1.
– Where are you headed? – the guard asked indifferently.
– The company "Web 1251."
– It's to the right along the path. Yellow building, second floor.
The visitor – a student-looking guy – entered the cluttered area of the former research institute, followed the path to the right, and, following the guard's instructions, ascended to the second floor of the yellow building.
The corridor was empty, most doors had no signs. The visitor had to navigate through a winding corridor to find the right room. Finally, a door with the sign "Web 1251" appeared. The guy pushed it open and found himself in an office that was a bit more decent than the surroundings outside the window.
The secretary was absent, but the director himself peeked out from an adjoining door:
– Hello. Are you here for us?
– I called, responding to the ad.
A second later, the guy was ushered into the director's office. The director was in his forties, tall, awkward, and a bit abrupt.
– Glad to see you in my office, – said the director, extending a business card. – I believe you’ve come to the right place. The company "Web 1251" has five years of experience in web programming. Our area of expertise includes turnkey websites with a guarantee. Brand design. Search engine optimization. Corporate email. Newsletters. Exclusive design. We excel at all these.
The guy took the business card and read: "Zaplatkin Sergey Evgenievich, director of the company 'Web 1251'."
– That's wonderful, – the guy smiled warmly, hiding the business card in his pocket. – I have great respect for web programming. I dabble a bit in programming myself. But right now, I'm interested in something else. The ad mentioned literary masterpieces…
Sergey Evgenievich Zaplatkin froze.
– Are you interested in good literature?
– Uncreated masterpieces, – corrected the guy. – Did you place that ad?
– Yes, I did. However, uncreated masterpieces are very, very expensive, do you understand? It’s cheaper to commission a masterpiece from a good writer.
– And still…?
A spark glimmered in Zaplatkin's eyes.
– May I ask, are you an author? Do you wish to receive an uncreated masterpiece? But the thing is…
– I am not an author.
– Do you represent a publishing house? A large one?
Zaplatkin's eyes were already burning with intensity. Judging by his inability to hide his emotions, the director of 'Web 1251' was an enthusiastic person.
– I represent the interests of a private individual.
– A private individual, I see. Is your client passionate about literature? Is he planning to become an author, to build a writing career?
– Let's assume he is, – the young man barely smiled. – But first, I want to understand where you get your miraculous masterpieces from. Did you invent an artificial intelligence that churns out literary works?
Zaplatkin shook his head.
– Not artificial intelligence, no. How surprising, artificial intelligence... If you don't create yourself, it will be difficult for you to understand where masterpieces come from. I will tell you, but you will have to take my word for it. The thing is, Homer, Shakespeare, and Pushkin are not actually the authors of their works.
– Then who is? – the young man asked, surprised.
– Homer, Shakespeare, Pushkin are authors only legally, – Zaplatkin explained. – But in reality, it’s not them. In fact, any writer is a receiving device, reading information from subspace. Of course, only true writers know this, not mere hacks, – the director added with a hidden bitterness. – Hacks engage in imitation, borrowing techniques from more advanced and successful colleagues. Only true writers draw their texts directly from subspace.
– Are you saying that subspace has a database?
– Exactly.
– And what is subspace?
– In our case, a conditional figure of speech.
– And where exactly in subspace is the database stored?
– Physically, you mean? I don't know. When you visit a website, you don't care where the data is being read from. What matters is access to the data, not the location of its physical storage. server– So you have access to universal information?
– Yes, – Zaplatkin admitted, smiling widely. – The company 'Web 1251' has conducted fundamental research and has learned to download literary works from subspace directly. By our own means, so to speak.
The young man paused and nodded to indicate that he understood.
– Can I see samples of your products?
– May I see samples of your products?
"Here you go," the director pulled a hefty bound stack from his desk and handed it to the visitor.
The young man opened it and laughed in surprise.
"It's 'Eugene Onegin'!"
"Wait, wait," Zaplatkin hurried. "Naturally, it's 'Eugene Onegin'. Pushkin downloaded 'Eugene Onegin' from the subspace, and that's how we got it, randomly. However, authors often make mistakes. What I mean to say is that subspace stores ideal versions of literary works, while authors' versions, for various reasons, are far from ideal. Authors lack precise equipment, but we at 'Web 1251' have developed such equipment. Read the ending if you're not in a hurry – it will all become clear to you. I'll wait."
The young man flipped to the last pages and immersed himself, occasionally humming.
"So what happened to Tatiana in the end?" he asked about twenty minutes later, finishing his reading. "Did she not survive the assault, or did she choose to give birth? Did the prince challenge Onegin to a duel? Though how could he challenge him, since Onegin's both arms are amputated?"
"I don’t know," Zaplatkin explained passionately. "However, that is the canonical completed story of 'Eugene Onegin'! The one that is stored in subspace. What Pushkin made up himself is his own business, as a writer."
"Is it really that 'Eugene Onegin' is stored in subspace in Russian? It's hard to believe that.
"Do you think 'Eugene Onegin' could have been written in Chinese or at least English?"
The young man grunted:
"I understand you. I'm ready to order a small text for testing. Let's say, a poem. I think a few quatrains will suffice. Do you accept orders by genre and specific volume?"
Zaplatkin made a swallowing motion but managed to say:
"I must warn you about the existing risk. I do not know in advance what will be extracted from subspace. I can only guarantee the non-manual creation of the text. I guarantee non-manual creation, yes."
"Alright."
Half an hour later, after filling out and signing the contract, the visitor left.
Zaplatkin pulled out his smartphone, pressed the call button, and spoke into the receiver:
– Nadya, can you talk? It seems like there's a bite. Just a small text, a couple of stanzas, but this is just the beginning. Let's agree on tomorrow. Will you prepare everything? Is he feeling well?
2.
Leaving the territory of the abandoned research institute, the young man emerged into the city. He had to take a tram to the metro, a few stops. The young man was a bit bored, but remembering the conversation with Zpalatkin, he smiled.
On the metro, the young man sat towards the center, got off at one of the central stations, and a minute later was entering one of the robust buildings with a three-meter door.
In the corridor, two men in nice suits were standing and talking.
– I got a Gelandewagen, – said the first. – I scratched it on the very first day, what a shame. But that little punk who cut me off will be in trouble. I don't care about the insurance. I'll make it so dirty it won’t come clean.
– You’re doing the right thing, – said the second. – But with them, usually, you can't get much, apart from insurance. You can involve the prosecutor, but what’s the point? I had a case like that…
Arriving at the necessary office, the intern peeked through the door and asked:
– May I come in, Colonel?
Hearing the invitation, he entered.
Despite his officer rank, the owner of the office was in civilian clothes. He looked at the newcomer from under his knitted brows and asked:
– Did you go, Andryusha?
– Yes, I did.
Andryusha passed a business card he received from the director of the company 'Web 1251' across the table.
– What do you think? Our clients?
– I don’t even know what to say. A complicated case, though the company is unremarkable. Ordinary computer technicians. I recorded the conversation, will convert it to a file and send it.
– Tell me now, Andryusha, – the colonel demanded in a quiet, unarguable voice.
– At your service, Colonel. So, it’s like this. This is not artificial intelligence. The director of this little firm, Zpalatkin, claims he has access to some sort of database stored in subspace. The database contains works of fiction, that is, literally all works.
– Really? – the colonel was surprised.
– I apologize, I misspoke. Not all. The database contains only genius works. Everything that isn't genius is made up by people. Non-genius works are created by non-geniuses, in other words, hacks, while genius works are created by no one. Geniuses do not create, but borrow works from the subspace. You understand that I am currently expressing not my opinion, but that of Zaplatkin?
– Well, yes.
– Zaplatkin claims that the technology developed by his company allows for downloading genius works from subspace. Directly, without interference, can you imagine! I think he's shamelessly lying. Zaplatkin's financial situation isn't such that he could finance anything serious.
– Listen, Andryusha, does this database contain films from Miramax? The ones that haven't been released yet?
Andryusha looked down.
– I didn't think to ask. I was preparing for questions about artificial intelligence. I'll call back now, find out everything, and report.
– Don’t. Did you sign the contract?
– Yes, of course. I'm sorry for not passing it on earlier. – Andryusha pulled folded sheets from his case. – Here's the invoice for payment.
– Okay. I’ll tell them to pay it.
– May I leave?
– Wait, – the colonel realized. – In what language… are these… works? The ones stored in subspace?
– In the language of creation, whether past or future. Here, I must admit, Zaplatkin had me stumped. He said: 'Eugene Onegin' could not have been written in any other language but Russian. Quite convincing.
– 'Eugene Onegin'?
The colonel's voice acquired a metallic tone.
– That's right. Zaplatkin showed me what he claimed was a downloaded version of 'Eugene Onegin' with a different ending. It was something…
– Don't mention that book in front of me.
– And yet, I don't understand, – Andryusha asked curiously, taking advantage of his trust with the colonel, – why do you need this Zaplatkin? His subspace is most likely fake. The guy just wants to make some money. What's the interest in Zaplatkin?
The owner of the office grinned.
– Andryusha, our homeland is currently facing a complex informational situation. We do not control the flow of literature. The enemies have become utterly brazen, their tentacles spreading all over the internet. Google is out of our hands, Facebook is out of our hands, even Amazon is out of our hands. All of this is amid a shortage of professional writers. But we can control them! Can you imagine if it turns out that the subspace holds all the unwritten works! All of them! Unwritten! Genius! And if this good falls into the hands of the enemies of the homeland? How should the supervisory authority, in the form of you and me, react to this, in your opinion? Tell me, Andryusha…
Andryusha glanced sideways at the colonel and hid his gaze deeply:
– No conversations about anything other than literary works were held with Zaplatkin. However, you are right: this issue does not fall within his area of interest. The strategic reserves of unwritten literature should belong to our state.
– Or to no one, Andryusha, did you remember?
– Affirmative, I remembered. Either to our state, or to no one.
– You are dismissed. Go.
Left alone, the colonel closed his eyes and relaxed, thinking about something of his own. Suddenly, his lips twitched and whispered:
– Bastard. What a bastard your Eugene Onegin is!
It was utterly impossible to determine whether the colonel mentioned the famous name in quotes or without quotes.
3.
The next day, Zaplatkin visited the city hospital and located the deputy chief physician, Nadezhda Vasilievna – a woman of the same age as he.
– Nadya, hello, – said Zaplatkin, peeking into the office. – Are you busy? I'll wait.
Nadezhda Vasilievna, surrounded by colleagues, broke away from the conversation:
– Seryozha, wait in the hallway, I will be right out.
He had to wait about fifteen minutes. During this time, Zaplatkin sat in a wheelchair placed in the corridor, read warnings about infection disease prevention, and walked back and forth several times. Finally, the deputy chief physician appeared and gestured 'follow me'. However, Zaplatkin knew where to follow.
You have less than an hour, Sergey, Nadежda Vasilievna said while they were going down the stairs. I don't even know why I did this. A unique case, yes, of course. However, I did not have the right to allow you near the patient. Assisting with academic work is just an excuse for fools. So what if he’s your classmate? Another person would have kicked you out, regardless of the dissertation. But I can’t refuse you; fate is such.
What are you saying, Nadya?! Zaplatkin interjected between her remarks. I barely touch the patient. You said these procedures make it easier for him. But do you know how much this can cost? I charged one hundred thousand for a single poem, half of yours minus taxes. The payment arrived in the account this morning. You’ll get it after the contract is closed. In a couple of years, you could buy yourself a couple of clinics like this one, even better.
The couple went down to the first floor, then to the basement, where the closed boxes began.
Hello, Nadежda Vasilievna, the guard greeted.
They walked past the guard and peeked into one of the boxes, which had a sign that read 'Matvei Petrovich Semyonok.'
On the bed lay the patient. His suffering face, unshaven and emaciated, with sharp features, was filled with an otherworldly spirituality. Yet it expressed nothing - the person was unconscious. The patient's chest rose steadily under the blanket, while his hands in the hospital pajamas rested along his body.
Here, go get it, Nadежda Vasilievna said with some irritation.
Nadya, Zaplatkin pleaded. You are owed fifty thousand. Excellent money, just between us girls. I can’t help that intangible works aren’t in demand at publishing houses. After all, you invited me to decipher the heart tones for academic purposes.
I invited you and I still regret it.
But this is sensational! A scientific breakthrough!
Perhaps. Just not in medicine. For such a breakthrough, I would be laughed at. Besides, the topic of the doctoral dissertation is approved, and its title is not 'Deciphering Heart Tones for Literary Earnings.' Will you connect the phonocardiograph yourself, or do you need help?
I’ll connect it, Nadya. You know I’ve learned…
A head poked through the door:
Excuse me, where is the reception here?
Nadezhda Vasilievna looked up in surprise:
– This is the basement floor, the registration desk is on the first floor. How did you get in here? The guard is supposed to be...
– Sorry, I got lost. The guard must have gone to the bathroom, – said the head, carefully surveying the booth, then disappeared.
Zapal'tkin tried to wrap his arm around the deputy chief physician's shoulders in the meantime.
– Nadya, hang in there a little longer. Soon I will finish coding for the free search. I will leave the laptop here. Remote access is certainly desirable, but there are technical problems that need time to solve. Eventually, we will expand…
Nadezhda Vasilievna sighed and stepped back.
– Seryozha, you have no more than an hour. I need to go. I'll come back in an hour and escort you out.
– Don't worry, everything will be fine.
Nadezhda Vasilievna closed the metal door behind her.
Zapal'tkin sat down on a chair and took the laptop out of the case he brought. He took the phonocardiograph from the table, placed it on the bed, and plugged the power cord into the outlet. He stuck a wire with adhesive tape onto the wrist of the immobile Matvey Petrovich Semenok. He connected the laptop to the phonocardiograph with a cord. Taking a deep breath, as before a decisive test, he flipped the switch.
On the screen of the phonocardiograph, colorful curves wriggled, something pulsed unevenly. However, Zapal'tkin did not pay attention to the graphs: he leaned over the laptop and typed on the keyboard, trying to achieve the desired effect.
For a long time, nothing worked. Zapal'tkin paused in thought for a moment and then began typing again. After about fifteen minutes, he cried out in joy:
– Got it, it's working! Come on, darling!
Soon the joyful anticipation was replaced by complete disappointment.
– Just not 'The Golden Calf'!
Zapal'tkin read the text displayed by the laptop once more and burst into laughter. He couldn't tear himself away and skimmed through several more pages, continuing to chuckle. Then, with visible mental effort, he returned to his interrupted task.
He worked for a while longer, then pulled away from the laptop and whispered to himself:
– I need to stimulate. God help me…
Zapal'tkin leaned over the sick man's face and made several passes with his hand. Semenok didn’t even blink: he remained completely motionless, although he lay with his eyes open. Zapal'tkin took a deep breath and began reciting Pushkin from memory:
At the edge of the wood, a green oak;
A golden chain on that oak:
Both day and night, a learned cat
Walks around the chain;
To the right, it sings a song,
To the left, it tells a tale.
There are wonders there: a wood sprite wanders,
A mermaid sits on the branches…
Finishing the introduction to "Ruslan and Lyudmila", Zaplatkin turned to his laptop and froze in anticipation.
Suddenly, something changed; at least the curves on the electrocardiogram twitched and showed several peaks. Zaplatkin perked up:
– Come on! Come on!
In a couple of minutes, the download was complete.
When Zaplatkin reviewed the artistic work received from the subspace, he nervously drummed his fingers on the table. He reviewed it again and nervously drummed his fingers once more.
Ah, it was still time to wrap things up: the time allotted to Nadya for downloading was coming to an end.
– Alright, Matvey Petrovich, – Zaplatkin said to the patient. – I could have received something more decent from the subspace, but what is, is. You're still a champ. Get well.
Matvey Petrovich Semyonok didn't move a muscle on his inspired face.
Zaplatkin closed the laptop and put it in the case. Detaching the Velcro from the sick man's wrist, he moved the electrocardiograph from the bed to its original place. He packed up his things and waited for Nadezhda Vasilyevna to lead him out of the box.
4.
The colonel and Andryusha arrived at the research institute via official transport. They passed through the security checkpoint and were in the office of the 'Web 1251' company within five minutes.
The clients were immediately invited to the director's office.
– This is my client Alexey Vitalyevich, whose interests I represented during our last meeting, – said Andryusha.
– Very nice! Tea? Coffee?
– No, thank you. Let's get to the point, – said the colonel as he settled into the guest chair.
– Alright, as you say, – Zaplatkin hurriedly replied. – So, the contract stipulated the creation of a non-manual poem on any topic, no more than 8 paragraphs, according to item… – Zaplatkin glanced at the contract, – …item 2.14. Such a poem was downloaded, in full accordance with the technology we developed. It is indeed non-manual. The genre is absurdism. A very worthy poetic genre, by the way. In Russia, it was represented by the Obériuts; currently, the most esteemed representative is Levin…
– Can we, take a look? – suggested the colonel.
– Who, Levin?
– No. What we ordered.
– Yes, of course, sorry. Here’s the result…
Zaplatkin handed the colonel a printed sheet. He accepted it and read aloud:
“I’m crawling out of my lair:
Last Friday.
I notice on the road
An old crazy lady.
In the rain she rides
On a sports bike.
Leaves fall from the branches
In the yellowing spruce grove…"
Not even halfway through, Alexey Vitalyevich tossed the sheet aside and asked grimly:
– What is this?
– Your order. Just as good as Kharms, – Zaplatkin reassured himself.
– Is it genius or what?
– Genius is a vague concept. Especially since the contract didn’t specify the genius of the work; it stipulated its non-corporeality. Unlike genius, non-corporeality is an objective concept. I assure you this text is non-corporeal; it exists in that form in subspace.
– Can you prove it?
– I cannot. However, I warned your representative about the potential risks, – Zaplatkin glanced at Andryusha. – Moreover, this moment is specified in the contract. Here, clause 2.12 states: The Customer cannot demand evidence of the non-corporeality of the work from the Contractor unless direct plagiarism or borrowing is detected.
– And what am I supposed to do with it?
– But you intended to use this text somehow, – Zaplatkin faltered. – All seven quatrains. I don’t know… I assumed for scientific or research purposes. We are ready to provide you with many texts from subspace, both those without authorship, meaning not yet written, and those with authorship, for comparison with canonical texts.
– I’m not accepting this crap.
Zaplatkin hung his head.
– Your right. According to the concluded contract, clause 7.13, in case of refusal to accept the works, the Contractor retains 30% of the amount of the advance paid. Do you insist on a refund?
– Where did you get the text, I ask?
– I’ve already explained to your colleague. The technology developed by our firm allows us to download texts directly from subspace. Subspace is a conditional concept in this case. We do not know where it is located. However, we can assert…
– Is there a license?
– What? – Zaplatkin was taken aback.
– A license for using subspace.
– The firm "Web 1251" is registered…
– Is there a license? – the colonel twitched his lips.
– I refuse to speak in that tone, – Zaplatkin asserted. – If you don't want to draft an acceptance report, we will issue a refusal. The remaining advance will be returned to you at any time.
A magical red booklet was presented under the nose of the director of "Web 1251."
– Let's do it this way, sweetheart, – the colonel said amicably. – You tell us everything, honestly and without any nonsense. Then I will turn a blind eye to the absence of a license. Otherwise, you will have to come with us to the dacha.
Sitting next to him, Andryusha smirked.
– To what dacha? – Zaplatkin didn't understand.
– To the dacha of testimonies. What did you think? It's just professional humor, – the colonel explained. – What option do you prefer?
Zaplatkin turned pale and withdrew into himself.
– I see you are a reasonable person, put two and two together, – the colonel continued. – So, I will ask the first question. What technical means do you use to download these… artistic works from the subspace?
Zaplatkin hesitated.
– I know all about it, – the colonel reported. – About this patient and the female doctor. What I'm interested in is: where do you get the texts? Are you pulling them out of the patient?
– From the physiological tones of the heart, – Zaplatkin broke down.
– How did you discover it?
– Nadya… I mean, Nadezhda Vasilievna… She once called and said: there's a patient with strange heart rhythms resembling a cipher, do you want to take a look? She, Nadya that is, was writing a dissertation back then. And she still is, of course… I was interested in cryptography back in college. In short, I managed to decrypt the heart tones using wavelet analysis, based on a finite number of spherical manifestations. Eventually, the strong tones in the patient disappeared, but by that time I had learned to intercept the weak signal through complex dynamics.
– And what, – Alexey Vitalievich scoffed, – did you download a new "Eugene Onegin" from there or did you compose it yourself?
– From subspace.
– What were you hoping for, kid? I don't understand. Let's say the patient has no relatives. But after all, he will either die or recover. Where will you download from then?
– You see, – began the emaciated Zaplatkin with an explanation. – With other patients, whom Nadya allowed me to examine, I found nothing similar. But this patient, Semyonok, is not unique, clearly. I am sure that there are signals in other patients too, just unstable and difficult to decipher. Right now, I am working on software that would allow decoding signals from any person, even a healthy one. Essentially, one person is sufficient. I believe that the downloading comes from a single source. It's just that the speed isn't limitless: the more recipients there are, the greater the downloaded volume.
– Why did you post the announcement?
– I first approached publishers with a new ending for "Eugene Onegin," trying to explain. I was ridiculed. So then I decided to post the announcement: maybe someone, a major investor, would be interested. It's tough to scrape by with web development. I need time to finish the program. We're talking about automatic signal detection from subspace, you understand? Right now, I have to input the parameters manually.
– Investors are interested, – the colonel grinned. – Are you ready to provide your program? Or would you prefer a dacha?
– Take whatever you want, – whispered Zaplatkin, hunching over in the director's chair.
– That’s settled. Now, please, call your acquaintance at the hospital and arrange a meeting for tomorrow. I want to be present. Don't mention me, naturally. We’ll surprise the lady.
5.
– Hi, Seryozha. You look a bit haggard today, – said Nadezhda Vasilievna to Zaplatkin. – Come on, let's go…
The colonel and Andryusha were waiting on the stairs, at the entrance to the basement. Upon arrival, they blocked the way. The colonel presented his red booklet, saying:
– Hello, Nadezhda Vasilievna. Literary supervision, Colonel Tregubov.
– What’s going on? – asked the deputy chief physician in surprise.
– Let's go to the box. We can't talk in the stairwell, can we?! He, – the colonel nodded at Zaplatkin, – will explain.
Nadezhda Vasilievna looked at the man hiding his eyes, Zaplatkin, and understood.
– Let’s go.
The four of them passed by the guard and entered the box marked "Matvey Petrovich Semyonok."
The patient lay on the bed without any visible changes. His unshaven face still amazed with its senseless spirituality, his mouth slightly ajar.
– Is this one connected to the subspace? – Tregubov nodded. – Did you upload 'Eugene Onegin' through it? Well, who am I asking?
– Yes, through it, – confirmed Zaplatkin.
– Freak!
– I would still ask...
Tregubov reluctantly turned to Nadezhda Vasilyevna.
– Is it necessary? Your accomplice – subspace development without a license, and you – a criminal offense. If you don't start cooperating. Otherwise, in a couple of years, you’ll be selling groceries in a supermarket. How could you even think to let this... computer guy near the patient?
– The computer guy was doing research work at my personal request. The doctors were treating him.
– Is management aware?
Nadezhda Vasilyevna remained silent.
– Let's see how the process works? Show me, – demanded Tregubov.
Zaplatkin pulled out a laptop and attached a patch with a wire to the patient's wrist. He turned on the phonocardiograph and demonstrated the working process.
– Download it!
– It's not that fast. We need to catch the signal.
– We’re not in a hurry.
Zaplatkin, placing the laptop on his lap, began to adjust the parameters. Andryusha was watching him, occasionally asking for clarification. Nadezhda Vasilyevna leaned against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. Tregubov disdainfully examined the simple surroundings of the hospital box. Only Semyonok Matvey Petrovich floated in the bed above the worldly bustle in his angelic calmness.
– The download has started, – Zaplatkin smiled.
– What’s downloading?
– I don't know, let me Google it. Ah, I see, something from the Strugatskys.
– Not 'Eugene Onegin'?
– No, I downloaded it earlier, – explained Zaplatkin. – I have it saved in a file. Do you want me to send it over?
– No need, – Tregubov spat through his teeth.
– Should I continue? The download may take a considerable amount of time.
– I see no need. Andryusha, get the device.
Andryusha pulled out a medical apparatus from his bag with two flat contacts the size of a man's palm.
– Why do you need a defibrillator? – Nadezhda Vasilyevna quickly asked. – What are you planning to do?
– None of your business.
Nadezhda Vasilyevna pulled away from the wall and stood in front of the patient.
– I forbid the use of the defibrillator without my consent.
– No need, – grumbled Tretyakov.
Nadezhda Vasilievna lunged for the exit, but Andryusha held her by the hand.
– Let me go or I will call security, – screamed the deputy chief physician, trying to free herself.
Tretyakov critically assessed both the woman and Zaplatkin, who was eager to help her.
– Do you not care about your job?
– I do care. But the patient's life is more valuable.
– Are we going to kill him? With this thing instead of a gun? Original, of course… Andryusha, just let her go.
– Why do you need a defibrillator? – asked Nadezhda Vasilievna, adjusting her gown but remaining in place.
– To give him a shock, why else? A minor jolt won't hurt him.
– Why???
– I want to affect that… subspace. I mean through the heart. If you can walk one way, you can surely walk back the other, right? What do you think?
– What do you mean by affect?
– Nadezhda Vasilievna, don't worry so much, – Andryusha intervened in the conversation. – We received a code from Sergey Evgenyevich that he used for decryption. We embedded a small script into the code. And we configured the defibrillator accordingly. We expect that changing the patient's heart rhythm will be the way back, to subspace.
– Why do you need a way to subspace? – shrieked Nadezhda Vasilievna.
– We expect to invert the database in subspace so that enemies cannot use it. We will replace ones with zeros, and vice versa; it should work. Theoretically, of course – no one has done this before us. If it works, the key to subspace will belong only to us.
– State interests, – Tretyakov summed up harshly. – A monopoly on all information reserves on the territory of the Russian Federation. Subspace should belong to the homeland or no one.
Zaplatkin removed his hands from his temples and inquired:
– Are you going to invert the canonical text of "Eugene Onegin" as well?
– That one first.
– I can't listen to this anymore, – the deputy chief physician was on the verge of hysteria. – Where are you from, the Literary Oversight? I'm sure you can transfer the patient to the Kremlin Hospital, to any other hospital, anywhere. Transfer him and do whatever you want with him; I have nothing to do with it. Now I ask you to leave the hospital box.
– Alright, – said Tregubov. – I will leave the hospital box now. But then you will stop working in this hospital, I promise. For unauthorized development of the government subspace. Choose. Either the patient gets a small electric shock, or you get demoted. Well, your call…
Zaplatkin laughed nervously:
– Nadya, let them do what they want. If, of course, it won't harm the patient. I'm asking you. Inversion won’t work, that’s a foolish idea. Some kind of protection is provided in the subspace – they weren’t fools, you know.
Nadezhda Vasilievna took a deep breath. She confidently walked over to the bed and checked the patient’s pulse. She picked up the defibrillator and examined it closely. Checked the settings. She pulled back the blanket and unbuttoned the patient's hospital gown at the chest. She applied disposable pads for defibrillation to the hairless chest of Semenok.
– One shock? – she asked Tregubov.
– Enough, – he grunted.
Nadezhda Vasilievna turned on the device and firmly pressed the electrodes against Semenok’s chest, one higher, the other lower. The defibrillator made a characteristic click, the patient's body twitched slightly, the graphs on the laptop danced, and warning messages started popping up.
Zaplatkin jumped up to the laptop and began to clear the clutter:
– One moment… One moment…
– I did what you asked. Now I ask you to free the treatment room, – Nadezhda Vasilievna said with hatred directed at Tregubov.
– What is this? I don't understand, – Zaplatkin said, not taking his eyes off the laptop.
– What don’t you understand? – Tregubov asked.
– Something recorded. A lot, as much as the disk could handle. The disk is full. I've never seen such a powerful spike before. In just a few seconds, it's almost finished decrypting. And now – nothing, empty. Signal is absent. Look at what has been recorded… Well, this is Dostoevsky… And this one, I don’t know… Lermontov… Gogol… Oh, how interesting! An unknown 19th-century poet. I don't know this one, at least. There is a poem in the subspace, but no biography… And look here, just take a look…
A movement was felt behind the bent backs. Everyone turned around.
Semyonok Matvey Petrovich sat on the bed like an angel in the flesh, only missing the rainbow halo above his head. His open eyes, wide with surprise at the presence of others, shone with an otherworldly glow. The patient stretched his thin hand toward those present and spoke with a weak, post-awakening voice:
– What to eat, do we have anything, fellows?
6.
Andryusha presented his pass at the entrance and went up to the second floor.
In the corridor, two men in suits stood chatting.
– I was rereading Tyutchev yesterday, – said the first. – What a philosophical subtext! No matter how many times I read it, I am always amazed.
– Tyutchev is a powerful lyricist, – the second agreed. – Only a little bit of an amateur, and he understood that himself. Hence the intolerance to public discussions about his poetry. However, all great poets were a bit amateurish…
Andryusha reached Tregubov's office and knocked.
– May I come in, comrade general?
– Come in, – came the voice.
Tregubov was clearly not in a good mood.
– Have you been to the hospital?
– Yes, indeed. Semyonok is recovering, will be discharged soon.
– I'm talking about the connection.
– We tried to connect today, along with Sergey… excuse me, with Zaplatkin. We toiled for two hours, and nothing worked. But Semyonok is ready to participate in the experiments even after discharge. After the shift, of course: when he’s not in the boiler room.
– Why didn't it work?
– Zaplatkin says the subspace is empty. Meaning the channel connects properly, but there are no texts on the other end of the connection. They are absent. Zaplatkin suggests: subspace emptied after the information outburst into our reality, due to the defibrillator's impact.
– What’s the basis for that?
– Do you not notice some oddities, comrade general?
– What strangeness is this?
– In their behavior. It seems people have changed over the last month.
– You're digging in the wrong place, Andryusha. People are always the same. They just need to read a good book and visit a conservatory. Here's what I think. If, as you say, there was a surge of those... artistic texts from the subspace, then our writers must have been composing only uncreated books over the last month, right?
– Exactly, Comrade General.
– Then it's simple. Check how many writers have produced uncreated works in the last month. If it's a lot, then the surge is as Zaplatkin says. Got it? Go check for the presence of uncreated works from the last month.
– I will do everything possible.
– One more thing. Andryusha, the Motherland is in danger. Dan Brown has written a new novel, worse than the previous one. The book is set to be published in Russia. Can you imagine the print run? Can you imagine how many new broken souls will appear on that hack's account? We cannot allow this. We're here to oversee the literary process. Once you're done with the uncreated works, tackle Dan Brown next. Literary poison must not penetrate our homeland. It would be better to reprint Edgar Allan Poe; that should be hinted at to those lowlifes.
– Understood, Comrade General.
– You are dismissed.
Andryusha turned to leave.
– Stop.
Andryusha halted.
– Did you do what I asked as a personal favor?
– Of course. I apologize, Comrade General. Here, I brought it. Zaplatkin printed the second copy for you.
Andryusha took the canonical text of "Eugene Onegin" out of the bag and handed it to Tregubov.
– You can go.
Leaving the office, Andryusha hurried to the exit. He planned to stop by the Lenin Library. Cherubina de Gabriac. He couldn't find the magazine "Apollo" with her poems online, but the magazine should definitely be in the Lenin Library.
Source: habr.com
