'While I tie this, you go on ahead and take a look. Maybe you'll hear something, after all,' he whispered and squatted down.

Artyom nodded and proceeded to move ahead slowly, step by step, looking back at Daniel every second. Daniel was having a difficult time; it wasn't easy to tie a slippery lace while wearing thick gloves. Moving forward, Artyom first shone a light down the endless row of shelves to his right, then sharply threw his beam to the left, trying to catch sight of crooked grey shadows of librarians in the rows of dusty and age-warped books. Having moved about thirty metres ahead of his partner, Artyom suddenly distinctly heard a rustling two rows ahead of him. His rifle was already at hand, so he pressed his flashlight against the barrel and with one bound was at the corridor where he reckoned someone was hiding.

He saw two rows of shelves, crammed to the top with volumes, receding into the distance. Emptiness. The beam darted to the left; maybe the enemy was hiding there, in the opposite direction. Emptiness.

Artyom held his breath, attempting to attentively distinguish the slightest noise. There was nothing; only the illusory murmuring of pages. He returned to the pa.s.sageway and threw his beam to where Daniel was struggling with his bootlace. It was empty. Empty?

Not looking where he was going, Artyom rushed back. The spot of light from his flashlight jumped frantically from side to side, illuminating row after row of identical shelves in the darkness. Where had he stopped? Thirty metres . . . About thirty metres, he should be here . . . But there's n.o.body. Where could he have gone without first telling Artyom? If he had been attacked, why hadn't he resisted? What happened? What could have happened to him?

No, he had already gone back too far. Daniel should have been a lot closer . . . But he wasn't anywhere! Artyom felt he was losing control of his actions, and that he was starting to panic. Stopping at the same place where he had left Daniel to tie his bootlace, Artyom leaned his back limply against the end of a shelf. Suddenly, from the depths of the bookshelf row he heard a quiet inhuman voice that broke off into a eerie squawk: 'Artyom . . .'

Suffocating from fear and almost unable to see anything through his fogged gas mask, Artyom turned abruptly towards the voice, and, attempting to keep the corridor in his rifle's unsteady sights, he moved forward.

'Artyom . . .'

The voice was just around the corner! Suddenly, a thin fan of light cut through a shelf, leaking between some loosely shelved books at floor level. The beams moved back and forth, as if someone was repeatedly waving a flashlight left and right . . . Artyom heard the jangling of metal.

'Artyom . . .' It was barely discernible, but this time it was a familiar whisper, and there was no doubt the voice belonged to Daniel.

Artyom cheerfully took a broad step forward, hoping to see his partner, whereupon the same eerie guttural squawk he had heard initially split the air not more than two paces away. The flashlight beam continued to pointlessly rove over the floor, back and forth.

'Artyom . . .' The strange voice repeated the call.

Artyom took another step, glanced to the right and felt the hair on his head stand on end.

The row of shelves ended here, forming a niche, and Daniel sat on its floor in a pool of blood. His helmet and gas mask had been torn off and were lying on the floor some distance away. Though his face was as pale as that of a corpse, his open eyes were conscious and his lips attempted to form words. Behind him, half merged into the gloom, there hid a humped, grey figure. A long, bony hand, covered with bristly silver fur - and not a paw, but a real hand with powerful, incurved claws - was pensively rolling the flashlight that had dropped to the floor and now lay a half metre from Daniel. The other hand was buried in the ripped-open belly of the Brahmin.

'You're here,' whispered Daniel.

'You're here . . . ,' rasped the voice behind Daniel's back, with exactly the same intonation.

'A librarian . . . Behind me. I'm dead anyway. Shoot. Kill him,' Daniel said in a weakening voice.

'Shoot. Kill him,' repeated the shadow.

The flashlight once again deliberately rolled on the floor to the left, only to return to its starting point to repeat the cycle yet again. Artyom felt he was losing his mind. Melnik's words, about how the sound of gunshots could attract the nightmarish monsters, churned in his head.

'Go away,' he said to the librarian, not expecting, however, that he would be understood.

'Go away,' came the almost-affectionate reply, but the clawed hand continued to search for something in Daniel's stomach, causing Daniel to groan quietly, while a drop of blood drew a thick line from the corner of his mouth to his chin.

'Shoot!' said Daniel, louder, having gathered some strength.

'Shoot!' demanded the librarian from behind his back.

Should he shoot his new friend himself and, in doing so, attract other creatures, or should he leave Daniel to die here and run, while there was still time? By now, it was doubtful Daniel could be saved; with his ripped-open belly and eviscerated entrails, the Brahmin had less than an hour left.

A pointed grey ear appeared from behind Daniel's tipped-back head, followed by a huge green eye that sparkled in the flashlight's bean. The librarian slowly looked out from behind his dying partner, almost shyly, and his eyes sought Artyom's. Don't turn away. Look right there, right at him, right in his pupils . . . The pupils were vertical; those of an animal. And how strange it was to see vestiges of intelligence in these sinister, impossible eyes!

Now, up close, the librarian in no way resembled a gorilla, or even a monkey. His predatory face was overgrown with fur. The mouth was full of long fangs and reached almost from ear to ear, while the eyes were of such a size that they made the monster unlike any animal Artyom had ever seen, either in real life or in pictures.

It seemed to him that this went on for a very long time. Having plunged into the creature's gaze, he could no longer tear himself away from those pupils. Only when Daniel emitted a deep, lingering groan did Artyom snap out of it. He placed the tiny red dot of his sight directly on the unkempt grey fur of the librarian's low forehead and thumbed the selector of his rifle to semi-automatic fire. Upon hearing the soft metallic click, the monster spluttered angrily and again hid behind Daniel's back.

'Go away . . . ,' it said suddenly from behind Artyom's back, mimicking Artyom's intonation perfectly.

Artyom woozily stopped in his tracks. This time, the librarian hadn't just echoed his words, it was as if he had remembered them and understood their meaning. Could this be?

'Artyom . . . While I can still speak . . .' Daniel started to speak, having gathered his strength and attempting to focus his gaze, which grew cloudier with every minute. 'In my breast pocket . . . an envelope . . . I was told to give it to you if you found the Book . . .'

'But I didn't find anything,' Artyom shook his head.

'Didn't find anything,' echoed the eerie voice behind Daniel's back.

'It doesn't matter . . . I know why you agreed to do this. It wasn't for you . . . Maybe it'll help you. It doesn't matter to me if I obeyed the order or not . . . Just remember this, you can't go back to Polis . . . If they find out you came up empty-handed . . . And if the military finds out . . . Go through other stations. Now shoot, because it really hurts . . . I don't want . . .'

'Don't want . . . hurts . . .' mixing the words, the librarian repeated, hissing, and his arm made a sudden movement in Daniel's ripped stomach, which caused the latter to jerk convulsively and cry out with all his might.

Artyom could not take any more. Throwing caution to the wind, he thumbed his rifle back to automatic and, pursing his lips, pulled the trigger, st.i.tching bullets into his partner and the beast that hid behind his body. The unexpectedly loud noise tore the silence of the Library into ribbons. Shrill chirring sounds followed, stopping suddenly, all at the same time. The dusty books absorbed their echo like a sponge. When Artyom next opened his eyes, it was finished.

Approaching the librarian, which had dropped its bullet-riddled head onto the shoulder of its victim and even in death still hid shyly behind him, Artyom lit up the eerie picture and felt his blood cooling in his veins, while his palms perspired from tension. Then he fastidiously poked the librarian with the toe of his boot and its body fell back, heavily. It was dead, there could be no doubt.

Trying not to look at the b.l.o.o.d.y mess that had been Daniel's face, Artyom started to slowly undo the zipper of the dead man's protective suit. The clothing had quickly become soaked in thick, black blood, and a transparent vapour rose from it into the cool air of the stack archive. Artyom started to feel nauseated. The breast pocket . . . The fingers inside his protective gloves awkwardly tried to undo the b.u.t.ton, and it occurred to him that such gloves might have delayed Daniel for the minute that cost him his life.

A rustling could distinctly be heard in the distance, followed by the patter of barefoot steps along the corridor. Artyom twisted around nervously, and ran the flashlight beam over the pa.s.sageways. Having a.s.sured himself that he was alone for the moment, he continued to struggle with the b.u.t.ton. The b.u.t.ton finally yielded and his stiff fingers managed to remove a thin grey envelope from deep inside the pocket. The envelope was inside a polyethylene bag that had a bullet hole in it.

In addition, Artyom found a bloodstained pasteboard rectangle in the pocket, undoubtedly the card Daniel had taken out of the card catalogue drawer in the vestibule. The card read: 'Shnurkov, N. E., Irrigation and the prospects for agriculture in the Tadzhik SSR. Dushanbe, 1965.'

Pattering and indistinct muttering could now be heard a very short distance away. There was no time left. Collecting Daniel's rifle and flashlight, which had fallen out of the librarian's claws, Artyom took off and ran back the way he came as fast as he could, almost not seeing where he was going, past the endless rows of bookshelves. He didn't know for sure if he was being followed, as the noise of his boots and the pounding of blood in his ears prevented him from hearing any sounds behind him.

As soon as he jumped into the stairwell and began to tumble down the concrete steps, he realized that he didn't even know on what floor the entrance they had used to enter the archives was located. He could, of course, go down to the first floor, knock out the stairwell gla.s.s, and jump out into the courtyard . . . He stopped for a second and looked outside.

Exactly in the centre of the courtyard, with their faces pointed up, several grey creatures stood motionless, looking at the windows, and - it seemed - directly at him. Petrified, Artyom pressed himself against a side wall and resumed his descent, treading softly. Now that he had stopped tramping his boots down the stairs, he could hear the patter of bare feet, which got louder and louder. Then, having completely lost control of himself, he resumed a headlong rush down the stairs.

Jumping out at the next level so as to fitfully look around in search of a familiar door, not finding it and then flinging himself onward, stopping and squeezing into dark corners when it seemed he could hear steps nearby, desperately looking around in dead-end pa.s.sages and crawlways and again entering the stairs to go down one more floor or go up two more levels - perhaps he overlooked something? - understanding that the infernal noise with which he was desperately trying to find an exit from this labyrinth would attract every monstrous inhabitant of the Library but unable to calm himself down, Artyom pointlessly and unsuccessfully tried to find the exit. That is, until he made out a familiar, half-bent silhouette against the background of a knocked-out window as he was about to enter the stairwell again. Artyom moved back, dived into the first pa.s.sage that presented itself, pressed his back to the wall, pointed his rifle at the opening from where he reckoned the librarian had to appear, and held his breath . . .

Silence.

The brute either decided not to pursue Artyom alone, or was waiting for Artyom to blunder and come out of hiding. He didn't have to go back the same way, though. The pa.s.sage led onward. Thinking hard for a second, Artyom began to step backward from the opening, keeping his sight trained on it.

The corridor turned to the side, but at that very place the turn began, there was a black hole in the wall. The area was strewn with shards of brick and sprinkled with lime. Obeying an impulse, Artyom stepped through the hole, into a room full of broken furniture. Pieces of photographic and movie film were scattered over the floor. A slightly open door could be seen ahead, from behind which a narrow wedge of pale moonlight fell onto the floor. Stepping carefully on the treacherously creaky parquet, Artyom reached the door and looked out.

He recognized the room, although now he was at its opposite end. The imposing statue of the person reading, the incredible height of the ceiling and the gigantic windows, the path which led to the grotesque wooden portal of the exit, as well as the disturbed rows of reading tables along the sides: without a doubt, he was in the Main Reading Room. He stood on the enclosed wooden bal.u.s.trade of the narrow gallery that girdled the hall at a height of four metres. It was from this gallery that the librarians came down at them. He had no idea how he had managed to get here from the stack archives, not to mention from the other side, bypa.s.sing the route he and Daniel had travelled to get there. But there was no time to reflect. The librarians could be hard on his heels.

Artyom ran down one of the two symmetrical stairs that led to the pedestal of the monument, and sprang to the doors. Not far from the carved wooden arch of the exit, several deformed bodies of librarians lay spread-eagled on the floor, and as he pa.s.sed by where the battle had taken place, Artyom almost fell after losing his footing in a pool of thickening blood.

The heavy door was opened unwillingly, and a bright white light blinded him at once. Recalling Melnik's instructions, Artyom gripped his flashlight in his right hand and hastily described a triple circle, giving the sign that he was approaching with peaceful intentions. The dazzling beam immediately went to the side and Artyom, having thrown his machine gun behind his back, slowly moved forward into a round room with columns and a couch, still not knowing who was coming to meet him.

A light machine gun stood on its tripod on the floor, and Melnik was leaning over his partner. Ten was reclining with his eyes closed on the couch, making short moaning sounds from time to time. His right leg was twisted unnaturally, and, having seen him, Artyom understood that it was broken at the knee and bent, not forward, but backward. He could not imagine how such a thing might occur and what strength the one who had been able to so mutilate the stalwart tracker must have possessed.

'Where's your comrade?' Melnik tossed the question at Artyom, turning away from Ten for a second.

'The librarians . . . in the depository. They attacked,' Artyom tried to explain. For some reason he didn't want to say that he had killed Daniel himself, out of mercy.

'Did you find the Book?' the tracker asked just as abruptly.

'No,' Artyom shook his head, 'I didn't hear anything there and I didn't feel anything.'

'Give me a hand lifting him up . . . No, better take his rucksack, and mine, too. See what his leg looks like . . .' They nearly tore it off. 'Now he can only be carried piggy-back,' Melnik nodded at Ten.

Artyom gathered all the equipment, three rucksacks, two machine guns and the light machine gun, about thirty kilos of weight in all, and it wasn't easy lifting it. It was even more difficult for Melnik, shouldering the limp body of his partner with some difficulty, and even the short trip down the staircase - toward the exit - took them several long minutes.

They could no longer see any librarians all the way to the doors, but when Artyom flung open the heavy wooden doors, letting through the groaning tracker, a squawking howl was heard from the darkest bowels of the building, full of hatred and anguish. Artyom felt shivers running through him again and he hurried to shut the door. Now the main thing was to reach the metro as soon as possible.

'Lower your eyes!' Melnik ordered when they were on the street.

'The star will be right in front of you now. Don't even think of looking over the roofs . . .'

Barely moving his stiffening legs, Artyom obediently stared at the ground, dreaming only of overcoming those inconceivably sprawling two hundred metres from the library to the descent to Borovitskaya. However, the tracker wouldn't allow Artyom to enter the metro.

'It's impossible to go to the police now. You don't have the Book, and you lost their guide,' Melnik p.r.o.nounced, gently lowering his wounded comrade to the ground and breathing heavily. 'The Brahmins would hardly like it. And, mainly, this means that you are not the chosen one and they have entrusted their secrets to you. You'd disappear without a trace if you returned to the police. They have specialists there, regardless whether they are intelligent or not. And even I won't be able to protect you. Now you have to leave. It's best you go to Smolenskaya. Go straight through, there are few houses, and there's no need to go deep into any alleys. Maybe you'll get there. If you hurry, before sunrise.'

'What sunrise?' Artyom asked, puzzled. The news that he would have to reach the other metro station on the surface alone, to which, judging by the map, was about two kilometres away, was for him like a kick in the head.

'The sun. People are night animals, and it's better for them if they don't show themselves on the surface by day. But there are those who crawl out of the ruins to warm themselves in the sun and you'll regret it a hundred times over if you interrupt them. And I'm not just talking about the light: you'll go blind in two seconds flat, and the dark gla.s.ses won't save you.'

'But why am I going alone?' Artyom asked, still not believing his ears.

'Never fear. You'll be walking straight ahead the whole way. You'll exit onto Kalininskiy and continue along it, there aren't any turns. Don't show yourself on the way, but stay really close to the houses, they live everywhere there. Go on, until you reach the intersection with a second broad avenue, this will be Sadovoye Koltso. There you turn left and straight ahead to a white stone apartment building. It was once the House of Fashion . . . You'll find it right away, right opposite, across Sadovoye, stands a half-ruined very tall building, the trade centre. There will be sort of a yellow arch behind the House of fashion on which "Metro Station Smolenskaya" is written. Turn into it, you'll come to a small square, a sort of inside courtyard, and you'll see the station itself there. If everything is quiet, try to get below. One entrance is closed there and guarded, they keep it for their own trackers. Knock on the gate like this: three fast raps, two slow, then three fast. They should open it. Tell them that Melnik sent you and wait for me there. I'm taking Ten to the infirmary and will leave right away. I'll be there before noon. I'll find you myself. Take the machine guns with your, we don't know how it all will turn out.'

'But there's another station, closer, on the map, you know . . . Arbatskaya,' Artyom had recalled the name.

'There is such a station. But you don't have to go near it. And you don't even want to. You'll pa.s.s right by it, stay on the other side of the street and move quickly, but don't run. That's it. Don't waste any time!' he concluded, and he nudged Artyom towards the exit from the vestibule. Artyom didn't want to argue anymore. Having thrown one of the machine guns over his shoulder, he held the second at the ready, went into the street and hurried back toward the monument, covering his eyes with his right hand so as not to see the beckoning radiance of the Kremlin's stars by accident.

CHAPTER 14.

There Up Above

Before reaching the old stone man in the easy chair, Artyom turned left in order to cut across the corner of the street along the Library steps. Pa.s.sing it, he glanced at the majestic building and a shiver went down his spine: Artyom remembered the terrible inhabitants of the place. Now the Library once more was immersed in dreary silence. The custodians of the predominant silence in it most likely had dispersed among the dark corners, licking their wounds after their impudent incursions and preparing to pay the next adventurers back for it.

The pallid, drained face of Daniel appeared before his eyes. It occurred to Artyom that the Brahmin, not without reason, had been frightened of these creatures, refusing even to speak of them. Had he seen his own death in his nightmares? His body would remain forever lying in the stacks, embracing the librarian who had killed him. Of course, if these creatures disdain carrion . . . Artyom winced. Would he ever be able to forget how his partner, who had become almost a friend to him in only two days, had died? It seemed to him that Daniel would trouble his dreams for a while longer, trying again and again to speak with him in the night, putting together indistinct words with his bloodstained lips.

Exiting onto the broad avenue, Artyom hastily turned over in his mind the instructions given him by Melnik. Go straight to the Kalininskiy intersection with Sadovoye Koltso, do not turn off anywhere . . . Try to guess again which of the streets is Koltso itself. Don't go into the middle of the road, but also don't press up to the walls of the houses, and mainly, get to Smolenskaya before the sun comes up.

The famous Kalininskiy high-rises, which Artyom knew from the yellowed postcards with views of Moscow, began half a kilometre from the very place where he was standing. Now, low, detached houses stood along the sides of the street, which curved left into New Arbat. The outlines of buildings, clear close-up, blurred when he moved away and they blended into the twilight. The moon was hidden behind low clouds. The meagre milky light barely filtered through them and only when the misty curtain had dissipated, did the ghostly silhouettes of the homes again take shape for a short while. But even in such lighting, in the alleys that dissected the street every hundred metres, the powerful contour of an ancient cathedral could be seen on the left. A huge winged shadow once more circled over the cross-capped dome.

Perhaps it was for that reason Artyom stopped, in order to look at the soaring beast in the air, that he noticed it. It was hard to determine in the twilight whether his imagination was drawing the strange figure that had stopped dead in the depths of the alley and had fused with the partly destroyed walls of the houses. And only when he examined it further, did it appear to him that this blob of darkness moved a little and possessed its own free will. It wasn't easy to determine precisely the form and dimensions of the creature at such a distance, but it clearly stood on two legs and Artyom decided to act as the stalker had told him. Switching on his flashlight, he aimed the beam into the alley and made a circular movement with it three times.

There was no response. Artyom waited for it in vain for a minute until he realized that staying in that same place could be very dangerous. But before he could go on, he illuminated the motionless figure in the alley again. What he saw forced him to turn off his flashlight immediately and try to pa.s.s the alley as soon as he could.

It clearly had not been a man. Its silhouette had become more distinct in the spot of light, and it was no less than two and a half metres, its shoulders and neck were missing and the large round head emerged directly from a powerful body. The creature had hidden, biding its time. Despite this apparent indecisiveness, Artyom felt in his bones a threat from it.

He did the hundred and fifty metres to the last alley in less than a minute. Taking a hard look, he understood that it wasn't even an alley, but an opening burnt into a residential neighbourhood by some kind of weapon: they had either bombed here or simply demolished a whole row of buildings with heavy military equipment. Artyom looked with curiosity at the half-ruined homes fading into the distance but then his attention was fixed on the unclear, motionless shadow. It was enough to put the beam of the flashlight on it for a second to dispel all doubt: it was that very same creature or its mate. Standing right in the middle of the alley in the same block, it wasn't even trying to hide.

If the creature was the same one he had observed in the block behind him earlier, that meant it had snuck along the street parallel to the one he was walking along, Artyom thought. It turned out that it had covered this distance twice as fast as he: for at the very moment he reached the next crossing, it was already waiting for him there. But something else was even worse: this time he also saw a similar figure in the alley to the right of the avenue. As the first one, it was standing there, frozen in place, like a statue. For a moment Artyom thought that perhaps they weren't living beings, but signs placed here by someone for intimidation or as a warning . . .

He was already running to the third intersection, stopping only at the last detached house to look carefully around the corner into the alley and make certain that the mysterious pursuers had outpaced him once more. There already were several of the huge figures, and now they were a little easier to see: the layer of clouds that had been covering the moon had thinned out a little.

And as before, the creatures stood there, not stirring, as if waiting until he appeared in the opening between the houses. And for all that, had he not deceived himself, taking stone or concrete stubs of collapsed structures for living beings? His acute senses were able to stand him in good stead down below, in the metro. On the surface lay a deceptive world, unknown to him, and here everything was different and life went on with different rules. He was no longer justified in relying on his impressions and intuition.

Having tried to dart past a new alley as quickly and inconspicuously as possible, Artyom pressed himself against the wall of a house, waited a second and again looked around the corner. He gasped: the figures were moving, and in a surprising manner. Stretching still higher and raising its head as if sniffing the air, one of them unexpectedly dropped onto all fours and disappeared around the corner in one long bound. The rest followed it several seconds later. Artyom moved back, hid and, sitting onto the ground, caught his breath.

There were no more doubts - they were pursuing him. It was as if the creatures were leading him, moving along parallel streets. They were biding their time until he pa.s.sed a new opening. They would appear in an alley to make certain that he had not deviated from his route and they continued their silent shadowing of him. Why? Choosing a suitable moment for an attack? Simply out of curiosity? Why hadn't they made up their minds to come out to the avenue, preferring to hide in the gloomy shadows? He again recalled Melnik's words which forbade him to turn away from the straight road. Was it because they were laying in wait for him there and Melnik knew about this danger?

In order to calm down, Artyom replaced the clip in his machine gun, pulled back the bolt, and turned the laser gunsight on and off. He was well armed and, in contrast to the library, was able to shoot here without any dangers; it would be easier to defend himself. Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet. The stalker had forbidden him to stop and waste time. He had to hurry. It seemed that here, on the surface, one always had to hurry.

Pa.s.sing another block, Artyom slowed his pace in order to look around. The street here had got wider, forming something like a square, part of which, cut off from the road by a fence, had been converted into a park. In any case, it looked as if there had been a park there at some time: trees still stood in places, but they were not at all the trees Artyom had happened to see in postcards and photographs. Thick, gnarled trunks carried spreading crowns to a height of a five-storey building which stood to the rear of the park. Most likely, the stalkers went to such parks for the firewood that heated and lit the whole metro. Strange shadows flickered in the s.p.a.ces between the trunks and, somewhere in the distance, a faint fire flickered. Artyom would have taken it for the flame of a bonfire if it were not for its yellowish color. The building itself also looked sinister: it created the impression that it had been the arena of brutal and b.l.o.o.d.y clashes more than once. Its upper floors had collapsed and in many places bullet holes showed black. In places only two walls remained intact, and the dim night sky was visible through empty windows.

The buildings parted beyond the square and a broad boulevard intersected the street. Above him, appearing out of the darkness, like watch towers, rose the first high-rise buildings of New Arbat. Judging by the map, entry to Arbatskaya should have been located nearby, to his left. Artyom again looked at the gloomy park. Melnik had been right: one didn't want to delve deeply into this labyrinth while trying to find a descent into the metro within it. The longer he stared at the black bushes scattered next to the base of the ruined structure, the greater it seemed to him that he saw those most mysterious figures that had been following him earlier moving among the roots of the giant trees.

A swooping puff of wind shook the heavy branches, and the crowns creaked under the strain. The wind carried some drawn-out wail from afar. The thicket itself was quiet, but not because it was dead. Its silence was akin to the hush of Artyom's mysterious pursuers and it seemed it too was waiting for something.

Artyom was overtaken by the feeling that if he stopped here, examining the park's innermost depths, he could not escape retribution. He better gripped his machine gun, looked around to see if the creatures had approached, and moved forward.

But only several seconds later he stopped again, when he was crossing the boulevards in front of the start of Kalininskiy Prospekt. Such a view was revealed here that Artyom simply was unable to force himself to go further.

He was standing at an X-shaped intersection of wide roads, along which vehicles must have driven at one time. The junction had been constructed in an unusual way. Part of the asphalt road went into a tunnel and then emerged at the surface again. On the right, boulevards went into the distance. It was possible to recognize them by a black line of trees, just as huge as those past which he had just made his way. A large, square, covered with asphalt was seen on the left - a complex tangle of numerous paths, beyond which the brush began again. Now it was possible to see further, and Artyom asked himself whether the rising of the frightful sun was already nearing.

The roads were strewn with deformed and burnt carca.s.ses of automobiles. Nothing else was left here: in two decades of trips to the surface, stalkers had succeeded in getting hold of everything they possibly could. Gasoline from fuel tanks, batteries and generators, headlights and traffic signals, seats torn out with flesh still on them - it had even been possible to find all this at VDNKh, VDNKh, and at any huge market in the metro. The asphalt had been dug out, and craters and wide cracks could be seen everywhere. Gra.s.s and soft stems poked through, bending beneath the weight of their crowning b.a.l.l.s filled, apparently, with seeds. The murky gorge of New Arbat came into view directly ahead of Artyom. On one side, formed, for some unknown reason, of undamaged houses, resembling open books in layout, and on the other of partly collapsed high-rise buildings, about twenty storeys high. The road to the Library and the Kremlin remained behind Artyom. and at any huge market in the metro. The asphalt had been dug out, and craters and wide cracks could be seen everywhere. Gra.s.s and soft stems poked through, bending beneath the weight of their crowning b.a.l.l.s filled, apparently, with seeds. The murky gorge of New Arbat came into view directly ahead of Artyom. On one side, formed, for some unknown reason, of undamaged houses, resembling open books in layout, and on the other of partly collapsed high-rise buildings, about twenty storeys high. The road to the Library and the Kremlin remained behind Artyom.

He was standing in the middle of this majestic cemetery of civilization and felt like an archaeologist, uncovering an ancient city, the remnants of a bygone power and beauties of which even many centuries later forced those seeing it to experience the chill of awe. He tried to imagine how the people who populated these gigantic buildings, who moved in these vehicles, then still sparkling with fresh paint and rustling softly along the smooth road surface warmed with the rubber of wheels and who descended into the metro only to get from one point of this boundless city to another more quickly had lived. It was impossible. What had they thought about every day? What had bothered them? Just what can bother people if they don't have to be concerned about their lives every second and constantly fight for it, trying to extend it at least for a day?

At this moment the clouds finally dissipated and a piece of the yellowish disc of the moon was seen, striated with strange drawings. The bright light that fell through the hole in the clouds inundated the dead city, intensifying its gloomy magnificence a hundredfold. The houses and trees, until now looking like only flat and disembodied silhouettes, had returned to life and acquired dimension.

Unable to move from the place, Artyom looked, spellbound, from side to side, trying to suppress the chill that had overtaken him. Only now did he begin to understand the anguish which he had heard in the voices of the old men recalling the past, who had returned in their imagination to the city in which they previously had lived. Only now did he start to sense how far man now was from his former achievements and conquests. Like a proudly soaring bird, mortally wounded and dropping to the ground in order to hide in a crevice and, having concealed itself there, dies quietly. He recalled an argument of his stepfather and Hunter he had overheard. Will man be able to survive, and even if he can, will he be that same man who had conquered the world and confidently ruled it? Now, when Artyom himself was able to evaluate from what heights mankind had fallen into the precipice, his faith in a beautiful future evaporated once and for all.

The straight and broad Kalininskiy Prospekt moved away from him, gradually tapering, until it dissolved in the dark distance. Now Artyom was standing on the road completely alone, surrounded only by the ghosts and shadows of the past, trying to imagine just how many people once had filled the pavements day and night, how many cars had swept past at fantastic speed in that same place where he was standing, how comfortably and warmly the now empty and black windows of the homes had glowed. Where had it all vanished? The world seemed more deserted and abandoned, but Artyom understood that it was an illusion: the earth had not been abandoned and lifeless, it had simply changed owners. Having thought about it, he turned back, toward the Library.

They were standing motionlessly only a hundred or so metres from it, as was he, in the middle of the road. There were no fewer than five of the creatures, and they no longer intended to hide in the alleys, although they also had not tried to attract his attention. Artyom couldn't understand how they had managed to steal up on him so quickly and silently. These figures were especially distinct in the moonlight: powerful, with developed rear extremities and, perhaps, even taller than they had seemed to him at first. Though Artyom was unable to see their eyes at such a distance, he knew nonetheless that now they, biding their time, were examining him and sniffing the damp air, getting to know his scent. It must have been that the smell of gunpowder was known to them and had affixed itself to him and so the beasts still had not decided to attack, observing Artyom from a distance and searching for a sign of uncertainty or weakness in his behaviour. Perhaps they were just accompanying Artyom to the boundary of their domain and did not intend to inflict any harm on him? How could he know how creatures that appeared on the earth contrary to the laws of evolution would act?

Trying to maintain his self-control, Artyom swung round and with feigned nonchalance continued on, looking over his shoulder every ten paces. At first the creatures stayed put, but then his worst fears began to be realized. Getting down on all fours, they slowly plodded after him. But as soon as they were only a hundred metres from him, they again stopped fast. Although he'd become accustomed to his strange escort, Artyom was afraid to let it out of his sight and held his machine gun at the ready. They walked like this together, along the empty avenue, flooded with moonlight: a man, alert, wound up like a spring, stopping and looking back every half minute and, behind him, five or six strange creatures, leisurely keeping pace with him.