# The cat's house

Pavel Shumil

(Жестокая сказка N5. Кошкин дом)

-- ENGLISH --

(Translated from Russian by Alone Coder)

Some words from the author...

Over two years the seminar of Boris Natanovich Strugatski drowsily runs on the SF story competition on the subject of "12 June 2018". Either Boris Natanovich expressly selects for resound the faintest stories (for the members of seminar to learn other's errors), or there are another reasons, but at all events the SF story competition has grown into the competition of nightmares. Who can scare best of all. Problems are all absent, and every other story has relation neither to SF, nor to the subject of the competition. Where has this tendency sprung from? Is this crisis of genre?

I'm getting rattled even more by the fact that the weak, marrow-minded, messageless stories receive the full marks for the pencraft. Not for the content, but for the form. Art for art. I was trusting that this trend had died out in the beginning of 20th century, but no such thing... It's rising...

In short, I was sitting down under that, then couldn't control myself - and wrote The Cat's House. Simply for assure myself that one can write a science fiction story on this subject.

That's the things...

Comics The cat's house

.


(C) Pavel Shumil


Shumilov Pavel Robertovich

HomePage: http://dragonbase.nek0.net/index.htm

HomePage: http://fan.lib.ru/s/shumil_p

HomePage: http://samlib.ru/s/shumil_p


Translated from Russian by Alone Coder

17 December 2006.

E-mail: alone_coder(at)mail.ru

Please e-mail me if you have found a mistake.


HARSH TALES


TALE #5


THE CAT'S HOUSE


"All my life I had a lack of processing power of computers.

At first a memory was so tiny that anything serious was out of it.

Suppose what kind of program one can start from a punched tape on

forty-eight kilobytes of RAM*? However somebody started... The

Covetous Knight... This character permanently pursued the programmers

of that time. To spin out every word, every byte... How otherwise, if

formula of the Moon's orbital movement contains more than thousand

terms. And you are given with only 32 k** of six-byte words for all.

Once I spent my both rest-days hammering a system module into a page

of RAM. Page is 1024 machine words. On a disk it is a zone. In a modern

way it is a cluster. Of course, I coded in assembly language. In

`autocode' if speak Russian. 300 commands didn't fit. I've driven them

in. Ten minutes per command. Yes, indeed, 3000 minutes. But what a

result! It's a pity that in a ten years a last BESM*** was written off.


------

* RAM - random access memory.

** k - kilo - 1024 units (usually bytes, not here).

*** BESM - High-speed Electronic Calculating Machine BESM-6.

------


"A new epoch began after that. Gradually the memory was improved.

Then the computational capability became chronically lacking. No doubt,

the problems had also been changed. And then this family of cluster

processors appeared. Suddenly I've found the comps* had reached an

ideal. With my `birdie' I can model any problem I can imagine. No, I

shan't start again with AI**..."


------

* comp - computer.

** AI - artificial intelligence.

------


Silva licks a paw, and begins to wash herself.


"Not interesting for you?"


"Tell. I hear," purr speakers somewhere in piles of old magazines

under the escritoire door.


"AI is area of potentially dangerous studies. You see, it's

impossible to create an AI. But it's possible to create conditions for

self-creation of AI. Human intelligence also evolves from one fertilised

ovum. I've made such an ovum as early as previous century. It's nice of

computer nets were in theirs infancy. Now my Sinter would cause troubles..."


Silva turns face up:


"Again these fables of the benefit of instincts?"


"Again," I sigh.


"You've got a lot of time," Silva stretches herself, arching the

back. "Get a dog, and persuade it. It will look into your eyes devotedly,

and will agree in everything."


Surely, Silva is right in many respects. Cats live fifteen years,

humans live much more. Silva has left behind her tail five years of her

fifteen. And she is right about dogs. Cats walk by themselves, and

easily look at kings. On TV. Where else one can see a live king? And the

talk on the instincts is like a trite disc, at 33 rpm. This dispute is

equally old and hopeless. But Silva loves me. I affirm that love is

instinct. And this only thing is enough to justify the benefit of

instincts. What does Silva say? That this is nonsense; that such a love

is not love but habit; that living in warmth and comfort is better than

living in hunger under the stairs. That it's enough for her that I love

her. Marriages for convenience are strongest. We are responsible for

everyone whom we tame*. Etc. Really nonsense. You see, now she sits, and

licks a back paw. Instinct? Instinct! Because she casts the coat. Later

she'll vomit hair.


------

* `Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoise'

(Antoine de Saint-Exupery. Le Petit Prince).

------


She ends licking paws, tries to wash behind an ear, and wrinkles up.


"Go here, I'll take the helmet off."


"F-f-f-f!"


"When you end wash I'll put it on."


A reproachful sight and a nervous tail twitching. We both stare

at the tail. The tail is one more argument in the dispute about instincts.

And so it was pressed by paw and licked.


Well, I haven't returned to computer version of AI. But somehow I

met a school friend, got to talking, and came to his job. I still remember

the date - 12 June 2018. White nights, empty corridors, sleepy granny

on a watch... We drank soluble coffee, and boasted, and recalled the

schoolmates. Then I downloaded a symbol analytics package from the net,

and aided him to set it up. I explained him what to do with a dead

printer/scanner. And I saw first time a cat in a neuroinductive helmet.

Not only saw, but also helped to put this helmet on, and to connect it

up. The cat was against...


It would be the end of the story, if... If I hadn't a cat at

home. Our supply department is still getting even with me for a set of

neuroinductors ordered allegedly by mistake. My friend is a good guy,

but he is medical. He had never been engaged in exploration seismology,

never processed the results of tomographic checkup. What I tell this

for? An analysis of 3D needs the most complicated mathematics. What is

done by Peter is a trifle and child's-play. The same as an electrode in

a brain, but without this electrode. Measuring in point. And his comp is

weak. It is new, but with a monoprocessor. It shall never bear 3D in

real-time.


I've made my helmet. I got ten elastic cat caps from Peter.

(He has hundreds. Cats hourly claw them.) I ordered the neuroinductors

through the supply department. I collected everything at home, ran it on

the comp, sweared hard, turned nasty, and for a week I adapted the

information concentrator chip. Without it the fifty inductors choked the

ether, and jammed each other. After the week of work it was late to cave

in. Or it was shame. To myself. Such a character I've got. Silva, of

course, was against a cap. But I had foreseen this. Feeding - only in a

head-dress. And after three `training' caps pulled apart, two bites, and

plural marks of claws, the consensus has been found. The time began, for

turn to a helmet with electronics.


I've obtained a primary rough picture of brain neuroactivity almost

at once. I was very helped by program package for oilfields exploration

seismology. Don't wonder. The content is the same. Multitudes of sensors

receive a superposition of the crowd of fields and waves. One needs to

puzzle out, what is the bottom of every wave.


I've puzzled out. Beautiful pictures on the screen - and all are in

conditional colours. I even wanted to call Peter for make a display, but

firstly I decided to teach myself a terminology. You can trust or not,

but what I've done is enough for a doctorate. Why? Because I am the

first! Because medical men don't practise oilfield exploration. Because

my picture is better by three orders of magnitude than what they ever

could gain. Because I had grabbed such a bulk of information about

cerebration as I couldn't conceive what to do with it. I even don't

know, how to explain. Maybe in this mush it's possible to fetch out and

to track every signal which has come into the brain. Now then I touch a

cat's whisker with a finger. And a bluish wave of displeasure is running

across the picture. I think this is displeasure. What this may be else?

Would you be pleasured if anyone touched your whiskers?


You follow me? My guesses have no relation to science. Science

- which I've downloaded from the net - is a Stone Age. Yes, I've gained

a terminology. Cortex, subcortex, dendrites, axons, exteroceptors,

interoceptors... What is in manuals and what is on screen facing me -

are like a photo near a stereofilm. There was neither dimension nor

action. It's early to display to Pete. Or it isn't to display at all. He

won't take in this. Not a programmer. Anyway he'll get at me. This info

is to be filtered and filtered. If I say him no, I'll be a scoundrel. To

dangle a goody - and not to give it...


Again I've edged into a foreign business. I've got that bad habit

- to bung up holes with myself. To edge myself into the place where nobody

is, while somebody is very wanted. And later it's impossible to edge

out. Because I am the only and irreplaceable. Working people trust and

rely on me...


In fine I haven't told anything to Pete. At first I decided to

twiddle some modellets on a computer, and to get manage (in case it

came to hand) of cat's mentality. I began with simplest. A negative

feedback. (This is when the comp not only reads the brain activity by

neuroinductors, but also depresses it slightly.) A positive feedback. An

oscillation. (This is when the feedback polarity is being changed

sinusoidally.) Positive to cortex, negative to subcortex, - etc. And

I've landed myself. I shan't amplify on details of know-how, but I've

attained... I've waked up an intellect of extraordinary strength in the

cat's brain. Why extraordinary? Try to compare the volume of the cat's

brain with human's one. For compensate chances compare not with adult

but with a 3-year child. Silva was about 3 years that time. And child's

brain is smaller than adult's one. However, all in all, it is larger

than cat's one by almost two orders of magnitude.


You can think as you want, but my geniality is that I've discerned

the wakening of intellect in Silva's behaviour. And just in this

filtration/inhibition/stimulation mode. Although firstly I had mistaken

it for usual "hang-up", a kind of drug dependency. The more so as in the

mode of the motor centres inactivation Silva looked like an addict under

a fix.


But Silva has come not only to like our experiments. She also grew

wiser distinctly. Have you ever seen a cat calling you to the computer?

And bearing the helmet? Dogs bear slippers to the owner. Achieve that

from a cat! And with no training. Hence I was knowingly searching a brain

region able to become a speech centre. And I've found one. The rest is

Silva's efforts. I dare hope they were deliberate efforts. Anyway she

talks so.


"Will you go sleep, or again in the Internet for all night?"


"I'll go," I sigh.


"Give me Seton Thompson, then."


I take an old-fashioned, yet 5-inch CD, slide it into equally

ancient drive. Silva has her own comp. Very small Compaq notebook, almost

20-year old. It contains only one PCMCIA with external CD-ROM, and has a

network controller on the motherboard. Just don't lay the blame on me

that I'm greedy to give a normal comp to my beloved cat. The problem is

merely technical. The notebook has a tiny keyboard, every key is paw

reachable. Would you be pleased to run along the keyboard? The screen is

black and white, but it is of no. Cats haven't full colour eyesight.

Hedgehogs are said to have. Silva says. She has read this somewhere, and

now envies them with a black envy.


Falling asleep I see Silva entering the net. She's got many friends

in the net. I was afraid of Silva would give away her inhuman nature by a

wrong phrase. You see, awareness levels of a 5-year old cat and of the

adult human vastly differ. We've developed a legend. By the legend Silva

is bedridden 7-year old prodigy girl. She uses the Internet without

dad's knowledge; so don't visit her. This is strong legend. Silva is

known in a dozen of chats. However I advised her to attend no voice

chats.


Boss fell asleep. According to a terminology used by humans I have

to call him owner. But I'm not keen to this word. Therefore he is Boss,

Big Chief, Descendant of Monkey, sometimes Tailless Monkey. But when he

very gets at me, he is Noseless Stinker. Truth to say I've never said that

aloud. This is terrible outrage. Double terrible because it is correct.

His sense of smell is at ground level. He knows it himself. But he says

that poor smell is compensated by the colour sight. Doubtful

compensation because his eyesight is poor too.


This isn't spite. This is logical and exact analysis of our strength

and weaknesses. And he's got more strength. I envy him with white and

black envies, but I give no sign. I envy him his longevity and size of

brain. For hide the envy I disguise it into a harmless peccadillo. Every

day I snarl with him about instincts. As if only a cold mind can rule the

world. This is a dreadful nonsense, but how many convincing arguments

one can give for prove it!


I glance into several chats by the way. I open the window of the

Night Cinema Hall. There is some endless serial. Ha! In the previous

series the hostess of the motel had a black cat, but in this series she

has changed in wonderful way into a tomcat. How do the people look such a

bosh? Switching to cartoons. Tom & Jerry. Even in English. I could learn

the language in a couple of months, but I fear. I fear with horror that

my memory would overflow. My brain is so small as compared with human's

one. And I am the first. The investigator. My memory overflowed, who

shall I be? Sclerotic or marasmic?


I close the unnecessary windows, and go out of Internet. Tonight,

according to plan, must be Seton Thompson. Wild Animals I Have Known.

But I suspect there are no animals. The same humans, but in another

dress.


I switch off the notebook, having the complex feeling. I've forgot

whom I was. I can give no more expert appraisal to the human's creative

work. And to dog with this past! 'One takes after his friends', as Boss

says. I sweetly stretch myself, arching the back. Who has concocted that

the cats are night animals? This is nothing but matter of upbringing.

Another is impossible to understand - why do I support Boss in this

error?


I switch off the light in the corridor. All the switchers in our

home are situated according the western standard - on the level of the

male feature of Boss. This is his token of goodwill. As if this symbolises

the equality of sentient beings.


There you are! Equality is equality, but he has slammed the lavatory

door again... O.K., I forgive for tonight, I shall not wake him up.


I jump onto the basket with the black linen, and perform an

acrobatic trick. Back paws are on the basket, front paws are on the

door-post. Now I paw the door-handle... I drop down on the floor. But

the task is fulfilled. The door is gone aside for an inch. I put the

claws out, and open it. How that at Voinovich? Who delivers the shit

perfectly...* Equality is equality, but Boss clears my shit away from

the box. Here is some homespun truth in everything.


------

* `КТО СДАЕТ ПРОДУКТ ВТОРИЧНЫЙ, ТОТ СНАБЖАЕТСЯ ОТЛИЧНО' и т.п. (Vladimir

Voinovich. Moscow 2042 - Владимир Войнович. Москва 2042). People of this

anti-Utopia receive meal tickets in exchange for their waste products.

------


I jump onto the bed towards Boss, make myself comfortable at his

legs, and yawn. It is necessary to remind him of Whiskas is coming to

end. And of potatoes he must not forget to buy for himself.


"Good morning, purrie."


"Purr-r-r."


In the morning I like to keep my bed for a half-hour. Silva likes

too. She purrs, and pushes me by front paws, as if stamps. But it's time!


"What would you like for a breakfast? Some forcemeat or a fish?"


"A sassage."


Silva and I love summer sausage. I was about to eat the last piece

of it. But seemingly I am not fated. I chop it into small pieces, and drop

them into Silva's saucer. Every affair has its own secrets. The saucer

must be warm - scalded by hot water from the tap. Because the sausage is

from freezer. While we can't wait long. We want eat. We paw the ground

from impatience.


I drink tea with milk, and with the light envy I watch Silva stuffing

down the sassage.


"What would you read today?"


"A medical encyclopaedia and Kant."


I insert the mentioned disks into the drives.


"Aren't you afraid of overfill your memory?"


"I'm afraid," Silva confesses, and jerks the tail nervously.


"Don't be bored. See you in the evening."


"Don't forget Whiskas, Deliss-complete, and potatoes."


While descending in the lift I reflect, for what is Kant for Silva.

I ought to read myself a little. Afterwards I ought to consider how to

persuade Silva to move to the country. Purrie regards herself as cyborg.

Half of mind is in the head, other half is in the computer. Though this

is not true. Comp only helps to activate the hidden reserves of the

brain. As a massage helps a sportsman. During phase of inhibition the

brain makes an effort, searches a detour, activates new bonds. When that

phase gives place to phase of stimulation, new bonds gain activity. Comp

is only a massager of brain convolutions. I explained this to Silva a

hundred of times. Switching off is safe. I switched it umpteen times for

a prophylaxis. To be sure I timed when pussy was asleep. But Silva is

still afraid of losing herself. She doesn't allow getting off the helmet

for more than five minutes. The country is two hours' journey. At first

by tube, afterwards by suburban train. That time the effect of outer

stimulation shall come to naught. In the first experiments I've measured

the duration of after-effect. It lasts from fifteen minutes to an hour.

Silva is prepared for two hours sit in the dark, in tightly closed

basket, if I attach the helmet to the notebook. But this is unreal. The

notebook is weak. It has ordinary processor, not cluster one.


Apart from practical matters like moving to the country the

philosophic ones worry us. More precisely, I am worried. Silva has

arranged all in pigeon-holes a long time ago.


"You've created no new civilisation," she claims. "You've created

a cyborg. Without your box I'm a beast. The box without me is a heap of

iron. Only together we cost something. But notice, both parts are

changeable. One can get another comp or another cat. You humans would

never replicate this experiment."


"Why?"


"A pride wouldn't allow you. Imagine - you put the helmet on

Milkie. Her brain is oho how big! She'd be one too many for all of you

by intellect. While she's got no hands. What result would be? You feed

her, water her, clear the shit after her. And she thinks instead of you

all. Who'd be the king of nature then, and who'd be the slave? And you

wouldn't dare send her to a slaughterhouse. A conscience wouldn't allow.

You don't slay your incurable madmen, you're ashamed. Even if Milkie

without helmet can't put two words together, she was reasonable. What

the hell you need this, then?"


She's right, stripy catty, she's right in all.


"Good morning, purrie!"


"Purr-r-r!"


I examine, how do emotions change on the cat's face. At first a

perplexity, then angry discontent. Silva jumps off the bed, hurries to

the notebook, presses the power button in. Musically chirping, the comp

wakes up. Silva opens the editor window, hastily clatters the keys by

paw, turns to me, and exactingly meows. I haven't heard such for a long

since... I throw off the blanket, putting feet into slippers.


"What with you?"


Message on screen: "Check speakers!!!"


I aim the remote at the comp, and press the button. The screen

turns alive, showing a TV window. It's a morning news program. Something

has sank somewhere, somewhat has been passed in second reading with the

advantage of three votes.


"Speakers work."


A discontent on cat's face turns into a fright.


"I can't speak," a paw hastily taps on the keyboard.


I sit down at the comp, calling NETSTAT. It's curious... I examine

logs.


"Your helmet turned off at two o'clock in the morning."


Silva is in panic.


"Don't worry, fluffie. The paradox of the situation is that if

you're afraid, then you must be afraid no longer. If really the helmet

worked, but you couldn't speak, then..."


I can see in her eyes, what does Silva think about these paradoxes.


"Go here, baby. I'll repair your helmet."


Silva jumps onto my knees. First time I see her gladly parting with

the helmet. I unfasten the inside with a sticker, take the multimeter...

The problem isn't worth twopence.


"FPC is dead," I report to Silva. FPC is Fuel Power Cell. In essence

it is the same battery, but ten times more expensive. In the theory they

can be refuelled with alcohol. But after refuelling they leak, and don't

bear wanted current. It would be more reliable to buy a new one.


"I'll buy while go from job."


Silva doesn't want to wait for my coming from job. She is ready

to any humiliation, but can't wait till evening. I call my job, and take

a half of day off.


Coming home from the shop, I found Silva online. In two chats at

once. Complaining friends about the destiny. About FPC is truth, the

rest is her violent fancy. The beginning of the dialogue is flown off

the screen, hence I can't understand where this FPC was. All together

are sympathising with her and blaming my unpracticality. While I exchange

the FPC, Silva fawns, and gores my elbow by the head. I put the helmet

on...


"... your mother! This way one can get stuttering!"


"Who taught you swear?"


"How it's good! As catching a mouse!"


"Silva, do you understand what happened?"


"A little catastrophe. Once more I've made sure of how much I

depend of your box."


"You've lived without helmet for ten hours. And haven't lose

yourself. What is the conclusion?"


Silva pricks up her ears.


"I'll take a vacation since Saturday, and we'll go to the country!

The summer is in full swing, while the beds aren't yet dug up."


I sit in the train, reading Rochefoucauld at Silva's will. Silva

couches on my shoulders, and also reads. As it turned out, she reads two

times faster than I do. Apparently, the point is brain size. Her brain

is more compact, so the impulses come faster. In my backpack the big

comp is placed, one bag contains food-stuffs, another bag contains

Silva's notebook, soldering iron, multimeter, and three tens CDs. This

is called, 'people go to nature for having a rest'.


I close Rochefoucauld, and Silva sniffs discontentedly. But I must

think about philosophic questions. Questions itch. The helmet happened

to be necessary only at initial stage. Stimulated brain has gained a new

property - a reason - and doesn't want to part. Every creature on the

Earth larger than a cat is potentially reasonable. No more insensate

large species! Dogs are reasonable, cows are reasonable, horses are

reasonable, and pigs are geniuses of mathematics. Giraffes, antelopes in

Africa, white bears, and Nile crocodiles. All of them are now brothers

in reason. And only I know this. The question is, does the whole humankind

need to know about this?


We eat meat. Almost every day. I like meat, and don't intend to

refuse it. Since yesterday I am cannibal. I eat brothers in reason. We

all are cannibals. Savagery! What will happen in case the humankind

received this bitter pill? Will it swallow, or choke?


"Dig me, kitten," I explain to Silva, "this helmet is very easy to

make. Even now a comp with helmet is worth less than five thousand bucks.

Using the specialised chips instead of a comp, the cost may be lowered

ten times. Maybe fifty times. Hundred bucks are not money. A month or

two - and new sentient being is ready. Even a rabbit or a Himalayan

Bruin if you like. Would Bruin turn to vegetarian diet? Would a wolf

do?"


"You skipped one point. Without a helmet we'll remain animals."


"A helmet is a trinket. We teach our children more than twenty

years. At a day nursery, at school, at university. Since school times

the children know virtual reality helmets and very complicated interactive

teaching programs. Maybe you don't believe it, but your helmet is just

a little more expensive than a virtual reality helmet. Two months in a

neurohelmet are a small coin against ten years of school. No more than

one more teaching program."


"But you're born reasonable."


"We're born POTENTIALLY reasonable. Read about Mowgli, Tarzan, and

what do real scientists think about them. And afterwards look at yourself

in the glass. You're only five, but your thinking style is completely

adult, IQ is high. So far your awareness level is retarded, but that'll

come."


Silva narrows her lids contentedly, licks a paw and tries to wash

behind an ear.


"How many years you were learning?"


"I've completed the institute at age of 23."


"Glo-o-om! Forget about animals, think about humans," she advises.

"Will or not appear another sentient species, this depends only on humans."


"They shall appear. What they'll do if they'll not appear? Dig me,

Purrie, the time of lone persons is over. Medical science nowadays is

placed on industrial footing. There are vast sums of money put up into

it. There's army of scientists. They shall not go by."


"You say, the time of lone persons is over? Look into a mirror."


I turn to the mirror and understand not immediately, what does Silva

imply.


"Ah, that's what you mean?! No, Silva, everything isn't the case.

I've used things invented by another army. There's more money put into

oil exploration than into medicine, so former has shot ahead. But this

is temporarily."


For long I meditate on the causes of the lag of the medicine. But

it isn't to think. Have we got another way? Can we refuse meat today?

Not on your life! Yes, there are talks about biofactories where the crops

of meat would grow in vats. Of beef, of whale's and bear's flesh, of

sea-lion's one... But very costly! Natural cow is eight times cheaper.

And will be cheaper for another fifty years.


So within the next fifty years it would be better for the humankind

to know nothing of my discovery. It is, the humankind, not physically

ready. I would provide for the humankind a shock with unpredictable

consequences, a hey-day of vegetarianism, a surge of suicides, a surge

of cold cynicism, and - as sequent - a falling cost of living by all the

moral categories.


Would the humankind want to starve and to turn, one and all, to

fruits and vegetables? No. We ate meat, we eat and we shall eat. Previously

we ate beasts, now we're eating sensible beings. Educated reasoners shall

eat uneducated ones. A standard of education as a protection from the

griddle. But here is one more criterion. A bull-calf can grow fat in a

year, while human booby grows no less than 18 years. It's not feasible

economically. Here is a new criterion for selection of reasoners.

Apropos it works both ways...


Solved! The humankind must know nothing. Though I'm a swine, though

- an evil genius, a black angel, a shit on a stick, but the stain shall

lie only on my conscience. I've made a discovery, so I'll make a covery.

It isn't new to me. I must do it!


Then, what I have in assets and liabilities for the covery? Let's

arrange in pigeon-holes.


Minuses: Accessibility of neuroinductors, of powerful comps, and of

mathematical packages for exploration seismology.


Pluses: A package of tomographic and tuned analysis is a general

infatuation of medical men. It doesn't bear here, but one needs to

understand this.


Pluses: Absence of any considerable amount of broad specialists.

Like me.


Minuses: One wizard will be enough. And these busters can gather

in groups of two or three men.


Pluses: My brilliant idea of training a brain. My know-how.

By-product of fifteen years' studies of artificial intelligence. I win

here a ten years or so...


What do the scales show? That I've simply outran the world for

about ten years. And afterwards some tousled post-graduate will come,

yesterday's student - and he'll repeat my great discovery for want of

anything better to do.


Conclusion: hushing up isn't enough. It's necessary to actively

bury the discovery. Such a damn! Again I've edged into other people's

business. And this business has engulfed me. Thoroughly. Like a fetid

swamp.


Silva flops by tail not averting her eye from the hole.


"It thinks I haven't another affairs!" speakers repine near the

TV. The comp itself is hidden under the table.


"Forget about it. I had a mousetrap somewhere."


"Just try! You'll eat it yourself!"


"It's my take!" I roar, grabbing Silva and falling onto the sofa.


"Guv, don't dare harm little ones!" the speakers pipe. Some time we

combat. Silva attacks and wins.


And a cat has two pa-irs of legs,

And she has leng-thy ta-il behind.

But do not da-re touch her affa-irs

For her own li-ttle height, little height!*


------

* `А у кошки четыре ноги, позади у неё длинный хвост. Но ты трогать ее

не моги за ее малый рост, малый рост' - song of a homeless boy (film

Republic of ShkID - Республика ШкИД).

------


I sing, spread-eagle on the sofa. Silva hears declining her head

aside.


"Very right song," she judges. "You're excused! But forget about

a mousetrap! Mice are mine. Don't dare catch or feed them."


"Agreed! But birds are mine."


"Big are yours, small are mine," Silva offers.


"The reverse - agreed."


"You take big birds and rats above!"


"Chaffer is out of place!*" I affirm categorically.


------

* `Я думаю, - сказал Ипполит Матвеевич, - что торг здесь неуместен!'

(I.Ilf, Y.Petrov. Diamonds to Seat On - И.Ильф, Е.Петров. 12 стульев)

------


"And worms for fishing," Silva plunks her last trump.


"I return you worms. I'll dig them in place. Well! You take small

birds, as well as plant-louses, gnats, Colorado and other bugs."


"You blackmailer. You win. But pigeons and larger are mine!"


"Deal! Give your fist!"


"Give your paw! You can take worms too."


"I'll never forget this, my darling. Every third fish is yours!"


Pleasured Silva raises the face for I take off the helmet, then

licks the pill of cat antisex from the saucer, winks at me, and goes to

a walk. Many affairs. She must examine and re-mark the plot... Or only

tomcats mark? I need to ask Silva. But an examination is required, as

well as making tomcats know `who is who'... Many affairs. While I

initiate a tea ceremony. A ritual. I wash a teapot thoroughly, to

squeak, then I scald it by boiling water. Two spoons of tea from one

packet, two from another. I mix up the mix, shaking up the teapot, I

smell an aroma, then sluice the teapot by hard boiling. Now - cover by

cap, and gulp back my slaver for four minutes and a half. I've even

bought sand-glasses for this business. For three minutes and for five.

There are no glasses made for four minutes and a half.


While tea infuses I throw up windows at veranda. Take off the cap,

smell a steam from the nose. Nice...


"Lavender, mountain lavender..." I hum pouring into small porcelain

cup on the saucer with blue edging*. I sup a tasting. A wondrous, supernal

taste. Delicate and a shade astringent. I sip the whole cup slowly. But

then the hunger arouses. Tea ceremonies are shelved to a buffet till the

next time. I pour the celestial potion into a table-glass, and put three

spoons of sugar and a spoon of jam above. The picture of the moral

falling is complemented by a sandwich of two split hot dogs on a thick

hunch of bread.


------

* a treasure on the saucer with blue ending - symbol of authority and

happiness: `Уж я так устрою, что он свои деньги мне сам принесет, на

блюдечке с голубой каемкой' (I. Ilf, Y. Petrov. The Little Golden Calf

- И. Ильф, Е. Петров. Золотой теленок).

------


Just as I ended the snack Silva jumps on a window-sill. She hops

to the table - a clean table-cloth by dirty paws! - and puts a wee

nestling before me.


"Fallen from nest?"


She nods and bumps the catch to me by paw. As if, 'Did you ask? Then

that's yours!'


I sigh and inspire the silly little chap in my palms.


"Show it."


Silva overleaps the sill while I, envious of her, get out through

the door. Aha! My house has got a swallow's nest. I borrow a ladder from

a neighbour, and return the fidget home. Silva's gloating face got a

thoughtful look.


Can I bury the discovery? Why not? This has succeeded with artificial

intelligence, hasn't it? Of course, the process needs continuous work and

active correspondence with workers on this field. If I only weaken an

attention, then newcomers will appear, ready to revise the axioms. I

have to criticise them, encourage them, teach them, and supply them with

references to scientific works of predecessors. On the whole, I must

gradually push them into a swamp.


The method is generally simple. To declare the dangerous trend of

effort to be deadlock and investigated inside out, while the attractive,

beautiful, but immense one - to be most promising. Not that this trend

is full deadlock, but even a ten lives will be short of explore it.

But then the exit would be safe. Not an artificial intelligence, but

an AI simulator. Without creative fantasy, but predictable and acting

rationally in the most complicated situation.


Then I should repeat the same in medicine. To declare a global

analysis of brain (with my method) to be history, to divide a brain into

several functional parts, to drown the specialists in research of narrow

subjects. Let them dig deeply, but narrowly. The main thing is to reduce

to minimum the study of brain's general map. The general map - in all

details - must be published in all sources. As if there's nothing left

to discover. As if one has no choice but to make details more exact.


Fine! Except one point. For this I must study the general pattern,

so I must coach Pete, at worst - confide to him. Pete shall understand.

Well, most likely I have to confide to him. Then immediately the institute

authority shall stand up behind our back, including the names of three

academicians. Medicine and physiology are not cybernetics. They are

conservative fields, inclined to respect for rank. Thus... Plan exists.

Of course I have to change my job...


Why I've edged into this business? A saviour of the humankind...


Boss is again worried by his problems. Biped eggheads have two

favourite questions: 'Who is in fault*,' and 'What is to be done**?'

First question is clear, second one is varied by Boss. From 'What is

to be done next?' to 'Oh, what to do?' His problems. I don't wanna go

into them. Even if this is egoism. I've a right. I am loaded by my own

problems up to my tail. If I collect all world-weariness into my head,

then I'll catch a memory overflow without fail. Anyway the world has no

time to change under my lifetime. And no way to think! Sh!.. So-o-o!

Pirate came to see. A cat of handsome presence. He walk by my territory

as by street... He's scented my mark. Hey you! Don't dare set your one!

Though, well, set it, you dog. But master is me. Now you'll see this.

I'm calm, I'm absolutely calm. The tail is calm. I go to meet. E-e-eh?..

Wait, where are you going??? Stop! Stop, you cat of a bitch!


------

* Who Is in Fault? - book by Russian socialist A. Herzen (А. Герцен.

Кто виноват?).

** What Is to Be Done? - book by Russian socialist N. Chernyshevsky

(Н. Чернышевский. Что делать?).

------


Shame! I lose my temper for a trite caterwaul. I've made something

wrong way. But I have manifested no aggressiveness. I've only wanted to

approach. You coward! That's your funeral. Never mind. Here live more

tomcats, Chernomyrdin*, and Peach, and two homeless ones. Grey and

Frostbitten Ear. I won't end up without a boyfriend.


------

* Chernomyrdin, Viktor Stepanovich - a famous Russian politician.

In regard to a tomcat, this name may be literally interpreted as

Black Mug.

------


The dispute about instincts is lost in every way. The things, which

seemed doubtless in the city, have disappeared like smoke. But I have,

of course, saved face (a face of the muzzle or a muzzle of the face).

How? In the city I walked with helmet, but here I am without one! The

helmet has not only stimulated my reason, but also suppressed instincts.

Weighty argument.


O! Grey comes. He isn't the Pirate, but isn't least too. I am

friendly, and kind, and affable. Tail up, I purr, come into contact...

Wait, where are you going? Wait, foolish! Don't flee...


What marvels? Boss told that three years ago these rascals were

making me run all over the plot. I remember myself. Vaguely, but remember.

The smell, the marks on my territory, the fright, and the uncertainty. I

forgive everything to the scoundrels.


Well, the night of love hasn't taken place. It shall be the night

of bl-l-loody hunt. No, don't fear, you pop-eyed, not for frogs. Look at

yourself - who needs you? Cold, slippery... Firstly become overgrown

with hair, you monster.


A rustle... Attention! I gently slink behind a log by soft,

half-bend feet... I look out from behind the butt-end... A ratty...

Not so large, but... Do I need troubles? However it would be funny to

have a tame rat.


I come out from the log and sit in the face of the mammal. First

moment the rat bares its teeth, ducking down to ground. But I don't attack,

so the scaly-tailed thing grows bolder. The quick noselet gets into motion,

and afterwards the creature itself runs away. Not so rapidly, saving the

dignity. Nothing of the kind of the tomcats. Not an evidence of panic.

It should seem that here must be quite the reverse. I ought to consult

with Boss. He is all in cycling on his problems, let him think about my

ones for the rest.


Then a curious thought comes to mind. Here is a way out for the Big

Brothers. They'll eat mice. Lemming farms will appear... `Meat and milk

lemming,' has it force? Mouse hams. Boss will come into a shop and say,

"Please weigh for me a kilogram of mouse undercut." Pur-r!


"Anybody home?"


"Come in, Maria Semyonovna."


"I go last evening, and see a light at you."


"Do you want some tea?"


Maria Semyonovna is my neighbour. Widow. She lives two doors off,

and has her eyes on me. She cooks perfectly well, she's prominent,

able-bodied, everything's on their places. Five years my junior. Has

only demerit. If country radio exist then Maria Semyonovna is its

broadcasting station. She knows everything about all. And she confesses

a formula of hackers of all times and nations, 'information must be

free.' Namely, if she discover something, then next day all the

settlement will know that. Silva and I can't go to this. Anyhow. In

despite of...


I ply Maria Semyonovna with tea and crackers, and hear all the

local news. Silva jumps on the window-sill, then travels to my knees.

She fawns, and poses as an ordinary cat. She takes an interest in the

news even more than I do. So I keep up the ball, and ask the correct

questions.


"Oh, I linger at you, my daughter desired me to look after grandson,"

recollects Maria Semyonovna. "Trouble with grandson we got. Dimka is two

and a half, but don't speak yet. Doctors say, after-effect of parturient

trauma, needs neurotomography. But how to do it, if the waiting list is

booked out for a half-year on. They pests are working two days for state,

and five days commercially. On the state machine..."


In my head like a trigger switched. I must explore a brain, while

Dimka needs neurotomography. And I've got all the needful with me. Only

the helmet needs slightly rehash.


"Maria Semyonovna, I can do tomography myself. I just turn a

penny tuning facilities for medics. And testing it on Silva. Bring the

grandson tomorrow, we'll do all best way. But medics haven't told you

the point. For give an accurate prognosis, one sitting isn't enough. It

needs about two weeks of every day tomography. Then a sort of film will

come out - one can see at once, how the brain goes on."


Ten or so minutes more we consider the details. I view a record of

cat's cerebration. The picture in conditional red-blue-yellow colours

looks very demonstrative. Maria Semyonovna doesn't know how to thank me.

While Silva gets the needle.


"Don't worry," I say to pussy, just as the door closes after the

neighbour. "You shan't lose the voice. I'll make for you, instead of

helmet, a collar with only four neuroinductors. It'll be enough for

metering the voice signal. You can wear it all the time."


Silva calms down in a wink.


Until the very morning I sit and work. Firstly with a soldering

iron, then with a needle and a shoe awl. We try the collar on, and the

carping begins. Like it's thick, heavy, try yourself to wear such one...

If only she prizes that it has got working without a peep, without any

tuning. Ah, if you don't laud yourself, then no one will notice. Thus

I laud myself, and even ply myself with a glass of strong coffee. Silva

quirks that one must not drink coffee by table-glasses.


"Aristocrats don't drink," I parry, and begin to rehash the helmet.

Here's a purely sartorial work. No, I was early to chuckle. Wires need

lengthening somewhere. Anyway it's simple. Of course, wires are filmy,

so the work is like a work of a watch-maker. But this is a work for

hands, not for head.


After six o'clock I out the 200W reflector lamp, pull away the

plug of the 36V transformer for the soldering iron, shift Silva to the

end of the bed... How I disrobed, and couched, I don't remember anymore.


In the morning (if two o'clock is morning) I test the helmet. At

myself. For a very long time I conjure with parameters of the program.

A cat's brain happened to differ from human's brain more than I thought.

This is out of boundaries of auto-tuning of the program. At last everything

came into readiness. Some less than an hour remained before the coming of

the neighbour. I stock a tail-arrow to the volume knob of the speakers.

Now Silva herself can turn down the volume, for fling off nothing at

guests. Silva carps again. She proposes me to buy a player and change

it into a small broadcasting station.


"What for?" I wonder truly.


"For one don't ask why you ever have head-phones in your ears.

Or you want me to converse with you by mobile phone?"


"It's rational, but I'm lazy to tinker," I report to her. "Let's

reserve."


"Let's have a breakfast," she amends a counter motion.


"Let's," I agree drowsily. "But you cook."


Silva smiles spitefully, and leaps out of the window. After a

second she returns with a mouse in her teeth.


"I conserved it just for you. Young, tasty!"


"Thank you, my dear. But it's so small, while I'm so big..." I

struggle sleepily.


"I saw a rat last night. I'll catch now. Would you eat?"


"Surrender, surrender, surrender. You win."


Silva narrows her eyes contentedly. While I cook a dinner for two,

Silva enounces an idea of mouse farms. I plainly don't like this idea.

Although Indians by Fenimore Cooper ate rats... No, anyway I don't like.


Exactly at six o'clock Maria Semyonovna arrives with the grandson

Dimka. I begin to pity that I've started this work. The grandchild is an

obvious retard. He takes after his dad-drunkard. We are familiar with

the dad by hearsay. He's endowed the wife with the child-imbecile, drank

half of the furniture away, and then was expelled with disgrace from the

home. Well, that's not my care. I put the helmet on, and while I tie the

strings under his chin, Dimka slobbers my hands.


"Oh, what a bonnet on us! And see, what a pussy," Maria Semyonovna

coos, while I start the comp, and tune the program. Next I, bona fide,

record a 3D picture for ten minutes. Out of boredom, I read a lecture on

the structure of human brain. Maria Semyonovna listens, and wipes Dimka's

slobber.


When she went away, I cut two tens three-dimensional slides from

the record, and put them together into a kind of cartoon film. Even

after such a cutting-back my cartoon is more perfect than ones given by

apparatus of medics. And this is good. Let them see that somebody has a

more perfect apparatus. Then there will be more respect to a patient.


Before going to bed I throw down to the notebook the texts of

Fenimore Cooper and Karl May. Silva wonders who are that Indians who

ate rats.


Silva has problems. Tomcats feel something alien in her, and run

away. Silva is in a trance. I understand nothing too. But the fact is on

hand. Only Peach doesn't run away. But he is under-age. Teenager. He was

three-week-old taken away from the mother, and has grown at humans. Now

he is last hope of Silva. My pussy attracts him to our home, and rubs

his head. With a paw. And afterwards she inquires, what is the

difference between her behaviour and a behaviour of usual cats. Peach

takes her for his mommy. What kind of sex then. Only next summer...


And I haven't restrained myself again. In the third seance, after

the usual recording, I engaged my program of brain training. I set Maria

Semyonovna to drink tea, and while we drank... By the end of the seance

Dimka fell into a drowsy state. The head inclined to the shoulder,

slobber from the mouth, snot from the nose, a foggy sight into nowhere.

"Get tired, dozed off," decided Maria Semyonovna. It was seen how she is

ashamed for the grandson. While I recollected that Silva didn't look

better after the first seances.


The next day Maria Semyonovna brought Sonya, Dimka's mother. Again

the tea, the demonstration of beautiful pictures, and the lecture on

the structure of brain, and about the functions of cortex, subcortex,

thalamus, and hypothalamus. (I must be careful for avoid touching the

hypothalamus by the stimulant wave.) Afterwards I listened to a lecture

about radiculitis and about people's methods of struggle against it.

While Dimka tripped out, passing the second seance of brain stimulation.

In that rate we proceeded next. I found a CD with Disney's cartoons,

downed a couch from the attic, and organised a small cinema hall. While

the guests saw cartoons, and drank tea, and gifted me by jam and spice-

cakes, Dimka received a seance of brain stimulation.


By the nights I sat examining the records. I've allocated about

forty nerve centres, compared, analysed, rummaged in literature, and

understood nothing, if frankly. I've recognised about ten centres.

Sight, hearing, smell - all what I could synchronise with outer events.

One more problem existed. Brain is the most complicated machine. Having

some region damaged, the adjoined ones assume its functions. In vain I

started the study from idiot's brain. By the way, that parturient trauma

was fiction. No signs of it. The father-alcoholic is guilty of all. But

I shall not break the legend.


In the seventh day Dimka stopped slobbering. The activity of cortex

and subcortex greatly rose. I took fright, and ended the seances of

stimulation. Observation only. But the process began. The activity of

cortex kept on rising.


Two weeks later Sonya said she hardly recognised him. A co-ordination

of movements appeared, and emotions, and interest to surroundings. The

seances made a magical effect to him.


"Well, stop it please, what have the seances got to do with it?

It's simply such a moment came. Something accumulated, and then like an

abscess burst open. Have you heard about the conversion of quantity into

quality?" I talked wet, seating her in front of the computer screen.

"Newton was also behind in his childhood. He was weak and sickly. You

see, this is the first day, fifth, ninth, fourteenth. Do you see the

difference?"


"Can you tell me, don't I need guide him to doctor, then?"


"If you notice that the boy develops abnormal, then guide him, of

course," I advise with confidence. "Human brain is wonderful mechanism.

Usually it uses only a small percent of its resources. Some say about

one percent. Another ones say about ten. Dimka's brain was behind

because of parturient trauma. Now the protective mechanism has switched

on, and the hidden reserves of organism came into operation. The nature

creates things with something to spare. If he was behind firstly, then

now he'll make up like nobody's business."


"Why it has started? What was the trigger?"


"It's hard to say," I invent, blushing not a bit. "Maybe the fresh

air, vitamins, and vegetables from the garden. Maybe cartoons, which we

saw here. Or something else. We know so little about a brain."


Sonya nodded, while I leaded the cursor by the screen and loaded

her with scientific terminology. Afterwards I switched the talk to the

simple and plain - the games, puzzles, meccanos, Rubik's cubes... Sonya

was assenting and all shining with the motherly happiness. Eh, damned

difference in age... If she was at least fifteen years elder... She is

all girl... I'm too old for a girl.


Oh dear! Silva has the same troubles. The red-haired juvenile Peach.

Somebody said exactly, 'A cat takes after his owner'. But why did she

decide that I'm cycled on the fate of the civilisation? This is no idee

fixe. I simply think aloud sometimes...


...A month later Dimka began to speak. He soon shall be called

infant prodigy.


"Suddenly he said: 'Birdie!' And throws a brick into it," told

Sonya, breathless with rapture. I was able to pull a smile on my face.

To hit a swallow with a hollow plastic brick - this means not only good,

but incredible coordination of movements. I won't argue, this may be

discarded to a fortuity. But nevertheless. Speech, coordination... With

what merits else I've endowed Dimka? I won't be surprised if he'll

become a genius. And this is after seven seances. Only four hours in

helmet...


It's cold and empty in my heart. What should I do NOW?


Do I have a right to hide such a discovery? It ever brings the

humankind onto a quite new level! A genius will become standard. Imbeciles

will recover by several seances. First-formers will play chess in

intermissions, on the grand masters' level. The term imbecile will

disappear. Helmets-stimulators will change our world.


And very soon somebody will guess to put a helmet on a dog, or

a horse, or a bear in a zoo... A cow will make a sorrowfully look in

milkmaid's eyes, and say: "Don't take my son away from me. Send me to

slaughter-house instead of him."


What should I do with the discovery?


"Is it really difficult to decide?" Silva takes an interest, licking

a paw. "Two variants only. To bury or to publish. Do you want an advice?

Put the helmet on yourself. You'll become clever and wise, and all will

be clear."


To put the helmet on myself? No, not at any price, never! I'm

afraid. What if I won't become a genius? What if the brain is already

ossified, and the road to the light future is closed for me and for all

of old men?


Or vice versa. I'll become a genius. As much above others, as humans

are above animals. Would it be attractive to see only sheer stupidity

around? To stay lone in the middle of the crowd of idiots. No, this is

not for me. I am too old for such experiments. Perhaps, in the company

of friends I would bring myself to that. But never alone! Only with the

entire humankind! But would the others want to grow wiser?


My helmet is able to make the entire humankind to be geniuses.

And to turn all large animals into sensible beings. Reasoners will eat

reasoners. Because there's nobody else to have. But even if we solve the

food problem... Wolves will not eat rabbits. Antelopes will not go for

dinner of alligators. All together will be fertile and multiply. What

will happen with the biosphere?


I look to unworkmanlike bonnet containing three tens radio components

and a wisp of wires. This thing can blow up our world. No, not can, but

shall blow up. The world will become wiser, more technological, and harder.

But will the new world be better?


What should I do with this bonnet?


17.10.2000 - 30.10.2000


Translated from Russian by Alone Coder


E-mail: alone_coder(at)mail.ru

Please e-mail me if you have found a mistake


.