Chapter 3

They kept on repairing the Aldan all night. When I went to Electronics next morning, the sleepy and annoyed engineers were sitting on the floor berating Cristobal Joseevich in uninspired invective. They were calling him a Scythian, barbarian, and Hun, who had gained access to computers. Their despair was so complete that for a while they actually listened to my advice and attempted to follow it. But then the chief arrived, a certain Savaof Baalovich Uni, and I was immediately displaced from the machine. Moving out of the way, I sat down at my desk and observed how Savaof Baalovich was divining the essence of the damage.

He was very old, but strong and sinewy, sunburned with a shiny bald head and closely shaved cheeks, dressed in a blinding white tussah suit. This man was regarded with great reverence by everyone. I saw for myself once how he was reading Modest Matveevich a lecture in a soft voice, and the menacing Modest Matveevich was bowing and repeating, “I understand. My fault. It won’t happen again….” A kind of monstrous energy emanated from Savaof Baalovich. It was noted that in his presence watches gained time, and the tracks of elementary particles, curved by a magnetic field, would straighten out. All the same, he was not a magus. At least, not a practicing magus. He didn’t go through walls, never transgressed anyone, and never created his own doubles, though he worked an inordinate lot. He was the head of the Technical Maintenance Department, knew all the technology in the Institute to the finest detail, and was a consultant to the Kitezhgrad magitechnic plant. In addition, he was involved in the most unexpected matters far removed from his profession.

I learned about his past only recently. In olden times, S.B. Uni was the leading magus on Earth. Cristobal Junta and Gian Giacomo were pupils of his students. Evil was exorcised with his name. Jinn bottles were sealed with his name. King Solomon wrote him letters of passionate admiration and erected temples in his honor. He seemed to be all-powerful. And then, sometime in the middle of the sixteenth century, he did become all-powerful. Having achieved a numerical solution of the integro-differential Equation of Perfection, which was postulated by some titan before the Ice Age, he acquired the ability to perform any miracle. Each of the magi had his own limits. Some were unable to rid themselves of the growth on their ears. Others were in possession of the generalized Lomonosov-Lavoisier law, but were powerless before the second law of thermodynamics. Still others — and they were very few — could stop time, but only in Riemann space and only for a short period. Savaof Baalovich was omnipotent He could do anything. And he could do nothing. Because the limiting boundary of the Equation of Perfection proved to be the condition that the miracle must not harm anyone. Not one intelligent being. On Earth or anywhere in any other part of the universe. But no one could envisage such a miracle, not even Savaof Baalovich himself. And so, S.B. Uni renounced forever the practice of magic and became the Head of the Department of Technical Maintenance at SRITS….

With his arrival, the affairs of the engineers quickly got on the mend. Their movements became purposeful and their nasty comments withered away. I got out the folder with my current assignments and was about to go to work, when Stellotchka, that very sweet, gray-eyed, and retrousse-nosed undergraduate witch in Vibegallo’s lab, came in and invited me to join her in the composition of the Institute gazette.

Stella and I were on the editorial staff, and we wrote satirical verses, fables, and captions for the illustrations. In addition to all this, I also drew clever pictures of a mailbox for notices, with winged letters converging on it from all sides. In general, the gazette artist was my namesake, Alexander Ivanovich Drozd, cinephotographer, who had successfully infiltrated the Institute. He was also our specialist on headlines. The editor-in-chief was Roman Oira-Oira, and Volodia Pochkin was his assistant.

“Sasha,” said Stellotchka, gazing at me out of her honest gray eyes. “Let’s go.”

“Where to?” I said. I knew where.

“Make up the issue.”

“Why?”

“Roman is asking for it, very insistently, because Cerberus is complaining. He says there are only two days left and there’s nothing ready.”

Cerberus Curovich Demin, comrade Personnel Director, was the curator of our paper and its chief expeditor and censor.

“Listen,” I said. “Let’s do it tomorrow, OK?”

“I can’t, tomorrow,” said Stellotchka. “Tomorrow I’m flying to Sukhumi, to tape baboons. Vibegallo says that we should make records of the leader, as the most responsible of the baboons…. He himself is afraid to go near the leader because he is jealous of him. What do you say, Sasha? Let’s go.”

I sighed, put away my worksheets, and followed Stellotchka, since I couldn’t compose verse alone. I needed Stellotchka. She always suggested the first line and the basic idea and, in my view, that was the main thing in poetry.

“Where are we going to work?” I asked on the way. “Over at the local committee room?”

“That’s taken, for putting Alfred on the carpet. On account of his tea. As for us, Roman has made room in his lab.”

“So what do we write about this time? About the steam-baths again?”

“About the steambaths, too. About that, about Bald Mountain, and, also, we have to roast Homa Brutus.”

“Homa Brutus — how badly you treat us.”

“Et tu, Brutus,” said Stella.

“That’s a thought,” I said. “I’ll have to work on that.”

On the table in Roman’s laboratory the paper was laid out — a huge, virginally clean sheet of drafting paper. Reclining next to it, among the gouache containers, atomizers, and notes, was our artist and cinephotographer Alexander Drozd, a cigarette hanging from his lip. As usual, his cute shirt was open, displaying a hairy potbelly through the crack.

“Greetings,” he said.

“Hello,” I said.

There was loud music — Sanya was exercising his portable receiver.

“What have you here?” I said, collecting the notes. There wasn’t much. There was the lead article, “The Coming Holiday.” There was the item from Cerberus Curovich, “Results of the Investigation of the Status of Conformance to Management Directives Regarding Work Discipline for the Period from the End of the First to the Start of the Second Quarter.” There was a Professor Vibegallo article, “Our Duty — Is the Duty to Subsidiary Rural and City Economics.” There was an article by Volodia Pochkin, “All-Union Conference on Electronic. Thaumaturgy.” There was the note from some house ghost, “When Will the Steam Pipes in the Fourth Floor Be Blown Clear?” There was the article of the Chairman of the Mess Committee, “Neither Fish Nor Fowl” — six typewritten pages with a single break. It began with the words, “Phosphorus is as necessary to man as air.” There was a short piece by Roman on the work of the Unapproachable Problems Department. For the section titled “Our Veterans,” there was an article by Cristobal Junta, “From Seville to Granada in 1547.” There were several other small contributions in which were criticized: the absence of an adequate orderliness in the account of the credit union; the presence of some slovenliness in the organization of the volunteer fire department; the permissive attitute toward gambling in the vivarium. There were several caricatures. One showed a draggle-tailed Homa Brutus with a purple nose. Another was ridiculing the steam-baths — it showed a blue, naked man congealing under an icicle shower.

“What a bore!” I said. “What do you say we don’t need verses?”

“We do need them,” said Stellotchka with a sigh. “I’ve been making layouts this way and that, and there’s always some empty space.”

“Let Sanya draw something. Some sort of wheat sheaf, or blooming pansies. How about it, Sanya?”

“Go on and get to work,” said Drozd. “I have to draw the banner.”

“Big deal,” I said. “Three whole words!”

“Against a background of a starry night,” Drozd said weightily. “Also a rocket. And headlines for the articles, too. And I haven’t had my dinner yet. Or breakfast.”

“Then go eat,” I said, irritated.

“I bought a tape recorder. At the commission shop. Here you are fooling around when you’d do better to make me a sandwich or two. With butter and jam. A dozen would be good!”

I took out a ruble and showed it to him from a distance.

“When you finish the banner I’ll give it to you.”

“For keeps?” said Sanya, animated.

“No, for a loan.”

“Well, that’s the same thing,” he said. “Consider the possibility that I’m going to die right now. I’ve already started to have spasms. Also my extremities are growing cold.”

“That’s a pack of lies,” said Stella. “Let’s sit down over at that table, Sasha, and finish those verses right now.”

We sat down at the separate table and spread out the caricatures before us. For some time we sat and looked at each other in the hope that an inspiration would come forth.

“That Brutus is a brute — beware, he’ll swipe your shoes to boot.”

“Swipe?” I said. “Did he steal something?”

“No,” said Stella. “He had a fight and was a hooligan. I just said that for the rhyme.”

We waited. Nothing more came into our heads. “Let’s approach this logically. There is this Homa Brutus. He drank himself stupid. He fought. What else did he do?”

“He pestered the girls,” said Stella. “Broke some glass.”

“All right,” I said. “What else?”

“He expressed himself”

“That’s strange,” Sanya Drozd piped up. “I worked in the projection booth with this Brutus. He was a regular guy. Normal”

“And?” I said.

“And, that’s all.”

“Can you come up with a rhyme for Brutus or maybe Brute?”

“Knout.”

“Sounds like we had that with the boot.”

“A knout is different. They whip you with one of those.”

Stella said, with expression,

“Comrade, before you is a Brute.

Pick up your trusty knout

And whack him head to foot.”

“No good,” said Drozd. “That would be propaganda for physical punishment.”

“Kaput,” I said.

“Behold, my friend, there is that Brute,” said Stella,

“His words so rough and tough

That it’s enough

To make the flies kaput.”

“It’s your poetry that’ll do the flies in,” said Drozd.

“Have you lettered the banner?” I asked.

“No,” Drozd said coquettishly.

“Then work on it.”

“They shame our proud Institute,” said Stella, “such drunkards as our Brutus Brute.”

“That’s good,” I said. “We’ll use that for the finale. Write it down. It will be a moral of freshness and originality.”

“What’s original about that?” said the simple Drozd.

I didn’t bother responding to him.

“Now we have to describe,” I said, “how he engaged in hooliganism. Let’s say… “The disgraceful buffoon!.

Drunk like a baboon!. . With language vile did ears defile!… Was born a man, became a holligan.’“

“Awful,” Stella said in disgust.

I propped up my head on my hands and continued to stare at the caricature. Drozd, his tail stuck up in the air, was stroking the paper with his paintbrush. His legs, encased in maximally tight jeans, were bowed out in a reverse curve. I was struck with an idea.

“Knees to the rear!” I said. “The popular song.”

“’The little grasshopper sat, knees to the rear,’“ said Stella.

“Precisely,” said Drozd, without turning around. “I know it, too. “’All the guests were scattering, knees to the rear,’ “ he sang.

“Wait, wail,” I said. I felt inspired. “ “He fights and curses and here is the result:!. . To the prison cell, knees to the rear.’“

“That’s not bad,” said Stella.

“You follow?” I said. “Another pair of verses and all with the refrain “knees to the rear.’ “Drunk beyond all reason… the girls he’s a-teasing….’ Something along these lines.”

“’He drank in desperation!… Without any ration,’“ said Stella. “’A stranger’s door he crashes!… And nothing him abashes!… Ignoring law and fear!… knees to the rear. “

“Brilliant,” I said. “Write it down! He did break in?”

“Indeed, indeed.”

“Excellent!” I said. “Now another verse.”

“’He chased a girl!… Knees to the rear.’ We need the first line.”

“Ambition, ammunition,” I said. “Police, just-ice.”

“’And he has this charming way!…’“ said Stella, “’Not to wash or shave each day.’“

“That’s him,” added Drozd. “It’s a fact. You have achieved an artistic truth. He hasn’t shaved or bathed since the day he was born.”

“Maybe we can think up another line or two,” offered Stella. “Reprobate… regenerate… automate..

“Ingrate,” I said. “Berate.”

“Mate,” said Drozd. “Checkmate, of course.”

Again we were silent for a good long time, looking at each other numbly and moving our lips soundlessly. Drozd kept tapping on the rim of the jar with his brush.

“’A pirate’s fun he has, inspiring naught but fear!.’“ I said. “ “Chasing a poor lass, knees to the rear.’ “I don’t know about the pirate bit,” said Stella. “Then — something like… defying law and fear..

“We already had that,” said Stella.

“Where…? Ah, yes, true enough.”

“ “His tiger’s stripes appear,’ “ said Drozd.

Here there was a soft scratching and we turned to see what it was. The door to Janus Poluektovich’s laboratory was opening slowly.

“Look at that!” exclaimed Drozd in amazement, freezing into a pose, brush in hand.

A small green parrot with a bright red crest crawled into the crack.

“What a dear little parrot,” exclaimed Drozd. “Here, parrot.” He made chicken-calling noises, and worked his fingers as though he were crumbling bread. The parrot regarded him out of a single eye. Then it opened its black beak, which was as hooked as Roman’s, and cried out hoarsely, “Reactor! Reactor! Courage!”

“Isn’t he nice!” exclaimed Stella. “Sanya, catch him..

Drozd started toward the parrot, and then stopped. “He probably bites,” he said, looking reluctant. “Look at that beak.”

The parrot pushed off the floor and flapped its wings and flew, somehow ineptly, about the room. I watched it in astonishment. It looked very much like that other one of yesterday. An identical twin. Wall-to-wall parrots, I thought.

Drozd was parrying with his brush. “He’ll peck me yet, for all I know,” he said.

The parrot lighted on the laboratory balance beam, twitched a bit to attain equilibrium, and cried distinctly, “Proxima Centauri! R-Rubidium! R-Rubidium!”

Having delivered itself, it puffed out its feathers, drew in its head, and covered its eyes with a membrane. It seemed to be shivering. Stella quickly created a piece of bread with jam, pinched off the crust, and brought it under its beak. The parrot did not react. It was shaking as in a fever and the scale pans were vibrating rapidly, clinking against the base.

“I think he’s sick,” said Drozd. He took the bread absentmindedly from Stella’s hand and started to eat it.

“Friends,” I said. “has anybody ever seen a parrot at the Institute before?”

Stella shook her head; Drozd shrugged his shoulders.

“There’ve been just too many of them lately,” I said. “And yesterday, too..

“Janus is probably experimenting with them,” said Stella. “Antigravitation or something along those lines.

The door to the hall opened and Roman Oira-Oira, Victor Korneev, Eddie Amperian, and Volodia Pochkin came crowding in. The room became noisy. Korneev, well rested and very active, started to leaf through the articles, loudly ridiculing their style. The powerful Volodia Pochkin, acting as deputy editor in his main police function, seized Drozd by his plump nape, bent him over, and stuck his nose into the paper.

“Where is the banner? The banner! Where is it, Mr. Drozdillo?”

Roman demanded finished verses from us. Eddie, not having any direct connection with the paper, went to the cabinet and began to move its apparatus contents with a maximum of crashings.

Suddenly the parrot yelled out, “Oversanl Oversan!” — and thereupon ensued a stunned silence.

Roman stared at the parrot. His face depicted his traditional expression as though he were just struck with an astounding idea.

Volodia Pochkin let go of Drozd and said, “How about that — a parrot.” The rude Korneev instantly reached for the bird to grasp it around the body, but it broke free, and Korneev grabbed it by the tail.

“Let go, Victor!” Stella cried angrily. “What kind of behavior is that — torturing animals?”

The parrot screeched louder. Everyone crowded around. Korneev was holding it as though it were a pigeon, Stella was stroking its crest, while Drozd was tenderly fingering the feathers in its tail. Roman looked at me.

“Curious,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

“How did it get here, Sasha?” Eddie asked politely.

I jerked my head in the direction of Janus’s laboratory.

“What would Janus want with a parrot?” inquired Eddie.

“Are you asking me?” I said.

“No, it’s a rhetorical question,” Eddie said seriously.

“Why does he need two parrots?” I said.

“Or three,” Roman added softly.

Korneev turned toward us.

“Where is the other?” he asked, looking around.

The parrot flopped weakly in his hand, trying to pinch his finger.

“Why don’t you let it go?” I said. “You can see it’s not well.”

Korneev pushed Drozd away, and put the bird back on the scales. The parrot ruffled its feathers and spread its wings.

“Let him be,” said Roman. “We’ll figure it out later. Where’s the verse?”

Stella quickly rattled off everything we had had time to compose. Roman scratched his chin, Volodia Pochkin neighed unnaturally, and Korneev delivered a command.

“To the firing squad. With heavy-caliber machine guns. Are you going to learn to write poetry sometime?”

“You can write it yourself,” I said angrily.

“Poetry, I cannot write,” said Korneev. “I am not a Pushkin by nature. I am a Belinsky.”

“By nature you are a simulacrum,” said Stella.

“I beg your pardon!” insisted Victor. “I demand that the paper have a department of literary criticism. I desire to write critical articles. I shall shatter you all! I shall remind you again of your creation about the dachas.”

“Which?” asked Eddie.

Korneev quoted instantly:

“Did you have that? Admit it!”

“So what!” I said. “Pushkin had his unfortunate verse, too. They don’t even publish them in full in school books.”

“I know that,” said Drozd.

Roman turned toward him. “Are we going to have a banner today or not?”

“We shall!” said Drozd. “I have drawn the letter “F’ already.”

“What “F’? Where’s there an “F’?”

‘Why — didn’t we need it?”

“I will expire on the spot,” said Roman. “The paper is called, “To Progressive Thaumaturgy.’ Show me just one “F’ in that!”

Drozd goggled at the wall, moving his lips now and then. “How can that be?” he said finally. “Where did I get the letter “F’? But there was a letter “F’!”

Roman exploded and ordered Pochkin to chase us all back to our places. Stella and I were placed under Korneev’s command. Drozd was feverishly changing his letter “F” into a stylized letter “T.” Eddie Amperian attempted to fade out with the psychoelectrometer, but was seized, bound, and assigned to repair the airbrush needed for the creation of the starry sky. Then came Pochkin’s turn. Roman ordered him to type all the articles with concurrent editorial and style correction. Roman himself undertook to stroll about the laboratory, looking over everyone’s shoulder in turn.

The work boiled along for a while. We had time to compose and reject a series of variants on the steambath theme: “Instead of steamy bowers, we have ice cold showers”; “If you truly hunger to ablute, cold for hot is not a substitute”; “Our two hundred sages, each and all, desire hot water in their shower stall”; and so forth and so on.

Korneev continued his vile and scurrilous attacks like a true literary critic. “Learn from Pushkin!” he pounded into us. “Or at least from Pochkin. A genius is sitting next to you, and you can’t even imitate him…. “On the road a Zil is rolling…. o’er me it will be bowling.

What physical force is bound up in these lines! What sincerity of feeling!”

We fought back with anemic repartee. Sanya Drozd reached the letter “I” in the word “progressive.” Eddie fixed the airbrush and tried it out on Roman’s proofs. Volodia Pochkin was searching for the letter “T” on his typewriter, belching curses. Everything was proceeding normally. Then Roman said suddenly, “Sasha, will you glance over here?”

I looked. The parrot was lying under the scales, its legs drawn up, its eyes covered with a white film, and its crest drooping.

“Expired,” Drozd said pityingly.

Again we crowded around the parrot. I didn’t have any particular notions, and if I did, they were all in the subconscious, but I stretched out my hand, picked up the parrot, and examined its legs.

Roman asked at once, “Is it there?”

“It’s there,” I said.

On the black scrunched-up leg was the ring of white metal engraved “Photon” and bearing the numbers “19-05-73.” I looked distraughtedly at Roman.

We both must have looked peculiar, as Korneev said, “All right, let’s hear whatever interesting tale you have to tell.”

“Shall we tell?” asked Roman.

“it’s some kind of bad dream,” I said, “probably some sort of trick. They’re probably doubles.”

“But no,” he said. “That’s the whole point. It’s not a double. It’s a very genuine original.”

Roman again examined the little corpse attentively.

“Let me see,” said Korneev.

The four of them, including Volodia Pochkin and Eddie, investigated the parrot in the most thorough manner and declared unanimously that it was not a double and that they did not understand why this gave us such trouble.

“Let’s take myself, for instance,” said Komeev. “I, too, am not a double. Why doesn’t that amaze you?”

Roman surveyed, in turn, Stella, who was consumed with curiosity, Volodia Pochkin, with his mouth open, and Victor, who was smiling tauntingly, and told all how the day before yesterday he had found the charred feather, which he threw into the wastepaper basket; and about how there had been no feather in the basket yesterday, but instead a dead parrot had manifested itself on this (same) table, which parrot was not a double, but an exact copy of this one; and also about how Janus had recognized the parrot and mourned over it, incinerated it in the above-mentioned furnace, and scattered its ashes to the wind, for some reason.

No one spoke for a while. Drozd was only dimly interested in Roman’s story and shrugged his shoulders. His face clearly expressed that he didn’t understand what all this excitement was about, and that in his opinion much thicker broths were brewed in this institution. Stella also seemed disappointed. But the magister trio understood everything only too well, and their physiognomies registered protest.

Korneev said decisively, “You are making it up. And not too well at that.”

“This just isn’t that same parrot,” said the polite Eddie. “You must be mistaken.”

“It’s the one,” I said. “Green and with a ring.”

“Photon?” asked Korneev in a prosecutor’s tone.

“Photon. Janus called him his little Photon.”

“And the numbers?” asked Volodia.

“And the numbers!”

“The numbers are the same?” Korneev asked threateningly.

“I think they are the same,” I said, looking at Roman uncertainly.

“Let’s have that a bit more precisely,” demanded Korneev, covering the parrot with his red paw. “Would you repeat those numbers again?”

“Nineteen…” I said. “Eh… zero-two, is it? Sixty-three.”

Korneev looked under his palm. “You lie,” he said. “And how about you?” He turned to Roman.

“I don’t remember,” Roman said.calmly. “It seems it was zero-five, not zero-three.”

“No,” I said. “I still think it was zero-six. I remember there was that hook on it.”

“A hook,” Pochkin said contemptuously. “See our Holmeses and Pinkertons! They grow weary of the law of cause and effect.”

Korneev stuffed his hands in his pockets. “That’s a different matter,” he said. “I don’t believe you are lying. You are simply mixed up. The parrots are all green, many are tagged. This pair was from the “Photon’ series. And your memory is full of holes. As with all versifiers and editors of hack bulletin gazettes.”

“Full of holes?” inquired Roman.

“Like a sieve.”

“Like a sieve?” repeated Roman, smiling strangely.

“Like an old sieve,” elaborated Victor. “A rusty one. Like a net. With large mesh.”

Then Roman, continuing to smile strangely, pulled a notebook out of his shirt pocket and riffled its pages.

“And so,” he said. “Large, meshed, and rusty. Let’s see

nineteen, zero-five, seventy-three,” he read.

The magisters lunged toward the parrot and collided their foreheads with a dry crack.

“Nineteen, zero-five, seventy-three,” Korneev read the numbers on the ring in a fallen voice. It was most spectacular. Stella immediately squealed with pleasure.

“Big deal,” said Drozd without tearing himself away from his drawing. “I once had a number coinciding with the winner in a lottery. I ran to the savings outlet to pick up my car. And then it turned out — “

“Why did you write down the number?” said Korneev, squinting at Roman. “Is it a habit with you? Do you write down all numbers? Maybe you have the number of your watch in there?”

“Brilliantt” said Pochkin. “Victor, you are great! You have hit the bull’s eye. Roman. what a disgrace! Why did you poison the parrot? How cruel!”

“Idiots!” said Roman. “What am I to you? A Vibegallo?”

Korneev ran up to him and ogled his ears.

“Go to the devil!” said Roman. “Sasha, just look at them; aren’t they admirable?”

“Come on, fellow,” I said. “Who jokes that way? What do you take us for?”

“And what is left for us to do?” said Korneev. “Someone is lying. Either it’s you or the laws of nature. I believe in the law of nature. Everything else changes.”

Anyway, he quickly wilted, sat down out of the way, and settled down to think. Sanya Drozd drew his banner calmly. Stella was looking at each of us — in turn with frightened eyes. Volodia Pochkin rapidly wrote and crossed out some formulas. Eddie was the first to speak.

“Even if laws are not subverted,” he said with a show of reasonableness, “the unexpected appearance of a large number of parrots in the same room and their suspiciously high modality rate still remain most unlikely. But I am not too surprised, since I have not forgotten we are dealing here with Janus Poluektovich. Don’t you feel that Janus Poluektovich is in himself a most curious personage?”

“It would seem so,” I said.

“I think so, too,” said Eddie. “What field is he actually working in, Roman?”

“It depends on which Janus you mean. Janus-U is involved in communication with parallel spaces.”

“Hmm,” said Eddie. “That’ll hardly help us.”

“Unfortunately,” said Roman. “I, too, have been constantly thinking about how we can tie in the parrots with Janus, and I can’t come up with anything.”

“But is he not a strange person?” asked Eddie.

“Yes, undoubtedly,” said Roman. “Beginning with the fact that there are two of them and he is one. We have become so used to that, that we no longer think about it”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about. We seldom discuss Janus, as we respect him tremendously. But hasn’t every one of us noticed at least one idiosyncracy about him?”

“Idiosyncracy number one,” I said. “A fondness for dying parrots.”

“We’ll consider that as one,” said Eddie. “What else?”

“Gossips,” Drozd said with dignity. “I had occasion to ask him for a loan once.”

“Yes?” said Eddie.

“And he gave it to me,” said Drozd. “But then I forgot how much he gave me. Now I don’t know what to do.”

He was silent. Eddie waited a while for a continuation and then said, “Do you know, for example, that each time I had to work nights with him, at exactly twelve midnight he went away somewhere and came back five minutes later, and each time, I had the impression that, one way or another, he was trying to find out from me what we were doing there prior to his departure.”

“That is indeed so,” said Roman. “I know it very well. I have noted for a long time that right at midnight his memory is wiped clean. And he is thoroughly aware of this defect., He excused himself several times and said that it was a reflexive syndrome connected with the sequelae of a serious contusion.”

“His memory is worthless,” said Volodia Pochkin. He crumpled a sheet with computations and threw it under the table. “He keeps bothering you about whether he’s seen you yesterday or not.”

“And what you talked about, if he has seen you,” I added.

“Memory, memory,” Korneev muttered impatiently. “What has memory to do with it? Lots of people have faulty memories…. That’s not the point. What has he been doing with parallel spaces?”

“First we have to collect the facts,” said Eddie.

“Parrots, parrots, parrots,” continued Victor. “Can it be that they are doubles, after all?”

“No,” said Volodia Pochkin. “I calculated. According to all criteria, it is not a double.”

“Every midnight,” said Roman, “he goes to that laboratory of his and literally locks himself up in it for several. minutes. One time he ran in there so hurriedly that he did not have time to shut the door.

“And what happened?” asked Stella in a faint voice.

“Nothing. He sat down in his chair, stayed there a few minutes, and came back. Immediately he asked whether we had been talking about something important.”

“I’m going,” said Korneev, getting up.

“I, too,” said Eddie. “We’re having a seminar.

“Me, too,” said Volodia Pochkin.

“No,” said Roman. “You sit here and type. I appoint you head of this enterprise. And you, Stellotchka, take Sasha and make verses. And I’m leaving. I’ll be back in the evening and the paper had better be ready.”

They left, and we stayed to do the paper. At first we tried to come up with something, but grew tired quickly and had to accept that we just couldn’t do any more. So we wrote a small poem about a dying parrot.

When Roman returned the paper was finished. Drozd lay on the table and consumed sandwiches, while Pochkin was expounding to Stella and me why the incident with the parrot could absolutely not be included.

“Stout fellow,” said Roman. “An excellent paper. What a banner! What boundless starry skies! And how few typos! And where is the parrot?”

The parrot lay in the petrie dish, the very same dish and in the very same place where Roman and I saw it yesterday. It was enough to make me catch my breath.

“Who put it there?” inquired Roman.

“I did,” said Drozd. “Why?”

“No, that’s all right,” said Roman. “Let it lay there. Right, Sasha?’

I nodded.

“Let’s see what’ll happen with it tomorrow,” said Roman.