Tale of the Troika

CASE 42: OLD MAN EDELWEISS

We crossed the threshold of the meeting room exactly at five o’clock. We had been briefed, we were prepared for anything, and we knew what to expect. Or so I thought. I must admit that Fedya’s explanations had calmed me somewhat. But Eddie had become depressed. I was surprised by his depression, but I attributed it completely to the fact that Eddie had always been a man of pure science far removed from lost shipments, paper punching, and expense forms. And so his depression made me, a man of wider experience, feel superior. I felt more mature and I was ready to act accordingly.

There was only one man in the room—judging by Fedya’s descriptions, it was Comrade Zubo, the Commandant of the Colony. He sat at a small table, holding an open folder, and was blinking with barely repressed excitement. He was emaciated, his lips were in constant motion, and his eyes were white, like an antique statue’s. He did not notice us at first, and we quietly found seats under the sign on the wall that said “Representatives.” The room was three windows wide, and a bare demonstration table stood by the door. Another table, a huge one covered with green baize, stood against the opposite wall. A hideous brown safe towered in the corner; the commandant’s table, littered with manila folders, huddled next to it. There was still another table in the room, under the “Scientific Consultant” sign, as well as a gigantic cloth banner, covering a wall and a half, that read: “The people do not need unhealthy sensationalism. The people need healthy sensationalism.” I looked over at Eddie. He was staring at the banner, utterly crushed.

The commandant suddenly looked up, sniffed with his big nose, and unearthed our presence.

“Outsiders!”

We stood and bowed. The commandant, keeping his eyes fixed on us, got up from his little table, took a few stealthy steps, and stopped before Eddie and extended his hand. Polite Eddie, smiling weakly, shook hands and introduced himself, then stepped back and bowed once more. The commandant seemed shaken. For a few seconds he remained in position, then brought his hand up to his face and examined it suspiciously. Something was wrong. The commandant blinked rapidly and then anxiously examined the floor at his feet, as though looking for something he had dropped. Then I got it.

“The documents! Show him the documents!”

The commandant, smiling nervously, kept looking around him. Eddie quickly shoved his ID and requisition at him. The commandant came to life. His movements became rational. His eyes devoured the requisition, then the photograph on the papers, and then Eddie himself for dessert. The resemblance between the photograph and the original brought him obvious joy.

“Very pleased!” he exclaimed. “The name is Zubo. Commandant. Glad to welcome you. Make yourself comfortable, Comrade Amperian, make yourself at home, you and I still have a lot of work ahead of us.” He stopped and looked at me. I already had my papers in my hand. The process of devouring was repeated.

“Very pleased!” the commandant exclaimed with exactly the same intonation. “The name is Zubo. Commandant. Glad to welcome you. Make yourself comfortable, Comrade Privalov, make yourself at home.”

“What about a hotel?” I asked in a businesslike manner. I felt that that would be the right tone to take with him. But I was wrong. The commandant let my question fall on deaf ears. He was examining the requisition.

“Box, Black, Ideal,” he muttered. “We do have one, it hasn’t been examined yet. The Talking Bedbug has been rationalized, Comrade Amperian. I don’t know, I don’t know. It all depends on Lavr Fedotovich. I’d be worried if I were you.”

He suddenly clammed up, listened, and dashed back to his seat. There were footsteps, voices, and coughing in the foyer. The door opened, pushed by a powerful hand, and the Troika, that mighty triumvirate, appeared in the room in full complement—all four of them.

Lavr Fedotovich Vuniukov, in complete agreement with the description, white, sleek, and strong, moved to his seat without looking at anyone. He sat down, set his large briefcase in front of himself, opened it with a flourish, and started arranging on the green baize all the objects necessary for a successful chairmanship: a blotter trimmed in alligator leather, a selection of pens in a calfskin holder, a pack of Herzegovina-Flor cigarettes, a lighter in the shape of the Arc de Triomphe, and a pair of prismatic opera glasses.

Rudolf Arkhipovich Khlebovvodov, shriveled and yellow, sat on Lavr Fedotovich’s left and immediately began whispering in his ear, letting his eyes roam aimlessly from corner to corner.

Redheaded and baggy Farfurkis did not sit at the table. Democratically, he seated himself on a wooden chair across from the commandant, opened a fat notebook with a tattered cover, and immediately made a notation.

The scientific consultant, Professor Vybegallo, whom we recognized without any description, looked us over indifferently, frowned, glanced up at the ceiling, as though trying to remember where he had seen us. He may have remembered, maybe not, but he sat at his table and prepared for his important duties. He began setting up The Small Soviet Encyclopedia, volume by volume, on his table.

“Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said and looked around with a gaze that penetrated walls. Everyone was ready: Khlebovvodov was whispering, Farfurkis made a second notation, the commandant, like a student making last-minute preparations, was hysterically leafing through his papers, and Vybegallo set up Volume Six. As for the representatives, that is, us, we apparently were of no significance. I looked at Eddie and quickly turned away. Eddie was close to total demoralization—Vybegallo’s appearance was the last straw.

“The evening session of the Troika is hereby declared opened,” Lavr Fedotovich said. “Next! Your report, please, Comrade Zubo.” The commandant jumped up, and holding the open folder, began speaking in a high-pitched voice:

“Case 42. Surname: Mashkin. Name: Edelweiss. Patronymic: Zakharovich.”

“When did he suddenly become Mashkin?” Khlebovvodov demanded disdainfully. “Babkin, not Mashkin! Babkin, Edelweiss Za-kharovich. I worked with him way back when in the Committee on Dairy Affairs. Eddie Babkin, a stout fellow, loved heavy cream. And, by the way, he’s no Edelweiss, either. He’s Eduard. Eduard Petrovich Babkin.”

Lavr Fedotovich slowly turned a stony face to him.

“Babkin?” he said. “I don’t remember. Continue, Comrade Zubo.”

“Patronymic: Zakharovich,” the commandant continued, his cheek twitching. “Year and place of birth: 1942. City of Smolensk. Nationality …”

“E-dul-weiss or E-dol-weiss?” asked Farfurkis.

“E-del-weiss,” said the commandant. “Nationality: Belorussian. Education: Incomplete secondary general, incomplete secondary technical. Knowledge of foreign languages: Russian, fluent, Ukrainian and Belorussian, with a dictionary. Place of occupation …”

Khlebovvodov suddenly smacked himself loudly on the forehead.

“Of course not!” he shouted. “He died!”

“Who died?” Lavr Fedotovich asked woodenly.

“That Babkin! I remember as if it happened yesterday—he died of a heart attack in 1956. He had become financial director of the All-Russian Society of Nature Experimenters and he died. So there must be some mistake here.”

Lavr Fedotovich took his opera glasses and studied the commandant, who had lost his faculty of speech.

“Does your report reflect the fact of his death?” he inquired.

“As God is my …” babbled the commandant. “What death? He’s alive, he’s in the waiting room.”

“Just a minute,” Farfurkis interrupted. “Allow me, Lavr Fedotovich? Comrade Zubo, who is waiting in the room outside? But be precise. Surname, name, and patronymic.”

“Babkin!” the commandant said in despair. “No, no, what am I saying? Not Babkin—Mashkin! Mashkin is waiting. Edelweiss Za-kharovich.”

“I understand,” said Farfurkis. “And where is Babkin?”

“Babkin died,” said Khlebovvodov authoritatively. “I can tell you that for sure. In 1956. Of course, he did have a son. Pavel, I think. That means his name was Pavel Eduardovich. He runs a textile remnants store in Golitsyn, which is south of Moscow. He’s a good businessman, but I don’t think his name is Pavel after all.”

Farfurkis poured a glass of water and gave it to the commandant. In the gathering stillness, we could hear the commandant’s resonant gulps. Lavr Fedotovich kneaded a cigarette.

“No one is forgotten and nothing is overlooked. That is good. Comrade Farfurkis, I will ask you to enter into the minutes, in the verification section, that the Troika feels it would be valuable to take measures to find the son of Babkin, Eduard Petrovich, in order to determine his name. The people do not need nameless heroes. We do not have them.”

Farfurkis nodded and began writing rapidly in his notebook.

“Have you had enough water?” Lavr Fedotovich inquired, looking at the commandant through his opera glasses. “Then continue your report.”

“Place of occupation and profession at present time: Retired inventor,” the commandant read unsteadily. “Travel abroad: None. Brief description of the unexplained: A heuristic machine, that is, an electronic and mechanical apparatus that solves engineering, scientific, sociological, and other problems. Nearest relatives: Orphan, no brothers or sisters. Address of permanent residence: Novosibirsk, 23 Shchukinskaia Street, apartment 88. That’s all.”

“Any motions?” asked Lavr Fedotovich, lowering his heavy lids. “I move we let him in,” said Khlebovvodov. “Why do I suggest this? Because what if he is Pavel?”

“Any other motions?” asked Lavr Fedotovich. He felt around the table for the button, could not find it, and addressed the commandant. “Let the case come in, Comrade Zubo.”

The commandant hurled himself at the door, stuck out his head, and immediately returned, backing all the way to his seat. Behind him, bent by the weight of a huge black case, came a wizened little old man in a long belted blouse and military jodhpurs with orange braid. On the way to the table, he tried several times to stop his forward motion and give a dignified bow, but the case’s powerful inertia dragged him ever forward. There might have been casualties if Eddie and I had not grabbed the little old man just inches away from the trembling Farfurkis. I recognized the old man—he had come to the institute many times, and to many other institutes, and once I had seen him in the reception room of the Deputy Minister of Heavy Machine-building, where he was first in line, patient, clean, and brimming with enthusiasm. He was a nice little old man, and harmless, but unfortunately he could think of himself only as an instrument of scientific and technological progress.

I took the heavy case and lugged his invention up on the demonstration table. Freed at last, the old man bowed and said in a quavering voice:

“My respects. Edelweiss Zakharovich Mashkin, inventor.”

“That’s not him,” Khlebovvodov said in a low voice. “That’s not him and it doesn’t even look like him. I guess it’s a completely different Babkin. Just someone with the same name, I guess.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed the little old man, smiling. “I’ve brought this to be judged by the public. Professor Vybegallo, here, God grant him health, recommended it. I’m ready to demonstrate it, if you like, because I sure have been overstaying my welcome in your Colony.”

Lavr Fedotovich, who was scrutinizing him attentively, laid down his opera glasses and cocked his head. The old man bustled around. He took the cover off the case, revealing a bulky, ancient typewriter, took a bundle of wiring from his pocket, stuck one end into the bowels of the machine, unwound the wiring, and plugged it in.

“There, if you please, you have the heuristic machine,” said the old man. “A precise electromechanical apparatus for answering any questions, specifically scientific and economic ones. How does it work? Being short of funds and being held up by various amounts of red tape, I have not been able to make it fully automatic yet. The questions are posed orally, and I type them and enter them inside, bring them to its attention, so to speak. Its answers, again due to incomplete automation, are typed by me again. I’m a type of middleman here, hee hee! So, if it pleases you, let us begin.”

He moved up to the machine and switched it on with a grand gesture. A neon light went on in its bowels.

“Please,” repeated the old man.

“What’s that light in there?” Farfurkis asked curiously.

The old man immediately struck the keys, then quickly tore the paper from the roller, and raced up to Farfurkis. Farfurkis read it aloud.

“Question: What is that … hum … that lo … lofjt. Or is it pofit? What’s this lofjt?”

“That’s ‘light’,” said the old man, giggling and rubbing his hands together. “That’s code.” He grabbed the paper from Farfurkis and ran back to the typewriter. “That was the question,” he explained, putting the paper back in the roller. “And now let’s see what it answers.”

The members of the Troika watched with interest. Professor Vybegallo glowed with fatherly pride and with refined and flowing movements picked litter from his beard. Eddie had settled into an apathetic gloom. Meanwhile the old man typed away. He pulled out the paper again.

“Here’s the answer, if you please.”

Farfurkis read it.

“ ‘Insade, I have a neon … hum … a neonette.’ What’s a neonette?”

“Eine Sekunde!” the inventor cried, grabbed the paper, and scurried back to the typewriter.

The affair went on. The machine gave an illiterate explanation of a neon bulb, then answered Farfurkis by telling him it spelled “in-sade” according to the rules of grammar, and then:

Farfurkis: “What grammar?”

Machine: “Why our own Russian grmr.”

Khlebowodov: “Do you know Eduard Petrovich Babkin?”

Machine: “No how.”

Lavr Fedotovich: “Harrrumph. What motions are there?”

Machine: “To acknowledge me as a scientific fact.”

The old man ran back and forth and typed with unbelievable speed. The commandant jumped up and down excitedly in his chair and kept giving us a thumbs-up sign. Eddie slowly regained his psychic balance.

Khlebowodov (irritably): “I cannot work under these conditions. Why is he racing back and forth like a tincan in the wind?”

Machine: “Because of my eagerness.”

Khlebowodov: “Will you get that paper away from me? Can’t you see that I am not asking you anything?”

Machine: “Yes, I can.”

The Troika finally understood that if they ever wanted to end that day’s meeting they would have to stop asking questions, even rhetorical ones. Silence reigned. The old man, who was quite worn out by then, perched on the edge of a chair, and panted, mopping himself with his handkerchief. Vybegallo looked around proudly.

“There is a motion,” said Farfurkis, carefully choosing his words. “Let the scientific consultant make an expert judgment and report on his decision.”

Lavr Fedotovich looked at Vybegallo and regally bowed his head. Vybegallo rose. Vybegallo smiled politely. Vybegallo pressed his right hand to his heart. Vybegallo spoke.

“C’est …” he said. “It’s not right, Lavr Fedotovich. Be it as it may, but j’ai recommended ce noble vieux. There will be talk, that this is nepotism, favoritism. And nevertheless this is a rare event and an obvious case, perfectly valuable, rationalization is called for. C’est clear from the experiment. I would not like to end a bright beginning, nip initiative in the bud. What would be better? It would be better if some other expert gave his opinion, someone impartial, it would be better. Here among the representatives from below I see Comrade Alexander Ivanovich Privalov (I shuddered). A comrade specializing in computers. And impartial. Let him. I feel that it would be of value.”

Lavr Fedotovich raised his opera glasses and examined each of us in turn. Eddie had come to life and was whispering: “Alex, you must! Give it to them! This is our chance!”

“There is a motion,” said Farfurkis, “to ask comrade representative from below to collaborate with the work of the Troika.”

Lavr Fedotovich put down his opera glasses and gave his consent. Now everyone looked at me. I, of course, would not have become involved in this affair at all if it had not been for the old man. Ce noble vieux was batting his reddened lids at me so pathetically and his whole appearance screamed that he would pray for me for the rest of his life. I couldn’t resist. I reluctantly rose and went over to the typewriter. The old man smiled at me. I looked over the apparatus.

“Well, all right. By heuristic programming we mean the attempt to imitate human thought processes in digital computer. Here we have a Remington typewriter, made in 1906, in fairly good condition. The type is prerevolutionary and also in good condition.” I caught the old man’s pleading look, sighed, and turned on the switch. “In short, the typing construction contains nothing new. Only the very old.”

“Insade!” the old man whispered. “Look insade, where there’s an analyzer and a thinker.”

“The analyzer,” I said. “There’s no analyzer here. There is a serial rectifier, also ancient. A plain neon bulb. A switch. A good switch, it’s new. There is also a cord, brand new. That, I guess, is that.”

“And your conclusion?” Farfurkis inquired in a lively tone.

Eddie was nodding at me approvingly, and I let him know that I would try.

“My conclusion,” I said. “The described Remington typewriter, in conjunction with a rectifier, neon bulb, switch, and cord does not represent anything unexplainable.”

“What about me?” the old man shouted.

Eddie showed me that it was time for a left hook, but I just couldn’t.

“Well, of course,” I mumbled. “This evinces a lot of work. (Eddie grabbed his hair.) I, of course, understand … the good intentions. (Eddie looked at me with contempt.) But really, the man tried his best, you can’t just …”

“Have fear of God,” Eddie said clearly.

“Why not? Let the man keep on working, if it interests him. I’m only saying that there is nothing inexplicable about this. But it’s actually quite clever.”

“Are there any questions for our scientific consultant pro tern?” asked Lavr Fedotovich.

Hearing an interrogative intonation, the old man made a dash for the machine, but I stopped him by grabbing him round the waist.

“That’s right,” said Khlebovvodov. “Hold on to him. It’s hard to work otherwise. This isn’t an evening of twenty questions, you know. Why don’t you unplug it for now, anyway? I don’t like it eavesdropping.”

I freed a hand and clicked off the switch. The light went out and old man quieted down.

“But I still have a question,” Khlebovvodov went on. “How does it answer?”

I looked at him flabbergasted. Eddie was himself again and was glaring at the Troika. Vybegallo was pleased. He pulled out a long twig from his beard and stuck it between his teeth.

“Rectorizers and switches,” said Khlebovvodov. “Comrade pro tem explained all that rather well. But he did not explain one thing: he did not explain the facts. And the incontrovertible fact is that when you ask a question, you get an answer. In written form. And even when you ask someone else a question, you get an answer. In written form. And you say, comrade pro tem, that there is nothing inexplicable here. The ends do not meet. We do not understand what science has to say on the subject.”

Science as embodied by me had lost its power of speech. Khlebovvodov had cut me, stabbed me in the back, killed and buried me. But Vybegallo reacted in time.

“C’est,” he said. “That’s what I said, a valuable beginning! There is an element of the unexplained, that’s why I recommended it. C’est,” he turned to the old man. “Mon cher, explain what is what to our comrades.”

The old man exploded.

“The highest achievements of neutron megaloplasm!” he thundered. “The rotor of the field of divergence gradates along the back and there, insade, turns the matter of the question into spiritual electrical whirlwinds, from which the synecdoche of the answering arises …”

I was beginning to see spots before my eyes, bile was rising, and my teeth ached, and the damned noble vieux went on talking. His speech was smooth—it was a cleverly rehearsed and often repeated speech, in which every adjective, every intonation was quivering with an emotional charge. It was a true work of art. The old man was no inventor, but he was an artist, a genius of an orator, a worthy successor to Demosthenes, Cicero, and John Chrysostom. Reeling, I stepped to the side and leaned my forehead on the cool wall.

Then Eddie quietly clapped his hands, and the old man stopped. For a second I thought that Eddie had stopped time, because everyone was still, listening to a deep medieval silence that was draped like velvet in the room. Then Lavr Fedotovich pushed back his chair and rose.

“According to the regulations and all the rules, I should speak last,” he began. “But there are times when the regulations and rules do not apply, and they must be thrown out. I am speaking first because this is one of these times. I am speaking first because I can not wait in silence. I am speaking first because I do not expect nor will I allow any objections.”

But there could be no thought of an objection. The rank and file members of the Troika were so impressed by this unexpected flurry of oratory that they only exchanged glances.

“We are the guardians of science,” continued Lavr Fedotovich. “We are the portals to its temple, we are the unprejudiced filters that protect it from falsehood, from frivolity, from error. We guard the seeds of knowledge from attack by philistinism and false wisdom. And when we do this, we are not human, we do not know compassion, pity, or hypocrisy. We have but one measure: the truth. Truth distinct from good or evil, truth distinct from man and humanity, but only as long as good and evil and man and mankind exist. If there is no humanity—who needs truth? If no one is seeking knowledge, that means there is no humanity, and there is no need for truth! If there are answers to all the questions, that means there is no need to seek knowledge, that means there is no humanity, and then what need is there for truth? When the poet said: ‘And there are no answers to the questions’ he described the most horrible condition of human society—its final state.

“Yes, this man standing before us is a genius. He embodies and expresses the final state of humanity. But he is a killer, for he kills the spirit. Moreover, he is a terrible killer, for he kills the spirit of humanity. And that is why we can no longer remain unprejudiced filters, and we must remember that we are men, and as men we must protect ourselves from a killer. And we should not be discussing it, we should be judging him! But there are no laws for such a judgment, and therefore we must not judge, but mete out punishment, the way those who are in the grip of horror punish. And I, as the senior member, breaking the regulations and the rules, I say: Death!” The rank and file shuddered and all spoke at once. “Which one?” asked Khlebovvodov, who had apparently understood only the final word.

“Impossible!” Vybegallo whispered, clasping his hands.

“Allow me, Lavr Fedotovich!” Farfurkis babbled.

“All this is correct, but do we have …”

Then Eddie clapped his hands again.

“Harrumph!” Lavr Fedotovich said and sat, turning his neck. “There is a motion to consider the fact that the dusk has gathered, and, accordingly, to turn on the lights.”

The commandant jumped up and turned on the lamp. Lavr Fedotovich, like an eagle looking at the sun, regarded the light without squinting and turned to the Remington.

“Expressing the general consensus,” he said; “it has been decided: Case 42 is considered rationalized. Moving to the question of utilization, I ask Comrade Zubo to read the resolution.”

The commandant began leafing through the case file, while Professor Vybegallo got up from his table, and emotionally shook hands with the old man and then, before I could turn away, with me. He was glowing. I did not know what to do with myself. I did not dare look at Eddie. While I was considering whether I should heave the Remington at Lavr Fedotovich, the old man grabbed me. He attached himself to my neck like a tick and kissed me three times, scratching me with his stubble. I do not remember how I got back to my seat. I do remember Eddie whispering: “Alex, Alex! Well, all right, it can happen to anyone.”

Meanwhile the commandant had gone through the file and announced that there had been no requisitions in this case. Farfurkis immediately protested and cited the paragraph in the regulations that made it clear that rationalization without utilization was nonsense and could be acknowledged only provisionally. Khlebovvodov began shouting that these tricks would not work, that he did not wish to take money for nothing, and that he would not allow the commandant to flush four hours of work time down the tubes. Lavr Fedotovich blew into his cigarette with a look of approval, and Khlebovvodov increased his attack.

“And what if he is a relative of my Babkin?” he yelled. “What do you mean there are no requisitions? There has to be! You just look at what a little old man he is! A unique and interesting figure he is! How can we squander little old men like that?”

“Public opinion will not allow us to squander little old men,” Lavr Fedotovich noted. “And public opinion will be right.”

“That’s it,” barked Vybegallo. “It’s public opinion! And it won’t allow it! How can it be, Comrade Zubo, that there are no requisitions? Why aren’t there any?” He rushed up and threw himself in a fury on the mound of papers in front of the commandant. “How can there not be any? What’s this? A common pterodactyl. Good. And this? Pandora’s Box. Why don’t you think it’s a box? All right, make it Mashkin’s Box, and not Pandora’s. We can’t stand on formality, you know. And what’s this: Talking Bedbug. Talking, writing, typing. Ah! What do you mean, there’s no requisition? Comrade Zubo, what is this, hah? Black Box! A requisition for the Black Box. And you said there was none.”

I was stunned.

“Wait!” I said, but no one listened to me.

“But that’s not the Black Box!” the commandant shouted, clutching his chest. “The Black Box has a completely different requisition number.”

“What do you mean, it’s not black?” Vybegallo shouted back, grabbing the black case of the Remington. “What color do you think this is? Green, maybe? Or white? You’re busy misinforming the people? Squandering society’s little old men?”

The commandant was trying to justify himself, saying that this, too, was a black box, and not green and not white, obviously black, but the wrong box, that black box was under Case 907, and the requisition was signed by Comrade Alexander Ivanovich Privalov, he had received it just today, and that black box here was no black box, but a heuristic machine and it was Case 42, and there was no requisition for it at all. Vybegallo was shouting that there should be no juggling of figures here and no squandering little old men either; black was black, it was not white or green, and there was no point in trying Machist tricks and all sorts of empiriocriticism, and just let the comrade members of the authoritative Troika look for themselves and say whether this was a black box, or a green one. Khlebovvodov was shouting something about Babkin, Farfurkis was demanding that there be no deviations from the letter of the regulations, Eddie was joyously shouting “Out with him,” and I, like a stuck record, kept repeating: “My Black Box—it’s not a box. My Black Box—it’s not a box.”

Finally Lavr Fedotovich became aware of a certain disorder.

“Harrumph!” he said, and everything quieted down. “Are there difficulties? Comrade Khlebovvodov, get rid of them.”

Khlebovvodov strode firmly over to Vybegallo, took the case in his hands, and examined it carefully.

“Comrade Zubo,” he said. “For what is that requisition you have?”

“For the Black Box,” the commandant said glumly. “Case 907.”

“I am not asking you the case number. I am asking: Do you have a requisition for a Black Box?”

“I do,” the commandant confessed.

“Whose requisition?”

“Comrade Privalov from the Research Institute for Magic and Wizardry. There he is.”

“Yes,” I said vehemently. “But my Black Box—it’s not a box, rather, it’s not only a box.”

But Khlebovvodov paid no attention to me. He examined the case under the light, then leaned up into the commandant’s face and hissed:

“Why are you spreading this bureaucracy around here? You can’t see what color it is? The rationalization was carried out before your very eyes, there’s the comrade representing science sitting in front of you, he’s waiting, waiting for the requisition to be carried out, it’s way past dinner time, it’s dark outside, and all you do is juggle numbers!”

I felt a depression coming on and sensed that my future was about to become a dreary nightmare, irreparable and completely irrational. But I did not understand what was happening and only went on babbling that my box was not just a black box, or rather, not a box at all. I wanted to clear things up. The commandant was also muttering something very convincing, but Khlebovvodov threatened him with his fist and returned to his seat.

“Lavr Fedotovich, the box is black,” he announced triumphantly. “There can be no mistake, I looked at it myself. And there is a requisition for it, and the representative is right here.”

“It’s not the same box!” the commandant and I wailed in unison. But Lavr Fedotovich examined us thoroughly with his opera glasses and, obviously finding us lacking, decided to follow the will of the people and suggested that they get on with immediate utilization. There was no argument and all the responsible faces were nodding in agreement.

“The requisition!” demanded Lavr Fedotovich.

My requisition was laid before him on the green baize.

“The resolution!”

The resolution fell on the requisition.

“The Seal!”

The door of the safe creaked open, letting out a current of stale office smells, and the brass of the Great Round Seal gleamed before Lavr Fedotovich. And then I understood what was about to happen. Everything inside me went dead.

“Don’t!” I begged. “Help!”

Lavr Fedotovich took the Seal in both hands and raised it above the requisition. I gathered my strength and jumped up.

“That’s the wrong box!” I howled at the top of my voice. “What is this? Eddie!”

“Just a minute,” Eddie said. “Please stop and hear me out.”

Lavr Fedotovich halted his inexorable movement.

“A stranger?” he inquired.

“Not at all,” said the commandant, panting. “A representative. From below.”

“Then he does not have to be removed.” Lavr Fedotovich tried to renew the process of applying the Great Round Seal, but there was a problem. Something was interfering with the Seal. At first Lavr Fedotovich merely pushed on it, and then he rose and fell on it with his whole weight, but the Seal would not touch the paper—there was a space between the Seal and the paper, and the size of the space obviously did not depend on Comrade Vuniukov’s efforts. It seemed as though the space was filled with an invisible but very firm matter that prevented application. Lavr Fedotovich had apparently grasped the futility of his efforts and sat down, holding his elbows with his hands and looking at the Seal sternly, but without any surprise. The Seal hung motionless an inch above my requisition.

The execution had been stayed, and I began to perceive my surroundings again. Eddie was saying something, beautifully and feverishly, about reason, economic reform, goodness, the role of the intelligentsia, and the governmental wisdom of those present. He was fighting the Seal, my dear good friend, saving me, fool that I was, from the disaster that I had brought on my own head. Those present were listening to him politely but with displeasure, and Khlebovvodov was squirming in his seat and looking at his watch. Something had to be done. I had to do something immediately.

“And seventh of all, and finally,” Eddie was saying reasonably, “any specialist, and especially such an authoritative organization, should see, comrades, that the so-called Black Box is nothing more than a term used in information theory, and has nothing to do with the specific color or specific shape of some real object. Certainly there is no way that the term ‘Black Box’ could be applied to this Remington typewriter coupled with the simplest of electronic gadgets, which can be purchased in any electronics store, and it seems strange to me that Professor Vybegallo is burdening an authoritative organization with an invention that is no invention, and a decision that could undermine the organization’s authority.”

“I protest,” said Farfurkis. “First of all, comrade representative from below violated all the rules of order for the meeting, took the floor, which no one had given him, and went over the time limit, on top of it. That’s point one (I was horrified to see that the seal had dropped by a fraction of an inch.) Furthermore, we can not allow the comrade representative to malign our best people, to blacken our honored professor and official scientific consultant, Professor Vybegallo, and to whitewash the black box, already passed on by the Troika. That’s point two. (The seal dropped another fraction of an inch.) Finally, comrade representative, you should be made aware that the Troika is not interested in any inventions. The object of the Troika’s work is unexplained phenomena, which is what the already examined and rationalized black box is, that is, the heuristic machine.”

“We could be sitting here until nightfall,” Khlebovvodov added in a hurt voice, “if every representative got the floor.”

The seal settled even lower. The space was no more than a tenth of an inch.

“It’s not the same black box,” I said and lost a hundredth of an inch. “I don’t need this box! (Another hundredth.) Why the hell do I need that beat-up old Remington? I’m going to file a complaint.”

“That is your right,” Farfurkis said generously and won another hundredth of an inch.

“Eddie,” I begged.

Eddie started talking again. He called on the spirits of Lomonosov and Einstein, he cited editorials in the central newspapers, he sang the praises of science and our wise organizers, but it was to no avail. Lavr Fedotovich was finally bored by this impediment, and interrupting the oration, he spoke only one word:

“Unconvincing.”

There was a heavy thud. The Great Round Seal had pierced my requisition.