Arkady Strugatsky: Definitely Maybe

“Just sign here,” the shabby man insisted, pointing with his black nail. “Where the X is.”

Malianov took the man’s pencil stub and signed.

“Thanks,” he said, returning the pencil. “Thanks a lot,” he repeated, squeezing through the narrow foyer with the delivery man. I should give him something, but I don’t have any change. “Thank you very much. So long!” he called to the back of the tight jacket, viciously pushing back Kaliam with his leg. The cat was trying to get outside to lick the cement floor of the landing.

Then Malianov closed the door and stood in the dusky light. His head was muddled.

“Strange,” he said aloud, and went back to the kitchen.

Kaliam was rubbing his head against the box. Malianov lifted the cover and saw tops of bottles, packages, bags, and cans. The copy of the receipt was on the table. So. The carbon was smeared, as usual, but he could make out the handwriting. Hero Street… hmm… everything seemed to be in order. Purchaser: I. E. Malianova. That was a nice hello! He looked at the total again. Mind-boggling! He turned the receipt over. Nothing interesting on the other side. A squashed mosquito. What was the matter with Irina? Had she gone completely bananas? We’re in debt for five hundred rubles. Wait, maybe she said something about this before she left? He tried to remember that day, the open suitcases, the mounds of clothes strewn all over the house, Irina half-dressed and wielding her iron. Don’t forget to feed Kaliam, bring him some grass, the spiky kind; don’t forget the rent; if my boss calls, give him my address. That seemed to be it. She had said something else, but Bobchik had run in with his machine gun. Oh yes! Take the sheets to the laundry. I don’t understand a damn thing!

Malianov gingerly pulled a bottle out of the box. Cognac. At least fifteen rubles! Is it my birthday or something? When did Irina leave? Thursday, Wednesday, Tuesday. He bent back his fingers. It was ten days today that she left. That means she had placed the order ahead of time. Borrowed the money from somebody again and ordered it. A surprise. Five hundred in debt, you see, and she wants to give me a surprise! At least one thing was settled: he wouldn’t have to go to the store. The rest was a fog as far as he was concerned. Birthday? No. Wedding anniversary? Didn’t think so. No, definitely not. Bobchik’s birthday? No, that’s in the winter.

He counted the bottles. Ten of them. Who did she think would drink it all? I couldn’t handle that much in a year! Vecherovsky hardly drinks either, and she can’t stand Val Weingarten.

Kaliam began howling terribly. He sensed something in the box.

Excerpt 2…. some salmon in its own juices and a piece of ham with the stale crust of bread. Then he took on the dirty dishes. It was perfectly clear that a dirty kitchen was particularly offensive with such luxury in the refrigerator. The phone rang twice during this time, but Malianov merely set his jaw more firmly. I won’t answer, and that’s it. The hell with all of them with their Intourist and depots. The frying pan will also have to be cleaned, no getting around it. The pan will be needed for goals higher than some crummy omelet. Now, what’s the crux here? If the integral is really zero, then all that remains on the right side are the first and second derivatives. I don’t quite understand the physics of it, but it doesn’t matter, it sure makes terriffic bubbles. Yes, that’s what I’ll call them: bubbles. No, “cavities” is probably better. The Malianov cavities. “M cavities.” Hmmm.

He put the dishes away and looked into Kaliam’s pan. It was still too hot. Poor Kaliam. He’ll have to wait. Poor little Kaliam will have to wait and suffer until it cools off.

He was wiping his hand when he was struck by an idea, just like yesterday. And just like yesterday, he didn’t believe it at first.

“Wait a minute, wait just one minute,” he muttered feverishly, while his legs carried him down the hallway with the cool linoleum that stuck to his heels, through the thick yellow heat, to his desk and pen. Hell, where was it? Out of ink. There was a pencil around here somewhere. And meanwhile the secondary consideration, no, the primary, fundamental consideration was Hartwig’s function… and it was as though the entire right part had disappeared. The cavities became axially symmetric—and the old integral wasn’t zero! That is, it was so much not zero, the little integral, that the value was significantly positive. But what a picture it makes! Why didn’t I figure this out long ago? It’s all right, Malianov, relax, brother, you’re not the only one. Old Academician whatsizname didn’t figure it out either. In the yellow, slightly curved space, the axially symmetric cavities turned slowly like gigantic bubbles. Matter flowed around them, trying to seep through, but it couldn’t. The matter compressed itself on the boundaries to such incredible densities that the bubbles began to glow. God knows what happens next—but we’ll figure it out. First, we’ll deal with the fiber structure. Then with Ragozinsky’s arcs. And then with planetary nebulae. And what did you think, my friends? That these were expanding, thrown-off shells? Some shells! Just the opposite!

The damn phone rang again. Malianov roared in anger but went on writing. He should turn it off completely. There was a switch for that… He threw himself down on the sofa and picked up the receiver.

“Yes!”

“Dmitri?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“You don’t recognize me, you cur?” It was Weingarten.

“Oh, it’s you, Val. What do you want?”

Weingarten hesitated.

“Why don’t you answer your phone?”

“I’m working,” Malianov said angrily. He was being very unfriendly. He wanted to get back to his table and see the rest of the picture with the bubbles.

“Working,” Weingarten said. “Building your immortal edifice, I guess.”

“What, did you want to drop by?”

“Drop by? No, not really.”

Malianov lost his temper completely.

“Then what do you want?”

“Listen, pal… What are you working on now?”

“I’m working. I told you.”

“No… I mean, what are you working on?”

Malianov was flabbergasted. He had known Val Weingarten for twenty-five years, and Weingarten had never expressed an iota of interest in Malianov’s work. Weingarten had never been interested in anything but Weingarten himself with the exception of two mysterious objects: the 1934 twopenny and the “consul’s half-ruble,” which was not a half-ruble at all but some special postage stamp. The bum has nothing to do, Malianov decided. Just killing time. Or maybe he needs a roof over his head, and he’s just building up to the question?

“What am I working on?” he asked with gleeful malice. “I can tell you in great detail if you like. You’ll be fascinated by it all, I’m sure, being a biologist and all. Yesterday morning, I finally broke through. It turns out that in the most general assumptions regarding the potential function, my equations of motion have one more integral besides the integral of energy and the integrals of momenta. It’s sort of a generalization of a limited three-field problem. If the equations of motion are given in vector form and then the Hartwig transformation is applied, then the integration is performed for the entire volume, and the whole problem is reduced to integro-differential equations of the Kolmogorov-Feller type.”

To his vast amazement, Weingarten was not interrupting him. For a second, Malianov thought that they had been disconnected.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, very attentively.”

“Perhaps you even understand what I’m saying?”

“I’m getting some of it,” Weingarten said heartily. Malianov suddenly realized how strange his voice was. He was frightened by it.