How marvelous it was to lie in wait in the steppe at night with father's gun, waiting for the captain — both for the principle and the fact that the bastard ripped up men with his bayonet and raped girls! Or to fly on horseback, feeling the weight of your saber in your hand, taking measure: I'll chop that one over there, with beard, from his epaulets all the way through!

The last time I fought was eighteen years ago, and it wasn't a fight to the death, only to the school bell. I never galloped in the days of old. All my bravado comes on a bike facing down a truck.

And I'm not afraid, father, of blood or death. But your simple lessons never did come in handy. The revolution continues through different means, with discoveries and inventions — weapons more dangerous than sabers. And I'm afraid, father, of making mistakes.

Liar! Liar! You're preening again, you low — life! You have an ineradicable streak of showing off. Oh, it's so pretty: “I'm scared of making mistakes, father,” and all about the revolution. Don't you dare!

You wanted to synthesize in people (yes, people, not artificial doubles!) the nobility of spirit that you lack, the beauty that you don't have, the determination you'll never have, and the selflessness you can't even dream of.

You come from a good family. Your forefathers knew how to work and to leave good work behind them, and to beat the bastards with fist or gun. They didn't let up. And what are you? Have you fought for justice? Oh, you never had an opportunity? Maybe you've cleverly managed to avoid them? What, don't feel like remembering?

That's the problem. I'm afraid of everything: life, people. I even love Lena in a cowardly way: I'm afraid to bring her close and I'm afraid to lose her. And God forbid, no children. Children complicate things.

And the fact that I'm hiding my discovery — isn't that also a fear that I won't be able to develop it properly? And I probably won't. I'm a weakling. One of those smart weaklings who are better off not being smart. Because their brain is only given them so that they can appreciate their lowness and impotence.

Graduate student Krivoshein lit up a cigarette and paced the room nervously. It was painful reading the notes — it was about him, too. He sighed and returned to the desk.

Easy, Krivoshein, easy. You can talk yourself into something hysterical this way. You still have the responsibility for the work… and everything isn't lost yet. You're not such a son of a bitch that you should drop dead immediately.

I can even make you look good. I haven't used the discovery for personal gain, and I won't. I worked at peak capacity, and I didn't cheat. Now I'm trying to figure things out. So I'm not worse than others. I made a mistake. And who doesn't?

Yes, but in this work comparisons on a relative scale — who's better, who's worse — don't apply. Others study crystals or develop machines; they know their work, and that's enough. Their character flaws only harm them, their co — workers at the lab, and their relatives. But I'm different. In order to create Man, it's not enough to know, to have a scientific handle on the thing — you have to be a real Man yourself, not better or worse than others, but in the absolute sense a knight without fear or flaw. I wouldn't mind that at all, but I don't know how to go about it. I don't have the information.

Does that mean that I can't handle this work?

October 8. The yellow and red autumn is in the institute grounds, and I can't work. It's full of dry leaves, the lightest rain makes a lot of noise on them, and then there's a coffee aroma of rotten leaves. And I can't work….

Maybe I shouldn't, it's not needed? A good generic stock, a quality education, a hygienic life — style…. Let smart people re — create themselves, have lots of children with good stock. They'll be able to feed them, their salaries will stretch; after all, they're smart people. And they'll be able to bring them up. They're smart people. No computers will be necessary.

Harry Hilobok called today. They're organizing a permanent exhibit at the institute: “The Achievements of Soviet Systemology,” and naturally, he's the organizer.

“Won't you contribute something, Valentin Vasilyevich?”

“No.”

“Why are you like that? Now Ippolit Illarionovich Voltampernov's department is giving three exhibits and other departments and labs are contributing. We should have at least one exhibit on your topic. Don't you have anything yet?”

“No. How's the biosensor system moving, Harry Haritonovich?”

“Eh, Valentin Vasilyevich, what's one system compared to all of systemology, heh — heh! We're working on it, but meanwhile you see, everyone's demanding exhibit stands, mock — ups, tableaux, signs in three languages, and our heads are spinning. The lab and the workshops are full up, but if you should have anything for the show, we'll manage. Things are going fast around here.”

I almost said that it was the system that I needed to come up with an exhibit for your stupid show but I controlled myself. (Let him make it and then we'll see.) Always being sneaky, Krivoshein!

My exhibits were all over the world. One was in Moscow struggling with biology. The others were munching grass and cabbage in gardens. And another just ran off to who knows where.

Should I exhibit the computer — womb to shock the academic world? Create two — headed and six — footed rabbits as part of the demonstration, at the rate of two an hour? That would create a stir.

No, brother. This machine makes man. And there's no way of getting around that.

October 11. I'm repeating the experiments in controlled synthesis of rabbits — just so that the mechanism doesn't sit around for nothing. I'm filming it all. I'll have a documentary. “Citizens, present your documentaries!”

October 13. I've invented a method of destroying biological information in the computer — womb quickly and dependably. You can call it an “electric eraser.” I use tension from the noise generator as input for the crystal unit and TsVM — 12 and 15–20 minutes later the computer forgets everything about the rabbits. If I had had this method earlier instead of the order “No!” I would have destroyed Adam each time irreversibly and fundamentally.

I just don't know if he would have liked that any better.

Time is making the leaves fall and the sky grow cold. And my work isn't moving. I can't undertake serious work now. I don't have the stomach for it. I'm lost.

Here, Krivoshein! You can now take it as conclusively demonstrated that you are neither God nor the hub of the earth. Thus, you should seek help from others. You must go to Arkady Arkadievich….

“Aha,” graduate student Krivoshein exclaimed.

I must follow procedure; he is my superior. Actually, that's not the point. He's smart, knowledgeable, influential, and a marvelous methodologist. He knows how to formulate any problem. And, “A formulated problem,” as it says in his Introduction to Systemology, “is the solution to the problem written in hidden form.” And that's just what I need. And he supported my topic at the scientific council. Of course, he's overly officious and conceited, but we'll manage. He's a smart man, after all. He'll understand that glory is not the point of this work.

Wait! Good intentions are one thing, but reasonable care can't hurt. To let Azarov in on the deep, dark secret that the computer — womb can synthesize live systems — no, that can't be allowed. I have to start with something simpler, and then we'll see, as he likes to say.