Chapter Three – Sunday
The man in a white lab coat walked in the corridor of newspaper "The Horn". His name was Boris Petrovich - was the engineer of the publishing house, small in stature, with a bald head. He was walking and thought about something, going into the cabinet of the editor.
"I welcome you, Boris Petrovich."
"Good day, Kondrat Kirillovich."
The editor and the engineer of "The Horn" shook hands.
"Please tell, Boris Petrovich, have the Japanese responded us?" The editor asked.
"Yes, they write that all within the rules, as it should be. They sent us test tools and software upgrades. I installed all. So far, without a success" The engineer reported.
"Is this...'Shinri'..."
"'Shinri 528' has passed after-sale service last week. No malfunctions were detected." Boris Petrovich continued.
"A malfunctions, you say, were not detected. And why does it prints not the facts that we have really programmed in it? And only on weekdays! Even it knows domestic holidays. From where? As you told me it doesn't connect to anything except power." Kondrat Kirillovich asked more likely with interest, then with irritation.
"Exactly. It isn't connected to anything. I was looking for at least some transceiver personally. Apparently, all are pre-programmed earlier. Artificial intelligence. Phenomenon!"
"Do you understand what we are can stay out of work because of this 'phenomenon'? Well, who does need this true, especially for Monday to Friday? "
"The Japanese...?" Boris Petrovich did not know what to say. "And what if we replace the model? To German model, for example, there are a very worthy."
"Which means? Our sponsor will not allocate more money and you offer three tons of iron under the name 'Shinri' give back to Tokyo."
"But I've read that a deli 'Freedom' is now expanding assortment, turnover increases. Is it our sponsor?" The chief engineer didn't let up.
"Where did you read it? Kondrat Kirillovich asked with surprise.
"In our newspaper 'The Horn'..." The engineer continued. "Dear Boris Petrovich, it was a Sunday edition..." The chief said desperately.
"Sorry, I didn't think about it." The engineer looked down.
"Back to work. And I will think." The editor said without enthusiasm.
Boris Petrovich left the cabinet and just said "Phenomenon". Kondrat Kirillovich left alone. Teasing mustache, he picked up the phone and dialed the extension number.
"Mefodich, will you come toady's evening?"
"Of course I will come, Kirillich, no doubt."
Chapter Four – The Evening
Two have settled down on both sides of a table, in a cabinet of the editor – Kondrat Kirillovich and Stepan Mefodevich. They sat and drank tea.
"I'm tired, Mofodich, how I'm tired." The editor complained to the guard.
"And I can't tell it, looking at your moustaches!" Stepan Mefodevich grinned.
"Tomorrow Boris Dmitrievich will come to interview with... oh... Nepodkupnih! The God has given such a surname!" Kondrat Kirillovich exclaimed.
"Yeah. And Boris Dmitrievich is budding. May be he will become a good journalist. Support him, Kirillich." Stepan Mefodievich begged.
"Of course, will support, certainly. How is about your story progress, my dear man?" Kondrat Kirillovich asked.
"Little by little. One chapter per week, as I promised, don't worry. But is not the story now... the novel!" Stepan Mefodievich said.
"Well done! I don't get why is our publishing machine..."
"'Shinri'" Stepan Mefodievich put a word.
"... prints your chapters, stories on weekdays, during the holidays? It's also a fiction, a lie, a fantasy!" Kondrat Kirillovich asked.
"This is because real author's fiction is not a lie. But the truth… we just have to love it." Stepan Mefodievich said to Kondrat Kirillovich, and they both took a sip of tea from the same cups with the same cup holders.
The End.
About the Author
George Kavsekhornak was born in Leningrad. Now he lives in Saint-Petersburg (Russia). He writes stories in the style of "urban fantasy" when a number of amazing and necessarily things want to be shared. He writes, on the one hand in the style of openly expressing respect for images created by the classics of Russian literature and the legacy of the plot metamorphosis foreign fiction, on the other hand.
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