My father… the last cossack in the Krivoshein line. According to family tradition, my forefathers come from the Zaporozhian cossacks. There was a brave cossack whose neck was damaged in battle — and there you get the Krivoshein line. When Empress Catherine broke them up, they moved to this side of the Volga. My grandfather Karp Vasilyevich beat up the priest and the head of the village when they decided to get rid of the village school and set up a church school. I haven't the slightest idea what the difference was between them, but my grandfather died at hard labor.
Father took part in all the revolutions, and served under Chapayev in the Civil War.
He fought in the last war as an old man, and only the first two years. They were retreating in the Ukraine and he led his battalion out from an ambush in Kharkov. Then because of wounds and age, they transferred him to the rear, as a commander on the other side of the Urals. There, in the camp, a soldier and peasant, he taught me how to ride, how to take care of a horse and saddle it, how to plow, mow, shoot from a rifle and a pistol, dig the earth, and chop brambles with a machette. He also made me kill chickens and pigs by stabbing them under the right shoulder blade with a small flat knife, so that I wouldn't fear blood. “It'll come in handy in life, sonny!”
Shortly before his death he and I went down to his homeland in Mironovka, to see his cousin Egor Stepanovich Krivoshein. While we were sitting in his cottage drinking, Egor's grandson rushed over:
“Cramps, they dug out a body from the clay in Sheep's Gully where they're digging the dam!”
“In Sheep's Gully?” my father asked. The old men exchanged a look. “Let's go see.”
The crowd of workmen and onlookers made way for the two old men. The gray, chalky bones were piled up in one spot. Father poked the skull with a stick, and it turned over, revealing a hole over the right temple.
“Mine!” father said looking at Egor Stepanovich triumphantly. “And you missed. Your hand shook, huh!”
“How do you know it's yours?” the other demanded sticking his beard into the air.
“Have you forgotten? He was coming back to the village. I was right on the side of the road, you were on the left….” and father drew a picture in the clay to prove his point.
“Whose remains are these, old men?” a young foreman in a fancy shirt demanded.
“The captain,” father explained, squinting. “In the first revolution the Ural cossacks were quartered here, and this here was their captain. Don't bother the police with it, sonny. It's been over a long time.”
How marvelous it was to lie in wait in the steppe at night with father's gun, waiting for the captain — both for the principle and the fact that the bastard ripped up men with his bayonet and raped girls! Or to fly on horseback, feeling the weight of your saber in your hand, taking measure: I'll chop that one over there, with beard, from his epaulets all the way through!
The last time I fought was eighteen years ago, and it wasn't a fight to the death, only to the school bell. I never galloped in the days of old. All my bravado comes on a bike facing down a truck.
And I'm not afraid, father, of blood or death. But your simple lessons never did come in handy. The revolution continues through different means, with discoveries and inventions — weapons more dangerous than sabers. And I'm afraid, father, of making mistakes.
Liar! Liar! You're preening again, you low — life! You have an ineradicable streak of showing off. Oh, it's so pretty: “I'm scared of making mistakes, father,” and all about the revolution. Don't you dare!
You wanted to synthesize in people (yes, people, not artificial doubles!) the nobility of spirit that you lack, the beauty that you don't have, the determination you'll never have, and the selflessness you can't even dream of.
You come from a good family. Your forefathers knew how to work and to leave good work behind them, and to beat the bastards with fist or gun. They didn't let up. And what are you? Have you fought for justice? Oh, you never had an opportunity? Maybe you've cleverly managed to avoid them? What, don't feel like remembering?
That's the problem. I'm afraid of everything: life, people. I even love Lena in a cowardly way: I'm afraid to bring her close and I'm afraid to lose her. And God forbid, no children. Children complicate things.
And the fact that I'm hiding my discovery — isn't that also a fear that I won't be able to develop it properly? And I probably won't. I'm a weakling. One of those smart weaklings who are better off not being smart. Because their brain is only given them so that they can appreciate their lowness and impotence.
Graduate student Krivoshein lit up a cigarette and paced the room nervously. It was painful reading the notes — it was about him, too. He sighed and returned to the desk.
Easy, Krivoshein, easy. You can talk yourself into something hysterical this way. You still have the responsibility for the work… and everything isn't lost yet. You're not such a son of a bitch that you should drop dead immediately.
I can even make you look good. I haven't used the discovery for personal gain, and I won't. I worked at peak capacity, and I didn't cheat. Now I'm trying to figure things out. So I'm not worse than others. I made a mistake. And who doesn't?
Yes, but in this work comparisons on a relative scale — who's better, who's worse — don't apply. Others study crystals or develop machines; they know their work, and that's enough. Their character flaws only harm them, their co — workers at the lab, and their relatives. But I'm different. In order to create Man, it's not enough to know, to have a scientific handle on the thing — you have to be a real Man yourself, not better or worse than others, but in the absolute sense a knight without fear or flaw. I wouldn't mind that at all, but I don't know how to go about it. I don't have the information.
Does that mean that I can't handle this work?
October 8. The yellow and red autumn is in the institute grounds, and I can't work. It's full of dry leaves, the lightest rain makes a lot of noise on them, and then there's a coffee aroma of rotten leaves. And I can't work….
Maybe I shouldn't, it's not needed? A good generic stock, a quality education, a hygienic life — style…. Let smart people re — create themselves, have lots of children with good stock. They'll be able to feed them, their salaries will stretch; after all, they're smart people. And they'll be able to bring them up. They're smart people. No computers will be necessary.
Harry Hilobok called today. They're organizing a permanent exhibit at the institute: “The Achievements of Soviet Systemology,” and naturally, he's the organizer.
“Won't you contribute something, Valentin Vasilyevich?”
“No.”
“Why are you like that? Now Ippolit Illarionovich Voltampernov's department is giving three exhibits and other departments and labs are contributing. We should have at least one exhibit on your topic. Don't you have anything yet?”
“No. How's the biosensor system moving, Harry Haritonovich?”
“Eh, Valentin Vasilyevich, what's one system compared to all of systemology, heh — heh! We're working on it, but meanwhile you see, everyone's demanding exhibit stands, mock — ups, tableaux, signs in three languages, and our heads are spinning. The lab and the workshops are full up, but if you should have anything for the show, we'll manage. Things are going fast around here.”
I almost said that it was the system that I needed to come up with an exhibit for your stupid show but I controlled myself. (Let him make it and then we'll see.) Always being sneaky, Krivoshein!
My exhibits were all over the world. One was in Moscow struggling with biology. The others were munching grass and cabbage in gardens. And another just ran off to who knows where.
Should I exhibit the computer — womb to shock the academic world? Create two — headed and six — footed rabbits as part of the demonstration, at the rate of two an hour? That would create a stir.
No, brother. This machine makes man. And there's no way of getting around that.
Chapter 17
Every action carries obligations. Inaction doesn't oblige you to anything.
