Self-discovery

The academician took a step closer. It was a young man, handsome, very pale, with chestnut hair. “No, that's not Krivoshein, but who is it? I've seen him somewhere….” An orderly got the shot ready. Azarov took a deep breath and almost choked. The room was filled with the acrid odors of acid solutions, burned insulation, and some other sharp smell — the vague, heavy smells of disasters. The floor was covered with a thick liquid through which the doctor and orderlies kept walking.

A thin man in a blue suit entered the room in an official manner. Everything about him but his suit was bland and inexpressive: gray hair with a side part, small gray eyes unexpectedly close together on a bony face with high cheekbones, and taut, poorly shaved cheeks. He nodded drily to Azarov, who returned an equally formal bow. There was no need for introductions, since it had been Investigator Onisimov who had handled the case of lab assistant Gorshkov's radiation death last February.

“Let's begin by identifying the body,” the detective said, and Arkady Arkadievich's heart skipped a beat. “Would you please come here.”

Azarov followed him to the corner by the door to something covered with a gray oilcloth. It was full of angular bumps, and yellow, bony toes stuck out from the ends.

“The work ID found in the clothing we saw in the laboratory gives the name of Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein,” the detective said in an official voice, bending back the oilcloth. “Do you corroborate the identification?”

Life had not often placed Arkady Arkadievich face to face with death. He felt faint and unbuttoned his collar. The raised oilcloth revealed sticky, short hair, bulging eyes, sunken cheeks, a mouth drooping at the corners, then a prominent Adam's apple on a sinewy neck, thin collarbones…. “He's lost so much weight!” he thought. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” the detective said and lowered the cloth. So, it was Krivoshein. They had seen each other the day before yesterday near the old building, walked past each other, and bowed formally as usual. Then, he had been a heavyset, living man, albeit an unpleasant one. And now… it was as though life had sucked out all his vital juices, dried out his flesh, leaving only the bones covered with gray skin. “Probably Krivoshein understood what his role was to be in establishing this lab,” Azarov suddenly thought for no reason. The detective left.

“Oh, dear. Tsk, tsk, tsk….” Arkady Arkadievich heard. He turned. The scientific secretary Harry Haritonovich Hilobok was in the doorway. His sleek face was still puffy from sleep. Harry Haritonovich was considered attractive: a good physique in a light suit, a well — shaped head, intriguing gray at the temples, dark eyes, and a good straight nose, set off by a dark mustache. His appearance was somewhat marred by the harsh lines at the corners of his mouth, the kind caused by constant forced smiling, and a weakish chin. The assistant professor's dark eyes shone with timid curiosity.

“Good morning, Arkady Arkadievich! What's happened here at Krivoshein's now? I was just walking by and wondered why these vehicles were outside the lab? So I came in. By the way, have you noticed that his digital printing machines are just lounging in the halls here, Arkady Arkadievich? In the middle of all sorts of garbage. And Valentin Vasilyevich worked so hard at getting them, writing endless streams of memos. I mean, he could give them to somebody else if he has no use for them himself.” Harry Haritonovich sighed deeply and looked over to the right. “Must be another student! Tsk, tsk, dear, dear! Another student, there's a plague on them here….” He noticed that the detective had returned. “Oh, good day, Apollon Matveevich! Seeing us once more, eh?”

“Matvei Apollonovich,” Onisimov corrected.

He opened a yellow box marked “Material Evidence” with a black stencil, took out a test tube, and crouched over the puddle.

“I mean Matvei Apollonovich — please forgive me. I do remember you very well from last time. I just scrambled name and patronymic a little. Matvei Apollonovich, of course. How could I? We talked about you for a long time after, how organized and efficient you were, and everything….” Hilobok went on and on.

“Comrade Director, what was the nature of the work done in this laboratory?” the detective interrupted, catching some liquid in the test tube.

“Research on self — organizing electronic systems with an integral input of information,” the academician replied. “Anyway, that was how Valentin Vasilyevich had formulated his thesis at the beginning of the year.”

“I see.” Onisimov got up, sniffed the liquid, wiped the tube clean with a piece of cotton, and put it away. “Was the use of poisonous chemicals ruled out?”

“I don't know. I would think that nothing was forbidden. Research is done by the researcher as he best sees fit.”