Linkov came back at the end of the day and silently sank onto the worn leather sofa by the door.

— Did they run you ragged at that Institute of Time? — Savchenko was surprised — Just imagine — a man has reached the end of his rope in just one short day of work. Is it because of specifics?

Linkov grinned sadly:

— I haven’t even gotten to the specifics yet, it’s fun enough without it. What did I say? There are no simple cases there…

Valya Temin quietly groaned with impatience and leaned across the table toward the sofa.

— W-well?! — he exhaled. — Don’t drag your feet. Explain!

— No, comrades, say what you like — Linkov said almost pleadingly, — but for an ordinary citizen this is a bit too much — the Institute of Time and Valentin Temin all in the same day, with no intermission and no chance to recover…

— You don’t say that! — Valentin said, blinking resentfully. — If you don’t want to, don’t.

— He doesn’t need it! — confirmed Sanchenko. — He doesn’t need it at all! He sits there in the department all day long, glued to his desk, just in case. He has even managed to finish his lunch at supersonic speed. I’m sitting in the canteen, hear Valentin slurping his pickle soup. I look over, and he’s already chewing on a schnitzel; all that’s left of the soup is just a sound.

Linkov laughed heartily, feeling the tension he’d endured throughout this surprisingly long May day gradually ease.

— And after lunch, one of the girls he’s in charge of, kept calling in, begging and begging him to step out for at least half an hour, — Savchenko continued, — but Valentin wouldn’t listen! We’ve got matters of national importance going on right now, he says … Just like James Bond!

— Oh, come on! — muttered Temin, embarrassed — And it wasn’t some girl on mine, it was just some guy…

— This guy’s really gone off the deep end, it seems — Savchenko was horrified — His voice is so thin, I barely heard him say that Valya Temin was needed. His parents must’ve taken poor care of him. They even named him something wrong: Milochka. Is that really a name for a guy?

— Oh, come on! — Temin couldn’t stand it — I’m interested in the matters of the case and he… Well, Linkov, tell me at least one thing: what’s your theory?

— I don’t have any theory, do you understand? — Linkov replied grumply. — I don’t have anything at all!

Valya Temin looked at him with such passionate reproach that Linkov felt uneasy.

— Well, Valentin, don’t be upset, — he said apologetically. — There’s no theory now — but there will be. So far, all the evidence seems to indicate suicide, but…

— Do we have any traces? — quickly asked Temin

— We have everything. We have traces, we have a body, we have a poison. We just don’t have the motives. Nothing, in the slightest!

— You mean motives for suicide? — asked Savchenko.

— Well, yes. Why would a healthy young man commit suicide? Romantic heartbreak? Technically, it seems so, but psychologically, it doesn’t work out. Troubles at work? None. Alcoholism is ruled out. A nervous breakdown, or even worse, mental illness is also out of the question. So why then?

— Maybe someone frightened him? Blackmail? — Temin suggested hopefully.

Linkov glances at him with interest. Val’ka sometimes could come up with valuable ideas — valuables precisely because of their pristine naivety; someone else would never even think of such things, the brakes would be applied halfway through. Blackmail! What if it really was blackmail? … But who and how could have blackmailed Levitsky? A dark past is out of the question, he was completely in plain sight. The lab isn’t classified. The institute does some work on classified topics, that’s true, and besides, their crew…

— That’s the thing, my friend, — Linkov said seriously, — that nothing seems to fit, but on the other hand, anything could. It’s all so vague and fuzzy… I feel sorry for Struzhkov, — he said, unexpectedly even for himself. — He’s suffering greatly. I understand him completely: his best friend — and such a story! He absolutely doesn’t believe it’s suicide.

— Or maybe he’s right not to believe it? — Savjchenko asked.

Linkov smacked his lips in annoyance.

— Right now, anyone can believe it or not. The facts we have are as scarce as hen’s teeth and you can fit any theory in here. And anyway, my vacation is wasted, guys!

— Well, at worst, I’ll help you out, don't worry, — reassured him Savchenko. — I think you’re overcomplicating things. You must be tired.

— Maybe I am, — Linkov agreed languidly. — It’s quite possible. Once I get a good night’s sleep, I’ll clear up all the quiestions and solve all the problems. Am I right, Valentin?

— Of course, you shouldn’t overstain yourself, — Valentin replied solemnly, and immediately began dialing the phone — A healthy rest is, you know… — he muttered absentmindedly, listening to the dial tone. — Hey, listen, this is Valentin speaking. I’ve cleared things out, tried my best, and a little space has opened up… Oh, come on, when I ever …

— “A skinny guy named Milochka”. — Savchenko said in the announcer’s voice, — or “Valentin Temin organizes a healthy rest”. A modern-day drama in at least three acts, two of which we’ve already seen.

Linkov smiled knowingly. And suddenly he felt sad. For the first time in his life, he slightly envied carefree Valentin with his Milochkas and Lenochkas.

But then he realized where it was coming from, and even hissed softly in frustration, like a cat whose whiskers had been tugged.

He saw very clearly Nina Berestova’s serious, almost stern face, her elongated green eyes looking somewhere past him, through him and he terribly longed to dial an unknown number as cheerfully and carefree as Val’ka Temin and say: “Nina, this is Alexander speaking. How are you tonight — maybe we should go to the movies, what do you think?”