had given away a great secret to a stranger.
– Yes, I am aware that he have disappeared, maybe some new information has appeared, – looking down, Pyotr Mikhailovich squeezed out with difficulty.
– New information – that electricity has risen in price again, and a tax on clean air has been introduced, – the neighbor abruptly cut off the conversation, startling herself, and slammed the door.
Having found out that five years later he, the former, was not in the house at the moment, Kalinkin reasoned sensibly: to meet himself in the future is pure fiction. A.P. Chekhov was right: it can’t be, because it can never be! The miracle machine transported Pyotr Mikhailovich to another time, but there was an updated image of him in the future, changed beyond recognition and not coinciding with the usual one. So, the neighbor communicated, one might say, with the personality of Kalinkin, but in a different bodily shell. Here’s proof of discovery number two: it’s impossible to recognize a time traveler…
Pyotr Mikhailovich returned to the apartment, sat down on a chair in the kitchen to think about the situation again:
– So… if I disappeared from that time, what should I do next? How can I prove at least to myself that I made a leap five years ahead?
The pernicious habit of pouring in a hundred and fifty grams of vodka to clear his brain, he resolutely left in the past: the experiment should be pure, unclouded alcohol, in the name of the interests of all mankind. However, there was no vodka at hand either: Kalinkin checked the refrigerator – just in case. Lofty motives have generated a solution ingenious in its simplicity: I will take some object with me from my apartment, and even this plastic elephant standing on the dresser – upon returning to reality, it will be a material proof of time travel.
– That’s right, and I’ll tear out today’s calendar sheet for memory: June 17, 2026, – Pyotr Mikhailovich decided, put the elephant in a plastic bag and went out into the yard for a walk – I wonder what has changed in the neighborhood?
On a beautiful summer day, Kalinkin walked alone along the sidewalk past old brick houses and narrow lawns with stunted grass. Neither oncoming nor cross – all disappeared somewhere, which seemed very strange.
– Are all extinct, or what?
Cars whizzed by, throwing out dirt and soot – the era of electric carts has not yet come, as once planned. He turned left onto the broad Avenue of Science – so it was written on a sign attached to the brick wall of the building.
– So, science exists in Russia! – Kalinkin noted to himself.
At one time, in connection with the liquidation of the Institute of Mechanical Engineering, it was fired, and after a short thought, Pyotr Mikhailovich went to the night watchmen: well, the old man should not go to taxi drivers, although if life forces…
– Interestingly, – philosophized Pyotr Mikhailovich, – in the twentieth century the country created institutes of physics, chemistry, mathematics, and in the twenty-first century institutions of all kinds of problems suddenly began to arise: problems of the economy, problems of globalization, problems of entrepreneurship. It turns out: institutes and scientists are not engaged in science, but in problems that people themselves have created… Is this the progress? What were you thinking about earlier?
Thinking in this way, Pyotr Mikhailovich slowly moved along the avenue to the Akademicheskaya metro station and curiously looked at the signs of beauty salons and bank boards with a rate of 52—53 rubles to the yuan, but in his seemingly smart head, nothing clicked, illuminated, puzzled – and where are the dollars, and where is the euro? The metro turned out to be in the old place and has been preserved in almost the same gray, dull form, with concrete walls, a pie-thick roof and glass doors, representing stability in the field of architecture. And here people were already scurrying, crowds of people, Russians of the future. Oncoming streams of passengers poured out of the ground lobby and rushed back down, disappearing underground. The faces of those walking in the crowd were hidden by masks, and on the heads of each there was a headdress with a white plaque and a black number. Mentally, Pyotr Mikhailovich picked up a suitable comparison: a gathering of beekeepers in a huge apiary! He even rejoiced at his quick wit, but not for long: someone’s male voice with a characteristic southern accent interrupted his thoughts:
– Citizen, what are you doing here?
Pyotr Mikhailovich turned around: in front of him stood two stocky beekeepers, dressed in strange clothes, like the uniform of security guards in a shopping center five years ago.
– I’m looking at the subway building. What’s the matter? – Kalinkin was genuinely amazed.
– Why without a mask and a security number? – pushed, the one who is older. Pyotr Mikhailovich, trying to resolve the situation without conflict, politely asked:
– I forgot at home. And who are you?
– We are a volunteer squad of the Guard of Russia, – he received a proud answer, – you have grossly violated (it sounded like vi have violated) the decree on a special temporary regime. Follow us.
– Where to?
– To the police!
Kalinkin felt funny and even curious – some kind of incident, but he did not resist and contradict. The trio tramped along Civil Avenue to the building of the police department, where, after completing a quest with a cheerful color music, they found themselves in the duty room – a place of rendering legal services. Vigilant amateurs, having fused Pyotr Mikhailovich to professionals, turned around and recovered for a new search for evaders and violators. The chief on duty with one big star on his shoulder straps, apparently a general, took the guest into a separate room, sat him down on a chair and ordered him to wait. Kalinkin looked around: a black door, blue worn linoleum on the floor and the same blue painted brick walls, a barred window, an unpleasant, stagnant smell… Pyotr Mikhailovich even mentally refrained from unpatriotic comparisons, but he felt extremely shitty.
A nasty premonition sucked him in the pit of his stomach, a painful feeling of guilt arose; as if by magic, the constitutional rights of a citizen instantly self-destructed, and the personality and dignity of a person turned into something virtual. Involuntarily shivering, as if the punishing sword of either the proletariat or the bourgeoisie hovered over him there, under the ceiling, he became frightened and quiet. Five minutes later, a man in civilian clothes entered, but this one was already without a mask, sat down at the table facing Kalinkin and began filling out a questionnaire: first name, last name, patronymic, year of birth, registration address – in general, everything is like under Tsar Peas. From time to time he glanced at the monitor screen and tapped the keyboard keys. When the overture was over, questions began to pour in:
– What is the date, month, year today? – Kalinkin answered unmistakably.
– Why without documents? Why without a mask and a number? – The man didn’t look up from the table.
– Sorry, I forgot at home.
– And what were you doing at the metro station?
– I stood and looked at the pavilion building.
– Why? – The man raised his head and stared unfriendly at the prisoner.
– How
