Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

The man stopped three meters in front of them.

“Velikoslav Ivanovich?” he asked.

Slava paused for a moment. He wasn't used to his new name, much less the way his surname was followed by his patronym.

"Yes, it's me."

“And this lady,” the man said, glancing at Director Nian again, “Comrade Ivanova?”

"What's the matter?" Director Nian raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms.

The man pulled a red badge from his pocket and flashed it in front of them. The movement was so quick that Slava couldn't make out what was written on it, but he recognized the color and shape—it was a special agents' badge.

"Comrades," the man said, putting away his identification and wearing a formulaic smile, "someone wants to see you. Please come with me."

Slava glanced back. The gray-jacketed stalker had somehow caught up and was standing about five meters behind them, still holding the newspaper. The gray-jacketed stalker, no longer bothering to pretend, patted the bulge in his waist.

"Can we choose not to go?" Director Nian asked.

"This is not a choice, comrade." The man's smile remained unchanged, but his eyes turned cold.

Director Nian and Slava exchanged a glance.

“Alright,” Director Nian said, “Let’s go.”

The man turned and led them down a side street. They didn't go back to Lubyanka; instead, he led them across two streets and into what looked like an ordinary residential area. The buildings were the kind of five-story buildings typical of Suzong from the 1950s or 60s, with dusty gray exteriors and brightly colored clothes and sheets hanging on the balconies.

At the entrance of Unit 3 of one of the buildings, the man stopped, took out his key, and opened the door.

"Please."

There was a damp, musty smell in the hallway, mixed with the aroma of stew wafting from one of the apartments. They went up to the third floor, where the man stopped in front of a brown wooden door and knocked three times.

The door opened from the inside.

A young man in casual clothes, who looked to be in his early twenties, opened the door. He nodded and stepped aside to let them in. The room wasn't large; it was a typical apartment, with the living room about fifteen or sixteen square meters. There was a sofa, a coffee table, a black-and-white television, and a landscape painting hanging on the wall. The curtains were drawn, making the room a bit dark.

A person was sitting on the sofa.

He was around sixty years old, with gray hair, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a gray sweater. He sat relaxed, holding a cup of tea and reading a document. He looked up when he heard them enter.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the two chairs opposite him. “Don’t stand.”

Slava and Director Nian sat down. The man who had brought them stepped back to the doorway and stood with the young man who opened it, like two guardian deities.

The gray-haired man put down the documents, took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and put them back on. He looked at Slava with a scrutinizing gaze.

“Velikoslav Ivanovich,” he said, “a good name. Who gave you that name?”

Slava glanced at Director Nian.

"she."

"Oh?" The man's gaze shifted to Director Nian. "Why is it called that?"

Director Nian's expression remained unchanged: "I think it suits him."

“‘Great Glory’,” the man pondered the meaning of the name, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, “You two are quite interesting.”

He didn't pursue the topic further, but instead picked up his teacup, took a sip, and then put it down.

“My surname is Serov,” he said. “You can call me Nikolai Petrovich.”

Slava noticed that he had not reported his position.

"Comrade Sherov," Director Nian began, "what brings you here?"

“No rush,” Serov said. “Let’s talk first. Where are you from? Don’t tell me you’re from Kuibyshev; that kind of story won’t fool anyone.”

Slava was silent for a moment: "We don't know where we came from, that's the truth, I have amnesia."

Sherov stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled. The smile was faint, and it was impossible to tell whether he believed him or not.

“Interesting,” he said. “Two amnesiacs showed up on the streets during the Olympics, with no identification, no money, and their identities riddled with holes, and then our people took them back for questioning—”

Logically, this kind of person should be sent directly to a mental hospital or imprisoned pending further investigation. But you were released. Do you know why?

Slava did not answer.

“Because the comrade who interrogated you thought you were interesting,” Sherov said. “In his report, he wrote that although this man was a terrible liar, some of his reactions were not those of a professionally trained agent. His nervousness was real, and so was his confusion. Either he was a master actor, or he really didn’t know anything.”

"So?" Director Nian asked.

“So I want to see for myself,” Sherov leaned back on the sofa, “to have a chat and see who you really are.”

The room was quiet for a while, and the faint sounds of children's laughter and car engines could be heard outside the window.

"Where should we begin?" Slava asked.

“Whatever,” Sherov said. “Say whatever you want.”

Sometimes the worst thing about chatting is when the person who started the conversation says "whatever." Slava glanced at Director Nian, thought for a moment, and decided to take a risk.

"Do you know anything about computers?" he asked.

Sherov raised an eyebrow: "A calculator?"

"Electronic computer".

“I know a little,” Sherov said. “We have colleagues who are researching this. What’s up?”

Have you heard of Apple Inc.?

"Making fruit?"

Well, Apple wasn't publicly listed yet at that time, so it's understandable that its reputation hadn't spread here.

"No, they make personal computers."

Sherov's expression shifted. He didn't speak, but gestured for Slava to continue.

“There are a number of companies in the U.S. making personal computers,” Slava said. “They’re computers that can be placed on a desk, not those big machines that take up an entire room. Apple is one of the most successful ones. Their product is called the Apple II, which was launched in 1977 and has now sold hundreds of thousands of units.”

"so?"

“So something even bigger is going to happen next year, 1981,” Slava said. “IBM will enter the market. You know IBM, right?”

Sherov nodded; everyone knows this company.

"IBM is the largest computer company in the United States. They have been making mainframes and commercial computers. Next year they will release a personal computer called the IBM PC. This product will completely change the landscape of the entire computer industry."

"How do you know about next year?" Serov asked.

This is a dangerous question. Slava paused for a moment, then said, "I don't know, I'm just speculating based on the information available. IBM's moves are no secret in the industry; they've been developing minicomputers, and it's only natural that they'll launch a product around next year."

"Alright, alright, amnesia but not complete amnesia, right? This young comrade is a bit dishonest." However, Serov did not pursue this point. He picked up his teacup, took another sip, put it down, and said, "Continue."

“The key is not whether IBM will do it,” Slava said. “The key is what it means. Personal computers will become cheaper and more widespread, eventually entering every household. At that time, computers will no longer be the exclusive tools of scientists and large corporations, but something that everyone can use. This will bring about an information revolution—I prefer to call it the democratization of computers. Any conventional information control will be ineffective, and the information network formed by all computers connected together will not be controlled by anyone.”

“Information revolution, democratization of computers,” Sherov repeated the phrase. “That’s a big deal, and I hope you understand what you’re really talking about.”

"The consequence of refusing information technology is to fall behind, to become like this, and the gap between us will only widen."

Slava leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice.

"The alliance has fallen behind in the field of microelectronics. We have been catching up in integrated circuits and microprocessors, but the gap is getting wider and wider. I know some comrades think this is not important, that we have stronger rockets and nuclear weapons. But what really determines the outcome of future wars is not who has more missiles, but who has stronger information processing capabilities."

Sherov's expression turned serious.

"You also know about military affairs?" he asked.

“I don’t understand,” Slava said, “but it’s common sense. Modern warfare requires real-time intelligence, precise calculations, and rapid decision-making. Not only military, but also civilian and economic matters—all of these require powerful computing capabilities. The Americans have invested a lot of resources in this area; what about us?”

“There are people studying what you’re talking about,” Sherov said.

“I know,” Slava said. “The OGAS project just didn’t come to fruition in the end.”

Sherov's eyes flickered; the name had clearly touched a nerve.

"It seems like you haven't forgotten much of what you've forgotten, but I don't intend to delve into that. I'm more curious about how much you actually know about this plan."

"This was Academician Glushkov's project, proposed in the 1960s, which aimed to use computer networks to optimize the nation's economic management. It was a great idea, but it didn't work out—simply due to bureaucratic wrangling, departmental interests, and a lack of trust in the technology. The real reason wasn't that the technology was inadequate, but that it couldn't be implemented."

Sherov fell silent.

The room was quiet, and the two people at the door stood motionless like statues.

"Where did you learn all this?" Serov finally spoke, "from?"

"Read books, listen to the radio, and think for yourself."

Okay, and listening to Western radio shows that this young man really doesn't know what he should or shouldn't say.

What is your educational background?

"Associate degree".

Sherov looked at him with an indescribable look in his eyes.

"Someone with only a college diploma can say these things? They're either a genius or a specially trained spy."

What's wrong with a vocational college? Vocational colleges can produce math champions, what kind of champion are you?

"I'm really not a spy." "Then are you a genius?"

Slava thought for a moment and said, "I just like to think things through."

Sherov remained silent for a moment, then took a deep breath.

“You just said that the OGAS project proved one thing,” he said. “What?”

Slava took a deep breath. These were the words he had always wanted to say, but also the most dangerous ones.

"OGAS proves that any economic system can become efficient as long as there is a sufficiently powerful and timely information system."

The problem with planning isn't the planning itself, but the information—those above don't know the true situation below, and those below exaggerate figures to meet targets, leading to distorted information and rendering the plan a castle in the air. However, if there were a system capable of collecting data in real time, automatically analyzing it, and providing rapid feedback, the situation would be entirely different.

Sherov didn't speak, but his eyes were fixed on Slava.

“I’m not praising capitalism, nor am I negating the existing system,” Slava continued. “I’m just saying that technology can solve problems that the system can’t. The key now is to seize the opportunity and not fall behind any longer, or we’ll be completely finished in ten years.”

After he finished speaking, a strange silence fell over the room. Director Nian remained silent, but Slava could sense her watching him with a complex expression in her eyes. Sherov stood up, walked to the window, pulled back a corner of the curtain, looked outside, and then lowered it again.

“You’re lucky you met me,” he said with his back to Slava, “otherwise, if you had said these words to the wrong person, it would have gotten you into big trouble.”

"I know."

"Then why did you even say it?"

Slava thought for a moment and said, "Because I don't think you're that kind of person."

Sherov turned to look at him. His gaze held scrutiny, contemplation, and something else entirely.

"You're very interesting. No matter where you're from, no matter if you really have amnesia or not—you're a very interesting person."

He sat back down on the sofa, picked up his teacup, and found it was empty. The young man at the door immediately came over and refilled his teacup.

“I have some things to report to the Kremlin in a moment,” Sherov said, “but until then, you will remain in the capital. We will arrange temporary accommodation for you and issue you temporary identification documents. Don’t wander around these few days, and if you need anything, just tell the comrade in charge of looking after you.”

“Thank you,” Slava said.

“You’re welcome,” Sherov said, taking a sip of tea. “I just think it’s a waste to send people like you to mental hospitals or prisons.”

He paused, a hint of worry flashing across his brow, and added, "Especially at this time."

Slava didn't know what 'at this time' meant, but he didn't ask. Some things are better left unasked at the wrong time.

When the guide stood up, Slava also stood up.

“By the way,” Sherov spoke again as they reached the door, “your theory, about information systems and economic systems—there’s one person—no, besides my boss, there should be another old boss who might be interested.”

"Who?"

Sherov did not answer directly, but simply said, "You may see him in a few days."

The door opened, and the man in the dark blue jacket who had brought them was waiting outside: "Come on, I'll take you to your lodgings."

Slava and Director Nian followed him out of the room. As they stepped out, Slava glanced back. Sherov was still sitting on the sofa, holding a teacup, his gaze sweeping across the room and landing on him.

That gaze reminded Slava of an old cat observing a mouse that had just wandered into its territory. Except, this old cat hadn't yet decided whether to eat it or play with it for a while.

PS1: The main characters will start from the bottom, with KGB backgrounds, and will soon be sent by KGB boss Ahn, who is interested in them, to investigate the cotton case.

PS2: A Russian's full name consists of three parts: first name + last name + patronym. For example, the first name is Великослав (Velikoslav), the last name is Иванов (Ivanov), and the patronym is Иванович (Ivanovich). The patronym means "son/daughter of so-and-so".

Chapter 3 The Butterfly That Moved History

That evening in Moscow