October 11. I'm repeating the experiments in controlled synthesis of rabbits — just so that the mechanism doesn't sit around for nothing. I'm filming it all. I'll have a documentary. “Citizens, present your documentaries!”
October 13. I've invented a method of destroying biological information in the computer — womb quickly and dependably. You can call it an “electric eraser.” I use tension from the noise generator as input for the crystal unit and TsVM — 12 and 15–20 minutes later the computer forgets everything about the rabbits. If I had had this method earlier instead of the order “No!” I would have destroyed Adam each time irreversibly and fundamentally.
I just don't know if he would have liked that any better.
Time is making the leaves fall and the sky grow cold. And my work isn't moving. I can't undertake serious work now. I don't have the stomach for it. I'm lost.
Here, Krivoshein! You can now take it as conclusively demonstrated that you are neither God nor the hub of the earth. Thus, you should seek help from others. You must go to Arkady Arkadievich….
“Aha,” graduate student Krivoshein exclaimed.
I must follow procedure; he is my superior. Actually, that's not the point. He's smart, knowledgeable, influential, and a marvelous methodologist. He knows how to formulate any problem. And, “A formulated problem,” as it says in his Introduction to Systemology, “is the solution to the problem written in hidden form.” And that's just what I need. And he supported my topic at the scientific council. Of course, he's overly officious and conceited, but we'll manage. He's a smart man, after all. He'll understand that glory is not the point of this work.
Wait! Good intentions are one thing, but reasonable care can't hurt. To let Azarov in on the deep, dark secret that the computer — womb can synthesize live systems — no, that can't be allowed. I have to start with something simpler, and then we'll see, as he likes to say.
I have to synthesize electronic circuits in the computer. That was what old Voltampernov had attacked, and by the way, that's my official topic for the next year and half.
“You must, Valentin Vasilyevich, you must!”
Here's the plan. We place six wires into the liquid: two are feeders; two, the control oscillograph; and two, the impulse generator. I give the computer the parameters of the circuits and the approximate sizes through Monomakh's Crown. I definitely know what's “it” and “not it” in this — it's familiar ground.
October 15. Rounded brown squares are appearing in the tank. They look like laminated insulation. Metal lines of the circuits settle on top of the squares, then layers of insulation, condensers, strips of resistors, and diodes and transistors…. It looks a lot like film technology, which is being developed in microelectronics, but without the vacuum, electrical discharge, and other pyrotechnics.
And how pleasant it is after all the headaches and nightmares to click the switches, adjust the brightness and contrast of the beam on the oscilloscope, and count off the microsecond impulses! Everything is clear, precise, understandable. It's like coming home from distant shores. The devil lured me onto those shores, into the dark jungles called “man” without a guide or compass. But who is a guide and what's a compass?
All right. The parameters of the circuits agree, project 154 is half done. Won't Ippolit Illarionovich be glad!
I'll go to see Azarov. I'll show him the samples, explain a few things and hint at future prospects. I'll go there tomorrow and say:
“Arkady Arkadievich, I come to you as one smart man to another….”
October 16. I went… flying into open arms.
So, in the morning I thought through our conversation, took along the samples, and headed for the old building. The autumn sun shed light on the ornate walls, granite steps, and me, walking up them.
My depression began at the front door. Those governmental three — meter — wide doors made out of carved oak, with curved handles and tight pneumatic springs! They seem to be created especially for beefy young bureaucrats with hands as big as skillets for a dozen eggs. The young bucks open the doors with a light tug and go handle important papers. Once through the doors I began thinking that a conversation with Azarov should not begin with a shocking opening (“I come to you as one smart man to another….”); instead I should kowtow — he's an academician and I'm an engineer.
And as I walked up the marble staircase covered with thick carpet attached by chrome tacks, with bannisters too broad to grasp completely, my soul reached a respectful readiness to agree with anything the academician might say or recommend. In a word, if it was Krivoshein the discoverer who went up the stairs with a spring step, it was Krivoshein the supplicant who entered the director's waiting room, shuffling his feet, with a hunched back and a guilty face.
His secretary Ninochka cut me off with a fervor that Lev Yashin, the goalie, would envy.
“No, no, no, comrade Krivoshein, you can't. Arkady Arkadievich is going to a congress in New Zealand. You know how much trouble I get into if I let people in! He's not seeing anyone, see?”
There were quite a few people sitting in the waiting room. They all gave me a dirty look. I sat down to wait, without any particular hope for success, simply because the others were waiting, and I would, too. To be part of the collective. A dead — end situation.
More people arrived. They were all grim and ugly. No one spoke to anyone.
The more people there were in the waiting room, the less important my business seemed. It occurred to me that my samples were measured, not tested, and that Azarov would try to prove that technological work in electronics wasn't for us. “And why am I bothering him? I've still got over a year to finish the project. So that Hilobok can crack jokes about my work habits again?”
Speak of the devil, Hilobok appeared in the doorway with a rushed look; I took up a good position and slipped in after him.
“Arkady Arkadievich, I'd like….”
“No, no, Valentin… eh… Vasilyevich.” Azarov frowned in my direction, accepting some papers from Harry. “I can't! I simply can't. There's a holdup with my visa. I have to go over the typed lecture. Please address your questions to Ippolit Illarionovich. He'll be my replacement this month, or to Harry Haritonovich. I'm not the only person in the whole world, for pity's sake!”
So, the man is going to New Zealand. Why am I bothering him? To a congress and to familiarize himself. And why did I ever think to grab him by the coattail? It's silly. Just go on and work, until they want a report.
Some day they'll interrupt government meetings for this project. Yes, but why that does that have to be some day?
They won't interrupt meetings, don't worry. I'll be dealing with second — level clerks, who will never take it upon themselves to take any action or responsibility — weaklings, just like me.
Weakling. A weakling and nothing more! You should have talked to him, if you had decided to. You couldn't. You apologized in a repulsive voice and left his office. Getting an Azarov who is hurrying across the seas interested in your work is a lot harder than commanding the computer — womb.
But there's still something wrong.
October 25. And this is right, I think! Our fair city is being visited by a major specialist in microelectronics, a technical sciences candidate, a future doctor in the field, Valery Ivanov. He called me today. We're meeting tomorrow at eight at the Dynamo Restaurant. Dress accordingly. Ladies not excluded.
Valery Ivanov, with whom I used to cut classes so that we could play cards, my roommate, the guy I did my probation work and went to parties at the library institute with. Valery Ivanov, my former boss and co — inventor of two projects, a good arguer and a man of great ideas! Valery Ivanov, the man I worked with like this for five years. I'm happy.
“Listen, Valery,” I'll say to him, “give up your microelectronics, and come back here. I've got a great project.”
He can even head the lab, since he's got the degree. I'm willing. He knows how to work.
Well, let's see how he's changed over the last year.
October 26, night. Nothing happens in life for nothing.
From my first look at him, I knew that we wouldn't have the old rapport. And it wasn't a question of a year's separation. The old Harry — esque vileness had come between us. It's not his fault or mine, but we've ended up on opposite sides. He, who had proudly quit and slammed the door, was somehow more in the right than I, who stayed behind and didn't share his bitter lot. That's why there was a slight unpleasantness between us all evening, a
