Self-discovery

Chapter 1

The brief short circuit in the line that fed the New Systems Laboratory occurred at three A.M. The circuit breaker at the substation of the Dneprovsk Institute of Systemology did what all automatic safety devices do in these cases: it disconnected the line from the transformer, lit up a blinking red light on the board in the office, and turned on the alarm.

Zhora Prakhov, the electrician on duty, turned off the alarm signal immediately so as not to be distracted from his study of The Beginning Motorcyclist (Zhora was about to take the driver’s test) and he glanced at the blinking light with hostility and expectancy. Usually localized short circuits in the lab were taken care of at the site.

Realizing after an hour that there was no getting around it, the electrician shut his book, picked up his instrument case and his gloves, set the pointer on the door at “New Syst. Lab.” and left the office. The dark trees of the institute grounds were waist — deep in fog. The transformers of the substation stood with their oil — cooling pipes akimbo, looking like shapeless old women. The old institute building hovered in the distance like a washed — out snowbank against the graying sky. It had heavy balconies and ornate towers. To the left, the parallelepiped of the new research department tried vainly to block out the early June dawn.

Zhora glanced at his watch (it was 4:10), lit a cigarette, and scattering the fog with his bag, headed right, into the far corner of the park where the New Systems Lab was located, housed in a small lodge. At 4:30, in answer to electrician Prakhov’s call, two cars appeared on the scene: an ambulance and a squad car of the Dneprovsk City Police.

The tall, thin man in the light suit strode through the park, disregarding the paved paths. His shoes left dark prints on the dew — gray grass. A light breeze ruffled his thinning gray hair. A blindingly pink and yellow sunrise filled the space between the old and new buildings; birds chattered in the trees. But Arkady Arkadievich Azarov had no time for all that.

“Something happened in the New Systems Lab, comrade director,” a dry voice had informed him over the phone a few minutes earlier. “There were victims. Please come.”

Being wakened too early gave Azarov neurasthenia; his body seemed stuffed with cotton, his head empty, and life terrible. “Something happened in the lab…. Please come…. It must have been a cop.” This ran through his mind instead of thoughts.” ‘There were victims…. What a ridiculous word! Who were the victims? And of what? Killed, wounded, trousers burned? What? Looks serious. Again! There was that student who got under the gamma rays to speed up the experiment, and then there was… the second incident in six months. But Krivoshein is not a student; he’s experienced. What could have happened? They were working at night, and got tired, and… I’ll have to put a stop to night work! Absolutely!”

When he had accepted the offer to direct the Dneprovsk Systemology Institute, Academician Azarov hoped to create a scientific system that would be a continuation of his own brain. In his dreams, he saw the structure of the institute developing along the vertical branching principle: he would give general ideas for research and system construction to the section and laboratory directors, who would work out the details and plan specific projects for the workers, who would try to…. Then he would draw conclusions from the data obtained and produce new fundamental ideas and principles. But reality intruded harshly on his dreams. A lot of it was due to acts of God: the slow — wittedness of some scientists and excessive independence of others; the changes in the construction plans, which was why the storerooms and storage yards of the institute were piled high with unopened crates of equipment; the backbiting among purchasing sections; the arguments that erupted from time to time among the institute’s members; and the accidents and incidents…. Arkady Arkadievich thought bitterly that he was no closer now to realizing his dream than he had been five years ago.

The one — story lodge with the tile roof shone white in its idyllic setting among the flowering lindens, whose delicate scent filled the air. There were two cars bruising the lawn by the concrete porch: a white ambulance and a blue Volga with a red stripe. As soon as Arkady Arkadievich was in sight of the lab, he slowed down and started thinking. In eighteen months of its existence he had been in the lab only once, in the very beginning, and only briefly for a general tour, and he really couldn’t picture what there was behind the door.

The New Systems Lab. actually, there was no reason yet for Azarov to take it seriously, particularly since it had come about not as one of his pet projects, but as the result of an unhappy series of coincidences: eighty thousand in the budget was “burning” to be used. There was only a month and a half until the end of the year, and it was impossible to spend the money according to the letter of the law (Introducing New Laboratories). The builders, who had originally promised the new building by May 1, then the October holidays, and then Constitution Day, were now talking about May 1 of the following year. The crates and boxes of equipment were crowding the parking grounds. Besides, unused monies were always dangerous because they could lead the planning organizations to cut the budget the next year. And so, Arkady Arkadievich announced a “contest” at the institute seminar: who could come up with the best plan for using the eighty thousand before the year was out? Krivoshein suggested a “Lab of Random Research.” Since there were no other suggestions, he had to agree to this one.

Arkady Arkadievich did so against his better judgment and even changed the name to the more proper “Lab for New Systems.” Labs were created to suit people, and for now, Krivoshein was a loner — a fair schematic engineering technician but nothing more. Let him get his fill of independence and overextend himself, and when it came down to research, he’d beg for a director himself. Then they could look for a good candidate of sciences, or better yet, a Ph.D., and create the lab’s profile to suit him.

Of course, Arkady Arkadievich did not discount the possibility of Krivoshein’s shaping up. The idea he had proposed at the senior council last summer on… on what had it been? Oh, yes, the self — organization of electronic systems through the introduction of arbitrary information… this idea could be the basis for a master’s thesis or a doctoral dissertation. But with his penchant for disagreeing with people and his hot temper, Azarov doubted it. Back at that council meeting, he shouldn’t have dealt with Professor Voltampernov’s remarks that way; poor Ippolit Illarionovich had to take pills after the meeting. No, no, Krivoshein’s insubordination was completely inexcusable! There was still no data to show that he had proved his ideas; of course, a year wasn’t a very long time, but an engineer was no Ph.D. who could get away with getting involved in research that takes decades.

And that latest scandal — Arkady Arkadievich winced — it was so fresh and unpleasant. Krivoshein had argued against the institute’s scientific secretary’s defense of his dissertation at the nearby construction design bureau six weeks ago. Without telling anyone ahead of time, he had gone to an outside organization and shown up one of his own colleagues! That was a slur on the institute, on Academician Azarov himself…. Of course, he himself shouldn’t have been so easy on the dissertation in the first place and shouldn’t have reacted so positively to it; but he rationalized it by saying that it would have been nice to have a homegrown institute Ph.D., and that dissertations worse than this one had been passed. But Krivoshein! Arkady Arkadievich let him know in spades that he was not inclined to keep him in the institute. But now was hardly the time to be bringing all this up.

There was a lot of activity in the lodge. The thought of going in there now to look at it, deal with it, and explain things gave Arkady Arkadievich a sensation not unlike a toothache. “Krivoshein again!” he thought fiercely. “If he’s at fault in this incident as well…!” Arkady Arkadievich went up the steps, quickly walked down the narrow corridor crammed with crates and apparatus, entered the room, and looked around.

The large room with six windows only remotely resembled a laboratory for electronic and mathematical research. The parallelepiped generators made of metal and plastic and the oscilloscopes with ventilation slots in their sides stood on the floor, tables, and shelves, mingling with flasks, jars, test tubes, and bowls. There were dozens of test tubes huddled on the shelves and cluttering up the boxes of selenium rectifiers. The middle of the room was taken up by a shapeless apparatus overgrown with wiring, tubing, and extension cords; a control panel was barely visible through the spaghetti. What was that octopus?

“I can feel his pulse,” a woman said to the left of the academician.

Arkady Arkadievich turned. The space between the door and the wall, free of flasks and equipment, was in semidarkness. Two orderlies were carefully transferring a man wearing a gray lab coat from the floor to a stretcher; his head was tilted back and strands of his hair were damp from the puddle of some oily liquid on the floor. A petite doctor bustled near the man.

“He’s in shock,” she pronounced. “Give him an adrenalin injection and pump him.”

The academician took a step closer. It was a young man, handsome, very pale, with chestnut hair. “No, that’s not Krivoshein, but who is it? I’ve seen him somewhere….” An orderly got the shot ready. Azarov took a deep breath and almost choked. The room was filled with the acrid odors of acid solutions, burned insulation, and some other sharp smell — the vague, heavy smells of disasters. The floor was covered with a thick liquid through which the doctor and orderlies kept walking.

A thin man in a blue suit entered the room in an official manner. Everything about him but his suit was bland and inexpressive: gray hair with a side part, small gray eyes unexpectedly close together on a bony face with high cheekbones, and taut, poorly shaved cheeks. He nodded drily to Azarov, who returned an equally formal bow. There was no need for introductions, since it had been Investigator Onisimov who had handled the case of lab assistant Gorshkov’s radiation death last February.

“Let’s begin by identifying the body,” the detective said, and Arkady Arkadievich’s heart skipped a beat. “Would you please come here.”

Azarov followed him to the corner by the door to something covered with a gray oilcloth. It was full of angular bumps, and yellow, bony toes stuck out from the ends.

“The work ID found in the clothing we saw in the laboratory gives the name of Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein,” the detective said in an official voice, bending back the oilcloth. “Do you corroborate the identification?”

Life had not often placed Arkady Arkadievich face to face with death. He felt faint and unbuttoned his collar. The raised oilcloth revealed sticky, short hair, bulging eyes, sunken cheeks, a mouth drooping at the corners, then a prominent Adam’s apple on a sinewy neck, thin collarbones…. “He’s lost so much weight!” he thought. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” the detective said and lowered the cloth. So, it was Krivoshein. They had seen each other the day before yesterday near the old building, walked past each other, and bowed formally as usual. Then, he had been a heavyset, living man, albeit an unpleasant one. And now… it was as though life had sucked out all his vital juices, dried out his flesh, leaving only the bones covered with gray skin. “Probably Krivoshein understood what his role was to be in establishing this lab,” Azarov suddenly thought for no reason. The detective left.

“Oh, dear. Tsk, tsk, tsk….” Arkady Arkadievich heard. He turned. The scientific secretary Harry Haritonovich Hilobok was in the doorway. His sleek face was still puffy from sleep. Harry Haritonovich was considered attractive: a good physique in a light suit, a well — shaped head, intriguing gray at the temples, dark eyes, and a good straight nose, set off by a dark mustache. His appearance was somewhat marred by the harsh lines at the corners of his mouth, the kind caused by constant forced smiling, and a weakish chin. The assistant professor’s dark eyes shone with timid curiosity.

“Good morning, Arkady Arkadievich! What’s happened here at Krivoshein’s now? I was just walking by and wondered why these vehicles were outside the lab? So I came in. By the way, have you noticed that his digital printing machines are just lounging in the halls here, Arkady Arkadievich? In the middle of all sorts of garbage. And Valentin Vasilyevich worked so hard at getting them, writing endless streams of memos. I mean, he could give them to somebody else if he has no use for them himself.” Harry Haritonovich sighed deeply and looked over to the right. “Must be another student! Tsk, tsk, dear, dear! Another student, there’s a plague on them here….” He noticed that the detective had returned. “Oh, good day, Apollon Matveevich! Seeing us once more, eh?”

“Matvei Apollonovich,” Onisimov corrected.

He opened a yellow box marked “Material Evidence” with a black stencil, took out a test tube, and crouched over the puddle.

“I mean Matvei Apollonovich — please forgive me. I do remember you very well from last time. I just scrambled name and patronymic a little. Matvei Apollonovich, of course. How could I? We talked about you for a long time after, how organized and efficient you were, and everything….” Hilobok went on and on.

“Comrade Director, what was the nature of the work done in this laboratory?” the detective interrupted, catching some liquid in the test tube.

“Research on self — organizing electronic systems with an integral input of information,” the academician replied. “Anyway, that was how Valentin Vasilyevich had formulated his thesis at the beginning of the year.”

“I see.” Onisimov got up, sniffed the liquid, wiped the tube clean with a piece of cotton, and put it away. “Was the use of poisonous chemicals ruled out?”

“I don’t know. I would think that nothing was forbidden. Research is done by the researcher as he best sees fit.”

“So what went so wrong here in Krivoshein’s lab that even you, Arkady Arkadievich, were disturbed so early in the morning?” Hilobok asked, lowering his voice. “Precisely — what?” Onisimov was directing his questions to the academician. “The short circuit had nothing to do with it. It was merely an accident, and not the cause. We’ve determined that much. There is no sign of electrocution, no traumas on the body… and the man is gone. And what is this contraption? What’s it for?”

He picked up an object from the floor that looked like an ancient warrior’s helmet; but this helmet was chrome — plated and covered with buttons and bundles of thin multicolored wires. The wires extended beyond the tubes and flasks of the clumsy apparatus into the far corner of the room, to a computer.

“This?” The academician shrugged. “Hmm.”

“Monomakh’s Crown, I mean, that’s what we call them around here,” Hilobok offered. “More precisely, it’s an SEP — 1 — System of Electronic Pickups for Computing the Biopotentials of the Human Brain. The reason I know, Arkady Arkadievich, is that Krivoshein kept bugging me to make him one like it.”

“All right, I understand. With your permission, I’ll take it for a while, since it was found on the victim.”

Onisimov, winding the wires, disappeared into the far reaches of the room.

“Who was the victim, Arkady Arkadievich?” Hilobok whispered.

“Krivoshein.”

“Oh, dear, how can that be? His eccentricities finally led to this… and more troubles for you, Arkady Arkadievich.”

The detective was back. He wrapped the “crown” in paper and put it into his box. The only sound in the quiet lab was the panting of the orderlies, who were working on the unconscious assistant.

“And why was Krivoshein naked?” Onisimov suddenly asked.

“He was naked?” The academician was stunned. “You mean it wasn’t the doctors who undressed him? I don’t know! I can’t even imagine.”

“Hm… I see. And what do you think they used this tank for? Perhaps for bathing?”

The detective pointed to the rectangular plastic tank that lay on its side on top of the shards of the flasks its fall had crushed; drips and icicles of yellow gray stuff hung from its transparent sides. Pieces of a large mirror lay next to the tub.

“For bathing?” The academician was getting tired of these questions. “I’m afraid that you have a peculiar idea of what a scientific laboratory is used for, comrade… eh, investigator!”

“And there was a mirror right next to it. A good one, full — length/ Onisimov droned on. “What use could it have served?”

“I don’t know! I can’t delve into every technical detail of all hundred sixty projects that are under way in my institute!”

“You see, Apollon Marve… I mean, Matvei Apollonovich — forgive me,” Hilobok interrupted, “Arkady Arkadievich is in charge of the entire institute, is a member of five interdisciplinary commissions, edits a scholarly journal, and of course, cannot deal with every detail of every project specifically. That’s what the project directors are for. And besides, the late — oh dear, what a pity — the late Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein was a man of too much independence. He did not like to confer with anyone, to share his thoughts or results. And he often ignored, it must be said, many of the basic safety rules. Of course, I know that you should not speak ill of the dead — de mortius bene aut nihil, as they say — but what was, was. Remember, Arkady Arkadievich, how a year ago January — no, maybe it was February — no, I think it was January, or it could even have been back in December — anyway, remember, how he flooded the first floor, causing great damage and stopping work on many projects, when he was working with Ivanov?”

“You are a viper, Hilobok!” A voice came from the stretcher. The student lab assistant, clutching the edges, was trying to get up. “Oh, you… too bad we didn’t take care of you then!”

Everyone turned to him. A chill went through Azarov: the student’s voice, the hoarseness, the slurred endings, were absolutely identical with Krivoshein’s. The assistant fell back weakly, his head touching the floor. The orderlies wiped their brows in satisfaction: he was alive! The doctor gave an order and they picked up the stretcher and took him out. The academician took a close look at the fellow. And his heart skipped a beat again. The lab assistant resembled Krivoshein — he didn’t know exactly how — and not even the live Krivoshein, but the one down there under the oilcloth.

“See, he’s even managed to set the lab assistant against me,”

Hilobok nodded in his direction with unbelievable meekness.

“Why was he so angry with you?” Onisimov turned to him. “Were you two in conflict?”

“Heaven forbid!” The assistant professor shrugged innocently and sincerely. “I’ve only talked to him once, when I interviewed him to work in Krivoshein’s lab at Valentin Vasilyevich’s personal request, since he — “

“Victor Vitalyevich Kravets,” Onisimov read from his notes.

“Yes… well, he’s a relative of Krivoshein’s. He’s a student from Kharkov University, and they sent us fifteen people in the winter for a year’s practical work. And Krivoshein made him an assistant in his lab through nepotism. But why should we object? We’re all human — “

“Enough, Harry Haritonovich,” Azarov cut him off.

“I see,” Onisimov nodded. “Tell me, aside from Kravets, did the deceased have any relatives?”

“What can I tell you, Matvei Apollonovich?” Hilobok sighed deeply. “Officially, no, but unofficially, he was visited by a woman here. I don’t know if she’s his fiancee, or what. Her name is Elena Ivanovna Kolomiets, and she works in a neighboring construction design bureau, a nice woman — “

“I see. You’re on top of things around here, I see.” Onisimov laughed as he headed for the door.

A minute later he was back with a camera and directed the exposure meter at the corner.

“The laboratory will have to be sealed during the investigation. The body will be sent to the coroner for an autopsy. The people in charge of the funeral will have to contact him.” The detective went to the corner and picked up the cloth that was covering Krivoshein’s body. “Please move away from the window. There’ll be more light. Actually, I do not need to keep you any longer, comrades, please forgive the trouble — “

He paled and pulled up the cloth in a single move. Under it lay a skeleton! A yellow puddle was spreading around it, retaining a blurred caricature of a body’s outline.

“Oh!” Hilobok exclaimed and backed out onto the porch.

Arkady Arkadievich felt his knees buckle and held on to the wall. The detective was methodically folding the oilcloth and staring at the skeleton, which was smiling a mocking thirty — toothed grin. A lock of dark red hair silently fell from the skull into the puddle,

“I see,” Onisimov muttered. Then he turned to Azarov and looked disapprovingly into the wide eyes behind the rectangular lenses. “Fine goings — on here, comrade director.”