Read Online Definitely Maybe by Arkady Strugatsky, Boris Strugatsky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Arkady Strugatsky, Boris Strugatsky
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regular of course, but fossilized, from the ninth century. He was always bugging his friends to show him their change—looking for a special copper coin. And he was always grabbing your mail or begging for your postmarked envelopes.
And with all that, he knew his business. He had been a department head in his institute for a long time, was a member of twenty various commissions, both Soviet and international, was always traveling abroad to all kinds of congresses, and was just around the corner from a full professorship. He held Vecherovsky in the highest esteem of all his friends, because Vecherovsky was a state prize laureate, and Val dreamed of becoming one himself. He must have told Malianov a hundred times how he would put on the medal and wear it on adate. He was always a blowhard. He was a brilliant raconteur, and the dullest common events became dramas from Graham Greene or Le Carré in his retelling. But, strange as it seems, he lied very rarely and was horribly embarrassed when caught in one. For some unknown reason Irina did not like him. Malianov suspected that in their early years, before Bobchik was born, Weingarten made a pass at Irina, and she rejected him. Weingarten was a master at making out, not that he was a sex fiend or a degenerate—no, he was joyful, energetic, and as prepared for defeat as for victory. Every date was an adventure, no matter what its outcome. His wife, Sveta, an unbelievably beautiful woman, but subject to depression, had accepted his womanizing a long time ago, particularly since he doted upon her and was always getting into fights over her in public places. He liked brawling in general—it was a masochistic act to enter a restaurant in his company. In short, he had lived a smooth, happy, and successful life without any major upheavals.
Strange things began happening to him, it turned out, some two weeks before, when the series of experiments begun the previous year suddenly started yielding completely unexpected, and even sensational, results. (“You, old buddies, wouldn’t be able to understand, it has to do with reverse transcriptase—it is an RNA-dependent DNA polymerase, that’s an enzyme in the makeup of oncornaviruses, and that, I can tell you right off, buddies, smells like the Nobel Prize to me.”) In his labs no one other than Weingarten himself appreciated the results. Most of them, the way it usually is, didn’t give a damn, and other creative individuals simply decided that the series of tests was a failure. Since it was summer, everyone was impatient to go on vacation. Weingarten wouldn’t sign anyone’s leave papers. There was an uproar—hurt feelings, local grievance committee, the Party bureau meeting. And in the heat of the battle, at one of the hearings, Weingarten wassemiofficially informed that there was a plan afoot to name Comrade Valentin Andreevich Weingarten as director of the newest, supermodern biological center then under construction in Dobroliubov.
This information made Comrade Weingarten’s head spin, but he nevertheless realized that the directorship was, first of all, just a bird in the bush, and if and when it became a bird in the hand it would, secondly, get V. A. Weingarten out of creative lab work for at least a year and a half, maybe two. And meanwhile the Nobel Prize was the Nobel Prize, buddies.
Therefore Weingarten simply promised to think it over and went back to his lab and the mysterious reverse transcriptase and the unending brouhaha. Just two days later he was called into the chief academician’s office and quizzed about his current project. (“I kept a tight lock on my lips, buddies, I was extremely controlled.”) It was suggested that he drop this questionable nonsense and take up the problem of such and such, which was of great economic significance, and therefore promising great material and spiritual rewards, which the chief academician was willing to bet his own head on.
Flabbergasted by all these vistas suddenly
And with all that, he knew his business. He had been a department head in his institute for a long time, was a member of twenty various commissions, both Soviet and international, was always traveling abroad to all kinds of congresses, and was just around the corner from a full professorship. He held Vecherovsky in the highest esteem of all his friends, because Vecherovsky was a state prize laureate, and Val dreamed of becoming one himself. He must have told Malianov a hundred times how he would put on the medal and wear it on adate. He was always a blowhard. He was a brilliant raconteur, and the dullest common events became dramas from Graham Greene or Le Carré in his retelling. But, strange as it seems, he lied very rarely and was horribly embarrassed when caught in one. For some unknown reason Irina did not like him. Malianov suspected that in their early years, before Bobchik was born, Weingarten made a pass at Irina, and she rejected him. Weingarten was a master at making out, not that he was a sex fiend or a degenerate—no, he was joyful, energetic, and as prepared for defeat as for victory. Every date was an adventure, no matter what its outcome. His wife, Sveta, an unbelievably beautiful woman, but subject to depression, had accepted his womanizing a long time ago, particularly since he doted upon her and was always getting into fights over her in public places. He liked brawling in general—it was a masochistic act to enter a restaurant in his company. In short, he had lived a smooth, happy, and successful life without any major upheavals.
Strange things began happening to him, it turned out, some two weeks before, when the series of experiments begun the previous year suddenly started yielding completely unexpected, and even sensational, results. (“You, old buddies, wouldn’t be able to understand, it has to do with reverse transcriptase—it is an RNA-dependent DNA polymerase, that’s an enzyme in the makeup of oncornaviruses, and that, I can tell you right off, buddies, smells like the Nobel Prize to me.”) In his labs no one other than Weingarten himself appreciated the results. Most of them, the way it usually is, didn’t give a damn, and other creative individuals simply decided that the series of tests was a failure. Since it was summer, everyone was impatient to go on vacation. Weingarten wouldn’t sign anyone’s leave papers. There was an uproar—hurt feelings, local grievance committee, the Party bureau meeting. And in the heat of the battle, at one of the hearings, Weingarten wassemiofficially informed that there was a plan afoot to name Comrade Valentin Andreevich Weingarten as director of the newest, supermodern biological center then under construction in Dobroliubov.
This information made Comrade Weingarten’s head spin, but he nevertheless realized that the directorship was, first of all, just a bird in the bush, and if and when it became a bird in the hand it would, secondly, get V. A. Weingarten out of creative lab work for at least a year and a half, maybe two. And meanwhile the Nobel Prize was the Nobel Prize, buddies.
Therefore Weingarten simply promised to think it over and went back to his lab and the mysterious reverse transcriptase and the unending brouhaha. Just two days later he was called into the chief academician’s office and quizzed about his current project. (“I kept a tight lock on my lips, buddies, I was extremely controlled.”) It was suggested that he drop this questionable nonsense and take up the problem of such and such, which was of great economic significance, and therefore promising great material and spiritual rewards, which the chief academician was willing to bet his own head on.
Flabbergasted by all these vistas suddenly
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