“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 scrambled name and patronymic a little. Matvei Apollonovich, of course. How could I? We talked about you for a long time after, how organized and efficient you were, and everything….” Hilobok went on and on.
“Comrade Director, what was the nature of the work done in this laboratory?” the detective interrupted, catching some liquid in the test tube.
“Research on self — organizing electronic systems with an integral input of information,” the academician replied. “Anyway, that was how Valentin Vasilyevich had formulated his thesis at the beginning of the year.”
“I see.” Onisimov got up, sniffed the liquid, wiped the tube clean with a piece of cotton, and put it away. “Was the use of poisonous chemicals ruled out?”
“I don't know. I would think that nothing was forbidden. Research is done by the researcher as he best sees fit.”
“So what went so wrong here in Krivoshein's lab that even you, Arkady Arkadievich, were disturbed so early in the morning?” Hilobok asked, lowering his voice. “Precisely — what?” Onisimov was directing his questions to the academician. “The short circuit had nothing to do with it. It was merely an accident, and not the cause. We've determined that much. There is no sign of electrocution, no traumas on the body… and the man is gone. And what is this contraption? What's it for?”
He picked up an object from the floor that looked like an ancient warrior's helmet; but this helmet was chrome — plated and covered with buttons and bundles of thin multicolored wires. The wires extended beyond the tubes and flasks of the clumsy apparatus into the far corner of the room, to a computer.
“This?” The academician shrugged. “Hmm.”
“Monomakh's Crown, I mean, that's what we call them around here,” Hilobok offered. “More precisely, it's an SEP — 1 — System of Electronic Pickups for Computing the Biopotentials of the Human Brain. The reason I know, Arkady Arkadievich, is that Krivoshein kept bugging me to make him one like it.”
“All right, I understand. With your permission, I'll take it for a while, since it was found on the victim.”
Onisimov, winding the wires, disappeared into the far reaches of the room.
“Who was the victim, Arkady Arkadievich?” Hilobok whispered.
“Krivoshein.”
“Oh, dear, how can that be? His eccentricities finally led to this… and more troubles for you, Arkady Arkadievich.”
The detective was back. He wrapped the “crown” in paper and put it into his box. The only sound in the quiet lab was the panting of the orderlies, who were working on the unconscious assistant.
“And why was Krivoshein naked?” Onisimov suddenly asked.
“He was naked?” The academician was stunned. “You mean it wasn't the doctors who undressed him? I don't know! I can't even imagine.”
“Hm… I see. And what do you think they used this tank for? Perhaps for bathing?”
The detective pointed to the rectangular plastic tank that lay on its side on top of the shards of the flasks its fall had crushed; drips and icicles of yellow gray stuff hung from its transparent sides. Pieces of a large mirror lay next to the tub.
“For bathing?” The academician was getting tired of these questions. “I'm afraid that you have a peculiar idea of what a scientific laboratory is used for, comrade… eh, investigator!”
“And there was a mirror right next to it. A good one, full — length/ Onisimov droned on. “What use could it have served?”
“I don't know! I can't delve into every technical detail of all hundred sixty projects that are under way in my institute!”
“You see, Apollon Marve… I mean, Matvei Apollonovich — forgive me,” Hilobok interrupted, “Arkady Arkadievich is in charge of the entire institute, is a member of five interdisciplinary commissions, edits a scholarly journal, and of course, cannot deal with every detail of every project specifically. That's what the project directors are for. And besides, the late — oh dear, what a pity — the late Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein was a man of too much independence. He did not like to confer with anyone, to share his thoughts or results. And he often ignored, it must be said, many of the basic safety rules. Of course, I know that you should not speak ill of the dead — de mortius bene aut nihil, as they say — but what was, was. Remember, Arkady Arkadievich, how a year ago January — no, maybe it was February — no, I think it was January, or it could even have been back in December — anyway, remember, how he flooded the first floor, causing great damage and stopping work on many projects, when he was working with Ivanov?”
“You are a viper, Hilobok!” A voice came from the stretcher. The student lab assistant, clutching the edges, was trying to get up. “Oh, you… too bad we didn't take care of you then!”
Everyone turned to him. A chill went through Azarov: the student's voice, the hoarseness, the slurred endings, were absolutely identical with Krivoshein's. The assistant fell back weakly, his head touching the floor. The orderlies wiped their brows in satisfaction: he was alive! The doctor gave an order and they picked up the stretcher and took him out. The academician took a close look at the fellow. And his heart skipped a beat again. The lab assistant resembled Krivoshein — he didn't know exactly how — and not even the live Krivoshein, but the one down there under the oilcloth.
“See, he's even managed to set the lab assistant against me,”
Hilobok nodded in his direction with unbelievable meekness.
“Why was he so angry with you?” Onisimov turned to him. “Were you two in conflict?”
“Heaven forbid!” The assistant professor shrugged innocently and sincerely. “I've only talked to him once, when I interviewed him to work in Krivoshein's lab at Valentin Vasilyevich's personal request, since he — “
“Victor Vitalyevich Kravets,” Onisimov read from his notes.
“Yes… well, he's a relative of Krivoshein's. He's a student from Kharkov University, and they sent us fifteen people in the winter for a year's practical work. And Krivoshein made him an assistant in his lab through nepotism. But why should we object? We're all human — “