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
