Silence fell, tense. I looked at the distant sphere and remembered myself in a state of well-fed bliss. Was that the meaning of life? Probably, if it delivered a feeling of happiness. Then again, who decided I’d been happy? I’d suffered. I’d been in torment. Wait! I’d suffered in the sands too. And suffered in the dorm.
Damn it! I’d gotten completely tangled up. Where was happiness, where was suffering? Impossible to tell apart!
...an insinuating baritone spoke up:
— I’ll note that, en masse, the people who sell their souls are those possessed by an idea. I can bring any idea to life. Many great troublemakers have appeared with my help. Do you have an idea worth selling your soul for?
— No.
— A shame, — the gentleman sighed. — Thought as much.
— Well, I mean... — I mumbled. — Sure, I’ve got some, but not the kind where...
— I understand. You’d like to live well without straining too hard.
— More or less.
— I can arrange an inheritance in South America — you’ll get tired of squandering it. In return, I take your soul. Deal?
— No.
— Here we go again. What’s wrong with it?
— It seems to me that life isn’t given for squandering someone else’s fortune.
The gentleman smiled:
— Correct. For what, then?
— To be of use to people.
— Hm, listen to you now, all of a sudden. Thoughts like that never used to cross your mind. You know... not one person has ever sold his soul in exchange for ending war across the whole world, or keeping children from starving. Everyone thinks of himself. I’d recommend you do the same. The deal on the table concerns you personally. That’s the whole point: you, Roman Viktorovich Peskov, are standing against the social contract. You’ve made your choice — you don’t want to live as prescribed, as predetermined. You want to live as you please. All that’s left is to choose which of your lives I bring about.
That line about standing against society sobered me up. I looked around and, remembering the institute, asked a question:
— Can you turn me into a scientist?
— Easily.
— World-famous?
— Yes.
— A Nobel laureate?
— There have been precedents. You wouldn’t be the first.
— I want to become a scientist and make a discovery so grand that...
— That one’s already been made. The next grand discovery would destroy the Earth. I won’t go along with that. Settle for something less grand.
— Agreed.
— Then read this, — he picked up the folder from the table, flipped through the pages, and pulled out a couple:
— You’ll make the discovery, get world fame, the Nobel Prize, money, glory, crowds of admirers. A splendid life, in a word. You won’t regret it.
