Matvei Apollonovich lit another cigarette. And still this was no simple crime. If the perpetrators were working both here and in Moscow and there was no motive of greed, personal vendetta, or sex, then. probably Krivoshein had made a serious invention or discovery. No, tomorrow he would insist to his chief that they bring in the security organs on this case! (Although Onisimov will never know what happened, we must give credit to his detective ability. Really: not knowing anything about the essence of the case and using only the external accidental facts, he managed to build a logical, consistent theory — not everyone can do that!)
Having made the decision, Matvei Apollonovich slept soundly. Now he was having pleasant dreams: he'd been promoted for solving the case. But dreams are even less subject to our control than reality, and the investigator began groaning and tossing. His awakened wife asked: “Matvei, what's the matter?” Onisimov had dreamed that there was a fire in the department and the new promotion list had been destroyed.
Arkady Arkadievich Azarov had just fallen asleep, and only with the help of two sleeping pills. (He'll wake up in the morning with neurasthenia.) He was also tormented by thoughts of the events in the New Systems Lab. He had already gotten a phone call from the Party City Committee: “Another accident, Arkady Arkadievich? With a loss of human life?” How do they find out so fast? Now it would all begin: reports, commissions, explanations…. But that's why he was a director and got a fat salary, so that he could be driven crazy! These are the things, for which he's not responsible and couldn't possibly be responsible, that cast aspersions on his honest, productive, positive work! Arkady Arkadievich felt alone and miserable.
“I should never have set up that lab of 'random retrieval. I didn't listen to myself. I mean the whole idea of random test and free — form combinations being a path that would bring truth and correct solutions to science went deep against my own grain. And it still does. The Monte Carlo Method — just look at the name! Belief in chance — what could be worse in a researcher? Instead of analyzing the problem logically and confidently and slowly reaching its solution, you try your luck, even with the aid of lab equipment and computers! Of course, you can build pseudoscientific systems and algorithms that way, but don't they resemble the 'systems' gamblers have for beating the bank and which always make them bankrupt? Big deal, so you changed the name of the lab. But the essence was the same. You let it develop, because there is this tendency in world systemology. And so let it develop in our institute, too. It's developed all right!”
Arkady Arkadievich hadn't expressed his misgivings to Krivoshein back then, because he didn't want to dampen his enthusiasm. He merely asked: “What are you planning to achieve… through random retrieval?” “First and foremost to master the methodology,” Krivoshein had answered, and that had pleased Azarov more than if he had spewed out hundreds of ideas.
“But he wasn't just mastering the methodology/'Arkady Arkadievich remembered the laboratory, the setup that looked like an octopus, the expensive collection of test tubes and flasks. “He was doing some vast experiment. Could he have really been doing what he had reported on at the scientific council? But it ended up with a corpse. A corpse that turned into a skeleton!” Azarov felt revulsion and anger. “I have to put an end to experimentation; something always goes wrong! Always! Systemology is essentially a cerebral science. The analysis and synthesis of any system must be promoted! And if you want to work with computers — please do, program your tasks and go into the computer room. And basically with all these experiments,” the academician laughed lightly, calming down, “you never know what you've got: a hugh mistake or a discovery!”
Arkady Arkadievich had a long — time score to settle with experimental science, and his opinions on it were firm and definite. Some thirty years ago the young physicist Azarov was studying the process of liquifying helium. Once he stuck two glass stirrers into his Dewar flask, and the liquid, cooled down to 2° on the absolute scale, evaporated very quickly. Two liters of then precious helium disappeared and the experiment was ruined! Arkady accused the lab's glass man of sticking him with a faulty Dewar flask. He had been penalized… and two years later a classmate of Azarov's at the university, Pyotr Kapitsa, in an analogous experiment (lowering capillary stirrers into a vessel) discovered the superfluidity of helium!
Arkady Arkadievich grew disillusioned in experimental physics and came to love the dependable and strict world of mathematics. It was math that elevated him — the mathematical approach to the solution of nonmathematical problems. In the thirties he applied his methods to the problems of the general theory of relativity, which had all science enthralled; later his research helped solve important problems in the theory of chain reactions in uranium and plutonium. Then he applied his methods to the problems of chemical catalysis of polymers; and now he was head of the discrete systems direction in systemology.
“Eh, I'm still thinking about the wrong thing!” Azarov complained. “What did happen in Krivoshein's lab? I remember last autumn he came to me, wanted to talk about something. What? Work, naturally. And I waved him off. I was too busy. Somehow you always consider things that can't be put off as the most important. I should have talked to him; I'd know now what happened. Krivoshein never approached me again. Of course, people like that are proud and shy. Wait — what kind of people? What's Krivoshein like? What do I know about him? A few lectures at seminars, an appearance at the scientific council, several exchanges with other lecturers, and a nodding acquaintance.
Can I base a judgement on that? Yes, I can. I'm not so bad at judging people. He was an active and creative person. You recognize people like that by their questions and by their answers. You can see the constant thought flow — not everyone can see it, but I'm the same way; I can recognize it. A man eats, goes to work, greets friends, goes to the movies, argues with his co — workers, lends money, tans at the beach — he does it all wholeheartedly — and yet all the time he's thinking. On one subject. The idea has no relation to his actions or daily cares, but there is nothing that will distract him from that idea. It's the most important part of him: new things are born from it. And Krivoshein was like that. And it's too bad that's in the past tense — life loses something very necessary with the death of a man like that. And you feel even more alone…. Well, enough, what am I going on about?” Arkady Arkadievich looked at the time. “I must sleep.”
Harry Haritonovich Hilobok couldn't fall asleep that night either. He kept looking at the lighted window across the way in Krivoshein's apartment and tried to guess who was that in there. Lena Kolomiets left rapidly after ten (Harry Haritonvich recognized her figure and walk, and thought: “I should get to know her better. There's a lot to her”), but the light stayed on. Hilobok turned out his lights, and seated himself at the window with a pair of binoculars, but the angle was wrong — he could only see part of the book shelf and the Olympic — ring logo on the wall. “Did she forget to put out the light? Or is there someone else in there? Should I call the police? Ah, the hell with them. Let them figure it out.” Harry Haritonovich yawned deliciously. “Maybe it's the police in there investigating….”
He went back into his room and lit the night — light, a naked woman made out of fake marble with a light bulb inside. The soft light fell on the bearskin rug on the floor, the walls covered with blue wallpaper with golden storks, the polished grain of the desk, the bookshelves, the closet, the television set, the quilted pink couch, the dark red carpet with a scene of ancient feasting — everything was meant to be conducive to sensuousness. Harry Haritonovich undressed and went to look at himself in the mirror. He liked his face: the straight large nose; the smooth, but not fat, cheeks; the dark mustache — there was something of Guy de Maupassant about him. Very recently he had been trying on his doctor — of — technical — sciences look. “Why did he have to do that, that Krivoshein?” Harry Haritonovich felt his heart beating madly. “What had I ever done to him? I even voted for his project and helped his relative get a job at the lab. He doesn't have a dissertation and he envies the rest! Or was it because I didn't fill his request for the SES — 2? Well, it doesn't matter — there is no more Krivoshein. He's gone. That's the way it is. The winner in life is gone. That's the way it is. The winner in life is the one who outlives his adversary.”