Self-discovery

Chapter 5

“You sucker, show — off punk!” Krivoshein berated himself. “You found a wonderful application for your discovery — terrifying the police. He would have let me go anyway; there was no way out.”

His face and body muscles were exhausted. The painful ache was easing in his glands. “Three transformations in a few minutes is an overload. What a hothead. Well, nothing will happen to me. That’s the beauty of it, that nothing can happen to me….”

The sky was quickly turning dark blue over the houses. The neon signs announcing the names of stores, theaters, and cafes went on with a slight hiss. The graduate student’s thoughts returned to Moscow business.

“Vano Aleksandrovich passed with flying colors; he didn’t even ask why I was being held. He identified me and that’s all. I understand it: ‘If Krivoshein is hiding his affairs from me then I don’t want to know about them. The proud old man is hurt. And he’s right. It was in conversation with him that I zeroed in on my goals in the experiments. Actually, it had been no conversation — it was an agreement. But it isn’t everyone with whom you can argue and come out with enriched ideas.”

Vano Aleksandrovich kept circling him, watching with ironic expectation: what earth — shattering ideas will the dilettante biologist come up with? Once on a December evening, Krivoshein found him in his department office and told him everything that he felt about life in general and about man in particular. It was a good evening: they sat and smoked and talked, while a pre — New Year’s storm howled and whistled outside, pounding snow against the window.

“Any machine is constructed somehow and does something,” Krivoshein was expounding. “The biological machine called Man also has these two parts to it: the basic one and the operative. The operative part — organs of sensation, the brain, motor nerves, and skeletal muscles — is for the most part subservient to man. The eyes, ears, the binding parts of the skin, the nerve endings in the nose and the tongue, and the pain and temperature receptors react to external stimulation, turn it into electrical impulses (just like the mechanism for information input in a computer), while the brain and the spinal column analyze and combine the impulses according to the ‘stimulation — braking’ principle (similar to the impulse cells of a machine). The synapses join and separate, sending commands to the skeletal muscles, which perform various actions — just like the executive mechanisms of a machine.

“Man controls the operative side of his organisms — he can even master reflexes, like pain, by will power. But with the basic side, which takes care of the fundamental process of life — metabolism — it isn’t like that. That lungs suck in air; the heart forces blood into the dark crannies of the body; the gullet contracts and pushes pieces of food into the stomach; the pancreas secretes hormones and enzymes to reduce food to elements that the intestines can absorb; the liver excretes glucose into the blood. The thyroid and parathyroid produce wild things, thyroxin and parathyreodine, which determine whether a person will grow and mature or remain a cretinous dwarf, whether he will develop a sturdy skeletal system or whether his bones can be bent like pretzels. An inconsequential — looking growth by the base of the brain — the pituitary body — with the help of its secretions commands the entire mysterious kitchen of internal secretions as well as the functioning of the kidneys, blood pressure, and safe delivery in childbirth. And this part of the organism, which constructs man — his build, skull shape, psychology, health, and power — this part is not subject to the conscious mind!”

“Correct,” smiled Vano Aleksandrovich. “In your operative side I easily recognize the activity of the ‘animal’ or somatic nervous system and in the basic one, the realm of the ‘vegetative’ or sympathetic nervous system. These terms appeared in the eighteenth century; they used the Latin for animal and for plant. Personally, I don’t think they’re very apt. Perhaps your engineering terms will have greater success in the twentieth century. Well, continue, please.”

“Machines, even electronic ones, are constructed and made by man. Soon the machines will do it themselves; the principle is clear. But why can’t man construct himself? Metabolism is subordinate to the central nervous system. The glands, blood vessels, and intestines are connected to the brain by the same kind of nerves as the muscles and sensory organs are. Why can’t man control these processes the way he can wiggle his fingers? Why is man’s conscious participation in this process limited to satisfying his appetite and thirst and several opposite needs? It’s ridiculous. Homo sapiens, the king of nature, the crown of evolution, the creator of complex technology and art, is distinguished in the basic life process from cows and earthworms only in the use of knives and forks and alcohol!”

“Why is it so important to be able to bring sugar, enzymes, and hormones into the blood through will power?” Androsiashvili’s bushy eyebrows arched. “Please be so kind as to tell me why, on top of all my worries in the department, I have to also think every hour about how much adrenaline and insulin I should produce in the pancreas and where I should direct it? The sympathetic system takes care of it for me, without bothering man — and that’s fine!”

“Is it fine, Vano Aleksandrovich? What about disease?”

“Disease… so that’s your angle: disease as an error in the workings of the basic construction system.” The professor’s eyebrows turned into sinusoids. “The mistakes that we try to rectify with pills, compresses, vaccinations, and other operative interference, and usually without much success. But… disease is the result of those effects of the environment that the organism can’t handle.”

“And why can’t it? After all, we know in most cases what is harmful — that’s the basis of disease prevention, epidemic control. We try, simply, to keep away from danger. But the environment keeps spewing out new mysteries: X — ray radiation, welding arcs, isotopes — “

“Enough!” The professor raised both hands in surrender. “I have the feeling that you have a secret answer on the tip of your tongue and you just can’t wait for your interlocutor to bulge his eyes and ask with timid hope: ‘But why? All right! Look: my eyes are open wide.” The whites of his eyes, shot with red, sparkled. “And I am asking the long — awaited question. Why can’t people control their metabolism?”

“Because they’ve forgotten how it’s done!” Krivoshein thundered.

“Bah!” the professor slapped his knee in glee. “They used to know and forgot? Like a phone number? Interesting!”

“Let’s remember that the human brain contains a huge number of unactivated cells: ninety — nine percent, and in some, ninety — nine point something. It’s unlikely that they exist just like that, for a backup reserve; nature doesn’t allow excess. It’s only natural to posit that those cells contained information that is now lost. Not necessarily verbal information — there is little of that in our organisms now because it’s too crude and approximate — but biological information, expressed in images, feelings, sensations — “

“Stop! I know the rest!” Androsiashvili shouted exultantly. “Martians! No, better than Martians. After all, they’re going to get to Mars sooner or later, and then it could be checked. Let’s say inhabitants of a planet that used to exist somewhere between Mars and Jupiter that has since disintegrated into asteroids. Highly intelligent creatures lived there. They had an artificial, varied environment, and they knew how to control their organisms to adapt to the environment and also for fun. And these inhabitants, sensing that their planet was about to die, moved to Earth.”

“Perhaps it was that way,” Krivoshein agreed calmly. “In any case, we must assume that man had highly organized ancestors wherever they came from. And they went wild, finding themselves in a wild, primitive environment with harsh living conditions — in the Cenozoic Era. Heat, jungles, swamps, animals — and no conveniences. Life was reduced to the struggle for survival and all their refinements were wasted. Then over many generations it was all lost, from literacy to the ability to control metabolism. Really, Vano Aleksandrovich, put a city dweller in the jungle now, and see what happens to him!”

“Very effective!” Androsiashvili smacked his lips in pleasure. “And the excess brain cells remained in the organism along with the appendix and hairy underarms? Now I understand why my dear colleague Professor Valerno calls science fiction ‘intellectual decadence. “

“Why? And what does that have to do with this?”

“Because it replaces sober discussion with effective games of the imagination.”

“Well, you know,” Krivoshein countered, getting angry, “in systemology we don’t put down working hypotheses with references to the ban mots of friends. Any idea is usable if it is profitable.”

“And in biology, comrade graduate student,” Androsiashvili shouted, rolling his eyes, “we only use ideas that are based on a sober, materialistic approach! And not on the ruins of a fantasy planet! We deal with something more important than technology — we deal with life! And since you are now working in our field, I suggest you remember that! Any dilettante comes along. and, phahh!” He immediately cooled off and changed to a peaceful tone. “All right. Let’s make believe that each of us has smashed a plate. Now back to the serious things: why is your hypothesis, to put it mildly, dubious? First of all, the ‘unactivated’ brain cell — technological terminology is not applicable to biological concepts. The cells are alive — therefore they are already activated. Secondly, why not assume that these billions of cells are there as a reserve?”

Vano Aleksandrovich got up and looked down at Krivoshein.

“My dear comrade graduate student, I do have a little knowledge of technology — after all, I am an evening student at MEI! — and I know that you, hmm, in systemology, you have the concept and problem of reliability. The reliability of electronic systems is guaranteed by a reserve of parts, cells, and even units. Then why not assume that nature has created in man the same kind of reserve for reliability in the brain? After all, nerve cells do not regenerate.”

“It’s an awfully big reserve!” The graduate student shook his head. “The average man uses a million cells out of a possible billion.”

“And talented people use tens of millions! And geniuses. actually, no one’s measured their cells yet — maybe they use hundreds of millions. Perhaps the brain of each of us is reserved for genius potential? I tend to feel that genius and not mediocrity is man’s natural state.”

“Very effectively put, Vano Aleksandrovich.”

“I see you are a cruel man. but, think what you will, my reservations have as much value as your hypothesis about Martians gone wild. Hah, and if you take into account the fact that I am your advisor and you are my student, then they are even more valuable!” He sat down. “But let’s get back to the major issue: why is present — day man incapable of controlling the autonomous nervous system and metabolism? You know why? Because it hasn’t come to that yet.”

“So that’s it!”

“Yes. The environment teaches man in only one way: through conditioning drills. You know that in order to form a conditioned reflex the situation and stimulus must be repeated frequently. And that’s just how life experience develops. And in order to form an unconditioned reflex that is inherited the drill must be repeated for many generations for thousands of years. You were right about the biological information in the organism; it is not expressed verbally, but by the reflexes, both conditioned and unconditioned. And it is man’s will that controls reflexes, of course, in a limited way. You don’t think through from beginning to end which muscle must contract how much when you light a cigarette, and you don’t think through the chemical reactions of the muscle contraction. The consciousness gives the order to light up and the reflexes take over. Both the specific one that you acquired from practicing that filthy habit — crumple the cigarette, inhale the smoke — as well as the general ones passed on to you from your distant ancestors: grabbing, breathing, and so on…” Vano Aleksandrovich — it wasn’t clear whether it was intended to be an illustration or not — lit a cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

“I’m leading up to the fact that the consciousness controls when there is something to control. In the operative part of the organism, when the final action, as Sechenov noted long ago, is a muscular one… remember?” Androsiashvili sat back in his chair and quoted:” ‘A child laughing at a toy, Garibaldi smiling at the accusation of excessive love for his country, a young girl trembling at the first thoughts of love, Newton creating universal laws and writing them down — the final fact in all these instances is muscular action. Ah, how brilliantly Ivan Mikhailovich wrote! So the operative part gives the mind something to control and lets it choose among its vast store of conditioned and unconditioned reflexes for each unique situation. And in the constructive part, where the body’s chemistry takes place, there is nothing for the mind to do. Just think for a moment about what conditioned reflexes are involved in metabolism?”

“Drink or not, give me a little more horseradish, can’t abide pork, smoking, and….” Krivoshein got confused. “And well, I guess washing, brushing your teeth….”

“There’s a dozen more like that,” nodded the professor, “but they are all minor, semichemical, semimuscular, superficial reflexes. And deeper in the organism there are definite reflex processes that are connected so unilaterally that there is nothing to control: oxygen leaves the bloodstream, breathe; not enough protein for the muscles, eat; excreted water, drink; poisoned yourself with things forbidden for the organism, be sick or die. And there are no variations. You can’t say that life did not teach people about metabolic reactions — it taught them cruelly. Epidemics — how nice it would be to figure out through the use of your mind and your reflexes just which bacillus was destroying you and purge it from your body like fleas! Famines — just hibernate like a bear instead of puffing up and dying! Wounds and mutilations in fighting — regenerate your torn — off limb or gouged eye! And that’s not enough. It would all be done at high speed. Muscular reaction happens in tenths and hundredths of a second, and the fastest of the metabolic actions — secretion of adrenaline into the bloodstream — takes seconds. The secretion of hormones by the glands and the pituitary is discovered only after years, and maybe only once in a lifetime. Thus,” he smiled wanly, “this knowledge is not lost by the organism; it simply has not yet been acquired. It’s too difficult for man to learn such a lesson.”

“And therefore mastery of metabolism could drag on for millions of years?”

“I’m afraid that it could take dozens of millions of years,” sighed Vano Aleksandrovich. “We mammals are very recent inhabitants of earth. Thirty million years — is that an age? Everything is still ahead of us.

“There will be nothing ahead of us, Vano Aleksandrovich!” exclaimed Krivoshein. “The present environment changes from year to year — what kind of million — year learning process can there be, what kind of repetition of lessons? Man has stepped off the path of natural evolution, and now he must figure things out for himself.”

“And we are.”

“What? Pills, powders, hemorrhoidal suppositories, enemas, and bed rest? Are you sure that we are improving man’s breed this way? Maybe we’re ruining it?”

‘ I’m not trying to talk you into involving yourself with pills and powders if those are the terms you choose to use for the antibiotics our department is developing,” Vano Aleksandrovich said, his face taking on a cold and haughty look. “If you want to study your idea — go ahead, dare. But explaining the unrealistic and unplanned aspects of this decision in graduate work and for a future dissertation is my right and my duty.”

He stood up and tossed the butts from the ashtray into the wastebasket.

“Forgive me, Vano Aleksandrovich. I certainly didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” Krivoshein also stood, realizing that the conversation was over, and ending on an unpleasant note. “But. Vano Aleksandrovich, there are very interesting facts.”

“What facts?”

“Well… in the last century in India there was a man — god, Ramakrishna. And, if someone was being beaten nearby, he had welts on his body. Or take ‘burns by suggestion’: a sensitive subject is touched with a pencil and told that it was a lit cigarette. In these cases metabolism is controlled without a ‘learning process, is it not?”

“Listen, you nagging student,” Androsiashvili wheeled on him, “how many window bolts can you eat in a sitting?”

“Hmmmm,” Krivoshein said in confusion. “I don’t think any at all. How about you?”

“Me neither. But a patient I had in the dim past when I worked in the Pavlov Psychiatric Clinic swallowed, without any particular harm to himself, ” the professor leaned back, remembering, “five window bolts, twelve aluminum teaspoons, three tablespoons, two pairs of surgical scissors, 240 grams of broken glass, one fork, and 400 grams of various nails. Now these are not the results of an autopsy, mind you, but the history of a disease — I cut him open myself. The patient was cured of suicidal tendencies and is probably still alive today.” The professor glanced down at Krivoshein from the heights of his erudition. “So in scientific matters it is better not to orient yourself by religious fanatics or secular psychopaths. No, no!” He raised his hand to stave off the obvious look of disagreement in Krivoshein’s eyes. “Enough arguing. Go ahead, I won’t stop you. I’m sure that you will try to regulate metabolism with some kind of machine or electronic method.”

Vano Aleksandrovich gave the student a thoughtful and tired look and smiled.

“Catching the Firebird with your bare hands! What could be better? And you have a holy goal: man without diseases, without old age — age is a result of a breakdown in metabolism, too. Twenty years or so ago, I would have allowed myself to be fired up by this idea. But now… now I must do what can definitely be done. Even if it’s only a pill.”

Krivoshein turned down a cross street toward the Institute of Systemology and almost bumped into a man in a dark blue cloak, much too warm for the season. The unexpectedness of the encounter produced further problems: Krivoshein stepped to the left to let the man past, while the man did the same to the right. Then both of them, letting the other go first, finally set off in opposite directions. The man stared at Krivoshein in amazement and stopped.

“I beg your pardon,” he muttered and went on.

The street was dark and empty. Krivoshein soon heard footsteps behind him and looked back: the man in the cloak was following at a short distance. “That Onisimov!” thought the graduate student. “He’s got a detective tailing me!” He experimented by going faster and heard the man’s pace increase. “Ah, the hell with him! I’m certainly not going to cover my tracks.” Krivoshein went on slowly, rambling. However, his back felt uncomfortable and his thoughts returned to reality.

“So, I guess Val tried another experiment. Maybe he wasn’t alone? It failed; that corpse turning into a skeleton. But why are the police involved? And where is he? Our Val must have blown town on his bike until things calmed down. Or maybe he’s in the lab?”

Krivoshein approached the monumental, cast — iron gates of the institute. The rectangular posts of the gates were so large that the left one easily contained the pass office and the right one the entrance way. He opened the door. Old man Vakhterych, the ancient guard of science, was nodding off behind the barrier.

“Good evening!” Krivoshein nodded at him.

“Good evening, Valentin Vasilyevich!” replied Vakhterych, obviously not about to ask him for his pass; they were used to visits by the head of the New Systems Lab at all hours.

Krivoshein, inside the grounds, looked back; the creep in the cloak was stuck outside. There you go, chum,” Krivoshein thought. “The pass system proves itself once again.”

The windows of the lodge were dark. A red cigarette light glowed by the door. Krivoshein crouched under the trees and made out a uniform cap on a man’s head against the stars. “No, I’ve had it with the cops for one day. I’d better go home….” he laughed. “I mean to his house.”

He started for the gates, but remembered the fellow in the cloak and stopped. “That’s against all the rules, the suspect running into the detective’s arms. Let him do some work.” Krivoshein headed for the other end of the park — where the branches of the old oak hung over the iron pickets of the fence. He jumped from the branch onto the sidewalk and started for Academic Town.

“But what happened with his experiment? And who was that guy who met me at the airport? The telegram really confused me: I thought he was Val! He does look like him — very much so. Could it be? Val obviously didn’t sit around all year twiddling his thumbs! Too bad we didn’t write. What petty fools we are: each one wanting to prove that he could do without the other, to astound the other a year later with his results. With his own results! The highest form of possession. And so we’ve amazed each other. We’re destroying a major project with pettiness. With pettiness, lack of forethought, and fear. We shouldn’t have scattered every which way, but tried to attract people who were worthy and real, like Vano Aleksandrovich, from the very beginning. Yes, but back then I didn’t know him, and it won’t help to try it now, when he storms past me and gives me dirty looks.”

It had all happened in the spring, in late March when Krivoshein had only begun mastering metabolism in his own body. Busy with himself, he hadn’t noticed spring until spring made him notice: a heavy icicle fell on him from the roof of a five — story building. If it had fallen a half inch to the left, it would have been the end of the experiments on metabolism as well as the end of his organism. But the icicle merely ripped his ear, broke his collar bone, and knocked him down.

“Disaster, disaster!” That’s what he heard professor Androsiashvili saying as he came to. He was leaning over him, feeling his head, unbuttoning his coat. “I’ll kill that janitor for not clearing the snow!” he said, angrily shaking his fist. “Can you walk?” He helped Krivoshein up. “Don’t worry, your head is fairly whole. The clavicle will heal in a few weeks. It could have been worse. Hold on, I’ll walk you over to the infirmary.”

“Thank you, Vano Aleksandrovich, I’ll manage myself,” Krivoshein replied as heartily as he could, even squeezing out a smile. “I’ll make it, it’s nearby.”

And he moved on quickly, almost at a run. He stopped the bleeding from his ear immediately. But his right hand was dangling loosely.

“I’ll call them to get the electric stitcher ready!” the professor called after him. “They’ll be able to sew up the ear!”

Back in his room, Krivoshein taped up his ear, torn along the cartilage, in front of the mirror and wiped away the caked blood with cotton. That was easy. Ten minutes later there was only a pink scar where the tear had been, and in a half hour, that was gone too. Mending the clavicle was a lot harder; he had to lie on his bed all evening concentrating on commanding the blood vessels, the glands, and the muscles. The bones had much less chemical solution than soft tissue.

He decided to go to Androsiashvili’s class in the morning. He got to the hall early to take an inconspicuous seat in the back and ran into the professor, who was instructing students about the hanging of posters. Krivoshein backed off, but it was too late.

“Why are you here? Why aren’t you in the clinic?” Vano Aleksandrovich went pale, staring at the student’s ear and the right hand in which he was clutching his notebook. “What is this?”

“And you said it would take dozens of millions of years, Vano Aleksandrovich.” Krivoshein couldn’t resist. “You see, it can be done without ‘drilling. “

“You mean… it’s working? How?”

Krivoshein bit his lip.

“Mmmm, a little later, Vano Aleksandrovich,” he muttered awkwardly. “I still have to figure it all out myself.”

“Yourself?” The professor raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want to tell?” His face grew cold and haughty. “All right, as you wish. Pardon me!” He went to his desk.

From that day on he nodded icily to his student when they met, and never entered into a discussion. Krivoshein, to keep his conscience from bothering him too much, lost himself in his experiments. He really did have a lot more to learn.

“Don’t you understand that I wanted to demonstrate my discovery — relive my burning interest in it, your praise, fame, ” thought Krivoshein as he tried to justify himself before the invisible Androsiashvili. “After all, unlike the psychopaths I could have explained it all. Of course, this doesn’t work with other people yet; they don’t have the constitution for it. But the important thing is that I’ve proved the possibility of it, the knowledge. If only the discovery had been limited to the fact that I can heal my own wounds, breaks, and cure myself of diseases! The trouble with nature is that it never gives just exactly as much as is needed for the welfare of man — it’s always either too much or too little. I got too much. I could, probably, turn myself into an animal, even into a monster. That’s possible. Everything’s possible. That’s the scary part.” Krivoshein sighed.

The window and glass door that opened onto the balcony of the fifth floor glowed softly. It looked like the table lamp was on. “Is he home?” Krivoshein ran up the stairs, rummaged through his pockets from force of habit, remembered that he had thrown out the key a year ago, and swore at himself, for it would have been very effective to suddenly walk in: “Your documents, citizen!” There still was no doorbell, and he knocked.

He heard light, quick steps — they made his heart beat faster — and the lock clicked. Lena was opening the door.

“Oh, Val, you’re alive!” She grabbed his neck with her warm hands, looked him over, smoothed his hair, hugged him, and began crying. “Val, my darling… and I thought… they’ve been saying such horrible things! I called your lab, and there was no answer. I called the institute, and when I asked where you were, what had happened, they hung up. I came here, and you were gone. And they told me that you were….” She sobbed angrily. “The fools!”

“All right, Lena, don’t. That’s enough. What’s the matter?” Krivoshein wanted very much to hold her close and he barely controlled his arms.

It was as though nothing had happened: not discovery number one, not the year of mad, concentrated work in Moscow, where he cast away the past…. Krivoshein had tried more than once — for spiritual peace — to eradicate Lena’s face from his memory. He knew how it was done: a rush of blood with an increased glucose level to the brain’s cortex, small oxidations directed at the nucleotides of a certain area — and the information is removed from the cells forever. But he didn’t want to… or couldn’t. ‘Wanting’ and ‘being able’ — how do you distinguish them in yourself? And now the woman he loved was weeping on his shoulder, weeping from anxiety about him. He had to soothe her.

“Stop, Lena. Everything’s all right, as you can see.”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were wet, happy, and guilty.

“Val… you’re not mad at me, are you? I said all those horrible things to you then — I don’t know why myself. I’m just stupid! You were hurt? I thought that it was all over, too, but when I found out that something had happened to you… I couldn’t. You see, I ran here. Forget it, please? It’s forgotten, all right?”

“Yes,” Krivoshein said sincerely. “Let’s go inside.”

“Oh, Val, you can’t imagine how terrified I was!” She was still holding onto his shoulders, afraid to let go. “And that investigator… the questions!”

“He called you in, too?”

“Yes.”

“Aha, the old cherchez la femme!”

They went inside. It hadn’t changed: a gray daybed, a cheap desk, two chairs, a bookshelf piled with magazines up to the ceiling, and a wardrobe with the usual mirrored door. In the corner by the door lay crisscrossed dumbbells.

“I cleaned up a little, waiting for you. The dust… you have to keep the balcony door shut tight, when you leave.” Lena moved close to him. “Val, what did happen?”

“If I only knew!” he thought with a sigh. “Nothing terrible… just a lot of brouhaha.”

“Why the police, then?”

“The police? They were called, and they came. If they had called the fire department, they would have come too.”

“Oh, Val….” she placed her arms around his neck and wrinkled up her nose. “Why are you like that?”

“Like what?” he asked, feeling more stupid by the second. “Well, seemingly grown — up, but irresponsible. And when I’m with you I turn into a silly schoolgirl…. Val, where’s Victor. What happened to him? Listen,” she asked, her eyes growing wide, “is it true that he’s a spy?”

“Victor? What Victor?”

“Are you joking? Victor Kravets, your assistant and nephew twice removed.”

“Nephew, lab assistant….” Krivoshein was momentarily confused. “So that’s it!”

Lena threw up her hands.

“Val, what’s the matter with you? You can tell me. What happened in the lab?”

“Forgive me, Lena, I just got confused. Of course, old Peter, I mean Victor Kravets, my trusty assistant and nephew… a very nice guy….” The woman still regarded him wide — eyed. “Don’t be surprised, Lena, this is just a momentary amnesia, that always happens after… after an electric shock. It’ll pass, it’s not serious. So you say the rumor’s begun that he’s a spy? Ah, that Academy of Sciences!”

“Then it’s true that there was a catastrophe in the lab? Why, why do you keep everything from me? You could have been — no! I don’t want to think about it!”

“Stop, please God, stop!” Krivoshein said irritably, sitting down. “Could have, couldn’t have, did, wasn’t…. You see, everything is fine. (I wish it were, he thought.) I can’t tell you anything until I’ve figured it all out myself.” He moved into an attack. “And what’s your problem? So, there’s one Krivoshein more or less in the world — big deal! You’re young, beautiful, childless — you’ll find someone else, someone better than an aging codger like me. Take Peter, I mean, Victor Kravets: he’s better for you?”

“Again?” she smiled, came up behind his chair, and put his head on her bosom. “Why do you keep harping on Victor? I don’t need him. I don’t care how good — looking he is; he’s not you, understand? That’s it. And the others aren’t you either. Now I know for sure.”

“Hm?” Krivoshein untangled himself.

“What, ‘hm’? You’re jealous, silly. I didn’t sit at home every night like a nun. I went out. I was courted, even seriously by some. And still, they were all wrong!” Her voice caressed him. “They’re not like you — and that’s it! I came back to you anyway.”

Krivoshein felt the warmth of her body with the back of his neck, felt her soft hands on his eyes and experienced an incomparable bliss. “I could sit like this forever. I’ve just come back from work, and nothing has happened. and I’m tired and she’s here. but something did happen! Something very serious happened, and I’m sitting here stealing her caresses!”

He got up.

“All right, Lena. You’ll excuse me, but I’m not going to walk you home. I’ll just sit a while or go to sleep. I don’t feel very well after all that.”

“I’ll stay?”

It was half question, half statement. For a second Krivoshein was overwhelmed with wild jealousy. “I’ll stay?” she used to say and he would agree. Or maybe he suggested it himself: “Stay tonight, Lena.” And she stayed.

“No, Lena, you go home.” He laughed bitterly.

“That means you’re still mad, right?” She looked at him and got mad. “You’re a fool, Val, a real jerk! The hell with you!” And she turned for the door.

Krivoshein stood in the middle of the room, listening: the click of the lock, Lena’s heels on the stairs, the downstairs door slamming, quick light steps on the pavement. He ran to the balcony to call to her — and the evening breeze sobered him up. “So, I see her, and fall back in just like that! I wonder what she said to him? All right, the hell with last year’s romances!” He went back inside. “I have to find out what happened here. Wait! He must have a diary! Of course!”

Krivoshein pulled open all the drawers in the desk, tossing out magazines, folders, quickly glancing through notebooks. No, that’s not it. On the bottom of the last drawer he found a cassette, a quarter filled, and for a minute he forgot about his search: he got the cassette player from the shelf, dusted it off, put in the cassette, and turned it on playback.

“With the rights of the discoverers,” a hoarse voice began, after some hissing, carelessly slurring the endings of words, “we are taking it upon ourselves to research and exploit the discovery to be called — “

“The artificial biological synthesis of information,” another voice (though remarkably like the first) added. “It’s not particularly euphonious, but it’s accurate.”

“Fine. The artificial biological synthesis of information. We understand that this discovery touches upon man’s life like no other and is capable of becoming the greatest threat or the greatest boon for mankind. We swear to do everything in our power to use this discovery for the good of humanity.”

“We swear that until we have researched all the potentials of this discovery — “

“And until it is clear to us how to use it with absolute reliability for the good of humanity — “ “Not to turn it over into anyone else’s hands — “

“And not to publish anything about it.”

Krivoshein stood with his eyes closed. He was transported to that May night when they made that vow.

“We vow not to give away our discovery for our well — being, or fame, or immortality until we are sure that it cannot be used to harm people. We will destroy our work rather than permit that.”

“We swear!” The two voices spoke in unison. The tape ended.

“We were hotheads then. So, the diary must be nearby.” Krivoshein dove into the desk once more, rummaged about, and a second later held a notebook with a yellow cardboard cover, as thick and heavy as a book. There was nothing written on the cover, but Krivoshein was certain that he had found what he was after: a year ago, when he got to Moscow, he had bought himself the exact same notebook in a yellow cover to keep his own diary.

He sat down at the desk, moved the lamp closer, lit a cigarette, and opened the notebook.