Self-discovery

Can I base a judgement on that? Yes, I can. I'm not so bad at judging people. He was an active and creative person. You recognize people like that by their questions and by their answers. You can see the constant thought flow — not everyone can see it, but I'm the same way; I can recognize it. A man eats, goes to work, greets friends, goes to the movies, argues with his co — workers, lends money, tans at the beach — he does it all wholeheartedly — and yet all the time he's thinking. On one subject. The idea has no relation to his actions or daily cares, but there is nothing that will distract him from that idea. It's the most important part of him: new things are born from it. And Krivoshein was like that. And it's too bad that's in the past tense — life loses something very necessary with the death of a man like that. And you feel even more alone…. Well, enough, what am I going on about?” Arkady Arkadievich looked at the time. “I must sleep.”

Harry Haritonovich Hilobok couldn't fall asleep that night either. He kept looking at the lighted window across the way in Krivoshein's apartment and tried to guess who was that in there. Lena Kolomiets left rapidly after ten (Harry Haritonvich recognized her figure and walk, and thought: “I should get to know her better. There's a lot to her”), but the light stayed on. Hilobok turned out his lights, and seated himself at the window with a pair of binoculars, but the angle was wrong — he could only see part of the book shelf and the Olympic — ring logo on the wall. “Did she forget to put out the light? Or is there someone else in there? Should I call the police? Ah, the hell with them. Let them figure it out.” Harry Haritonovich yawned deliciously. “Maybe it's the police in there investigating….”

He went back into his room and lit the night — light, a naked woman made out of fake marble with a light bulb inside. The soft light fell on the bearskin rug on the floor, the walls covered with blue wallpaper with golden storks, the polished grain of the desk, the bookshelves, the closet, the television set, the quilted pink couch, the dark red carpet with a scene of ancient feasting — everything was meant to be conducive to sensuousness. Harry Haritonovich undressed and went to look at himself in the mirror. He liked his face: the straight large nose; the smooth, but not fat, cheeks; the dark mustache — there was something of Guy de Maupassant about him. Very recently he had been trying on his doctor — of — technical — sciences look. “Why did he have to do that, that Krivoshein?” Harry Haritonovich felt his heart beating madly. “What had I ever done to him? I even voted for his project and helped his relative get a job at the lab. He doesn't have a dissertation and he envies the rest! Or was it because I didn't fill his request for the SES — 2? Well, it doesn't matter — there is no more Krivoshein. He's gone. That's the way it is. The winner in life is gone. That's the way it is. The winner in life is the one who outlives his adversary.”

Hilobok was pleased with the humor of his thought and wanted to remember it. It should be noted that Harry Haritonovich was not as stupid as one might assume from his behavior. It's just that he based his formula for success on the following: they expect less from a fool. No one ever expected great ideas or knowledge from him; thus on those rare occasions when he would display some knowledge or the tiniest idea, it came as such a pleasant surprise that his colleagues would think: “We underestimate Harry Haritonovich,” and try to compensate for that evaluation in their disposition toward him. And that's how his articles got into the anthology Questions of Systemology — the editors, naturally expecting nothing very good, were bowled over by the few grains of reason in them. Harry Haritonovich turned in work to people who were already demoralized by his talk and behavior. But something went wrong with his dissertation… but, never mind, he would get his!

Harry Haritonovich was lulled by pleasant thoughts and rain — bowlike hopes. He was sleeping soundly and without dreams, the way they must have slept in the Stone Age.

Officer Gayevoy was sleeping and smiling, just returned from his night shift.

After a good cry about Krivoshein and herself, Lena fell asleep.

But not everyone was asleep. The police guard Golovorezov was fighting off sleepiness at his post watching the New Systems Lab; he was sitting on the steps of the lodge, smoking, and looking at the stars over the trees. Something rustled in the grass not far away. He shined his flashlight: a red — eyed albino rabbit looked at him from the bushes. The guard shooed him away. Golovorezov had no idea just what kind of a rabbit it was.

Victor Kravets tossed and turned on the hard cot under a cloth blanket that smelled of disinfectant in the solitary confinement cell of the prison. He was in that state of nervous agitation when sleep is impossible.