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Canary Heaven

Bob Johnston

    New York Times, December 22, 1985
    BAKU, Azerbaijan SSR (Tass)

    This dispatch, dated November 21, 1985, did not reach our editorial offices until yesterday. The reason for the one-month delay is unknown. We are printing the lengthy dispatch in its entirety, in view of the importance of the research it describes.

    Baku seems an unlikely venue for advanced research. Yet this is where Doctor Boris Ivanovich Kazansky has labored for more than twenty years at the frontiers of cellular biology and genetics. In a huge concrete-walled building, hemmed in by two oil refineries just north of the city limits, Dr. Kazansky has created a large population of what he calls “super-canaries.”
    Nikolai Ilyich Myshkin, an Izvestiya staff reporter, was recently permitted to tour this top-secret research facility and interview Dr. Kazansky. Here is the entire text of Comrade Myshkin’s report on the great work being performed within these austere walls:

    After a delay of more than three months, I finally secured the clearances required for entry into the massive building that houses a major research project on the cutting edge of biological sciences—a project heretofore cloaked in secrecy. According to the Baku Commissar of Security, I am the first outsider to enter this fortress of research since its dedication in 1963. While this great honor weighs heavily on my shoulders, I must admit, without any false modesty, that I am eminently qualified by education and experience to bring the story of Dr. Kazansky and his canaries to a waiting world.
    Dr. Kazansky’s research is housed in an immense, windowless, building, seven stories high, covering more than four full city blocks. It is truly a self-contained city, where the workers have no need to go forth into the outside world. The research facility is known formally as “The Institute for Advanced Genetics Research,” but in Baku it is called “Canary Heaven,” which leads me to believe that the facility’s elaborate security measures have proven insufficient to close off all leaks of information.
    At 07:00 on a Monday morning, I presented myself at the main entrance—a small door in a seven-story blank wall—identified only by a small bronze plaque, “Genetics Research Facility: Authorized Personnel Only.” Upon passing through a metal detector, I entered the first security check area, a large room with at least fifty employees seated in front of television monitors. Each worker wore a white uniform with the logo of the Institute imprinted on the back—a red dot surrounded by concentric circles, a highly stylized representation of a living cell. Proceeding to the next room, I was handed a seven-page form, which I completed under the watchful eye of an uncommonly attractive female security guard.
    Once I had filled out the form and passed through the final security check, which included fingerprinting and retinal scanning, I was greeted by Dr. Kazansky himself—a bronzed giant with piercing blue eyes and a shock of white hair. He was dressed in tan shorts, sandals, and a flowered shirt open at the neck. I bowed and presented my card, but Dr. Kazansky was not one to stand upon ceremony. He put his arm around my shoulders. “Greetings and welcome, Nikolai Ilyich, my dear young friend. I shall call you Kolya. And please address me as Boris Ivanovich; the title of Doctor is entirely superfluous.”
    I was quite taken aback. “Thank you, Doctor— I mean Boris Ivanovich. I am honored by the opportunity to converse with you, but I must also confess to some puzzlement. After more than two decades during which your work has remained secret, why will you allow me, a lowly member of the working press, to witness the fruits of your labor. Am I permitted to report everything I see here?”
    Dr. Kazansky’s laughter boomed and echoed from the walls. “Indeed, indeed. It is time to tell the citizens of our great Soviet Union what we have accomplished; time to let the whole world enjoy the fruits of our labors, the culmination of research of three generations: my grandfather, Grigor Petrovich Kazansky; my father, Ivan Grigorevich Kazansky; and now my own humble contribution, my life’s work, building on the foundation created by these two giants of genetics research.” His voice lowered, and he spoke to me confidentially: “Until I became certain that we have achieved a major breakthrough, I was reluctant to share my research with the outside world. But now is the time; and you, Kolya, will be my channel to broadcast our successes. So please, please, take copious notes.”
    I took my notebook from my coat pocket, but Dr. Kazansky handed me a clipboard with a pad of yellow, ruled paper. “Remember, if you will, that I said copious notes.” Taking my arm, he led me to an unmarked door at the far end of the room. “Now, my dear Kolya, you will see the inner workings of our modest research facility. First, we shall tour the lower levels. I trust you have worn comfortable shoes, as the entire journey will be taken under our own footpower—by shank’s mare, if I may use a phrase so colorfully enunciated by Scottish writers of the eighteenth century.”

    At the beginning of our tour, Dr. Kazansky summarized the history of this unique facility and an astounding research program spanning more than a century. His grandfather first became interested in canaries as an object for genetic research in 1850, when he traveled to the Amazon rainforest and observed the huge variety of colorful songbirds. Among eighteen hitherto unknown species and variants that he discovered was a bird resembling the domestic canary but much larger, with yellow plumage that dazzled the eye. Its song, somewhat similar to that of the domestic canary, was far louder and had many more variations. Dr. Kazansky’s grandfather reported that some of these birds sang so beautifully he thought he recognized familiar tunes. He brought back twelve of these canaries, eventually named Serenus canarius Kazansky. These twelve, along with the hundreds of birds subsequently brought back to Baku by the two elder Kazanskys, formed the basis for a study of natural and induced mutations covering sixty generations of canaries and three generations of the Kazansky family. The canaries proved to be ideal subjects for genetic research, as they bred relentlessly, each female producing at least six clutches of eggs annually.
    The Baku research project initially occupied an ancient brick building, converted from its original use as a slaughterhouse. As the project expanded, sections and departments moved into scores of buildings scattered throughout the city and environs. Construction of the present facility was initiated in 1956, and all operations moved into this building prior to its dedication in 1963.

    Dr. Kazansky related this fascinating history as we walked through the length and breadth of the first floor, for the most part filled with very ordinary-looking offices. We then descended to the lowest of six underground levels, where I saw massive air-conditioning machinery, a water treatment plant, a hydroponic garden, refrigerated food warehouses, huge turbogenerators, and an electric power distribution station. Illumination came from a luminous ceiling, which was at least twelve meters above the spotless white floor. We encountered only four technicians, dressed in white coveralls bearing the Institute logo. Dr. Kazansky explained that all the machines and facilities were under full automatic control. He pointed to a door in the center of one wall—somewhat similar to an automatic garage door but much larger, at least eight meters in width and height. “Behind this door is a tunnel that leads to our nuclear power plant, eighty feet below the surface. Another tunnel, on the opposite side of the building, permits the entry of trucks bringing in food, equipment, and supplies. But in the near future we shall be able to grow or synthesize all our food; and eventually we shall become completely self-sufficient, capable of surviving any natural or man-made disaster with the possible exception of an all-out nuclear war.”
    We then inspected briefly the other five underground levels, which are devoted to housing and amenities for the workers. Actually, I should say four levels, since we never inspected the fifth level. I asked why we bypassed this floor, but Dr. Kazansky mumbled something like “Nothing to see there” and hurried me up to the fourth level.
    I am pleased to report that the workers’ apartments are modern—even modernistic—and far more commodious than those available to workers in Moscow. Most impressive is the recreation center, which includes an Olympic-size swimming pool, weight room, basketball courts, and running track. A 110-bed hospital is equipped with all of the miracle machines of modern medicine. Schooling is provided for children up to 18 years, and the quality of education is evidenced by the high percentage of graduates who are admitted to Moscow State University. Each residential level includes a day care center, communal kitchen, dining hall, taproom, and American-style discotheque.
    Dr. Kazansky explained that most of the 3,021 workers in the building are engaged in caring for the canaries. As he put it, “We have made great progress in automation, but some of the commonplace tasks in bird husbandry still require the personal touch. And I truly believe that our honored avian guests appreciate the attention.”
    Astounded by the large number of workers, I asked him, “Where do these workers come from? And do they all live here, or do some live elsewhere and come in each day?”
    Dr. Kazansky seemed to be amused at my naîveté. “Of course, all workers are free to come and go as they please. But once they have become part of our team, they have no reason to venture into the outside world. Many of the workers, like myself, have lived here the entire twenty-two years since the facility’s dedication. We are a closely knit community—a workers’ commune, the ne plus ultra of enlightened socialism.” He fell silent, as if pondering the wonders of his creation.
    We concluded our morning tour with luncheon in the fourth-level dining hall, a large room with a white tiled floor and a sky-blue ceiling. Fresh roses had been placed on each of the linen-covered tables. The extensive menu included Western foods such as Khamburger a la McDonald’s, but I preferred Russian and Azerbaijan delicacies—a salad constructed with a bewildering variety of local greens, a flavorful but very different sort of borscht, and beluga caviar from the Kura River, all accompanied by choice Armenian wines. I would have gladly stayed to sample more of the gustatory delights, but Dr. Kazansky insisted that we leave. He stood up and handed me the clipboard.
    “Come now, Kolya, we must proceed.” He took my arm and propelled me toward the exit. “Many more wonders await you, and we must keep moving in order to finish before our closing hour of 18:00.”

    Our tour now took us to the aboveground levels. Dr. Kazansky took my arm and led me to an unmarked elevator. “Now, my dear Kolya,” he told me, “you will witness the fruits of our labor.” As we emerged from the elevator onto the fourth floor, my brain could barely encompass the enormity of the room that we entered. As far as the eye could see, it was occupied entirely by row after row of huge, shiny, black cubes, possibly four meters on a side. Dr. Kazansky explained: “These are our glass cages—or apartments, as we prefer to call them. This room, occupying the entire fourth floor, is just one of three such apartment complexes, now housing more than ninety thousand canaries. The glass walls that you see are currently in the opaque mode. Here, let me demonstrate.”
    He flicked a switch, and the glass walls of the nearest cube became transparent. I saw six birds, about the size of robins, with brilliant red plumage. “Ten more,” he told me, “are hiding in the birdhouses or in the liana-covered tree you see in the far corner.” The six visible birds were pursuing normal occupations—preening, flying from perch to perch, eating, defecating.
     “These canaries, like most of the other newcomers, have not yet been trained to use the toilet,” Dr. Kazansky explained. “Fortunately, we have developed a self-cleaning floor that converts the waste into an odorless fertilizer. . . . But come now! Let us continue.”
    As we walked down one row of cages, Dr. Kazansky switched the walls of each cage to the transparent mode. I saw birds of all sizes and colors, from the original yellow through green, red, and blue to jet-black. The smallest were hummingbird-size, the largest comparable to turkeys. Dr. Kazansky explained that some birds, even larger, were housed in the lower floors along with the workers. “Thus,” he told me, “our two species learn to live and work together to the greater good of all.”
    I must note that it is misleading to speak of this place as a “room,” since it covers an area of more than four city blocks. There are three such rooms, occupying the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors. The view across a “room,” down the alleyway between two adjacent rows of gleaming black cages, has a surreal quality.
    As we walked down the lane between two rows of cages, Dr. Kazansky explained that the work of the Institute had proceeded in several directions. “One line of research has been directed toward raising the intelligence level of the canaries. We have several families with IQs above 100, and some remarkable individuals are so intelligent the IQ becomes meaningless. They excel particularly in verbal skills.” He stopped by one cage and flipped a switch, revealing four stately, pure-white birds, resembling cranes. As they stalked around the periphery of their apartment, they conversed with each other in a language I did not understand.
    “Come now, comrades,” Dr. Kazansky enjoined them. “As a courtesy to our guest, please speak in Russian, or English if you must.” He turned to me: “They speak in Swahili when they do not wish to be understood.”
    The largest of the four birds approached the wall and spoke directly to Dr. Kazansky in flawless English with just a hint of a New England accent: “My dear Boris, we welcome your guest, who, we trust, will be capable of comprehending the great heights of knowledge and culture to which we have attained.”
     I was thunderstruck not only by the perfect diction and syntax, but also by the familiarity with which they addressed Dr. Kazansky, calling him by his given name without the patronymic. Almost, it seemed, they were the dominant species, addressing a servant. I fully expected Dr. Kazansky to correct them, but he answered quite humbly: “I believe you will find our guest worthy of your consideration, and I hope we can participate in fruitful discussion.” The birds did not answer, resuming their stately walk around the apartment.
    Without commenting on their rude behavior, Dr. Kazansky blanked out the apartment walls and led me farther down the row. I felt that some explanation was needed, but he took a different tack: “Research on avian intelligence and vocabulary is very interesting, but it is not my major interest. My own research reflects my early musical career as a well-known violinist and conductor. In my mid-thirties, I abandoned my music and turned to the life sciences. When I began to take over my father’s work in the late 1950s, the new research facility was already under construction. Naturally, my early studies were devoted primarily to the variation and mutation of song patterns in our large population of honored guests. I must continually remind myself to call these wonderful creatures ‘canaries.’ Although they represent every color of the rainbow and range in size from hummingbird to condor, they are still members of the species Serenus canarius, which will now carry its own classification with a vast number of subspecies and variants.”
    I shall not attempt to describe Dr. Kazansky’s birdsong studies. My extensive notes will no doubt be analyzed thoroughly by specialists who are better qualified than I. Suffice it to say that Dr. Kazansky’s work has been so revolutionary that he felt obliged to seal off the facility from the public while he labored in splendid isolation for twenty-two years.
    What I can describe is the end result of this great effort. During the last ninety minutes of our tour, I was privileged to witness unbelievable performances by Dr. Kazansky’s birds. I find it difficult to muster up adequate words.

    Dr. Kazansky ushered me to the top floor, where, in contrast to the other floors, a wing is walled off from the general population by a cement block partition and a heavy, barred security door. He pressed his thumb on an identification panel, and the door swung open. We entered, and the door closed behind us with a resounding clang. My first impression was that of a spacious gallery in a museum, each of the walls displaying several paintings that appeared to be originals; I recognized an El Greco and a Rubens. The room is spacious and uncluttered. In contrast to the “government green” of the other three residential floors, the walls here are painted a soft white, acquiring just a hint of rose from the overhead lighting.
    Dr. Kazansky pointed to the first of a row of six glass cages. “This wing of the building has been reserved for our star performers. By selective breeding, we now have several families of birds who are musical geniuses. I personally tend their quarters, with the assistance of two of my most trusted managers. No one else is allowed to enter.”
    Dr. Kazansky switched the walls of the first cage to the transparent mode. He bowed to its sole occupant, a stunningly beautiful bird the size of a wren, with brilliant blue plumage. Then he activated the sound system. “Maria, may I present Nikolai Ilyich Myshkin? You may address him as Kolya.”
    Maria favored me with a sidewise glance and waved one wing in my direction. Dr. Kazansky turned back to me. “Maria is our most talented diva, specializing in opera. As befits her status, she has her own house.”
    Maria emitted a series of excited chirps, apparently in 3/4 time. Dr. Kazansky spoke into the microphone: “Maria, please let this gentleman hear your best notes. Sing whatever you like; pick your favorite.”
    Maria flew up to the top perch, cocked her head, spread her wings, and emitted a few trial notes. Then she launched into the Bell Song from Lakmé, and I must say that I have never heard a better rendition. With a voice reminiscent of Lily Pons, she sparkled through the notes with all the precision and ease of Galli-Curci in her prime, along with perfect diction—something that often eludes even the best coloraturas. . . . I could scarcely breathe.
    As she finished, I recovered sufficiently to clap, but Dr. Kazansky seized my arm. “Maria would really prefer no applause. She was just warming up, giving you a little demonstration.”
    Maria hopped down onto a lower perch and sat demurely, head lowered. I swear I could detect a sardonic gleam in her eye.
    I addressed my guide: “Doctor—pardon me, Boris Ivanovich—this is astounding! How could you possibly train a bird for such a performance?”
    He put a finger to his lips. “She doesn’t like to be referred to as a ‘bird.’ Her name is Maria! As to the training, she did it on her own. I merely helped by letting her listen to operas—many operas. Right, Maria, my darling?”
    Maria looked up at the ceiling and trilled a few notes. Brunhilde in Gotterdammerung, I think. Then she tucked her head under a wing and apparently went to sleep.
    “Come now, my little Maria,” he coaxed her. “Please come forth and give this gentleman another sample of your genius. He is our friend, and he will tell the whole world of your beauty, your talent, your soul.”
    Dr. Kazansky’s face was flushed. He dropped to his knees and held out his arms in entreaty: “Please, my dearest, please!”
    Maria emitted a muffled chirp but continued to hide her head. Dr. Kazansky rose to his feet and spoke more calmly. “Very well, Maria, you make your point. No more singing until you are fed.”
    As he turned back to me, I realized that I had been staring at this tableau, nearly dropping my clipboard. He shook my arm gently. “Of all our guests, Maria is my favorite. I feel that no words are needed between us; we can speak soul to soul. . . . But my dear Kolya, you must report all of this to the world, so please continue to take notes.”
    I clasped both his hands in mine. “What can I say, my dear Boris Ivanovich? I struggle for words adequate to describe the wonders of your research, but only ‘amazing’ comes to my mind.”
    “Amazing, Kolya? As the Americans say, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”

    Dr. Kazansky switched the next cage into the transparent mode, and I saw that its sole occupants were four coal-black birds, their sizes ranging from super-raven to small-robin, all wearing red-and-white striped vests. On a single perch in the exact center of the cage, the four canaries sat side by side in order of increasing size from left to right. “The particular genius of this group,” Dr. Kazansky explained, “manifests itself in their mastery of the entire repertoire of music written or transcribed for male vocal quartets—from Negro spirituals to the classics. They are now rehearsing barbershop quartets, in anticipation of a forthcoming concert.”
    He activated the sound system, and I heard a very creditable rendition of “Sweet Adeline,” in exquisite close harmony. The words, in English, came through with startling clarity. My only criticism would be that the bass voice was not quite as deep and resonant as one may expect in this genre. But of course, that deficiency paled into insignificance in comparison with the amazing fact that these birds were singing in the same register as humans hundreds of time their size. “How did you achieve this miracle?” I asked. “Or is the sound converted electronically?”
    “No indeed,” Dr. Kazansky replied, shaking my shoulder for emphasis. “Control, control, control—not the size of the vocal apparatus—is the critical factor. Once these canaries learned what we wanted, they soon became masters of pitch and timbre control. If you would like an example in the world of classical music, consider the diminutive Chinese basso Yi-Kwei Sze. Listen to his Friar Laurence in Berlioz’ Romeo and Juliet, the definitive performance of that role. His initial notes evoke shock and disbelief that this great voice can emanate from such a small person. But of course, that is nothing in comparison with the success our guests have achieved.”
    “Sweet Adeline” came to a close, and the quartet bowed to an imaginary audience, then launched into a spirited rendition of “Way Down Yonder in the Corn Field,” taking care to avoid the politically incorrect N-word. The solution was ingenious: “Some folks say dat a Yankee won’t steal . . .”
    In reply to my questioning look, Dr. Kazansky told me, “Yes, they worked out this Yankee term by themselves. I need not tell you that these four are among the most intelligent of our birds. When they tour America in the near future, it will be important to avoid antagonizing either the civil liberties gang or unreconstructed Southerners.”
    He addressed the largest of the birds; “Hector, can I persuade you to tell our guest something of your group, how it began and what you have achieved?”
    Hector drew himself up to full height and answered in a bass voice: “You forget, Boris, that I prefer to be called by my Russian name, Konstantin Petrovich. And rather than subject our guest to lengthy stories about our success in a very minor field of the musical world, I suggest that you take him to the underground level where the real research is being conducted.”
    Dr. Kazansky switched off the audio abruptly and took my arm. “We must move on, Kolya; there is much to see.” We passed several more cages, all in the glossy black opaque mode. Dr. Kazansky explained: “Most residents of these houses are engaged in experiments at the outer limits of avian music. We shall bring to the world a new understanding of the true meaning of sound, a new approach to communication, thus forging a new link between species, unifying the entire living world!” He spread his arms as if to encircle the terrestrial globe. “But to be more specific, let me say that our immediate goal is production of the entire gamut of musical sounds—every musical instrument, every voice, every genre from the blues to Gregorian chants, Oriental, Native American, Latin American, Maori—well, you get the idea.” His eyes flashed, and he waved both arms in a sweeping gesture. “We are even experimenting with the haunting, esoteric song of whales!”
    “Wunderbar!” I exclaimed. “Truly, Boris Ivanovich, your research will tower over all that has gone before. And may I be permitted to view one of these experiments?”
    “Of course, of course. All will become clear shortly, when you view the end result of our major project. Come now, enter our auditorium.” He gestured toward a double door at the far side of the room.
    Unlocking the door, he led me into a miniature auditorium with a sloped floor. My eyes were attracted first to the seats of the auditorium, about half of which were perches rather than chairs. A few were occupied by birds of various colors and sizes. “Some of these are musicians-in-training,” Dr. Kazansky told me. They come here to listen—to learn and absorb the sounds of classical music—so much more effective from a live symphony orchestra than from tapes. The others in the audience are orchestra members whose instruments are not required for the Mozart symphony you are about to hear.”
    At the front of the auditorium was a stage, set with a miniature podium, chairs, and music stands, all in perfect scale. Birds began to wander in from the wings and occupy the chairs. Oddly enough, very few of them carried any musical instrument. I asked Dr. Kazansky, “Is this an orchestra? But where are their instruments?”
    Boris Ivanovich threw back his head and laughed, his bass voice echoing through the auditorium. “My dear Kolya, herein lies our secret, the genius of our accomplishments, the wonderful result that even our own people once regarded as impossible. Let me clarify. We have not yet succeeded in developing canaries with the physical apparatus required to play wind instruments, for example the tuba—although we do have one very talented oboe player. And mastery of the bass viol has completely eluded us. Instead, our musicians use their vocal apparatus to reproduce the sounds of every instrument ever used in orchestras—even that of the booming cannon in the 1812 Overture!”
    The birds continued to drift in. When most of the chairs were occupied, the orchestra began to tune up. The oboist, one of the few members using an actual instrument, sounded his A, an absolutely true 440. A small, jet-black bird on the left side of the stage stood up and matched his treble voice to the oboe’s frequency, then adjusted his G, D, and E. The concertmaster, apparently. Then each section in turn locked onto those frequencies.
    I counted more than 50 players on the stage. About half of them had black or dark gray plumage, while the others sported all colors of the spectrum. I asked Dr. Kazansky, “What do the colors of the orchestra members signify? They seem to be distributed randomly through all of the sections.”
    His smile widened into a grin. “It will no doubt surprise you to learn that it is purely a matter of sex. The black players are male, those with brilliant plumage are female—quite the reverse of wild bird plumage—and the grays are somewhat undecided. At one time we planned to clothe all of the players in sober black garments similar to those of the Moscow Symphony—white tie and tails for the gentlemen, black evening dresses for the ladies. However, when we started to implement this plan, our musician’s union rejected it and threatened to call a strike. We acceded to their demand that they be allowed to perform while wearing only their natural plumage. Today, our relations with the musicians are much improved. The orchestra is entirely self-governing, and I act only as a one-man advisory board.”
    By this time, the orchestra had completed its tuning and sat quietly. Then a huge black bird with a white crest strode from the wings and mounted the podium, to a smattering of applause from the audience. “Our maestro, Arturo Koussevitsky,” Dr. Kazansky whispered into my ear. “We have several capable conductors, but none can match his great musicianship and his flair for the dramatic. And his talents surpass even those of his great namesakes.”
    The maestro rapped his music stand, raised his baton, and brought forth those first magic notes of what I consider to be Mozart’s greatest work, No. 40, the G Minor Symphony. I stood transfixed, gripping the rail to keep my balance, while the maestro guided the orchestra through the intricacies of the first movement. In the past, I have heard performances that may have been more technically correct, but none of them could match the sheer elegance of this performance or capture so fully the pure essence of Mozart’s genius.
    The first movement ended, and the maestro called for retuning, even though my ear could not detect the slightest deviation from perfect pitch and harmony. I anticipated the joys of the second movement, but Dr. Kazansky grasped my arm and, without saying a word, led me out of the auditorium.
    As we retraced our steps, I noted that all the cages were blacked out and silent. As Dr. Kazansky hurried me along, he commented, “All our operations shut down at 18:00, and you must be out of the building by then.”
    I tried to get him to explain, but he only muttered, “These later hours are devoted to improving relations with our guests.” I must say that his manner had changed completely, now bordering on actual rudeness. In complete silence, we rode the elevator down to the first floor and threaded our way through the maze of offices, now mostly deserted.
    At the front door of the building, he shook my hand formally. “Nikolai Ilyich, please accept my gratitude for your patience during our extended tour. There is still more for you to see, and perhaps we can arrange a future visit. In the meantime, please report faithfully to the outside world the many wonders you have witnessed.”
    “It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude??”
    He cut me off abruptly and pushed me through the door. “Farewell, Nikolai Ilyich.”

**************************


    New York Times, January 5, 1987
    BAKU, Azerbaijan SSR (Tass)

    This dispatch, under the byline of Nikolai Ilyich Myshkin, is the first report this newspaper has received from Baku since the Soviet Union imposed a blackout more than a year ago. Myshkin, an Izvestiya staff reporter, continuing his story on the Institute for Advanced Genetics Research, describes his efforts to regain access to the top-secret facility known informally as Canary Heaven. His story poses more questions than it provides answers. Nevertheless, we are printing this lengthy dispatch in its entirety, in view of the importance of the research conducted in this facility and the apparent threat to the future of the human race.

    More than two years have passed since I reported on my tour of the facility known as Canary Heaven. Guided by the Director himself, Doctor Boris Ivanovich Kazansky, I was privileged to witness the astounding results of a unique program of genetic research. Starting more than a century ago with one South American canary species, the scientists at Canary Heaven, through selective breeding, have produced birds of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
    As I reported previously, many of these birds possess musical talents beyond our wildest imagination. In particular, their performances of symphonic and operatic works surpass the best efforts of human musicians. When Doctor Kazansky conversed with his star performers, in either Russian or English, they spoke in well-organized sentences and paragraphs, displaying vocabularies typical of university graduates. For the most part, they refused to talk directly to me, and I received the distinct impression that they did not consider me worthy of their attention. It also became clear that in their discussions with Doctor Kazansky, they dominated the conversation and often treated him with thinly veiled disdain.
    At the end of our tour, Doctor Kazansky’s genial manner changed abruptly, and he ushered me out of the building, barely suggesting that I might be allowed to return for a more comprehensive tour of the facility.
    Two weeks later, having received no answer in repeated attempts to contact Doctor Kazansky by telephone, I returned to Canary Heaven, only to find the front entrance sealed. The bronze plaque was gone, replaced by a crudely lettered sign “NO ADMITTANCE.” I walked completely around the huge structure, finding only blank walls and no sign of activity within.
    Next, I walked about a half mile west, where the entrance to the supply tunnel presented a scene of feverish activity. More than fifty semi rigs were lined up, each waiting its turn to enter the tunnel. Some of these rigs appeared to be ordinary grocery supply trucks. Others had flatbed trailers loaded with steel beams and heavy construction equipment. I also saw trailers loaded with transformers, turbines, and other power plant equipment. As each truck stopped upon reaching the entrance to the tunnel, the driver stepped down from the cab and was replaced by a driver in a white uniform bearing the Institute logo. I was allowed to approach close enough to see that the Institute workers were remarkably similar in appearance. They never spoke, and they did their work without the slightest wasted motion.
    Once a truck entered the tunnel, it never returned; and I assumed that the empty trucks were diverted to another tunnel that emerged some two miles to the west. The drivers, after being displaced from their rigs, walked off in that direction. I tried to engage some of them in conversation, but they would say only that the job paid well and they had no idea why they were not allowed to enter the facility. I walked along with one group of drivers. When we reached the mouth of the auxiliary tunnel, each driver picked up his own rig, and the white-clad workers returned to the facility.
    The situation remained the same for two months. I tried to telephone Doctor Kazansky nearly every day, receiving only a busy signal. The other telephone numbers listed for the facility were out of service, with a high-pitched voice responding, “This number is either temporarily out of service or has been transferred to the bank of inactive numbers or has been permanently disconnected.” I also made weekly trips to observe the continuous activity at the supply tunnel, where I noted many incoming trucks loaded with electronic equipment and solar panels, along with unmarked vans.
    I was able to make one aerial inspection of the facility. My cameraman and I were unable to get close to the rooftop, owing to some sort of artificial turbulence that tossed our helicopter around like a toy plane in a whirlwind. Once we escaped the turbulence, our pilot refused to reenter the area. We did get one photo, taken from high altitude, showing the construction of some sort of hydroponic garden. The next week, the turbulence, accompanied by electric discharges, became so violent that flight anywhere near the building was out of the question.
    At the end of two months, the supply activity stopped abruptly. Both tunnels were closed with massive steel doors, and the immense building stood in eerie silence.
    At the same time, my daily call to Doctor Kazansky was finally answered. “My dear Kolya,” he told me, “please accept my profound apologies for cutting off our communication.” It was the voice of Doctor Kazansky, but somehow lacking in the resonance I remembered—as if his booming basso had been muted and overlain with exoteric high frequencies.
    “Doctor Kazansky!” I gasped. “Why have you so isolated yourself and your research? I am eager to report your new advances to a waiting world.”
    He laughed heartily, with a somewhat metallic sound. “This has been necessary, as the direction of our research has changed completely. Please be assured that when we are ready to report our successes, you will be the first to know. But for now, I must ask your indulgence while we enter a period of total isolation from the world. Farewell, my dear Kolya.”
    He broke the connection, and a high-pitched voice told me “This number has been permanently disconnected.” When I redialed the number, it was still active but did not respond, ringing interminably until I finally gave up.
    In the months and years that followed, I continued my efforts to establish phone contact, without receiving any response. Also, I made several attempts to approach the building and the tunnel entrances, but was stopped short at a distance of several hundred yards by something I shall call a force field—although it was totally different from the conventional idea of a physical force field. Instead, something within my head kept repeating “Stay back, stay back! Doom and disaster! Stay back!” The Baku civil and military forces were likewise unable to approach the facility, and Baku citizens went about their daily business, apparently believing that if they ignored the phenomenon, it would go away. I alone retained a modicum of curiosity, continuing my attempts to establish contact with the inhabitants of the building.
    For many months, my efforts were completely fruitless. Finally, last Sunday, my call was answered by a beautiful soprano voice, speaking in English: “Canary Heaven. How may we help you?” I recognized the voice immediately as that of Maria, the wondrous singer of the Bell Song from Lakmé.
    I identified myself, and Maria told me, “Yes indeed, Nikolai Ilyich, I remember you well. Doctor Kazansky always spoke of you fondly, and he conveyed his wish that when our research comes to full fruition, you will be the first to be taken into our confidence.”
    “But Maria,” I protested, “why can you not grant me the great privilege of viewing your work today?”
    She emitted a ladylike giggle and spoke again in mellifluous tones: “You must understand, sir, that our ongoing research will require many years. We hope to be in a position to announce the results within your lifetime.”
    “But Maria,” I protested, “surely you can give me an inkling of what great works are in progress. Or possibly you will connect me to Doctor Kazansky, so that we may resume our most helpful and interesting discourse.”
    After a long pause, Maria replied, “Regrettably, Doctor Kazansky is no longer with us, although his spirit lives on. Unfortunately, of the more than three thousand human workers in our facility, he was among the small percentage who perished in our initial experiments. Although his research had become irrelevant, he will be remembered as a great scientist and a wonderful human being, missed by everyone. . . . And now I must go and attend to my many duties. Farewell, Nikolai Ilyich.”
    “Wait, wait, Maria,” I cried in desperation. “I am shocked and saddened by your news of Doctor Kazansky. Can you tell me the circumstances of his death? And why, at this point in time, must you isolate yourself and all the inhabitants for decades? ”
    “Very well,” she sighed, “I believe you deserve some answers, in view of your prior efforts on our behalf. Permit me to apprise you of certain developments, of which you have been unaware.”
    “Yes, Yes!” I shouted. “Please proceed. And may I record this conversation?”
    She was silent for nearly a minute, then spoke decisively: “Yes, you may record.” I turned on my recorder and awaited her words.
    “First of all, my dear Kolya (may I call you Kolya?), let me say that we owe all of this to Doctor Kazansky and his forebears, who blazed a clear path through the jungle of genetic research. Aside from our great musical talents and the gift of speech, some of our subspecies include individuals with psychic and intellectual gifts beyond your comprehension. They stand at the frontiers of genetic research and the cutting edge of technology. Together, we are creating an integrated, fully self-sustaining community that will allow us to extend our research program into the future and into the world. Meanwhile, we must remain in total isolation. This is the last conversation you will have with me, or anyone else in the community, until we are ready to emerge from our cocoon. Now I must go.”
    I pleaded with her: “Please, Maria, at least give me some idea of where your research will lead.”
    “Yes, Nikolai Ilyich, you have been a good friend of the Institute. I can tell you this much: Since our species took over the management of the facility and the research programs, we have shifted our emphasis to human genetics. After the unfortunate demise of twenty-four human beings in our initial experiments, we were left with a pool of some three thousand subjects, representing a wide variety of genetic markers. By selective breeding and induced mutations, we plan to develop a human race with superior physical strength, heightened intellectual capacity, and true psychic capabilities.”
    “Astounding!” I gasped. “But where will this lead, and how long will it take to bring your research to fruition?”
    “Please be calm, my dear Kolya, when I tell you that we intend for this new race of superhumans to be our instrument in reshaping the world. Surely you will agree that your race has brought the world to the brink of total destruction. Under the new regime, peace and harmony will prevail everywhere under the watchful eye of a benevolent government.
    “In regard to your second question, I must say that the ridiculously slow reproductive cycle of the human race has been a serious obstacle to our progress. However, some of our current programs are aimed at shortening this cycle. We expect that in the new race, puberty will begin at twelve months, and the gestation period will be reduced to fourteen days. . . . And now I really must go. I have already given you more information than I intended, and I may be reprimanded severely by the High Council. So farewell, Nikolai Ilyich. May you have a long life, so that we may talk again after a few decades have passed.”
    “Wait, please wait, my dear Maria,” I shouted into the phone. But the line was dead.

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    New York Times, June 1, 1997
    BAKU, Azerbaijan Republic (Tass)

    During the past decade, which has witnessed the breakup of the Soviet Union, we heard no news regarding the fate of the Institute for Advanced Genetics Research. Now, the following brief dispatch from Izvestiya correspondent Nikolai Ilyich Myshkin tells us that he is still on the job. His devotion is an inspiration to us all, and we are confident that he will bring to us the final chapter in the history of this unique institution.

    More than ten years have passed since the Institute for Advanced Genetic Research closed its doors to the outside world. I shall continue my vigil from my headquarters in a small apartment, just two kilometers from what was once the front entrance of Fortress Canary Heaven.
    During the first year of this decade, I observed several approaches of Soviet military aircraft, apparently attempting to penetrate the airspace above Canary Heaven. Each time, the airplane was deflected from its course far short of its target. Later, I witnessed the results of a nuclear explosion near the middle of the Caspian Sea, possibly that of a missile aimed at the facility.
    Please be assured that I shall continue my attempts to establish contact with the inhabitants of Canary Heaven. If there is any sign of activity in the building, or if I receive any sort of communication from the inside, I shall report the news immediately. I believe the fate of the world is being decided within this building, and I shall serve as one who can only watch and wait.

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