“I see!” Onisimov put down his pen and picked up the telegraph; his voice became severe. “Look here, citizen, it doesn't check out.” “What doesn't check out?”

“Your story, that you're Kravets, that you live and study in Kharkov, and so on. There's no student by that name in Kharkov. And the person you name has never lived at 17, Kholodnaya Gora, either.” The suspect's cheeks suddenly dropped, and his face turned red. “They got me. How stupid of me! Damn it! Of course, they checked all that out immediately. Boy, lack of experience shows every time. But what can I say now?” he thought.

“Tell the truth. And in detail. Don't forget that we're dealing with a homicide here.”

Kravets thought: “The truth. Easier said than done.” “You see, the truth… how can I put it… that's too much and too complicated,” the assistant began mumbling, hating and despising himself for this lack of control. “I'd have to discuss information theory and the modeling of random processes.”

“Just don't try to cloud the issues, citizen,” Onisimov said, frowning disdainfully. “People aren't killed by theories — this was definitely practical application and fact.”

“But… you must understand, actually no one at all may have died. It can be proven… or attempted to be proven. You see, citizen investigator — (Why did I call him that? I haven't been arrested yet.) — You see, first of all, a man is not, well, not a hunk of protoplasm weighing 150 pounds. There are the fifty quarts of water, forty — four pounds of protein, fats and carbohydrates, enzymes, and so on. No, man is first and foremost information. A concentration of information. And if it has not disappeared, then the man is still alive.”

He stopped and bit his lip. “No, this is nonsense. It's hopeless,” he thought.

“Yes, I'm listening. Go on,” the detective said, laughing to himself. The assistant glanced up at him, got more comfortable in his chair, and said with a small smile: