Who knows why I was born in the Earth at all... To assure continuation of my kin? But a child grows up in some eighteen years. What’s next? Grandchildren, the old age... Everything moves in a constant wild flow of looking after posterity, just like any animal has. Then what distinguishes a human from that animal? It is an ability to think? But what should one think about? About how to set a dwelling, to procreate children, to raise and support them? It turns out a human being differs from an animal only by the fact that it does everything instinctively, while he does same things deliberately? Judging from life, it does turn out like this. Yet, why does inside one want something greater, something exceeding the bounds of this exclusive circle drawn for ages? Yes, posterity is splendid. But you are born alone, you stew in the pot of your life almost on your own as well (because your family can be some external incentive and support for your personal life program), and finally you die alone, experiencing this event solely on your personal inner level. For, at bottom, no one knows either your thoughts, or your true feelings, or your real life with all “video” and “audio” reflections of the reality pictures inside your brain. Then why does nature need to accumulate such inner information, i.e. human thoughts? After all, not a single living thing except oneself needs it. What hides in the depth of this mystery of nature? If you spent eighteen years raising children (and at times you don’t understand whom you have brought up, for some of their thoughts and deeds remain an undiscovered secret for you), then for “nurturing” or for, better to say, “accumulation” of your inner fortune you spent your entire conscious life since the early childhood and until your last day on the Earth. So, what is the sense? Why are we given all these stages of difficulties and sufferings? Why the transient youth favours you with such instants of inner happiness for which you then long the rest of your days? What is the true basis of human existence? Who am I eventually? Am I just a body? Definitely, I’m not. Why does this sack bones and liquid move, thanks only to my will power? My will power? And who am I then, if I think regardless of the body pain? What is pain at all? Who am I?!»
Rebrov even winced of such new thoughts, having swept over him suddenly and touched the very depth of his heart. He slightly shook his head. Something unusual was happening to him this night, which had never come about before. His consciousness was accustomed to answer questions through logical, irrefragable reasoning. And now he was asking himself questions so simple at first sight, but yet incredibly intricate and broaching something deeply personal, such that his mind with its customary militia officer’s logic was nearly exploding of the overstrain of searching answers. Rebrov shook his head slightly again, fondly expecting to get rid of these thoughts in such a way. However, they did not disappear and only intensified their attack, in eager rivalry grappling with his usual somber thoughts of the daily routine. At that, his body continued to signal painfully of the serious defects inside of it. A next telephone call at 3 a.m. caught Major in such a terrible condition. Rebrov lifted the receiver and automatically responded with a tired voice, “Major Rebrov, officer on duty, fifteenth department...”
A female voice started to chatter on the other side of the line. There was a habitual event – a drunken brawl. Somebody’s prolonged birthday party which included excessive doses of alcohol has turned a private apartment into a boxing ring. And “the heart-to-heart talk” has resulted in bloodshed... Rebrov connected to the operations group on duty through an internal telephone line. After a while, captain Onishchenko entered the room, looking half-asleep.
“Well, who else has broken his madcap in crapulent and hungry state at 3 a.m.?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Look,” Rebrov pointed to the journal.
Captain glanced over the latest notation.
“Not bad! We have to go to the very other side of the district! Eh, our hard lot...”
Onishchenko looked at Chmil sleeping with his face under the newspaper, smiled and softly sneaked up to him closer.
“Squadron, stand up! Senior lieutenant Chmil, two duties out of turn!” he commanded loudly.
Sleepy Chmil sprang up in the stand of attention instinctively, having dropped the only intact chair and accidentally pushed down an ashtray full of cigarette stubs. But he came to his senses right away. Sergeant Kostushkin jumped up frightened together with him.
“Damn, Onishchenko! You’ll make me childless once,” Chmil grumbled with displeasure.
“Why childless?” Captain wondered laughing.
“Why, why...” Chmil mimicked him. “Because... Do you know how one’s mind is affected by...”
“А-а-аh..,” Onishchenko drawled and then added, “Well, “authority loses its appeal without abuse”. These are your words, aren’t they?”
“Well, yeah, it’s called ‘even a storyteller dozes off without urging forward’.”
It became somewhat livelier in the duty subdivision. While Onishchenko was talking with Chmil, two more operations officers and a driver came.
“All right, we are going,” Captain uttered leaving the duty room.
“Good luck,” Rebrov replied.
After the operations group had left, Chmil wandered around the room, like a bear awaken in the middle of its winter hibernation. Kicking the chair wreckage, he muttered, “This Onishchenko... is like a dog in the manger. He’s interrupted the dream at such a passage, reptile...”
“Sit down to the control desk, and I’ll make coffee,” Rebrov said, staring at the senior lieutenant.
Chmil gave up his “occupation” and heavily seated himself on the chair, looking around for somebody to vent his bad mood upon. Rebrov was obviously not suitable for this purpose. He was of senior rank, and furthermore he was a good man always conducting himself humanly, unlike that Onishchenko. Chmil glanced over the room. “Maybe, I’ll drop into the ‘monkey house’,” he thought, having rested his gaze at the cell. But suddenly Kostushkin entered the room, having returned from the lavatory. And Chmil chose an ideal target for letting the “steam” out on. He made a stern face and, profiting by the fact Rebrov was in the other room, articulated imperiously, “Sergeant Kostushkin, why is there rubbish in the duty room?” he pointed his finger at the cigarette stubs scattered on the floor and ordered. “Take a besom and tidy the territory now!”
“But why me? Was it me who threw them about?” Kostushkin replied in a similar flatulent tone.
Chmil was nearly struck dumb with surprise.
“Look at this youth nowadays! How dare you speaking like this to a senior officer?!”
“Oh, come on, Chmil! Why are you jumping on me? You’ve dropped this, so you’re to sweep it yourself.”
“What, what?”
The senior lieutenant began to rise from the table slowly. Looking at his impressive figure, Kostushkin even shriveled for he did not particularly distinguish himself for the musculature. Thus, when Chmil menacingly halfrose in his not full hefty height, the sergeant no more tried his destiny and saluted, standing at attention.
“Sir, yes, sir! Let me take a besom and tidy the territory!”
And right then he passed out of sight to get the necessary cleaning tools. Chmil smacked his lips contentedly, seated himself again and grumbled, “There you are...”
When Rebrov brought coffee for all three of them, the senior lieutenant was instructively lecturing Kostushkin on how he should fulfill orders while working in militia. Meanwhile, Kostushkin was sweeping the last stubs, glancing askance at Chmil with displeasure.
“Ah, you’re doing the room! Good fellows!” Rebrov praised. “OK, let’s have a snack.”
Major took out a big sandwich cautiously prepared by his wife and cut it into three portions.
“Here, dinner is served.”
Sipping