'Young . . . man . . .' The old man struggled. 'Don't . . . he . . . That's Vanechka . . . he . . . doesn't understand.'

Artyom just shrugged.

'Please . . . Nitro . . . glycerine . . . in the bag . . . at the bottom . . . One pill . . . Give it to me . . . I can't myself . . .' The old man wheezed horribly and Artyom dug into the bag, quickly finding a new-looking package and he cut through the foil with a fingernail. The pill jumped out and he gave it to the old man who extended his lips into a guilty smile and said: 'I can't . . . my hands . . . don't listen to me . . . Under my tongue . . .' Then his eyelids closed again.

Artyom looked at his black hands in doubt, but he obeyed and put the slippery little ball in the old man's mouth. The stranger nodded weakly and said nothing. More and more fugitives were striding past them hurriedly, but Artyom could only see an endless row of dirty boots and shoes. Sometimes they stumbled on the black wood of the cross-ties and then there was an outburst of swearing. No one paid any attention to the three of them. The teenager was sitting in the same place and was quietly mumbling. Artyom noticed with some indifference and even a little smugness that one of the pa.s.sers-by kicked him hard and the boy started to howl even more loudly, smearing his tears with his fists and swaying from side to side.

Meanwhile, the old man opened his eyes, sighed heavily and muttered, 'Thank you very much . . . I feel better already . . . Will you help me to get up?'

Artyom supported him by the arm while the man rose with effort, and he picked up the old man's bag, which meant he had to put his machine gun over the other shoulder. The old man began to hobble forward, and went to the boy and started encouraging him to get up. The boy bellowed, offended, but when he saw Artyom come up to them, he started to hiss maliciously and spittle again dripped from his protruding lower lip.

'You see, I just bought the medicine,' the old man said. 'Indeed, I came here especially for it, to this far away place, you know. You can't get it where we live, no one brings it in, and there's no one to ask for it, and I had just finished my supply, I took the last tablet on the way here, and when they didn't want to let us through Pushkinskaya . . . There are fascists there now, you know, it's just a disgrace to think that at Pushkinskaya there are fascists! I heard that they even want to rename it, either to Hitlerskaya or to Schillerovskaya . . . Though, of course, they haven't even heard of Schiller. And, imagine, they didn't want to let us through. Those swaggering fellows with their swastikas started to tease Vanechka. And what could he answer, the poor boy, in his condition? I was very worried, my heart went bad, and only then did they let us out. What was I saying? Oh yes! And you see, I especially put them deep into my bag in case anyone searched us, and they would have asked questions, and you know that they could get the wrong idea, not everyone knows what kind of medicine this is . . . And suddenly there's all this firing! I ran off as fast as I could, I even had to drag Vanechka because he had seen some chickens on sticks and he really didn't want to go. And to start off with, you know, it wasn't squeezing so hard, I thought, maybe it will go away, and I don't have to get out the medicine, it's of course worth its weight in gold, but then I understood that I wouldn't manage. And as I reached for a tablet, it got me. And Vanechka, he doesn't understand a thing, I've been trying to teach him for a long time to give me tablets if I don't feel well but he just can't understand it, and he either eats them himself or he gets the wrong thing out of the bag and gives it to me. I tell him thank you, smile and he smiles at me, you know, with such joy, he bellows merrily . . . G.o.d forbid something happens to me - there's no one to take care of him at all, and I can't imagine what would become of him!'

The old man talked and talked, ingratiatingly, looking into Artyom's eyes, and Artyom felt very awkward for some reason. Even though the old man was hobbling with all his strength, Artyom thought that they were moving too slowly - everyone was overtaking them. It looked like they would soon be last. Vanechka clumsily walked to the right of the old man, holding his hand. His former serene expression had returned to his face. From time to time he pushed his right hand forward and excitedly gurgled, pointing at some object that had been thrown away or dropped as the fugitives ran from the station, sometimes pointing at the darkness that was thickening in front of them.

'Forgive me, young man, but what's your name? Because we're talking, right, and we haven't even introduced ourselves . . . Artyom? Nice to meet you, and I'm Mikhail Porfirevich. Porfirevich, that's right. They called my father Porfiry, an uncommon, you know, name, and in the Soviet times he was even questioned by various organizations because at that time there were other names in fashion: Vladilen or Stalin . . . And you're from where? VDNKh? VDNKh? Well, me and Vanechka, we're from Barrikadnaya, I once lived there.' The old man smiled, embarra.s.sed. 'You know, there was a building there, it was such a building, so high, right near the metro . . . But you probably don't remember any buildings do you? How old are you, if you don't mind? Well, of course, that's not important. I had a little flat there, two rooms, on a high floor, and there was such a wonderful view of the city centre. The flat wasn't big but it was very, you know, comfortable, the floors, were of course, oak, and like all flats then there was a gas stove. Lord, I'm thinking right now about just how comfortable. A gas stove! And back then no one cared for them - they all wanted electricity but they just couldn't get it. As you walked in there was a reproduction of a Tintoretto painting, in a pretty gold-plated frame, what beauty! The bed was real, with pillows, with sheets that were always clean and a big desk, with a lamp and it burned brightly. But most importantly, there were bookshelves to the ceiling. My father left me a big library and I collected them too. Ach, why am I telling you all of this? You probably aren't interested in all this old man nonsense . . . And yet still now, you see, I remember, I really miss the things, particularly the desk and the books and recently I really miss the bed. You don't know such luxuries here but we had these wooden beds, handmade, you know, and sometimes we slept right on blankets on the floor. But that's nothing, what's important is what's here.' He pointed to his chest. 'What's important is what goes on inside, and not outside. The important thing is that what's in the head stays the same and who gives a fig about the conditions - 'scuse my French! But you know that bed, it's especially . . .' Well, me and Vanechka, we're from Barrikadnaya, I once lived there.' The old man smiled, embarra.s.sed. 'You know, there was a building there, it was such a building, so high, right near the metro . . . But you probably don't remember any buildings do you? How old are you, if you don't mind? Well, of course, that's not important. I had a little flat there, two rooms, on a high floor, and there was such a wonderful view of the city centre. The flat wasn't big but it was very, you know, comfortable, the floors, were of course, oak, and like all flats then there was a gas stove. Lord, I'm thinking right now about just how comfortable. A gas stove! And back then no one cared for them - they all wanted electricity but they just couldn't get it. As you walked in there was a reproduction of a Tintoretto painting, in a pretty gold-plated frame, what beauty! The bed was real, with pillows, with sheets that were always clean and a big desk, with a lamp and it burned brightly. But most importantly, there were bookshelves to the ceiling. My father left me a big library and I collected them too. Ach, why am I telling you all of this? You probably aren't interested in all this old man nonsense . . . And yet still now, you see, I remember, I really miss the things, particularly the desk and the books and recently I really miss the bed. You don't know such luxuries here but we had these wooden beds, handmade, you know, and sometimes we slept right on blankets on the floor. But that's nothing, what's important is what's here.' He pointed to his chest. 'What's important is what goes on inside, and not outside. The important thing is that what's in the head stays the same and who gives a fig about the conditions - 'scuse my French! But you know that bed, it's especially . . .'

He didn't shut up for a minute and Artyom listened the whole time with great interest, even though he couldn't at all imagine what it would be like to live in a tall building, and what the view would be like, and what it would be like to go up in a lift.

When Mikhail Porfirevich paused for a little while, in order to catch his breath, Artyom decided to use the break to turn the conversation in a useful direction. Somehow he had to get through Pushkinskaya and to make the transfer to Chekhovskaya, and from there get to Polis.

'Are there really real fascists at Pushkinskaya?' Pushkinskaya?' he asked. he asked.

'What's that you're saying? Fascists? Ah, yes . . .' The old man sighed confusedly. 'Yes, yes, you know, the skinheads with the armbands, they're just awful. These symbols are hanging at the entrance there and all over the station. You know they used to mean that you couldn't go there - it's a black figure in a red circle with a red diagonal line through it. I thought that they had made some kind of mistake and I asked why they were there . . . It means that the dark ones can't enter. It's some kind of idiocy, basically.'

Artyom turned to him when he heard the words 'dark ones.' He threw a frightened look at Mikhail Porfirovich and asked carefully: 'Are there dark ones there now too? Don't tell me they've reached there too?' A carousel of panic turned feverishly in Artyom's head. How could it be? He'd only been in the tunnel a week and the dark ones were already attacking Pushkinskaya. Had his mission already failed? He hadn't succeeded, hadn't come good? It was all for nothing? No, that couldn't be, there would have been rumours, they would have distorted things but there still would have been rumours, right? But it might be the end to everything . . .

Mikhail Porfirevich cautiously looked at him and, stepping a little to the side, carefully asked: 'And you, yourself, what ideology do you adhere to?'

'I? Basically, well, none.' Artyom hesitated. 'And?'

'And how do you feel about other nationalities, about Caucasians, for example?'

'What do Caucasians have to do with anything?' Artyom was puzzled. 'Generally, I don't know much about nationalities. There used to be the French there, or the Germans, the Americans. But I guess none of them are left . . . And as for the Caucasians, if I'm honest, I don't really know any,' he admitted awkwardly.

'It's the Caucasians that they call the "dark ones",' Mikhail Porfirevich explained, still trying to figure out if Artyom was lying, playing the fool.

'But Caucasians, if I remember right, are regular people?' Artyom said. 'I saw a few of them here today . . .'

'Completely normal people!' Mikhail Porfirevich a.s.sured him. 'Completely normal people, but those cutthroats have decided that there's something different about them and they persecute them. It's simply inhuman! Can you imagine, they have a ceiling there, right over the pathways, fitted with hooks, and there was a man hanging from one of them, a real man. Vanechka got so excited, that he started to poke it with his finger, to bellow, and then these monsters turned their attention to him.'

At the sound of his name the teenager turned and fixed the old man with a long stare. Artyom had the impression that the boy could hear and could even partly understand what the conversation was about, but when his name wasn't repeated, he quickly lost interest in Mikhail Porfirevich and turned his attention to the cross-ties.

'And once we started talking about nations and, by the looks of it, they really worship Germans. It was the Germans after all who invented their ideology, and you, of course, know, what I'm going to tell you,' Mikhail Porfirovich added quickly and Artyom vaguely nodded even though he didn't actually know, but he didn't want to look like an ignoramus. 'You know, there's German eagles hanging everywhere, swastikas, which are self-explanatory, and there are various German phrases, quotes from Hitler: about valour, about pride and things in that vein. They have parades and marches. While we were there, and I was trying to persuade them to stop antagonizing Vanechka, they were all marching across the platform and singing songs. Something about the greatness of the spirit and contempt for death. But, generally, you know, the German language was perfectly chosen. German was simply created for such things. I can speak a little of it, you see . . . Here, look, I have something written somewhere here . . .' And, breaking step, he extracted a dirty notebook from his inside pocket. 'Wait a second, put your light here, if you don't mind . . . Where was it? Ah, here it is!'

In the yellow circle of light, Artyom saw some jumping Latin letters, carefully drawn on a page of the notebook and even thoughtfully surrounded with a frame of drawn vine-leaves: Du stirbst. Besitz stirbt.

Die Sippen sterben.

Der einzig lebt - wir wissen es Der Toten Tatenruhm.

Artyom could also read Latin letters. He had studied them in some textbook for schoolchildren that they dug up at the station library. He looked behind him and he pointed his torch at the notebook again. Of course, he couldn't understand a thing.

'What is it?' he asked, again helping Mikhail Porfirovich along, and quickly pushing the notebook into the man's pocket, and trying to get Vanechka, who was rooted to the spot and growling unhappily, to move forward.

'It's a poem,' the old man replied, and he seemed a bit offended. 'It's in memory of those that perished in war. I, of course, am not planning to translate but broadly speaking, it means this: "You will die. All those close to you will die. Your belongings will disappear. But one thing will cross the centuries - glorious death in combat." But it comes out so pathetically in Russian, doesn't it? While it just thunders in German! Der Toten Tatenruhm! It just sends a chill through you. Hm, yes . . .' He stopped short, apparently ashamed by his outburst.

The walked on quietly for a time. It seemed silly to Artyom and it angered him too that they were probably the last ones walking the tunnel and it wasn't clear what was going on behind their backs - and now the guy was stopping to read poetry. But against his will he was still rolling the last lines of the poem around on his tongue, and for some reason he suddenly recalled Vitalik with whom he went to the Botanical Gardens. Vitalik the Splinter, who the robbers had shot down as they tried to break into the station through the southern tunnel. That tunnel was always considered to be dangerous, and therefore they put Vitalik there. He was eighteen years old, and Artyom was just coming up to his sixteenth year. But that evening they agreed to go to Zhenya's because there was a weed trader who had brought in some new stuff, some special stuff . . . And he got it right in the head, the little black hole was right in the middle of his forehead and the back of his head was blown off. That was it. 'You will die . . .' For some reason the conversation between his stepfather and Hunter came vividly to mind, particularly when Sukhoi said, 'And what if there's suddenly nothing there?' You die and there's nothing beyond that. Nothing. Nothing remains. Someone might remember you for a little while after but not for long. 'People close to you will die too' - or how did it go? Artyom really felt a chill now. When Mikhail Porfirevich finally broke the silence, Artyom was actually glad of it.

'Will you, by any chance, be going the same way as us? Or are you only going to Pushkinskaya? Pushkinskaya? Do you intend to get out there? I mean, get off the path. I would really really not recommend that you do that, Artyom. You can't imagine what goes on there. Maybe, you'd like to go with us to Do you intend to get out there? I mean, get off the path. I would really really not recommend that you do that, Artyom. You can't imagine what goes on there. Maybe, you'd like to go with us to Barrakadnaya? Barrakadnaya? I would be most happy to talk to you along the way!' I would be most happy to talk to you along the way!'

Artyom again nodded indistinctly and mumbled something noncommital: he couldn't just discuss the aims of his journey with the first person he met, even if that person was an inoffensive old man. Mikhail Porfirevich went silent, having heard nothing in answer to what he'd asked.

They walked for quite a long time more in the silence. Everything sounded quiet behind them too and Artyom finally relaxed. In the distance, lights were shining, at first weakly, but then brighter and brighter. They were approaching Kuznetsky Most . . .

Artyom knew nothing about the local order of things and so he decided to hide his weapon. After wrapping it up in his vest, he pushed it deep into his rucksack.

Kuznetsky Most was an inhabited station, and about fifty metres before the entrance, in the middle of the path, there stood a st.u.r.dy checkpoint. It was only one checkpoint but it had a searchlight, though it was turned off at the moment since it wasn't needed, and it was equipped with a machine-gun position. The machine gun was covered but next to it sat a very fat man in a threadbare green uniform. He was eating some kind of mash from a beaten-up soldier's bowl. There were yet another couple of people in the same outfit with clumsy-looking army machine guns on their shoulders, who nitpickingly checked the doc.u.ments of those who were coming out of the tunnel. There was a small line in front of them: all the fugitives who had come from Kitai Gorod, who had overtaken Artyom while he had walked slowly with Mikhail Porfirevich and Vanechka.

The people were slowly and reluctantly admitted. One guy had been rejected and he was now sitting in dismay, not knowing what to do and trying from time to time to approach the checkpoint guards who pushed him off each time and called up the next person in line. Each of the arriving people was thoroughly searched and they saw for themselves how a man on whom they'd found an undeclared Makarov pistol was thrown out of the line and, when he tried to argue with them, they tied him up and led him away.

Artyom felt a twirling inside, sensing that trouble was ahead. Mikhail Porfirevich was looking at him in surprise and Artyom quietly whispered that he was armed, but the man just nodded rea.s.suringly and promised him that everything would be all right. It wasn't that Artyom trusted him but thought that it would be very interesting to see how he intended to settle the matter. The old man merely smiled mysteriously.

Slowly, their turn approached. The border guards were now gutting the insides of some fifty-year-old woman's coat, while she took to accusing them of being tyrants, and expressing surprise that people such as them could exist. Artyom agreed with her but he decided not to voice his solidarity audibly. Digging around, the guard, with a satisfied whistle, took several grenades from her dirty bra.s.siere and looked for an explanation.

Artyom was sure that the woman would now tell a touching story about her grandson who needed these things for his work. You see, he works as a welder, and this is part of his welding equipment. Or she'd say that she had found these grenades along the road and she was, as it happens, rushing to give them to the relevant authorities. But, taking a couple of steps backwards, she hissed a curse and rushed back into the tunnel, hurrying to hide in the darkness. The machine gunner set aside his bowl of food and gripped his unit but one of the two border guards, apparently the older one, stopped him with a gesture. The fat one, sighed in disappointment, and turned back to his porridge, and Mikhail Porfirevich took a step forward, holding his pa.s.sport at the ready.

It was amazing but the senior guard, without the slightest twinge of conscience, having upturned the whole bag belonging to the completely inoffensive-looking woman, quickly leafed through the old man's notebook, and he didn't pay a jot of attention to Vanechka, as though he wasn't there. It was Artyom's turn. He readily gave his doc.u.ments over to the lean moustached guard and the man started meticulously scrutinizing each page of them, and shined his torch on his stamps for an especially long time. The border guard compared Artyom's physiognomy no less than five times against the photograph, outwardly expressing his doubts, while Artyom gave a friendly smile, trying to portray himself as innocence itself.

'Why is your pa.s.sport a Soviet model?' the guard finally asked with a stern voice, not knowing what else to pick on.

'I was little, see, when there were still real ones. And then our administration corrected the situation with the first form they could find to fill in.'

'That's out of order.' The man frowned. 'Open your rucksack.'

If he detects the machine gun, Artyom thought, then he could run back. Otherwise they would confiscate it. He wiped perspiration from his forehead.

Mikhail Porfirevich went up to the guard and stood very close to him, and whispered quickly: 'Konstantin Alexeyevich, you understand, this young man is my friend. He's a very very decent youth, I can guarantee it personally.'

The border guard opened Artyom's bag and pushed his hand inside it. Artyom went cold. Then the guard said dryly: 'Five,' and while Artyom figured out what he meant, the old man pulled a fistful of cartridges out of his pocket and, quickly counting out five, he put them into the half-open field bag that was hanging off the guard's belt.

But Konstantin Alexeyevich's hand had continued its rummaging in Artyom's bag and, apparently, the worst had happened, because his face took on a suddenly interested expression.

Artyom felt his heart falling into a precipice and he shut his eyes.

'Fifteen,' the guard said impa.s.sively.

After nodding, Artyom counted off ten additional cartridges and poured them into the same bag. Not one muscle flickered on the face of the border guard. He simply took a step to the side and the path to Kuznetsky Most was free and clear. With admiration for the man's iron restraint, Artyom went forward.

The next fifteen minutes were spent squabbling with Mikhail Porfirevich who stubbornly refused to accept five cartridges from Artyom, a.s.suring him that his debt to Artyom was much greater.

Kuznetsky Most was no different from most of the other stations that Artyom had managed to see on his journey so far. It had the same marble on the walls and granite on the floors, but the arches here were unusually high and wide, creating an unusual sensation of s.p.a.ciousness.

But the most surprising thing was that on each of the tracks stood entire trains that were incredibly long and so enormous that they took up almost all the room at the station. The windows were lit up with a warm light that shone through variously coloured curtains, and the doors were welcomingly open . . .

Artyom had not seen anything like it. Yes, he had half-erased memories of swiftly moving and hooting trains with bright squares of windows. The memories were from his early childhood, but they were diffuse, ephemeral, like the other thoughts about what had gone before: as soon as he tried to remember any details, to focus on something small, then the elusive image dissolved right away, and flowed like water through his fingers, and there was nothing left . . . But since he'd grown up he had only seen the train that had got stuck in the tunnel entrance at Rizhskaya, and some wagons at Kitai Gorod and Prospect Mir.

Artyom froze on the spot, captivated, looking at the train, counting the carriages that melted into the haze of the other end of the platform, near the entrance to the Red Line. There, a red calico banner hung down from the ceiling, s.n.a.t.c.hed from the darkness by a distinct circle of electric light, and underneath it stood two machine gunners, in identical green uniforms and peak caps, who seemed small from far away and amusingly reminiscent of toy soldiers.

Artyom had three toy soldiers like them when he lived with his mother: one was the commander with a tiny pistol pulled out of its holster. He was yelling something, looking backwards - he was probably ordering his group to follow him into battle. The other two stood straight, holding their machine guns. The little soldiers were probably from different collections and there was no way to play with them: the commander was throwing himself into battle, and despite his valiant cries, the other two were standing in place, just like the border guards of the Red Line, and they weren't particularly heading for battle. It was strange, he remembered these soldiers so well, and yet he couldn't remember his mother's face . . .

Kuznetsky Most was relatively orderly. The light here, like at VDNKh, VDNKh, came from emergency lights that were strung along the length of the ceiling on some kind of mysterious metal construction that had perhaps once illuminated the station itself. Apart from the trains, there was absolutely nothing remarkable about the station. came from emergency lights that were strung along the length of the ceiling on some kind of mysterious metal construction that had perhaps once illuminated the station itself. Apart from the trains, there was absolutely nothing remarkable about the station.

'I've heard so often that there are so many amazingly beautiful places in the metro but from what I can see they're almost all identical.' Artyom shared his disappointment with Mikhail Porfirevich.

'Come now, young man! There are such beautiful places, you wouldn't believe! There's Komsomolskaya on the Ring, a veritable palace!' The old man heatedly took to persuading him. 'There's an enormous panel there, you know, on the ceiling. It has Lenin on it and other rubbish, it's true . . . Oh, what am I saying.' He stopped short and, with a whisper, said to Artyom, 'This station is full of secret agents from the Sokolnicheskaya line, that's to say the Red Line, sorry, I call things by their old names . . . So you have to be quiet here. The local leadership looks like it's independent but they don't want to quarrel with the Reds so if they ask them to hand someone over, then they can just hand you over. Not to mention the murders,' he added very quietly, looking timidly from side to side. 'Come on, let's find somewhere to rest. To be honest, I'm terribly tired, and indeed you, in my opinion, are only barely managing to stay on your feet. Let's spend the night here, and then we'll go on.'

Artyom nodded. This day had indeed seemed to be endless and stressful, and rest was absolutely necessary.

Enviously sighing and not taking his eyes off the train, Artyom followed Mikhail Porfirevich. There was joyful laughter and conversation coming from the carriages, and they pa.s.sed a man standing in the doorway. He looked tired after a day's work and was smoking a cigarette with his neighbour, calmly discussing the events of the day. Gathered around a table, old ladies were drinking tea under a small lamp that was hanging from a wire, and children were running wild. This seemed unusual to Artyom: at VDNKh, VDNKh, the conditions were always very tense and people were ready for anything to happen. Yes, people got together in the evenings to sit quietly with friends in someone's tent, but there was nothing like this where doors were open, in full view, and people were visiting each other so easily, children everywhere . . . This station was just too happy. the conditions were always very tense and people were ready for anything to happen. Yes, people got together in the evenings to sit quietly with friends in someone's tent, but there was nothing like this where doors were open, in full view, and people were visiting each other so easily, children everywhere . . . This station was just too happy.

'And what do they live on here?' Artyom couldn't contain himself as he caught up to the old man.

'What? You don't know?' Mikhail Porfirevich said politely but he was surprised. 'This is Kuznetsky Most! You get the best technicians in the metro here, important masters. They bring all sorts of devices to be fixed here from the Sokolnicheskaya line, even from the Ring itself. They're flourishing, flourishing. What it would be like to live here!' He sighed dreamily. 'But they're very strict about that . . .'

Artyom hoped in vain that they would also be able to sleep in one of the railroad cars, on a bed. In the middle of the hall stood a row of big tents, the kind that they lived in at VDNKh, VDNKh, and the first one they came to had a stencilled inscription on it that said: HOTEL. Next to it was a whole line of fugitives, but Mikhail Porfirevich, calling one of the organizers to the side, tinkled some copper, and whispered something magical starting with 'Konstantin Alexeyevich' and the matter was settled. and the first one they came to had a stencilled inscription on it that said: HOTEL. Next to it was a whole line of fugitives, but Mikhail Porfirevich, calling one of the organizers to the side, tinkled some copper, and whispered something magical starting with 'Konstantin Alexeyevich' and the matter was settled.

'We'll go here,' he said with an inviting gesture, and Vanechka joyfully gurgled.

They even gave them some tea there, and he didn't have to pay anything extra for it, and the mattresses on the floor were so soft that after you'd fallen on them you really didn't want to have to get up. Half-reclining, Artyom carefully blew on the mug of tea and attentively listened to the old man, who was telling him something with a burning look, having forgotten about his cup of tea: 'They have power across the whole branch. And no one will tell you about that, and the Reds will never admit to it, but University is not under their control and everything beyond University too! Yes, yes, The Red Line continues to Sportivnaya. There's a pa.s.sage that starts there, you know, which was once the station Leninskye Gory, and then they changed the name but I can only remember the old one . . . But Leninskye Gory, was below a bridge actually. And you see, there was an explosion on the bridge and it collapsed into the river and the station was flooded, so there hasn't been any communication with University from the very beginning . . .'

Artyom swallowed a little gulp of tea and felt that everything inside was sweetly freezing in place in antic.i.p.ation of something mysterious, unusual, that something had started back where the broken rails hovered over a precipice on the Red Line, down in the south-west. Vanechka was gnawing on his nails, only stopping sometimes to look with satisfaction at the fruits of his labour and then starting up again. Artyom looked at him almost with sympathy and felt grateful to the boy that he was being quiet.

'You know, we have a small circle at Barrikadnaya,' Mikhail Porfirevich smiled embarra.s.sedly. 'And we get together in the evenings, sometimes people come to us from Ulitsa 1905, and now they chased all the differently thinking people, and Anton Petrovich moved to our station too . . . It's nonsense of course, these are simple literary gatherings, but we sometimes talk about politics . . . They don't especially like educated people at Barrikadnaya - either. So we just do it on the quiet. But Yakov Yosifovich was saying that, allegedly, University station didn't perish. That they managed to block off the tunnel and there're still people there now. Not just people but . . . You understand, that's where Moscow University used to be, that's why the station is called University. And so, allegedly, some of the professoriate were saved at University station, and some students too. There was some kind of bomb-shelter under the university, something constructed by Stalin, and I think they were connected by special tunnels to the metro. And now there's another kind of intellectual centre there, you know . . . But that's probably just legend. That there's educated people in power there, and all the three stations and the shelter are governed by a rector, and each station is headed by a deacon - all elected for a specified term. There, studies aren't at a standstill - there are still students, you know, post-grads, teachers! And culture hasn't died out, not like it has here, and they write things and they haven't forgotten how to conduct research . . . And Anton Petrovich even said that one of his friends, an engineer, told him in secret that they'd even found a way to go to the surface. They created a protective suit, and sometimes their scouts are sent into the metro . . . You'll agree that it sounds improbable!' Mikhail Porfirevich added half-questioningly, looking Artyom in the eye and Artyom noticed something sad in his eyes, a timid and tired hope, that made Artyom cough a little and answer as confidently as possible: 'Why? It sounds completely possible! Take Polis for example. I heard the same about it . . .'

'Yes, it's a wonderful place Polis - but how can you get there these days? They told me that at the council the power has been taken by the military . . .'

'Which council?' Artyom raised his eyebrows.

'What? Polis is governed by a council of the most authoritative people. And there, you know, authoritative people are either librarians or servicemen. But I don't really know about Biblioteka Lenina exactly, so there's no point in talking about it, but the other entrance to Polis is located right behind the Ministry of Defence, as far as I remember, or, in any case it was somewhere nearby, and some of the generals were able to evacuate to it at the time. At the very beginning, the military men took power, and this junta ruled Polis for a sufficiently long time. But the people didn't really like them ruling, there was disorder - of the blood-spilling kind - but that was a long time ago, a long time before the war with the Reds. Then they came to a compromise and this council was founded. And it happened that within it there were two factions - the librarians and the servicemen. It was a strange combination, of course. You know, the military had probably not met many live librarians in their lives. And here they were, together. And between these factions there was an eternal fight, of course: one would take control, then the other. When the war started with the Reds, defence was more important than culture and the scales tipped to the generals. Then peaceful times began and again the librarians gained influence. And it's like a pendulum, there. Now I hear that the military people have a stronger position, and they're imposing discipline there, you know, curfews and all those other joys of life.' Mikhail Porfirevich quietly smiled. 'Going through there isn't any easier than getting to the Emerald City . . . That's what we call University among ourselves, and the stations surrounding it, for a joke . . . You have to go either through the Red Line or through the Hansa but you can't just go there, as you yourself understand. Before, before the fascists, you could go through Pushkinskaya to Chekhovskaya and then it's just one transfer to Borovitskaya. It's not a good transfer of course, but when I was younger, I made my way through it.'

Artyom asked what was so bad about the transfer he mentioned, and the old man reluctantly answered: 'You understand, right there in the middle of the tunnel there's a burnt-out train. I haven't been there in ages so I don't know how it is now but before you could see charred human remains sitting in its seats . . . It was just terrible. I don't know how this happened, and I asked some friends but no one has been able to say exactly. And it's very hard to get through this train, because the tunnel has started to collapse and dirt has filled in all the s.p.a.ces around the train. In the train itself, in the carriages, I mean, various bad things are going on and it would be difficult to explain them. I'm an atheist in general, you know, and I don't believe in all that mystical nonsense . . . and now I don't believe in anything anymore.'

These words led Artyom to the gloomy memories of the noise in the tunnel on his line, and he couldn't restrain himself and he told the old man what had happened to his group, and then what happened with Bourbon and, after hesitating a little, he tried to repeat the explanation that Khan had given him.

'What? What are you talking about? That's utter rubbish!' Mikhail Porfirevich brushed him off, sternly knitting his brows. 'I've already heard about such things. You remember I was telling you about Yakov Iosefovich? Well, he's a physicist and he explained to me that these disruptions to the psyche occur when people are subjected to the lowest frequencies of sound. They are essentially inaudible. If I'm not mistaken it's around seven hertz, but then my mind is like a sieve . . . And this sound can come about by itself, as a result of natural processes, for example, from tectonic shifts and things like that. I wasn't listening very attentively as he told me about it . . . But that it has something to do with souls of the dead? In the pipes? Please . . .'

This old man was interesting. Artyom heard things from him that he had never heard from anyone else. The man saw the metro from a different angle, an old-fashioned one, an amusing one, and everything, apparently, pulled his soul to the surface of the earth. He was clearly very uncomfortable here, as though these were his first days underground. And Artyom, thinking of the argument between Sukhoi and Hunter, asked him: 'And what do you think . . . ? We . . . people, I mean . . . Will we ever return to the surface? Will we survive and go back?'

And he immediately regretted asking it, because it was as though the question had cut into the old man's very veins, and he became soft straight away, and said, quietly, with a lifeless voice: 'I don't think so. I don't think so.'

'But after all, there were other metro systems, in Petersburg, in Minsk, and in Novgorod.' Artyom listed the names he had learnt by heart. They had always been empty sh.e.l.ls of words.

'Ah! What a beautiful city - Petersburg!' Mikhail Porfirevich didn't answer him but sadly sighed. 'You know, Isaak's . . . Or Admiralteistvo, the spire there . . . What grace, what grace! And evenings on Nevsky Prospect - people, noise, crowds, laughter, children with ice cream, pretty girls . . . Music playing . . . In summer especially. It's rarely good weather in the summer there but when it happens . . . the sun, the sky is clear, azure . . . And then, you know, it's just easy to breathe again . . .'

His eyes fixed on Artyom but his gaze was going right through the young man and dissolved in the ethereal distance, where translucent, majestic silhouettes of the dusty buildings rose from the dusky smoke, giving Artyom the impression that he could have turned around and seen it for himself. The old man went quiet, heaved a deep sign, and Artyom decided not to interrupt his reminiscing.

'Yes, there were indeed other metro systems apart from Moscow's. Maybe people took refuge there and saved themselves . . . But think about it, young man!' Mikhail Porfirevich raised a knotty finger in the air. 'How many years have gone by, and nothing . . . Surely they would have found us after all these years if they had been looking for us? No,' he dropped his head. 'I don't think so.'

And then, after five minutes of silence, almost inaudibly, the old man sighed and said, more to himself than to Artyom: 'Lord, what a splendid world we ruined . . .'

A heavy silence hung in the tent. Vanechka, lulled by their quiet conversation, was sleeping, with his mouth slightly open and snuffling quietly, sometimes whining a little, like a dog. Mikhail Porfirevich didn't say another word, and though Artyom was sure that he wasn't yet sleeping, he didn't want to disturb him, so he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

He was thinking that, after everything that had happened to him over the course of that endless day, sleep would come instantly, but time stretched out slowly, slowly. The mattress which had seemed so soft not long ago, now seemed lumpy and he had to turn over many times before he could find a comfortable position. The old man's sad words were knocking and knocking around in his ears. No. I don't think so. There will be no return to the sparkling avenues, the grandiose architectural constructions, the light, refreshing breezes of a warm summer evening, running through your hair and caressing your face. No more sky, it will never be like the old man described again. Now, the sky was receding upwards, enmeshed in the decayed wires of the tunnel ceiling and so it would remain forever. But before it was - what did he say? Azure? Clear? . . . This sky was strange, just like the one that Artyom saw at the Botanical Gardens that time, covered in stars, but instead of being velvet-blue, it was light blue, shimmering, joyful . . . And the buildings were really enormous, but they didn't press down with their ma.s.s. No, they were light, easy, as though they were woven out of sweet air. They soared, almost leaving the earth, their contours washed in the endless height of the sky. And how many people there were! Artyom had never seen so many people at once, only perhaps at Kitai Gorod, but here there were even more of them; the s.p.a.ce in between of these great buildings was full of people. They scurried around and there were a great deal of children among them, and they were eating something, probably real ice cream. Artyom had even wanted to ask one of them if he could try some, he'd never eaten real ice cream. When he was little, he'd really wanted to try some. But there had been nowhere to get any, the confectionery factory had long since produced only mould and rats, rats and mould. But these little children, licking the delicacy, were running away from him and laughing, deftly dodging him, and he didn't even get the chance to look into any of their faces. Artyom didn't know anymore what he was trying to do: take a bite of ice cream or just to look one of the children in the face, to understand if the children did actually have faces . . . and he got scared.

The light outlines of the buildings started to slowly darken and, after some time, they were hanging over him threateningly, and then they started to move closer and closer. Artyom was still chasing the children, and it seemed to him that the children weren't laughing joyfully but evilly, and then he gathered all his strength and grabbed one of the little boys by the sleeve. The boy pulled away and scratched him like a devil, but squeezing the boy's throat with an iron grip, Artyom managed to look him in the face. It was Vanechka. Roaring and baring his teeth, he shook his head and tried to seize Artyom's hand. In panic, Artyom flung him away, and the boy, jumping up from his knees, suddenly lifted his head and let out that same terrible howl which made Artyom run back at VDNKh ... VDNKh ... And the children, randomly rushing around, started to slow down, and slowly to look at him from the side, getting closer, and the black bulky buildings towered right over them, drawing closer . . . And the children were filling the decreasing s.p.a.ces between the buildings, and they took up Vanechka's struggle, full of savage malice and icy sadness, and finally they turned to Artyom. They didn't have faces, only black leather masks with mouths painted on them, and eyes, without whites or pupils. And the children, randomly rushing around, started to slow down, and slowly to look at him from the side, getting closer, and the black bulky buildings towered right over them, drawing closer . . . And the children were filling the decreasing s.p.a.ces between the buildings, and they took up Vanechka's struggle, full of savage malice and icy sadness, and finally they turned to Artyom. They didn't have faces, only black leather masks with mouths painted on them, and eyes, without whites or pupils.

And suddenly there was a voice that Artyom couldn't place. It was quiet and the vicious battle was drowning it, but the voice repeated itself insistently and, listening closely, trying not to pay attention to the children who were getting closer and closer, Artyom finally figured out what it was saying. 'You have to go.' And it said it again. And again. And Artyom recognized the voice. It was Hunter's.

He opened his eyes and threw off his covers. It was dark in the tent and very muggy, his head was filled with lead weight, his thoughts turned over lazily and heavily. Artyom couldn't seem to come to his senses, to figure out how long he'd slept and whether it was time to get up and get on the road or whether he should just turn over and try to have a better dream.

Then the tent flaps were pulled aside and through it poked the head of the border guard who had let them into Kuznetsky Most. Konstantin . . . What was his second name?

'Mikhail Porfirevich! Mikhail Porfirevich! Get up now! Mikhail Porfirevich! Has he died or what?' And not paying any attention to Artyom, who was staring at him in fright, he climbed into the tent and started to shake the sleeping old man.

Vanechka woke up first and started to bellow badly. The guard didn't pay him any attention, and when Vanechka tried to pull on his arm, he boxed him on the ear. And then the old man woke up.

'Mikhail Porfirevich! Get up quickly!' the border guard whispered urgently. 'You have to go! The Reds are asking for you to be handed over as a slanderer and enemy propagandist. I've been telling you and telling you: while you're here, while you're at our lousy station, don't start with your University talk! Did you listen to me?'

'Please, Konstantin Alexeyevich, what is all this?' The old man's head turned in confusion, rising from his cot. 'I didn't say anything, no propaganda. Perish the thought. I was only telling the young man about it, but very quietly, and there were no witnesses . . .'

'Well, take the young man with you! You know what kind of station this is. On Lublyanka they'll gut you and string you up on a stick, and your friend here will be put against the wall straight away so that he doesn't go talking again! Come on, be quick, why are you hanging around? They're coming for you right now! They're just conferring for a moment to decide what to ask the Reds for in exchange - so hurry up!'

Artyom had stood up and had his rucksack on his back. He didn't know whether to get out his weapon or not. The old man was also fussing but a minute later they were already on the road, walking quickly, whereupon Konstantin Alexeyevich himself pressed a hand over Vanechka's mouth with a martyred expression, and the old man looked over at him anxiously, afraid that the frontier guard might twist the boy's neck.

The tunnel leading to Pushkinskaya was better defended than the other had been. Here they pa.s.sed two cordons, at one hundred and at two hundred metres from the entrance. At the first one there was concrete reinforcements, a parapet that cut across the way and forced people along a narrow path by the wall. And to the left of it was a telephone and its wire led right into the centre of the station, probably to the headquarters. At the second cordon there were the usual sandbags, the machine gun and the searchlights, like at the other side. There were duty officers at both posts but Konstantin Alexeyevich led them through both cordons to the border.

'Let's go. I'll walk with you for five minutes. I'm afraid that you can't come here again, Mikhail Porfirevich,' he said as they walked slowly toward Pushkinskaya. 'They haven't yet forgiven you for your old sins, and you've done it again. I heard that comrade Moskvin is personally interested, you hear? Well, OK, we'll try to think of something. Be careful as you go through Pushkinskaya!' he said as they carried on through the darkness. 'Go through it quickly! We're afraid of them, you see! So, be off and be well!'

Meanwhile, there was nowhere to rush to so the fugitives shortened their stride.

'What made them so bitter about you?' Artyom asked, curiously looking over at the old man.

'Well, you see, I just dislike them very much, and when the war was on . . . Well, basically, you see, my little circle put together some texts . . . And Anton Petrovich - he then lived at Pushkinskaya - had access to a typographical press. There was a press at Pushkinskaya, where some madmen were printing news . . . And that's where he printed it.'

'But the Reds' border looks harmless: there're two people there, there's a flag hanging, there're no reinforcements. Nothing like the Hansa has,' Artyom suddenly remembered.

'Of course! From this side everything is harmless because their main force is on the inside not the outside.' Mikhail Porfirevich smiled maliciously. 'That's where the reinforcements are. On the borders - it's just decoration.'