"Sasha is reluctant to talk about nonprotein life," said Eddie. "And he is right"

"It's possible to live without protein," I said, "but how does he live without innards?"

"But here is comrade Amperian, who says that there can be no life without protein," said Victor, forcing a stream of tobacco smoke to turn into a miniature tornado that traveled about the room, curving around thefurniture.

"I say that life is protein," argued Eddie.

"I don't sense the distinction," said Victor. "You say that if there is no protein, there is no life."

"Yes."

"And what, then, is this?" asked Victor. He waved his hand feebly.

On the table next to the tub appeared a revolting creature resembling both a hedgehog and a spider. Eddie raised himself up and looked at the table.

"Ah," he said, and lay down again. "That's not life. That's un-life.

Isn't Koschei the Undead nonprotein life?"

"What more do you want?" asked Korneev. "Does it move? It moves. Does it eat? It eats. It can reproduce, too. Would you like it to reproduce right now?"

Eddie raised up for the second time and glanced at the table. The hedgehog-spider was shuffling about clumsily.

It seemed to be trying to move in all four directions simultaneously.

"Un-life is not life," said Eddie. "Un-life exists only insofar as there is intelligent life. You could even say more accurately-- only insofar as there are magi. Un-life is a by-product of their activity."

"All right," said Victor.

The hedgehog-spider vanished. In its place appeared a miniature Victor Korneev, an exact copy the size of an arm. He snapped his tiny fingers and created a micro-double of even smaller size. This one did the same. A fountain-pen-sized double materialized. Then one the size of a matchbox.

Then a thimble.

"Enough?" asked Victor. "Each of them is a magus. Not one has a single protein molecule."

"An untoward example," Eddie said with regret. "In the first place, they do not, in principle, differ from a programmed lathe. In the second place, they are not a product of development but of your protein mastery.

It's hardly worth arguing whether evolution could produce self-reproducing programmed lathes."

"A lot you know about evolution," Korneev said rudely. "A new Darwin!

What's the difference whether it's a chemical process or a conscious act?

Not all your ancestors were protein either. Your great-great-great-grandmother also, though quite complicated, I admit, was not a protein molecule. It may be that our so-called conscious activity is also a variety of evolution. How do we know it was the aim of nature to create a comrade Amperian? Maybe the aim of nature was the creation of un-life at the hands of Amperian. It could be."

"Indeed, indeed. First an anti-virus, then protein, then comrade Amperian, and then the whole planet is filled with un-life."

"Exactly," said Victor.

"And all of us are dead out of sheer use..."

"And why not?" said Victor.

"I have an acquaintance," said Eddie. "He a.s.serts that man is just an intermediary link that nature requires for the crown of its creation: a gla.s.s of cognac with a lemon slice."

"And why, in the final a.n.a.lysis, not?"

"Just because it doesn't suit me," said Eddie. "Nature has her aims and I have mine."

"Anthropocentric," Victor said in revulsion.

"Yes," Amperian said haughtily.

"I'll not debate with anthropocentrics."

"In that case, let's tell anecdotes," Eddie calmly offered and stuffed another rock candy in his mouth.

Victor's doubles continued their labors on the table. The smallest was now the height of an ant. While listening to the argument between the anthropocentric and the cosmocentric, a thought entered my head. "I say, chums," I came out with ersatz animation. "Why aren't you at the polygon?"

"And why should we be?" asked Eddie.

"Well, it is still quite interesting. .

"I never go to a circus," said Eddie. "Besides: ubi nil vales, ibi nil velis.*"

"That's in reference to yourself?" asked Victor.

"No. It' s in reference to Vibegallo."

"Chums," I said. "I like a circus very much. Isn't it all the same to you where you are going to tell jokes?"

"Meaning?" said Victor.

"Stand watch for me, and I'll run off to the polygon."

"It's cold," reminded Victor. "Frost, Vibegallo."

"I have a great yen," I said. "It's all so mysterious."

"Shall we let the child go?" asked Victor of Eddie.

Eddie nodded.

"Go, Privalov," said Victor. "It will cost you four hours of computer time."

"Two," I said quickly. I was expecting something like that.

"Five," Victor said boorishly.

"Then three," I said. "I am working for you all the time as it is."

"Six," Victor said coolly.

"Vitya," said Eddie, "fur will grow on your ears."

"Red," I said, gloating. "Maybe even shot through with green."

"All right, then," said Victor. "Go for free. Two hours will fix me."

______________________________________________________________________________.

* Where you are not competent, there yuu should not wish to be.

We went to the entry together. On the way, the magi took up an incomprehensible debate about something called cyclotation, and I had to interrupt them to get transgressed to the polygon. They had already tired of me, and being in a rush to get rid of me, they transgressed me with such energy that I had no time to get prepared, and was flung backward into the crowd of spectators.

Everything was in readiness at the polygon. The public hid behind the armored shields. Vibegallo, poking out of the freshly dug trench, was looking jauntily through the big stereo periscope. Feodor Simeonovich and Cristobal Junta, forty-power binoculars in hand, were exchanging words quietly in Latin. Ja.n.u.s Poluektovich, in a heavy fur coat, stood to the side, dabbling his walking stick in the snow. B. Pupilov sat on his haunches by the trench with an open notebook and pen at the ready. G. Perspicaciov, hung about with still and movie cameras, was rubbing his frozen cheeks and stamping his feet behind him.

The sky was clear and a full moon was sinking in the west. Blurred shafts of the northern lights appeared shimmering amid the stars and disappeared again. The snow glistened on the plain, and the large rounded cylinder of the autoclave was clearly visible some one hundred meters away.

Vibegallo tore himself from the periscope, coughed, and said, "Comrades! Com-m-r-ades! What are we observing in the periscope? Overwhelmed with complex feelings and faint with expectations, comrades, we are observing how the protective lock is beginning to unscrew itself automatically. . . . Write, write," he said to B. Pupilov. "And most accurately. . . . That is, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g automatically. In a few minutes we will see the appearance among us of an ideal man-- chevalier, that is, sans peur et sans reproche!"

I could see with my naked eye as the lock turned and fell soundlessly in the snow. A long streamer of steam shot out of the autoclave, all the way, it seemed, to the stars. "I am clarifying for the press-- " Vibegallo started to say, when a horrendous roar sounded.

The earth slid and tossed. A huge snow cloud soared upward. Everyone fell against each other and I, too, was thrown and rolled. The roar kept increasing, and when I stood up with an all-out effort, grasping the treads of the half-track, I saw, in horrified terror, that the horizon was curling up and rolling like a bowl's edge toward us. The armored shields were swaying threateningly, and the people were running and falling and jumping up again covered with snow. I saw Feodor Simeonovich and Cristobal Junta, encased in the rainbow-hued caps of their protective shields, backing under the press of the storm and raising their hands trying to stretch their defenses over the rest of us. I saw, too, the gusts tearing that defense into shreds that were carried off across the plain as so many huge soap bubbles bursting against the starry sky. I saw Ja.n.u.s Poluektovich, collar raised, standing with his back to the wind, planted firmly on his walking stick buried in the bared earth, looking at his watch. Over there, at the site of the autoclave, a thick cloud of steam, red and lighted from within, twisted in a tight vortex, while the horizon steeply curved higher and higher till it seemed we were at the bottom of a vast pitcher. And then, right near the epicenter of this cosmic abomination, Roman suddenly appeared, his green coat flying in shreds from his shoulders. He flung his arm in a wide arc, threw something large and glinting like a bottle into the howling steam, and immediately fell to the ground, covering his head with his arms.

The foul and enraged face of a jinn rose above the cloud, eyes rolling in fury. His mouth gaping in soundless laughter, he flapped his extensive hairy ears. A burning stench permeated the blizzard and then the ghostly walls of a magnificent castle arose and slumped, oozing down, while the jinn himself, turned into a long tongue of orange flame, vanished into the sky.

There was quiet for several seconds. The horizon sank back down with a heavy rumble. I was thrown high and regaining my senses, discovered that I was sitting not far from the truck, my arms braced against the earth. The snow was all blown away. The field around us was bare and black. Where the autoclave had stood a minute before now yawned a large crater. A wisp of white smoke curled above it, and there was a smell of fire.

The spectators started climbing back upon their feet. Faces were dirty and distorted. Many were speechless, coughed, spit, and moaned softly. They set to cleaning themselves up a bit, whereupon it developed that quite a few were disrobed down to underwear. There was grumbling, then cries of, "Where are my trousers? Why am I without trousers? I was dressed in trousers!"

"Comrades, has anyone seen my watch?"

"And mine, also!"

"Mine, too, has disappeared!"

"Platinum tooth is gone! It was put in just this summer."

"Oh, no! My ring is gone.. . and my bracelet."

"Where is Vibegallo? What sort of disgrace is this? What's it all mean?"

"To h.e.l.l with all the watches and teeth! Are the people all right? How many were there?"

"What has actually happened? Some sort of explosion the jinn ... and where is the colossus of the spirit?"

"Where is the consumer?"

"Where is Vibegallo, d.a.m.n it!"

"Did you see that horizon? Do you know what that implies?"

"The roll-up of s.p.a.ce. I know about these tricks. .."

"It's cold in my shirt sleeves; can someone let me have something..

"W-where is that Vi-Vibegallo? W-where is th-thal moron?"

The earth heaved and Vibegallo clawed his way out of the trench. He was without his boots.

"I elucidate for the press," he said huskily. But he was not allowed to elucidate. Magnus Feodorovich Redkin, who came especially to find out once and for all what true happiness was, ran up to him and, shaking his clenched fists, yelled, "Charlatan! You'll answer for this! Sideshow! Where is my hat? Where is my fur coat? I will put in a complaint about you! I am asking you, where is my hat?"

"In complete accord with the program," mumbled Vibegallo, glancing around. "Our dear colossus-- "

Feodor Simeonovich advanced on him. "You, my fine friend, are bu-burying your talents in the g-ground. They should be used to s-strengthen the de-department of Defensive Magic. Your ideal in-men should be d-dropped or enemy bases. To throw fear into the ag-aggressors."

Vibegallo backed away, covering himself with the sleeve of his coat.

Cristobal Joseevich approached silently measuring him with his eye, flung his dirty gloves at his feet, and left.

Gian Giacomo, hurriedly concocting the image of ar elegant suit, cried from afar, "This is truly phenomenal signores. I always felt a certain antipathy toward him, bul I couldn't ever imagine anything like this. ..

Here, finally, G. Perspicaciov and B. Pupilov figured out the real situation. Until then, smiling uncertainly, they had hoped to be at least partially enlightened. Now it dawned on them that all had not gone in complete conformity to plan.

G. Perspicaciov, moving with firm steps, accosted Vibegallo, laying his hand on his shoulder, and saying in an iron voice, "Comrade Professor, where can I get my cameras back? Three still cameras, and one movie camera."'

"Also, my wedding ring," added B. Pupilov.

"Pardon," Vibegallo said with dignity. "You'll be called on when needed," he said in his affected French. "Wait for explanations."

The correspondents were thrown for a loss. Vibegallo turned and walked toward the crater. Roman already was standing over it.

"What all isn't in there . . ." he said yet from afar.

There was no consumer colossus in the crater. Instead, everything else was there and much more. There were still and movie cameras, wallets, overcoats, rings, necklaces, trousers, and a platinum tooth. There were Vibegallo's felt boots, and Magnus Feodorovich's hat. My platinum whistle for calling the emergency squad turned up too. Further we discovered two Moskvich and three Volga cars, an iron safe with the local savings-office seals, a large piece of roasted meat two cases of vodka, a case of Zhiguli beer and an iron bed with nickel-plated k.n.o.bs.

Having pulled on his boots, Vibegallo, smiling condescendingly, announced that now the discussion could get started. "Let's have your questions," he said. But discussions did not take place. The enraged Magnus Feodorovich had called the police. Young Sergeant Kovalev dashed up in his police car. We all had to be recorded as witnesses. Sergeant Kovalev went around and around the crater, trying to discover traces of the criminal. He found a huge lower jaw and examined it minutely. The correspondents, having received their instruments back, saw everything in a new light and were listening attentively to Vibegallo, who again poured forth a litany of demagogy about limitless and variegated needs. It was becoming dull and I was freezing.

"Let's go home," said Roman.

"Let's," I said. "Where did you get the jinn?"

"Drew it out of the stores yesterday. For entirely different purposes."

"And what really happened? Did he overeat again?"

"No, it's simply that Vibegallo is a moron," said Roman.