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
