His name was Paul McQuinn. He was neither handsome, nor ugly. He was neither tall, nor short. He was neither fat, nor slim. To cut the long story short, he did not possess a single feature to distinguish him from the crowd.

What did he possess? He had a job, an apartment and a girlfriend. He should be happy but he was not. Not that he was one of those people that are constantly complaining about this and that. No, he was quite satisfied with his life. At least he was, until recently.

It was hard to differentiate which one of the things that constituted the backbone of his life — job, apartment and girlfriend — was the one he started hating first. It was just an ordinary day when he found out that he could not stand them all. His job started seeming boring and he found no satisfaction in it anymore. His apartment looked unchangeable like the Egyptian pyramids and he did not want to live in it anymore. As for his girlfriend…

The doorbell rang for some time. He frowned, marked the page of the book he was reading, got up, and headed for the door. He opened it, and was shocked to see her.

“Ah, how did you think of dropping by?” he asked.

“We had to meet at seven. Are you not ready yet? Did you forget?” she got really angry. Sparks flickered in her eyes. Usually, he liked them and he loved to watch her excited, but this time he got scared. He was still under the spell of the book, and his reactions were slow. She said, “It’s 10 to 7. As you can see I’m not late.”

He blinked. It was too much strain for him to work out why he did not expect her. He stood silent for a second, and then everything clicked into place.

“You are wrong. We had to meet at seven two days ago.”

“No, you’re wrong. We had to meet today,” the last word was swung like a hammer.

“No, it was two days ago.”

One of them was right — but which one? A philosopher had once said that the truth is born throughout the argument. They argued a long time, standing on the two opposite sides of the threshold. No one wanted to back off. They looked like politicians, each reciting from memory, without listening to the other. The only thing born from this argument was the thunderous slam of the door that echoed from the first floor to the last.

She took the lift down and left the building. He went back to his rocking-chair and reached with his hand for the book. His hand stopped short before taking it. It got back empty and lay down on the elbow-rest. He was thinking.

His thoughts did not take the right direction. They were like horses, let loose by the coach driver, and the stage-coach behind them was ready to tumble down at any moment. The worst of all was that every thought had a voice of its own, and the cacophony in his head reached threatening decibels. The temperature in his head rose. He went to the bathroom and put it under the cold water. His head cooled fast, and the thoughts hid with piercing shrieks of horror, which soon died away. He stopped the running water and got back to the room, satisfied.

He sat in his rocking-chair again, and called upon his thoughts to speak one at a time. He did not mind the short debates that had to decide which was to speak first. Soon, order was restored, and the first one stepped forward and started.

“I am the one that reminds you of what you have to do. I dare say that the meeting was really for the day before. I’m using the best memory blocks of your brain and I’m never wrong. Just to prove it, I’ll tell you that you can turn the cooker off because the water, you were boiling for tea, boiled away an hour ago.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Paul exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I tried to, but you were absorbed in reading, and you didn’t hear me,” Thought Number 1 answered.

He jumped out of the chair, and hurried to the kitchen. There was not a drop of water left in the kettle. He grabbed at it, but it burned his fingers, and he dropped it on the floor. He found a towel, lifted the kettle, and put it in the sink. He turned on the water, and waved with his hand to dissipate the steam that rose. Then he turned the cooker off, and went back to the room.

“OK, let’s assume that she was late,” he resumed the conversation.

“No. It’s a fact, that she was late,” Number 1 interrupted him.

“Thank you for the specification. Actually, the question is: What does that fact lead to?”

“I don’t know,” Number 1 answered. “It’s none of my business to draw conclusions. Ask the others.”

“I am asking them,” Paul almost bared his teeth.

“Oh, really? Sorry, then.”

“Well?” he turned to the rest again. “Speak out.”

“I take care of the thinking process,” another thought said. “I’m using the best logic blocks of your brain.”

“What do you mean ‘the best’?” Paul cut in. “I’m hearing this for the second time. Does this mean I have worse?”

“Of course you have,” Thought Number 2 answered. “Didn’t you know that we’re using less than four per cent of your brain?”

“That little? What am I, an idiot or something?”

“No, that’s the normal state of the humans.”

“Now, wait a minute. I won’t take no personal insults. Besides, you’re part of me, and you’re insulting yourself, too.”

“This was not an insult, this was a fact.”

“Ah, a fact? I adore facts. Tell me some more facts,” Paul sounded his most sarcastic.

“If you give your mouth a rest just for a second, you might be able to hear them,” Number 2 showed him that it, too, could be sarcastic.

“Alright, talk.”

“There are two possibilities,” Number 2 explained. “You had a very serious quarrel, so she might get over it, and come back, but she might also not come back.”

“Thank you very much,” sarcasm filled Paul’s every word. “I could have guessed that by myself, without you telling me.”

“You, idiot,” Number 2 got angry. “What the hell do you think we are doing in your head? Playing cards? Everything that ever crossed your mind was given to you by one of us.”

“Even this one, that I could have guessed it by myself?”

“Even this.”

“Then who gave me that, if it wasn’t you?” Paul was surprised.

“The drone,” Number 2 spitted the word, as if it burned its tongue. If it had a tongue at all. Then it explained in a calmer voice. “You call it ‘inner voice’, but for the rest of us it’s nothing more than a drone. We work hard, we collect information, we process it, and we get the results. And it steals them from us, without making any efforts, and hands them to you. What’s more, it is doing it secretly, so you wouldn’t understand what’s going on, but instead you should think you’re a genius.”

“I am a genius,” Paul emphasised.

“See what I mean? It is using you again. Its worst characteristic feature is that it’s feeding you with wrong data.”

“It can’t be right. You are all supposed to serve me. You’re talking about a rebellion or something?”

“Don’t argue with me. I am your logic,” Number 2 got angry again.

“And ‘the drone’ is my self-confidence.”

“This doesn’t mean you can do the impossible.”

“Like what?” Paul got interested.

“For example, if it tells you that you could fly, it doesn’t mean it’s right. We’re on the sixty-seventh floor and the flight you could perform would have only one direction — downwards. I assure you that the coroners would not be able to collect even a pound of your body to make you a decent funeral.”

“It can’t be right,” Paul repeated. “If it tells me that I can fly, while I can’t, and I jump out of the window, that would be a murder for me, and a clear suicide for it.”

“Oh, you’re trying to think logically. Here is a little problem for you to solve for homework. Are you ready to write down? It’s easy. Why do people commit suicide?”

Paul started thinking. Unlike a bit earlier, all his thoughts lay low, and kept quiet. As a result, his head remained empty, and could not give birth to anything. He sighed and gave up. “What are you insinuating?”

Number 2 grinned maliciously, although it had no mouth, just like it had no tongue. “It’s very simple. The ‘inner voices’ can arrive at the idea of suicide just like you, humans. They just have an access to more information than you, which they steal from us, as I mentioned before. At one moment, on the basis of this info — of which you have about half — they reach the conclusion that the lethal exit is the most appropriate one.”

“I didn’t understand a word of what you said,” Paul admitted.

“I’ll give you an example. Imagine that you are driving a car. It’s daytime, you have perfect visibility of the road, there are no other cars, except one that is driving in the opposite direction, in the left lane. The road is clear, it is straight as an arrow. You should pass at least two meters away from each other. But at the last moment, a sudden twitch of your arm turns the wheel a little to the left. You hit the other car, and you die on the spot. Do you understand now?”

“But that’s sheer murder!”

“Who are you going to blame? Yourself?”

“No, no, that’s impossible,” Paul refused to believe.

“No, that’s a fact, as Thought Number 1 loves to say.”

Paul decided to think about it, and immediately gave it up. One thing was clear from that conversation — and it was that he was not able to think on his own. Besides, he had a few more questions to ask.

“Do all suicides end this way?”

“You ask about the method?”

“No.”

“I thought so. The answer is no. With some of them, enough information goes to the personality — that is you, the human — and they make the decision on their own. If you feed me more data, I could be able to give you the exact percentage of intentional/unintentional suicides.”

“On their own? You must be kidding.”

“No, I never joke. There are other thoughts that perform that kind of job.”

“I meant that ‘on their own’ must be influenced by you. You were the logic, right?”

“I, still, am the logic. And, of course, it’s influenced by me. But you take the executive decisions. I can give you the possibilities, from which you choose which one to carry out.”

“Thank God!” Paul rejoiced. “So, I’m doing something, after all. I was already feeling desperate that nothing depended on me. Can I ask you one last question?”

“Sure, Paul. I’m always there to help you,” Thought Number 2 sounded almost lively.

“Is what I am experiencing at the moment — I mean talking to you — the mental illness, called ’schizophrenia’ by the psychiatrists? The one, that is treated in special sanatoriums, as you know. And if the answer is positive, could you please find a way for me not to be taken there. Everything, that I’ve heard about such sanatoriums, tells me that I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life — however short it may be — in a madhouse.”

He could not hear the answer, because the sound of the doorbell woke him up. He was startled, and the book he was holding fell out of his hands. He rubbed his eyes, and let out a relieved sigh. When he realised that it had been only a dream, he felt somewhat high. He started for the door with a flowing walk. Women, he thought, remembering how his dream had begun. They can take the man to the seventh sky, but they can drive him crazy with the same ease. He opened the door, and was shocked to see her.

“Ah, how did you think of dropping by?” he asked.

The End