Definitely Maybe by Arkady Strugatsky, Boris Strugatsky

embarrassed for them. But Glukhov turned out to be okay. He was extremely cozy and unthreatening—a little scrawny, snub-nosed fellow with reddish eyes hidden by strong glasses. When he arrived he happily drank the glass of vodka Weingarten offered him and was visibly saddened when he learned it was the last one in the house. When he was subjected to cross-examination, he listened to each one attentively, leaninghis head professorially to the right and looking to the right as well. “No, no,” he replied apologetically. “No, nothing like that happened to me. Please, I can’t even imagine anything like that. My thesis? I’m afraid it’s too foreign for you: ‘The Cultural Influence of the USA on Japan: An Attempt at a Qualitative and Quantitative Analysis.’ Yes, my headaches seem to be some idiosyncrasy: I’ve discussed it with major doctors—a rare case, they said.”
    In general, they laid an egg with Glukhov, but it didn’t matter, it was nice that he was there. He was a real down-to-earth guy. He drank heartily and wanted more, ate caviar with childlike glee, preferred Ceylon tea, and his favorite reading matter was mysteries. He watched the strange child with reserved apprehension, laughing uncertainly from time to time, listened to the delirious tales with uncommon sympathy, and scratched behind both ears, muttering, “Yes, that’s amazing, unbelievable!” In a word, everything about Glukhov was clear to Malianov. There would be no new information and certainly no advice coming from him.
    Weingarten, as usual when Vecherovsky was around, lowered his profile. He even looked more presentable and stopped shouting and calling people “buddy.” However, he did eat the last grains of the black caviar.
    If you didn’t count the brief replies to Vecherovsky’s questions, Zakhar said nothing. He didn’t even get to tell his own story—Weingarten took that upon himself. And he stopped admonishing his son and just smiled painfully as he listened to the helpful quotations about the diseases of various delicate organs.
    And so they sat in silence. Sipping cold tea. Smoking. The windows of the house across the street shone molten gold, the silver sickle of the new moon hung in the dark blue sky, and there was a sharp crackling sound coming through thewindow—they must have been burning old crates again on the street. Weingarten rustled his pack of cigarettes, peeked inside, crumpled it up, and softly asked: “Who’s got any cigarettes left?” “Here, help yourself,” Zakhar replied in a low voice. Glukhov coughed and rattled his teaspoon in the glass.
    Malianov looked over at Vecherovsky. He was sitting in his chair, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, studying the nails of his right hand. Malianov looked at Weingarten. Weingarten was smoking and watching Vecherovsky over the glowing tip of his cigarette. Zakhar was looking at Vecherovsky. And Glukhov. Malianov was struck by the silliness of the situation. What, actually, do we expect from him? So, he’s a mathematician. So, a major mathematician. So, let’s say he’s a very major mathematician—a world-famous mathematician. So? We’re like a bunch of children. God! We’re lost in the woods and trustingly flutter our eyes at the nice man: Oh, he’ll lead us out.
    “Well, basically, that’s all the ideas we have on the matter,” Weingarten said smoothly. “As you can see, there are at least two positions shaping up.” He spoke as though addressing the group, but looked only at Vecherovsky. “Dmitri feels that we should try to explain all these events in the framework of known natural phenomena. I feel that we are dealing with the intervention of forces completely unknown to us. That is: like cures like, fantastic with the fantastic.”
    That tirade sounded unbelievably phony. No, he couldn’t just simply say, we’re lost, mister, lead us out; no, he had to sum things up: We’ve been doing some thinking too. And now sit there