“I can feel his pulse,” a woman said to the left of the academician.

Arkady Arkadievich turned. The space between the door and the wall, free of flasks and equipment, was in semidarkness. Two orderlies were carefully transferring a man wearing a gray lab coat from the floor to a stretcher; his head was tilted back and strands of his hair were damp from the puddle of some oily liquid on the floor. A petite doctor bustled near the man.

“He's in shock,” she pronounced. “Give him an adrenalin injection and pump him.”

The academician took a step closer. It was a young man, handsome, very pale, with chestnut hair. “No, that's not Krivoshein, but who is it? I've seen him somewhere….” An orderly got the shot ready. Azarov took a deep breath and almost choked. The room was filled with the acrid odors of acid solutions, burned insulation, and some other sharp smell — the vague, heavy smells of disasters. The floor was covered with a thick liquid through which the doctor and orderlies kept walking.

A thin man in a blue suit entered the room in an official manner. Everything about him but his suit was bland and inexpressive: gray hair with a side part, small gray eyes unexpectedly close together on a bony face with high cheekbones, and taut, poorly shaved cheeks. He nodded drily to Azarov, who returned an equally formal bow. There was no need for introductions, since it had been Investigator Onisimov who had handled the case of lab assistant Gorshkov's radiation death last February.

“Let's begin by identifying the body,” the detective said, and Arkady Arkadievich's heart skipped a beat. “Would you please come here.”