by Arkady
“Aha, from Privalov? I knew right away that he was a thief!”
The reproachful voice of Janus-A broke in: “Tut, tut, Modest Matveevich!”
“No—excuse me, Janus Poluektovich, it can’t be let go at that! Comrade Sergeant, let’s go in! He is inside… Janus Poluektovich, stand by the window, so he’ll not jump out of it. I’ll prove it! I’ll not allow aspersions to be cast on comrade Gorynitch!”
A nasty, cold sensation began to spread in my stomach. But Roman had already assessed the situation. He grabbed a greasy cap off the hanger and clapped it down on my ears.
I disappeared.
It was a very strange sensation. Everything remained in place, except myself. But Roman would not permit me to absorb the new sensations.
“It’s an invisibility cap,” he hissed. “Move off to the side and be quiet.”
I ran to the corner on tiptoes and squatted under the mirror. At the same instant, Modest, beside himself, burst into the room, dragging the young Sergeant Kovalev by his sleeve.
“Where is he?” hollered Modest looking about.
“There,” said Roman, pointing at the sofa.
“Don’t worry, it’s where it should be,” added Korneev.
“I am asking—where is he, that programmer of yours?”
“What programmer?” Roman feigned puzzlement.
“Now, you will stop that!” said Modest. “There was a programmer here. He stood there with his pants on and no shoes.”
“Oh, so that’s what you have in mind,” said Roman. “But we were just kidding, Modest Matveevich. There wasn’t any programmer here! It was just a—” He made a gesture with his hands and a man appeared in the middle of the room, dressed in jeans and sport shirt. I saw him from the back, and can’t say any more about him, but the young Kovalev shook his head and said, “No, that’s not him.”
Modest walked around the apparition, mumbling, “Sport shirt…pants…no shoes… It’s him, it’s him.”
The apparition vanished.
“No, no, that’s not the man,” said Sergeant Kovalev. “The other was young, without a beard…”
“Without a beard?” demanded Modest. He was seriously embarrassed.
“No beard,” confirmed Kovalev.
“Mmm—yes,” said Modest “But I was sure he had a beard…”
“I am handing you the notification,” said Sergeant Kovalev, and offered Modest an official-looking sheet of paper. “It’s up to you to figure out what’s what between your Privalov and your Gorynitch…”
“And I am telling you, it’s not our five-kopeck piece!” yelled Modest. “I am not saying a word about Privalov. Maybe Privalov doesn’t even exist, as such… But comrade Gorynitch is a colleague!”
Young Kovalev, pressing his hands to breast, was trying to say something.
“I demand that this be cleared up at once!” yelled Modest. “You stop that, comrade Sergeant! The notification, as given, casts a shadow on the whole collective! I insist that you make certain!”
“I have my orders—” Kovalev began, but Modest, with a cry of, “You stop that! I insist,” flew at him and dragged him out of the room.
“Off to the museum,” said Roman. “Sasha, where are you? Take off the cap; let’s go see…”
“Maybe I’d do better not to remove it,” I said.
“Take it off, take it off,” said Roman. “You are now a phantom. No one believes in you, neither the administration nor the police.”
Korneev said, “I am off to get some sleep. Sasha, come on around after dinner. You’ll see our collection of machines, and in general…”
I took off the cap.
“You stop that,” I said. “I’m on vacation.”
“Let’s go, let’s go,” said Roman.
In the hall, Modest was opening the massive padlock with one hand and clutching Kovalev with the other. “I’ll show you our coin right now!” he yelled. “Everything is registered… Everything is in its place.”
“I’m not saying anything at all,” Kovalev defended himself weakly. “I’m only saying that there may be more than one coin…”
Modest threw open the door and we all went into a spacious chamber.
It was quite a proper museum, with stands, diagrams, windows, mock-ups, and moulages. Its general appearance was more reminiscent of a criminology museum than anything else: lots of photographs and unappetizing displays. Modest immediately dragged Kovalev behind the stands, where they took to booming as in a hollow barrel.
“Here’s our coin…”
“I didn’t say—”
“Comrade Gorynitch—”
“I have my orders!”
“You stop that!”
“Be inquisitive, be inquisitive, Sasha,” said Roman, making a wide gesture and sitting down in the easy chair by the entrance.
I went along the wall. I was not astonished by anything. I was just immensely interested. Water-of-Life, Effectivity 52%, Permissible Sediment 0.3: (ancient square bottle with water; cork sealed with colored wax); Diagram of Commercial Process for Manufacturing Water of Life; Mock-up of Live-Auto-Conversion Cube; Changeling Salts of Veshkovsk-Traubenbach (a drugstore bottle with poisonous yellow paste); Bad Blood, Ordinary (a soldered ampul with black liquid).
Over this entire stand hung a tablet: ACTIVE CHEMICAL AGENTS. XII—XVIII CENTURIES. There were many more little bottles, jars, retorts, ampuls, test tubes, working and nonworking models for extraction, distillation, and concentration, but I went on.
Enchanted Sword (very rusty two-handed sword with a wavy blade, shackled with a chain to an iron counter, window meticulously sealed); Right Eyetooth [Working] of Count Dracula (I’m no Cuvier, but judging by that tooth, Count Dracula must have been a most unusual and unpleasant person); Footprint, Normal, and Footprint, Extracted (to my eye, they looked the same, but one had a crack in it); Mortar on Launching pad, IX Century (massive construction of porous gray cast iron); Dragon Gorynitch, Skeleton, 1/25 Natural Size (similar to a diplodocus with three heads); Schematic of Fire-breathing Gland, middle Head; Seven-league Boots, Gravitic, Working Model (very large rubber boots); Flying Carpet, Anti-gravitic, Operational Model (a rug, about four by five with a he-Circassian embracing a young she-Circassian against a background of piled mountain peaks).
I arrived at the display Development of the Concept of the Philosopher’s Stone, when Sergeant Kovalev and Modest Matveevich reappeared in the aisle. By all indications, they had not been successful in moving off their dead center.
“You can stop that,” Modest kept saying tiredly.
“I have my orders,” replied Kovalev just as wearily.
“Our coin is in its place…”
“Let the old woman come in and make a deposition…”
“So then, according to you, counterfeiters?”
“I didn’t say that…”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it…”
Kovalev didn’t notice me, but Modest stopped, looked me over dully from head to foot, screwed up his eyes, and lectured aloud drearily, “Ho-mun-culus, laboratory model, general type,” and went on.
I started off after them, sensing a bad premonition. Roman was awaiting us by the door.
“How goes it?” he asked.
“It’s a disgrace,” said Modest in a wilted tone. “Bureaucrats!”
“1 have my orders,” Kovalev repeated stubbornly from the entry.
Roman went out. I made to move after him, but Modest stopped me.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Where are you going?”
“How do you mean—where?” I said in a fallen voice.
“To your place, go to your place.”
“What place?”
“Well, wherever it is that you stand. You are—pardon me—a…ho-munculus? Then be kind enough to stand where you are supposed to stand.”
I understood that I was lost. And I probably would have been, because Roman apparently also lost his presence of mind, but just then Naina Kievna lumbe
red into the entry, stomping and clacking and pulling along a hefty black goat on a rope. At the sight of the policeman, the goat bleated in a sick tone and took off. Naina Kievna fell down. Modest flew to the entry and a horrendous commotion ensued. The empty vat rolled off its stand with a thunderous rumble. Roman grabbed me by the hand, and whispering, “Move, move!” flew into my room. We shut the door and fell against it, breathing heavily. Yells wafted from the entry.
“Present your documents!”
“Mercy, governor, what’s that for?”
“Why the goat? Why a goat in the house!”
“Now you stop that; this is not a beer hall.”
“I don’t know about your five-kopeck piece, and it’s no business of mine.”
“Me-eh-eh!”
“Citizeness, remove the goat!”
“Stop it! The goat is registered!”
“Registered? How?”
“It’s not a goat! He is our colleague!”
“Then let him present—”
“Out the window and into the car!” ordered Roman.
I grabbed my jacket and jumped out. Basil scuttled out from under my feet, meowing. Bending low, I ran to the car, threw open the door, and jumped behind the wheel. Roman was already opening the gate. The engine wouldn’t start. Torturing the starter, I could see the door to the cottage open and the black goat running out, bounding off with gigantic leaps somewhere around the corner. The engine caught and roared. I swung the car around and lurched out into the street. The oaken gate shut with a crash. Roman popped out behind the small gate and flung himself on the seat beside me.
“Go!” he said vigorously. “Downtown!”
While we were turning onto the Prospect of Peace, he asked, “So, how do you like it here with us?”
“I like,” I said. “Only it’s very raucous.”
“It’s always raucous at Naina’s,” said Roman. “A contrary old hag. She hasn’t taken advantage of you?”
“No,” I said. “We had almost no truck with each other.”
“Wait up,” said Roman. “Slow down.”
“What’s up?”
“There goes Volodia. Remember him?”
I braked. The bearded Volodia climbed into the back seat, and, beaming happily, shook our hands.
“Great!” he said. “I was just on my way to your place.”
“That’s all we needed there—you,” said Roman.
“How did it all end?”
“No how,” said Roman.
“Where are you going now?”
“To the Institute,” said Roman.
“What for?” I asked.
“To work,” said Roman.
“I’m on vacation.”
“That’s immaterial,” said Roman, “Monday begins on Saturday and August will begin in July, this time.”
“My friends are waiting,” I said, pleading.
“We’ll take care of that,” said Roman. “Your friends will notice absolutely nothing.”
“It’s enough to drive you insane,” I said.
We drove in between retail store No. 2 and dining room No. 11.
“He already knows where to go,” noted Volodia.
“Stout fellow,” said Roman. “A giant!”
“I took a liking to him right from the start,” said Volodia.
“Obviously you must have a programmer or die,” I said.
“We need far more than just any programmer,” contradicted Roman.
I braked alongside the strange building with the SRITS sign between the windows.
“What does it mean?” I asked. “Could I at least learn where I am being impressed to work?”
“You may,” said Roman. “You are now permitted everything. It is The Scientific Research Institute for Thaumaturgy and Spellcraft… Well, why are you standing? Drive in!”
“Where?” I asked.
“Don’t tell me you don’t see it!”
And I saw.
But that is altogether a different tale.
THE SECOND TALE
Vanity of Vanities
Chapter 1
Among the heroes, one or two stand out; all others are regarded as secondary.
Methodology for Teaching Literature
About two o’clock in the afternoon, when the input equipment breaker blew again, the telephone rang. Modest Matveevich Kamnoedov, Deputy Director of Administration and Plant, was on the line.
“Privalov,” he said severely, “why are you not at your post again?”
“What do you mean, not at my post?” I said in a hurt tone. “My day turned out to be particularly busy, and I forgot everything else.”
“You will be noted down for that,” said Modest Matveevich. “You were due here with me for your instruction five minutes ago.”
“I’ll be switched,” I said, and hung up.
I turned off the machine, took off my lab coat and reminded the girls not to forget to turn off the power. The wide corridor was empty; a blizzard blew behind the frosted windows. Putting on my jacket on the run, I hurried to the plant department.
Modest Matveevich, in his shiny suit, awaited me regally in his private reception room. Behind him, a small gnome with hairy ears was running his finger through a page of a monstrous ledger, looking both dismal and diligent.
“You, Privalov, you are like some sort of homunculus,” pronounced Modest. “Never in your place.”
Everyone tried to maintain only the nicest of relations with Modest Matveevich, inasmuch as he was a man of power, unbending and monumentally ignorant. Therefore, I barked, “Yes, sir,” and clicked my heels.
“Everyone must be at his post,” continued Modest. “Always. And there you are with a higher education, wearing glasses and growing a beard, yet you can’t seem to grasp this simple theorem.”
“It won’t happen again!” I said, bulging my eyes.
“I will hold you to that,” said Modest Matveevich, softening. He drew out a sheet of paper from his pocket and looked at it a while. “So then, Privalov,” he said finally, “today you will replace the man in charge. Watching over the Institute during a holiday is a responsible duty. There’s more to it than pressing push buttons. In the first place—we have the fire precautions. That’s number one. No auto-combustion is to be allowed. You will see to it that all the production areas entrusted to you have the power switched off. You will see to it personally, without any of your doublings and triplings. Without any of your facsimiles. At any inkling of combustion factors, you will call extension oh-one at once and take preventive measures yourself. Take this alarm horn for calling the fire brigade for such a contingency…” He handed me a platinum whistle stamped with an inventory number. “Likewise, nobody’s to be let in. Here is a list of persons allowed the use of the laboratories at night, but they are not to be let in either, on account of it being a holiday. There’s not to be a single living soul in the Institute. The entry and exit demons are to have a spell cast on them. Do you grasp the situation? Living souls are not to be permitted in, and all others are not to be permitted out. Because there was a precedent. One of the devils escaped and stole the moon. A widely known incident, which was even recorded in the movies.” He looked at me meaningfully and suddenly asked for my documents.
I obeyed. He looked at my pass with deep attention, returned it, and pronounced, “Everything is in order. Actually, I had a suspicion that you might still be a double. So much for that. Well then, at fifteen hundred-zero-zero, in accordance with labor laws, the working day will end, and everyone will deposit with you the keys to all production areas. After which, you will personally inspect the territory. Thereafter, you will conduct tours every three hours with regard to auto-combustion. You will visit the vivarium not less than twice during the period of your watch. If the supervisor is drinking tea, you will note that down. There have been signs: it’s not tea that he is drinking there. Acknowledge the above in all respects. Your post is in the director’s reception room. You can rest on the couch.
Tomorrow at sixteen hundred-zero-zero, you will be replaced by Pochkin, Volodia, from the laboratory of comrade Oira-Oira. Have you got that?”
“Entirely,” I said.
“I will be calling you during the night and tomorrow. Personally. A checkup is also possible by the manager of Industrial Relations.”
“I understand,” said I, looking through the list.
The first thereon was the director of the Institute, Janus Poluektovich Nevstruev, with a penciled note: TWO EX. Next came Modest Matveevich himself. The third was the manager of Industrial Relations, Cerber Roverovich Demin, and then came names that I had never seen before.
“Is something beyond you?” inquired Modest Matveevich, jealously following my perusal.
“Here,” I said ponderously, stabbing my finger at the list, “comrades are present in the number of…mmm…twenty-one, not known to me personally. I would like to go over these names with you personally.” I looked him straight in the eye and added firmly, “Just in case.”
“It’s all correct,” he said condescendingly. “It’s just that you are not au courant, Privalov. The persons listed, starting with number four through number twenty-five, last and inclusive, have been admitted to night work posthumously. In recognition of past contributions. Now do you have it?”
I was still a little dazed, as getting used to it all was yet a bit much for me.
“Assume your post,” Modest Matveevich said grandiosely. “As for me, and also in the name of the administration, I congratulate you, Privalov, with the coming New Year, and wish you, in that new year, every success both in your work and in your personal life.”
I, in turn, wished him corresponding successes and went out into the hall.
Having learned yesterday that I had been designated to stand watch, I was pleased as I intended to finish a computation for Roman Oira-Oira. But now I felt that the matter was not all that simple. The prospect of spending the night at the Institute suddenly appeared in an altogether different light. I had already stayed late at work on previous occasions when the economy-minded personnel left in charge had turned off every four out of five lights in the halls and I had to grope my way out past startled, furry shapes. At first, this sort of thing had a heavy impact on me, then I became used to it. Then I became unused to it again the time when, passing along the main hall, I heard behind me the measured clack, clack, clack of claws on the parquet floor, and turning, discovered a certain phosphorescent animal running unequivocally along my tracks. True, when they took me down off the cornice, it developed that it was an ordinary live dog belonging to one of my colleagues. The colleague came to apologize, and Oira-Oira read me a scathing lecture on the evils of superstition, but nevertheless some sort of unpleasant sediment remained in my soul. First thing, I thought, was to cast the proper spell on the demons.
