The musican E-Book

Sergiy Zhuravlov

• Herausgeber: SUNRAY
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Three IN One
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 378

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Two students, Sanya and Rita, take part in an experiment on consciousness transfer. The course of the experiment is rudely disrupted by a certain Castro, hiding from his pursuers. The program fails, and the three consciousnesses are imprisoned in one body. A "three-in-one" situation arises. Castro's mission, his many enemies and the problems associated with it, a heavy burden falls on the fragile shoulders of the shy, unsure of himself Sani. Squishy is waiting for an incredible adventure, unexpected twists of fate, as well as rethinking the world and himself. Being far from home, Sanya completes the mission started by Castro. But then a thunderstorm strikes

Leseprobe

Table of contents

Prologue

Secret admirers are like airplanes flashing in the night sky

Scientists are inventing a sieve to carry water in

Even he who runs fast can't catch up with he who ran away slowly

He who has trusted no one has a harder time explaining the reasons for his failures

If God wanted people to fly helicopters, he himself would break off …

For advice to help, ask the wise man only the ones you want to hear

A bad friend will leave you in trouble, a good enemy never

Cowards are called those who are frightened but cannot find a decent excuse for it

There's a first time for everything, they taught me.

I was having a dream, the apprentice declared to me

To make people and the world a better place, sometimes just eating is enough

A man will conquer the highest mountains, but he'll always stumble on the rocks

You can serve anything in a pretty wrapper

God made the grebe poisonous.

He who runs slowly can also be saved.

As a child I used to wrap myself in cold diapers and think that hardship hardened me

When you win, you learn a lot about yourself and those around you

More often than not, to know how you feel about a man…

If your wife asks if you're thirsty, get her some water

A woman's relationship with a man is vulnerable, shaky

He who grovels before a superior will humiliate his subordinates

Some profitable deals are more profitable to walk away from

To know what a man thinks of you, you only have to ask what he thinks of others

A dumb philosopher also once wrote to me that he knew everything

Epilogue

Shortly about the author

THE MUSICIAN

© 2022 SERGIY / copyright holder.

All rights reserved.

Author: Sergiy Zhuravlov

[email protected]

Arthur Jeynov

Sergiy Zhuravlov

Drawings Igor Shvidkiy

SUNRAY 2022

ROMAN

THREE IN ONE

BOOK 1

THE MUSICIAN

Prologue

Two students, Sanya and Rita, take part in an experiment on the transfer of consciousness. The course of the experiment is rudely disrupted by Castro, who is hiding from his pursuers. A program malfunction occurs, and the three consciousnesses are imprisoned in one body. Unbelievable adventures, unexpected twists of fate and reconsideration of the world and themselves await the heroes. Being far from home, Sanya completes the mission started by Castro. But then a thunderstorm strikes. For fans of suspense literature.

All characters in the novel are fictional, coincidence or similarity of their names with the names of real people are accidental.

Houshi said: “When there is no time to correct a mistake, find a decent excuse for it.”

Waking up, Sanya noted that the rain had stopped, the morning was sunny.

“And there's no wind.” He thought. “And no leaves can be heard. And yesterday, especially in the evening, how they were making noise! The branches must have been arguing about something. Or maybe this is how trees show their feelings? Here is love, and that sudden rush looks like hatred. And they know how to survive.”

These thoughts kept him awake until late at night. And then it started to rain. The drops fell on the windowsill almost silently, and it was not even the drops, but the memories of them. He fell asleep to the whisper of the rain, and he had a wonderful dream.

Huge balls of water spinning in space, colliding, crashing, rushing down, evaporating, but there is still a shadow of them. Tiny gray dots scattered across the Earth.

Sanya stretched himself sweetly, smiling with all his mouth, and jumped out of bed. He was in a good mood, as always in the morning. Thoughts swarmed in his rested head, his shower refreshed his body, his sandwich was delicious, the street was buzzing with life, his neighbor Ella smiled, and the sun was big and yellow above his head.

“Someday I'll tell Ella she's beautiful,” he dreamed, “and we'll kiss, and then I'll save her life and die. Though no, she'll get around to it. But separation is necessary. How else could I test my feelings?

Maybe it's not fair to think of one and then imagine yourself with the other,” he pondered. “Maybe, but the other one would never look in my direction, never recognize me. She, like a dream, is illusory and unattainable. Can't jump, can't reach the star. And Ella isn't like that at all. Ella is near, she is earthly, real. It's scary with her, too, but it's not like that.”

The sweet, pretty neighbor has been smiling at Sanya since the fifth grade. He responds to her in kind and nods.

“Someday I'll add “hello!” or “how are you?” to that, and then it'll start, just hang in there! In these things, the first step is very important. You have to tune in. And that takes time.”

Sanya is a short walk to the institute, about five minutes away. If there are smokers on the playground, it means he made it, it means it hasn't started yet.

“Well, I'm not late today,” rejoiced Sanya. “Who's smoking here? Eh no, it is better not to meet with these.”

The steps are unusual – gray-green, pearlescent, and because of the variations in color you can not see where the shadow begins, but if you look closely.

He stumbled on his own or someone tripped him, Sanya did not notice. His pant leg stained on the edge of the step. Several voices cackled: He realized they were laughing at him and, smiling embarrassedly, he hurried upstairs.

“Pushed. It's all right to be pushed,” he reasoned. “Everybody gets pushed, but that doesn't mean you have to throw yourself into a fight. If you get your nose broken, for instance, it hurts a lot. But. But there was something else, something unpleasant, what? I think I apologized. Yes, I stood up, straightened my pant leg and apologized. In front of Andrei, that's right, he was the closest. I smiled so ingratiatingly into his eyes, and then I smiled down. Yes, down – don't be angry, he said. He gave me a footstep, and I apologized. Maybe I wasn't apologizing at all, I was just being ironic. Not a hero. But not a coward either. A coward would behave in an ugly way, but I'm all right. That's all right, the time will come.” In a second the episode was forgotten. Sanya forced himself to forget.

“On a day like this, one should think of pleasant things. Igorevich is reading today, the guru of psychology. He always has a beat. And then there's the scoop.”

Shaking himself off, he stepped through the door. The auditorium was full of people.

“There's Vitya womanizer talking to Angela,” Sanya remarked. “Anton is alone by the window, bored. We'll sit together. It's not interesting with him, but that's the way it's always been. He's quiet, I shy.” He wanted to believe that his shyness somehow won out over Anton.

“And there's Sergiy. He owes me money, and it's embarrassing to remind him. And this. And this. Rita.” The young man's chest tightened. “How is it that I did not see you at once?” Sanya was surprised. “Did you really look at me? Well, yes, she looked at me. A glimpse. And maybe not? Or maybe she guesses? Maybe she knows? Women can sense when they like us. She dyed her hair. It suits her. Beautiful Rita. Someday I'll talk to you, and you'll fall in love. And we'll kiss in a boat under a weeping willow. And when I die, you will cry, and never, never again will you meet such an honest and faithful.” Sasha caught the smell of her perfume, stretched his neck, breathed the air. “Terrific smell! What a fragrance! Rita, how do you do it? And you know if it were not for the color of your eyes, it would not be the same. It wouldn't be the same at all. And together – it's such a bouquet. A chamomile field, girls weaving flowers into plaits. Clouds are rolling in, it's going to rain. A gust of wind carries a girl's laughter. I can smell it.”

“Alexander!” a loud shout interrupted his fantasies, and someone's fist bumped his shoulder.

Sanya cried out in pain and squirmed. Yegor “Block,” a huge, obese classmate, a candidate for the departure, grabbed Sanya by the shoulders and, hovering over him, asked:

“Well, Iskander, did you make it?”

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow. I told you.”

“I don't understand if you're angry or stupid. You do not participate in my fate,” grimaced and breathed unpleasantly in the face, he clobbered. “You're like some Chinese guy eating rice in the Shanghai subway right now and pretending I don't exist, you know? You can't do that. Tomorrow I'll get kicked out, and you know what Dad will do to me? No, you don't know. And then what I'll do to you, do you know?”

“They won't kick me out. Let me go. I told you I will.”

Block, when he made the grab, pulled Sanka to his neck.

“He's so cute. Why aren't you a girl, huh? I'd be friends with you. Do you like candy?”

“Get lost.”

“Look, you won't have an essay. I won't look at you as a boy.”

“Are you done?”

Yegor squeezed his neck harder:

“Don't be rude.”

“Well, I'm sorry. Tomorrow you'll have an essay. Well, let go, I can't breathe.”

“Shall we kiss?”

“Very funny. That's it, I get it. Leave me alone.”

“Keep your word, Alexander! Remember, you bear the name of a great general!” Shouted Block, unclenched his elbow and slapped the reddened from lack of air guy on the ass. “Ah-h, pretty.”

“They're okay,” Sanya thought, dissolving into the line that slowly filled the hall. “I don't care about anybody, but Rita.”

She saw, didn't she. Shame. How ashamed. Why? Why is this happening to me? They don't study, they don't read, they don't think, they don't know. How? Where did they get this power over me?”

At the door, he felt someone trying to pick his pocket. Instinctively, he grabbed someone's trembling hand.

“Uncle, uncle, don't hurt me!” deafening noise flew into his ear. “I shall never do it again! Aaah!”

Sanya got confused and squeezed his hand even harder. Then he thought that he was wrong, and that it would be better to part with him in a nice way, and maybe even to apologize. Well, at the very least, to say, “It happens to everybody,” to make it right, so that no one would be offended. And he unclenched his hand. But someone else's hand did not chicken out, did not disappear, and insolently clung to his trouser belt.

“Well, what is it.” Said a distraught Sanka and looked up. Only now he saw in front of him skewed with laughter face Igor Shiryaev.

“Well, are you normal?” Sanya exclaimed angrily and added more quietly: “And if I had hit you?”

“Oh yes!” he answered, laughing and not letting go of his belt. “It was a miracle that saved me! Sanya, come on, I need you. Or rather, your ruthless predatory instincts.”

“So, it starts now.”

Sanya tried to object, knowing that he would give in anyway. Igor was probably the only one he could call a friend. A strange alliance. Igor was the son of a famous professor, a joker, a big man, a smart guy. And Sanya – an orphan, a dreamer, a coward, his own mind – in a word, nerd. No one understood what they had in common. What interests brought them together? What could such different people talk about? And they did not know, but could chat for hours and days on end.

“If we hurry, we can get there in time. And there wouldn't be anything interesting right now. And if we don't find it, then.”

“Who will we find?” Sanya tried to make it clear.

“A white rabbit.”

“Ok.”

“Well, really, really – my father asked me to find it. A rabbit from the lab. Well, from those. The whole menagerie was brought in this morning. A monkey who thinks he's a turtle, a cat thinks he's a mouse, and a mouse is a dog. Can you imagine a mouse chasing a cat? Isn't that funny? And the rabbit, the bastard, got away. Somewhere in the park catching mice.”

“Wait, it's interesting,” Sanya stopped, he thought. “And the cat runs away? It should not. Well, look: a mouse thinks he is a dog, and chases a cat, which thinks he is a mouse, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“That's weird. It shouldn't run away,” he reasoned aloud. “The cat thinks she's a mouse. Okay. There's another mouse chasing it, and it sees it, -why does it run away?”

“Runs away, runs away, don't doubt it. Feels his inner potential, I guess. My dad showed me the tapes. It was hilarious what was going on in their experiments.”

In the park, among the many bushes and tall grass, it's not easy to find a rabbit, even a white one.

“A rabbit that is a cat, I think, is not so funny!” Shouted Sanya.

“Puss-puss-puss.” Was heard behind the bushes. “Why? I watched him. Very funny! Puss-puss-puss.”

“Puss-puss-puss. No, he's not here. Let's go to those spruces! Maybe he climbed a tree.”

“We should have made a hippo out of him. There's only one pond. It'll be a joy. Paws, paws like – look. I beg you. Look for a predator.”

“And what a butterfly it will make!”

“People there listen to a smart man, and I'm here with you. Where did the caterpillar get its legs? Butterflies don't come from such an abomination. Well, never mind. You rushed me, and now. There he is! Out! Out! There's the bastard! It's right on top of him! Do you see it? Igor began to bounce excitedly, and if it weren't for the earth's gravity.”

“Try hard, another three meters, and you're on top.”

“My leg hurts, I can't do it,” Igor confessed frustrated. “I can't reach it from the ground, I need an airship.”

Now Sanya also saw a rabbit. The fat, red-eyed beast climbed up high and put its front paws around the trunk. Snorting menacingly, it arched its back and raised the hair on its scruff.

“Shall I bait it with sour cream? Hey you! You're not a cat, you're a canary! Fly, don't be afraid!”

“X-x-x. He doesn't want to, stupid. Here's a lesson for you! They made an idiot out of the noblest animal.”

Sanya took off his shoes, sat down on the grass, cushioning his heels:

“Look, what happens. Suppose I grew old all of a sudden. Or I got sick. And then, as you say, some scoundrel is sentenced to death. He's sitting in his cell, waiting for the verdict, laughing at my gray hair and holding a grudge against our respectable society. And we take it and shove my consciousness inside him. This scoundrel's consciousness, understandably, is consigned to a well-deserved oblivion. Vengeance is done – society is happy. And I am young again, handsome, catching a thousand more rabbits, benefiting society. Only, dibs, I'm first in line – I invented it.”

“Maybe, maybe. Yes, Sanya, that's probably how it's going to be. But how do we get it out?”

We have to find a ladder.

“Or the rich and, let's say, sick, can always buy a poor man's body. How do you like this perspective?” Sanya continued to philosophize, not listening to his comrade.

“That, my friend, horrible prospects. There was organ transplantation, and now people will be traded.”

“Well, that's true. It's something to think about.”

“Yes,” agreed Igor, looking up anxiously. “My father says it may all come to a standstill. Like cloning. And maybe it is right. As a discovery, interesting. But in terms of morality. The rich will wear out the bodies and change them like shirts. Use them and throw them away. You wear them out and throw them in the trash. Drugs, drinking, sex – no brakes, no instinct for self-preservation, world-attraction. Forever. Worn out for the year, got a new one – that's who's happy.”

“What a pity,” Sanya thought, lowering his head. “You've upset me something.”

“We're not ready for such discoveries, that's what I think. We're savages yet. Speaking of savages, what did you promise that “Papuan”?” Igor averted from the rabbit and looked suspiciously at his friend.

“The lump, the fat one?”

“He's not fat – he's fat. Sanya, if you bend before every beast, then. Why didn't you send him away? You said: “From Monday I'm a new man,” so what? Doing an abstract for him?”

“He took me by surprise.”

“Once again. I mean, like always. Shit, Alex, stop looking for excuses for your cowardice.”

Sanya made an angry face, put his hands on the ground, got up and, standing on one foot, began to pull on his shoes, muttering:

“You're a fighter, well, of course. You decided so. And I'm just a weak-willed phlegm. Just a mistake, my friend. You live by the rules you've accepted, and you think they're yours. You think they weren't forced on you. Yeah! You think you're living your life the way you want? Yeah! Only dick! Remember when you were a kid and your mom told you not to go camping? And you started telling me it was a waste of time. You read books you didn't want to read, went to the Olympics you couldn't stand.

You dreamed of being a submariner, but what are you going to be? Likewise, you're the one who lives by orders! And I. And I'm just kind. It's not cowardice, it's kindness. And besides, to be honest. You don't let yourself get hurt, that's good. How many times have you had your nose broken? Twice. Remember the surgeries? Your nose was blue and swollen. For three months you were in pain. And what did you prove to whom? You don't forgive insults. Well, that's your business. I don't interfere. And I forgive, but,” Sanya lifted his face up and pointed a finger at his nose. “It was never broken. Healthy and sound, it draws air – vacuum cleaners are jealous!”

Igor stood up, grinned, and, patting his friend on the shoulder, quietly said:

“Congratulations. Good for you. You know, I'll get it myself. I'll get it myself, you know.” He hesitated, biting his lower lip, trying to find the words. “I thought you could change. And you don't even want to. I don't need a friend like that. I always said: He'll show himself! But I was wrong.” Igor thought for a moment, and then added with resentment in his voice: “So, in your opinion, I do not have an opinion, and I agree with everyone. I live according to my orders.”

“Well, I didn't say that,” as if making excuses, Sanya said.

“No, that's exactly what you said.”

“Are you offended?”

“No. I just don't like hypocrites.”

“Oh, I'm not only a coward, but also a hypocrite!”

“Yes, a hypocrite.”

“Okay, bye!” Sanya abruptly turned around and took quick steps in the direction of the institute.

“A diligent slave! Take care of your nose!” Igor shouted after him.

Houshi said: “Secret admirers are like airplanes flashing in the night sky. All the time you wonder what you need them for.”

Rita usually came to lectures ahead of time. The end rows near the window were her favorite. She always took the two adjoining chairs for her girlfriends. And while the auditorium slowly filled, while no one asked for advice or distracted her with questions and complaints, she immersed herself in reading.

Every morning, day after day, for a year and a half now, there was an envelope waiting for her in the mailbox. She did not open it at once, stretched her pleasure, wondering who he would call her today? What will he tell her? Enjoyed the anticipation, while her father or Vadim, a contender for the role of groom, drove her to the institute.

How nice to receive a kind, exciting, long-awaited letter. Not an email, not a text message, but just this, written in a hurried, uneven handwriting. It comes from somewhere far away, from past romantic times. The return address and the sender's name are fictitious. The crumpled pages read imperceptibly occupied the two drawers of her desk.

Somehow foolishly she told about the secret admirer Vadim, and he made a scene. She probably wanted to make the young man a little jealous. When she got pretty fed up with his jealousy, she told him to shut up and be a man. She also said something offensive that made him blush, but he shut up and never spoke of it again. Rita knew she was smarter than him, and he guessed, so he never argued and obediently capitulated to every whim.

While the students were seated, she furtively glanced around as she read the letter. This, too, had become a sort of habit. Once she caught someone's eye, she immediately tried on that person what she had just read. “Could it be him? Why not? I don't think so, I don't think so.”

The letters were very unusual and touching. They were revelations. They were written by a kind, observant man. Oh, how he knew how to admire the little things, how the leaves of the shrubbery sway, how the wind suddenly sweeps across the open water, how the young moon “rustles” over his head. But most importantly, of course – he admired her, Rita. It seemed that he was always there, catches every movement, knows her thoughts and moods. It bothered him when she was upset. And then the letters are full of anxiety for her health, whether someone has hurt her? Is she valued? Love? With every line he empathizes, as if he himself is in physical anguish from her failures. But it is worth a girl to laugh, just smile, and tomorrow the secret admirer will tell how happy he is. How happy he was raining, how he smiled at passersby all evening for no reason, how he wanted to make everyone happy, and he picked up a kitten in the street. He then went to the website of beginner poets and wrote a million warm reviews, calling friends, saying how much he misses them, how much he loves them.

However, no one she knew could or would write such letters. How to find out who he was? How to see him? And if he suddenly disappeared. After all, she was so used to it. She had long wanted to talk to him, to write answers.

Let him buy himself something purple, or at least yellow. There are too many blue cars in our town. If he wants to possess the most original of women, let him start with a car. But then again, maybe he shouldn't now.

No one gave me a ride. You came on your own. I like the way you walk. These legs should walk more often. They're amazing at it. But I don't like the shoes. They hurt you. You're stepping, and my chest just feels like it's clenching. And when you twisted your heel, my eyes went black. I thought the sky was covered in mud. Then suddenly I heard someone playing on a disturbed piano, and it smelled cold, and the painting fell from the tripod, and the oil paints on the canvas. This painting, I did not make it up, believe me, suddenly I saw it in the corridor on the third floor. It's all dusty, it's been hanging there for a long time. But now I know why it's like that. I began to believe that what happens to us now is reflected in our past. Yesterday you were sad, so once upon a time, maybe a million years ago, there was thunder and rain and torrents coming down from the mountains and people were drowning in their caves. Don't be sad, have pity on them. Let there be sunshine.

Something happened. I was convinced of that again when I looked at your hands. When you're worried, you start twisting your hair on the index finger of your left hand, or suddenly, you tap your fists lightly on your knee.

I guess you didn't just fight, you broke up. Dad was against it, of course. He was fine with Vadim. But you'd already made up your mind. Dad, like me, loves you too much. He lost, if only because he didn't take you to class. Then he called, asking how you got there. You told him off, got angry. Your lips pressed together. I listened. You can be cruel, they told me. I did not believe it. I don't believe it now. I don't know what it was yet. But they're wrong. You were very nervous afterwards. And that made me love you even more. I cared about you. To make you feel a little better.

You did the right thing. You did a lot of thinking, I know. He's not right for you. He's rich, your parents have a business together, and that's all – nothing else in common. You'll never talk to him about poetry, he won't share his secrets. He won't be able to tell you about yourself. He's not the right man. Don't think I'm claiming his place. Not in the least, no! I know my place. That one will be very different. A very handsome, intelligent, strong man. He'll be a pillar for you. One you can be proud of.

You're an angel. A mere mortal would crush your wings. But if someone dares to stand next to you, take your hand, it must be the most extraordinary, outstanding of people. A personality.”

“They are so similar and at the same time different, these letters,” the girl thought. “They are both joyful and frustrating. How naive, he doesn't know people at all. And he doesn't know me. All these raptures of his. Yes, it is interesting to read about it, but I do not share these raptures. I can't even think like him. I'm rude, cynical, gray. Like everyone else. I'm just like everyone else. Nothing original. Manipulating people, taking what I want from life. Never forgave anyone, never asked forgiveness from anyone. Beauty and intelligentsia allowed me to think that I was higher, better than others, and therefore have the right to claim something more, to demand special attention. He writes about something else entirely. About some delicate nature, a pure soul, and I am ashamed, ashamed that he is wrong, that it is not me at all. Who is he?” Rita wondered.

“Yesterday he took Tsvetaeva's poems from the library. Have you read it?” he once wrote.

And the girl went to the library across from the institute, to find out who had taken the book, but there had been renovations for a month.

“I sat behind you,” somehow flashed in the letter. And she asked her friends and tried to remember who and where she had been that day, but nothing came out either.

“And my unfortunate friend broke his arm.” Was another clue. She hooked everyone up. Girlfriends checked with friends, friends checked with acquaintances.

Finding him, finding out who he was, became the meaning of life. But that summer had been rife with injuries-two had broken their legs, seven had concussions, one had been run over by a car, there was nothing left alive, but that did not count. She was told about the sprains and bruises and scratches, and that, alas, was no comfort. Only the broken arms, oddly enough, pleased the girl.

Again and again Rita read the lines – somewhere here, right now, she would find a clue. He was bound to give himself away.

The circle was slowly but narrowing. She could already count the “suspects” on the fingers of one hand. She furtively looked at each one, checked on them with acquaintances, talked to their friends. There was little doubt. The image of the main candidate loomed clearer than the others.

“Meet him,” Rita asked her friend once. “Tell me all about it Sasha. Or even, you know, I have an idea.

Rita has many friends, but Angela and Taisia are the closest. It was a mistake to ask Taya for a favor, but to go openly she was afraid – he would immediately realize that she knows.

Igor, San's friend, was surprised when, out of the blue, Rita came on to him. At first, he even thought that she was interested in him. But the girl was so interested in his father's latest research, was so worried whether it would be banned, as written on the Internet, that the young man, believing in her sincerity, with gusto began to talk about the latest experiments.

“And your friends are also interested?” she asked.

“Of course they are!” Igor answered. “Misha even joined his father as a laboratory assistant.

“And this. Sasha, I think?”

“And Sanya, of course! We even fought with him. Is science so necessary? Is all knowledge useful? Here we can argue endlessly. What do you get? Imagine, Rita.” And he started to develop the topic.

“He's funny, your Alexander,” said Taya, just before the lecture. “He's cute. He's skinny, but he needs a little extra nourishment. I had one of those once. He did such tricks, you wouldn't say he was weak.”

Rita was already regretting asking her friend. The plan was to meet Sasha through her, as if by chance. Taisia was almost perfect for this role: outgoing, funny, sexy. True, it was this last point was a little embarrassing.

“I told him, Hello, Alexander.” said Taya, casting languid glances at her friend for effect. “I hear you read so much. How my lonely life now lacks a good, proper book. Be my friend, recommend me something good, about love.”

“And him?”

“Read Stendhal's “Red and Black”, he says. It's a very interesting story. But it may be a little masculine. And you know, he says, he has such a kind, kind face, like an angel. He thought about it, he looked up. I shuddered with desire. Well, I think, boy, today you will try a real woman. And he looks like a chick, he's a cutie. You're he says, probably more interesting that the main character was a woman. Then maybe, “Singing in a blackthorn”. Uh! That's my beauty! I said to him, “Alexander, you just said, 'Singing in a blackthorn tree', and your lips shone so much. Your lips are so sensitive and soft. Very sexy lips, Alexander. I'll definitely read your book. I want it right now.”

“Come on,” Rita got angry. “What's the deal?”

“Girlfriend, my favorite, you're so angry in vain. Do you think I'm making it up? Do you know how he looked at me? His gaze crept over my man-starved breasts, and my defenseless bare legs trembled with hungry. Oh! I've got it! His gaze was bleeding with saliva. That's the most accurate definition. If no one was around.”

“Well, that's enough. You're going out tonight, aren't you?”

“Oh, you can be such a drag.” Said Taya tiredly. “In the park near your house, by the fountain, at nine o'clock we'll find each other, and he'll give me a book. At the café, with the sound of light jazz, he'll buy me a cocktail with the last of his money. And if you don't show up right away, believe me, tonight this book will contain pages about me, Sanya, and the craziest love on Earth. The pages will be sealed with the seal of our passionate secret union. Ha-ha-ha.”

“I'll show up,” Rita smiled. “Do not worry.”

“Good for you,” said Taya in a sudden, sad low voice. “Everyone loves you. Carry you. And Vadim dumped. And once I dated him, too. Avenged me – right? Are you going to leave this one too? Are you jealous?”

“Jealous of what? Your skinny nerd?”

Houshi said: “Scientists are inventing a sieve to carry water in. I'm old, I'll die with a bucket.”

The lecture was coming to an end. By the way, the audience murmured, Sanya realized that he had missed the most interesting part. Answers and questions, that's half an hour at most. Too bad – so much wanted to know.

Pavel Igorevich paced back and forth, answering not in the hall, but somewhere to the side, as if talking to himself. Sanya noticed a vacant chair at the very bottom of the podium. It wasn't easy to get to it.

“It's hard to answer,” Pavel spoke a little hastily. “We always analyze consequences, not causes. All science is built on this. We take a given and draw conclusions. The acceleration of free fall is nine and a penny, well, almost ten,” he said, looking at the ceiling, smiling to himself. “And it could have been ten thousand. I, by the way, do not agree. Why wasn't I consulted by the one who laid the foundations, who came up with the density and weight of the atom? Or the speed of the electrical signal. Evolution! From the simple to the complex! And why? Well, there are, of course, phenomena, like Yegor Nemichev. It's an unicum, it should be studied. This is a revolt of matter, nonsense! On the example of this individual we observe an inexplicable phenomenon, a natural paradox – reverse evolution.”

Laughter erupted in the hall.

“Why me again? Block was indignant.”

“Yegor, our institute is interested in you only as a living embodiment of the missing link. Darwin would carry you on his arms. I asked you to stop chewing. Next time I'll buy you bananas and feed you before the show, I promise. Tonight, be patient!” The professor went on. “I'm distracted. Where was I going with that? Here. We don't know how it happens yet. But it's not at all what we're used to. It contradicts what we know. Consciousness, the soul, the inner world now takes on some other meaning. Abstractions are in the past. Now let's try it by touch!”

A wave of applause swept through the hall and an enthusiastic “ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh!”

Igor raised his hand, waiting for silence.

“May I ask you a question?” came from the back of the audience.

“Please.”

Sanya finally got to the cherished chair, sat down, and, hearing a familiar voice, smiled: Rita.

“Pavel Igorevich, you demonstrated the abilities of animals with replaced consciousness. How much have their habits changed? No, we saw something, but how to express it? After all, the size of the brain, and therefore the potential, is very different. Put Edison's brain in a chicken's skull and nothing changes. It's not enough to invent a light bulb, it's not enough to flip a switch.”

“Yeah!” The lecturer nodded a few times. “That's what we thought too, but.” He paused. “I'll make it clear right away. It's a theory. And we're studying it. Example. We change your consciousness, let's say, and the chicken's.

“Ooh! New chronicles of Rita! Our prude is going to get even smarter!” Someone exclaimed, and a wave of laughter swept from the podium to the door.

“What a mooing!” Rita threw back. “Stuff consciousness of newt in your Neanderthal skull, and from the excess of information your soft head will swell like a balloon.”

“Rita, don't be offended. You'll be the record-breaker among laying hens.”

“How wrong your parents were. Aggressive boys shouldn't be put in dumb corners for long.”

Several voices hissed at the arguers:

“Don't listen to me! You're making a scene.”

“Did I touch him? Why was he so worked up?” Rita excused herself. “It was not me who hammered nails into his forehead as a child.”

Pavel Igorevich continued:

“So. There was a suggestion that this is some form of telepathy. That is, I feel and control someone else's body, but I control it from my own. The command center remains the same. But, no. The test cat was falling asleep, and his brain was with him. He did not show any activity. And if the theory is correct, the brain should work – to control another's body.

So, what was decided? They decided that consciousness is an energy with memory. An energy capable of analyzing and evolving. In essence, it is self-sufficient. It's hard to believe, but this self of ours can do without us, pardon the tautology. Give it a body, and. Someday we'll learn how to isolate consciousness and keep it spiked in cones.” The professor chuckled and looked up dreamily. “Not yet.

So far, only transferring from one head to another. But just imagine what prospects. How important it is for science. What do you get? It turns out: consciousness is a substance that can improve infinitely. Great minds will not go, nowhere, they will stay to serve science. Let's preserve and open them like a jar with compote! Can you imagine, if Archimedes had lived in our time!”

“May I ask, Pavel Igorevich?” shouted one of the students.

“If you please.”

“When will there be experiments on human consciousness?”

The professor thought:

“Interesting question. You need permission for that. We made a request, but. There will be one experiment. At our own risk. But, as they say, there are no winners. Yes?” He smiled. “We want to change the minds of two people. Not for long, a few hours would be enough too.”

“And when? How will it be?”

There was a pause. The professor began to scratch the back of his head in puzzlement:

“What, you can not wait?”

“Why wait? Let's wait for them to steal our discovery!”

“So, is anyone ready? Anyone willing to take part in the experiment?”

There was a silence in the auditorium, and then the students whispered, looking at each other and shrugging their shoulders uncertainly.

“To be one of the first is honorable,” Sanya thought. “Except what will happen to those monkeys and mice tomorrow? Maybe the liver will fail, will go crazy, will burst like soap bubbles. Who knows? Who knows?”

And everyone had similar thoughts, fear fighting curiosity in everyone.

“Nerd, why are you sitting there? Pull out your hand.” I heard from the right.

“Come on! Come on!” came from the other side.

He pressed himself into a chair, put his head down.

“Sanya wants!” shouted someone. “Sanya, get up! Do not be shy!”

“Courage, nerd!” And his neighbor on the left poked him in the side.

“Do we know each other?” Sanya tried to get indignant.

“Don't be shy, you'll be as famous as Gagarin.”

“Sorry, but you probably shouldn't poke me.”

A crumpled notebook page flew into the back of Sanya's head.

“Well, what is it?” Sanya was indignant and rose from his chair, looking around for the offender.

“Well done, Sanek! Bravo! Here he is our hero!”

The audience applauded.

“What's that got to do with me?” I didn't have time to finish when I heard.

“Alexander, you?” It was the surprised voice of Pavel Igorevich.

Sanya looked around and confusedly spread his hands.

“Why!” The professor said cheerfully. “In my opinion, the candidate is worthy! Honestly, I did not expect. Who else? We need another one!”

“No, I must refuse. Explain that I won't make it,” Sanya thought, fighting a panic attack. “After all, for such a thing he must be prepared physically and mentally. And in general, it can happen so that.”

He was ready to shout that there had been a misunderstanding, that he had changed his mind, that he was sick, and had to leave immediately. But something happened which changed his mind, and he stood there with his hand raised and his mouth hanging open.

“May I?” A familiar girl's voice rang out, and a relaxed hand with thin fingers fluttered upward.

With her other hand the girl brushed her bangs from her forehead and stood up. She was smiling, but when she looked at Sanya she became serious, and in her gaze there was a sneer, an irony. Her whole figure expressed confidence, superiority-it was Rita.

Houshi said: “Even he who runs fast can't catch up with he who runs slowly.

The Cuban hit the brakes hard, twisted the steering wheel to the right, and the car raced, barely making the turn, tearing the rear bumpers off the parked cars. His car was picking up speed again. The Fiat that followed didn't do that. Not having enough time to drop the gas, he flew into the outermost minibus. The clang of iron, the clang of glass and a chorus of frantic alarms.

“Keep to the speed limit,” said the Cuban, a smile appearing and disappearing on his tanned, cheekbone face.

Continuing to press the pedal, he smoked, but did not have time to exhale the smoke: at the intersection on the right his car was rammed by a jeep. The car flew for five meters. The jeep, without stopping, dug into the crumpled side and, roaring frantically with the engine, dragged the car down the road.

For a second, Kubinec lost consciousness. When he woke up, he found his face and arm covered in blood, his leg seemingly wedged between the pedals, and a cigarette, a goddamn cigarette, falling out of his mouth. He leaned over and, overcoming the pain in his shoulder, fumbled with his hand under the seat. Fumbled for it.

The restless jeep dragged the car ten meters and pinned it against the pole.

Shards of glass flew down the back of my neck. The door jerked open, curved, and a plastic handle slammed into my thigh.

“Where do you get your license?” Shaking his head, Kubinec was indignant to himself.

He moved his leg. A prickly pain reverberated in his heel. He took a cigarette to his lips, took a puff, drew his pistol from his belt and at short intervals took aim at the windshield of the jeep. It seemed that he was not the only one who had thought of the idea. The machine-gun fire that followed in response slashed the hood, pierced the roof, and pierced the seats. Miraculously, not a single bullet reached its target. From above, sunlight slid into the holes and blinded him. It became silent, and in that silence one could hear the machine gun clicking in the interior of the jeep, the horn on it being changed. Crouching as low as he could, Kubinec reached into the glove compartment for a second clip. Fumbled for something hard, cold:

“How could I forget. Don't split up. Guys, pull up, hold hands.” He stood up a little and saw that there were two men in the jeep. The driver bent over and pressed against the seat on the right. And the shooter is the one behind the back hiding behind the backrest.

The Cuban pulled out a grenade, pulled the pin …

Took a few minutes to get out of the car. In a hurry. Pulled a hamstring. Glimpsed the wrecked jeep. Smoke billowed from the interior, the smell of burnt meat and burnt rubber hit the nose.

“I'd dig in my pockets, see if I could find some ID? I wish I knew who they were. No time. It doesn't really matter. Time, time, time! Helicopter?”

He looked up, searched with his eyes – no sight. But the sound got louder and louder. If “those” find it, hardly any more luck. He thought back to yesterday.

“Could it be a coincidence? Maybe… Yesterday, when I met the load, there was a helicopter, too. Then a chase. Barely got away.”

Struggling with pain and limping, he walked around the SUV and approached the trunk of his car. The keys jingled. The hood door creaked open. He exhaled a sigh of relief. It was safe. The tool was intact, that's all that mattered.

Several cars drove by. Each of them Cuban suspiciously spent a glance. Soon an old Opel stopped nearby. The driver, an elderly man, exclaimed through the lowered window:

“What a terrible accident! Do you need help? I have a first-aid kit, I'll help you.”

“No, no,” Kubinec hastened to refuse. “I do not need help. “Then he thought about it and asked: But you could do the country a favor?” The door creaked, and a foot stepped on the pavement. “What will we become if we don't take care of our country?”

After the confrontation, the shooting and the explosion, it's all like a blur.

“Something's not right here. Something's not right,” the thought flashed. “Yes, you're right. How timely you are, though. How timely.” The Cuban took out his cello and slammed the trunk. “I have a favor to ask of you as a citizen. I am a security agent,” he said with a challenge. “A satellite has dropped out of orbit. I urgently need to get to the design center. Can you give me a lift?”

“And who is this?” The kind-hearted man nodded in the direction of the jeep.

“The Chief Designer and. I can't remember the last name, the public relations specialist. Nice guy, a widower,” he added for some reason. “We had to evacuate people, the whole neighborhood. They were in a hurry and. They couldn't cope with the traffic, they crashed into each other, can you imagine?”

“They're still alive, aren't they?”

The Cuban turned to the jeep and stretched his neck.

“Alas,” he said frustratedly. “I'm afraid the mission control center is without a supervisor.”

“I see you have difficulty holding it. Give me your contrabass.”

“Don't worry about it. Let's hurry up. The satellite changes trajectory every half…” He didn't finish.

The pistol that had appeared in the hands of the hearty man aimed straight at the tanned, cheekbone face of the security agent, discouraging any further dialogue.

“That's what was wrong!” A late hunch dawned on me. “He speaks English. Here, in Ukraine, they seem to speak some other. Definitely some other.”

“I must insist. This cargo could be very harmful to your health. Give it back.”

The Cuban whimpered like a capricious child:

“My grandfather played this instrument. What do you need it for? Do you know how to take care of it? The wood, it cracks. And if it gets wet.”

The kind-hearted man took a step back, lowered the muzzle a little, and shot the owner of the instrument in the leg. The jeans on his shin were torn, and a red stain appeared around the tear. The Cuban wrapped his arms around the spot and fell.

The bullet only scratched and burned the skin, but the shooter didn't need to know that yet.

“When they don't give, I take,” the wounded man heard. “I had three brothers. They never shared with me.”

“Dude, you could have left the gun out. If you'd told me about my brothers, I'd have given it to you.”

“Well, that's enough talk, Castro. You know what I want.”

“From where? This is the first time I've seen you. And who the hell is Castro? I'm Paulo Istroni, Italian-American. I play in the Danvers Symphony Orchestra. We're on tour… Here, now,” he goes into his pocket.