“And therefore mastery of metabolism could drag on for millions of years?”

“I'm afraid that it could take dozens of millions of years,” sighed Vano Aleksandrovich. “We mammals are very recent inhabitants of earth. Thirty million years — is that an age? Everything is still ahead of us.

“There will be nothing ahead of us, Vano Aleksandrovich!” exclaimed Krivoshein. “The present environment changes from year to year — what kind of million — year learning process can there be, what kind of repetition of lessons? Man has stepped off the path of natural evolution, and now he must figure things out for himself.”

“And we are.”

“What? Pills, powders, hemorrhoidal suppositories, enemas, and bed rest? Are you sure that we are improving man's breed this way? Maybe we're ruining it?”

' I'm not trying to talk you into involving yourself with pills and powders if those are the terms you choose to use for the antibiotics our department is developing,” Vano Aleksandrovich said, his face taking on a cold and haughty look. “If you want to study your idea — go ahead, dare. But explaining the unrealistic and unplanned aspects of this decision in graduate work and for a future dissertation is my right and my duty.”

He stood up and tossed the butts from the ashtray into the wastebasket.

“Forgive me, Vano Aleksandrovich. I certainly didn't want to hurt your feelings.” Krivoshein also stood, realizing that the conversation was over, and ending on an unpleasant note. “But. Vano Aleksandrovich, there are very interesting facts.”

“What facts?”

“Well… in the last century in India there was a man — god, Ramakrishna. And, if someone was being beaten nearby, he had welts on his body. Or take 'burns by suggestion': a sensitive subject is touched with a pencil and told that it was a lit cigarette. In these cases metabolism is controlled without a 'learning process, is it not?”

“Listen, you nagging student,” Androsiashvili wheeled on him, “how many window bolts can you eat in a sitting?”

“Hmmmm,” Krivoshein said in confusion. “I don't think any at all. How about you?”

“Me neither. But a patient I had in the dim past when I worked in the Pavlov Psychiatric Clinic swallowed, without any particular harm to himself, ” the professor leaned back, remembering, “five window bolts, twelve aluminum teaspoons, three tablespoons, two pairs of surgical scissors, 240 grams of broken glass, one fork, and 400 grams of various nails. Now these are not the results of an autopsy, mind you, but the history of a disease — I cut him open myself. The patient was cured of suicidal tendencies and is probably still alive today.” The professor glanced down at Krivoshein from the heights of his erudition. “So in scientific matters it is better not to orient yourself by religious fanatics or secular psychopaths. No, no!” He raised his hand to stave off the obvious look of disagreement in Krivoshein's eyes. “Enough arguing. Go ahead, I won't stop you. I'm sure that you will try to regulate metabolism with some kind of machine or electronic method.”

Vano Aleksandrovich gave the student a thoughtful and tired look and smiled.

“Catching the Firebird with your bare hands! What could be better? And you have a holy goal: man without diseases, without old age — age is a result of a breakdown in metabolism, too. Twenty years or so ago, I would have allowed myself to be fired up by this idea. But now… now I must do what can definitely be done. Even if it's only a pill.”

Krivoshein turned down a cross street toward the Institute of Systemology and almost bumped into a man in a dark blue cloak, much too warm for the season. The unexpectedness of the encounter produced further problems: Krivoshein stepped to the left to let the man past, while the man did the same to the right. Then both of them, letting the other go first, finally set off in opposite directions. The man stared at Krivoshein in amazement and stopped.

“I beg your pardon,” he muttered and went on.

The street was dark and empty. Krivoshein soon heard footsteps behind him and looked back: the man in the cloak was following at a short distance. “That Onisimov!” thought the graduate student. “He's got a detective tailing me!” He experimented by going faster and heard the man's pace increase. “Ah, the hell with him! I'm certainly not going to cover my tracks.” Krivoshein went on slowly, rambling. However, his back felt uncomfortable and his thoughts returned to reality.

“So, I guess Val tried another experiment. Maybe he wasn't alone? It failed; that corpse turning into a skeleton. But why are the police involved? And where is he? Our Val must have blown town on his bike until things calmed down. Or maybe he's in the lab?”

Krivoshein approached the monumental, cast — iron gates of the institute. The rectangular posts of the gates were so large that the left one easily contained the pass office and the right one the entrance way. He opened the door. Old man Vakhterych, the ancient guard of science, was nodding off behind the barrier.

“Good evening!” Krivoshein nodded at him.

“Good evening, Valentin Vasilyevich!” replied Vakhterych, obviously not about to ask him for his pass; they were used to visits by the head of the New Systems Lab at all hours.

Krivoshein, inside the grounds, looked back; the creep in the cloak was stuck outside. There you go, chum,” Krivoshein thought. “The pass system proves itself once again.”

The windows of the lodge were dark. A red cigarette light glowed by the door. Krivoshein crouched under the trees and made out a uniform cap on a man's head against the stars. “No, I've had it with the cops for one day. I'd better go home….” he laughed. “I mean to his house.”

He started for the gates, but remembered the fellow in the cloak and stopped. “That's against all the rules, the suspect running into the detective's arms. Let him do some work.” Krivoshein headed for the other end of the park — where the branches of the old oak hung over the iron pickets of the fence. He jumped from the branch onto the sidewalk and started for Academic Town.

“But what happened with his experiment? And who was that guy who met me at the airport? The telegram really confused me: I thought he was Val! He does look like him — very much so. Could it be? Val obviously didn't sit around all year twiddling his thumbs! Too bad we didn't write. What petty fools we are: each one wanting to prove that he could do without the other, to astound the other a year later with his results. With his own results! The highest form of possession. And so we've amazed each other. We're destroying a major project with pettiness. With pettiness, lack of forethought, and fear. We shouldn't have scattered every which way, but tried to attract people who were worthy and real, like Vano Aleksandrovich, from the very beginning. Yes, but back then I didn't know him, and it won't help to try it now, when he storms past me and gives me dirty looks.”

It had all happened in the spring, in late March when Krivoshein had only begun mastering metabolism in his own body. Busy with himself, he hadn't noticed spring until spring made him notice: a heavy icicle fell on him from the roof of a five — story building. If it had fallen a half inch to the left, it would have been the end of the experiments on metabolism as well as the end of his organism. But the icicle merely ripped his ear, broke his collar bone, and knocked him down.

“Disaster, disaster!” That's what he heard professor Androsiashvili saying as he came to. He was leaning over him, feeling his head, unbuttoning his coat. “I'll kill that janitor for not clearing the snow!” he said, angrily shaking his fist. “Can you walk?” He helped Krivoshein up. “Don't worry, your head is fairly whole. The clavicle will heal in a few weeks. It could have been worse. Hold on, I'll walk you over to the infirmary.”