Vladimir Savchenko: Self-discovery

“You were lucky. I can’t believe it! If you had been doing forty — five, I would be making a memorial stone out of the remains and writing on the license plate, Here lies Krivoshein, engineer and motorcyclist! “

Yes, but if I had been doing forty — five, I wouldn’t have crashed into him!

It’s interesting what circumstances come into play in a fatal accident. If I hadn’t stopped in the woods for a smoke and listened to the cuckoo (“Cuckoo, cuckoo, how many years will I live?” — it cuckooed at least fifty years), if I had taken two or three turns a little faster or slower — our paths wouldn’t have crossed. But this way — on a straight flat road in excellent visibility — I plowed into the only car in my path!

The only thing I had time to think was “Cuckoo, cuckoo, how long will I live?” as I flew over the bike.

I got up myself. The Moskvich’s side was bashed in. The frightened driver was wiping blood from his unshaven face. I had broken the windshield with my elbow. Served him right, the jerk! My poor bike was on the road. It was much shorter now. The headlight, front wheel, axle, and frame and tank were smashed, squashed, destroyed.

So I went from seventeen yards per second to zero in one yard. And my body experienced fifteen g’s. Ouch!

The human body is an excellent machine! In less than a tenth of a second my body had time to adjust to the best position for taking the crash: elbow and shoulder first. And Valery tried to prove that man had nothing on technology! No one’s proved that yet! If you translate the damage done to the motorcycle into human terms, it lost its head, broke its front extremities, chest, and spine. It was such a good bike; it loved speed.

Of course, my right shoulder and chest took more of a beating. It’s hard to lift my right arm. I guess I broke some ribs.

Well, it’s for the best. Now I’ll have something to repair in the liquid circuit of the computer — womb. And not external, but inside my body. In that sense, the Moskvich was very handy. All for science.

Policeman Gayevoy was sitting in the duty room, suffering from love and writing a letter on a complaint form. “Hello, Valya! This is Aleksandr Gayevoy writing to you. I don’t know if you remember me or not, but I can’t forget how you looked at me near the dance floor with the help of your black and beautiful eyes. The moon was big and concentric. Dear Valya! Come to T. Shevchenko Park tomorrow night. I’ll be on duty there until twenty — four hundred — “

Onisimov came in, his eyebrows furrowed into a strict look. Gayevoy jumped up, dropping his chair, and blushed.

“Has Kravets been taken care of?”

“Yes sir, comrade captain! He was brought in at nine — thirty in accordance with your orders. He’s in a cell.”

“Take me there.”

Victor Kravets was sitting in a small, high — ceilinged room on a bench, smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke into a sunbeam that came through the barred window. There was a three — day stubble on his cheeks. He squinted at the men as they entered, but didn’t turn his head.

“You should get up, like you’re supposed to,” Gayevoy said in reproach.

“I don’t consider myself a convict!”

“And you aren’t, comrade Victor Vitalyevich Kravets,” Onisimov said calmly. “You were detained for questioning. Now the situation is becoming clear, and I don’t feel it is necessary to keep you under guard any longer. We’ll call you if we need you. So, you’re free.”

Kravets stood up, giving the investigator a suspicious look. Onisimov’s thin lips jerked into a short smile.

“A high forehead, granite jaw, well — shaped nose. dark curls framed his handsome, round, melon — shaped head. Krivoshein the Original had very provincial ideas of male handsomeness. But, that’s understandable. (Kravets’s eyes bulged.) Where’s the motorcycle?”

“Wh — what motorcycle?”

“License plate number 21–11 DNA. Being repaired?”

“In… in the shed.”

“All right. By the way,” Onisimov’s eyes narrowed angrily, “you should have sent the telegram before the experiment. Before, not after!”

Kravets didn’t know whether he was alive or not.

“All right. We will return your documents to you in a little while,” the investigator continued in an official voice. “Good day, citizen Kravets. Don’t forget us. See him out, comrade Gayevoy.”

Matvei Apollonovich showed up at work with a headache after his difficult night. He was sitting at his desk, making out his plan for the day.

“1. Send the liquid for further analysis to see if there are any undissolved human tissues in it;

2. Inform the security organs (through Aleksei Ignatievich);

3. — “

“May I come in?” a voice asked softly, making Onisimov’s skin crawl. “Good morning.”

Krivoshein was in his doorway.

“Did the man on duty send me to the right place? You are the investigator Onisimov, who’s in charge of the incident in my lab? How do you do. May I?” He sat down, took out a handkerchief, and wiped his face. “It’s only morning, but the heat is unbearable!”

The investigator sat in stunned silence.

“Well, I’m Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein, head of the New Systems Laboratory at the Institute of Systemology,” the visitor explained. “I only found out today, you see… that you’re… that the police are interested in this sad affair, and I hurried right over. Naturally, I would have given you a thorough explanation yesterday or even the day before, but… [shrugs] it never even occurred to me that an unsuccessful experiment would lead to such a to — do, involving the police! I was resting in my apartment, rather unwell after the experiment. You see, comrade Onisimov… excuse me, what’s your name and patronymic?”

“Apollon Matvei… I mean, Matvei Apollonovich,” Onisimov muttered hoarsely and coughed to clear his throat.

“You see, Matvei Apollonovich, it was like this: in the process of the experiment I had to immerse myself in the tank with the biological informational medium. Unfortunately, the tank was unsteady and turned over. I fell with it, hitting my head on the floor, and lost consciousness. I’m afraid that the tank must have hit my assistant too — I remember he tried to hold it up at the last second. I came to under an oilcloth on the floor. I heard voices in the lab….” Krivoshein gave a charming smile. “You’ll admit, Matvei Apollonovich, that it would have been very embarrassing for me to stand up in my own laboratory in my birthday suit with a bashed — in head. And that liquid, it stings terribly, worse than soap suds! So I sneaked out from under the oilcloth and scurried into the shower room to wash up and change. I must admit that I don’t know how long I was in the shower; my head was spinning and my mind was fuzzy. I probably didn’t even know what I was doing. Anyway, when I came out there was no one in the lab. And I went home to rest up. That’s it in a nutshell. If you like, I can give you a written explanation, and we can end all this —

“I see.” Onisimov was gathering his wits about him gradually. “And what experiments were you doing in the laboratory?”

“You see… I’m researching the biochemsitry of higher combinations in a systemological aspect with the addition of polymorphous anthropologism,” Krivoshein explained blandly. “Or the systemology of higher forms in a biochemical aspect with the addition of anthropological polymorphism, if you will.”