Krivoshein — and Savchenko — are far too enamored of humanity to go for that.
Science fiction has been termed a medicine for future shock. Future shock is that sense of disorientation brought about by the rush of invention, the impact of technical events evolving infinitely faster than the bodies and minds of the common man. One wonders if Savchenko has read Alvin Toffler (who invented the term) while realizing that he need not have; the phenomenon and its effects are quite evident to anyone who cares to look. Science fiction writers and their proliferating and increasingly addicted readers are, and have been all along, the people who care to look. They look with practiced eyes, not only at what is and what will be, but at that entrancing infinity of what might be: alternate worlds, alternate cultures and mores, extrapolations of the known, be it space flight, organ transplants, social security, ecological awareness, or any other current, idea, or force in a perpetually moving universe: if this goes on, where will it go? For stasis, and stasis alone, is unnatural and unachievable and has failed every time mankind has been tempted to try it. The very nature of science fiction is to be aware of this and to recognize that the only security lies in dynamic equilibrium, like that of the gull in flight, the planet in orbit, the balanced churning of the galaxies themselves… and of course, the demonstrable fact that the cells of your body and the molecules which compose them are not at all what they were when you picked up this book. The future can shock only those who are wedded to stasis.
(Parenthetically, science fiction writers are not immune to future shock, though it may take the form of an overpowering urge to kick themselves. Example: up until very recently there was — as far as I know — not one single science fiction story which included a device like the wristwatch my wife wears, which delivers the time, day, date, adjusts itself for months of varying lengths, is a stopwatch and elapsed — time recorder, and has a solar panel which gulps down any available light and recharges its battery. The development of these microelectronic devices, now quite common and inexpensive, was simply unthought of by science fiction professionals, and is by no means the only example of technological quantum leaps which season our arrogance. It is beneficial to all concerned when our dignitaries are observed, from time to time, to slip and sit down in mud puddles.)
Mud puddles, or their narrative equivalent, are far from absent in this book, for Savchenko has a delicious sense of humor and a lovely appreciation of the outrageous. Let us posit, for example, that you are a brilliant but not particularly attractive man with little concern for the more gracious amenities, who happens to be loved by a beautiful and forgiving lady. In the course of your work you produce a living, breathing version of yourself who is a physical Adonis and who, further, has a clear recollection of every word, every intimacy, that has ever passed between you and the woman.
And they meet, and she likes him.
How do you feel?
Why?
And then there's Onisimov — poor, devoted, duty — bound Onisimov — a detective in whose veins runs the essence of the Keystone Kop, up against a case with a perfectly rational solution which he is utterly unequipped to solve — not at all because he is unable to understand it, but because he simply cannot believe it.
Then there's the offensive Hilobok, unfortunately (as mentioned above) not quite a parody, but the object of not a few instances of Krivoshein/Savchenko's irrepressible puckishness, and a gatekeeper who is certainly Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern rolled into one, and a fine sprinkling of smiles amid the cascades of heavy ideation.
Over and above everything else, however — the mind — bending ideation, the unexpected narrative turns, the wide spectrum of characterization, the humor, the suspense — shines the author's love for and faith in the species. As he says through his protagonist, he talks not about man, but about people. And at the end, the very last words of the novel bespeak this faith and this optimism.
There's no point in looking at those last words now, by the way. They will carry no freight until you put it there by reading the novel.
— THEODORE STURGEON
Los Angeles.
PART ONE
FOOTSTEPS FROM BEHIND
Chapter 1
“When checking the wiring, disconnect power".
A poster on industrial safety
The brief short circuit in the line that fed the New Systems Laboratory occurred at three A.M. The circuit breaker at the substation of the Dneprovsk Institute of Systemology did what all automatic safety devices do in these cases: it disconnected the line from the transformer, lit up a blinking red light on the board in the office, and turned on the alarm.
Zhora Prakhov, the electrician on duty, turned off the alarm signal immediately so as not to be distracted from his study of The Beginning Motorcyclist (Zhora was about to take the driver's test) and he glanced at the blinking light with hostility and expectancy. Usually localized short circuits in the lab were taken care of at the site.
Realizing after an hour that there was no getting around it, the electrician shut his book, picked up his instrument case and his gloves, set the pointer on the door at “New Syst. Lab.” and left the office. The dark trees of the institute grounds were waist — deep in fog. The transformers of the substation stood with their oil — cooling pipes akimbo, looking like shapeless old women. The old institute building hovered in the distance like a washed — out snowbank against the graying sky. It had heavy balconies and ornate towers. To the left, the parallelepiped of the new research department tried vainly to block out the early June dawn.
Zhora glanced at his watch (it was 4:10), lit a cigarette, and scattering the fog with his bag, headed right, into the far corner of the park where the New Systems Lab was located, housed in a small lodge. At 4:30, in answer to electrician Prakhov's call, two cars appeared on the scene: an ambulance and a squad car of the Dneprovsk City Police.
The tall, thin man in the light suit strode through the park, disregarding the paved paths. His shoes left dark prints on the dew — gray grass. A light breeze ruffled his thinning gray hair. A blindingly pink and yellow sunrise filled the space between the old and new buildings; birds chattered in the trees. But Arkady Arkadievich Azarov had no time for all that.
“Something happened in the New Systems Lab, comrade director,” a dry voice had informed him over the phone a few minutes earlier. “There were victims. Please come.”
Being wakened too early gave Azarov neurasthenia; his body seemed stuffed with cotton, his head empty, and life terrible. “Something happened in the lab…. Please come…. It must have been a cop.” This ran through his mind instead of thoughts.” 'There were victims…. What a ridiculous word! Who were the victims? And of what? Killed, wounded, trousers burned? What? Looks serious. Again! There was that student who got under the gamma rays to speed up the experiment, and then there was… the second incident in six months. But Krivoshein is not a student; he's experienced. What could have happened? They were working at night, and got tired, and… I'll have to put a stop to night work! Absolutely!”
When he had accepted the offer to direct the Dneprovsk Systemology Institute, Academician Azarov hoped to create a scientific system that would be a continuation of his own brain. In his dreams, he saw the structure of the institute developing along the vertical branching principle: he would give general ideas for research and system construction to the section and laboratory directors, who would work out the details and plan specific projects for the workers, who would try to…. Then he would draw conclusions from the data obtained and produce new fundamental ideas and principles. But reality intruded harshly on his dreams. A lot of it was due to acts of God: the 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.