'That means you'll have someone to talk with there,' Yevgeniy Dmitrievich told his companion.

'On the other hand, many interesting acquaintances may be made there,' said Sergei Andreyevich.

'For example, among the upper hierarchy of the Catholic Church.'

'Yes, they are surely there. Yet strictly speaking, so are ours . . .'

Both of Artyom's companions clearly didn't much believe that there would someday be a reckoning for everything said now. But Yevgeniy Dmitrievich's words, about how what has happened to humanity is just an interesting story, led Artyom to a new thought.

'Now, I've read a good many different books,' he said, 'and I'm always amazed that they're nothing like real life. I mean, look, events in books are arranged in a nice straight line, everything is tied to everything else, causes have effects, and nothing doesn't "just happen". But in reality, everything's completely otherwise! I mean, life is just full of senseless events that happen to us randomly, and there's no such thing as everything happening in a logical sequence. What's more, books, for example, come to an end just where the logical chain breaks off; there's a beginning, a development, then a peak, and an end.'

'A climax, not a peak,' Sergei Andreyevich corrected him, listening to Artyom's observations with a bored look.

Yevgeniy Dmitrievich also did not evince any particular interest. He moved the smoking apparatus closer to himself, inhaled some aromatic smoke, and held his breath.

'OK, climax,' continued Artyom, slightly discouraged. 'But in life, everything's different. First, a logical chain might not come to an end, and second, even if it does, nothing comes to a close because of it.'

'You mean to say that life has no plot?' asked Sergei Andreyevich, helping Artyom formulate his words.

Artyom thought for a minute, then nodded.

'But do you believe in fate?' asked Sergei Andreyevich, inclining his head to the side and examining Artyom studiously, while Yevgeniy Dmitrievich turned away from the hookah with interest.

'No,' said Artyom decisively. 'There is no fate, just random events that happen to us, and then we make things up on our own later.'

'Too bad, too bad . . .' sighed Sergei Andreyevich disappointedly, austerely looking at Artyom over his eyegla.s.ses. 'Now, I'm going to present a little theory of mine to you, and you see for yourself if it matches your life or not. It seems to me that life, of course, is an empty joke, and that there's no purpose to it at all, and that there's no fate, which is to say anything explicit and definite, along the lines of you're born and you already know that you're going to be a cosmonaut or a ballerina, or that you'll die in your infancy . . . No, not like that. While you're living your allotted time . . . how do I explain this . . . It may happen that something happens to you that forces you to perform specific actions and make specific decisions, keeping in mind you have free will, and can do this or that. But if you make the right decision, then the things that happen to you subsequently are no longer just random, to use your word, events. They are caused by the choices that you made. I don't intend to say that if you decided to live on the Red Line before it went communist that you'd be stuck there and that corresponding events would happen to you. I'm talking of more subtle matters. But if you again were to find yourself at the crossroads and once more made the needed decision, then later you will be faced with a choice that will no longer seem random to you if, of course, you realize and can understand it. And your life will gradually stop being just a collection of random events; it will turn into . . . a plot, I suppose, where everything is connected by some logical, though not necessarily straight, links. And that will be your fate. At a certain stage, if you have travelled sufficiently far along your way, your life will have turned into a plot to the extent that strange things will occur that are unexplainable from the point of view of naked rationalism or your theory of random events. Yet they will fit very well into the logic of the plot line that your life has by then turned into. I think fate doesn't just happen, you need to arrive at it, and if the events in your life come together and start to arrange themselves into a plot, then it may cast you quite far . . . It is most interesting that a person may not even suspect that this is happening to him, or may conceive what has happened based on a false premise, by attempting to systematize events to match his own world view. But fate has its own logic.'

This strange theory, which at first seemed to Artyom to be complete mumbo-jumbo, suddenly forced him to look at everything that had happened to him from the very beginning, when he had agreed to Hunter's proposal to leave for Polis, from a new point of view.

Now all of his adventures, all his travels, which he had previously viewed as unsuccessful and desperate attempts to achieve the goal of his quest, which he pursued wherever it led him, appeared before him in a different light, and it seemed to him to be an elaborately organized system that formed an ornate, yet well-thought-out structure.

Because if one considered Artyom's acceptance of Hunter's proposal as the first step along the way, as Sergei Andreyevich had said, then all subsequent events - including the expedition to Rizhskaya, and the fact that Bourbon approached him at Rizhskaya and that Artyom didn't recoil from him - const.i.tuted the next step, and that Khan came to meet him, although he could have remained at Sukharevskaya . . . Yet this could be explained some other way as well; at any rate, Khan himself cited completely different reasons for his actions. Then Artyom was taken prisoner by the fascists, at Tverskaya, and should have been hanged, but circ.u.mstances so arranged themselves that the International Brigade decided to attack Tverskaya precisely on that day. Had the revolutionaries shown up a day earlier or a day later, Artyom's death would have been unavoidable, and then his quest would be ended.

Could it actually be that the persistence with which he pursued his path influenced future events? Could it be that the determination, rage, and desperation that drove him to take every next step created, in some unknown way, a reality that wove a set of chaotic events and someone's thoughts and actions into an ordered system, thereby turning an ordinary life into a plot, as Sergei Andreyevich had said?

At first glance, nothing of the sort could happen. But if you thought about it . . . How else did one explain the meeting with Mark, who offered Artyom the single possible way of getting into the Hansa territory? And the main thing, the very main thing, is that while he was accepting his lot, cleaning out toilets, fate, it would seem, turned away from him, but when he took the bit between his teeth, without even trying to understand his actions, the impossible happened: the guard who was supposed to stay at his post disappeared somewhere, and there wasn't even any pursuit. So when he returned from the diverging crooked path back onto his way, acting in harmony with the narrative pattern of his life, at the stage where he was now, this could already have resulted in a serious warping of reality, repairing it in such a way that the main line of Artyom's fate could develop further without hindrance?

Then this must mean that, should he deviate from his goal or step off his path, fate would immediately abandon him and its invisible shield, which currently safeguarded Artyom from being killed, would directly crumble into pieces, and the thread of Ariadne that he was so carefully following would break, and he would be left face-to-face with a turbulent reality that had been infuriated with his impudent intrusions into the chaotic substance of reality . . . Might it be that whoever once attempted to deceive fate and was flippant enough to continue to persevere even after dire clouds had gathered overhead couldn't just simply step off the path? From then on his life would turn into something completely commonplace and grey, and nothing else would ever happen that was unusual, magical, or unexplainable because the plot had been be interrupted, and he'd put paid to the hero business . . .

Did this mean that Artyom not only hadn't the right, but couldn't deviate from his path? That was his fate? The fate in which he did not believe? And in which he did not believe because he didn't know to interpret what had happened to him, didn't know how to read the signs posted along his road, and continued to naively believe that the road that led to far horizons and which had been constructed just for him was a jumbled tangle of abandoned pathways that led in different directions?

It seemed that he was proceeding along his path, and that the events of his life formed a harmonious plot that held sway over human will and reason, so that his enemies were blinded while his friends saw the light and were able to help him in time. It was a plot that so controlled reality that the immutable laws of probability obediently changed their shape, like putty, in response to the growing power of an invisible hand that moved him over the chessboard of life . . . And if it were actually so, then the question 'What's the point of all this?', which previously could be answered only with sullen silence and gritted teeth, went away. Now, the courage with which he professed to himself (and stubbornly maintained to others) that there was no Providence or any higher plan, that there was no law and no justice in the world, turned out to be unnecessary, because that plan could be divined . . . He did not want to resist this thought. It was too seductive to turn away from it with the same die-hard stubbornness with which he had rejected the explanations offered by religions and ideologies.

As a whole, this meant only one thing.

'I can't stay here any longer,' said Artyom, and got up, feeling as if his muscles were filling with a new, buzzing strength. 'I can't stay here any longer,' he repeated, listening attentively to his own voice. 'I have to go. I must.'

No longer constantly twisting his head around and having forgotten all the fears that drove him to this small fire, he jumped onto the tracks and moved ahead, into the darkness. Artyom's doubts released him, making room for perfect peace and the confidence that he was finally doing everything right. It was as if, having been driven off course, he nevertheless was able to recover his feet on the shining rails of his fate. The ties on which he walked now almost pa.s.sed under his feet by themselves, requiring no effort on his part. In an instant, he disappeared completely into the darkness.

'It's a beautiful theory, isn't it?' said Sergei Andreyevich, inhaling.

'One would almost think that you believe it,' replied Yevgeny Dmitrievich cantankerously, scratching the cat behind the ear.

CHAPTER 12.

Polis

Only one tunnel remained. Only one tunnel, and the goal given to him by Hunter, towards which Artyom stubbornly and recklessly went, would be reached. There were two, maybe three kilometres left to go along a dry and quiet section, and he'd be there. An echoing silence prevailed in Artyom's head, a silence almost like that in the tunnel, but he no longer asked questions of himself. In another forty minutes, he'd be there. Forty minutes, and his trek would be over.

He wasn't even aware that he was walking in impenetrable darkness. His legs continued to steadily mark off the ties. It was as if he had forgotten about all the dangers that threatened him, that he was unarmed, and that he had no ident.i.ty papers, no flashlight, and no weapons, that he was dressed in an odd-looking set of loose overalls, and that, finally, he knew nothing about either this tunnel or the dangers that lay in wait for travellers through it.

His conviction that nothing posed a threat to him as long as he was following his path filled him. Where had the seemingly inescapable fear of the tunnels gone? What had happened to his fatigue and lack of faith?

The echo spoiled everything.

Because this tunnel was so empty, the sound of his steps carried both ahead and behind. Reflected from the walls, they rumbled and gradually receded and pa.s.sed into a rustle, and then echoed shortly after, so that it seemed Artyom was not walking in the tunnel alone. After some time, this perception become so acute, that Artyom wanted to stop and listen and find out if the echo of his steps had a life of its own.

He continued to struggle with temptation for several minutes. His pace became slower and quieter, and he listened to hear if this affected the loudness of the echo. Finally, Artyom stopped completely. He stood like that in the impenetrable darkness and waited, afraid to take a deep breath, lest the sound of air entering his lungs interfered with the perception of the slightest murmurs in the distance.

Silence.

Now that he had stopped moving, his perception of the reality of s.p.a.ce again vanished. While he was walking, it was as if he was grasping that reality by the soles of his boots. When he stopped in the middle of the ink-black darkness of the tunnel, Artyom suddenly no longer understood where he was.

And it seemed to him, when he again began to move, that the barely perceptible echo of his steps reached his ears before his own foot managed to step down onto the concrete floor.

His heart began to beat more acutely. But, in an instant, he was able to convince himself that paying attention to every rustle in the tunnels was silly and served no purpose. For some time, Artyom tried not to listen to the echo at all. Then, when it seemed to him that the most recent of the fading echoes were drawing closer, he covered his ears and continued to move forward. But even this didn't work for long.

Removing his palms from his ears after a couple of minutes and continuing to walk, he heard - to his horror - the echo of his steps getting louder in front of him, as if they were approaching. But all he had to do was stop and so would the sounds in front of him, after a delay of some fraction of a second.

This tunnel was testing Artyom and his ability to withstand fear. But he didn't give up. He had already been through much too much to be scared by darkness and an echo.

Was it an echo?

It was getting closer. There was no doubt about that. Artyom stopped one last time when the phantom steps could be heard about twenty metres ahead of him. This was so inexplicable and weird that he couldn't stand it. He wiped the cold perspiration from his brow and, with his voice cracking, shouted into the emptiness: 'Is anyone there?'

The echo reverberated frighteningly close, and Artyom didn't recognize his own voice. The rolling echoes chased each other into the depths of the tunnels, shedding syllables: 'anyone there . . . one there . . . there. . . .' And n.o.body answered. And suddenly, something incredible happened. They started to come back, repeating his question, the dropped syllables recomposing themselves in reverse order and becoming louder, as though someone about thirty paces away had repeated his question in a frightened voice.

Artyom could not endure this. Turning around, he went back, trying not to walk too fast at first, but then he ran, having completely forgotten about not encouraging his fears, and stumbling. But after a minute, he understood that the reverberating footsteps continued to be heard at a distance of twenty metres. His invisible pursuer didn't want to let him go. Gasping, Artyom ran without understanding in what direction, and finally collided with a tunnel cross pa.s.sage.

The echo immediately abated. Some time pa.s.sed before he could gather up his will power, get up, and take a step forward. It was the right direction. With each pa.s.sing metre, the sound of steps shuffling against the concrete became closer, moving towards him. And only the blood pounding in his ears slightly suppressed the ominous rustling. Every time Artyom stopped, his pursuer stopped in the darkness as well, for Artyom was now absolutely sure it was no echo.

This continued until the steps sounded as close as one's outstretched arm. And then Artyom, yelling and blindly swinging his fists, sprang forward to where he reckoned the source of the steps had to be.

His fists made a swishing sound as they cut through the emptiness. n.o.body tried to defend themselves against his blows. He flailed the air uselessly, yelling, jumping back, and moving his arms out from his sides in an effort to seize an enemy he could not see in the darkness. Emptiness. There was n.o.body there. But as soon as he caught his breath and made one more step toward Polis, he heard a heavy shuffling sound right in front of him. He again swung his arm, and again there was nothing. Artyom felt he was losing his mind. Straining his eyes until they hurt, he tried to see anything at all, and his ears tried to catch the nearby breathing of some other creature. But there simply wasn't anybody there.

Having stood immobile for several long seconds, Artyom reflected that whatever the explanation might be for this strange phenomenon, it posed no danger to him. Acoustics, more than likely. When I get home, I'll ask my stepfather, he said to himself, but, when he had already brought his foot up to take another step toward his goal, someone quietly whispered, directly in his ear: 'Wait. You can't go there now.'

'Who's that? Who's here?' yelled Artyom, breathing heavily. But n.o.body answered. He was again surrounded by a deep emptiness. Then, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he hurried off in the direction of Borovitskaya. The phantom steps of his pursuer matched his pace as he moved in the opposite direction, gradually fading in the distance until they fell silent. And only then did Artyom stop. He did not and could not know what it had been. He had never heard of anything like it from any of his friends, nor had his stepfather spoken to him of it at night by the fire. But whoever it was who whispered in his ear and ordered him to stop and wait, now - when Artyom no longer feared him, when he had the time to understand what had happened and do some hard thinking about it - it sounded hypothetically convincing.

He spent the next twenty minutes sitting on the rails, swaying from side to side as if drunk, fighting the shakes and recalling the strange voice, which belonged to no human, that ordered him to wait. He moved forward only when the shivering finally began to pa.s.s, and the frightful whisper in his head had begun to merge with the quiet rush of the growing air current in the tunnel.

From that point on, he simply walked forward, trying not to think of anything, stumbling at times over cables lying on the floor, but nothing more terrible happened to him. It seemed to him that not much time had pa.s.sed, although he couldn't say how much, because the minutes all ran together in the darkness. And then he saw a light at the end of the tunnel.

Borovitskaya.

Polis.

Then and there, a rude cry was heard from the station, followed by the sound of shots, and Artyom, springing back, hid in a depression in the wall. From a distance, he heard the lingering cries of the wounded, followed by foul language, and then there was the sound of another burst of automatic fire, amplified by the tunnel.

Wait . . .

Artyom ventured to emerge from his hiding place only a full fifteen minutes after everything had quietened down. Raising his arms, he walked slowly toward the light.

This actually was an entry onto the platform. There was no watch on duty at Borovitskaya, apparently relying on the inviolability of Polis. An access point made of concrete blocks stood five metres short of the point where the circular arches of the tunnel ended. A p.r.o.ne body lay next to it in a pool of blood.

When Artyom emerged into the field of view of border guards wearing green uniforms and service caps, they ordered him to come closer and stand facing the wall. Seeing the body on the ground, he obeyed immediately.

He was quickly searched, asked for his pa.s.sport, had his arms twisted behind his back, and finally led to the station. Light. The very same. They told the truth. They always told the truth; legends didn't lie. The light was so bright, Artyom had to squint so as not to be blinded. But the light entered his pupils even through his eyelids, blinding him until it hurt, and only when the border guards blindfolded him did his eyes stop stinging. Returning to the life lived by previous generations of people turned out to be more painful than Artyom could imagine.

The rag was removed from his eyes only at the guard shack, which looked like all others, a small office with walls of cracked tile. It was dark here. Only a candle flickered in an aluminium bowl that lay on an ochre-coloured wooden table. The guard commander was a heavy-set, unshaven man in a green military shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He was wearing a tie on an elastic band. Collecting some of the liquid wax on his finger and observing how it cooled, he watched Artyom for a long time before asking: 'Where are you from? Where's your pa.s.sport? What's with your eye?'

Artyom decided it didn't make sense to be devious, so he told the truth, that the pa.s.sport had been left with the fascists, and that his eye had also almost remained there. The commander received this information with unexpected benevolence.

'Yeah, we know. That tunnel opposite comes out precisely at Checkhovskaya. We've got a whole fortress built there. There's no fighting for now, but some good folks tell us to keep our ears open. Like they say, si vis pacem, para bellum,' and he gave Artyom a wink.

Artyom didn't understand the last part of what had been said, but preferred not to ask about it. His attention was attracted by the tattoo at the crook of the commander's elbow. It depicted a radiation-deformed bird with two heads, spread wings, and hooked talons. It dimly reminded him of something, but of what, he had no idea. Later, when the commander turned to one of the soldiers, Artyom saw that the same image, smaller, had been tattooed on the commander's left temple.

'And why'd you come here?' continued the commander.

'I'm looking for someone . . . His name is Melnik. It's probably a nickname. I have an important message for him.'

The expression on the face of the commander changed immediately. The idly benevolent smile left his lips, and his eyes sparkled with surprise in the light of the candle.

'You can deliver it to me.'

Artyom shook his head and, apologizing, started to explain that there was no way he could do that, that it was hush-hush, you understand, and that he had been strictly ordered to say nothing to anyone except this very same Melnik.

The commander studied him one more time and signalled one of the soldiers, who handed him a black plastic telephone handset, together with a neatly coiled, rubber-coated telephone cord of the required length. After dialling a number, the border guard spoke into the receiver: 'This is post Bor-South. Ivashov. Get me Colonel Melnik.'

While he waited for an answer, Artyom managed to notice that both of the other soldiers in the room also had the bird tattoo on their temples.

'Who should I say is asking?' asked the commander of Artyom, pressing the side of the handset to his chest.

'Say it's from Hunter. An urgent message.'

The commander nodded and exchanged another couple of phrases with whoever was at the other end of the connection, then concluded the call.

'Be at Arbatskaya tomorrow morning at nine, at the station manager's office. You're free until then.' He signalled the soldier standing in the doorway, who immediately moved aside, and then turned to Artyom and added, 'Wait a second . . . It would seem you are an honorary first-time guest of ours. So here, hang on to these, but don't forget to give them back!' He offered Artyom a pair of dark gla.s.ses in a shabby metal frame.

Not until tomorrow? Artyom was overcome by burning disappointment and resentment. This was why he came here, risking his own life and that of others? This was why he pressed on, forcing himself to move his feet, even when he had no strength left at all? And wasn't this an urgent business, to report everything he knew to this so-and-so Melnik, who it turned out couldn't even find a spare minute for him?

Or was it that Artyom was simply late, and Melnik already knew everything? Or maybe Melnik already knows something that Artyom himself hasn't a clue about? Maybe he's so late that his entire mission no longer matters?

'Not until tomorrow?' he burst out.

'The Colonel's on a mission today. He'll be back early in the morning,' explained Ivashov. 'Get going, and you'll get some rest besides,' he said, and saw Artyom out of the guard shack.

Having calmed down, but still nursing a grievance, Artyom put on the gla.s.ses and thought they looked good. And they hid the shiner under his eye. The lenses were scratched and, moreover, they distorted objects in the distance, but when he went out onto the platform after having thanked the border guards, he understood that he could not manage without them. The light from the mercury lamps was too bright for him. Besides, it wasn't just Artyom who couldn't open his eyes here; many at the station hid their eyes behind dark gla.s.ses. They're probably also strangers, he thought.

It was strange for him to see a fully illuminated metro station. There were absolutely no shadows here. At VDNKh, VDNKh, as well as at all the other stations and substations where he had been up to now, there were few light sources, and they could not illuminate the entire s.p.a.ce of what could be seen and they only shed light on parts of it. There always remained places where not a single beam penetrated. Every person cast several shadows: one from a candle, withered and emaciated; a second, from the emergency light; and a third, black and sharply defined, from an electric lantern. They mixed and covered each other and the shadows of others, sometimes coursing for several metres along the floor, startling you, deceiving you, and forcing you to guess and a.s.sume. Yet in Polis, every last shadow was eradicated in the ruthless glow of the daylight lamps as well as at all the other stations and substations where he had been up to now, there were few light sources, and they could not illuminate the entire s.p.a.ce of what could be seen and they only shed light on parts of it. There always remained places where not a single beam penetrated. Every person cast several shadows: one from a candle, withered and emaciated; a second, from the emergency light; and a third, black and sharply defined, from an electric lantern. They mixed and covered each other and the shadows of others, sometimes coursing for several metres along the floor, startling you, deceiving you, and forcing you to guess and a.s.sume. Yet in Polis, every last shadow was eradicated in the ruthless glow of the daylight lamps Artyom froze in his tracks, looking at Borovitskaya with delight. It remained in surprisingly good condition. Not a trace of soot was evident on the marble walls or white ceiling, and the station was tidy. A woman in light-blue overalls laboured over a time-blackened bronze panel at the end of the station, industriously sc.r.a.ping the bas-relief with a sponge and cleaning solution.

The living accommodation here was arranged in the arches. Only two arches were left open at each end to access the tracks; the rest, bricked in from both sides, had been turned into real apartments. There was a doorway in each, and some even had wooden doors and glazed windows. The sound of music carried from one of them. Mats lay in front of several doors, so that those entering could wipe their feet. This was the first time Artyom has seen anything of the kind. These quarters looked so cosy, so calm, that he felt a tightening in his chest, and a picture from his childhood suddenly appeared before his eyes. But what was most surprising was the chain of bookshelves that stretched along both walls the length of the entire station. They occupied the s.p.a.ce between 'apartments,' and this gave the entire station a kind of marvellous, strange look, reminding Artyom of descriptions he'd read of medieval libraries in a book by Borges.

The escalators were at the far end of the hall, where the pa.s.sage to the Arbatskaya station was located. The pressure doors remained open, but a small post was located at the pa.s.sage. Then again, the guards let anyone who wanted to pa.s.s unhindered in both directions, without even checking doc.u.ments.

At the opposite end of the platform, on the other hand, next to the bronze bas-relief, there was a real military camp. Several green military tents were set up there, with markings drawn on them like the ones tattooed on the temples of the border guards. In the same place was a cart with some unknown weapon mounted on it, revealed by the long barrel with flared muzzle sticking out from under a cover. Nearby, two soldiers in dark-green uniforms, helmets, and body armour were on duty. The camp encircled a pa.s.sage stairway that ascended over the tracks. Flashing arrows indicated this was an 'Exit to the city,' whereupon the established precautions became clear to Artyom. A second stairway led to the same place and was completely blocked off by a wall of huge cement blocks.

People dressed in long, grey robes made of dense cloth sat at stout wooden tables that stood in the middle of the station. Drawing nearer to them, Artyom was surprised to see their temples were tattooed as well, but not with the image of a bird, but with that of an open book on a background of several vertical lines that bore a resemblance to a colonnade. Catching Artyom's intent look, one of the men seated at the table smiled amiably and asked: 'Are you a newcomer? Is this your first time here?'

Artyom flinched at the word 'newcomer,' but pulled himself together and nodded. The man who had spoken was not much older than Artyom and, when he rose to shake Artyom's hand, working the flat of his hand out from the broad sleeve of the robe, it turned out they were of about the same height. Only the man's physique was more delicate.

Artyom's new acquaintance was called Daniel. He was in no hurry to talk about himself, and it was evident that he had decided to talk to Artyom because he was curious about what went on beyond the limits of Polis, about what was new on the Ring, and about any news of the fascists and the reds . . .

In half an hour, they were seated in the spindly Daniel's home, in one of the 'apartments' nestled between arches, and were drinking hot tea, certainly brought here by devious routes from VDNKh. VDNKh. Of the furniture in the room, there was a table piled with books, tall iron shelves that reached to the ceiling, also crammed to the top with thick volumes, and a bed. A weak electric bulb dangled from the ceiling on a wire, illuminating a skilfully executed drawing of an enormous ancient temple that Artyom did not immediately recognize as the Library erected on the surface somewhere above Polis. Of the furniture in the room, there was a table piled with books, tall iron shelves that reached to the ceiling, also crammed to the top with thick volumes, and a bed. A weak electric bulb dangled from the ceiling on a wire, illuminating a skilfully executed drawing of an enormous ancient temple that Artyom did not immediately recognize as the Library erected on the surface somewhere above Polis.

After his host had run out of questions, it was Artyom's turn.

'Why do people here have tattoos on their heads?' he asked.

'What, don't you know anything about castes?' said Daniel, surprised. 'And you've never heard of Polis Council?'

Artyom suddenly remembered that someone (no, how could he forget? it was that old man, Mikhail Porfirievich, who had been killed by the fascists) had told him that power in Polis was divided between the soldiers and the librarians because, formerly, the buildings of the Library and some organization related to the army had stood on the surface.

'I've heard of it!' he nodded. 'The warriors and librarians. So, then, you're a librarian?'

Daniel shot him a frightened glance, paled, and began to cough. After a while, he pulled himself together and calmly said: 'What do you mean "librarian"? Have you so much as seen a living librarian? I wouldn't recommend it! Librarians sit up above . . . You've seen our fortifications down here? Heaven forbid they come down . . . Don't ever confuse these things. I am not a librarian, I am a guardian. We are also called Brahmins.'

'What kind of strange name is that?' asked Artyom, raising his eyebrows.

'You see, we have something of a caste system here. Like in old India. A caste . . . Well, it's like a cla.s.s . . . Didn't the reds explain that to you? Never mind. There's a caste of priests, or guardians of knowledge, those who collect books and work with them,' he explained, while Artyom continued to marvel at how painstakingly he avoided the word 'librarian'. 'And there's a warrior caste, of those who protect and defend. It's very similar to India, where there was also a caste of merchants and a caste of servants. We have all that, too. And we also use the Hindu names for them among ourselves. The priests are the Brahmins, the soldiers are the kshatriyas, the merchants are the vaishyas, and the servants are the shudras. People become members of a caste once and for the rest of their lives. There are special rites of pa.s.sage, especially for kshatriyas and Brahmins. In India, it was a tribal matter, ancestral, but with us, it's something you choose yourself when you turn eighteen. Here at Borovitskaya, there are more Brahmins; in fact, almost everyone is a Brahmin. Our school is here, our libraries, and cells. There are special conditions at the Library because the Red Line crosses there, and it must be protected, and before the war, there were more of us there. Now they've moved to Aleksandrovskiy Aleksandrovskiy Sad. Meanwhile, at Arbatskaya, it's nearly all kshatriyas, because of the General Staff.' Sad. Meanwhile, at Arbatskaya, it's nearly all kshatriyas, because of the General Staff.'