Lavr Fedotovich Vuniukov, in complete agreement with the description, white, sleek, and strong, moved to his seat without looking at anyone. He sat down, set his large briefcase in front of himself, opened it with a flourish, and started arranging on the green baize all the objects necessary for a successful chairmanship: a blotter trimmed in alligator leather, a selection of pens in a calfskin holder, a pack of Herzegovina-Flor cigarettes, a lighter in the shape of the Arc de Triomphe, and a pair of prismatic opera glasses.
Rudolf Arkhipovich Khlebovvodov, shriveled and yellow, sat on Lavr Fedotovich’s left and immediately began whispering in his ear, letting his eyes roam aimlessly from corner to corner.
Redheaded and baggy Farfurkis did not sit at the table. Democratically, he seated himself on a wooden chair across from the commandant, opened a fat notebook with a tattered cover, and immediately made a notation.
The scientific consultant, Professor Vybegallo, whom we recognized without any description, looked us over indifferently, frowned, glanced up at the ceiling, as though trying to remember where he had seen us. He may have remembered, maybe not, but he sat at his table and prepared for his important duties. He began setting up The Small Soviet Encyclopedia, volume by volume, on his table.
“Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said and looked around with a gaze that penetrated walls. Everyone was ready: Khlebovvodov was whispering, Farfurkis made a second notation, the commandant, like a student making last-minute preparations, was hysterically leafing through his papers, and Vybegallo set up Volume Six. As for the representatives, that is, us, we apparently were of no significance. I looked at Eddie and quickly turned away. Eddie was close to total demoralization—Vybegallo’s appearance was the last straw.
“The evening session of the Troika is hereby declared opened,” Lavr Fedotovich said. “Next! Your report, please, Comrade Zubo.”
The commandant jumped up, and holding the open folder, began speaking in a high-pitched voice:
“Case 42. Surname: Mashkin. Name: Edelweiss. Patronymic: Zakharovich.”
“When did he suddenly become Mashkin?” Khlebovvodov demanded disdainfully. “Babkin, not Mashkin! Babkin, Edelweiss Zakharovich. I worked with him way back when in the Committee on Dairy Affairs. Eddie Babkin, a stout fellow, loved heavy cream. And, by the way, he’s no Edelweiss, either. He’s Eduard. Eduard Petrovich Babkin.”
Lavr Fedotovich slowly turned a stony face to him.
“Babkin?” he said. “I don’t remember. Continue, Comrade Zubo.”
“Patronymic: Zakharovich,” the commandant continued, his cheek twitching. “Year and place of birth: 1942. City of Smolensk. Nationality…”
“E-dul-weiss or E-dol-weiss?” asked Farfurkis.
“E-del-weiss,” said the commandant. “Nationality: Belorussian. Education: Incomplete secondary general, incomplete secondary technical. Knowledge of foreign languages: Russian, fluent, Ukrainian and Belorussian, with a dictionary. Place of occupation…”
Khlebovvodov suddenly smacked himself loudly on the forehead.
“Of course not!” he shouted. “He died!”
“Who died?” Lavr Fedotovich asked woodenly.
“That Babkin! I remember as if it happened yesterday—he died of a heart attack in 1956. He had become financial director of the All-Russian Society of Nature Experimenters and he died. So there must be some mistake here.”
Lavr Fedotovich took his opera glasses and studied the commandant, who had lost his faculty of speech.
“Does your report reflect the fact of his death?” he inquired.
“As God is my…” babbled the commandant. “What death? He’s alive, he’s in the waiting room.”
“Just a minute,” Farfurkis interrupted. “Allow me, Lavr Fedotovich? Comrade Zubo, who is waiting in the room outside? But be precise. Surname, name, and patronymic.”
“Babkin!” the commandant said in despair. “No, no, what am I saying? Not Babkin—Mashkin! Mashkin is waiting. Edelweiss Zakharovich.”
“I understand,” said Farfurkis. “And where is Babkin?”
“Babkin died,” said Khlebovvodov authoritatively. “I can tell you that for sure. In 1956. Of course, he did have a son. Pavel, I think. That means his name was Pavel Eduardovich. He runs a textile remnants store in Golitsyn, which is south of Moscow. He’s a good businessman, but I don’t think his name is Pavel after all.”
Farfurkis poured a glass of water and gave it to the commandant. In the gathering stillness, we could hear the commandant’s resonant gulps. Lavr Fedotovich kneaded a cigarette.
“No one is forgotten and nothing is overlooked. That is good. Comrade Farfurkis, I will ask you to enter into the minutes, in the verification section, that the Troika feels it would be valuable to take measures to find the son of Babkin, Eduard Petrovich, in order to determine his name. The people do not need nameless heroes. We do not have them.”
Farfurkis nodded and began writing rapidly in his notebook.
“Have you had enough water?” Lavr Fedotovich inquired, looking at the commandant through his opera glasses. “Then continue your report.”
“Place of occupation and profession at present time: Retired inventor,” the commandant read unsteadily. “Travel abroad: None. Brief description of the unexplained: A heuristic machine, that is, an electronic and mechanical apparatus that solves engineering, scientific, sociological, and other problems. Nearest relatives: Orphan, no brothers or sisters. Address of permanent residence: Novosibirsk, 23 Shchukinskaia Street, apartment 88. That’s all.”
“Any motions?” asked Lavr Fedotovich, lowering his heavy lids.
“I move we let him in,” said Khlebovvodov. “Why do I suggest this? Because what if he is Pavel?”
“Any other motions?” asked Lavr Fedotovich. He felt around the table for the button, could not find it, and addressed the commandant. “Let the case come in, Comrade Zubo.”
The commandant hurled himself at the door, stuck out his head, and immediately returned, backing all the way to his seat. Behind him, bent by the weight of a huge black case, came a wizened little old man in a long belted blouse and military jodhpurs with orange braid. On the way to the table, he tried several times to stop his forward motion and give a dignified bow, but the case’s powerful inertia dragged him ever forward. There might have been casualties if Eddie and I had not grabbed the little old man just inches away from the trembling Farfurkis. I recognized the old man—he had come to the institute many times, and to many other institutes, and once I had seen him in the reception room of the Deputy Minister of Heavy Machine-building, where he was first in line, patient, clean, and brimming with enthusiasm. He was a nice little old man, and harmless, but unfortunately he could think of himself only as an instrument of scientific and technological progress.
I took the heavy case and lugged his invention up on the demonstration table. Freed at last, the old man bowed and said in a quavering voice:
“My respects. Edelweiss Zakharovich Mashkin, inventor.”
“That’s not him,” Khlebovvodov said in a low voice. “That’s not him and it doesn’t even look like him. I guess it’s a completely different Babkin. Just someone with the same name, I guess.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed the little old man, smiling. “I’ve brought this to be judged by the public. Professor Vybegallo, here, God grant him health, recommended it. I’m ready to demonstrate it, if you like, because I sure have been overstaying my welcome in your Colony.”
Lavr Fedotovich, who was scrutinizing him attentively, laid down his opera glasses and cocked his head. The old man bustled around. He took the cover off the case, revealing a bulky, ancient typewriter, took a bundle of wiring from his pocket, stuck one end into the bowels of the machine, unwound the wiring, and plugged it in.
“There, if you please, you have the heuristic machine,” said the old man. “A precise electromechanical apparatus for answering any questions, specifically scientific and economic ones. How does it work? Being short of funds and
being held up by various amounts of red tape, I have not been able to make it fully automatic yet. The questions are posed orally, and I type them and enter them inside, bring them to its attention, so to speak. Its answers, again due to incomplete automation, are typed by me again. I’m a type of middleman here, hee hee! So, if it pleases you, let us begin.”
He moved up to the machine and switched it on with a grand gesture. A neon light went on in its bowels.
“Please,” repeated the old man.
“What’s that light in there?” Farfurkis asked curiously.
The old man immediately struck the keys, then quickly tore the paper from the roller, and raced up to Farfurkis. Farfurkis read it aloud.
“Question: What is that…hum…that lo…lofjt. Or is it pofit? What’s this lofjt?”
“That’s ‘light’,” said the old man, giggling and rubbing his hands together. “That’s code.” He grabbed the paper from Farfurkis and ran back to the typewriter. “That was the question,” he explained, putting the paper back in the roller. “And now let’s see what it answers.”
The members of the Troika watched with interest. Professor Vybegallo glowed with fatherly pride and with refined and flowing movements picked litter from his beard. Eddie had settled into an apathetic gloom. Meanwhile the old man typed away. He pulled out the paper again.
“Here’s the answer, if you please.”
Farfurkis read it.
“‘Insade, I have a neon…hum…a neonette.’ What’s a neonette?”
“Eine Sekunde!” the inventor cried, grabbed the paper, and scurried back to the typewriter.
The affair went on. The machine gave an illiterate explanation of a neon bulb, then answered Farfurkis by telling him it spelled “insade” according to the rules of grammar, and then:
Farfurkis: “What grammar?”
Machine: “Why our own Russian grmr.”
Khlebovvodov: “Do you know Eduard Petrovich Babkin?”
Machine: “No how.”
Lavr Fedotovich: “Harrrumph. What motions are there?”
Machine: “To acknowledge me as a scientific fact.”
The old man ran back and forth and typed with unbelievable speed. The commandant jumped up and down excitedly in his chair and kept giving us a thumbs-up sign. Eddie slowly regained his psychic balance.
Khlebovvodov (irritably): “I cannot work under these conditions. Why is he racing back and forth like a tincan in the wind?”
Machine: “Because of my eagerness.”
Khlebovvodov: “Will you get that paper away from me? Can’t you see that I am not asking you anything?”
Machine: “Yes, I can.”
The Troika finally understood that if they ever wanted to end that day’s meeting they would have to stop asking questions, even rhetorical ones. Silence reigned. The old man, who was quite worn out by then, perched on the edge of a chair, and panted, mopping himself with his handkerchief. Vybegallo looked around proudly.
“There is a motion,” said Farfurkis, carefully choosing his words. “Let the scientific consultant make an expert judgment and report on his decision.”
Lavr Fedotovich looked at Vybegallo and regally bowed his head. Vybegallo rose. Vybegallo smiled politely. Vybegallo pressed his right hand to his heart. Vybegallo spoke.
“C’est…” he said. “It’s not right, Lavr Fedotovich. Be it as it may, but j’ai recommended ce noble vieux. There will be talk, that this is nepotism, favoritism. And nevertheless this is a rare event and an obvious case, perfectly valuable, rationalization is called for. C’est clear from the experiment. I would not like to end a bright beginning, nip initiative in the bud. What would be better? It would be better if some other expert gave his opinion, someone impartial, it would be better. Here among the representatives from below I see Comrade Alexander Ivanovich Privalov (I shuddered). A comrade specializing in computers. And impartial. Let him. I feel that it would be of value.”
Lavr Fedotovich raised his opera glasses and examined each of us in turn. Eddie had come to life and was whispering: “Alex, you must! Give it to them! This is our chance!”
“There is a motion,” said Farfurkis, “to ask comrade representative from below to collaborate with the work of the Troika.”
Lavr Fedotovich put down his opera glasses and gave his consent. Now everyone looked at me. I, of course, would not have become involved in this affair at all if it had not been for the old man. Ce noble vieux was batting his reddened lids at me so pathetically and his whole appearance screamed that he would pray for me for the rest of his life. I couldn’t resist. I reluctantly rose and went over to the typewriter. The old man smiled at me. I looked over the apparatus.
“Well, all right. By heuristic programming we mean the attempt to imitate human thought processes in digital computer. Here we have a Remington typewriter, made in 1906, in fairly good condition. The type is prerevolutionary and also in good condition.” I caught the old man’s pleading look, sighed, and turned on the switch. “In short, the typing construction contains nothing new. Only the very old.”
“Insade!” the old man whispered. “Look insade, where there’s an analyzer and a thinker.”
“The analyzer,” I said. “There’s no analyzer here. There is a serial rectifier, also ancient. A plain neon bulb. A switch. A good switch, it’s new. There is also a cord, brand new. That, I guess, is that.”
“And your conclusion?” Farfurkis inquired in a lively tone.
Eddie was nodding at me approvingly, and I let him know that I would try.
“My conclusion,” I said. “The described Remington typewriter, in conjunction with a rectifier, neon bulb, switch, and cord does not represent anything unexplainable.”
“What about me?” the old man shouted.
Eddie showed me that it was time for a left hook, but I just couldn’t.
“Well, of course,” I mumbled. “This evinces a lot of work. (Eddie grabbed his hair.) I, of course, understand…the good intentions. (Eddie looked at me with contempt.) But really, the man tried his best, you can’t just…”
“Have fear of God,” Eddie said clearly.
“Why not? Let the man keep on working, if it interests him. I’m only saying that there is nothing inexplicable about this. But it’s actually quite clever.”
“Are there any questions for our scientific consultant pro tern?” asked Lavr Fedotovich.
Hearing an interrogative intonation, the old man made a dash for the machine, but I stopped him by grabbing him round the waist.
“That’s right,” said Khlebovvodov. “Hold on to him. It’s hard to work otherwise. This isn’t an evening of twenty questions, you know. Why don’t you unplug it for now, anyway? I don’t like it eavesdropping.”
I freed a hand and clicked off the switch. The light went out and old man quieted down.
“But I still have a question,” Khlebovvodov went on. “How does it answer?”
I looked at him flabbergasted. Eddie was himself again and was glaring at the Troika. Vybegallo was pleased. He pulled out a long twig from his beard and stuck it between his teeth.
“Rectorizers and switches,” said Khlebovvodov. “Comrade pro tem explained all that rather well. But he did not explain one thing: he did not explain the facts. And the incontrovertible fact is that when you ask a question, you get an answer. In written form. And even when you ask someone else a question, you get an answer. In written form. And you say, comrade pro tem, that there is nothing inexplicable here. The ends do not meet. We do not understand what science has to say on the subject.”
Science as embodied by me had lost its power of speech. Khlebovvodov had cut me, stabbed me in the back, killed and buried me. But Vybegallo reacted in time.
“C’est,” he said. “That’s what I said, a valuable beginning! There is an element of the unexplained, that’s why I recommended it. C’est,” he turned to the old man. “Mon cher, explain what is what to our comrades.”
The old man exploded.
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“The highest achievements of neutron megaloplasm!” he thundered. “The rotor of the field of divergence gradates along the back and there, insade, turns the matter of the question into spiritual electrical whirlwinds, from which the synecdoche of the answering arises…”
I was beginning to see spots before my eyes, bile was rising, and my teeth ached, and the damned noble vieux went on talking. His speech was smooth—it was a cleverly rehearsed and often repeated speech, in which every adjective, every intonation was quivering with an emotional charge. It was a true work of art. The old man was no inventor, but he was an artist, a genius of an orator, a worthy successor to Demosthenes, Cicero, and John Chrysostom. Reeling, I stepped to the side and leaned my forehead on the cool wall.
Then Eddie quietly clapped his hands, and the old man stopped. For a second I thought that Eddie had stopped time, because everyone was still, listening to a deep medieval silence that was draped like velvet in the room. Then Lavr Fedotovich pushed back his chair and rose.
“According to the regulations and all the rules, I should speak last,” he began. “But there are times when the regulations and rules do not apply, and they must be thrown out. I am speaking first because this is one of these times. I am speaking first because I can not wait in silence. I am speaking first because I do not expect nor will I allow any objections.”
But there could be no thought of an objection. The rank and file members of the Troika were so impressed by this unexpected flurry of oratory that they only exchanged glances.
“We are the guardians of science,” continued Lavr Fedotovich. “We are the portals to its temple, we are the unprejudiced filters that protect it from falsehood, from frivolity, from error. We guard the seeds of knowledge from attack by philistinism and false wisdom. And when we do this, we are not human, we do not know compassion, pity, or hypocrisy. We have but one measure: the truth. Truth distinct from good or evil, truth distinct from man and humanity, but only as long as good and evil and man and mankind exist. If there is no humanity—who needs truth? If no one is seeking knowledge, that means there is no humanity, and there is no need for truth! If there are answers to all the questions, that means there is no need to seek knowledge, that means there is no humanity, and then what need is there for truth? When the poet said: ‘And there are no answers to the questions’ he described the most horrible condition of human society—its final state.