We don’t always notice this in life. The idler and sponger, the debauchee and careerist, continue to walk on their hind extremities and articulate speech quite clearly (although their range of subjects becomes extremely narrow), and as for the drainpipe trousers and passion for jazz that used to be cited as a measure of the extent of an individual’s anthropoidicity, it became clear fairly quickly that these are to be found even among the very finest magicians. But in the Institute it was impossible to disguise retrogression.
The Institute offered unlimited opportunities for the transformation of man into magician. However, it was ruthless with apostates and marked them out unfailingly. A member of staff only had to indulge for an hour in egotistical and instinct-driven activity (or sometimes merely thoughts) and he would be horrified to notice that the fluff in his ears was growing thicker. It was a warning. Just as the militiaman’s whistle warns of a possible fine and pain warns of a possible injury. It was all left up to you.
A man is frequently incapable of resisting his embittered thoughts, for as a man he embodies the transitional stage between Neanderthal and Magician. But he can act despite these thoughts, and then he still has a chance. Or he can give way, give up on everything (“You only live once,” “You have to take what life has to offer,” “Nihil humanum mihi alienum est”) and then there’s only one thing left for him to do: leave the Institute as soon as possible. Outside it, he can at least still be a respectable philistine, earning his wages honestly, if somewhat listlessly. But it’s hard to bring yourself to leave. The Institute’s a warm, cozy place, the work’s clean and it’s respectable, the pay’s not bad, and the people are wonderful, so you can put up with the shame—after all, it won’t kill you. They slouch along the corridors and through the laboratories, followed by sympathetic or disapproving glances, their ears covered with coarse gray fur, confused and incoherent, gradually losing the power of articulate speech, growing stupider. And these are the ones you can still pity and still try to help; you can still hope to restore their humanity…
There are others. With empty eyes. Who know for certain which side their bread is buttered on. In their own way very far from stupid. In their own way accomplished connoisseurs of human nature. Calculating and unprincipled, acquainted with the full power of human weaknesses, able to turn any evil to their own advantage and indefatigable in so doing. They shave their ears thoroughly and frequently invent wonderful potions for eliminating body hair. They wear corsets made of dragons’ whiskers to disguise the curvature of their spines; they envelop themselves in immense medieval robes and boyars’ fur coats, proclaiming their devotion to national tradition. They complain loudly in public of chronic rheumatic pains and wear tall felt boots soled with leather in both winter and summer. They are undiscriminating as to their means and as patient as spiders in achieving their ends. And very often they achieve truly significant results and major successes in their basic goal—the construction of a bright future in a single apartment and on a single village plot, fenced off from the rest of humanity by electrified barbed wire…
I went back to my post in the director’s waiting room, dumped the useless keys in the box, and read a few pages of J. P. Nevstruev’s classic work Equations of Mathematical Magic. This book read like an adventure novel, because it was absolutely chock-full of unsolved problems. I felt a burning desire to do some work, and I had just decided to say nuts to the management and go back to my Aldan when Modest Matveevich phoned.
Munching and crunching down the line, he inquired angrily, “Where have you been wandering about, Privalov? This is the third time I’ve called. It’s outrageous!”
“Happy New Year, Modest Matveevich,” I said.
He chewed without saying anything for a while, then answered in a voice one tone lower: “Likewise. How’s the shift going?”
“I’ve just completed a round of the premises,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
“There weren’t any cases of spontaneous combustion?”
“None at all.”
“Is the power off everywhere?”
“Briareos has broken a finger,” I said.
He was alarmed. “Briareos? Hold on just a moment… Aha, inventory number 1489… Why?”
I explained.
“What measures did you take?”
I told him.
“A correct decision,” said Modest Matveevich. “Continue with your watch. That’s all.”
Immediately after Modest Matveevich, Edik Amperian called from the Department of Linear Happiness and politely asked me to calculate the optimal coefficient of frivolity for managerial staff. I agreed, and we arranged to meet in the computer room in two hours’ time. Then a double of Oira-Oira came in and asked in a colorless voice for the keys to Janus Polyeuctovich’s safe. I refused. It tried to insist. I refused and threw it out.
A minute later Roman himself came dashing in. “Give me the keys.”
I shook my head. “I won’t.”
“Give me the keys!”
“You can go soak your head. I’m the individual with material responsibility.”
“Sashka, I’ll take the safe away!”
I chuckled and said, “Be my guest.”
Roman glared at the safe and strained hard, but the safe was either under a spell or bolted to the floor.
“What is it you want in there?” I asked.
“The documentation on the RU-16,” said Roman. “Come on, give me the key!”
I laughed and reached out a hand toward the box of keys. But at that very instant there was a blood-curdling howl from somewhere upstairs. I leaped to my feet.
4
“He’s hatched,” Roman said calmly, looking up at the ceiling.
“Who?” I was really on edge: it was a woman who had screamed.
“Vybegallo’s upyr,” said Roman. “Or rather, cadaver.”
“But why did that woman scream?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” said Roman.
He took hold of my arm and jumped into the air, and we went soaring up through the stories of the Institute building, piercing the ceilings and slicing through the floors like a hot knife through frozen butter, bursting out into the air with a plopping sound and tearing into the next ceiling. In the darkness between the floors little gnomes and mice shied away from us with startled squeaks, and as we flew through laboratories and offices Institute staff looked up with puzzled faces.