Monday Begins on Saturday

  “He is not. Maybe he went to look for Feodor Simeonovich.”

  “I think we shouldn’t bother him for now. We’ll manage somehow. Eddie, let’s try concentrating together.”

  “Which approach?”

  “The braking regime. Up to tetanus. Guys! Everyone pitch in who can.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Eddie. “And what if we damage him?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” I said. “Maybe you’d better not. Better he should eat me.”

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry. We’ll be careful. Eddie, let’s try the contact method. One touch.”

  “Let’s begin,” said Eddie.

  The silence became even more intense. The zombi worried the basin, and volunteers exchanged comments and clattered behind the wall, working on the conveyor. A minute passed. The zombi climbed out of the tub, wiped his beard, looked at us sleepily, and suddenly extended his arm to an impossible length and snatched the last of the loaves of bread with a deft movement. Next he gave forth a rolling belch and fell back on the chair, folding his arms on a hugely distended belly. Ecstasy flowed over his face. He snuffled and smiled inanely. He was undoubtedly happy, as a terminally tired man is happy on finally reaching the longed-for bed.

  “It seems to have worked,” someone in the crowd said. Roman compressed his lips in doubt.

  “I don’t have that impression,” Eddie said politely.

  “Maybe his spring has run down,” I said hopefully.

  Stella complained informatively, “It’s only a temporary relaxation…a paroxysm of satiety. He’ll wake up again soon.”

  “You masters just haven’t got the strength,” said a masculine voice. “Let me go; I’ll call Feodor Simeonovich.”

  We all looked at each other, smiling uncertainly. Roman pensively toyed with the umclidet, rolling it about in his palm. Stella shivered, whispering, “What’s going to happen, Sasha? I am frightened!” As for me, I stuck my chest out, furrowed my brows, and struggled with an overwhelming desire to call Modest Matveevich. I had a terrible urge to get out from under my responsibility. It was a weakness and I was powerless before it. Modest Matveevich appeared to me at that moment in an entirely different light. I was convinced that all Modest Matveevich had to do was show up here and roar at the monster, “You will cut that out, comrade Vibegallo!” and the thing would quit at once.

  “Roman,” I said carelessly, “I suppose that in the extreme case you could dematerialize it.”

  Roman laughed and patted me on the. back. “Fear not,” he said. “This is just a toy. I just don’t feel like tangling with Vibegallo… Don’t mind this one, but beware of that one!” He pointed at the second autoclave clicking away peacefully in the corner.

  In the meantime, the zombi started to stir uneasily. Stella squeaked softly and pressed herself against me. The zombi’s eyes opened wide. First he bent over and balanced in the tub. Then he banged the empty pails about. Then he was still and sat motionless in the chair for some time. The expression of satisfaction on his face was replaced by one of bitter injury. He raised himself up, sniffed, rapidly twitching his nostrils, and, deploying a long red tongue, licked the crumbs off the table.

  “Hold on, everybody…” whispered the crowd.

  The zombi reached into the tub, pulled out the tray, looked over on all sides, and bit at its edge. His eyebrows rose in pain. He bit another piece out and crunched on it. His face turned blue, as though in irritation; his eyes watered, but he kept biting time after time until he had chewed up the whole tray. For a minute he sat in thought, fingering his teeth, then he slid his gaze slowly over the stilled crowd. It was not a nice gaze; it was somehow evaluative and selective.

  Volodia Pochkin said involuntarily, “No, no, take it easy, you…”

  The empty translucent eyes fixed on Stella, and she let out a scream, the same soul-rending scream, reaching up into the supersonic range, that Roman and I had heard four floors below in the director’s reception room just a few minutes before. I shuddered. The zombi was also discomfited; he lowered his eyes and started drumming his fingers nervously on the table.

  There was a commotion at the entrance. Everyone moved about, and Ambrosi Ambruosovitch Vibegallo pushed through the crowd, elbowing the entranced curious and plucking icicles out of his beard. He smelled of vodka, overcoat, and frost.

  “Dear me!” he hollered. “What’s all this? Quelle situation! Stella, what are you doing just gaping there? Where is the herring? He has needs! They are increasing! You should have read my papers!”

  He approached the zombi, who immediately started to sniff him greedily. Vibegallo gave the zombi his coat.

  “The needs must be satisfied!” he said, hurriedly flicking the switches at the conveyor control board. “Why didn’t you give it to him at once? Oh, these les femmes. Who said it’s broken? It’s not broken at all; it’s spellbound.”

  A window opened in the wall, the conveyor clattered, and a flood of stinking herring heads flowed right onto the floor. The zombi’s eyes gleamed. He fell on all fours, trotted smartly to the window, and set to work. Vibegallo stood alongside, clapped his hands, exclaimed joyfully, and, brimming with feelings, scratched the zombi behind the ear now and then.

  The crowd sighed in relief. It developed that Vibegallo had brought two regional newspaper correspondents with him. The correspondents were familiar—G. Perspicaciov and B. Pupilov. They, too, smelled of vodka. Setting off their flashes, they proceeded to take pictures and notes. The two specialized in scientific reporting. G. Perspicaciov was famous for the phrase: “Oort was the first to look at the starry sky and to note the rotation of the galaxy.” He was also the owner of the literary writings of the saga of Merlin’s journey with the Chairman of the Regional Soviet and an interview (conducted in ignorance) with Oira-Oira’s double. The interview bore the title, “Man with a Capital M,” and started with the words, “Like every true scientist, he was not talkative…” B. Pupilov sponged off Vibegallo. His daring sketches about boots that put themselves on, about self-harvesting, self-loading carrots, and about other Vibegallo projects were widely known in the region, while the article “Magician from Solovetz” even appeared in one of the national magazines.

  When the zombi finally reached another of his paroxysms of satiation and dozed off, Vibegallo’s newly arrived laboratory assistants dressed the monster in a two-piece suit and hoisted him into the chair. Having been rudely extirpated from their New Year’s repasts, they were a bit surly about it. The correspondents placed Vibegallo alongside the monster with his hand on the monster’s shoulder, and taking aim with their lenses, asked him to continue.

  “What, then, is most important?” Vibegallo went on readily. “The most important thing is that man should be happy. I note this in parentheses: Happiness is a human concept. And what is man, philosophically speaking? Man, comrades, is Homo sapiens, who has desires and abilities. Perhaps, I mean, he wants, and he wants all that he can. N’est pas, comrades? If he—man, that is—can have all that he wants and wants all that he can have, then he is truly happy. We will define him so. And what have we here in front of us, comrades? We have a model. But this model has desires, and that is all to the good. So to speak, excellent, exquis, charmant. And furthermore, comrades, it is capable. This is even better because, that being the case, it…he, I mean…is happy. We have here a metaphysical transformation from unhappiness to happiness, and this does not surprise us, since people are not born happy, but, I mean, that is, they become happy. Here it is waking up…it desires. For this reason it is temporarily unhappy. But it is able, and through this, ‘being able,’ a dialectic jump occurs. There, there! Look at that! Did you see how able it is? Oh, you dear! My joy! There, there! And how it is able! It is able for ten-fifteen minutes… You there, comrade Pupilov. Why don’t you put away your still camera and use your movie camera, because we have here a dynamic process, here everything is in motion! Rest is as it should be, a relative phenomenon, but movement is absolute. There you are. No
w it has been able to move dialectically into the region of happiness. To the realm of satisfaction, that is. You see it has closed its eyes. It’s enjoying itself. It feels good. I tell you, in a scientific sense, I would be willing to change places with him, right now, of course… Comrade Perspicaciov, write down everything I say and then let me have a look at it. I’ll smooth it out and add references… Now it is sleeping, but that’s not all. Our needs must go deeper as well as wider. That would be the only correct process. On dit que Vibegallo is allegedly an enemy of the spiritual. That, comrades, is a label. We should have put aside such labels in scientific discussions a long time ago, comrades. We all know that all that is material leads the way and all that is spiritual brings up the rear. Satur venter, as is well known, non studit libentur.9 Which we will translate, as it applies to this situation, in this way: Bread is always on the mind of the hungry.”

  “It is the other way around,” said Oira-Oira.

  Vibegallo looked at him vacantly for some time and then said, “The commentary from the audience, comrades, will be noted with indignation. It is regarded as unformed. Let us not be diverted from the main topic—from the practical aspects. I continue and turn to the next stage of the experiment. I am clarifying my presentation for the sake of the press. In accordance with the materialist concept, and material consumption needs having been temporarily satisfied, we can turn to the satisfaction of spiritual needs. Such as go to a movie, enjoy television, listen to folk songs or sing oneself, or even read a book, say Krokodil10 or a newspaper… Comrades, we do not forget that abilities are required for all that, while the satisfaction of material needs does not require any special abilities, which are always present, since nature follows the materialistic viewpoint. As yet we cannot say anything about this model’s spiritual capabilities, inasmuch as the seed of its rationality resides in alimentary hunger. But we shall expose these spiritual capabilities now.”

  The dour technicians deployed a tape recorder, a radio, a movie projector, and a small portable library on the table. The zombi scanned the instruments of culture with an indifferent gaze and sampled the tape for taste. It became evident that the spiritual capabilities of the model would not develop spontaneously. And so Vibegallo ordered a forceful infusion of cultural habits, as he put it. The tape recorder sang in sugary tones, “My darling and I were parting, we swore everlasting love.” The radio whistled and gargled. The projector displayed the animated film, Wolf and the Seven Sheep. Two technicians stood one on each side of the zombi and started to read aloud simultaneously… As should have been expected, the alimentary model responded to all this noise with complete indifference. While it desired to stuff itself, it couldn’t care less about its spiritual world, because it wanted to stuff itself, and it did lust that. Having satisfied its hunger, it ignored its spiritual self, because it went limp and temporarily did not desire anything at all. The sharp-eyed Vibegallo managed, nevertheless, to observe an unmistakable connection between the drumbeats (from the radio) and the reflex quiverings in the model’s lower extremities. This jerking threw him into a fit of joy.

  “The leg!” he cried, seizing B. Pupilov by the sleeve. “Photograph the leg! Close-up. La vibration de son mollet gauche est un grand signe.11 This leg will sweep away all the intrigues and tear off all the labels that have been hung on me. Oui, sans doute, someone who is not a specialist could be surprised at my reaction to the leg. But, comrades, all great things are manifest in small, and I must remind you that this model is a model of limited needs—speaking concretely, with only one need, and calling a spade a spade, just between us, without any obfuscation, it’s a model with alimentary needs only. That is why it has such limited spiritual needs. We assert, however, that only a variety of material needs could guarantee a variety in spiritual needs. I clarify for the press with an example in terms comprehensible to them. If, for instance, it had a strongly developed desire for the tape recorder—the Astra-Seven, worth a hundred and forty rubles—it would play that tape recorder; for you can understand there would be nothing else to do with it, if it could get it. And if it played it, then there would be music, and one would have to listen to it, or dance to it. And what, comrades, is listening to music, with or without dancing? It is the satisfaction of spiritual needs. Comprenez vous?”

  I had noticed for some time that the zombi behavior had undergone a substantial change. Whether something had gone wrong with it or whether it was normal, the periods of its relaxation had grown shorter and shorter, so that toward the end of Vibegallo’s speech, it no longer left the conveyor. Although it could have been that it became more and more difficult for it to move.

  “May I be permitted a question?” Eddie said politely. “How do you explain the cessation of the satiation paroxysms?”

  Vibegallo stopped talking and looked at the zombi. It was stuffing itself. He looked at Eddie.

  “I’ll answer you,” he said smugly. “The question, comrades, is a good one. I’d even say an intelligent question, comrades. We have before us a real model of perpetually increasing material needs. It would appear that the satiation paroxysms have ceased, but only to the superficial observer. In reality they have been dialectically transformed into a new quality. Comrades, they have spread to the very process of the satisfaction of needs. Now its not enough for the model to be well fed. Now its needs have grown, now it needs to eat all the time, now it has taught itself that chewing is also wonderful. Do you understand, comrade Amperian?”

  I looked at Eddie. Eddie was smiling politely. Next to him, arm in arm, stood the doubles of Feodor Simeonovich and Cristobal Joseevich. Their heads with widely spaced ears were turning slowly to and fro like airport radar antennas.

  “May I ask another question?” said Roman.

  “Please,” said Vibegallo, looking tiredly condescending.

  “Ambrosi Ambruosovitch,” said Roman. “And what will happen when he has consumed it all?”

  Vibegallo looked around angrily.

  “I request that everyone present here note this provocative question, which stinks of Malthusianism, neo-Malthusianism, pragmatism, existentialism, and a lack of faith, comrades, in the inexhaustible might of mankind. What are you trying to say with your question, comrade Oira-Oira? That in the future of our scientific organization there will come a time of crisis, of regression, when our consumers will not have enough consumer products? That’s not nice, comrade Oira-Oira! You didn’t think it through! But we cannot allow, comrades, that shadows should be cast, and labels hung on our work. And we will not permit that to happen, comrades.”

  He took out a handkerchief and wiped his beard. G. Perspicaciov, his face twisted in concentration, asked the next question.

  “I am not an expert, of course. But what is the future of this model? I understand that the experiment is proceeding successfully. But it is consuming most energetically.”

  Vibegallo smiled a bitter little smile.

  “There you are, comrade Oira-Oira,” he said. “That’s how unhealthy rumors are started. You asked your question without adequate thought. Right away a layman becomes incorrectly oriented. He does not consider the correct ideal You are not looking at the right ideal, comrade Perspicaciov.” He addressed the correspondent directly. “This model is already a passing stage. Here is the ideal that you should consider!” He walked up to the second autoclave and laid his red-haired hand on its polished side. His beard assumed an upward thrust “Here is our ideal!” he announced. “Or, expressing myself more precisely, here is the model of our common ideal. We have here the universal consumer who desires everything and, correspondingly, is capable of everything. He has in him all the needs that exist in our world. And he is capable of satisfying all of them. With the help of our science, of course. I am elucidating for the press. The universal consumer model, imprisoned in this autoclave—or as we say, here in the auto-locker—has unlimited desires. All of us, comrades, with due respect to us, are simply ciphers in comparison. Because it desires such things as we can
not even conceive of. And it won’t wait for a gift from nature. It will take from nature all that it needs for its complete happiness, which is its satiation. Magi-materialistic forces will extract for it all that it needs from the surrounding environment. The happiness of the model will be indescribable. It will not know hunger, nor thirst, nor toothache, nor personal problems. All its needs will be immediately satisfied upon their appearance.”

  “Excuse me,” said the polite Eddie. “And will its needs be material?”

  “Of course!” cried Vibegallo. “Spiritual needs will develop in parallel. I have already noted that the more material needs there are, the more variegated will the spiritual needs become. That will be a giant of the spirit and a super artist.”

  I surveyed those present. Many were flabbergasted. The correspondents wrote desperately fast. Some, as I noticed, constantly shifted their attention from the autoclave to the zombi, who ate without interruption, and back again. Stella, pressing her head against my shoulder, sobbed and whispered, “I am going to leave, I can’t stand it, I’m going…” I thought that I, too, was beginning to understand what Oira-Oira feared. I visualized a huge open mouth, into which, thrown by the force of magic, animals, people, cities, continents, planets, and suns were falling in an endless stream…

  B. Pupilov again addressed Vibegallo. “When will the universal model be demonstrated?”

  “The answer is,” said Vibegallo, “that the demonstration will take place here in my laboratory. As to time, the press will be notified further.”

  “Will that be in the next few days?”

  “There is an opinion that it will be in the next few hours. So the comrades of the press had best stay and wait.”

  At this point, the doubles of Feodor Simeonovich and Cristobal Joseevich turned as though on command, and left.

  Oira-Oira said, “Don’t you feel, Ambrosi Ambruosovitch, that carrying out such experiments in a building and in the center of a town is dangerous?”