“I see.” Onisimov was gathering his wits about him gradually. “And what experiments were you doing in the laboratory?”
“You see… I'm researching the biochemsitry of higher combinations in a systemological aspect with the addition of polymorphous anthropologism,” Krivoshein explained blandly. “Or the systemology of higher forms in a biochemical aspect with the addition of anthropological polymorphism, if you will.”
“I see. And where did the skeleton come from?” Matvei Apollonovich squinted at the box on the corner of his desk. “You just wait!” he thought.
“Skeleton? Oh, the skeleton!” Krivoshein smiled. “You see, we keep the skeleton in the lab for educational purposes. It's always in the same corner that I was put in when I was unconscious.”
“And what do you say to this?” Matvei Apollonovich removed the box that covered the sculpted head of Krivoshein. The pale — gray plastic eyes stared at the visitor who grew pale himself. “Do you recognize it?”
Graduate student Krivoshein lowered his head. Only now was he certain of what he had suspected, and what he didn't want to believe: Val had perished in the experiment.
“Your story doesn't make sense, citizen! I don't know your name or who you are.” Onisimov, controlling his feeling of triumph, leaned back in his chair. “Yesterday you managed to mystify me but you won't get away with it today. I'm going to arrange for a little meeting between you and your co — conspirator Kravets, and then what will you say?”
He reached for the phone. But Krivoshein put his hand on the receiver.
“Hey! What are you — “ Onisimov looked up angrily and saw himself… a broad face with narrow lips and a sharp chin, a thin nose, fine wrinkles around the mouth and small close — set eyes. Only now did Matvei Apollonovich notice the blue suit, just like his, and the Ukrainian shirt.
“Don't fool around, Onisimov! It won't be what you expect. You'll only succeed in making yourself look foolish. No more than twenty minutes ago investigator Onisimov released Kravets for lack of evidence.”
“So….” Onisimov stared as Krivoshein's face relaxed and took on its former features: blood drained from his cheeks. He lost his breath. Matvei Apollonovich had been in quite a few fixes in the line of duty: he had been shot at and he had done some shooting — but he had never been this scared in his life. “Then you're… you?”
“That is it: I'm me.” Krivoshein stood up and walked over to the desk. Onisimov squirmed under his angry gaze. “Listen; end this nonsense! Everyone's alive, everything is in place. What more do you want? No sculpture or skeleton is going to prove that Krivoshein died. Here he is, Krivoshein, standing before you! Nothing happened, do you understand? It's just the project.”
“But. how?” Matvei Apollonovich muttered. “Couldn't you explain?”
Krivoshein frowned sadly.
“Ah, Matvei Apollonovich, what could I explain to you? You used all of detection's technology: televideophones, Gerasimov's system of reconstructing the face… and still… you couldn't even figure out a type like Hilobok. And that's a clear — cut case with him. There was no crime, you can be sure of that.”
“But… I'll have to report. I have to tell them something. What do I do?”
“Now we're talking business.” Krivoshein sat down again. “I'll give you an explanation. Remember this part about the skeleton resembling me. It's a family heirloom. My maternal grandfather, Andrei Stepanovich Kotlyar, a famous biologist in his day, willed that he not be buried but embalmed and his skeleton left to his descendants who went into science. An old scientist's eccentricity, understand? And apparently you discovered broken right ribs in the skeleton, which naturally raised some suspicion. Well, grandfather died in a road accident. The old man loved zooming around on a motorcycle over the speed limit. Understand?” “I see.” Onisimov nodded rapidly
“That's better. I hope that this… family heirloom will be returned to its owner after the case is closed. As well as the other 'clues' taken from the laboratory. The time will come,” Krivoshein's voice resounded dreamily, “the time will come, Matvei Apollonovich, when that head will grace not your desk but a memorial. Well, I'm off. I hope I've explained everything. Please give me Kravets's papers. Thank you. Oh yes, the guard you were so kind to leave at the lab has requested relief. Please let him go. Thanks.”
Krivoshein stuffed the papers in his pocket and headed for the door. But a thought struck him on the way. “Listen, Matvei Apollonovich,” he said, coming back to the desk, “please don't be hurt by my proposal, but would you like to be a little smarter? You'll grasp things quickly. You'll think broadly and profoundly. You'll see clues and delve into the essence of things and phenomena. You'll understand the human soul! And your mind will be visited by marvelous ideas — things that will make your cheeks cold with amazement. You see, life is complicated, and it will get more so. The only way to remain at a human being's top position in it is to understand everything. There is no other way. And that's possible, Matvei Apollonovich! Would you like it? I can arrange it!”
Onisimov's face, contorted in insult and injury, filled with blood.
“You're mocking me,” he said. “It's not enough that you've.. you're mocking me too. Go on, citizen, out.”
Krivoshein shrugged and turned to the door.
“Wait!”
“What now?”
“Just a second, citizen… Krivoshein. All right, I don't understand. Perhaps you really have the science for this. I'll accept your version of the story — I have no choice. And you can think what you want of me….” Matvei Apollonovich couldn't get over the insult. Krivoshein frowned: what is he leading up to? “But if we accept your version, a man perished. Who's guilty?”
The graduate student looked at him carefully.
“Everyone a little, Matvei Apollonovich. Himself, and me, and Azarov, and others… and even you are mixed up in it a little, even though you didn't know him, because, without really knowing, you suspected people. But according to the criminal code, no one. That happens.”
“I think that's taken care of,” the student said to himself as he got into the bus.
Tomorrow is the experiment. Actually, not even tomorrow, but tonight, in seven or eight hours. I'm never sleepy before I have an important thing to do, but I need the sleep. That's why I walked and rode around town for over four hours, to get worn out and distract myself.
I was everywhere: midtown, suburbs, by the train station. I looked at people, houses, trees, animals. I watched the parade of Life.
A desiccated old man hobbled toward me with a yellowed mustache and a red, wrinkly face. He had three Saint George crosses and a medal on a striped ribbon dangling from his gray sateen shirt. The old man stopped in the short shadows of the lindens to catch his breath.
Yes, gramps, you had your day too! You've lived through a lot and obviously you want more: you've come out to preen, you cavalier of Saint George! If we filled up your muscles with strength, cleared up your corneas, wiped the sclerosis and fog from your brain, freshened up your nerves — you'd show the young punks a thing or two!
Some boys wandering along, talking about the movies:
“And then he gives it to him — pow — pow — with an atomic gun!”
“And they go: bam — bam — bam!”
“Why an atomic one?”
“What other kind? On Venus — and with a regular gun?”
A cat looks at me with anxious eyes. Why do cats have such anxious eyes? Do they know something? They know, but they won't tell. “Shoo, you cat!” It skulked into a doorway.
A man with a low forehead and gray crewcut walked past: his pants hugged his powerful calves and thighs and his tee shirt barely covered his well — developed chest. His face made it clear that the fellow could handle any of life's problems with a quick uppercut to the jaw or by tossing you over his shoulder.