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 bitterness that we couldn't overcome. We somehow trusted each other less now. It was good that I took Lena with me; at least she decorated our meeting.
Actually the conversation was interesting. It's worth relating.
The meeting began at 8:00 P.M. A Petersburgian sat before me. An imported suit in a discreet gray check, without lapels, a white, starched shirt, hexagonal glasses on an aquiline nose, a proper black crew cut. Even the drawn cheeks reminded me of the blockade.
Lena was no slouch, either. As we walked across the room, everyone looked at her. I was the only slob in the group: a checked shirt and not — too — rumpled gray pants. Two doubles had depleted my wardrobe severely.
Waiting for our order, we enjoyed looking at each other.
“Well,” Petersburgian Ivanov broke the silence, “Oink something, you old pig.”
“I see your mug is assymetrical.”
“Assymetry is a sign of the times. That's my teeth. I got a chill in the train,” he said touching his cheek.
“Let me give you a punch — it'll pass.”
“Thanks. I think I'll stick to cognac.”
That was our usual warm — up before a good talk.
They brought cognac and wine for the lady. We drank, satisfied our first hunger with sturgeon in aspic and then stared at each other expectantly again. There were parties going on around us. A tubby man standing at two joined tables was toasting “mother science.” (They were drinking to a completed dissertation.) A tipsy fellow all alone at a neighboring table was threatening a carafe of vodka, muttering:
“I'm quiet… I'm quiet!” He was bursting to tell some secret.
“Listen, Val!”
“Listen, Valery!”
We looked at each other.
“Well, you go first.” I nodded.
“Listen, Val,” his eyes glistening invitingly behind his glasses, “drop your systemology and come over to us. I'll arrange your transfer. We're working on such an interesting project now! A microelectric complex, a machine that makes machines. Do you get it?”
“Solid — state circuits?”
“Ah, what are solid — state circuits — obsolete now. Electronic and plasma rays plus electrophotography plus cathode spraying of film plus… in a word, here's the idea. The circuit of an electronic machine evolves in bundles of ions and electrons, like the image on a TV screen — and that's it. It's finished; it can work. A density of elements as in the human brain. See that?”
“And does that exist now?”
“Well, you see…” he raised his eyebrows. “If it did, then why would I call on you? We'll do it in the time allotted.”