The Professor slapped his chest three times with his palm, held up two fingers in a V-shape—the universal sign of peace—and asked: "Greetings, brother in intelligence! In how many languages do you communicate?"

  ?Shocked, the astronaut Vasily automatically recited the text he had memorized before takeoff: "Assalam Alaikum! Guten Tag! Buenos Dias! Ni Hao! Bonjour! Buongiorno! Konnichiwa! Jambo!"

  ?"Simply amazing! He has already adapted to our race!" the Professor exclaimed. "And what kind of technological helmet was that on your head?"

  ?Not fully recovered and desperate not to lose face, Vasily replied: "That is an interactive helmet with various functions, including a head-heating feature!"

  ?"Genial technology!" the Professor cried out.

  ?Lieutenant Colonel Grafinov shouted to the precinct officer and the collective farm chairman, who were still thumping and yelling at the door: "Everything is fine!"

  ?"Good, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel!" the precinct officer replied. "If anything happens, we’re right here-ish!"

  ?"I’ve unscrewed the spare wheel. Just in case it’s needed again," the officer added.

  ?"Who is this?! And what is this?!" Grafinov turned to the Professor.

  ?"Do not interfere, Comrade Colonel! I am just establishing contact! Please, sit in the chair and observe!" Probirkin cut him off.

  ?Turning his face to the sergeant, the Professor nodded and beckoned him: "Pour!"

  ?The sergeant, glancing warily at the alien Vasya, hesitantly lifted the protective glass on the Professor's helmet. Inserting half a bottle of alcohol, he flipped it upside down. The Professor professionally drained the contents, exhaled sharply, and picked up a charred feather from a featherbed off the floor with his pliers. He brought it to his nose and took a deep breath, chest expanding—the classic ritual for an immediate restoration of mental clarity.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  ?"Who are you? Can you tell us who you are and where you are from?" the Professor asked, having regained his focus.

  ?Finally coming to his senses, Vasily replied: "I am Vasily Butylkin from the village of Old Kerzaki!"

  ?"What?! What?!" Lieutenant Colonel Grafinov was outraged. "That's only twelve kilometers from the district center!"

  ?"Just a moment!" the Lieutenant Colonel continued, opening the door and inviting the farm chairman and the precinct officer inside. "Gennady, do you know this person? He claims to live in Old Kerzaki! And his name is Vasily Butylkin!"

  ?"Well, no," the officer replied. "Do you think I don't know Vaska-the-Bottle? Last year, he and I hauled boards from a dismantled village latrine to build a summer gazebo for the Norwegian surveyors working in our region!"

  ?"But it's me, Gennady Ivlampovich!"

  ?"He... he looks more like the witch who lived in our forest and told fortunes using goat eggs!" the officer exclaimed. "By the way, she charmed one surveyor and left with him for Norway!"

  ?Warmed up by his latest dose of antiseptic, the Professor leaped to his feet, brandished the pliers with the charred feather, and shouted, looking into the stunned faces of the Lieutenant Colonel, the Precinct Officer, and the Farm Chairman:

  ?"I’ve got it! I understand everything! That Vaska from Kerzaki is there, and the one who belongs there is here! This... this is a catastrophic chronotopological anomaly!"

  ?"Before us, comrades, is no trivial domestic error, but a Critical Violation of the Temporal Order initiated on a local scale! The True Subject—our Astronaut—was uncontrollably interfered with by the Substitute Subject—our, as you call him, 'Vaska-the-Bottle'! A super-dense synchronization of two adjacent Layers of Reality has occurred! At the point of minimum energy potential, a catastrophic phase shift in the general Vector of Existence took place! As a result, we are observing a local collapse of the causality principle!"

  ?With this brilliant speech, the Professor, tilting his head back and fixing his gaze on the lightbulb, imagined in a slight trance two certificates hanging on the deer-patterned rug at his dacha: "Man of the Year" and "Nobel Prize Laureate."