Evgeniy Veltistov

ADVENTURES ELECTRONICS

PINOCOCACY OF OUR DAYS

"Hello! My name is Electronic..."

This book could have been published without a preface.

Why the preface? Moreover, written by a man who, as a child, himself began the adventures of his favorite heroes without preamble.

The fact is that today a great many children know about Electronics. Not lazy and curious. What if the most curious people want to know about the author of their favorite books?

It is for them that the preface is written.

There was a war going on. Great War. In the second year of the great war, he came to Moscow School No. 265 to study. There were few books. There are even fewer notebooks. I really wanted to read. When asked what you would become, you answered: “A children's book seller. To read everything."

Then he changed his mind. I decided to become a journalist. It was a firm decision. Graduated from the Faculty of Journalism. He began working - first in newspapers, then as a department editor in the popular magazine Ogonyok. He was in charge of feuilletons and all sorts of things that were printed on the last pages. He was very thin. And that’s why it seemed even longer. In a multi-storey building, the editorial office occupied three floors. And when a funny wall newspaper was hung up on holidays, Veltistov was depicted something like this: his head was on the third floor, his body was on the second, and his running legs were on the first.

He was a real reporter: he tirelessly pursued news. Found interesting people. He found, for example, in one Arbat alley the author of the famous song “A Christmas Tree was Born in the Forest,” the old woman Raisa Kudasheva. And he managed to help her, because she needed help. He also helped the kindergarten settle in a luxurious dacha that had previously belonged to a swindler. And the famous science fiction writer Stanislav Lem - to see the nuclear reactor in Dubna.

He met with the famous radio electronics and cyberneticist Axel Ivanovich Berg, so that later he could “copy” his professor Gromov, an eccentric and kind man despite the outward severity, from him. I met the chief designer of space rockets Sergei Pavlovich Korolev, whom today we consider a national hero. I visited the most prominent scientists: physicist Pyotr Leonidovich Kapitsa and cybernetics Viktor Mikhailovich Glushkov. I interviewed (a curiosity at that time!) the chief of the criminal police of the city of New York. (We find echoes of an overseas business trip in the novel “Nocturne of Emptiness,” also half-real and half-fantastic.)

Veltistov was a man of few words. Assertive. I saved up impressions. I was thinking about future books. The manuscript of the first story, “Adventures at the Bottom of the Sea,” was brought to the publishing house “Children’s Literature.” Soon she saw the light (1960). Other works followed. There were quite a few of them: “Tyapa, Borka and the Rocket” (1962), “Electronic - a boy from a suitcase” (1964), “A Sip of Sun” (1967), “Iron Knight on the Moon” (1969), “Gum-Gum” ( 1970), “Ressi - the elusive friend” (1971), “Radiate Light” (1973), “Winner of the Impossible” (1975), “Heroes” (1976), “A Million and One Days of Vacation” (1979), “Nocturne of Emptiness” "(1982), "Praskovya" (1983), "Classroom and extracurricular adventures of extraordinary first-graders" (1985), "Planet of Children" (1985), "Favorites" in two volumes (1986), "New Adventures of Electronics" (1988) .

The books “Tyapa, Borka and the Rocket” and “Radiate Light” were written by Veltistov in collaboration with his wife and friend Marta Petrovna Baranova.

...I remember in what atmosphere “Electronic - a boy from a suitcase” (the first and, in my opinion, the best part of the tetralogy) was born. In the late 50s and early 60s, schoolchildren began to study according to intensive programs. The triumphant flight of Yuri Gagarin paved the way to space - it seemed that we would always be the first. The word “cybernetics,” going back to the ancient Greek “steering the ship,” fluttered over the kitchen tables of Moscow communal apartments. On the pages of newspapers there was debate about the fate of poetry in the technological age. The poet Boris Slutsky wrote that physicists are held in high esteem, but lyricists, on the contrary, are in the fold and that this is a global pattern. Zealous supporters of the exact sciences, the so-called techies, reduced the role of art in the future to a pitiful minimum. Interest in science fiction has spread unusually widely. Lem became a favorite among techies. The golden oars of literary fantasies took the reader into such wilds of the universe that previous generations had never really dreamed of. There was still no bitter, still unresolved sediment from the Chernobyl disaster. We didn’t yet know that we were trailing behind the computer revolution. And that not we, but the Americans will soon land on the Moon. They sang with enthusiasm: “On the dusty paths of distant planets...” The electronic era was experiencing its romantic period. Your rainbow youth.

This is where “Electronic - a boy from a suitcase” was written.

By the way, why “out of a suitcase”?

This image came about like this. One day the author was going on vacation to the warm sea. He carries his suitcase along the platform to the train and is surprised: it’s heavy. As if there were not shirts and flippers there, but stones. To make carrying more fun, I began to fantasize: “Maybe there’s someone in the suitcase? Maybe there’s... an electronic boy? So I’ll put the suitcase on the shelf, open the lid. The boy will open his eyes, stand up and say: “Hello! My name is Electronic...” He entered the compartment, clicked the locks and gasped. It turns out that in his haste he mixed up the suitcases: he took another one full of books. I had to do without fins by the sea. But I read to my heart's content:

And I didn’t forget about the imaginary boy.

A fairy tale obeys the general laws of art. One of them is formulated something like this: silver apples can grow on an apple tree, but no apples can be grown on a willow tree. It seems irrefutable. However, art exists to refute its own laws. It happens that what is depicted by the writer is quite reliable, similar to real life, but it looks pitiful, wingless and barely illuminated by a wretched thought, some banality. I don't want to read. Feeling the falsehood, the reader says, like a director to a mediocre actor: “I don’t believe it!” This is a sentence.

In Veltistov’s book, strange, incredible situations, including the notorious “apples on a willow tree,” follow each other. And the stories about Electronics are written expressively and vividly. The joke plot is driven by the extraordinary similarity between the robot boy and 7th grade “B” student Seryozhka Syroezhkin. From the very beginning, having accepted the mischievous convention, the festive fantasy of the plot, you get used to it and already believe everything: the crafty Professor Gromov, who prefers an ordinary taxi to helicopters, and the unheard-of Country of Two Dimensions, where everything is flat: people, houses, balls, trees... And others miracles. All this seems to have been invented not by the writer, but by the readers - those to whom it is addressed. Those who cannot learn without being mischievous.

Veltistov, a science fiction writer, had a real ability to talk about complex things simply. He was able to see the usual (even the boring) from a new side. His feather clothed the ethereal in flesh. Transformed the abstract into the concrete. He is, of course, a “physicist” and not a “lyricist”. His sympathies lie with the exact sciences. But he did not share the disdain for “lyrics”. The heroes of "Electronics" do not suffer from lack of spirituality. Mathematician Taratar, telling his students about the process of creative discovery, cited as an example... Pushkin’s poems. He adjusted his glasses and read quietly, almost in a whisper: “I remember a wonderful moment...” And it was as if a light breeze rushed into the class and clouded my eyes.

I wonder if this mathematician is fictional?

It turns out not really.

While working on Elektronik, Veltistov more than once visited a school with a mathematical bias. I met an honored teacher. His name was Isaac Yakovlevich Tanatar. During his lessons, he couldn’t do without a joke, went on hikes with the guys, and published with them the wall newspaper “Optimist Programmer” with puzzles in the “Tanatar” language of formulas. The children, of course, called him “Taratar”. This is how the surname sounds in the story.

Veltistov told me that during a discussion of the manuscript “Electronics” at the publishing house, he asked Thanatara to give it for review. And he received reserved approval from him: the future book “should be of interest to the reader.” I was quite pleased with this discreet approval.

Preface

"Hello! My name is Electronic..."

This book could have been published without a preface.

Why the preface? Moreover, written by a man who, as a child, himself began the adventures of his favorite heroes without preamble.

The fact is that today a great many children know about Electronics. Not lazy and curious. What if the most curious people want to know about the author of their favorite books?

It is for them that the preface was written.

There was a war going on. Great War. In the second year of the Great War, he came to Moscow School No. 265 to study. There were few books. There are even fewer notebooks. I really wanted to read. When asked what you would become, you answered: “A children's book seller. To read everything."

Then he changed his mind. I decided to become a journalist. It was a firm decision. Graduated from the Faculty of Journalism. He began working, first in newspapers, then as a department editor in the popular magazine Ogonyok. He was in charge of feuilletons and all sorts of things that were printed on the last pages. He was very thin. And that’s why it seemed even longer. In a multi-storey building, the editorial office occupied three floors. And when a funny wall newspaper was hung up on holidays, Veltistov was depicted something like this: his head was on the third floor, his body was on the second, and his running legs were on the first.

He was a real reporter: he tirelessly pursued news. I found interesting people. He found, for example, in one Arbat alley the author of the famous song “A Christmas Tree was Born in the Forest,” the old woman Raisa Kudasheva. And he managed to help her, because she needed help. He also helped the kindergarten settle in a luxurious dacha that had previously belonged to a swindler. And the famous science fiction writer Stanislav Lem - to see the nuclear reactor in Dubna.

The books “Tyapa, Borka and the Rocket” and “Radiate Light” were written by Veltistov in collaboration with his wife and friend Marta Petrovna Baranova.

...I remember in what atmosphere “Electronic - a boy from a suitcase” (the first and, in my opinion, the best part of the tetralogy) was born. In the late 50s and early 60s, schoolchildren began to study according to intensive programs. The triumphant flight of Yuri Gagarin paved the way into space - it seemed that we would always be the first. The word “cybernetics,” going back to the ancient Greek “steering the ship,” fluttered over the kitchen tables of Moscow communal apartments. On the pages of newspapers there was debate about the fate of poetry in the technological age. The poet Boris Slutsky wrote that physicists are held in high esteem, but lyricists, on the contrary, are in the fold and that this is a global pattern. Zealous supporters of the exact sciences, the so-called techies, reduced the role of art in the future to a pitiful minimum. Interest in science fiction has spread unusually widely. Lem became a favorite among techies. The golden oars of literary fantasies took the reader into such wilds of the universe that previous generations had never really dreamed of. There was still no bitter, still unresolved sediment from the Chernobyl disaster. We didn’t yet know that we were trailing behind the computer revolution. And that not we, but the Americans will soon land on the Moon. They sang with enthusiasm: “On the dusty paths of distant planets...” The electronic era was experiencing its romantic period. Your rainbow youth.

This is where “Electronic – a boy from a suitcase” was written.

By the way, why “out of a suitcase”?

This image came about like this. One day the author was going on vacation to the warm sea. He carries his suitcase along the platform to the train and is surprised: it’s heavy. As if there were not shirts and flippers there, but stones. To make it more fun to carry, I began to fantasize: “Maybe there is someone in the suitcase? Maybe there's... an electronic boy? I’ll put the suitcase on the shelf and open the lid. The boy will open his eyes, stand up and say: “Hello! My name is Elektronik...” He entered the compartment, clicked the locks and gasped. It turns out that in his haste he mixed up the suitcases: he took another one full of books. I had to do without fins by the sea. But I read a lot.

And I didn’t forget about the imaginary boy.

A fairy tale obeys the general laws of art. One of them is formulated something like this: silver apples can grow on an apple tree, but no apples can be grown on a willow tree. It seems irrefutable. However, art exists to refute its own laws. It happens that what is depicted by a writer is quite reliable, similar to real life, but it looks pitiful, wingless and barely illuminated by a wretched thought, some banality. I don't want to read. Feeling the falsehood, the reader says, like a director to a mediocre actor: “I don’t believe it!” This is a sentence.

I wonder if this mathematician is fictional?

It turns out not really.

Evgeniy Veltistov

Adventure Electronics

Elektronik - a boy from a suitcase

SUITCASE WITH FOUR HANDLES

Early on a May morning, a light gray car pulled up to the Dubki Hotel. The door opened and a man jumped out of the car with a pipe in his mouth. Seeing friendly faces and bouquets of flowers, he smiled shyly. It was Professor Gromov. The guest of honor at the cybernetics congress came from Sinegorsk, a Siberian scientific town, and, as always, decided to stay at Dubki.

The director of “Dubkov”, who organized the ceremonial meeting, took care of things. A rounded corner protruded from the open mouth of the trunk. large suitcase.

“Uh, even a strong man like you won’t lift it,” said the professor, noticing that the director was looking into the trunk. - This is a very heavy suitcase.

“It’s nothing,” the director responded. He grabbed the suitcase with his muscular arms and set it on the ground. His face turned red. The suitcase was long, black, with four handles. It was shaped like a double bass case. However, the inscriptions precisely identified the contents: “Caution! Devices!

Well, well... - the director shook his head. - How did you cope, professor?

I invited four porters. And he led it himself,” Gromov said.

We left you the same number. Do not you mind?

Wonderful. Very grateful.

The director and three assistants took hold of the handles and carried the suitcase to the second floor. Rising behind them, the professor looked with pleasure at the bluish walls of the living room, the comfortable furniture, and the small work desk next to the wide, wall-length window. He felt that the room smelled of pine forest and smiled.

The director pressed one of the buttons at the door:

The smell of pine is not necessary. If you want, you can have flowering meadows, violets and even a frosty day. These are the buttons for the odor generator. For the mood.

“Everything is wonderful, the mood is excellent,” the professor reassured him.

That's what we thought. Please settle down and rest. - And the director left.

The professor opened the window. The morning breeze flew into the room with the rustling of leaves and got entangled in the transparent curtains. Strong oak trees grew under the window, the sun's rays broke through their shaggy caps and lay as light spots on the ground. Tires rustled in the distance. A small helicopter, an air taxi, droned over the trees.

Gromov smiled: he could not get used to these helicopters and traveled in ordinary taxis. He saw that the city had become bigger and prettier. From the station we drove past kilometer-long flower beds, in an endless corridor of green trees, frozen as if on a guard of honor. Everywhere you look, there is something new: a birch grove, a dance of slender pines, apple and cherry trees in white capes, blooming lilacs... Gardens hung overhead, on the roofs of buildings, protected from the weather by transparent sliding domes. In the spaces between the windows, which girded the buildings with shiny ribbons, there was also greenery: climbing plants clung to rocks and concrete.

The oak trees have grown,” said the professor, looking out the window.

Yes, he hasn't been to this city for many years.

He bent over the suitcase, unlocked the locks, and threw back the lid. In a suitcase, on soft blue nylon, lay stretched out to his full height, a boy with eyes closed. He seemed to be fast asleep.

The professor looked at the sleeping man for several minutes. No, not a single person could immediately guess that in front of him was a cybernetic boy. A snub nose, a cowlick on the top of the head, long eyelashes... A blue jacket, a shirt, summer trousers. Hundreds, thousands of these boys run around the streets of a big city.

“Here we are, Elektronik,” the professor said softly. - How do you feel?

The eyelashes trembled, the shining eyes opened. The boy rose and sat down.

“I feel good,” he said in a hoarse voice. - True, it was shaking a little. Why did I have to be in a suitcase?

The professor helped him get out and began adjusting his suit.

Surprise. You should know what a surprise is. But we’ll talk about this later... And now there’s one necessary procedure.

He sat Electronics down on a chair and took out a small electrical plug on an elastic, stretchable wire and inserted it into the socket.

Oh! - Elektronik twitched.

“Nothing, nothing, be patient,” the professor said soothingly. - It's necessary. You will be moving a lot today. We need to refresh ourselves electric shock.

Leaving Electronics, the professor went to the video phone and dialed a number on the disk. The blue screen lit up. Gromov saw a familiar face.

Yes, yes, Alexander Sergeevich, I’m already here,” Gromov said cheerfully, puffing on his pipe. - How are you feeling? Excellent!

“I don’t want to,” the creaking voice of Electronics came from behind him. - I can’t do this...

The Professor shook his finger at Electronics and continued:

Come... I'm waiting... I warn you, a surprise awaits you!

The screen went dark. Gromov turned to ask the boy why he was being capricious, but did not have time. The electronics guy suddenly jumped out of his chair, ran to the windowsill, jumped onto it with lightning speed and jumped from the second floor.

The next moment the professor was at the window. He saw a blue jacket flash between the trees.

Electronic! - Gromov shouted.

But the boy had already disappeared.

Shaking his head, the professor took his glasses out of his pocket and bent over to the socket.

Running down the stairs, the professor noticed the director's surprised face and waved his hand reassuringly. There was no time for explanations now.

There was a taxi parked at the curb. Gromov sharply opened the door and fell into the seat. Taking a breath, he commanded the driver:

Forward! We need to catch up with the boy in the blue jacket!..

... Thus began extraordinary events that involved many people in their cycle.

WHITE COAT OR FORMULAS?

An ordinary boy lives in a big city - Sergei Syroezhkin. His appearance is unremarkable: a round snub nose, grey eyes, long eyelashes. Hair is always tousled. The muscles are invisible, but tight. Hands are covered in abrasions and ink, boots are battered from football battles. In a word, Syroezhkin is like all thirteen-year-olds.

Seryozhka six months ago moved to a large yellow-red house on Lipovaya Alley, and before that he lived in Gorokhov Lane. It’s even strange how, among the giant buildings, the last island of the old city, Gorokhov Lane, with its low houses and such small courtyards, could survive for so long that every time the guys started playing ball, they always broke the window. But for six months now, Gorokhov Lane has been gone. Bulldozers have demolished houses, and now long-armed cranes operate there.

Elektronik - a boy from a suitcase

Suitcase with four handles

The director of “Dubkov”, who organized the ceremonial meeting, took care of things. The rounded corner of a large suitcase protruded from the open mouth of the trunk.

“Uh, even a strong man like you won’t lift it,” said the professor, noticing that the director was looking into the trunk. - This is a very heavy suitcase.

Well, well... - the director shook his head. - How did you cope, professor?

I invited four porters. And he led it himself,” Gromov said.

We left you the same number. Do not you mind?

Wonderful. Very grateful.

The director pressed one of the buttons at the door:

The smell of pine is not necessary. If you want, you can have flowering meadows, violets and even a frosty day. These are the buttons for the odor generator. For the mood.

“Everything is wonderful, the mood is excellent,” the professor reassured him.

That's what we thought. Please settle down and rest. - And the director left.

Gromov smiled: he could not get used to these helicopters and traveled in ordinary taxis. He saw that the city had become bigger and prettier. From the station we drove past kilometer-long flower beds, in an endless corridor of green trees, frozen as if on a guard of honor. Everywhere you look, there is something new: a birch grove, a dance of slender pines, apple and cherry trees in white capes, blooming lilacs... Gardens hung overhead, on the roofs of buildings, protected from the weather by transparent sliding domes. In the gaps between the windows, which girdled the buildings with shiny ribbons, there was also greenery: climbing plants clung to the stones and concrete.

The oak trees have grown,” said the professor, looking out the window.

Yes, he hasn't been to this city for many years.

He bent over the suitcase, unlocked the locks, and threw back the lid. In the suitcase, on soft blue nylon, lay stretched out to his full height, a boy with his eyes closed. He seemed to be fast asleep.

“Here we are, Elektronik,” the professor said softly. - How do you feel?

The eyelashes trembled, the shining eyes opened. The boy rose and sat down.

“I feel good,” he said in a hoarse voice. - True, it was shaking a little. Why did I have to be in a suitcase?

The professor helped him get out and began adjusting his suit.

Surprise. You should know what a surprise is. But we’ll talk about this later... And now there’s one necessary procedure.

He sat Electronics down on a chair, took out from under his jacket a small electrical plug with an elastic, stretchable cord and plugged it into the socket.

Oh! - Elektronik twitched.

“Nothing, nothing, be patient,” the professor said soothingly. - It's necessary. You will be moving a lot today. You need to get some electric shock.

Leaving Electronics, the professor went to the video phone and dialed a number on the disk. The blue screen lit up. Gromov saw a familiar face.

Yes, yes, Alexander Sergeevich, I’m already here,” Gromov said cheerfully, puffing on his pipe. - How are you feeling? Excellent!

“I don’t want to,” the creaking voice of Electronics came from behind him. - I can’t do this...

The Professor shook his finger at Electronics and continued:

Come... I'm waiting... I warn you, a surprise awaits you!

The screen went dark. Gromov turned to ask the boy why he was being capricious, but did not have time. The electronics guy suddenly jumped out of his chair, ran to the window sill, jumped onto it and jumped from the second floor.

The next moment the professor was at the window. He saw a blue jacket flash between the trees.

Electronic! - Gromov shouted.

But the boy had already disappeared.

Shaking his head, the professor took his glasses out of his pocket and bent over to the socket.

Evgeniy Veltistov

Adventure Electronics

Suitcase with four handles

The director of “Dubkov”, who organized the ceremonial meeting, took care of things. The rounded corner of a large suitcase protruded from the open mouth of the trunk.

“Uh, even a strong man like you won’t lift it,” said the professor, noticing that the director was looking into the trunk. - This is a very heavy suitcase.

“Well, well...” the director shook his head. - How did you cope, professor?

– I invited four porters. And he led it himself,” Gromov said.

- We left you the same number. Do not you mind?

- Wonderful. Very grateful.

The director pressed one of the buttons at the door:

– The smell of pine is not necessary. If you want, you can have flowering meadows, violets and even a frosty day. These are the buttons for the odor generator. For the mood.

“Everything is wonderful, I’m in a great mood,” the professor reassured him.

- That's what we thought. Please settle down and rest. - And the director left.

Gromov smiled: he could not get used to these helicopters and traveled in ordinary taxis. He saw that the city had become bigger and prettier. From the station we drove past kilometer-long flower beds, in an endless corridor of green trees, frozen as if on a guard of honor. Everywhere you look, there is something new: a birch grove, a dance of slender pines, apple and cherry trees in white capes, blooming lilacs... Gardens hung overhead, on the roofs of buildings, protected from the weather by transparent sliding domes. In the gaps between the windows, which girdled the buildings with shiny ribbons, there was also greenery: climbing plants clung to the stones and concrete.

“The oak trees have grown,” said the professor, looking out the window.

Yes, he hasn't been to this city for many years.

“Here we are, Elektronik,” the professor said softly. - How do you feel?

The eyelashes trembled, the shining eyes opened. The boy rose and sat down.

“I feel good,” he said in a hoarse voice. - True, it was shaking a little. Why did I have to be in a suitcase?

The professor helped him get out and began adjusting his suit.

- Surprise. You should know what a surprise is. But we’ll talk about this later... And now there’s one necessary procedure.

He sat Electronics down on a chair, took out from under his jacket a small electrical plug with an elastic, stretchable cord and inserted it into the socket.

- Oh! – Elektronik twitched.

“Nothing, nothing, be patient,” the professor said soothingly. - It's necessary. You will be moving a lot today. You need to get some electric shock.

Leaving Electronics, the professor went to the video phone and dialed the number on the disk. The blue screen lit up. Gromov saw a familiar face.

“I don’t want to,” the creaking voice of Electronics came from behind him. - I can’t do this...

The Professor shook his finger at Electronics and continued:

- Come... I'm waiting... I warn you, a surprise awaits you!

The next moment the professor was at the window. He saw a blue jacket flash between the trees.

- Electronic! - Gromov shouted.

But the boy had already disappeared.

Shaking his head, the professor took his glasses out of his pocket and bent over to the socket.

Running down the stairs, the professor noticed the director’s surprised face and waved his hand reassuringly. There was no time for explanations now.

There was a taxi parked at the curb. Gromov sharply opened the door and fell into the seat. Taking a breath, he commanded the driver:

- Forward! We need to catch up with the boy in the blue jacket!..

...Thus began extraordinary events that involved many people in their cycle.

White coat or formulas?

An ordinary boy lives in a big city - Sergei Syroezhkin. His appearance is unremarkable: a round snub nose, gray eyes, long eyelashes. Hair is always tousled. The muscles are invisible, but tight. Hands are covered in abrasions and ink, boots are worn out in football battles. In a word, Syroezhkin is like all thirteen-year-olds.

Seryozhka six months ago moved to a large yellow and red house on Lipovaya Alley, and before that he lived in Gorokhov Lane. It’s even strange how, among the giant buildings, the last island of the old city, Gorokhov Lane, with its low houses and such small courtyards, could survive for so long that every time the guys started a ball game, they always broke the window. But for six months now, Gorokhov Lane has been gone. Bulldozers have demolished houses, and now long-armed cranes operate there.

Seryozhka likes him new life. He believes that in the whole city there is no such wonderful courtyard: spacious, like a square, and green, like a park. Jump, play, hide all day - and you won’t get tired of it. And if you get tired of it, go to the workshops, plan, drink, work as much as you want. Or go to the recreation rooms, shoot billiard balls, read magazines, look at the TV screen that hangs on the wall like a huge mirror.

And a moment of calm thoughtfulness will come, and he will see over the yard swift bird-clouds, glider-clouds, rocket-clouds carried by the wind in the blue sky. And right from behind the roof, a large silver car - a passenger jet plane - will fly out at him, cover the entire yard with its wings for a moment and just as suddenly disappear, only thunder will rumble across the roofs.

AND new school- here she stands in the middle of the yard - Seryozha also likes it. The classrooms have white desks and yellow, green, blue boards. You go out into the corridor - in front of you is a wall of glass, and the sky with clouds, and trees, and bushes; it seems that the school is floating among the green waves, like a steamship. And the most important, most interesting thing is the calculating machines in the laboratories. Large and small, similar to cabinets, televisions and typewriters, they greeted Syroezhkin with the cheerful clatter of keys, winked at him in a friendly manner with their multi-colored eyes and good-naturedly hummed their endless song. Because of these smartest machines, the school had a special name: young cybernetics.

When Syroezhkin had just arrived at his new house, signed up for the seventh “B” and had not yet seen these cars, he told his father:

- Well, I'm lucky. I will design a robot.

- Robot? – Pavel Antonovich was surprised. - What is this for?

- How - for what! He will go to the bakery, wash the dishes, and cook dinner. I will have such a friend!

- What friendship! - said the father. - Wash the dishes…

“But this is a robot, a mechanical servant,” answered Seryozhka.

And he talked for a long time about what responsibilities could be assigned to a robot, until his father interrupted him:

- Well, stop fantasizing! Tomorrow you will go to school and find out everything.

“And he’ll also clean his shoes,” Seryozhka muttered from under the blanket.

And the next day Sergei had already forgotten what he was going to do with the robot. After school, he stormed into the apartment, threw his briefcase in the corridor and, puffing, recited:

"A" and "B"

We sat on the pipe.

"A" fell, "B" disappeared,

What's left on the pipe?

- Here you go! – the father laughed. – Our cyberneticist made a discovery. In my opinion, this problem is studied in kindergarten.

“Okay,” said Seryozhka, “if it’s in kindergarten, then solve it.”

- Come on, Seryozhka, leave me alone! I still have to sit on the drawing until nightfall.

Pavel Antonovich started to go into the room, but Sergei clung to him like a tick.

- No, don’t dodge! Can you tell me what's left on the pipe?

– Probably “I”? – Father shrugged.

“Your reasoning is just primitive,” Seryozhka said importantly. – Suppose “A” is a chimney sweep, “B” is a stove maker. If they both fell, how could “I” remain? This is not an item and cannot be touched or dropped. – Sergei made a short pause and smiled slyly. - But you're right too. Since you didn’t drop the “I” from the pipe, you noticed it. This means that this word carries important information. Namely: it denotes a close connection between object “A” and object “B”. Although this “I” is not an object, it exists.

“It’s tricky,” said Pavel Antonovich, “but we seem to understand each other.”

“But in my opinion, everything is very simple,” the son continued. – Every letter, every word, even a thing, even the wind or the sun carries its own information. For example, you read a newspaper and find out the news. I solve a problem, apply formulas and find the answer. Somewhere in the sea, a captain steers a ship and looks at the waves and the wind. We all do the same thing: we take some information and work.

From this “learned” speech, the father made an unexpected conclusion:

- So, if you bring a C and say “I knew everything,” we must believe not your words, but the result, the diary. A very wise rule!

“Well, now I won’t have a single C,” Sergei said with conviction. – I will study all the machines.

The father laughed, grabbed Seryozha by the shoulders, and spun him around the room:

- Oh, you, the leader of the robots and the statesman! Do you want to have dinner? There is a delicious compote.

- What a compote! Wait! I didn't say the most important thing. I haven’t yet chosen who I should be: a programmer or an installer?

They talked all evening, but did not decide what was best. Seryozhka did not know what to become - an engineer or a mathematician? Who should I study to become a computer programmer or an installer of these fast-thinking machines?

If Seryozhka had been an installer, within a year he would have been standing in a white coat over the drawings, with my own hands collected machine blocks - small electronic organisms. If he wants to, he will learn how to make any car he wants. An automatic steel-melting machine, or a dispatcher for self-propelled combines, or a reference book for a doctor. You can also have a television device that reports from space, and from the bottom of the ocean, and from underground.

Only one inconvenience bothered Syroezhkin: his white robe must always be perfectly clean. Any speck, fluff, or ordinary dust could ruin the entire machine during assembly. And keeping an eye on some fluff and specks is not in Syroezhkin’s character.

Student programmers spent their school hours differently: attacking equations and problems on the board and on paper. After all, they had to draw up work programs in the language of mathematics for those machines that the assemblers assembled. Perhaps at first glance it was not as interesting as the birth of omnipotent automata, but mathematicians fought the battles with great passion. They would not trade their weapons for anything in the world - theorems and formulas - and were very proud when they emerged victorious.

So, diagrams or formulas? This had to be finally decided not now, not today, but in the fall. But Seryozha was constantly torn apart by conflicting desires. There were days when his passion for mathematics flared up in him, and he sat for hours over textbooks. Sergei proudly showed his father how he had solved the most difficult problems, and they began to play, making up equations from airplanes and cars, animals in the zoo and trees in the forest.

And then, completely imperceptibly, the passion for mathematics evaporated, and Syroezhkin was attracted like a magnet to the doors of laboratories. Having chosen a convenient moment, he entered them together with someone else’s class, sat in the corner, and watched how the older guys tinkered with the parts. Sings and hums a song calculating machine, the coals of her eyes burn, and Syroezhkin feels good.

After such enthusiasm for technology, troubles inevitably arise: the father must sign the diary. Pavel Antonovich looks reproachfully at his son and shakes his head. Sergei turns away and looks carefully bookshelf, shrugs:

- Well, the task didn’t work out... What’s wrong with that? Stupid pedestrians. They go, relax, take the train...

– Have you solved it now?

“I’ve decided,” Seryozhka says boredly. – In general, I can’t tinker with equations for a long time... My head hurts.

But no excuses help, I have to sit over the problem book. Seryozhka reads and rereads five lines about a gardener who reaped a rich harvest of apples and pears, and he himself thinks about the dog that ran after him for a long time in the dark. He whistled softly to her and kept looking around: was he running? The dog then trotted after him, then stopped, sat down and somehow looked sadly at Seryozha. She had a white triangle on her chest, one ear stuck out, and the other seemed to be broken in the middle.

At the entrance, Seryozhka prepared to take her in his arms, but she was scared of something, jumped back and ran away.

Seryozhka again looks blankly at the problem book and rolls his pen on the table. Then he slams the book shut and quickly puts everything in his briefcase. He found the simplest solution: “I’ll write it off from the Professor.”

The professor, or Vovka Korolkov, is Syroezhkin’s neighbor at his desk. His notebooks are ready for an exhibition or a museum: no blots, no corrections, just neat small letters and numbers. And the owner of the notebooks himself can be displayed in a museum. The professor knows about everything in the world, from mollusks to space. But he doesn’t give in, he never turns up his nose in front of his comrades. For him, the most important thing in life is mathematics. Seeing some equation, the Professor forgets about everything in the world. True, when Seryozhka cannot cope with a problem, the Professor descends from his heights and suggests a solution. To do this, you need to push him properly to the side.

But there was no special friendship between the neighbors. The professor was friends with Makar Gusev, who sat on the first desk and obscured a good quarter of the board from the rest. It was a funny couple: the thin, pale, smallest Professor in the class, famous for launching homemade rockets and various ingenious inventions, and the hefty, ruddy, with fists like melons, Makar Gusev. He, Makar, glorified his friend, and sometimes even gave him unexpected ideas: he suggested making skis with a motor, boiling lemon oil, and so on. Makar also had no doubts about his future. When the topic came up, he showed off his muscles and said: “Of course, I’ll tinker with cars. The Professor has a special head. Let him break it. But I sneezed at this wisdom.”

If the Professor was nice to Seryozhka, then the big guy Gusev spoiled a lot of blood for him. From the very first meeting, Seryozhka’s surname seemed too funny to Makar and then simply haunted him, as if it was tickling him.

- Hello, Syroezhkin! – Makar shouted in a bass voice from afar. – Do you eat cheese or not?

If Seryozhka answered that he did not eat, Makar continued:

- Then you must be Syronozhkin, Syroruchkin or Syrowushkin!

Sergei tried to answer in the affirmative, but even here Makar did not calm down and proclaimed:

- Attention! Here comes Syr Syrych Syrov, aka Seryozhka Syroezhkin, a great connoisseur and lover of all types of cheese all over the world. Tell me please, what did you have for breakfast?

And then Seryozhka decided not to say anything and silently went up to class.

Gusev did not lag behind him a single step.

- Listen, how do you like it - Syroglazkin? Yesterday I forgot your last name and suffered all night. Syrokoshkin? Syromyshkin? Syrosorokonozhkin?

Sometimes Seryozhka was so angry with the pester that he was ready to hit him. But I didn’t want to start first, and the big guy didn’t fight with anyone. All that remained was to adopt the enemy’s method. And during lessons, Seryozhka carefully moved chalk along Makar’s back - after all, it stuck out right in front of him. The class chuckled, contemplating the word “Goose,” and Makar looked around suspiciously. During recess, he chased Seryozhka, but he couldn’t catch the more nimble offender and from afar he threatened with his melon fist.

These small grievances were instantly forgotten, short brawls in the corners stopped when Viktor Popov and Spartak Nedelin from the ninth “A” appeared. No matter how hard you wanted, it was impossible to find a person in school who did not know outstanding mathematicians. There were legends about them. The boys followed the famous couple in a herd and passed on news to each other:

- Guys, Nedelin brought down a wonderful inequality! Everyone fought and nothing happened, but he took it and left. But Spartak proved the most difficult theorem!

Celebrities, meanwhile, did not pay the slightest attention to the magnificent retinue. They leisurely walked around the hall and asked each other musical puzzles: they quietly whistled or hummed melodies and guessed the composer. Then the bell rang, the doors of Ninth A closed, and the school waited for news.

The news was very different:

- Did you hear? Nedelin argued with the teacher throughout the lesson. This one proves his point, and this one proves his. That's what they said until the bell rang.

- It’s good for him, he knows everything. And then before you have time to sit quietly in place, you are already being pulled to the board.

– Did you see Spartak wearing a red jersey? It shows through under the shirt. Will score goals for biologists again!

- So what? Only girls study there. And the guys - once or twice, I miscalculated. And they're all frail. No wonder you can beat them... Popov bought a new violin! There are such concerts that all the neighbors don't sleep.

– Yes, I myself live near Spartak. Two floors below. You know how he rattles on the piano! What is your violin! You can hear the piano on all ten floors.

- Why are you wearing glasses? Don't you want to be like Vitka Popov? Your Vitka is a weakling, he doesn’t play football. Look, you'll waste away with these glasses. An ounce of health is better than a ton of knowledge.

- You yourself are a weakling! I do exercises every day. And he jumped further than you!

As you can see, math fans from all classes are divided into two camps. Some imitated the thoughtful, serious Popov, ironically looking at noisy entertainment. Admirers of the lively, muscular Spartak praised the sport and tried to compose poems, who knows - better or worse than those that Nedelin published in every issue of the wall newspaper. The only thing the two camps agreed on was that mathematics is the basis of all life.

Syroezhkin, of course, was a supporter of the cheerful Spartak, although he did not show him any signs of attention. And the seventh-grader avoided Popov after one incident. Seryozhka was running along the corridor, when suddenly the door swung open and hit him on the head. The accidental culprit of this blow, Viktor Popov, was apparently busy with his own thoughts. He didn’t even look at the victim, he just said as he walked:

- Hey kid, be careful!

“What a big one!” he muttered through his teeth. “I’ll give you glasses now so you can watch where you’re going!”

Popov stopped, looked at the unfamiliar figure in surprise and suddenly asked:

- Hey, you bully, tell me better, what is “Aldzhebr and almukabala”?

Sergei did not answer. He spread his legs wider and put his hands in his trouser pockets.

“It’s time to know that this is a mathematical work of the ninth century that gave its name to algebra.” – Popov looked at the bully with obvious irony. – And by the way, young man, the professors who visit our school call me a colleague. Heard? Colleague.

This, in fact, was the end of the clash.

Vitka Popov forgot everything a long time ago.

But Syroezhkin remembered. And perhaps it was after that incident that he came up with such a story.

Here he is, two years later - an unknown ninth-grader - coming to the university for the Mathematical Olympiad. Takes a sheet of paper and reads the terms of the tasks. Ten minutes - and he hands the commission a written piece of paper. Feathers are creaking in the hall, but he leaves without even looking back. The commission reads his work and wonders: “Who is this Syroezhkin? I had never attended mathematical circles, never attended section meetings, and so easily, playfully, I found my witty solutions. It’s even strange that for him there are no unsolved problems...”

And the next day they will hang a poster:

“The first place was taken by ninth grade student Sergei Syroezhkin. Honor and glory!..”

Vitka Popov finds out about this and extends his hand of reconciliation: “Sorry, colleague. Even I couldn’t solve such problems...”

And what? Couldn't it be like that? Seryozhka read in one book that the famous Stokes theorem was born when Stokes was a student and answered Maxwell himself in an exam. Since then, the theorem has been named after him. And Rayleigh's theorem was also proven in the exam. So why can’t Syroezhkin’s theorem ever be discovered?..

But most often, when Sergei thinks about who he should be, his thoughts jump around in complete disarray, and he is surprised at his inconstancy.

“Why, out of the blue, do I start thinking about Antarctica, about Madagascar stamps, and forget that I have to go to school? - Syroezhkin philosophizes at such moments. – I can think or not think, study or be lazy, do something or do nothing at all. Why, if I want, everything comes out quickly and well - both homework, and cleaning the house, and cross-country. If I want to, I won’t be a mathematician or an engineer, but a driver, or a geologist, or, like my father and mother, a designer. During my geography lessons, I was drawn to go to the North, work at a factory there and relax in a glass sanatorium. And in history - digging up Scythian burial mounds, looking for arrows, shields, spears and unraveling ancient parchments. And of course, I always want to be an astronaut!.. Why am I such that I can’t understand myself?”

And Seryozhka asks his father:

- Dad, how did you know that you want to be a designer?

He asks this, probably for the hundredth time, although he knows everything in advance: how his father graduated from school, then worked as a driver at a Siberian construction site - he drove hefty dump trucks, then he entered the auto-building industry and met his mother there. And while Pavel Antonovich - probably for the hundredth time - recalls his youth with pleasure, Seryozhka thinks about his own:

“For some reason, everything was simple before. People knew who they wanted to be, who they needed to study for. And here you stand, like Ilya Muromets, in front of a stone, and you don’t know: will you go left, will you go right, or will you go straight? It even takes melancholy..."

And he again remembered the same dog that ran after him in the dark. She ran for so long, and on you - just as he wanted to pick her up, bring her home, she ran away. What was she, stupid, afraid of?

- What are you thinking about? – the father asks, interrupting his story.

Who is he, the champion?

On Sunday Syroezhkin got up early. Not because he had urgent matters to attend to. It’s just that the morning turned out to be so bright and fresh after the overnight rain that it would have been stupid to lie in bed. On such a morning you always feel that something joyful or extraordinary will happen: after all, the day will be long, very long and the hour when they will call you to sleep is very far away.

It was quiet in the next room, and Seryozhka wanted to sneak out of the house unnoticed. He grabbed the tight lock as carefully as possible, but it still clicked treacherously.

- Seryozha! “It’s mom calling from the next room.” I heard.

- Please go get some bread. And don't be late for exercise.

Charging happens at eight. The bugle sounds. There is a man in a red jersey standing on the football field. This is master of sports Akulshin, he lives on the third floor. He stands and waits for the guys from all the entrances to come running. Then jogging, jumping and playing ball. As you can see, exercise is not at all boring, and Seryozha is not going to shirk. But bread is already a responsibility. Why go for it when you can order it at home? Mom says this: for educational purposes, so that he, Seryozha, does not become lazy.

That’s right, all adults willingly take part in this gymnastics, even pensioners. They take the elevators to the tenth floor and go out onto the roof. It’s like in the yard: flowers, bushes, and in the middle there is a playground and sports equipment. Pensioners, of course, don’t do pull-ups on rings, they just squat and wave their arms. But Seryozhkin’s father does a great job of spinning the “sun” on the horizontal bar and throwing a basketball into the hoop.

There was not a soul in the yard this early. There was no one to chat with, so Syroezhkin decided to go to the farthest bakery: maybe he would meet someone or see something interesting...

Seryozhka walked slowly under the shady linden trees. From the outside, one might think that he was lost in his thoughts. But that's not true. He played: he walked along a familiar street, but saw it completely new. The trees have been planted; yesterday they weren’t there yet. Thin, just sticks, and without leaves. But it’s okay, soon they will gain strength and make noise in the wind... But the bulldozers have piled up a lot of earth and are leveling the site. Until the shaft is removed, it’s convenient to hide here... The hum of a motor can be heard somewhere. You have to close your eyes and guess: a regular car or an air car? We need to guess quickly while the noise is unintelligible. And then check yourself and wave to the helicopter with checkers on its side.

Read the adventures of electronics in abbreviated chapters. Read online book “Adventures of Electronics. Evgeny VeltistovAdventures Electronics

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