: sea captain and contributor to the newspaper Industrial News, published by the Council of People’s Commissars.”

  “Pankrat!” Persikov shouted hysterically, and at that instant the telephone in the corner flashed a red signal and rang softly. “Pankrat!” repeated the professor. “Hello, what is it?”

  “Verzeihen Sie, bitte, Herr Professor,” croaked the telephone in German, “dass ich störe. Ich bin ein Mitarbeiter des Berliner Tageblatts.”

  “Pankrat!” The professor shouted into the receiver, “Bin momentan sehr beschäftigt und kann Sie deshalb jetzt nicht empfangen! … Pankrat!” And in the meantime the bell at the front entrance of the institute was starting to ring constantly.

  * * *

  “Nightmarish murder on Bronny Street!” howled unnatural hoarse voices twisting in and out of the thicket of lights among wheels and flashing headlights on the warm June pavement. “Nightmarish outbreak of chicken plague in the yard of Deacon Drozdov’s [Deacon Thrush’s] widow, with her portrait! … Nightmarish discovery of Professor Persikov’s ray of life!”

  Persikov jumped so violently that he nearly fell under the wheels of a car on Mokhovaia, and he furiously grabbed the newspaper.

  “Three kopeks, citizen!” shrieked the boy, and squeezing himself into the crowd on the sidewalk, he again started howling, “Red Evening Moscow, discovery of x-ray.”

  The stunned Persikov opened the newspaper and leaned against a lamp post. From a smudged frame in the left corner of the second page there stared at him a bald man with mad, unseeing eyes and a drooping jaw—the fruit of Alfred Bronsky’s artistic endeavors. “V. I. Persikov, who discovered the mysterious red ray,” announced the caption under the drawing. Below it, under the heading, “World Riddle,” the article began with the words: “‘Sit down, please,’ the venerable scientist Persikov said to us amiably …”

  Under the article was a prominent signature: “Alfred Bronsky (Alonso).”

  A greenish light flared up over the roof of the university, the fiery words Speaking Newspaper leapt across the sky, and a crowd immediately jammed Mokhovaia.

  “‘Sit down, please!!!’” a most unpleasant high-pitched voice, exactly like the voice of Alfred Bronsky, magnified a thousand times, suddenly boomed from the roof across the way, “the venerable scientist Persikov said to us amiably. ‘I have long desired to acquaint the proletariat of Moscow with the results of my discovery! …’”

  Persikov heard a quiet mechanical creaking behind his back, and someone tugged at his sleeve. Turning around, he saw the round yellow face of the mechanical leg’s owner. His eyes were wet with tears and his lips were shaking. “Me, Mr. Professor, me you refused to acquaint with the results of your amazing discovery, professor,” he said sadly, and he sighed heavily, “you made me lose two smackers.”

  He looked gloomily at the roof of the university where the invisible Alfred was ranting in the black maw of the speaker. For some reason, Persikov suddenly felt sorry for the fat man. “I didn’t say any ‘sit down, please’ to him!” he muttered, catching the words from the sky with hatred. He is simply a brazen scalawag, an extraordinary type! Forgive me, please, but really now—when you’re working and people break in … I don’t mean you, of course …”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Professor, you would give me at least a description of your chamber?” the mechanical man said ingratiatingly and mournfully.

  “After all, it makes no difference to you now …”

  “In three days, such a quantity of tadpoles hatches out of half a pound of roe that it’s utterly impossible to count them!” roared the invisible man in the loudspeaker.

  “Too-too,” shouted the cars on Mokhovaia hollowly.

  “Ho, ho, ho … How about that! Ho, ho, ho,” murmured the crowd, heads tilted back.

  “What a scoundrel! Eh?” Persikov hissed to the mechanical man, trembling with indignation. “How do you like that? Why I’m
going to lodge a complaint against him!”

  “Outrageous,” agreed the fat man.

  A most dazzling violet ray struck the professor’s eyes, and everything around flared up—the lamp post, a strip of block pavement, a yellow wall, curious faces.

  “It’s for you, professor,” the fat man whispered ecstatically and hung on to the professor’s sleeve like a lead weight. Something clicked rapidly in the air.

  “To the devil with all of them!” Persikov exclaimed despondently, ripping through the crowd with his lead weight. “Hey, taxi! To Prechistenka!”

  The beat-up old car, vintage 1924, clattered to a halt at the curb, and the professor began to climb into the landau while trying to shake loose from the fat man. “You’re in my way,” he hissed, covering his face with his fists against the violet light.

  “Did you read it? What are they yelling about? … Professor Persikov and his children were found on Little Bronnaia with their throats slit! …” voices shouted around the crowd.

  “I haven’t got any children, the sons of bitches,” Persikov bellowed and suddenly found himself in the focus of a black camera, which was shooting him in profile with an open mouth and furious eyes.

  “Krch … too … krch … too,” shrieked the taxi, and it lanced into the thicket of traffic.

  The fat man was already sitting in the landau, crowding the professor with his body heat.

  V. A CHICKEN’S TALE

  In a tiny provincial town, formerly called Troitsk [Trinity] and currently Steklovsk [Glass], in the Steklov district of the Kostroma province, onto the steps of a little house on the street formerly called Cathedral and currently Personal, came out a woman wearing a kerchief and a gray dress with calico bouquets on it—and she began to sob. This woman, the widow of the former Archpriest Drozdov of the former cathedral, sobbed so loudly that soon another woman’s head, in a downy woolen shawl, was stuck out the window of the house across the street, and it cried out, “What is it, Stepanovna? Another one?”

  “The seventeenth!” dissolving in sobs the widow Drozdova answered.