Monday Begins on Saturday

Chapter 1

I was approaching my destination. All around, pressing up against the very edge of the road, the green of the forest yielded now and then to a meadow overgrown with yellow sedge. The sun had been setting for an hour and still couldn’t make it, hanging low on the horizon. The car rolled along, crunching on a gravel surface. I steered around the bigger rocks, and each maneuver caused the empty canisters to rattle and clang in the trunk.

A couple of men came out of the woods on the right and stopped on the shoulder, looking in my direction. One of them raised his hand. I took my foot off the gas, scrutinizing the pair. They seemed to be hunters, young, and maybe a bit older than myself. Deciding I liked their looks, I stopped.

The one who had raised his hand stuck his swarthy, hawk-nosed face through the window and asked, grinning, “Could you give us a lift to Solovetz?”

The second man, with a reddish beard and without a moustache, peering over his shoulder, was also smiling. These were positively nice people.

“Sure thing. Get in,” I said. “One in the front and one in the back, “cause I have some junk on the rear seat.”

“A true philanthropist,” pronounced the hawk-nosed one joyfully as he slid the gun off his shoulder and sat down next to me.

The bearded one was looking through the rear door in a quandary of indecision and said, “Eh, could you maybe move it a little?”

I leaned over the back of the seat and helped him clean off a space occupied by a sleeping bag and a rolled-up tent. He sat down gingerly, placing his gun between his knees.

“Shut the door tighter,” I said.

Everything was going along normally. The car started off. The hawk-nosed one turned around and started an animated discourse about how much nicer it was to be riding in a passenger car than to be traveling on foot. The bearded one mumbled assent and kept slamming the door. “Pick up the poncho,” I counseled, looking at him through the rear-view mirror. “You’re pinching it in the door.” After five minutes everything finally settled down. I asked, “Is it some ten kilometers to Solovetz?”

“Right” answered Hawk-nose, “or a little more. Though, in truth, the road isn’t very good, made mostly for trucks.”

“The road is quite decent,” I contradicted. “I was promised I couldn’t get through at all.”

“On this road you can get through even in the fall.”

“Here, maybe but from Korobetz on it’s just a plain dirt road.”

“It’s a dry summer this year; everything is dried out from the drought.”

“Over by Zatonyie there have been some rains, they say,” noted the bearded one on the rear seat

“Who said?” asked Hawk-nose.

“Merlin said.”

For some reason they both laughed. I fished out my cigarettes, lighted up, and passed them around.

“Clara Tsetkin brand,” said Hawk-nose, studying the pack. “Are you from Leningrad?”

“Yes.”

“Touring?”

“Touring,” I said. “And you—are you from around here?”

“Native,” said Hawk-nose.

“Me, I am from Murmansk,” offered the bearded one.

“For Leningrad it must be all the same—North, whether it’s Murmansk or Solovetz,” said Hawk-nose.

“Well, not really,” I said politely.

“Are you going to stop over in Solovetz?” asked Hawk-nose.

“Of course,” I said. “It’s Solovetz I am going to.”

“You have friends or relatives there?”

“No,” I said, “just going to wait up for some friends. They are taking the shore route and Solovetz is our rendezvous point”

I saw a heap of gravel piled up ahead, braked, and said, “Hang on tight” The car bounced and pitched. Hawk-nose banged his nose on the gun barrel. The engine roared, rocks flew up against the undercarriage.

“Poor old car,” said Hawk-nose.

“Can’t be helped,” I said.

“It’s not everyone who would drive on a road like this with his own car.”

“I would,” I said. The freshly graveled section came to an end.

“Oh, so it’s not your own car,” guessed Hawk-nose with some tone of disappointment, it seemed to me. I felt piqued.

“And what sense would there be in buying a car so you could drive on pavement? Where there is pavement there is nothing of interest and where it’s interesting—there’s no pavement.”

“Yes, of course,” Hawk-nose commented diplomatically.

“It’s dumb to make an idol out of a car,” I asserted.

“So it is,” said the bearded one. “But not everyone thinks so.”

We started talking cars and came to the conclusion that if you were going to buy anything at all, a GAZ-69 would be best, but unfortunately they were not for sale to the public. Later Hawk-nose asked, “So, where do you work?”

I answered, “Colossal!”

Exclaimed Hawk-nose, “A programmer! That’s exactly what we are looking for. Listen. Quit your institute and join up with us!”

“And what do you have to offer?”

“What do we have?” asked Hawk-nose, turning around.

“Aldan-three,” said The Beard.

“A well-endowed machine,” I said. “Has it been running well?”

“Well, how shall I say…

“I get it,” I said.

“As a matter of fact, it hasn’t been debugged yet,” said The Beard. “Stay here with us and fix it up.”

“We’ll arrange your transfer before you can count to two,” added Hawk-nose.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

“As with all science—the happiness of man.”

“Understood,” I said. “Something to do with space?”

“That too,” said Hawk-nose.

“Well, you know what they say—let well enough alone,” said I.

“Big city and good pay,” said The Beard in a low voice, but I heard him.

“Don’t,” I said, “don’t judge it in terms of money.”

“No, really, I was just kidding,” said The Beard. “It’s his idea of a joke,” said Hawk-nose. “You couldn’t find more interesting work anywhere else than with us.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I am positive.”

“But I am not convinced.”

Hawk-nose chuckled. “We’ll talk about that some more,” he said. “Are you going to stay long in Solovetz?”

“Two days maximum.”

“So we’ll talk on day two.”

The Beard announced: “Personally, I see the hand of fate in this. There we were walking through the woods and we meet a programmer. I sense that we are committed.”

“You really need a programmer that badly?” I asked.

“Our need is dire indeed.”

“I’ll talk to the fellows,” I promised. “I know some who are unhappy.”

“We don’t need just any programmer,” said Hawk-nose. “Programmers are in short supply, and are spoiled, but we don’t need a prima donna.”

“That’s more complicated,” I said.

Hawk-nose started counting his fingers. “We need a programmer who: a—is not spoiled; b—is a volunteer; c—is willing to live in a dorm—”

“D,” picked up The Beard, “will take one hundred and twenty rubles.”

“And how about wings?” I asked. “Or, say, a halo around the head? You are searching for one in a thousand!”

“But all we need is just that one,” said Hawk-nose.

“But what if there’s only nine hundred?”

“We’ll settle for nine-tenths.”

The forest fell away on either side; we crossed a bridge and ran along between potato fields.

“Nine o’clock,” said Hawk-nose. “Where are you planning to spend the night?”

“I’ll sleep in the car. How late are the stores open?”

“The stores are already closed,” said Hawk-nose. “You could stay in the dorm,” said The Beard. “I have an extra bunk bed in my room.”

“You can’t park near the dorm,” Hawk-nose said dreamily.

“Yeah, I guess so,” said The Beard, chuckling for some private reason.

“We can park the car over by the police,” said Hawk-nose.

“That’s a lot of folderol,” said The Beard. “Here I am prattling nonsense, and you trail right along. How’s he going to get in the dorm?”

“Right, right, damn it,” said Hawk-nose. “Quite so; can’t get through a workday without forgetting one of these sidelights.”

“How about transvecting him?”

“That’s a no-no,” said Hawk-nose. “You are not dealing with a sofa, you know. And you are no Cristobal Junta, and neither am I…”

“Don’t worry yourselves,” I said. “It’s not the first time I slept in the car.”

Suddenly I felt a terrible yen to sleep between sheets. It had been four nights that I had been sleeping in a bag.

“I’ve got it,” said Hawk-nose. “Ho-ho—Iznakurnozh!”(lzba na kuryikh nozhkakh: Log cottage on hen’s legs, of Russian folklore)

“Right!” exclaimed The Beard. “Over to Lukomoniye with him!”

“Honest to God, I can sleep over in the car,” I said.

“You are going to sleep in a house,” said Hawk-nose, “on relatively clean sheets. There must be some way we can repay you….”

“You wouldn’t want us to push a ruble on you, would you?” said The Beard.

We entered the town. Ancient stout fences, mighty log houses with blackened timbers and narrowish windows, decorated with filigreed fronts and the regulation carved wooden cockerels on the roofs, stretched on both sides of the street. Here and there a dirty brick structure with iron doors evoked the half-known word for grain stone. The street was wide and straight and bore the name of Peace Prospect. Up ahead, toward the center of town, I could make out some two-story town houses with interspersed open squares.

“Turn right at the next alley,” said Hawk-nose.

I switched on the turn signal, braked, and turned right. Here the road was overgrown with grass, but a brand-new car manufactured in the Ukraine was snuggled up against one of the gates. House numbers were hung over the posterns, and the numerals were almost invisible against the rusty tinplate. The alley was modishly titled Lukomoriye Street.(A magical place in Russian literature.) It was rather narrow and squeezed between sturdy palisades that must have been erected in those times when Swedish and Norwegian pirates raided the lands.

“Halt,” said Hawk-nose. I braked, and he bumped his nose on the gun barrel again. “Now, then,” he said, massaging his nose. “You wait for me here and I will go to arrange everything.”

“Really, you shouldn’t,” I said, for the last time.

“No more arguments. Volodia, keep him in your sights.”

Hawk-nose climbed out of the car, and, bending down, squeezed through the low gate. The house was invisible behind the towering gray stockade. The postern was altogether remarkable, big enough for a locomotive depot, hung on rusty hinges that must have weighed a stone apiece.

I read the signs with growing astonishment. There were three. On the left wing, coldly gleaming with thick glass, there was an imposing blue sign with silver letters:

On the right wing hung a rusty sheet-metal tablet reading, Lukomoriye St., No. 13, N.K. Gorynitch, (Reference to Zmei Gorynitch, a fire-breathing dragon of Russian folklore) while under it, in shameless splendor, a piece of plywood bore in inked letters leaning every which way:

“What CAT?” I asked. “Committee for Advanced Technology?”

The bearded one tittered. “Main thing is—don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s quite amusing here with us, but everything will be quite under control.”

I got out of the car and proceeded to wipe the windshield. Something suddenly scuffled overhead. I took a look. Settling in and propping himself comfortably on the gate was a gray-and-white tomcat of gigantic proportions such as I had never seen before. Having settled himself to his satisfaction, he bestowed me with a sated and indifferent gaze out of his yellow eyes. “Kiss-kiss-kiss,” I said mechanically. The cat politely but coldly opened his huge and toothy jaws, delivered a dull throaty growl, and turned away to look inside the yard. The voice of Hawk-nose issued thence:

“Basil, old friend, may I be permitted to disturb you?”

The bolt squealed. The cat got up and noiselessly dived into the yard. The gates swayed heavily, there was an awful cracking and screeching, and the left wing of the gate slowly swung open, followed by Hawk-nose’s straining and reddened face.

“Philanthropist!” he called. “Drive in!”

I got back in the car and slowly drove into the yard. The yard was quite extensive. In its depths stood a house constructed of huge logs, and in front of it a squat giant of an oak with a thick, wide, and heavy crown, which screened the roof from view. A path paved with flagstones led from the gate to the house, curving around the oak. To the right there was a vegetable garden, and to the left, in the middle of the lawn, reared a well-house with windlass, blackened by time and covered with moss.

I parked the car off to the side, turned off the engine, and got out.

The bearded Volodia also climbed out, leaned the gun against the body of the car, and started to shrug on his rucksack.

“Here you are, all settled,” he said.

Hawk-nose was closing the gates with groanings and squealings for accompaniment while I, feeling a bit out of place, was looking about, not quite knowing what to do with myself.

“Ah, and here’s the landlady!” cried The Beard. “And how be ye, Granny, Naina, light of my eyes, Kievna!

The landlady must have been well on the other side of a hundred. She came toward us slowly, leaning on a knobby cane, dragging her feet clad in felt boots with galoshes over them. Her face was a dark sepia web of wrinkles, out of which jutted a nose as sharp and curved as a yatagan. and her eyes peered pale and dim, as though obscured by cataracts.

“Greetings, greetings, my young one,” she pronounced in an unexpectedly resonant basso. “So this will be the new programmer? Hello, friend, welcome, and make yourself at home!”

I bowed, feeling well advised to keep quiet. Over the black kerchief tied under her chin, the old hag’s head was covered with a nylon scarf, which was gaily decorated with a picture of the Atomium and bearing the same inscription in several languages: Brussels World Fair. Sparse bristles stuck out under her nose and on her chin. She was dressed in black broadcloth and a quilted vest

“Here’s the situation, Naina Kievna,” said Hawk-nose, wiping rust from his palms. “We have to put up our new colleague for two nights. May I present… Mmm…

“Don’t bother,” said the crone, riveting me with her gaze. “I can see for myself. Privalov, Alexander Ivanovich, 1938, male, Russian, member of VLKSM, no, no, has not participated, had not, was not, but will have, my crystal one, a long, long road and an interest in a government house, and what you should fear and avoid, my very diamond, is an ill-willed redheaded man, and won’t you gild my palm, my precious. .

“Ha-hm!” Hawk-nose pronounced loudly, and the crone stopped short.

“Just call me Sasha….” I squeezed out the previously prepared phrase.

“And where shall I put him?” inquired the crone.

“In the spare room, of course,” said Hawk-nose in a somewhat irritated manner.

“And who will be responsible?”

“Naina Kievna!” roared Hawk-nose in the best rolling tones of a provincial tragedian. He grabbed the old hag under the arm and dragged her off toward the house. You could hear them arguing.

“But we agreed!”

“And what if he swipes something?”

“Can’t you be quiet! He is a programmer, don’t you understand? A Comsomol! Well educated!”

“And what if he starts sucking his teeth?”

I turned toward Volodia, ill at ease. Volodia tittered.

“It’s a bit embarrassing,” I said.

“Don’t worry; it’s going to work out just fine…” He was going to say something else, when the crone started shouting: “And the sofa—how about the sofa?”

I started nervously and said, “You know what? I think I’d better go, no?

“Let’s have no more of that kind of talk,” Volodia said decisively. “Everything will be worked out. It’s just that the old woman is looking to have her due, and Roman and I don’t have any cash.”

“I will pay,” I said. Now I wanted to leave very badly. I can’t stand these so-called daily-life collisions.

Volodia shook his head. “Nothing of the sort. Here he comes. Everything’s in order.”

The hawk-nosed Roman came up to us, took me by the arm, and said, “Well, it’s all fixed. Let’s go.”

“Listen. It doesn’t feel right, somehow,” I said. “After all, she is not obliged…

But we were already on the way to the house.

“She is obliged—she is obliged,” repeated Roman.

Having circumnavigated the oak, we came up to the rear entrance. Roman pushed on the naugahyde-covered door, and we found ourselves in a large, clean but poorly lighted entryway. The old hag waited for us with compressed lips, and hands folded on her stomach.

At the sight of us, she boomed out vindictively, “And the statement—let’s have that statement now! Stating thus and so: have received such and such, from such and such; which person has turned over the above-mentioned to the undersigned. .

Roman yelped weakly, and we entered the assigned room. It was cool, with a single window hung with a calico curtain.

Roman said in a tense voice, “Make yourself at home.”

The old woman immediately inquired from the entry in a jealous tone, “And he won’t be sucking his teeth?”

Roman barked without turning around, “No, he won’t! I’m telling you there are no teeth to worry over.”

“Then let’s go and write up the statement.”

Roman raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes, shook his head, but still left the room. I looked around. There wasn’t much furniture. A massive table covered with a sere gray cloth with a fringe stood by the window, and in front of it—a rickety stool. A vast sofa was placed against a bare wood wall, and a wardrobe stood against the other wall, which was decorated with assorted wallpaper. The wardrobe was stuffed with old trash (felt boots, bald fur coats, torn caps, and earmuffs)—A large Russian stove jutted into the room resplendent with fresh calcimine, and a large murky mirror in a peeling frame hung in the opposite corner. The floor was scoured clean and covered with striped runners.

Two voices boomed on in a duet behind the wall: the old woman’s voice buzzed on the same note; Roman’s went up and down.

“Tablecloth, inventory number two hundred and forty-five…

“Are you going to list each floorboard?”

“Table, dining…

“Put down the stove, too.”

“You must be orderly… Sofa…

I went up to the window and drew the curtain. Outside was the oak, and nothing else could be seen. Quite evidently it was a truly ancient tree. Its bark was gray and somehow dead looking, and its monstrous roots, which had worked out of the ground, were covered with red-and-white lichen. “Put down the oak, too!” said Roman behind the wall. A fat, greasy book lay on the windowsill. I ruffled it absentmindedly, came away from the window, and sat down on the sofa. All at once, I felt sleepy. Remembering that I had driven the car for fourteen hours that day, I decided that perhaps there was no point in all this rush, that my back ached, that everything was jumbled in my head, that I didn’t give a hang about the tiresome hag, and that I wished everything would get settled so I could lie down and go to sleep….

“There you are,” said Roman, appearing in the doorway. “The formalities are over.” He waved his hands, fanning ink-stained fingers. “Our digits are fatigued; we wrote and wrote…. Go to bed. We are leaving, and you can rest easy. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Wait,” I said, listless.

“Where?”

“Here, and at the post office.”

“You’ll not leave tomorrow… chances are?”

“Probably not. Most likely—the day after tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll see you again. Our liaison is still ahead of us.” He smiled and went out with a wave of his hand. I should see him out and say good-bye to Volodia, I thought lackadaisically, and lay down. And there was the old woman in the room again. I got up. She looked hard at me for some time.

“I fear me, old fellow, that you’ll be smacking through your teeth,” she said.

“No I won’t be,” I said. Then, exhausted, “It’s sleeping I’ll be.”

“Then lie down and sleep…. Just pay me and welcome to snooze.”

I reached for my wallet in the back pocket. “What do I owe you?”

The crone raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Let’s say a ruble for the quarters. . Fifty kopecks for the bed-clothes—that’s my own, not G.I. For two nights, that comes out to be three rubles…. As to what you’ll throw in for generosity’s sake—that’s for my troubles, you know—that I couldn’t say…

I proffered her a five-ruble note.

“Make it a ruble out of generosity for now,” said I, “and then we’ll see.”

The crone snatched the money and retired, muttering something about change. She was absent a fair time and I was about to forget the change and the bed-sheets, but she came back and laid a handful of dirty coppers on the table.

“And here’s your change, governor,” she said. “One nice ruble, exactly; you needn’t count.”

“I won’t count,” I said. “How about the sheets?”

“I’ll make your bed right away. You go take a walk in the yard, and I’ll get right to it.”

I went out, extricating my pack of cigarettes. The sun had finally set and the white night had arrived. Dogs were barking somewhere in the distance. I sat down by the oak on a garden bench that had sunk into the ground, lighted up, and stared at the pale, starless sky. The cat appeared noiselessly out of somewhere, glanced at me with his fluorescent eyes, and then rapidly climbed up the oak and disappeared in its foliage. I forgot about him at once, and started when he began pottering above me. Some sort of rubbish fell on my head. “You darned…” I said aloud, and shook myself. The desire to sleep became overwhelming. The crone came out, and wended her way to the well, not seeing me. I took this to mean that the bed was ready, and went back to the room.

The perverse crone had made my bed on the floor. Oh no you don’t, I thought, slid the bolt on the door, dragged the bedding over onto the sofa, and began to undress. The somber light fell through the window; the cat was thrashing about noisily in the oak. I shook my head, to dislodge the rubbish from my hair. It was strange and unexpected rubbish: largish dry fish scales. Prickly to sleep on, I thought. I fell on the pillow and was immediately asleep.

Chapter 2

I woke up in the middle of the night because a conversation was going on in the room. Two voices were talking in a barely audible whisper. They were very similar, but one was a bit stifled and hoarse and the other betrayed an extreme irritation.

“Stop wheezing,” whispered the irritated one. “Can’t you do without it?”

“I can,” responded the stifled one, and began to hack.

“Be quiet!” hissed the irritated voice.

“It’s the wheezes,” explained the stifled one. “The morning cough of the smoker… ” He started hacking again.

“Get out of here,” said the irritated one.

“He is asleep, in any case…”

“Who is he? Where did he come from?”

“How should I know?”

“What a disgusting development… such phenomenal bad luck.”

Again the neighbors can’t get to sleep, I thought, half awake. I imagined I was at home. I have these neighbors there, two brother physicists, who adore working through the night. Toward two A.M. they run out of cigarettes and then they invade my room and start feeling about for them, banging the furniture and cursing at each other.

I grabbed the pillow and flung it at random. Something fell with a crash, and then silence ensued.

“You can return my pillow,” I said, “and welcome to leave. The cigarettes are on the table.”

The sound of my own voice awakened me completely. I sat up. Somewhere dogs were barking despondently; behind the wall the old woman snored menacingly. At last I remembered where I was. There was nobody in the room.

In the dim light I saw the pillow on the floor and the trash that had fallen from the wardrobe. The old crone will have my head, I thought, jumping up. The floor was icy and I stepped over on the runners. The snoring stopped. I froze. The floorboards creaked; something crackled and rustled in the corners. The crone gave a deafening whistle and continued her snoring. I picked up the pillow and threw it on the sofa. The trash smelled of dog. The hanger rod had fallen off its support on one side. I re-hung it and began picking up the old trash. No sooner had I hung up the last coat, than the pole came away again and, sliding along the wallpaper, hung by one nail again. The crone stopped snoring and I turned cold with sweat. Somewhere, nearby, a cock crowed loudly. To the soup pot with you, I thought venomously. The crone behind the wall set to turning, the bedspring snapping and creaking. I waited, standing on one foot.

Someone in the yard said softly, “Time for bed; we have sat up too long today.” The voice was youthful and female.

“So be it, it’s off to sleep,” responded the other voice. There was a protracted yawn.

“No more splashing for you today?”

“It’s too cold. Let’s go bye-bye.”

All was quiet. The old hag growled and muttered, and I returned cautiously to the sofa. I’ll get up early in the morning and fix everything up properly.

I turned on my right side, pulled the blanket over my ear, and it suddenly became crystal clear to me that I wasn’t at all sleepy—that I was hungry. Oh-oh, I thought. Severe measures had to be taken at once, and I took them.

Consider, for instance, a system of integral equations of the type commonly found in star statistics: both unknowns are functions to be integrated. Naturally the only solutions possible are by successive numerical approximations and only with computers such as the RECM. I recalled our RECM. The main control panel is painted the color of boiled cream. Gene is laying a package on the panel and is opening it unhurriedly.

“What have you got?”

“Mine is with cheese and sausage.” Polish, lightly smoked, in round slices.

“Poor you, it’s married you should be. I have cutlets, with garlic, home-made. And a dill pickle.”

No, there are two dill pickles… Four cutlets, and to make things even, four pickles. And four pieces of buttered bread.

I threw off the blanket and sat up. Maybe there was something left in the car? No—I had already cleaned out everything there was. The only remaining item was the cookbook that I had got for Valya’s mother, who lived in Liezhnev.

Let’s see, how does it go? Sauce piquant… half a glass of vinegar, two onions, and a pinch of pepper. Served with meat dishes…. I can see it now with miniature steaks. What a rotten trick, I thought, not just any old steaks, but miniature ones. I jumped up and ran to the window. The night air was distinctly laden with the odor of miniature beefsteaks. Out of some nether depths of my subconscious this floated up: “Such dishes were usually served him in the taverns as: marinated vegetable soup, brains with fresh peas, pickles (I swallowed), and the perpetual layer cake…” I must distract myself, I thought, and took the book on the windowsill. It was The Gloomy Morning by Alexis Tolstoi. I opened it at random.

“Makhno, having broken the sardine can opener, pulled out a mother-of-pearl knife with half a hundred blades, and continued to operate with it, opening tins with pineapple (Now I’ve had it, I though), French pâté, with lobsters, which filled the room with a pungent smell.”

Gingerly I put down the book and sat down on the stool by the table. At once a strong, appetizing odor permeated the room: it must have been the odor of lobsters. I began to ponder why I had never tried a lobster before, or, say, oysters. With Dickens, everybody eats oysters; working with folding knives, they cut huge slabs of bread, spread them thickly with butter…. I began to smooth the tablecloth with nervous movements. On it, latent food stains appeared clearly visible. Much and tasty eating has been done on it, I thought. Probably lobsters and brains with peas. Or miniature steaks with sauce piquant. Also large and medium-sized steaks. People must have sighed, replete with food, and sucked their teeth in huge satisfaction. There was no cause for sighing and so I took to sucking my teeth.

I must have been doing it loudly and ravenously because the old woman behind the wall creaked her bed, muttered angrily, rattled something noisily, and suddenly entered my room. She had on a long gray nightshirt, and she was carrying a plate, so that a genuine and not an imaginary odor of food spread through the room. She was smiling, and set the plate directly in front of me and rumbled sweetly, “Dig in, dear friend Alexander Petrovitch. Help yourself to what God has sent, by his unworthy messenger….

“Really now, really, Naina Kievna,” I was stammering, you shouldn’t let me disturb you so….

But my hand was already holding a fork with a horn handle, which had appeared from somewhere, and I began to eat while the old woman stood by and nodded and repeated, “Eat, my friend, eat to your health. .”

And I ate it all. The dish was baked potatoes with melted butter.

“Naina Kievna,” I said earnestly, “you have saved me from starving to death.”

“Finished?” said Naina Kievna, in a voice somehow tainted with hostility.

“Yes, and magnificently fed. A tremendous thanks to you! You can’t even imagine how—”

“What’s there to imagine?” she interrupted, now definitely irritated. “Filled up, I say? Then give me the plate… The plate I say!”

“P-please,” I mumbled.

“ ‘Please and please.’ I have to feed you types for a please…”

“I can pay,” said I, growing angry.

“ ‘I can pay, I can pay.’ ” She went to the door. “And what if this sort of thing is not paid for at all? And you needn’t have lied…”

“What do you mean—lied?”

“Lied, that’s how. You said yourself you wouldn’t suck your teeth!”

She fell silent and disappeared through the door.

What’s with her? I thought. A strange old bag.

Maybe she noticed the clothes rack? There was the sound of creaking springs as she tossed in her bed, grumbling and complaining. Then she started singing softly to some barbarous tune: “I’ll roll and I’ll wallow, fed up on Ivash’s meat.”

Cold night air drew from the window. Shivering, I got up to return to the sofa, and it dawned on me that I had locked the door before retiring. Discomfited, I approached the door and reached out to check the bolt, but no sooner had my hand touched the cold iron, than everything began to swim before my eyes. I was, in fact, lying on the sofa, facedown in the pillow, my finger feeling the cool logs of the wall.

I lay there for some time in a state of shock, slowing growing aware that the old hag was snoring away somewhere nearby, and a conversation was in progress in the room. Someone was declaiming tutorially in a quiet tone:

“The elephant is the largest of all the animals on earth. On his face there is a large lump of meat, which is called a trunk because it’s empty and hollow like a pipe. He bends and stretches it every which way and uses it in place of a hand…”

Growing icy cold and curious, I turned over gingerly on my right side. The room was as empty as before. The voice continued, even more didactic.

“Wine, used in moderation, is exceedingly salutary for the stomach; but when drunk to excess, it produces vapors that debase the human to the level of dumb animals. You have seen drunks on occasion, and still remember the righteous indignation that welled up in you…

I sat up with a jerk, lowering my feet to the floor. The voice stopped. It was my impression that it was coming from somewhere behind the wall. Everything in the room was as before; even the coat rack, to my astonishment, hung in its proper place. And to my further surprise, I was again very hungry.

“Tincture, ex vitro of antimony,” announced the voice abruptly. I shivered. “Magiphterium antimon angelii salae. Bafllii oleum vitri antimonii elixiterium antimoiale!” There was the sound of frank tittering. “What a delirium!” said the voice and continued, ululating. “Soon these eyes, not yet defeated, will no longer see the sun, but let them not be shut ere being told of my forgiveness and salvation.

This be from The Spirit or Moral Thoughts of the Renowned Jung. Extracted from his Nighttime Meditations. Sold in Saint Petersburg and Riga, in the bookstore of Sveshnikov for two rubles in hard cover.” Somebody sobbed. “That, too, is delirium,” said the voice, and declaimed with expression:

Now I understood where they were talking. The voice came from the corner, where the murky mirror hung.

“And now,” said the voice, “the following: “Everything is the unified I: this I is cosmic. The union with disunion, arising from the eclipse of enlightenment, the I sublimates with spiritual attainment.’”

“And where is that derived from?” I said. I was not expecting an answer. I was convinced I was asleep.

“Sayings from the Upanishads,” the voice replied readily.

“And what are the Upanishads?” I wasn’t sure I was asleep anymore.

“I don’t know,” said the voice.

I got up and tiptoed to the mirror. I couldn’t see my reflection. The curtain, the corner of the stove, and a whole lot of things were reflected in the cloudy glass. But I wasn’t among them.

“What’s the matter?” asked the voice. “Are there questions?”

“Who’s talking?” I asked, peering behind the mirror. Many dead spiders and a lot of dust were there. Then I pressed my left eye with my index finger. This was an old formula for detecting hallucinations, which I had read in To Believe or Not to Believe? the gripping book by B. B. Bittner. It is sufficient to press on the eyeball, and all the real objects, in contradistinction to the hallucinated, will double. The mirror promptly divided into two and my worried and sleep-dulled face appeared in it. There was a draft on my feet. Curling my toes, I went to the window and looked out.

There was nobody there and neither was the oak. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The moss-covered frame of the well with its windlass, my car, and the gates were distinctly visible directly in front of me. Still asleep, I decided, to calm myself. My glance fell on the disheveled book on the windowsill. In the last dream, it was the third volume of Lives of the Martyrs; now I read the title as: P.I. Karpov, Creativity of the Mentally Ill and Its influence on the Development of Science, Art, and Technology. Teeth chattering from a sudden chill, I thumbed the pages and looked through the colored illustrations. Next I read “Verse No. 2”:

The floor suddenly swayed beneath me. There was a piercing and prolonged creaking, then, like the rumble of a distant earthquake, sounded a rolling “Ko-o… Ko-o. .Ko-o…” The house swayed as though it were a boat in the waves. The yard behind the window slid sideways, and a gargantuan chicken leg stretched out from beneath, stuck its claws into the ground, raked deep furrows in the grass, and disappeared below. The floor tilted steeply, and I sensed that I was falling. I grabbed something soft, struck something solid with head and side, and fell off the sofa. I was lying on the boards clutching the pillow that had fallen with me. It was quite bright in the room. Behind the window somebody was methodically clearing his throat.

“So-o, then…” said a well-poised male voice. “In a certain kingdom, in an ancient tsardom, there was and lived a tsar by the name of… mmm… well, anyway, it’s really not all that important. Let’s say… me-eh… Polouekt. He had three sons. tsareviches. The first… me-eh… the third was an imbecile, but the first…?”

Bending down like a trooper under fire, I sneaked up to the window and looked out. The oak was in its place. Tomcat Basil stood on his hind legs with his back to it, immersed in deep thought. In his teeth, he clamped the stem of a water lily. He kept looking down at his feet and sounding a drawn-out “Me-eh-eh.” Then he shook his head, put his front legs behind his back, and, hunching over like a lecturing professor, glided smoothly away from the oak.

“Very well,” he enunciated through his teeth. “So, once upon a time there lived a tsar and tsarina. And they had one son… me-eh… an imbecile, naturally…”

Chagrined, he spit out the flower, and, frowning mightily, rubbed his forehead.

“A desperate situation,” he stated. “But I do remember this and that! “Ha-ha-ha! There’ll be something to feast on: a stallion for dinner, a brave lad for supper.’ Now, where would that be from? But, Ivan, you can figure out for yourself, the imbecile replies: “Hey, you, revolting monstrosity, stuffing yourself before you caught the snow-white swan!’ And later, of course, the tempered arrow and off with all the three heads. Ivan removes the three hearts and carts them home to his mother; the cretin…. Now, how do you like that for a gift!” The cat laughed sardonically, and then sighed. “Then there is that sickness—sclerosis,” he remarked.

Sighing again, he turned back toward the oak and began to sing. “Krou, krou, my little ones! Krou, krou, my pigeonlets! I… me-eh… I slaked your thirst with the dew of my eyes… more exactly—watered you.

He sighed for the third time and walked on silently for some time. As he reached the oak, he yelled out abruptly in a very unmusical voice, “Choice morsel she finished not!”

A massive psaltery suddenly appeared in his paws; I didn’t notice at all how he came by it. Desperately he struck with his paw, and, catching the strings with his claws, bellowed even louder, as though trying to drown out the music:

He stopped and paced a while, banging the strings in silence; then he sang in a low, uncertain voice:

He returned to the oak, leaned the psaltery against it, and scratched behind his ear with a hind leg.

“Work, work, work,” he said, “and nothing but work!”

He placed his paws behind his back again and went off to the left of the oak, muttering, “It has come to me, oh great tsar, that in the splendid city of Baghdad, there lived a tailor, by the name…” He dropped to all fours, arched his back, and hissed angrily. “It’s especially bad with the names! Abu… Au… Somebody Ibn, whoever…. So-o, all right, let’s say Polouekt. Polouekt Ibn, me-eh. . Polouektovich… In any event, I can’t recall what happened to him. Dog take it, let’s start another.”

I lay with my stomach on the sill in a trance-like state, watching the unfortunate Basil wandering about the oak, now to the left and then to the right, muttering, coughing, meowing and mooing, standing on all fours in his efforts—in a word, suffering endlessly. The diapason of his knowledge was truly grandiose. He did not know a single tale or song more than halfway, but to make up for this, the repertoire included Russian, Ukrainian, West Slavic, German, English—I think even Japanese, Chinese, and African—fairy tales, legends, sermons, ballads, songs, romances, ditties, and refrains. The misfunction drove him into such a rage that several times he flung himself at the oak, ripping its bark with his claws, hissing and spitting while his eyes glowed with a satanic gleam and his furry tail, thick as a log, would now point at the zenith, then twitch spasmodically, then lash his sides. But the only song he carried to the end was “Tchizhik Pizhic,”(Common children’s song)and the only fairy tale he recounted at all coherently was “The House that Jack Built” in the Marshak translation, and even that with several excisions. Gradually—apparently fatiguing—his speech acquired more and more catlike accent. “Ah me, in the field and meadow,” he sang. “the plow goes by itself, and… me-e… ah… me-a-ou…and behind that plow the master himself has paced… or is it wended his way…?” Finally, altogether spent, he sat down on his tail and stayed thus for some time, his head bent low. Then, meowing softly and sorrowfully, he took the psaltery under his arm and wandered off on the dewy grass, haltingly on three legs.

I climbed off the sill and dropped the book. I distinctly remembered that the last time it was Creativity of the Mentally Ill, and was sure that was the book which had fallen on the floor. But the book I picked up and placed on the sill was The Solution of Crimes by A. Swanson and O. Wendell. Dully I opened it, scanned a few samples, and at once I was sure that I sensed there was someone strangled hanging in the oak. Fearfully I raised my eyes. From the lower branches, a wet silvery shark tail hung. It was swinging heavily in the gusts of the morning wind.

I shied violently and struck the back of my head on something hard. A telephone rang loudly. I looked around. I was lying crosswise on the sofa, the blanket had slid to the floor, and the early sun was shining into the window through the oak leaves.

Chapter 3

The phone kept ringing. I rubbed my eyes, gazed through the window (the oak was in its place), studied the coat hanger (it, too, was in place). The telephone kept on. Behind the wall it was quiet in the old woman’s room. So I leaped to the floor, opened the door (the bolt was shot), and came out in the entry. The telephone rang insistently. It stood on a shelf above a large water cask—a quite modern white plastic phone, such as I have seen in the movies and the director’s office. I picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Who’s this?” asked a piercing female voice.

“Whom do you want?”

“Is that Izbakurnozh?”

“What?”

“I am saying—is it the Izba on Hen’s Legs or not? Who is talking?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s the Izba. Whom do you want?”

“Oh, hell,” said the voice. “Take this telephonogram.”

“Let’s have it.”

“Write it down.”

“One minute,” I said. “I’ll get pencil and paper.”

I brought over a notebook and a pencil.

“I am listening.”

“Telephonogram number two hundred and six,” said the female voice, “to Citizeness Gorynitch, Naina Kievna.

“Not so fast…. Kievna…. Next?”

“You are hereby requested… to appear today the twenty-eighth of July… of this year… at midnight… at the annual all-union fly-in… Have you got that down?”

“I have.”

“The first meeting will take place… on Bald Mountain. Formal dress. Employment of mechanized transport at your own expense. Signed… Department Manager…Eich… Em… Viy…”*

“Who?”

“Viy! Eich Em Viy.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Viy! Khron Monadovitch. Don’t you know the department manager?”

“I don’t know him,” I said. “Spell it.”

“Hell’s bells! All right: Vampire, incubus, yang-yin… Have you got it down?”

“I think so,” I said. “It comes out: Viy.”(Leader of ghost goblins and supernatural monsters)

“Who?”

“Do you have polyps or something? I can’t understand you.”

“Vladimir, Ivan, Yakov.”

“Right. Repeat the telephonogram.” I repeated it.

“Correct. Sent by Onoukina. Who took it?”

“Privalov.”

“Greetings, Privalov! Been in service here long?” “Poodles serve,” I said angrily. “I work!”

“Good, good. Work on. See you at the fly-in.”

Tones sounded. I hung up and returned to my room. The morning was cool so I did my setting-up exercises hurriedly and dressed. What was transpiring seemed exceedingly curious and interesting to me. The telephonogram seemed to associate strangely in my consciousness with the events of the night, although I had no specific idea whatsoever exactly in what way. However that might be, certain ideas were beginning to circulate in my head, and my imagination was definitely aroused.

Everything that I was here witness to, was not altogether unfamiliar to me. I had read of such incidents before and remembered how the behavior of people finding themselves in analogous situations seemed to me extraordinarily and irritatingly inept. Instead of fully exploiting the enticing perspectives that were presented to them through a fortunate opportunity, they became frightened and struggled to return themselves to the humdrum and routine. One such exponent actually advised the reader to keep a good distance from the veil dividing our world from the unknown, threatening physical and spiritual maiming. I did not yet know how the events would develop, but I was already prepared to immerse myself in them enthusiastically.

Wandering about the room in search of a pitcher or mug, I went on with my inner discourse. These poltroons, I thought, resembled certain scientist-experimenters—very persistent, very hard-working, but totally lacking in imagination and consequently very cautious. Having obtained a non-trivial result, they shied away from it, precipitately explaining it as experimental contamination, and were in fact fleeing from the innovative, because they were, in truth, much too tied to the old concepts comfortably pigeonholed within the boundaries of authoritative theories. I was already designing some experiments with the shape-shifter book—it was still lying on the sill, but was now The Last Exile by Oldridge—and with the mirror and with tooth-sucking. I had several questions for tomcat Basil, and the mermaid living in the oak also presented a definite puzzle, although at times it seemed to me that I had only dreamed of her. I have nothing against mermaids, but I couldn’t picture how one could be climbing trees…… But on the other hand, what about the scales?

I found a dipper on the bucket by the telephone, but the bucket was empty and I went off to the well. The sun had already risen quite high. There was the distant bum of cars, a policeman’s whistle, and the sound of a helicopter making its way ponderously across the sky. I approached the well and, noting with satisfaction that a battered tin bucket hung from the chain, began to unwind the windlass. The bucket, bouncing on the walls, went down into the black depth. There was a splash, the chain growing tight. I turned the crank, eyeing my car, which had a tired, dirty look, the windshield plastered with bugs. I decided it would be a good idea to fill up the radiator.

The bucket seemed inordinately heavy. When I stood it on the frame, a huge pike’s head poked out of the water, all green and mossy. I jumped back.

“Going to drag me off to the market again?” inquired the pike, hiccuping strongly. Bewildered, I kept quiet. “Can’t you let me be in peace? Will you never have enough, biddy? How much can one stand? No sooner do I quiet down, to relax and doze a bit, than I get hauled out again! After all, I’m not young anymore—older than you maybe… The gills don’t work so well, either….” It was quite funny to see how she talked, just like a pike in the puppet theater. She opened and closed her toothy jaws with all her might and with a disturbing lack of synchronization with the pronounced sounds. She said the last phrase with the jaws convulsively clamped shut.

“Also the air is bad for me,” she continued. “What are you going to do when I croak? It’s all the fault of your female and stupid miserliness…. You save and save and don’t even know what for…. Didn’t you go bust on the last reform—well, didn’t you? There you are! And what about the Catherine notes? Trunk-fuls! And the Kerensky rubles—didn’t you fuel your stove with them?”

“You see-” said I, somewhat regaining my composure.

“Oi—who’s that?” worried the pike.

“I… I am here just by chance. I was going to wash up a bit.”

“Wash! And I thought it was the old hag again. Don’t see so well—getting old. Furthermore, the refraction coefficient with the air is quite different. I ordered glasses for air, but I have lost them and can’t find them. And who would you be?”

“A tourist,” I said briefly.

“Oh, a tourist…. And I thought it was that hag again. You can’t imagine what she does with me. First she catches me, then drags me off to the market and sells me as an ingredient for a bouillabaisse. So what can I do? I talk to the buyer: thus and thus, let me go back to my little ones—though what little ones, I know not, as they are not children but granddaddies by now. You let me go, and I will serve you well. Just say, “By the pike’s command, this wish of mine.’ So they let me go. Some out of fear, some out of the goodness of their hearts, and some out of greed. Then I swim about in the river, but with my rheumatism, back to the warm well I go, and back again is the crone with the bucket.” The pike retreated under the water, bubbled a bit, and came up again. “Well, what is your wish, my fine one? But keep it simple, and not like some who want those new-fangled TV’s or transistor radios…. One lout went altogether ape: “Complete my yearly plan at the sawmill for me.’ Cutting logs at my age!”

“Aha,” I said. “Can you still do the TV?”

“No,” the pike owned up. “I can’t do a television receiver. Also, I can’t do that automated combine with separator. I don’t believe in them. Think of something more simple. Let’s say thousand-league boots or an invisibility cloak… Well?”

My rising hope of escaping the greasing of the car began to fade.

“Don’t worry yourself, ma’am,” I said. “I really don’t require anything. I’m going to just let you go.”

“That’s good,” said the pike calmly. “I like people like you. The other day, too, there was this case. Some guy bought me in the market and I had to promise him a tsar’s daughter. So there I am, swimming along in the river, full of shame, not knowing where to hide myself. Next thing, not looking where I am going, I barge right into a net. They lug me up. Again, I figure I’ll have to lie my way out. So what do you think the man does? He grabs me right across the teeth so I can’t open my mouth. “That’s the end,’ I thought. “Into the soup kettle with me—this time.’ But no. He clamps something on my fin and back in the water I go. See?”

The pike raised herself out of the bucket and placed a fin on the edge. At its base was a metal clamp on which I read: This specimen released in the Solovei River in the year 1854. Deliver to H.I.M. Academy of Science.

“Don’t tell the hag,” warned the pike. “She’ll tear it out with the fin. Greedy, she is, the miser.

What should I ask her? I thought feverishly.

“How do you work your miracles?”

“What miracles?”

“You know—wish fulfillments.”

“Oh, that? How do I do it? Been taught from infancy, that’s how. I guess I don’t really know…. The Golden Fish, (a wishing fish—a fairy tale personage) she did it even better than I, but she is dead now. You can’t escape your fate.”

It seemed to me she sighed.

“From old age?” I asked.

“Old age, nothing! Young she was, and spritely. They dropped a depth charge on her, my fine friend. So belly-up she went, and some kind of vessel that happened nearby also sank. She would have bought herself off, but they didn’t ask. No sooner sighted, than blam with the bomb… That’s the way of it.” She was silent a while. “Well, then, are you going to let me go? It feels close somehow; there is going to be a thunderstorm.”

“Of course, of course,” I said, startled back to reality. “How should I do it? Throw you in, or in the bucket?”

“Throw me in, my good man, throw me in.”

Carefully I dipped my hands into the bucket and extracted the pike—it must have weighed in at around eight kilos. She kept on murmuring, “And how about a self-serving tablecloth or a flying carpet—I’ll be right here. You can count on me…

“So long,” I said, and let go. There was a noisy splash.

For some time, I stood there gazing at my hands, covered with green slime. I experienced some kind of strange feeling. Part of the time an awareness came over me, like a gust of wind, that I was sitting on the sofa in the room, but all I had to do was shake my head and I was back at the well. The feeling dissipated. I washed in the fine ice-cold water, filled the car radiator, then shaved. The old woman was still out.

I was getting hungry, and it was time to go to the post office, where my friends might be waiting for me even then. I locked the car and went out the gate.

I was unhurriedly sauntering down Lukomoriye Street, hands in the pockets of my gray GDR jacket, looking down at my feet. In the back pocket of my favorite jeans, crisscrossed with zippers, jingled the crone’s coppers. I was reflecting. The skinny brochures of the “Znanie” society had accustomed me to the concept that animals were incapable of speech. Fairy tales from childhood, on the other hand, had insisted on the opposite. Of course, I agreed with the brochures, since never in my life had I seen talking animals. Not even parrots. I used to know one parrot who could growl like a tiger, but human-talk he could not do. And now—the pike, the tomcat Basil, and even the mirror. Incidentally, it is precisely the inanimate objects that speak the most often. And, by the way, it’s this last consideration which would never enter the head of my great granddaddy. In his ancestral viewpoint, a talking cat would be a much less fantastic item than a polished wood box, which howls, whistles, plays music, and talks in several languages. As far as the cat goes, it’s more or less clear. But how about the pike? A pike does not have lungs. That’s a fact. True, they do have an air ballast bladder whose function as far as I know is not entirely understood by icthyologists. My icthyologist acquaintance, Gene Skoromahov, postulates that it is truly totally unclear, and when I attempt to reason about it with arguments from the “Znanie” brochures, old Gene growls and spits in contempt. His rightful gift of human speech seems to desert him completely.

I have this impression that as yet we know very little about the potential of animals. Only recently it became clear that fish and sea animals exchange signals under water. Very interesting pieces are written about dolphins. Or, let’s take the ape Raphael. This I saw for myself. True, it cannot speak, but instead it has this developed reflex: green light—banana; red light—electric shock. Everything was just fine until they turned on the red and green lights simultaneously. Then Raphael began to conduct himself just like, for instance, old Gene. He was terribly upset. He threw himself at the window behind which the experimenter was seated, and took to spitting at it, growling and squealing hideously. And then there is the story—“Do you know what a conditioned reflex is? That’s what happens when the bell rings and all these quasi-apes in white coats will run toward us with bananas and candies,”—which one ape tells the other.

Naturally, all of this is not that simple. The terminology has not been worked out. Under the circumstances, any attempt to resolve the questions involving the potential and psychology of animals leaves you feeling totally helpless. But, on the other hand, when you have to solve, say, a system of integral equations of the type used in stellar statistics, with unknown functions under the integral, you don’t feel any better. That’s why the best thing is to—cogitate. As per Pascal: “Let us learn to think well—that is the basic principle of morality.”

I came out on the Prospect of Peace and stopped, arrested by an unusual sight. Marching in the middle of the pavement was a man with flags in his hands. About ten paces behind him, engine revving and laboring, a huge white truck was drawing a gigantic cistern-like silvery trailer, from which issued wisps of smoke. Fire Danger was written all over the cistern, and busy little fire engines, bristling with fire extinguishers, were rolling along, keeping pace on its right and left. From time to time, mixing in with the steady roar of the engine, a different sound issued forth, somehow chilling the heart with a strange malaise. Simultaneously yellow tongues of flame spurted out of the cistern’s ports. The faces of the firemen, hats pushed low on their ears, were stern and manly. Swarms of children swirled around the cavalcade, yelling piercingly, “Ti-li-lee ti-li-lay, they’re caning the dragon away.” Adult passersby fearfully hugged the fences. Their faces clearly depicted a desire to save their clothing from possible damage.

“There they go with dear Unc,” a familiar raspy bass pronounced in my ear.

I turned around. Behind me, looking miserable, stood Naina Kievna with a shopping bag full of blue packets of granulated sugar.

“Trucking him off,” she repeated. “Every Friday they take him.”

“Where to?” I asked.

“To the test pad, old friend. They keep experimenting. Nothing else to do!”

“And whom are they taking, Naina Kievna?”

“What do you mean—whom? Can’t you see for yourself?”

She turned and strode off, but I caught up with her.

“Naina Kievna, there was a telephonogram for you.”

“From whom would that be?”

“From H.M. Viy.”

“What about?”

“You are having some kind of fly-in today,” I said, looking at her hard. “On Bald Mountain. Dress—formal.”

The old woman was obviously pleased.

“Really?” she said. “Isn’t that nice! Where is the telephonogram?”

“In the entry, by the phone.”

“Anything about membership dues in it?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“In what sense?”

“Well, you know, such as, ‘You are requested to settle your arrears from seventeen hundred…’“ She grew quiet.

“No,” said I. “Nothing like that was mentioned.”

“Well enough. And how about transportation? Will there be a car to pick me up?”

“Let me carry your bags,” I offered.

She sprang back.

“What do you have in mind?” she asked suspiciously.

“You cut that out—I don’t like it. The bag he wants! Starting in young, aren’t you?”

No way do I like old crones, I thought.

“So how is it with transportation?” she repeated.

“At your own expense,” I gloated.

“Oh, the skinflints!” moaned she. “They took the broom for the museum, the mortar is in the shop, contributions are levied by the five-ruble bill, but to Bald Mountain—at your expense, please! The meter won’t read low, my good fellow, and then he has to wait. .

Muttering and coughing, she turned from me and walked away. I rubbed my hands and went off in my own direction. My suppositions were being borne out. The skein of wondrous events was getting tighter. And, shame to admit, but this seemed a lot more fascinating at the moment than, say, even the modeling of a reflex process.

The Prospect of Peace was now deserted. A gang of kids were loitering at the cross street, apparently playing tip-cat. Catching sight of me, they quit the game and took off in my direction. Sensing unfavorable developments, I passed them quickly and bore off toward downtown. Behind my back a stifled and excited voice exclaimed, “Stilyaga.” I quickened pace. “Stilyaga,” bawled several at once. I was almost running, pursued by yells of, “Stilya-aga! Spindle-legs! Papa’s Pobeda-driver… Passersby were looking at me with compassion.

In such eventualities, it’s best to dive into some refuge. I dived into the nearest door, which turned out to be a food store. I walked up and down the counters, assured myself that there was plenty of sugar, and found the choice of sausages and candies rather limited, which was amply compensated by the variety of fish products surpassing all expectations. Such appetizing and variegated salmon! I had a glass of soda water, and scanned the street. The kids were gone. Thereupon I left the store and continued my journey.

Presently the grain stores and log-cabin fortresses came to an end and were replaced by modern two-storied houses, interspersed with small parks. In the parks, small children were running about, old women were knitting warm things, and old men were playing dominoes as if for keeps. A spacious square turned up in the center of town, surrounded with two- and three-story buildings. It was paved with asphalt, punctuated in the center by the greenery of a garden. Above it rose a large red poster titled Honor RoIl and several smaller posters with plotted curves and diagrams. I discovered the post office right there, in the square. The fellows and I had agreed that the first one to get to the town would leave a note with his coordinates in general delivery. There was no note, and I left a letter with my address and instructions on how to find the cottage on hen’s legs. Next I decided to have breakfast

Circling the square, I found a cinema playing Kozara; a bookstore, closed for inventory; the town hall with several dusty cars in front; the Hotel Frigid Sea, without vacancies as per usual; two kiosks with soda and ice cream; one general goods store, No. 2; an agricultural goods store, No. 18; dining room No. 11, which opened at noon; and a buffet, No. 3, closed without explanation. Next I observed the town police station and had a chat in its open doorway with a very young policeman about the location of the gas pump and the state of the road to Lezhnev.

“But where is your car?” inquired the policeman, looking around the square.

“Over with some people I know,” I replied.

“Aha, with acquaintances…” he said meaningfully. I felt he took note of me. Timidly I bowed off.

Next to the three-storied building of the local fisheries co-op, I finally located a small, clean tearoom, No. 16/27. It was a pleasant sort of place. There weren’t too many customers, but those were indeed drinking tea, talking about simple and comprehensible things such as that over by Korobetz the little bridge had finally fallen in and one had to ford the stream; that it was a week since they had removed the Main Motor Vehicle Inspection Station at the fifteen-kilometer milepost and that, “The spark is a beast—it will knock an elephant down—but won’t do its job worth a damn.” There was a smell of gasoline and fried fish. Those who were not involved in conversation were eyeing my jeans, and I was happy to recall that on my rear there was a highly professional spot—the day before yesterday I had sat down most propitiously on my grease gun.

I took a full plate of fried fish, three glasses of tea, three sandwiches, paid up with a heap of the coppers from my crone friend (“Been out begging on the church steps.” muttered the cashier), and settled in a cozy corner and proceeded to eat, enjoying the sight of those hoarse-voiced, heavy-smoking types. It was a pleasure to take in their sunburned, wiry, independent countenances with that I’ve-seen-it-all look, and watch how they ate with appetite, smoked with appetite, and talked with appetite. They were making use of their free time to the last second before the long hours on a bumpy, tiresome, dusty road in their hot and stuffy cabs under a hot sun. If I weren’t a programmer, I would surely become a driver, and, of course, of no light-weight truck or even a bus, but of some freight monster with a ladder to the cab and a small crane for changing a wheel.

The neighboring table was occupied by a pair of young men who didn’t look like drivers, and for this reason I didn’t pay them any heed at first. Just as they didn’t notice me, either. But as I was finishing my second glass of tea, the word “sofa” floated into my consciousness. Then, one of them said, “. . In that case it doesn’t make sense to have the hen’s-legs cottage at all,” so I began to listen. To my regret, they spoke quietly, and I had my back to them, so I couldn’t hear too well. But the voices seemed familiar.

“no thesis. . the sofa only. .”

“…… to such a hairy one…”

“…sofa… the sixteenth stage. ”

“……with only fourteen stages in transvection…”

“…it’s easier to model a translator. ”

“…does it matter who’s tittering!”

“… I’ll make a gift of a razor…”

“…we can’t do without the sofa…”

At this point, one of them began to clear his throat, and in such a familiar way that I associated it instantly with last night and I turned around, but they were already on their way to the exit—two big men with square shoulders and strong, athletic necks. For some time, I could see them through the window as they crossed the square, circumnavigated the garden, and disappeared behind the diagrams. I finished my tea and sandwiches and also went out. There you have it. The mermaid didn’t excite them. The talking cat did not intrigue them. But they couldn’t do without the sofa…. I tried to remember what that sofa looked like, but nothing unusual came to mind. A proper sofa. A good sofa. Comfortable. Except when one slept on it, one dreamed of a strange reality.

It would have been good to return home at that point and get into all those sofa affairs in earnest. To experiment a bit with the shape-shifter book and have a heart-to-heart talk with Basil the tomcat and poke around the hen’s-legs cottage to see if there were other interesting things in it. But the car was also waiting there for me, which necessitated both a DC and a TS. I could put up with DC—it was only the Daily Care, calling for the shaking out of floor mats and the washing of the body with a stream of water under pressure, which washing, incidentally, could, in case of necessity, be performed by the substitute method of ablution with a watering can or a pail. But the TS… that was a frightening concept for a neat person on a hot day. Because TS was none other than Technical Service, which technical service consisted of my lying under the car with the grease gun and gradually transferring its contents to the grease fittings and equally well to my person. It’s hot and stuffy under a car and its undercarriage is covered with a thick layer of dried mud…. In short, I was not very anxious to go home.

Chapter 4

I bought a two-day-old Pravda, drank a glass of soda water, and settled down on a bench in the park, in the shade of the Honor Roll. It was eleven o’clock. I looked through the paper carefully. This took seven minutes. Then I read the article about hydroponics, the feature about the doings in Kansk, and a long letter to the editor from the workers of a chemical plant. This took altogether twenty-two minutes.

Perhaps I should visit the cinema, I thought. But I had already seen Kozara, once in the theater and once on television. So I decided to have something to drink, folded the paper, and stood up. Of all the copper collection from the old hag, there remained only a single five-kopeck piece. Finish it up, I decided; had a glass of soda with syrup, got a kopeck back, and bought a box of matches in the adjoining stall. There was nothing else to do downtown. So I started off at random—into a narrow street between store No. 2 and dining room No. 11.

There were almost no pedestrians. A huge dusty truck with a rattling trailer passed by. The driver, head and elbow stuck out of the window, was tiredly scanning the Belgian block pavement. Descending, the street turned sharply to the right, where the barrel of an ancient cast-iron cannon, frill of butts and dirt, was stuck in the ground. Soon the street ended at the cliff by the river. I sat a while on the edge admiring the landscape, then crossed over to the other side and strolled back to the center of town.

Curious, where did the truck go? I thought suddenly. There was no way down the cliff. I started looking around, searching for a gate, and then discovered a small but very strange-looking building squeezed in between grim brick warehouses. The windows of the lower story were set with iron bars, and the bottom halves were painted white. As to doors, there weren’t any. I noticed this at once because the usual sign, which is normally placed next to the gates, was here hung between two windows. It read: Academy of Sciences, U.S.S.R., SRITS. I went back to the middle of the street. Sure enough—two stories with ten windows apiece and not a single door. Warehouses to the right and left. SRITS, thought I. Scientific Research Institute of TS. Meaning what—Technology of Security, Terrestrial Seismology? The cottage on hen’s legs, it occurred to me, is a museum of this SRITS. My hitchhikers are probably also from here. Also those two in the tearoom… A flock of crows took off from the roof of the house and began circling about, cawing loudly. I turned around and started back toward the square.

We are all naive materialists, I thought, and also rationalists. We demand that everything should be explained immediately in rationalist terms; that is, reduced to fit in with the handful of known facts. No one applies a penny’s worth of dialectics. It enters nobody’s head that between the known data and some new phenomena, there could be an ocean of unknowns, and so we declare the new phenomenon to be supernatural and therefore impossible. Say, for instance, the way Maitre Montesquieu would take the message about the resuscitation of a dead man forty-five minutes after his heart stopped beating. With a bayonet counterattack, that’s how he would take it. Toss it on pikes, so to speak. He would no doubt dub it obscurantism and clericalism. That is, if he would not just wave such a datum away. If it happened right in front of his own eyes, he would be placed in an extremely difficult position. Such as my own at the moment, except that I was more accustomed to it. But for him, it would be necessary either to consider it a fraud, or to disbelieve his senses or even to renounce materialism. Most likely he would opt for fraud. Nevertheless, to the end of his days the memory of this adroit trick would irritate his thinking, like a mote in the eye…. But we, we are the children of a different age. We have seen a lot: the live head of a dog sewn to the body of another; the artificial kidney as big as a closet; the iron hand operated by the nerve signals from a live one; the people who can say, casually, “This was after I had died for the first time…”

Yes, in our times Montesquieu would have had a poor chance of remaining a materialist. Nonetheless we remain materialists and there is no harm done! True enough, this can get to be difficult sometimes when a chance wind, blowing across the ocean of the unknown, will carry our way some strange petals from unexplored continents. Most often it happens when one finds that which one was not looking for. Soon enough there will appear new and amazing animals from Mars or Venus in our zoos. Of course, we will be ogling them and slapping our sides, but we have been waiting for them a long time, and we are prepared for their appearance. We would be much more astounded and disappointed if there would not be any such animal or if they would be like our cats and dogs. As a rule, science, in which we have faith (and often, blind faith), prepares us well in advance for the coming miracles, so that a psychic shock occurs in us only when we collide with something unpredicted—some hole into a fourth dimension, or biological radio communication, or a living planet…. Or, say, a cottage on hen’s legs. Anyway, that hawk-nosed Roman was right with a vengeance; it’s very, very, and very fascinating here with them.

I came out on the square and stopped by the soft-drink kiosk. I remembered that I didn’t have any change and that I would have to break a bill. I was formulating an ingratiating smile, knowing full well that the girls who sold the drinks couldn’t stand changing bills, when I felt a fivekopeck piece in my jeans pocket. I was both astonished and delighted, but more the latter. I drank up my soda water with fruit syrup, accepted a wet kopeck in change, and chatted with the girl about the weather. Next I set out homeward with great determination so as to finish with the DC and the TS and be free to continue with my dialectic and rationalistic explanations. I shoved the kopeck down into my pocket and stopped, discovering that there was another five-kopeck piece already in it. I took it out and studied it. It was somewhat damp and on it was stamped 5 kopecks, 1961, and the numeral 6 was marred with a small gouge. It may be that even then I would not have paid this little incident any attention, except for that instant feeling, with which I was already familiar, that I was simultaneously standing in the Prospect of Peace and sitting on the sofa looking at the wardrobe. And just as before the feeling disappeared when I shook my head.

For a while I kept on walking slowly, absentmindedly tossing the piece (it kept landing heads-up in my palm) and attempting to focus my thoughts. Then I saw the food store where I had fled from the kids in the morning, and entered. Holding the coin between two fingers, I went up to the counter and drank, this time without any pleasure at all, a glass of plain seltzer. Next, gripping the change in my hand, I went aside and checked the pocket.

It was one of those cases where there was no psychic shock. More likely I would have been surprised if the piece had not been in my pocket. But it was—damp, 1961, and with a gouge in the numeral 6. Someone bumped into me and inquired as to whether I was taking a nap. Apparently I was standing in the line for the cashier. I said I wasn’t and punched a ticket for three boxes of matches. Standing in line for the matches, I verified that the piece was back again in my pocket. I was absolutely calm. Having received my three boxes of matches, I returned to the square and proceeded to experiment.

The experiment took about an hour. During this hour, I circumnavigated the square ten times, swelled up from the seltzer, accumulated match boles and newspapers, got acquainted with all the clerks, male and female, and arrived at a series of interesting conclusions. The five-kopeck piece came back if you paid with it. If you just simply threw it away, or dropped it, it stayed where it fell. The coin returned to pocket at the moment when the change moved from the hands of the seller to the hands of the buyer. If you kept your hand in one pocket, it appeared in the other. It never appeared in a zippered pocket. If you kept a hand in each pocket, and accepted the change with your elbow, the coin appeared anywhere on your body. (In my case, it turned up in my shoe.) The disappearance of the piece from the saucer with the coppers cannot be observed: it is immediately lost to sight in the pile of other coppers, and no motion of any kind takes place in the instant of the transfer to the pocket.

And so, we were faced with a so-called unspendable five-kopeck piece in the process of its functioning. In itself the fact of the unspendability did not interest me. My imagination was primarily overwhelmed by the possibility of an extra-dimensional transference of a material object. It was abundantly clear that the mysterious move of the coin from seller to buyer represented none other than a special case of the legendary matter transmission, so well known to the friends of science-fiction under the pseudonyms of hyper transposition, similarization, Tarantog’s phenomenon…. The unfolding perspectives were overpowering.

I didn’t have any instruments. An ordinary minimum-recording lab thermometer could tell a lot, but I didn’t even have that. I was forced to limit myself to purely visual subjective observations. I started my last tour of the square, with the following self-assigned task: “Having placed the coin next to the change saucer, and impeding to the maximum possible extent the cashier’s mixing it with the rest of the coins before passing the change, to trace visually the process of transference in space, attempting simultaneously to determine, even qualitatively, the change in the temperature of the air near the presumed Trajectory of Transit” However, the experiment was cut short right at the start.

When I approached Manya, my first seller, I was already expected by the same young police sergeant whom I had met before.

“So,” he said in a professional tone.

I looked at him searchingly, with a premonition of disaster.

“May I see your papers, citizen,” he said, saluting and looking past me.

“What’s the problem?” I asked, taking out my passport.

“And I’ll be asking you for the coin, too,” said the policeman, accepting the passport.

I handed him the five-kopeck piece in silence. Manya was regarding me with accusing eyes. The policeman studied the coin and, stating with satisfaction, “Aha,” opened the passport. He studied that passport like a bibliophile would study a rare incunabulum. I waited, mortified. A crowd grew slowly around us. Various opinions about me were expressed by its members.

“We’ll have to take a walk,” the policeman finally said.

We took a walk. While we walked, several variants on my unsavory biography were created in the accompanying crowd, and a series of antecedents was formulated for the court case that was initiated right in front of everybody’s eyes.

In the station house, the policeman handed the passport and the five-kopeck piece to the lieutenant on duty. He examined the coin and offered me a chair. I sat down. The lieutenant said disdainfully, “Hand in the change,” and also immersed himself in the study of my passport. I shoveled out the coppers. “Count them, Kovalev,” said the lieutenant and looked at me steadily.

“Bought much?” he asked.

“A lot,” I answered.

“Hand it in, too,” said the lieutenant.

I laid out four issues of two-day-old Pravdas, three issues of the local Fisherman, two issues of the Literary Gazette, eight boxes of matches, six pieces of Golden Key toffee, and a marked-down wire brush for cleaning kerosine stoves.

“I can’t hand in the drinks,” I said dryly. “Five glasses with syrup and four without syrup.”

I was beginning to comprehend what was involved, and I was extremely nauseated and discomfited at the idea that it would be necessary to find excuses for myself.

“Seventy-four kopecks, comrade Lieutenant,” reported the youthful Kovalev.

The lieutenant pensively regarded the pile of newspapers and match boxes.

“Were you amusing yourself, or what?” he asked me.

“Or what,” I said gloomily.

“Not prudent of you,” said the lieutenant. “Not prudent, citizen. Tell me about it.”

I told. At the end of the story, I asked the lieutenant most earnestly not to interpret my actions as an attempt to save up the price of a car. My ears were burning. The lieutenant chuckled.

“And why not so interpret it?” he inquired. “Cases of it have been attempted.”

I shrugged.

“I can assure you such a thought couldn’t enter my head…. What am I saying? It couldn’t, when, in fact, it didn’t!”

The lieutenant was silent for a long time. The young Kovalev took my passport and again set to studying it.

“It would be rather ridiculous to suppose…” I said, distraught. “An altogether loony concept… to save by the kopeck…” I shrugged again. “You’d be better off begging on the church steps, as they say.

“As to begging, we try to combat that,” said the lieutenant significantly.

“And that’s correct and only natural…. I just don’t understand what that has to do with me….” I caught myself shrugging once more, and resolved not to do it again.

The lieutenant was silent for a tiresomely long time, examining the coin.

“We’ll have to make out a report,” he said finally.

“Please, of course… although…” I didn’t know exactly what followed the “although.”

For a while, the lieutenant looked at me in expectation of a continuation. But I was busy figuring as to which section of the criminal code my actions came under, so he drew a sheet of paper toward him and set to writing.

The young Kovalev returned to his post. The lieutenant was squeaking away with his pen, and dipping it often and noisily into the inkwell. I sat, dully staring at the posters hung on the walls and thinking, listlessly, how, in my place, Lomonosov, for example, would have grabbed his passport and jumped out the window. What’s at the core o/ it all? I thought. The essence of the matter is that a man does not regard himself as guilty. In that sense, I was not guilty. But guilt, it seems, can be objective and subjective. And a fact is a fact: all that copper money in the amount of seventy-four kopecks, juridically speaking, was the result of theft, carried out by technical means in the form of an unspendable coin.

“Read it and sign, please,” said the lieutenant.

I read. According to the report it was manifest that I, the undersigned, Privalov, A.I., had, by means unknown to me, come into the possession of a working model of an unspendable five-kopeck coin, All-union Government Standard type 7 18–62, and had willfully misused same; further, that I, the undersigned Privalov, A.I., allegedly carried out my operations with the aim of conducting a scientific experiment, and without any intent to defraud; that I was prepared to make restitution for the losses suffered by the state in the amount of one ruble and fifty-five kopecks; and, finally, that in accordance with the resolution of the Solovetz City Council of March 22, 1959, I had handed over said working model of the unspendable five-kopeck coin to the lieutenant on duty, Sergienko, V.V., and received in return five kopecks in monies of legal tender on the territory of the Soviet Union. I signed.

The lieutenant verified my signature with the one in the passport, again meticulously counted the coppers, rang up somebody to confirm the prices of the toffee and the wire brush, and wrote out a receipt and handed it to me together with five kopecks in monies of legal tender on the territory of the Soviet Union.

Returning the papers, matches, candies, and wire brush, he said, “As to the soft drinks, you have consumed those as you have already admitted. Altogether, you owe eighty-one kopecks.”

I paid up with a feeling of tremendous relief. The lieutenant having leafed through my passport once again, handed it back to me.

“You may go, citizen Privalov,” he said. “And be careful from now on. Are you in Solovetz for long?”

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” I said.

“Well then, be careful until tomorrow.”

“Oh, I will!” I said, putting the passport away. Then, responding to an impulse and lowering my voice, I asked, “Would you mind telling me, comrade Lieutenant, don’t you find it a bit strange here in Solovetz?”

But the lieutenant was already absorbed in his paperwork.

“I’ve been here a long time,” he said absentmindedly. “I’m used to it.”

Chapter 5

All the time, until the evening arrived, I concentrated on being extremely careful. I went directly home from the police station to Lukomoriye Street and immediately crawled under the car. It was very hot. A menacing dark cloud was creeping in from the west. While I was lying under the car, dripping oil on my person, old Naina Kievna become most unctious and friendly, twice approaching me to take her to Bald Mountain.

“They tell me, governor, that it’s bad for a car to stand still,” she cooed in her creaky voice, peering under the front bumper. “They say it’s good for it to drive it around. And have no fear, I’d make sure to pay….

I was not inclined to drive to Bald Mountain. In the first place, my friends could show up any minute. In the second place, the old woman was even more distasteful to me in her cooing version that in her snarling mode. Further, it developed that it was ninety versts (Sixty-three miles) one way to Bald Mountain, and when I asked the old lady about the condition of the road, she joyfully told mc not to worry—that it was quite smooth, but that in case of any trouble, she would push it out herself. (“Don’t assume that I am plain old, governor; I am still quite vigorous.”) After the first unsuccessful assault, the crone retreated temporarily and went off into the cottage. At which point Basil the tomcat came to visit me under the car. For a long minute, he watched my manipulations and then enunciated in a low voice, but very clearly, “I don’t advise it, citizen, mn-e-eh… I don’t advise it. You’ll be eaten,” after which he departed precipitately, tail a-quiver.

I wanted badly to be very careful, and so when the crone launched her second attack, I demanded fifty rubles, so as to put an end to the game once and for all. She desisted at once, regarding me with fresh respect.

I did the DC and the TS, drove to the gas station to fill up with the greatest of care, had dinner in dining room No. 11, and was once again subjected to document inspection by the vigilant Kovalev. To clear my conscience, I inquired of him the state of the road to Bald Mountain. The young sergeant considered me with vast disbelief and said, “Road? What are you talking about, citizen? What road? There isn’t any road.” When I returned home, it was already raining heavily.

The crone had departed. Tomcat had disappeared. In the well, someone sang in duet voices, and that was both frightening and somehow woeful. Soon the shower was replaced with a dismal fine rain. It grew dark.

I retreated to my room and attempted to experiment with the changeling book. However, it had somehow broken down. Maybe I was doing something wrong, or the weather influenced it, but it remained as it had been, Practical Exercises in Syntax and Punctuation by F.F. Kuzmin, no matter what I tried. Reading such a book seemed simply impossible, so I tried my luck with the mirror. But it reflected anything at all and remained silent. Nothing to do but lie down on the sofa.

Lulled by boredom and the sound of the rain, I was beginning to doze when the telephone rang. I went out in the hall and picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

There was a silence against a background of static.

“Hello,” I said, blowing into the mouthpiece. “Press the button.”

There was no reply.

“Tap on the set,” I counseled. The receiver was quiet. I blew again, pulled on the cable, and said, “Call again from a different set.”

Then there was a rude query.

“Is this Alexander?”

“Yes.” I was surprised.

“Why don’t you answer?”

“I am answering. Who’s this?”

“This is Petrovski, bothering you. Go on over to the pickling shop and tell the master to give me a call.”

“What master?”

“Well, who’s there today?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean “I don’t know’? Is this Alexander?”

“Look here, citizen,” I said. “What number are you calling?”

“Number seventy-two… Is that seventy-two?” I couldn’t tell.

“Apparently not,” I said.

“Why do you say you are Alexander?” “Because I really am Alexander.” “Drat. . is this the agency?”

“No,” I said. “This is the museum.”

“Ah… in that case, I apologize. You can’t call the master ”

I hung up. I stood a while looking around the entry. It had five doors. One to my room, one to the yard, one to the crone’s room, one to the washroom, and one other covered with iron sheeting with a huge padlock.

It’s dreary, I thought. Lonely. And the lamp is dim and dusty…. Dragging my feet, I returned to my room and stopped at the threshold.

The sofa was not there.

Everything else was exactly as before: the table, the stove, the mirror, the wardrobe, and the stool. The book, too, lay on the windowsill just as I had left it. On the floor, where the sofa had been, there remained only a very dusty, littered rectangle. Then I saw the bedclothes very tidily put away in the wardrobe.

“Just now there was a sofa here,” I said aloud. “I was lying on it.”

Something about the house had changed. The room was filled with an indefinable noise. Someone was talking, there were strains of music, somewhere people were laughing, coughing, scraping their feet. A dim shadow momentarily shut off the light from the lamp; the floorboards creaked loudly. Next there was an abrupt medicinal smell, and a chill blew into my face, I backed up. At the same time, there was a clear and insistent knocking on the outside door. The noise died away instantly. Looking over at the spot previously occupied by the sofa, I went out in the entry again and opened the door.

Standing before me in the drizzle was an elegant man of smallish stature, wearing a short cream-colored raincoat of immaculate cleanliness, with its collar raised. He removed his hat and pronounced in a dignified manner:

“Begging your pardon, Alexander Ivanovich. Would you be so kind as to allow me five minutes to converse with you?”

“Of course,” I said distractedly. “Come in….”

I saw this man for the first time in my life, and the thought flashed through my mind that he might be connected with the local police. The stranger stepped into the hall and made a motion to enter my room directly. I blocked his way. I don’t know why I did it; most likely I did not relish the prospect of questions about the dust and litter on the floor.

“Excuse me,” I mumbled. “Perhaps we can talk here… my place is in disorder. And there’s nothing to sit on….”

He jerked his head in reaction.

“How’s that—nothing?” he said quietly. “And the sofa?”

We stood a good minute regarding each other in silence.

“Mmm—. what—the sofa?” I asked in a whisper for some reason.

The stranger lowered his eyes.

“Oh, so that’s the way it is?” he said slowly. “I understand. Too bad. Well, in that case, excuse me….

He nodded his head politely, put on his hat, and advanced determinedly toward the washroom door.

“Where are you going?” I cried. “You are going the wrong way!”

Without turning around, the stranger muttered, “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” and disappeared behind the door. Automatically, I turned on the light, waited a while, listening, and then threw the door open. There was nobody in the washroom. Carefully I drew out a cigarette and lighted it.

The sofa, I thought. What has the sofa to do with it? I had never heard any fairy tale about a sofa. There was a flying carpet; there was the magical tablecloth. There was the invisibility hat, the seven-league boots, the playing harp. There was the magic mirror. But there was no magic sofa. Sofas were for sitting or lying on; there was something respectable and ordinary about them…. In fact, what fantasy could be inspired by a sofa?

Returning to my room, I was at once aware of The Small Man. He was sitting on top of the stove, up against the ceiling, twisted into an uncomfortable pose. He had a puckered unshaved face and hairy gray ears.

“Hello there,” I said tiredly.

The Small Man twisted his long lips in a grimace of suffering.

“Good evening,” he said. “Please excuse me. I’ve been shunted here some way I don’t quite understand. It’s about the sofa.”

“You are a bit late about the sofa,” I said, sitting down at the table.

“I can see that,” said The Small Man in a low voice, twisting about clumsily. Bits of plaster rained down.

I smoked, regarding him pensively.

The Small Man looked down at the floor in indecision. “You need help?” I said, making a move toward him. “No, thank you,” The Small Man said drearily. “I’d better do it myself.”

Smearing himself with calcimine, he worked his way to the edge of the shelf and, pushing off in an ungainly manner, dived down head first. My heart flipped, but he hung in midair and began to descend slowly, arms and legs spread-eagled convulsively. It wasn’t very aesthetic, but it was quite amusing. Landing on all fours, he stood up and wiped his wet face with his sleeve.

“Getting really old,” he croaked. “Now, a hundred years ago, say in the reign of Gonzast, I would have been drummed out without a diploma for such a descent, you may be sure, Alexander Ivanovich.”

“Diploma in what?” I demanded, lighting my second cigarette.

He wasn’t listening to me. Having sat down on the stool, he continued mournfully.

“In the old days, I levitated as well as Zex. But now, forgive me, I can’t eradicate the growth in my ears. It’s so untidy…. But if you have no talent? There is a vast number of attractions around, all kinds of degrees, titles, but no talent! Many get overgrown in their old age. Of course, this does not apply to the stars. Gian Giacomo, Cristobal Junta, Giuseppe Balsamo or, say, comrade Feodor Simeonovich Kivrin… not a trace of hairy growth!” He looked at me triumphantly. “Not—a—trace! Smooth skin, elegance, suppleness…”

“Forgive me,” I said. “You said—Giuseppe Balsamo but that’s the same as Count Cagliostro! And according to Tolstoi, the count was fat and very unpleasant to look at…”

The Small Man looked at me with sadness and smiled condescendingly.

“You are simply not informed, Alexander Ivanovich,” he said. “Count Cagliostro is something entirely different from Giuseppe Balsamo. It’s, how shall I put it… it’s not a very successful copy. Balsamo matricized himself in his youth. He was most extraordinarily talented, but you know how it is done when one is young…. Hurry up, make it more amusing, slam bam, and it’ll get by…Yes-s… never say that Balsamo and Cagliostro are one and the same. It could be embarrassing.”

I was embarrassed.

“True,” I said. “Naturally, I am not an expert. But, excuse my indiscreet question, what has the sofa to do with it? Who needed it?”

The Small Man started.

“Inexcusable arrogance,” he said loudly, getting up. “I committed an error and I am prepared to admit it with complete candor. When such giants… and even these cheeky youngsters…” He began to bow, pressing his pale hands to his heart. “Please forgive me, Alexander Ivanovich, I have importuned you so…. Let me apologize once again most sincerely. I am departing at once.” He approached the Russian stove and looked up queasily.

“Old is what I am, Alexander Ivanovich,” he said, with a deep sigh. “Old indeed…”

“Maybe it would be more congenial for you through the. . eh… There was a chap came through here before you, and he used the…”

“Oh, no, my friend, that was Cristobal Junta! What’s it to him to percolate through the plumbing for a distance of ten leagues…?” The Small Man waved his hands in grief. “As for me, I take the simpler way…. Did he take the sofa with him or did he transvect it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Fact is, he, too, was late.”

Overwhelmed, The Small Man pulled on the hairs of his right ear.

“Late? Him? Most improbable! However, how can we be the judge of that? Farewell, Alexander Ivanovich. Please find it in your generous heart to forgive me.”

With obvious effort, he passed through the wall and disappeared. I threw the cigarette butt into the litter on the floor. Some sofa! That was no simple talking tomcat; that was something a bit more substantial—some sort of drama. Perhaps it was even a drama of concepts. Maybe more would come… the late ones. For sure, more would come. I regarded the litter. Where had I seen a broom?

The broom stood by the cask under the telephone. I set to sweeping up the dust and debris, when something heavy caught in the broom and rolled out into the middle of the room. I stared at it. It was a shiny elongated cylinder about the size of my thumb. I poked at it with the broom. The cylinder swayed, something crackled crisply, and the room filled with the smell of ozone. I threw the broom aside and picked up the cylinder. It was smooth, finely polished, and warm to the touch. I tapped it with my nail and again it crackled. I turned it to see the other end, and at the same moment, felt the floor sway under my feet. Everything turned before my eyes. I struck something most painfully with my heels, then my shoulder, and then my occiput, dropped the cylinder, and finished my fall. I was thoroughly disoriented and did not immediately grasp that I was lying in the narrow space between wall and stove. The lamp was swinging overhead, and, raising my eyes, I was surprised to discover the prints of my rib-soled shoes on the ceiling. Groaning, I climbed out of the crack and looked at my soles. They had calcimine on them.

“How about that,” I cerebrated aloud. “Why not percolate through the plumbing next…”

I searched visually for the cylinder. It stood, touching the floor with an edge of its flat end, in an attitude defying all the laws of balance. I approached it cautiously and squatted down next to it. It was swaying to and fro and crackling softly. I looked at it for a long time, stretching my neck, and then blew on it. The little cylinder rocked harder and leaned over, at which point there was a stir of wind and a sound of hoarse clucking behind my back. I turned to look and sat down hard on the floor. There on the stove, folding its wings, sat a colossus of a griffin with a bald neck and menacingly curved beak.

“How do you do,” I said. I was convinced that the griffin was of the talking variety.

It looked at me with one eye, which made its appearance instantly resemble a hen. I waved my hand in a gesture of greeting. The griffin opened its beak, but no words came forth. It raised its wing and took to clicking its beak, searching under its armpit. The cylinder kept swaying and crackling. The griffin quit its hunt, drew its head down into its shoulders, and covered its eyes with a yellow membrane. Trying not to turn my back to it, I finished my clean-up and threw the litter out the door into the rainy blackness. Then I returned to my room.

The griffin slept and the ozone stank. I checked my watch: it was twenty past midnight. I stood a while looking down at the cylinder, cogitating on the conservation of energy and of matter, too. It wasn’t likely that griffins condensed out of nothing. If the given griffin had materialized here in Solovetz, then it must be that a griffin (not necessarily this given one) disappeared in the Caucasus, or wherever it was they lived. I estimated the energy of transport and eyed the cylinder warily. Best not to touch it, I thought. Better cover it up with something and let it stay there. I brought in the dipper from the hall, took careful aim, and, holding my breath, let it settle over the cylinder. Next I sat down on the stool and waited for whatever would come next. The griffin snored with remarkable clarity. In the light of the lamp its feathers had a coppery sheen, and its huge claws were sunk into the plaster. A stench of decay slowly expanded from its vicinity.

“You shouldn’t have done it, Alexander Ivanovich,” said a pleasant male voice.

“Done what?” I said, looking around at the mirror.

“I am referring to the umclidet. .”

It was not the mirror talking. It was somebody else.

“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” I said. There was no one in the room and I was beginning to feel irritated.

“I am talking about the umclidet,” said the voice. “It was entirely incorrect of you to cover it with an iron dipper. The unclidet—or, as you call it, the magic wand—requires extremely careful handling.”

“That’s why I covered it…. Why don’t you come on in, comrade? It’s most unhandy to talk this way otherwise.”

“Thank you,” said the voice.

Right in front of me, a most assiduously dressed, pale man in a gray suit of superb cut slowly took shape. His head bent slightly aside, he inquired with exquisite politeness, “Dare I hope that I did not unduly disturb you?”

“Not at all,” I said, rising. “Please be seated and feel at home. Would you like some tea?”

“Thank you,” said the stranger and sat down opposite me, hitching his trousers with a decorous gesture. “As for tea, please let me beg off, Alexander Ivanovich; I just had supper.”

He looked me in the eye a while, wearing a drawing-room smile. I smiled back.

“You are after the sofa, right?” I said. “Alas, the sofa is not here. I am very sorry, and I don’t even know…”

The stranger threw up his hands.

“Such triflesl” he said. “Such a commotion over a lot of nonsense, forgive me, in which no one really believes…. Judge for yourself, Alexander Ivanovich—to engage in mysteries and repulsive cinematic pursuits, to disturb people over the mythical… I fear this word, yes, the mythical White Thesis…. Any sane thinking man considers the sofa as a universal translator, somewhat oversize, but quite well made and stable in operation. The old ignoramuses prattling about the White Thesis are all the more ludicrous…. No, I don’t even wish to talk about this sofa.”

“As you wish, sir,” I said, concentrating my best high-society tone into the phrase. “Let’s talk of something else. .

“Superstitions… bigotry…” he murmured absentmindedly. “Laziness of thought and envy, arrant tentacle-sprouting envy. .” He cut himself off. “Forgive me, Alexander Ivanovich, but may I take it upon myself to ask your permission to remove the pitcher? Regretfully the iron is not transparent to the hyperfield, and the rise in the tension of the hyperfield in a restricted space…”

I raised my hands.

“By all means, take anything you wish! Take the pitcher away… Take even that… um… um… the magic wand…” There I stopped, noticing with astonishment that the pitcher was no longer there. The little cylinder stood in a pool of liquid resembling tinted mercury. The liquid was evaporating rapidly.

“It’s better that way, I assure you,” said the stranger. “As to your high-minded suggestion to remove the umclidet, I am unfortunately unable to make avail of it. That is a question of ethics and morals, a matter of honor if you will…. Conventions are so strong! I shall permit myself to advise you not to touch the umclidet again. I can see you hurting yourself, and then the eagle… I surmise you detect the… eh. . a certain aroma.”

“Indeed,” I said with feeling. “It stinks atrociously. Like a monkey house.”

We looked at the eagle. The griffin slept, its feathers fluffed out.

“To employ the umclidet properly,” said the stranger, “is a complex and fine art. You must not by any means reproach yourself or feel chagrined. The course on the usage of the umclidet takes eight semesters and requires a thorough knowledge of quantum alchemy. As a software expert, you would probably assimilate the electron-level umclidet operation without undue effort, the one designated as the UEU-Seventeen… but the quantum umclidet… hyperfield… matter translation… Lomonosov’s generalized law—Lavoisier…” He spread his hands apologetically.

“I understand perfectly!” I said precipitately. “I don’t even pretend… Of course, I am totally unprepared.”

Here I caught myself and offered him a cigarette.

“Thank you very much,” said the stranger. “I don’t use them, to my everlasting regret.”

Undulating my finger in a gesture of politeness, I inquired—not asked, mind you, but inquired—“Would it be improper of me to learn to what I owe the pleasure of our meeting?”

The stranger looked down in some embarrassment.

“At the risk of appearing immodest,” he said, “I must, alack, confess that I have been present here for some time. I would wish to avoid naming names, but I think that even to you, Alexander Ivanovich, who are remote from all this, it must be obvious that a certain unhealthy fuss has arisen around the sofa, that a scandal is brewing, the atmosphere is heating up, and the tension is rising. Errors and highly undesirable coincidences are inevitable in such an environment…. We don’t have to look far for some examples. A certain personage—I repeat I don’t wish to name names, especially as a colleague is involved, who deserves every respect, and I have in mind a huge talent and self-denial, if not good manners—so, a certain personage, being in a hurry and in a state of nervous tension, loses an umclidet here and this umclidet becomes the center of a sphere of activity, into which someone, who has no relation whatever to these activities, is drawn….” He bowed in my direction. “In such instances, a counteraction somehow neutralizing the bad influences is absolutely required…” He glanced at the bootprints on the ceiling with stern significance, then smiled at me. “But I wouldn’t want to appear as an abstract altruist. Naturally, all these events are of immense interest to me, both as a specialist and as an administrator…. Anyway, I don’t intend to importune you any longer, and, inasmuch as you have assured me that you will not experiment any further with the umclidet, I would like to ask your permission to retire.”

He got up.

“How can you!” I exclaimed. “Don’t leave—it’s so nice talking to you. I have a thousand questions for you.”

“I value your sensitivity most highly, Alexander Ivanovich, but you are fatigued, you must rest.”

“Not at all!” I countered hotly. “Just the opposite.”

“Alexander Ivanovich,” pronounced the stranger, looking fixedly in my eyes and smiling tenderly, “but you are indeed tired. And you really want to rest.”

At once I felt that I was falling asleep. My eyelids seemed glued together. I wasn’t interested in talk. I wasn’t interested in anything. I had an overpowering desire to sleep.

“It has been an exceptional pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the stranger said quietly.

I watched as he grew paler and paler and slowly dissolved in the air, leaving behind a scent of expensive cologne. Somehow I spread the mattress on the floor, stuck my face in the pillow, and was instantly asleep.

I was awakened by the flapping of wings and unpleasant clackings of beak. The room was filled with a peculiar bluish glow. On the stove, the griffin rustled about, beat his wings on the ceiling, and screamed disgustingly. I sat up and looked about. Right in the middle of the room, a burly fellow dressed in working pants and loud sport shirt hung suspended in the air. He soared over the umclidet, and without touching it, made smooth swimming motions over it with his great bony hands.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

The lout glanced at me briefly under his shoulder and turned away.

“I don’t hear a reply,” I said angrily. I was still very sleepy.

“Quiet, you mortal,” the lout said hoarsely. He ceased his passes and took the cylinder off the floor. His voice seemed familiar.

“Hey, friend!” I said menacingly. “Put the gadget back and clear out.”

The fellow looked at me, his jaw outthrust. I threw off the sheet and stood up.

“What say you put down the umclidet!” I said in full voice.

The fellow sank slowly down, and planting his feet firmly on the floor, took a stance. It got a lot lighter in the room, though the little lamp was not on.

“Child,” said the fellow. “Night is for sleeping. Best you lie down.”

The fellow clearly didn’t mind a good bout. But then, I didn’t either.

“Shall we go out in the yard?” I offered in a businesslike manner, hitching up my shorts.

Someone suddenly declaimed with expression, “Concentrating my thoughts on the highest, I, delivered of lust and self-love, cured of mental arrogance, fight on, Arjuna!”

I started. So did the sporty fellow.

“Bhagavad Gita,” said the voice. “Song the third, verse thirty.”

“It’s the mirror,” I said automatically.

“I know that myself,” said the fellow.

“Put down the umclidet!” I demanded.

“What’s with you, screaming like a sick elephant?” said my man. “It’s not yours, is it?”

“And maybe it belongs to you?”

“Yes, it does!”

I was struck with a surmise.

“So you dragged off the sofa, too?”

“Don’t stick your nose in other people’s business,” advised he.

“Give back the sofa,” I said. “A receipt has been made out for it.”

“Go to hell!” said the fellow, glancing behind him.

At which point, two more appeared in the room: one portly and one thin, both in striped pajamas, reminiscent of Sing-Sing inmates.

“Korneev!” yelled Portly. “So it’s you thieving the sofa? What a disgrace!”

“You can all go—“ said the lout.

“You are a foul-mouthed ruffian!” yelled Portly. “You should be expelled! I will put in a complaint about you!”

“So, go ahead,” Korneev said gloomily. “It’s your favorite occupation.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me in that vein! You are a callow youngster! You are impudent! You have forgotten your umclidet here! The young man could have been injured.”

“I’ve been injured,” I mixed in. “The sofa is gone, I have to sleep like a dog, every night there are arguments and the eagle there stinks…”

Portly turned to me instantly.

“An unheard-of violation of discipline,” he proclaimed. “You should complain. . As for you, you should be ashamed!” he said, turning to Korneev again.

Korneev was dourly stuffing the umclidet behind his cheek.

The thin man suddenly spoke out softly but ominously.

“Did you remove the Thesis, Korneev?”

The lout grinned darkly.

“There is no Thesis, of course,” he said. “Why do you keep on simpering about it? If you don’t want us to steal the sofa, then let us have another translator…”

“You did read the order forbidding the removal of items from the keep?” the thin man demanded, all grim.

Korneev stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed at the ceiling.

“Are you informed of the decision of the Learned Council?” inquired the thin man, again.

“I am informed, comrade Demin, that Monday begins on Saturday,” Korneev said gloomily.

“Don’t start in with that kind of demagogy,” said the thin man. “Return the sofa at once and don’t dare come back here again.”

“I will not return the sofa,” said Korneev. “When the experiment is finished, then we’ll return it.”

Portly made a revolting spectacle of himself. “Insubordination!” he screeched. “Hooliganism!” The griffin took to agitated screaming again. Without taking his hands out of his pockets, Korneev turned his back on them and stepped through the wall. Portly took off after him, yelling, “Oh, no! You are going to return the sofa!”

The thin man said to me, “It’s all a misunderstanding. We’ll take measures so it won’t happen again.” He nodded his head and also advanced toward the wall.

“Wait!” I cried out. “The eagle! Take the eagle! With the stench!”

The thin man, already half imbedded in the wall, turned around and beckoned the eagle with his finger. The griffin flung itself noisily off the stove and was drawn in under his fingernail. The thin man disappeared. The blue light faded slowly. It became dark and rain resumed its drumming on the windowpanes. I turned on the light and looked the room over. Everything in it was as before, except for the deep gouges on the stove from the griffin’s claws and the senseless and wild footprints on the ceiling.

“The clear butter, formed in cows,” pronounced the mirror with idiotic profundity, “does not contribute to its nourishment, but it provides the best food value, when properly processed.”

I turned off the light and lay down. I am going to hear plenty from the crone tomorrow, I thought.

Chapter 6

In the morning, it turned out that the sofa was standing in its place. I was not surprised. I only thought that, one way or the other, the crone had achieved her purpose: the sofa was in one corner and I was lying in the other. Picking up the bedding and doing my exercises, I cogitated that there probably existed some limit to the capacity of being surprised. Apparently I had overstepped that limit by a large margin. I was actually experiencing a sort of lassitude. I attempted to imagine anything that could now astonish me, but all my fantasizing proved inadequate. I didn’t like that the least bit since I couldn’t stand people incapable of being astonished. True, I was far from the attitude of “So what, I’ve seen it before.” My condition more closely approximated that of Alice in Wonderland. I was in a dreamlike state and accepted, or was ready to accept, any wonder that called for a more varied reaction than an open mouth and blinking eyes, as something I should expect.

I was still doing my setting-up exercises, when a door banged in the entry, heels tapped and scraped, someone coughed, something crashed and fell, and an authoritative voice called out: “Comrade Gorynitch!”

The old woman did not respond, and voices in the entry began to converse.

“What is that door…?” Aha, I see. And this one?”

“This is the entrance to the museum.”

“And here? What’s this—everything is locked up…”

“An exceedingly well-managed woman, Janus Poluektovich. And this is the telephone.”

“And where is the famous sofa? In the museum?”

“No. The repository should be right here.”

“It’s here,” said a familiar gloomy voice.

The door to my room swung open and a tall, spare old man with magnificent snow-white hair but black eyebrows, black moustache, and deep black eyes, appeared on the threshold. Seeing me (I stood in shorts only, arms to the side, feet apart to the breadth of my shoulders), he stopped and said in a resonant voice, “So!”

To his right and left more faces were peering into the room. I said, “I beg your pardon,” and trotted toward my jeans. However, no attention was paid me. Four came into the room and crowded around the sofa. I knew two of them: the gloomy Korneev, unshaved, with red eyes, and in the same frivolous Hawaiian shirt; and the swarthy hawk-nosed Roman, who winked at me, turning away at once. The white-haired one, I didn’t know. Likewise, I didn’t know the portly tall man in the black suit with shiny back and wide proprietary gestures.

“This sofa, here?” asked the shiny-suited man.

“It’s not a sofa,” Korneev said morosely. “It’s a translator.”

“To me it’s a sofa,” declared the shiny-suited one, looking at a notebook. “Sofa, stuffed, oversize, inventory number eleven twenty-three.” He bent down and palpated. “Now you got it wet, Korneev; you’ve been lugging it about in the rain. Consider now: the springs rusted through, the upholstery rotting.”

“The value of the subject item,” said hawk-nosed Roman, in a mocking vein, it seemed to me, “does not lie at all in the upholstery and not even in the springs, of which there aren’t any”.

“You will please desist, Roman Petrovich,” suggested the shiny one with dignity. “Don’t be protecting your Korneev. The sofa is registered at the museum, as far as I am concerned, and that’s where it must be.”

“It’s an apparatus,” Korneev said hopelessly. “It’s being used in serious work.”

“I don’t know about that,” declared the shiny one. “I don’t know what kind of work that would be with the sofa.”

“But some of us do know,” said Roman very softly.

“You will desist,” said the shiny one, turning on him. “You are not in a beer hall, you are in a place of work here. What do you have in mind, substantively?”

“I am considering the fact that it’s not a sofa,” said Roman, “or in terms more within your reach, it’s not only a sofa. It’s an apparatus having the external appearance of a sofa.”

“I would ask you to desist from these insinuations,” said the shiny one with determination. “Regarding forms within reach and so forth. Let’s each of us do his job. My job is to stop this wanton misuse—and I am stopping it.”

“So,” said the white-haired one clearly. All were quiet at once. “I have been conversing with Cristobal Joseevich and Feodor Simeonovich. They suggest that the sofa represents purely a museum value. In its time, it belonged to King Rudolph the second, so that its historical value is beyond dispute. Besides, if my memory serves me right, about two years ago we ordered a standard translator. Do you remember who ordered it, Modest Matveevich?

“One minute,” said the shiny Modest and started to leaf through his notebook rapidly. “One moment… translator, dual-powered, TDX-eight-OE, Kitezhgrad factory per request of comrade Balsamo.”

“Balsamo works it round the clock,” said Roman.

“Brummagem, is what the TDX amounts to,” added Korneev. “It’s selectivity is on the molecular level.”

“Yes, yes,” said The Gray-hairs. “I am remembering now. There was a report on the test of the TDX. It’s true that the selectivity curve is not smooth… yes. And this. .eh… sofa?”

“Handwork,” said Roman quickly. “Faultless. The craftsmanship of Leo Ben Beczalel. He assembled and tuned it for three hundred years…”

“There you are!” said the shiny Modest. “That’s the way to work! He was an old man, but he did it all himself.”

Suddenly the mirror coughed and said, “They all became younger, after staying an hour in the water, and came out of it just as rosy, good-looking, youthful. Healthy, and full of joie de vivre as they were at twenty.”

“Precisely,” said Modest. The mirror was talking in the gray-haired one’s voice.

The gray-haired one grimaced with distaste.

“Let’s not decide this question right now,” he said.

“When, then?” asked the rude Korneev.

“Friday, at the Learned Council.”

“We can’t devalue our relics,” inserted Modest Matveevich.

“And what are we going to do?” asked the rude Korneev.

The mirror boomed forth in a menacing voice as from beyond the grave:

“I saw it for myself, how, picking up their black skirts, there went, The barefooted Kanidia, hair undone, and howling, and with her, Sagana, the elder in years, both white of face and fearful to look upon. Then they both tore at the earth with fingernails and ripped the black lamb with their bare teeth.”

The gray-haired one, still grimacing in distaste, went up to the mirror, inserted his arm into it up to the shoulder, and snapped something inside. The mirror became quiet.

“So,” said the gray-haired one, “the question of your group will also be resolved at the council. As for you”—you could tell by his face that he had forgotten Korneev’s patronymic—“refrain for the time being… eh from visiting the museum.”

With these words he left the room. Through the door.

“You’ve got your way,” said Korneev through his teeth, looking at Modest Matveevich.

“Wanton misuse, I’ll not allow,” he answered shortly, shoving the notebook in his inside pocket.

“Misuse!” said Korneev. “You don’t give a hang about all that. Accountancy is what bothers you. Reluctance to enter an extra item.”

“Will you desist,” said the unbending Modest. “We’ll appoint a commission yet and we’ll see if perhaps the relic has been damaged.

“Inventory number eleven twenty-three,” added Roman in a small voice.

“That’s how you have to accept it,” pronounced Modest Matveevich majestically. Then he turned and saw me. “And what are you doing here?” he inquired. “Why are you sleeping here?”

“I—“ I began.

“You slept on the sofa,” proclaimed Modest in icy tones, boring through me with the gaze of the counterspy. “You know that it is an apparatus?”

“No,” I said. “I wean that now I know, of course.”

“Modest Matveevich!” exclaimed the hawk-nosed Roman. “But that’s our new computer expert, Sasha Privalov!”

“So, why is he sleeping here? Why isn’t he in the dorm?”

“He is not registered yet,” said Roman, grabbing me around the waist.

“All the more reason!”

“You mean, let him sleep in the street?” Roman asked angrily.

“You will kindly desist with that,” said Modest. “There’s the dorm, there is a hotel, and this here is a museum, a state institution. If everyone will take to sleeping in museums… Where are you from?”

“From Leningrad,” I said gloomily.

“And what if I come to Leningrad and go to bed in the Hermitage?”

“You are welcome to it,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

Roman kept holding me around the waist.

“Modest Matveevich, you are quite right, it is disorderly, but tonight he will sleep at my place.”

“That’s a different matter; that you are welcome to do,” Modest allowed magnanimously. He looked the room over with a proprietary eye, saw the prints on the ceiling, and immediately looked at my feet. Fortunately I was barefooted. “That’s how you have to accept it,” said he, then straightened the trash on the hanger and left the room.

“D-dumbbell,” squeezed out Korneev. “Blockhead.” He sat down on the sofa and lowered his head on his hands. “To hell with them all. Tonight I’ll drag it off again.”

“Take it easy,” Roman said gently. “Nothing terrible has happened. We just had some bad luck. Did you notice which Janus that was?”

“So?” said Korneev, despondent.

“That was Janus-A.”

Korneev raised his head. “And what’s the difference?”

“Tremendous!” said Roman and winked. “Because Janus-U has taken a plane to Moscow. And, it’s important among other things, in relation to this sofa. Did you grasp that, pillager of museum treasures?”

“Listen. You are my savior,” said Korneev, and for the first time I saw how he smiled.

“You see, Sasha,” said Roman, addressing me, “we have an ideal director. He is one director in two individuals.

There is a Janus-A Poluektovich and a Janus-U Poluektovich. Janus-U is an important scientist with international stature. As for Janus-A, he is a rather ordinary administrator.”

“Twins?” I inquired cautiously.

“Of course not; it’s one and the same man. Only he exists as two persons.”

“Obviously,” I said, and started to put on my shoes.

“That’s all right, Sasha, you’ll get to know it all soon,” Roman said encouragingly.

I raised my head. “Meaning what?”

“We must have a computer man,” said Roman with deep sincerity.

“I need one very badly,” said Korneev, becoming animated.

“Everybody needs a programmer,” I said, returning my attention to the shoes. “And, please, no hypnotism or some charmed environments.”

“He’s catching on,” said Roman.

Korneev was going to say something when voices erupted outside the window.

“That’s not our five kopecks!” yelled Modest.

“Whose is it, then?”

“I don’t know whose it is! That’s not my affair! That’s your affair—to catch the counterfeiters, comrade Sergeant!”

“The five-kopeck piece was extracted from a certain Privalov, who is living here with you in the Iznakurnozh!”

“Aha, from Privalov? I knew right away that he was a thief!”

The reproachful voice of Janus-A broke in: “Tut, tut, Modest Matveevich!”

“No—excuse me, Janus Poluektovich, it can’t be let go at that! Comrade Sergeant, let’s go in! He is inside. Janus Poluektovich, stand by the window, so he’ll not jump out of it. I’ll prove it! I’ll not allow aspersions to be cast on comrade Gorynitch!”

A nasty, cold sensation began to spread in my stomach. But Roman had already assessed the situation. He grabbed a greasy cap off the hanger and clapped it down on my ears.

I disappeared.

It was a very strange sensation. Everything remained in place, except myself. But Roman would not permit me to absorb the new sensations.

“It’s an invisibility cap,” he hissed. “Move off to the side and be quiet.”

I ran to the corner on tiptoes and squatted under the mirror. At the same instant, Modest, beside himself, burst into the room, dragging the young Sergeant Kovalev by his sleeve.

“Where is he?” hollered Modest looking about. “There,” said Roman, pointing at the sofa. “Don’t worry, it’s where it should be,” added Korneev. “I am asking—where is he, that programmer of yours?” “What programmer?” Roman feigned puzzlement. “Now, you will stop that!” said Modest. “There was a programmer here. He stood there with his pants on and no shoes.”

“Oh, so that’s what you have in mind,” said Roman. “But we were just kidding, Modest Matveevich. There wasn’t any programmer here! It was just a—“ He made a gesture with his hands and a man appeared in the middle of the room, dressed in jeans and sport shirt. I saw him from the back, and can’t say any more about him, but the young Kovalev shook his head and said, “No, that’s not him.”

Modest walked around the apparition, mumbling, “Sport shirt… pants… no shoes…. It’s him, it’s him.”

The apparition vanished.

“No, no, that’s not the man,” said Sergeant Kovalev. “The other was young, without a beard.

“Without a beard?” demanded Modest. He was seriously embarrassed.

“No beard,” confirmed Kovalev.

“Mmm—yes,” said Modest “But I was sure he had a beard…”

“I am handing you the notification,” said Sergeant Kovalev, and offered Modest an official-looking sheet of paper. “It’s up to you to figure out what’s what between your Privalov and your Gorynitch…”

“And I am telling you, it’s not our five-kopeck piece!” yelled Modest. “I am not saying a word about Privalov. Maybe Privalov doesn’t even exist, as such…. But comrade Gorynitch is a colleague!”

Young Kovalev, pressing his hands to breast, was trying to say something.

“I demand that this be cleared up at once!” yelled Modest. “You stop that, comrade Sergeant! The notification, as given, casts a shadow on the whole collective! I insist that you make certain!”

“I have my orders—“ Kovalev began, but Modest, with a cry of, “You stop that! I insist,” flew at him and dragged him out of the room.

“Off to the museum,” said Roman. “Sasha, where are you? Take off the cap; let’s go see….”

“Maybe I’d do better not to remove it,” I said.

“Take it off, take it off,” said Roman. “You are now a phantom. No one believes in you, neither the administration nor the police.”

Korneev said, “I am off to get some sleep. Sasha, come on around after dinner. You’ll see our collection of machines, and in general…”

I took off the cap.

“You stop that,” I said. “I’m on vacation.”

“Let’s go, let’s go,” said Roman.

In the hall, Modest was opening the massive padlock with one hand and clutching Kovalev with the other. “I’ll show you our coin right now!” he yelled. “Everything is registered… . Everything is in its place.”

“I’m not saying anything at all,” Kovalev defended himself weakly. “I’m only saying that there may be more than one coin…

Modest threw open the door and we all went into a spacious chamber.

It was quite a proper museum, with stands, diagrams, windows, mock-ups, and moulages. Its general appearance was more reminiscent of a criminology museum than anything else: lots of photographs and unappetizing displays. Modest immediately dragged Kovalev behind the stands, where they took to booming as in a hollow barrel.

“Here’s our coin…”

“I didn’t say—”

“Comrade Gorynitch—”

“I have my orders!”

“You stop that!”

“Be inquisitive, be inquisitive, Sasha,” said Roman, making a wide gesture and sitting down in the easy chair by the entrance.

I went along the wall. I was not astonished by anything. I was just immensely interested. Water-of-Life, Effectivity 52 %, Permissible Sediment 0.3: (ancient square bottle with water; cork sealed with colored wax); Diagram of Commercial Process for Manufacturing Water of Life; Mock-up of Live-Auto-Conversion Cube; Changeling Salts of Veshkovsk-Traubenbach (a drugstore bottle with poisonous yellow paste); Bad Blood, Ordinary (a soldered ampul with black liquid).

Over this entire stand hung a tablet: ACTIVE CHEMICAL AGENTS. XII–XVIII CENTURIES. There were many more little bottles, jars, retorts, ampuls, test tubes, working and nonworking models for extraction, distillation, and concentration, but I went on.

Enchanted Sword (very rusty two-handed sword with a wavy blade, shackled with a chain to an iron counter, window meticulously sealed); Right Eyetooth [Working] of Count Dracula (I’m no Cuvier, but judging by that tooth, Count Dracula must have been a most unusual and unpleasant person); Footprint, Normal, and Footprint, Extracted (to my eye, they looked the same, but one had a crack in it); Mortar on Launching pad, IX Century (massive construction of porous gray cast iron); Dragon Gorynitch, Skeleton, 1/25 Natural Size (similar to a diplodocus with three heads); Schematic of Fire-breathing Gland, middle Head; Seven-league Boots, Gravitic, Working Model (very large rubber boots); Flying Carpet, Anti-gravitic, Operational Model (a rug, about four by five with a he-Circassian embracing a young she-Circassian against a background of piled mountain peaks).

I arrived at the display Development of the Concept of the Philosopher’s Stone, when Sergeant Kovalev and Modest Matveevicb reappeared in the aisle. By all indications, they had not been successful in moving off their dead center.

“You can stop that,” Modest kept saying tiredly.

“I have my orders,” replied Kovalev just as wearily.

“Our coin is in its place. .

“Let the old woman come in and make a deposition. .”

“So then, according to you, counterfeiters?”

“I didn’t say that…”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it…”

Kovalev didn’t notice me, but Modest stopped, looked me over dully from head to foot, screwed up his eyes, and lectured aloud drearily, “Ho-mun-culus, laboratory model, general type,” and went on.

I started off after them, sensing a bad premonition. Roman was awaiting us by the door.

“How goes it?” he asked.

“It’s a disgrace,” said Modest in a wilted tone. “Bureaucrats!”

“1 have my orders,” Kovalev repeated stubbornly from the entry.

Roman went out. I made to move after him, but Modest stopped me.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Where are you going?”

“How do you mean—where?” I said in a fallen voice.

“To your place, go to your place.”

“What place?”

“Well, wherever it is that you stand. You are—pardon me—a… ho-munculus? Then be kind enough to stand where you are supposed to stand.”

I understood that I was lost. And I probably would have been, because Roman apparently also lost his presence of mind, but just then Naina Kievna lumbered into the entry, stomping and clacking and pulling along a hefty black goat on a rope. At the sight of the policeman, the goat bleated in a sick tone and took off. Naina Kievna fell down. Modest flew to the entry and a horrendous commotion ensued. The empty vat rolled off its stand with a thunderous rumble. Roman grabbed me by the hand, and whispering, “Move, move!” flew into my room. We shut the door and fell against it, breathing heavily. Yells wafted from the entry.

“Present your documents!”

“Mercy, governor, what’s that for?”

“Why the goat? Why a goat in the house!”

“Now you stop that; this is not a beer hall.”

“I don’t know about your five-kopeck piece, and it’s no business of mine.”

“Me-eh-eh!”

“Citizeness, remove the goat!”

“Stop it! The goat is registered!”

“Registered? How?”

“It’s not a goat! He is our colleague!” -

“Then let him present—”

“Out the window and into the car!” ordered Roman.

I grabbed my jacket and jumped out. Basil scuttled out from under my feet, meowing. Bending low, I ran to the car, threw open the door, and jumped behind the wheel. Roman was already opening the gate. The engine wouldn’t start. Torturing the starter, I could see the door to the cottage open and the black goat running out, bounding off with gigantic leaps somewhere around the corner. The engine caught and roared. I swung the car around and lurched out into the street. The oaken gate shut with a crash. Roman popped out behind the small gate and flung himself on the seat beside me.

“Go!” he said vigorously. “Downtown!”

While we were turning onto the Prospect of Peace, he asked, “So, how do you like it here with us?”

“I like,” I said. “Only it’s very raucous.”

“It’s always raucous at Naina’s,” said Roman. “A contrary old hag. She hasn’t taken advantage of you?”

“No,” I said. “We had almost no truck with each other.”

“Wait up,” said Roman. “Slow down.”

“What’s up?”

“There goes Volodia. Remember him?”

I braked. The bearded Volodia climbed into the back seat, and, beaming happily, shook our hands.

“Great!” he said. “I was just on my way to your place.”

“That’s all we needed there—you,” said Roman.

“How did it all end?”

“No how,” said Roman.

“Where are you going now?”

“To the Institute,” said Roman.

“What for?” I asked.

“To work,” said Roman.

“I’m on vacation.”

“That’s immaterial,” said Roman, “Monday begins on Saturday and August will begin in July, this time.”

“My friends are waiting,” I said, pleading.

“We’ll take care of that,” said Roman. “Your friends will notice absolutely nothing.”

“It’s enough to drive you insane,” I said.

We drove in between retail store No. 2 and dining room No. 11.

“He already knows where to go,” noted Volodia.

“Stout fellow,” said Roman. “A giant!”

“I took a liking to him right from the start,” said VoIodia.

“Obviously you must have a programmer or die,” I said. “We need far more than just any programmer,” contradicted Roman.

I braked alongside the strange building with the SRITS sign between the windows.

“What does it mean?” I asked. “Could I at least learn where I am being impressed to work?”

“You may,” said Roman. “You are now permitted everything. It is The Scientific Research Institute for Thaumaturgy and Spellcraft… Well, why are you standing? Drive in!”

“Where?” I asked.

“Don’t tell me you don’t see it!”

And I saw.

But that is altogether a different tale.