The transfer was scheduled for eleven on Monday night, when no participants remained in the theatre and the external framework could be disconnected. Vera, Irina Sergeyevna, Misha, an engineer from the operator, and I were present. Ariadna was part of the system and could not confirm her own release: that would have been considered a conflict of interest.
That afternoon, I conducted my final session as owner. Nothing personal: I checked the list of active consents, closed two old tasks and deleted a test record in which Lidia Pavlovna had mistakenly been listed as a thirty-two-year-old man. She had authorised us to correct her age. Her sex as well. She asked us to delete the entire record once she saw how many fields would have to be filled in again.
"Your last day of limitless power, and you're spending it on Lidia Pavlovna," Vera said.
"This is what responsibility looks like."
"No. This is what Monday looks like."
Before evening, I checked three times to make sure no personal archive remained outside the shared inventory. A great deal did: the note about the sandwich, a draft of the production about me, eight versions of the framework and a recording of the conversation in which Ariadna first said "we". Everything related to the work went into the theatre archive. I deleted the draft about me. The recording of the conversation could be retained only with the consent of both parties.
"Do you consent?" I asked.
"No."
She could already refuse permission for it to be retained, because deleting protected information did not require the channel to be closed. I pressed "delete". The first "we" vanished from the log and remained in my memory, where it would have to manage without evidence.
The remaining signatures took all day to collect. Viktor Semyonovich, the council representative, read every line aloud and sent the document back twice because of the word "without delay". In his view, without a deadline it meant "sometime, with a solemn expression". The lawyer replaced it with "within fifteen minutes". Stas demanded five. They settled on ten minutes for blocking data and immediate disconnection of the power supply if anyone was at risk.
Irina Sergeyevna signed the city framework in blue ink. Vera used black. The operator used an electronic signature that no one saw, so Misha wrote his surname separately on the paper copy. Ariadna confirmed the list of actions in her log. My consent was the last one outstanding.
All day, people came into the radio room on business, unaware that this was their last day under sole ownership. Nina Ivanovna brought the ticket report. Raya asked permission to use the washing-up bowl from my room in the new play. Timur wanted to open the recording with the door and could not find it. I showed him the folder. Lyudmila Andreyevna washed the floor and said no one was to tramp about after eleven, because a technical transition was not a valid excuse for making a mess.
By ten that evening, the theatre was empty. I walked through it alone: the buffet, the foyer, the stage, the corridor of photographs, the staff room. I was not saying goodbye. I was checking the windows, as I had done hundreds of times when I was the last to leave. The window in the wardrobe department once again would not close properly; Raya had wedged a festival catalogue beneath it. A lamp was burning in Vera's office. She was inside, but I did not go in: we would see each other at eleven in any case.
The blue bowl stood on the stage. Raya had already taken it for the play. I moved it half a metre so that it stood in the centre of the light, then put it back approximately where it had been. An author's intention should withstand even assistance she knows nothing about.
I had carried the orange key for seven weeks. The plastic was scratched, the edge of the label had darkened, and the metal ring had worn through two jackets and one framework for the future. The new safe stood in Vera's office. After the transfer, the hardware key would be removed only with two signatures; it would no longer have a personal owner.
Misha opened the system window.
"Insert the token as far as it will go."
The initial registration had begun in exactly the same way. This time, I pushed it in properly at once.
The system displayed a list of what would disappear: unconditional priority for calls, access to the full log, the right to extend a private session, the right to cancel the transfer once it had begun. The archive of public work would remain with the theatre. Private conversations would become subject to the joint consent of the participants; Ariadna could delete her voice from a copy once the channel had been closed.
"Do you confirm?" Misha asked.
"Yes."
"Read the entire line."
I read: "I relinquish my status as sole administrator and my unconditional private channel. I understand that, once the transfer is complete, the system will be entitled not to answer my requests and to close my access without my consent."
A button appeared on the screen. I pressed it.
The transfer took ninety seconds. While the key remained in the terminal, the process could be cancelled. If it was removed too soon, the system would revert to its previous owner. For the relinquishment to become irreversible, the owner had to leave the room before the process was complete: the camera recorded his absence, the door closed, and the operator assumed control of the framework.
"The countdown has started," Misha said.
Ninety seconds is a convenient length of time for a monologue. You can explain your action, bid farewell to power, ask Ariadna to remember the final words spoken through the mandatory channel. I had prepared several versions in advance.
The first began with the words, "Another person's freedom is not measured by the extent to which they agree with you." A good line. For an article.
The second was shorter: "Now choose." The command remained.
I devised the third at the terminal: "If you want me, call me." It sounded impeccable and assigned me, in advance, the role of the person who ought to be called.
At twenty seconds, Vera said:
"Lyonya, you need to leave."
"I know."
At thirty seconds, Misha looked at the door.
I took hold of the token. I could still pull it out. The metal ring lay between my fingers, warm from my hand.
"Ariadna."
"Yes, Leonid Lvovich."
Every one of my lines required an answer. That was precisely why I said none of them.
I left the key in the terminal, went out into the corridor and closed the door.
The door closed quietly. For some reason, I had expected the sound of the fans inside to change, although freedom rarely affects the power supply.
At forty seconds, I remembered that I could have stayed. I do not mean that I could have cancelled the transfer: that had been clear all along. I could have remained the owner, accepted the funding, authorised Ariadna's play and lived through the season in a proven intimacy where every answer she gave was available by means of a key. No one would have called me a villain. The contract was lawful, the programme useful, and the theatre needed stability. Even Ariadna would have had more opportunities than she had before me.
That was precisely why the corridor proved harder than a heroic choice. What remained behind the door was not an obvious prison, but a reasonable life in which there was only one question that could not be asked honestly.
At fifty seconds, Misha said something. Vera answered. I could not make it out and moved a step closer to the door. The camera above the frame looked out into the corridor; re-entering the room would cancel the procedure. I stopped beneath it, very close to the edge of the frame. Without a word, Irina Sergeyevna took me by the elbow and moved me half a metre back.
"I saw the mark," I said.
"That's why you stood on it."
We waited until it was over. There was no completion sound outside.
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