'What news?' he asked, trying to suppress his worry.

'Not much good,' said the stalker, dryly. 'The dark ones went on the offensive again. There was a heavy battle a week ago. Five people were killed. And it seems there are even more dark ones there now. People are starting to flee that station of yours. They can't stand the horror, they say. So, Hunter was right when he told me something sinister was hidden there. He felt it.'

'Who died, do you know?' asked Artyom, frightened, trying to recollect who was supposed to stand duty that day, a week ago? What day was today? Was it Zhenka? Andrey? Please don't let it be Zhenka . . .

'I wouldn't know. It's not enough the undead are worming their way in there, but some kind of devilment is coming out of the tunnels around Prospect Mir, too. People lose their memory, and several people died along the tracks.'

'What's to be done?'

'There's a Council meeting today. The Brahmin elders and generals will have their say, but I doubt they'll be able to help your station with anything. They barely defend Polis itself, and then only because n.o.body dares make a serious attempt on it.'

They came out onto the Arbatskaya station. Mercury lamps burned here, too, and just as at Borovitskaya, the living quarters were located in bricked-in arches. Sentries stood next to several of them, and overall, there was an uncommonly large number of soldiers here. The walls, painted white, were hung in places with army parade standards - with embroidered gold eagles - that seemed almost untouched by time. There was activity all around. Long-robed Brahmins walked about, while cleaning women washed the floor and scolded those who tried to pa.s.s over the still-wet surface. There were quite a number of people here, too, from other stations. They could be identified by their dark gla.s.ses or by the way they folded their hands together to cover their squinting eyes. Only living and administrative quarters were located on the platform; the shopping arcades and food vendors were removed to the pa.s.sages.

Melnik led Artyom to the end of the platform where the office premises began, seated him on a marble bench lined with wood that had been burnished by contact with thousands of pa.s.sengers, asked him to wait, and departed.

Looking at the intricate stucco work under the ceiling, Artyom thought about how Polis had lived up to his expectations. Life here really was arranged in a completely different way; people weren't as cutthroat, exasperated, or browbeaten as at other stations. Knowledge, books, and culture seemed to play a thoroughly fundamental role. They had pa.s.sed by at least five book stalls in the pa.s.sage between Borovitskaya and Arbatskaya. There were even playbills posted announcing the performance of a play by Shakespeare tomorrow night and, just as at Borovitskaya, he could hear music playing somewhere.

The pa.s.sage and both stations had been maintained in excellent condition. Although blotches and seepage were evident on the walls, all damage was immediately patched by repair teams, who scurried about everywhere. Out of curiosity, Artyom glanced down the tunnel, where he saw everything was in perfect order; it was dry, clean, and an electric light burned at intervals of one hundred metres as far as the eye could see. From time to time, handcars loaded with crates pa.s.sed by, stopping to discharge the occasional pa.s.senger or take on a box of books that Polis sent out through the entire metro.

'All of this might soon come to an end,' thought Artyom, suddenly. 'VDNKh 'VDNKh can no longer withstand the pressure from these monsters . . . No wonder,' he said to himself, recalling one night on watch, when he had to repel an attack by the dark ones, and all of the nightmares that tormented him after that fight. can no longer withstand the pressure from these monsters . . . No wonder,' he said to himself, recalling one night on watch, when he had to repel an attack by the dark ones, and all of the nightmares that tormented him after that fight.

Was it true that VDNKh VDNKh was falling? That meant that he would no longer have a home He wondered if his friends and stepfather had managed to flee; if so, there was a chance of meeting them one day in the metro. If Melnik told him that he had completed his mission and could do nothing more, then he promised himself he'd head back home. If his station was destined to act as a lone covering force in the path of the dark ones, and if his friends and relatives were slated to die defending the station, then he'd rather be with them instead of taking refuge in this paradise. He suddenly had the urge to return home, catch sight of the row of army tents, the tea-factory . . . And chew the fat with Zhenka, and tell him of his adventures. It was a sure thing he wouldn't believe half of it . . . If he were still alive. was falling? That meant that he would no longer have a home He wondered if his friends and stepfather had managed to flee; if so, there was a chance of meeting them one day in the metro. If Melnik told him that he had completed his mission and could do nothing more, then he promised himself he'd head back home. If his station was destined to act as a lone covering force in the path of the dark ones, and if his friends and relatives were slated to die defending the station, then he'd rather be with them instead of taking refuge in this paradise. He suddenly had the urge to return home, catch sight of the row of army tents, the tea-factory . . . And chew the fat with Zhenka, and tell him of his adventures. It was a sure thing he wouldn't believe half of it . . . If he were still alive.

'C'mon, Artyom,' Melnik called. 'They want to talk to you.'

He had managed to rid himself of his protective suit and was wearing a turtleneck, a black navy fore-and-aft cap with no insignia, and pants with pockets, the same as Hunter's. The stalker somehow reminded him of the Hunter, not by his appearance, of course, but by his behaviour. He was just as collected and resilient, and spoke in the same way, using short, telegraphic sentences.

The walls in the offices were lined with stained oak, and two large oil paintings hung there, opposite each other. Artyom easily recognized the Library on one of them, while the other depicted a tall building covered in white stone. The label under the picture read: 'General Staff, Russian Federation Ministry of Defence.'

A large wooden table stood in the middle of the s.p.a.cious room. About ten men sat in chairs around the table, studying Artyom. Half of them wore grey Brahmin robes; the other half, military officer uniforms. As it turned out, the officers sat under the painting of the General Staff, while the Brahmins sat under the Library painting.

A person of short stature but of commanding bearing sat solemnly at the head of the table. He wore austere gla.s.ses and had a large bald spot. He was dressed in a suit and tie, but had no tattoo to designate membership in any caste.

'To business,' he began, without introducing himself. 'Tell us everything you know, including the situation with the tunnels from your station to Prospect Mit.'

Artyom proceeded to describe in detail the history of the VDNKh VDNKh battle against the dark ones, then about Hunter's mission, and finally, about his trek to Polis. When he related the events in the tunnels between Alekseevskaya, Rizhskaya, and Prospect Mir, the soldiers and Brahmins started to whisper among themselves, some incredulous, others animated, while an officer who sat in the corner diligently recording the narrative occasionally asked him to repeat what he had said. battle against the dark ones, then about Hunter's mission, and finally, about his trek to Polis. When he related the events in the tunnels between Alekseevskaya, Rizhskaya, and Prospect Mir, the soldiers and Brahmins started to whisper among themselves, some incredulous, others animated, while an officer who sat in the corner diligently recording the narrative occasionally asked him to repeat what he had said.

When the discussions finally stopped, Artyom was allowed to continue his story, but his recital elicited little interest in his listeners until he got to Polyanka and its inhabitants.

'If you will!' interrupted one of the officers, indignantly. He was about fifty years old, of compact build, with slicked-back hair, and he wore steel-framed gla.s.ses that cut into the meaty bridge of his nose. 'It is known without a doubt that Polyanka is uninhabited. The station was deserted a long time ago. It's true that dozens of people pa.s.s through the station every day, but n.o.body can live there. Gas erupts there from time to time, and there are signs everywhere warning of the danger. And well, of course, cats and paper waste are long since gone, too. The platform is completely empty. Completely. Cease your insinuations.'

The other officers nodded in agreement, and Artyom fell silent, perplexed. When he stopped at Polyanka, the thought entered his mind, for an instant, that the tranquil conditions that prevailed at the station were unreal for the metro. But he was immediately distracted from such thinking by the inhabitants, who were more than real.

The Brahmins, however, did not support the angry outburst. The oldest of them, a bald man with a long, grey beard, regarded Artyom with interest and exchanged some words with those sitting nearby in an unintelligible language.

'This gas, as you know, has hallucinogenic properties when mixed in certain proportions with air,' said the Brahmin sitting at the old man's right hand, in a conciliatory manner.

'The point is, can we now believe any of the rest of his story?' retorted the officer, frowning at Artyom.

'Thank you for your report,' said the man in the suit, interrupting the discussion. 'The Council will discuss it and inform you of the result. You may go.'

Artyom started to make his way to the exit. Was his entire conversation with the two hookah-smoking inhabitants of Polyanka really just a hallucination? But that would then mean the idea of his having been selected - of his being able to bend reality while fulfilling his destiny - was just a product of his imagination, an attempt at self-consolation . . . Now even the mysterious encounter in the tunnel between Borovitskaya and Polyanka no longer seemed a miracle to him. Gas? Gas.

He sat on the bench next to the door and didn't even pay attention to the distant voices of the arguing Council members. People went by, handcars and railmotor cars drove through the station, and the minutes pa.s.sed, while he sat and thought. Did he actually have a mission, or did he make the whole thing up? What'll he do now? Where'll he go?

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was the officer who made notes during his narrative.

'The members of the Council state that Polis cannot a.s.sist your station in any way. They are grateful for your detailed report on the situation in the subway system. You are free to go.'

That was it. Polis can't help with anything. It was all for nothing. He had done everything he could, but it changed nothing. All that remained was to return to VDNKh VDNKh and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the remaining defenders. Artyom heaved himself up from the bench and went off slowly, with no particular destination in mind. and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the remaining defenders. Artyom heaved himself up from the bench and went off slowly, with no particular destination in mind.

When he had almost reached the pa.s.sage to Borovitskaya, he heard a quiet cough behind him. Artyom turned and saw the Brahmin from the Council, the same one who had sat at the old man's right hand.

'Wait a moment, young man. I believe you and I need to discuss something . . . privately,' added the Brahmin, smiling politely. 'If the Council is not in a position to do anything for you, then perhaps your obedient servant can be of more help.'

He took Artyom by the elbow and led him away to one of the brick residences in the arches. There were no windows here, and no electric lights. Only the flame of a small candle lit the faces of several people who had gathered in the room. Artyom was not able to get a good look at them, because the Brahmin who brought him quickly blew out the flame, and the room was plunged into darkness.

'Is it true about Polyanka ?' asked a woolly voice.

'Yes,' answered Artyom, unwaveringly.

'Do you know what we Brahmins call Polyanka? The station of destiny. Let the kshatriyas think it's the gas that brings about the gloomy enchantment, we won't protest. We would not restore the sight of our most recent enemy. We believe that people encounter messengers of Providence at this station. Providence has nothing to say to most of them, so they simply pa.s.s through an empty, abandoned station. But those who have met someone at Polyanka should have a most attentive att.i.tude towards such an encounter and remember what was said to them there for the rest of their lives. Do you remember?'

'I've forgotten,' lied Artyom, not particularly trusting these people, who reminded him of the members of a sect.

'Our elders are convinced that you have not come here by chance. You are not an ordinary person, and your special abilities, which have saved you several times along the way, can help us, too. In exchange, we will extend a helping hand to you and your station. We are the guardians of knowledge, and that includes information that can save VDNKh.' VDNKh.'

'What's VDNKh VDNKh got to do with anything?' burst Artyom. 'You all talk only about got to do with anything?' burst Artyom. 'You all talk only about VDNKh! VDNKh! It's as if you don't understand that I came here not just for the sake of my station, and not because of my own misfortune! All, all of you, are in danger! First It's as if you don't understand that I came here not just for the sake of my station, and not because of my own misfortune! All, all of you, are in danger! First VDNKh VDNKh will fall, then the whole line will follow, and then the entire metro will come to an end . . .' will fall, then the whole line will follow, and then the entire metro will come to an end . . .'

There was no response. The silence deepened. Only the cadenced breathing of those present could be heard. Artyom waited a bit longer and then, unable to stay silent, asked: 'What must I do?'

'Go up, into the great stack archives. Find that which is ours by right, and return it to us here. If you can find what we seek, we will give you the knowledge that will help destroy the threat. And may the Great Library burn if I lie.'

CHAPTER 13.

The Great Library

Artyom went out into the station, looking from side to side with a mad look in his eye. He had just entered into one of the strangest agreements of his life. His employers refused to even explain what, exactly, he was supposed to find in the stack archives, promising to provide him with details later, after he had already gone up to the surface. And though it had occurred to him, for a moment, that they were talking about the Book Daniel had told him about the night before, he didn't dare ask the Brahmins about it. Then, too, both of them had been pretty drunk yesterday, when his hospitable host had told him this secret, so there was reason to doubt its truth.

He would not be going to the surface alone. The Brahmins intended to outfit an entire detachment. Artyom was to go up with at least two stalkers and one person from the caste, to whom he was to immediately give what had been found, should the expedition meet with success. That same person would show Artyom something that would help eliminate the threat hanging over VDNKh. VDNKh.

Now, having emerged from the impenetrable gloom of the room onto the platform, the terms of the agreement seemed absurd to Artyom. As in the old fairy tale, he was required to go he knew not where, to fetch he knew not what, and in exchange, he was promised he knew not what kind of miraculous salvation. But what else could he do? Return with empty hands? Is that what the hunter expected of him?

When Artyom had asked his mysterious employers how he would find what they were looking for in the giant stacks of the Library, he was told that he would understand everything in due course. He would hear. He didn't ask any more questions, fearful that the Brahmins would lose their confidence in his extraordinary abilities, in which he himself did not believe. Finally, he was strictly warned that the soldiers must not learn anything, else the agreement would no longer be in force.

Artyom sat down on a bench in the centre of the hall and started to think. This was an incredible chance to go out onto the surface, do what he had only done once before, and do it without fear of punishment or consequences. To go up on the surface - and not alone, but with real stalkers - to carry out a secret mission for the guardian caste . . . He hadn't even asked them why they so detested the word 'librarian.'

Melnik slumped down on the bench next to him. Now he looked tired and overwrought.

'Why'd you say yes?' he asked, without expression and looking in front of him.

'How'd you find out?' asked Artyom, surprised. Less than a quarter hour had pa.s.sed since his conversation with the Brahmins.

'I'll have to go with you,' continued Melnik in a dull voice, ignoring the question. 'I answer to Hunter for you now, whatever's happened to him. And there's no backing out on an agreement with the Brahmins. n.o.body's done it yet. And above all, don't think about blabbing to the military.' He got up, shook his head, and added: 'If you only knew what you're getting into . . . I'm going to sleep. We'll be getting up tonight.'

'But aren't you in the military?' asked Artyom, catching up to him. 'I heard them call you "Colonel".'

'Yeah, I'm a colonel, just not in their chain of command,' answered Melnik grudgingly, and left.

Artyom spent the rest of the day learning about Polis, walking about aimlessly through the limitless s.p.a.ce of stairs and pa.s.sages, examining the majestic colonnades and marvelling at how many people this underground city could accommodate. He studied the whole of the 'Metro News' penny sheet, which was printed on brown wrapping paper, listened to vagrant musicians, leafed through books at stalls, played with puppies that were being offered for sale, listened to the latest gossip, and could not shake the feeling that he was being followed all this time and was under constant observation. Several times, he even wheeled around suddenly, hoping to catch someone's attentive look, but it was no use. He was surrounded by a swarming crowd, and n.o.body paid any attention to him.

Finding a hotel in one of the pa.s.sages, he slept for several hours before appearing at ten in the evening, as had been agreed, at the gate of the exit into the city at Borovitskaya. Melnik was running late, but the sentries had been informed and offered Artyom a cup of tea while he waited.

Interrupting himself for a minute to pour boiling water into an enamelled cup, the elderly sentry continued his story: 'So . . . I was a.s.signed to listen to the radio. Everyone hoped to catch a transmission from government bunkers beyond the Urals. But it was no use, because the first thing they hit was the strategic targets. That's how Ramenki got smeared, and all of the out-of-town summer residences, with their bas.e.m.e.nts thirty metres deep, how they got smeared, too . . . They might have even spared Ramenki . . . They didn't try too hard to hit the peaceful population . . . n.o.body knew then that this war was to the very end. So, maybe they might have spared Ramenki, but there was a command point right next to it, so they slammed it . . . And as far as civilian casualties were concerned, it was all, as they say, collateral damage, you should pardon the expression. But at that time n.o.body believed that yet, so the bra.s.s had me sit and listen to the airwaves over next to Arbatskaya, in a bunker. And initially, I heard a lot of strange stuff . . . Siberia was quiet, though other parts of the country were broadcasting. Submarines - strategic, nuclear - went on the air. They'd ask whether to strike or not . . . People didn't believe that Moscow no longer existed. Full captains were sobbing like kids over the radio. It's strange, you know, when salty naval officers, who hadn't uttered a swear word in their entire lives, are crying and asking for someone to check and see if their wives or daughters are among the survivors . . . "Go, look for them here," they'd say . . . And later, they'd all react differently. There were those who said, "That's it! The h.e.l.l with it, it's an eye for an eye!" and they'd get in close to their sh.o.r.es and launch everything against the cities. Others, on the contrary, decided that since everything was already going to h.e.l.l in a hand basket, there wasn't any sense in continuing to fight. Why kill more people? But that didn't have any effect. There were enough out there who wanted to avenge their families. And the boats answered for a long time. They could run under water for half a year while on station. They found some of them, of course, but they couldn't find all of them. Well, that's an earful of history. To this day, when I think about it, I get the shakes. But that wasn't the point. I once picked up a tank crew that miraculously survived a strike; they were ferrying their tank from their unit, or something . . . It was a new generation of armour technology that protected them from the radiation. So, here were these three guys in this tank, and they light out at full speed from Moscow, headed east. They drove through some burning villages, picked up some broads, and went on, stopping to top off with some straw distillate and then getting back on the road. When the fuel finally ran out, they were in some backwater, where there wasn't anything left to bomb. The background radiation there, too, remained pretty high, of course, but still it was nothing like it was next to the cities. They laid out a camp, dug their tank in hull-down, and ended up with a sort of fortification. They pitched tents nearby, eventually built mud huts, set up a manual generator for electricity, and lived for a fairly long time around that tank. For two years, I spoke to them almost every night and knew all of what was going on in their personal lives. Everything was quiet at first, they set up a farmstead, and two of them had kids that were . . . almost normal. They had enough ammo. They saw some weird stuff there, and creatures were coming out of the forest the likes of which the lieutenant we were talking to couldn't even describe properly. Then they went off the air. I spent another half year trying to raise them, but something happened out there. Maybe their generator or transmitter broke down, or maybe they ran out of ammo . . .'

'You were talking about Ramenki,' recalled his partner, 'about how it got bombed, and I thought, for as long as I've been serving here, n.o.body can tell me anything about the Kremlin. How is it that it remained whole? Why didn't it get hit? I mean, that's where'd you expect to find right proper bunkers . . .'

'Who told you it didn't get hit? Man, did it get hit!' the sentry a.s.sured him. 'They just didn't want to demolish it, because it's an architectural monument, and also because they were testing new weapons against it. So that's what we got . . . It would've been better if they'd wiped it off the earth from the beginning.' He spat and fell silent.

Artyom sat quietly, trying not to distract the veteran from his reminiscences. It was rare that he was able to hear so many details of how everything had come about. But the elderly sentry remained quiet, lost in some private thought, and eventually Artyom seized the moment and decided to ask a question that had preoccupied him earlier, too: 'But there's subway systems in other cities, aren't there? At least, I heard there were. Is it true there's no people left anywhere? When you were a radio operator, didn't you hear any signals?'

'No, I didn't hear anything. But you're right. People in Petersburg, for example, should have been able to save themselves. Their subway stations are deeply embedded, some even deeper than what we've got here, and the setup was the same. I travelled there when I was young, I remember. On one line, they had no exits onto the tracks. Instead, they had these hefty iron portals. When the train arrived, the portal doors would open together with the doors of the train. I remember this quite me surprised at the time. I asked everyone, but n.o.body could properly explain why things were set up that way. One told me it was to prevent flooding, another told me it saved a heap of money on finishing work. Later, I became friends with this one subway worker, and he told me that something had devoured half of one construction team, and that the same was going on with other teams. They were finding only the gnawed bones and the tools. Of course, the public was never told anything, but those iron doors were installed all along the line, just to be on the safe side. And that was, let me think, back when . . . Anyway, what the radiation may have sp.a.w.ned there is hard to imagine.'

The conversation broke off as Melnik and one other person, short and thickset, with deeply set eyes and a ma.s.sive jaw overgrown by a short beard, came up to the gate. Both were already wearing their protective suits and had large haversacks slung on their backs. Melnik silently inspected Artyom, placed a large black bag next to Artyom's feet, and motioned towards the army tent.

Artyom slipped inside and, opening the zipper on the bag, took out a black set of overalls like the ones Melnik and his partner wore, an unusual gas mask, with a full-face window and two filters on the sides, high laced boots, and most important, a new Kalashnikov a.s.sault rifle with a laser sight and folding metal stock. It was an exceptional weapon. The only thing Artyom had seen like it had been carried by the elite Hansa units who patrolled the line in railmotor cars. A long flashlight and round helmet with a fabric cover lay at the bottom of the bag.

He hadn't had the time to finish dressing when the tent flap lifted and the Brahmin Daniel entered. In his hands, he held an identical zippered stretch bag. They stared at each other in amazement. Artyom was the first to realize what was what.

'You're going up? You're our chaperone? You're going to help us go look for I don't know what?' he asked, jeeringly.

'I know what it is,' snarled Daniel, 'but I have no idea how you intend to look for it.'

'Neither do I,' admitted Artyom. 'I was told it'd be explained later . . . So here I am, waiting.'

'And I was told that a clairvoyant is being sent up to the surface, and that he's supposed to feel where to go.'

'I'm the clairvoyant?' snorted Artyom.

'The elders believe that you have a gift and that your destiny is special. Somewhere in the Testament is a prophecy foretelling the appearance of a youth, led by fate, who will find the hidden secrets of the Great Library. He will find that which our caste has attempted to find for this past decade without success. The elders are convinced that this person is you.'

'Is it that book you told me about?' asked Artyom.

For a long time, Daniel didn't answer, then he nodded his head.

'You're supposed to feel it. It's not hidden from everyone. If you're really that same "youth, led by fate", then you won't even have to run around the stack archives. The book will find you,' he said, running his eyes over Artyom searchingly, and then added, 'What did you ask from them in exchange?'

There was no use keeping back the truth. Artyom was only unpleasantly surprised that Daniel, who was supposed to give him information capable of saving VDNKh VDNKh from the ghoul invasion, knew nothing of this danger or of the conditions of his agreement with the Council members. He briefly summarized the agreement for Daniel and explained the catastrophe he was trying to prevent. Daniel attentively heard him out, and was still standing motionless and thinking about something when Artyom left the tent. from the ghoul invasion, knew nothing of this danger or of the conditions of his agreement with the Council members. He briefly summarized the agreement for Daniel and explained the catastrophe he was trying to prevent. Daniel attentively heard him out, and was still standing motionless and thinking about something when Artyom left the tent.

Melnik and the bearded stalker were already waiting in full combat dress, holding their gas masks and helmets in their hands. His partner now carried the light machine gun, while Melnik clasped a copy of the a.s.sault rifle that Artyom had been given. A night vision device was hanging around his neck.

When Daniel stepped out of the tent, he and Artyom looked at each other with a swagger, then Daniel gave a wink and both started to laugh. They both now looked like real stalkers.

'We lucked out . . . Before rookies go on important missions, they spend two years training under stalkers, fetching firewood from the surface. But you and I, we're sitting pretty!' said Daniel, whispering, to Artyom.

Melnik looked at them disapprovingly, but said nothing. He motioned for them to follow. They came up to the pa.s.sage arch and, after going up the stairs, stopped at the next cement block wall, where there was an armoured door guarded by a reinforced sentry detail. The stalker greeted the sentries and gave the sign to open the door. One of the soldiers got up from his seat, went to the door and pulled at the bolt heavily. The thick steel door moved smoothly to the side. Melnik let the other three pa.s.s, saluted the sentries, and went out last.

A short buffer zone about three metres in length began beyond the door, between the wall and the pressure doors. Another two heavily armed soldiers and an officer stood watch there. Before giving the order to raise the iron barrier, Melnik decided to brief the rookies.

'Listen up. No talking en route. Either of you ever been on the surface? Never mind . . . Give me the map,' he said to the officer. 'Until we get to the vestibule, walk in my footsteps and don't wander. Don't look around, don't talk. When we leave the vestibule, don't even think about going through the turnstiles, or you'll lose your legs. Keep following me. I don't want to see any independent activity. Then I'll go outside. Ten over there,' he pointed at the bearded stalker, 'will stay behind and cover the station vestibule. If everything is clear, then as soon as we're on the street, we'll immediately turn left. It's not too dark right now, so don't use your flashlights out there. We don't want to attract attention. Did you get the word about the Kremlin? It'll be on the right, but one tower can be seen above the buildings as soon as you come out of the metro. Don't look at the Kremlin, no matter what! I'll personally smack anyone who does upside the head.'

So it's true, about the Kremlin and about the stalker's rule not to look at it, no matter what, thought Artyom in amazement. Suddenly, something stirred within him, some fragmented thoughts and images . . . Stirred, and then calmed down.

'We're going up to the Library. We'll go as far as the doors and steps. I'll go in first. If the stairs are clear, Ten'll keep his sights on 'em and we'll go up; then we'll cover Ten and he'll come up. No talking on the stairs. If you spot danger, signal with your flashlight. Don't shoot unless it's absolutely necessary. Shots can attract them.'

'Who?' Artyom could not stay quiet.

'What do you mean, "who"?' repeated Melnik. 'Who would you expect to meet in the Library? Librarians, of course.'

Daniel swallowed hard and paled. Artyom looked at him, then at Melnik and decided this was no time to pretend he was a know-it-all.

'And who's that?'

Melnik raised his eyebrows in surprise. His bearded partner put a hand over his eyes. Daniel looked at the floor. For a long time, the stalker looked at Artyom with eyebrows raised and when he finally understood that Artyom wasn't joking, he coolly answered, 'You'll see for yourself. The main thing to remember is this: you can keep them from attacking if you look them straight in the eyes. Straight in the eyes, got it? Don't let them get behind you . . . That's all. Move out!' He put on his gas mask, then his helmet, and gave the sentries the thumbs-up.

The officer took a step to the master switch and opened the pressure doors. The steel barrier crawled upward, slowly. The show had begun.

Melnik waved his hand, indicating it was OK to come out. Artyom pushed the transparent door, raised his rifle, and jumped out into the street. And although the stalker had demanded that he follow in his footsteps and not wander, it wasn't possible to obey . . .

The sky had changed completely since that time when Artyom had seen it as a boy. Instead of a limitless, transparent sky-blue s.p.a.ce, dense grey clouds now hung low overhead, and the first drops of an autumn rain had begun to ooze from this cotton-like sky. A cold wind blew in gusts, and Artyom felt it even through the cloth of his protective suit.

There was a mind-boggling, inconceivable amount of s.p.a.ce here, to the right and to the left and in front. This boundless s.p.a.ce was both spellbinding and strangely depressing at the same time. For a fraction of a second, Artyom wanted to return to the Borovitskaya vestibule, underground, and feel protected by the nearby walls and immerse himself in the comfort of an enclosed, limited s.p.a.ce. He was able to deal with this oppressive feeling only by forcibly distracting himself to study the nearest buildings.

The sun had already set, and the city was gradually descending into a dingy twilight. The skeletons of low apartment houses, dilapidated and pitted by decades of acid rainstorms, stared at the travellers with empty orbits of broken windows.

The city . . . It was a dismal, yet magnificent sight. Hearing no calls, Artyom stood still, looking about as if mesmerized; he could finally compare reality with his dreams and with nearly equally blurry childhood memories.

Daniel, who likely also had never been on the surface, froze next to him too. The last to emerge from the station vestibule was Ten. The stalker slapped Artyom on the shoulder to get his attention and pointed to the right to where, in the distance, the silhouette of the cathedral's dome stood out against the sky.

'Look at the cross,' droned the Ten's voice through the gas mask's filters.