Byzantium Endures (37 page)

In the first days, one merely saw various professors and answered simple questions. I went through the examinations patiently, letting drop hints that my knowledge extended rather further than the questions demanded. In the middle days, I began to lard in more information, making casual reference to certain modern inventions, to specific kinds of materials and manufacturers, to current research findings and advanced theories. On the last day, when it was my turn to give my main dissertation before the class, in the great hall, I decided to pull out all the stops. I had learned, like many others in those times, to inject myself intravenously with cocaine. I gave myself a strong solution shortly before I boarded the tram. By the time I arrived at the Polytechnic neither the cold nor the anxious looks of my fellows could touch me in the slightest. I was ready for everything. I remember flinging open my coat as I crossed the misty quadrangle to the main hall, showing the same contempt for the weather as I felt for them.

I waited impatiently (even some of the examiners noticed this) while four others gave their pathetic, faltering speeches on this or that tiny aspect of technology. Then at last my name was called and I strode up to the dais on which, around a curved table, sat the entire staff and governors of the Polytechnic. Over their heads was a large portrait of a benevolent Tsar Nicholas; before me were the assembled students. I noticed some of them giggling or making comments about me. I was able, with stern glances, to quell these easily.

Professor Merkuloff’s sarcastic tones came from the table. ‘Well, Kryscheff, and what are you going to speak about - assuming you have absorbed any of your studies?’

I turned and laughed in his face. It was not an insolent laugh. It was the laughter of one who shared a joke with an equal (or an inferior, in actuality), ‘I am going to speak on the ontological approach to the problems of science and technology,’ I told the examiners, ‘with a particular emphasis on technological aids to the winning of the present struggle.’

‘A rather large subject,’ said Vorsin, one of the senior professors. He was a small old man with a yellow, wrinkled skin, ‘for someone in your year.’

‘It is a subject, your excellency, I feel quite at ease with. I have been doing certain studies in my spare time. The reason I was sent to your Institute was in one sense simply to complete a formality. I required academic information not generally available. I also wished to learn something of academic disciplines. I believe that this is what impressed Professor Matzneff and aroused the animosity of certain other professors. I am deeply grateful to your excellency and to your staff for the help you have given me, however.’

Vorsin seemed impressed. He smiled at his colleagues.

‘Now, your excellency, if I could begin ... ?’ I bowed with considerable dignity.

‘Begin,’ said the old man, and he moved his hand in a gesture which displayed magnanimity and kindness. He leaned over to murmur something to Merkuloff. I knew that he was asking about me and that he would receive a biased opinion of me from Merkuloff. But I was amused by my professor’s stupidity and presumption.

I began my discourse almost at once. I disdained notes. I addressed the assembled students, (turned occasionally to speak to the professors, who almost at once began to show astonishment. It was as if Jesus had sat down with the Elders in the Synagogue. Indeed, I felt somewhat godlike. This was partly due to the effects, I suppose, of the cocaine. If I was not a Messiah to the Age of Science, I felt at least I might be His Baptist!

There was no denying the immediate effect of my words. I discussed the problems of Newtonian science in relation to modern knowledge. I discussed the most recent developments in the field of extra-strong materials, which would enable us to build entirely new types of machines: gigantic aeroplanes and airships. I drew their attention to the possibilities of rocket propulsion, as opposed to the limitations of the conventional internal combustion engine. I spoke of gas-operated aeroplanes. This would involve a system of super-heating by which certain gases could be brought to an appropriately intense temperature. I spoke of a kind of Gatling gun which could be operated by means of compressed air, which would shoot thousands of needles into the enemy’s ranks. Each needle could contain a hollow tip in which was concealed deadly poison. No matter where he was hit, the soldier would die almost at once. Failing that, a narcotic drug could be used and we should have wars without death. This would be far more efficient than gas canisters which anyway could be counteracted by means of gas-masks. I also described monster machines, a thousand times bigger than the largest tank. These could simply crush their way through the enemy lines, physically burying all who stood against them. I brought into question our whole understanding of current technological developments. I was about to go into more abstract matters, concerning electrical atoms, when Merkuloff - that jealous mental dwarf! - sprang up and cried:

‘I think we have heard all we need, Kryscheff!’

‘I have hardly begun,’ I said calmly. ‘There is much more.’

‘Sit down.’

I explained that they had not realised these were merely my opening remarks.

‘We realise all we want to realise.’ Evidently overwhelmed by his own conscience, knowing to what extent he had misjudged me, he was speaking gently. Perhaps he wished to spare my energies? At the time, however, I felt he was trying to thwart me.

‘If you are to award the appropriate marks,’ I said, ‘it is only fair I should give you a fuller picture. These are times when information itself is a weapon.’

The old man, Professor Vorsin, cut me off. ‘Possibly your ideas are of interest to an enemy? Any spy ...’ He gestured out into the hall.

I followed his meaning, but I had anticipated him. ‘That is the reason, your excellency, that I have made no specifications in this dissertation. If the government wished to see my plans, I should be happy to meet with the appropriate person at the proper time. I have only skimmed the surface here.’

‘We are much impressed,’ said Vorsin.

Merkuloff spoke. ‘You are dismissed from the hall, Kryscheff.’ Could the man still be envious? Was he determined to crush me. It was unbelievable. But I misjudged him, I think. I was not sympathetic to his own confusion. His senior forced him to resume his seat. Vorsin was plainly upset by Merkuloff’s attitude. He addressed me respectfully. ‘My dear Dimitri Mitrofanovitch, I am sure you have been doing a great deal of demanding work. But you have brought up so many fresh ideas that it is hard for us to digest everything at once.’

I nodded as I tried to hear what he said above the uproar from the hall. The students were acknowledging my genius. It was a great moment. I could see that the other professors, too, were stunned by my dissertation. I decided to ensure myself, there and then, of my future. ‘Can I therefore be certain of a diploma this year?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Vorsin. ‘We will make a Special Diploma for you.’

This was beyond anything I had hoped for. ‘A Special Diploma is not necessary, your excellency.’ I showed, I think, proper modesty and self-discipline.

‘It will have to be a special one,’ said Merkuloff, capitulating at last. Never have I experienced such wonderful elation. I had not really expected quite this success. It was very sweet.

‘Very well, your excellencies. I accept.’ I bowed to them. I bowed to the shouting, stamping crowd below. I raised a hand to silence them. ‘But I shall continue here at the Polytechnic, at least until I am offered a government post.’ I saw no point in crowing. They had had the grace to accept defeat. I would show grace in my victory.

‘Of course,’ said Merkuloff in a strained voice. ‘Next term, we shall sort all that out.’

‘And the Diploma? Is it to be presented before Christmas?’

I could guess there would be the usual red tape involved. I was not surprised when Professor Vorsin shook his head, ‘It will take time to prepare. We shall have it ready when you return.’

I was satisfied. And Merkuloff, judging by the way he sat with his head in his hands, was at long last thoroughly bested. Professor Matzneff was vindicated. How pleased my mentor would be when he, in his exile, learned the news.

Triumph was to be added to triumph. Vorsin personally led me from the stage. Students pressed around me, clapping, whistling, cheering, even laughing with delight. The senior professor raised his palm to silence them. But the noise continued. Behind me, like a conquered tyrant, crept Merkuloff. With his own hands Professor Vorsin put my cap upon my head. He ordered Merkuloff to ‘fetch the troika’. I asked if there was anything I could amplify for him. ‘All that will come later,’ said the generous old man, ‘when we both have more time and when you are rested.’ I assured him I had no need of rest. I had not felt so well for many a month. I suppose that it was impossible for him to believe that such mental expenditure was not automatically accompanied by physical exhaustion. Needless to say, I was sustained by the injection of cocaine and would eventually need to sleep, but not at that moment.

I was taken out into the quadrangle. Vorsin’s personal horse and troika stood ready. Students were still cheering. I heard snatches of their phrases: ‘It’s the great Kryscheff!’ ‘He’s Galileo and Leonardo rolled into one.’ I bowed. I waved. Again they cheered me. Again the kindly Vorsin tried to silence them. I was flattered by his thoughtfulness. He apologised for not being able to accompany me himself. My own professor would see me safely home. It was obvious that Merkuloff was reluctant. He frowned. He began to remonstrate. He was not ‘qualified’ to go with me. This was a change of tune! It was my turn to show magnanimity. It would be a pleasure, I said, to have his company in the troika. In awe, he climbed in to sit beside me. With a friendly acknowledgement to the senior professor, to the noisy students, I gestured for the driver to whip up the horse. Then we were off at the old St Petersburg lick, bells jingling, moving almost as swiftly as my thoughts, while I enlarged on my ideas to the open-mouthed Merkuloff. He could still not find the words to tell me how he had misjudged me.

‘The Special Diploma will, of course, be very welcome,’ I assured him. ‘But my future interest will chiefly be in government work.’

He said he was sure the government would supply my every need. I was pleased with his perspicacity, ‘It is materials and supplies I require. Then I can begin to build.’

He said I should try to look after myself. I was over-excited.

‘That’s hardly possible at the moment,’ I reassured him. ‘My dilemma is whether I should remain at the Polytechnic, perhaps to help with the teaching, or whether I should lend all my talents to the War Effort?’

This was something, he said, which had to be carefully considered. Perhaps it could be discussed next term ‘after I had rested’. I pointed out, again, that I was at my peak. It would, however, be convenient to have more time to myself. He agreed. He suggested I take a sabbatical while the necessary meetings were held at high level. There would not be time this term to go into every detail. The staff would have to meet government representatives the following term. He suggested I wait until I heard from the Polytechnic. This fitted in with my plans. I agreed, it will also allow time to prepare my Special Diploma.’

He had been thinking of much the same thing. We galloped through glowing mist. A white night was looming. As we neared Petersburg proper, he asked me where I lived. I decided not to give him my poorer address. I told the driver to go to the house by the Kryukoff Canal where my virgins lived.

At the entrance, I was greeted with more fawning by the old Polish woman. Now she addressed me as ‘your honour’. Evidently she astonished Merkuloff. He still had his cold, and was blowing his nose heavily. He explained that I was over-tired. She should make sure I rested. He said someone, perhaps himself, would come to make sure I was all right. I told him this would be unnecessary. The Polish woman was puzzled but said I might be her own son. Professor Merkuloff’s attitude towards me had at last completely changed. He said that she was a good, kind woman. I had delicate sensibilities. I must have every comfort. I must rest my brain as well as my body. If a doctor were needed, the Institute would send one. I patted him on the shoulder, to show that I appreciated his magnanimous acceptance of defeat. ‘The girls are like sisters,’ said the Polish hag. ‘They will know what to do.’

She escorted me to the apartment door. Lena answered the ring. Her face brightened when she saw me The ‘panye’ explained I had been brought in a troika. My professor asked that I be specially cared for. Lena led me into her feminine nest, assuring the concierge everything would be done. I was still, of course, on top of the world. We entered the main room. ‘Are you on the run?’ She was excited. I flung an arm round her shoulders and embraced her. ‘It has been the best day of my life.’ I realised she was mine. I could now celebrate. I kissed her gently upon the lips. She whispered that Marya was not yet home. She drew away from me, but I held her little wrist. I told her that I loved her. It was true. I loved everyone at that moment. I had astounded the school with my brilliance. I had come home in the senior professor’s own troika. The entire Polytechnic had been in an uproar. She asked if I had done anything ‘politically dangerous’. I laughed. ‘It depends what you mean, Lenushka. I showed them the Future. I showed them the Age of Science. I showed them all the possibilities for change in this old world of ours.’