However, it soon seemed to him that the distance they had been maintaining was becoming shorter. Moreover, remaining in a group before this, now the beasts started to fan out, as if trying to outflank him. Artyom never had to deal with a pack of hunting predators before, but for some reason he had no doubts that the creatures were preparing to attack. It was time to act. Turning sharply around, he shouldered his machine gun and caught one of the dark figures in its sight.

Their behaviour really had changed. This time they didn't stop to wait until he moved further away. They continued to approach him almost imperceptibly, gradually creating a semi-circle. He had to try to frighten them away before they succeeded in shortening the distance to the range at which an attack would follow.

Artyom lifted the barrel a little and fired into the air. The clatter reverberated from the walls of the high-rises and echoed to the other end of the avenue. The empty clip fell to the asphalt with a clanking sound. And then a deafening roar full of fury was heard and the beasts dashed forward. They were able to cover the dozens of metres separating them from Artyom in several seconds, but he too was ready. As soon as the beast closest to him was in his sight, he gave it a short burst and started running toward the houses.

Judging by the fit of screaming the creature emitted, he had managed to hit it. It was impossible to guess whether it delayed the remaining beasts or, conversely, it had infuriated them.

And then a new cry was heard, not the threatening roar of the beasts hunting him, but a long, piercing squawk, which made his blood curdle. It reached him from above and Artyom understood that a new partic.i.p.ant had joined the game. Obviously, the noise of the shots had attracted the attention of a flying monster similar to the one that had spun its nest on the cathedral's dome.

A huge shadow swept over his head like a shot. Turning back for a moment, Artyom saw that the beasts had scattered, and only one of them, apparently the one he had wounded, was left in the middle of the street. Continuing to scream, it clumsily lurched towards the building, also hoping to conceal itself there. But it had no chance of being saved: describing another circle several dozen metres high, the monster folded its enormous leathery wings and fell upon the victim. It dived down so swiftly that Artyom wasn't even able to see what happened next. Having gripped the beast screeching its final agony, the gigantic hulk lifted its quarry aloft without any visible effort and leisurely carried it to the roof of one of the high-rises.

His pursuers didn't immediately break cover, concerned that the monster may return, and Artyom had no time to lose. Pressing himself to the walls of the houses, he ran forward, where, according to his calculations, Sadovoye Koltso should be located. He was able to cover about half a kilometre before he was out of breath and he looked back to check whether the beasts hunting him had gathered their wits. The avenue was empty. But going several more dozen metres and looking into one of the alleys leading away from New Arbat, Artyom, to his horror, noticed familiar still shadows in it. Now he was beginning to understand why these creatures were in no hurry to come out into the open and preferred to track their victims from the narrow side streets. While hunting for him, they feared attracting the attention of the larger monsters and becoming their prey.

Now Artyom had to turn around to look every minute: he remembered that the beasts were able to move extremely quickly, and at the same time practically silently, and he feared that they could catch him unawares. The end of the avenue was already visible when they again raced from the alleys and began to surround him. Taught by experience, Artyom at once shot into the air, hoping that that would attract the winged monster as before and frighten off the beasts. They actually froze for a while, standing up on their hind legs and craning their necks. But the sky remained empty - the monster, apparently, still had not been able to deal with its first victim. Artyom understood sooner than his pursuers and rushed to the right, skirted one of the houses and dived into the nearest entrance. Though Melnik also had warned him against it, saying that the houses were inhabited, running into such a powerful and mobile enemy as the beasts chasing him in the open would have been insane. They would have torn Artyom to pieces before he was able to pull back the bolt of his machine gun.

It was dark in the entrance, and he had to turn on his flashlight. In the round spot of light rose shabby walls covered with obscenities scrawled several decades before, a foul staircase, and the broken doors of ruined and burnt out apartments. Bold rats scampering around like they owned the place, adding to the picture of desolation.

He had chosen the entry wisely, the staircase windows looked out onto the avenue, and, climbing to the next floor, he was able to ascertain that the beasts had not decided to follow him. They were stealing up to the front doors but, instead of going into one, surrounded it, squatting on their haunches and again turning into stone statues. Artyom didn't believe that they would back off and allow their prey to elude them. Sooner or later they would try to reach him from outside, if, of course, nothing was hiding in the entrance which Artyom himself would be forced to flee.

He climbed a storey higher, illuminated the doors and discovered that one of them was closed. He put his shoulder to it and was convinced that it was locked. Without thinking twice, he put the muzzle of the machine gun up to the keyhole, fired and flung the door open with a kick. When it came down to it, it was all the same to him in which of the apartments he put up a defence, but he was unable to miss his chance to look at an untouched dwelling of the people of a bygone era.

First he slammed shut the door and blocked it with a cabinet standing in the hallway. This barricade would not sustain a serious attack, but at least they couldn't get past it unnoticed. After that, Artyom approached the window and carefully looked outside. It was practically an ideal firing position - from the height of the fourth floor he was able to see perfectly the approaches to the entrance. There were about ten beasts sitting in a semi-circle around it. Now the advantage was his and he wasted no time in using it. Switching on the laser gunsight, he put the red dot on the head of the largest of the beasts and, taking a breath, pulled the trigger. A short burst sounded and the creature soundlessly fell onto its side. The others dashed off in different directions at lightning speed, and a moment later the street was empty. But there was no doubt they didn't intend to go far. Artyom decided to wait it out and be certain that the death of their colleague really had frightened off the remaining beasts.

In the meantime, he had a little time in which to study the apartment.

Though the gla.s.s here, as in the whole house, had been broken long ago, the furniture and all the fittings had been preserved surprisingly well. Small pads had been spread around the floor resembling the rat poison they used at VDNKh. VDNKh. Perhaps that was why Artyom had not noticed one rat in the rooms. The longer he walked around the apartment, the more he was convinced that the residents had not abandoned it in a hurry, but had preserved it, hoping sometime to return. No food had been left in the kitchen to attract rodents or insects, and much of the furniture was carefully wrapped in cellophane. Perhaps that was why Artyom had not noticed one rat in the rooms. The longer he walked around the apartment, the more he was convinced that the residents had not abandoned it in a hurry, but had preserved it, hoping sometime to return. No food had been left in the kitchen to attract rodents or insects, and much of the furniture was carefully wrapped in cellophane.

Moving from room to room, Artyom tried to imagine what the everyday life of the people who had lived here had been. How many of them lived here? What time did they get up, arrive home from work, have dinner? Who sat at the head of the table? He knew about many of the jobs, rituals and things only through books, and now, seeing a real dwelling, was convinced that much of what he had imagined earlier was totally wrong.

Artyom carefully lifted the semi-transparent polyethylene film and examined the book shelves. Several colourful children's books stood among the detective stories he knew from the bookstalls in the metro. He grasped one of them at the spine and gently pulled it out. While he paged through the decorative depictions of happy animals, a sheet of cardboard fell from the book. Bending over, Artyom lifted it off the floor: it turned out to be a fading photograph of a smiling woman with a small child in her arms.

He was petrified.

His heart went into palpitations. Having just been dispersing the blood through his body in measured beats, it suddenly had sped up, beating inappropriately. Artyom terribly wanted to remove his tight gas mask to get a jolt of fresh air, if it had not been poisonous. Carefully, as if concerned that the picture turn to dust from his touch, he took it from the shelf and lifted it to his eyes.

The woman in the picture was about thirty years old, and the little one in her arms not more than two, and it was difficult to determine if it was a boy or girl from the funny cap on its head. The child was looking straight at the camera, and its expression was surprisingly grown up and serious. Artyom turned over the photograph and the gla.s.s of his gas mask became clouded. On the other side was written in a blue ballpoint pen: 'Little Artyom is 2 years and 5 months old.'

It was as if they had pulled a rod out of him. His legs went weak and he slid down to the floor, placing the picture in the moonlight falling from the window. Why did the smile of the woman in the photograph seem so familiar to him, so like his own? Why had he begun to feel suffocated as soon as he saw her?

More than ten million people had been living in it before this city perished. Artyom is not the most widely used name, but there had to have been several tens of thousands of children with such a name in a megapolis of many millions. It was as if they called all the present inhabitants of the metro the same. The chance was so small that it simply made no sense to consider it. But why then did the smile of the woman in the photograph seem so familiar to him?

He tried to recall sc.r.a.ps of memories about his childhood that sometimes flashed before his mind's eye. A comfortable small room, soft lighting, a woman reading a book . . . A wide ottoman. He leapt up, pa.s.sing through the rooms like a whirlwind, trying to find in one of them furniture similar to that of which he had dreamed. It seemed to him in an instant that the furniture in one of the rooms was arranged the same as in his memories. The couch looked a bit different, and a window was not there, but this picture may have left something of a distorted imprint on the consciousness of a three-year-old child . . .

Three years old? The age on the photograph was different, but this too meant nothing. There was no date with the inscription. It could have been taken at any time, it didn't have to be several days before the residents of the apartment had to leave it forever. The photo may have been taken half a year, even a year before this, he convinced himself. Then the age of the boy in the hat in the picture would coincide with his own . . . Then the probability that he himself was portrayed in the picture. . . . and his mother . . . would be much greater. 'But the photograph could have been taken three or five years before this,' an alien voice coldly stated inside him. Could have.

Suddenly another thought entered his head. Flinging open the door to the bathroom, he glanced around and almost missed what he was looking for: the mirror was covered with such a layer of dust that it didn't even reflect the light from his flashlight. Artyom removed a towel left by the apartment's owners from its hook and wiped off the mirror. The area he cleared revealed his reflection in gas mask and helmet. He illuminated himself with the flashlight and looked into the mirror.

His drawn, emaciated face was not entirely visible beneath the plastic visor of the gas mask, but the look of the deeply sunken dark eyes barely making its way back from the mirror suddenly seemed to him similar to the look of the boy in the photograph. Artyom brought the photograph to his face, looked intently at the boy's tiny face, and then looked at the mirror. Again he held the light on the picture and again he looked at his own face beneath the gas mask, trying to recall how it looked the last time he saw his reflection. When was that? Not long before he had left VDNKh, VDNKh, but it was impossible to say how much time had pa.s.sed since then. Judging by the man he saw in the mirror now, several years . . . If only he could pull off this d.a.m.ned mask and compare himself with the child in the photo! Of course, people now and then become unrecognizable while growing up, but something remains in the face of everyone that reminds one of their distant childhood. but it was impossible to say how much time had pa.s.sed since then. Judging by the man he saw in the mirror now, several years . . . If only he could pull off this d.a.m.ned mask and compare himself with the child in the photo! Of course, people now and then become unrecognizable while growing up, but something remains in the face of everyone that reminds one of their distant childhood.

There was one possibility: when he returned to VDNKh, VDNKh, he could ask Sukhoi if the woman smiling at him now from the piece of paper looked like the woman, condemned to be devoured by the rats, who had handed the child's life over to him at the station. Looked like his mother. Though her face was then distorted in a grimace of despair and supplication, Sukhoi would recognize her. He had a fine memory, he would be able to say precisely who was in the photo. Was it her or not? he could ask Sukhoi if the woman smiling at him now from the piece of paper looked like the woman, condemned to be devoured by the rats, who had handed the child's life over to him at the station. Looked like his mother. Though her face was then distorted in a grimace of despair and supplication, Sukhoi would recognize her. He had a fine memory, he would be able to say precisely who was in the photo. Was it her or not?

Artyom examined the picture again, then with an unaccustomed tenderness, he stroked the woman's image, carefully put the photograph into the little book out of which it had fallen and put it away into his rucksack. It was strange, he thought, only several hours ago he was in the largest storehouse of knowledge on the continent, where he could take for himself any of the millions of very different volumes, many of which were simply invaluable. But he had left them gathering dust on the shelves, and the thought never even crossed him mind to profit from the riches of the Library. Instead, he was taking a cheap children's book with unpretentious drawings and yet he felt as if he had gained the greatest of the world's treasures.

Artyom returned to the hall, intending to leaf through the remaining books from the shelf, and perhaps even look into the cupboards in search of photograph alb.u.ms. But, lifting his eyes towards the window, he felt the almost imperceptible changes there. An uneasiness seized him: something wasn't right. Approaching nearer, he understood what was wrong: the night's colour was changing, and yellowish-rose tints had appeared in it. It was getting light.

The beasts were sitting next to the entrance, hesitating to go inside. The dead body of their companion was nowhere to be seen, but whether the winged giant had carried it away or they had torn it to pieces themselves was unclear. Artyom didn't understand what kept them from taking the apartment by storm, but for the time being it suited him.

Would he manage to reach Smolenskaya before sunrise? More importantly, would he be able to get away from his pursuers? It was possible to remain in the barricaded apartment, hide from the rays of the sun in the bathroom, wait until they chased away these predatory creatures, and set out when darkness fell. But how long would the protective suit last? How long was his gas-mask filter estimated to last? What would Melnik undertake, not finding him in the agreed place at the agreed time?

Artyom approached the door leading to the stairwell and listened. Silence. He carefully moved the cabinet away and slowly opened the door a little. There was no one there, but, having illuminated the staircase with his flashlight, Artyom noticed something he had not seen earlier.

A thick, transparent slime coated the steps. It looked as if someing had just crawled down them, leaving a trail behind. The trail had not approached the apartment door where he had spent all this time, but this didn't console Artyom. Did it mean the abandoned houses were not as empty as they had seemed?

Now he no longer wanted to stay in the apartment, let alone sleep here. There was only one possibility: to drive away the beasts and to try to run to Smolenskaya. And to do it before the sun burnt his eyes and the unseen monsters awoke.

This time he aimed not as carefully, but tried to damage the predatory beasts as much as possible. Two of them roared and tumbled to the ground and the others disappeared into the alleys. It seemed the road was clear.

Artyom ran down, carefully, concerned about an ambush, looked out of the entrance and rushed with all his strength toward Sadovoye Koltso. What a nightmarish thicket must be there, in the gardens on this ring, he thought, if even the thin strips of trees on the boulevards had, after all these years, been converted to dark labyrinths . . . Not to mention the Botanical Gardens and what must be growing there.

His pursuers had given him a head start while gathering into a pack and he was able to reach almost the very end of the avenue. It was becoming ever more light, but the sun's rays, apparently, did not daunt these beasts at all: breaking into two groups, they rushed along, shortening with every pa.s.sing second the distance separating them from Artyom. Here, in the open s.p.a.ce, the advantage was with them: Artyom was unable to stop to fire. At the same time, they were shifting to all fours, and their silhouettes did not rise more than a metre above the ground. They almost merged with the road. No matter how fast Artyom tried to run, the protective suit, rucksack, two machine guns and fatigue, acc.u.mulated during the seemingly endless night, were making themselves felt.

Soon these h.e.l.lhounds would overtake him and take their toll, he thought with despair. He recalled the deformed but powerful bodies of the monsters lying in pools of blood at the entrance where his burst of machine-gun fire had toppled them. Artyom had no time to examine them, but even one look was enough to engrave them on his memory for a long time: glossy brown hair, huge round heads, and mouths studded with dozens of small sharp teeth that, it seemed, grew in several rows. Going over in his mind all the animals known to him, Artyom was unable to recall one that would have been able to produce such beasts even after the effects of radiation.

Fortunately, there were no trees growing at Sadovoye Koltso. It was simply one more broad street, extending right and left from the intersection as far as the eye could see. Before breaking into a run again, Artyom let off a short burst at the beasts without looking. They were already less than fifty metres from him and again had broken up into a semi-circle so that some were moving almost level with him.

At Sadovoye he had to look for the road among several huge craters five to six metres deep, and make a detour in one place in order to skirt a deep crevice that split the road surface in two. The structures standing close by looked strange: rather than being burnt, they appeared more to have been melted. It created the impression that something peculiar had happened here, that this region had endured much more than Kalininskiy Prospekt. And something like several hundred metres in the distance arose a building of inconceivable size. It looked like a medieval castle, and was a majestic and sombre background to this troubled landscape, untouched by time or fire. Artyom glanced up for a split second, and he let go a sigh of relief: a scary winged shadow soared over the castle and that could become his salvation. He only had to attract its attention so that it busied itself with his pursuers. Lifting the machine gun in one hand and aiming the barrel at the flying monster, he squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

He had run out of ammunition.

It was difficult to drag the reserve machine gun hanging on his back forward while running. Diving into one of the nearest alleys, Artyom leaned against the wall and changed weapons. Now he didn't have to let the beasts come close while he emptied the magazine in the second machine gun.

The first of them already had appeared from around the corner and sat on its hindquarters with the customary movement, extending itself to all its huge height. It had grown bolder and had approached so close that now Artyom was able to see its eyes for the first time: small, concealed beneath ma.s.sive brows, burning with an evil green fire similar to the gleam of that mysterious flame in the park.

There was no laser sight on Daniel's Kalashnikov, but one normally couldn't miss from such a distance. He framed the figure of the beast standing stock in his sight. Artyom squeezed the machine gun more tightly to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.

Moving slowly to the centre, the bolt stopped. What had happened? Could he really have confused the machine guns in his haste? Absolutely not, for his weapon had a laser sight . . . Artyom tried to wrench the bolt. It was stuck.

A whirlwind of thoughts swirled in his head. Daniel, the librarians . . . That was why his comrade had not resisted when that grey monster attacked him in the labyrinth of books! His machine gun simply had not worked. He, most likely, had pulled the bolt just as spasmodically while the librarian dragged him into the depths of the corridors . . .

There was silence as two more beasts appeared, like spectres. They were studying Artyom intently. He was looking in despair at Daniel's machine gun. It seemed that they were drawing their own conclusions. The closest of the creatures, most likely the leader, jumped and now was only five metres from Artyom.

At this moment a gigantic shadow swept over their heads. The beasts pressed themselves to the ground and lifted their heads. Taking advantage of their confusion, Artyom dashed to one of the arches, no longer hoping to come out of this mess alive, but just trying instinctively to postpone the moment of his death. He had not the slightest chance against them in the alleys, but the way back, to Sadovoye Koltso, already had been cut off.

He ended up in the middle of an empty square, bounded along the edges by the walls of houses, in which arches and pa.s.sages could be seen. That same gloomy castle that had impressed him at Sadovoye Koltso rose into the sky behind the building he was facing. Finally tearing his gaze away from it, Artyom saw writing on the building opposite: 'The Moscow V.I. Lenin Underground Railroad' and a bit lower, 'Smolenskaya Station.' The high oak doors were ajar.

It was hard to say how he managed to evade them. He felt a premonition of danger and the sensation of a light air current, was aware of a predator dashing towards its prey. The beast landed only a half metre from him. Easing sideways, he broke into a run and dashed with all his might towards the entrance to the metro. His home was there, his world, there beneath the ground he again would become master of the situation.

The Smolenskaya vestibule looked exactly as Artyom had expected: dark, grey, empty. It at once became clear that the people at this station often came to the surface: the ticket booths and office facilities were open and ransacked and everything of use had been moved underground many years ago. Neither the turnstiles nor the booths for the staff remained - their concrete foundations a mere reflection of what once had been. The arch of the tunnel was visible, and several escalators reached down to incredible depths. The flashlight's beam was lost somewhere in the middle of the descent and Artyom was unable to ascertain that there really was an entrance there. But it was impossible to stay where he was: the beasts had already penetrated into the vestibule. He knew because he heard the creaking of the door. In a few seconds they would reach the escalators, and that tiny head start he still had would disappear.

Awkwardly stepping along the shaking grooved steps, Artyom began his descent. He tried to hop across several steps, but his foot slipped on the damp covering and he crashed downward, striking the back of his head on a corner. He managed to stop only when he had hit about ten steps with his helmet and the small of his back. Searching the section of the way behind him with his light, Artyom discovered exactly what he was looking for and was afraid to find: the stationary dark figures. As was their custom, before they attacked, they stood stock still, studying the situation or conferring inaudibly. Artyom turned round and again tried to jump over two steps. This time it turned out better for him, and, sliding his right hand along the rubber of the handrail, while grasping his flashlight in his left, he ran for about another twenty seconds before he fell again.

He heard heavy stomping from behind. The creatures were determined. Artyom hoped with his whole being that the old stairs woefully creaking beneath his lighter weight would just collapse, not sustaining the weight of his pursuers. But the clatter approaching from the shadows was evidence that the escalator was handling the load well. A brick wall with a large door in the middle appeared in the beam of his flashlight. Only about twenty metres remained to it, no more. Rising to his feet with difficulty, Artyom covered the final stretch in fifteen seconds. It seemed like an eternity.

The door was made of steel plates and echoed resonantly, like a bell, at the blows of his fists. Artyom pounded at it with all his might. The approaching shadows, which he saw dimly in the semi-darkness, were spurring him on. Only after several seconds did he understand, a sudden chill overcoming him, what a terrible mistake he had just made: instead of knocking at the door with the prearranged code, he had only alarmed the guards. Now it was most probable that there was no way it would be unlocked under any circ.u.mstances. It didn't matter who was trying to enter. And the fact that the sun was rising already made it even less likely that the door would be opened.

Just how did the prearranged signal sound? Three quick, three slow, three quick? Absolutely not, that's an SOS. It was exactly three at the beginning and three at the end, but he was no longer able to recall quick or slow. And if he were to begin to experiment now, he could forget about any hope of getting inside. Better the SOS . . . At least then the guards would understand that a man was on the other side of the door.

Having banged on the steel once more, Artyom pulled the submachine gun from his shoulder and, with hands shaking, replaced the clip in it. Then he pressed the light to the weapon's barrel and nervously outlined the upward stretching arches with it. Long shadows from the surviving lamps covered each other in the wandering beam of his light, and it was impossible to guarantee that a dark silhouette didn't lurk in one of them . . .

As before, it remained completely quiet on the other side of the iron door. Lord, it's really not Smolenskaya, Artyom thought. Maybe this entrance was blocked up decades ago and no one has used it since then? He had got here completely by accident, not following the instructions of the stalker at all. And he may have been wrong!

The stairs creaked very near to him, about fifteen metres away. Not able to bear it, Artyom let loose a burst of machine-gun fire in the direction from which the sound had been heard. The echo pained Artyom's ears.

But nothing like the howl of a wounded beast was heard. The shots were wasted. Not having the courage to look away, Artyom pressed his back against the door and again began to pound with his fist on the iron: three quick, three slow, three quick. He thought he heard a heavy metallic grinding sound from the door. But just at that moment the figure of a predator flew from the shadows with a startling speed.

Artyom held the submachine gun suspended in his right hand, and pressed the trigger almost by accident when he instinctively recoiled backwards. The bullets swept the body of the creature in the air, and instead of seizing Artyom by the throat, it collapsed on the last steps of the escalator, having flown not two metres. But only a moment later it raised itself and, ignoring the blood gushing from its wound, moved forward.

Then, staggering, it leapt again and pressed Artyom to the cold steel of the door. It was no longer able to attack: the last bullets had struck its head, and the beast was dead already by the end of its lunge. But the inertia of its body would have been enough to crack Artyom's skull, had he not been wearing a helmet.

The door opened, and a bright, white light burst out. A frightened roar was heard from the escalators: judging by the sound, there were no fewer than five of these beasts there now. Someone's strong hands grasped him by the collar and pulled him inside and the metal clanged once more. They shut the door and bolted it.

'Are you injured?' someone's voice next to him asked.

'd.a.m.ned if he knows,' another answered. 'Did you see who he brought with him? We barely scared them away the last time, and even then only by using gas.'

'Leave him. He's with me. Artyom! Hey, Artyom! Come to your senses!' someone familiar called, and Artyom opened his eyes with difficulty.

Three men were leaning over him. Two of them, most likely the gate guards, were dressed in dark grey jackets and knitted caps and both wore bullet-proof vests. With a sigh of relief, Artyom recognized Melnik as the third.

'So is this him or what?' one of the guards asked with some disappointment.

'Then take him, only don't forget about the quarantine and the decontamination.'

'Any more lectures?' the stalker grinned. 'Stand up, Artyom. It's been a long time,' he said, extending his hand to him.

Artyom tried to stand up, but his legs refused to work. He swayed and began to feel sick, and he was groggy.

'We have to get him to the infirmary. You help me, and you close the pressure doors,' Melnik commanded.

While the doctor examined him, Artyom studied the white tiles of the operating room. It was sparkling clean, there was the sharp smell of bleach in the air, and several fluorescent lamps were fastened just beneath the ceiling. There were also a few operating tables there, and a box with instruments ready for use hung next to each one.

The condition of the little hospital here was impressive, but why peaceful Smolenskaya needed it was unclear to Artyom.

'No fractures, only bruises. Several scratches. We have disinfected them,' the doctor said, wiping his hands with a clean towel.

'Can you leave us for a bit?' Melnik asked the doctor. 'I would like to discuss something in private.'

Nodding knowingly, the medic left.

The stalker, having sat down on the edge of the couch on which Artyom was lying, demanded the details of what had happened.

By his estimate, Artyom was supposed to show up at Smolenskaya two hours earlier, and Melnik had already started planning to go up to the surface to try to find him. He listened to the end to the story about the pursuit, but with no special interest, and he called the flying monsters by a dictionary word, 'pterodactyl,' but only the story about how Artyom had concealed himself at the front door really impressed him. Learning that while he was sitting snugly in his apartment someone was creeping along the staircase, the stalker frowned.

'Are you certain that you didn't step in the slime on the stairs?' He shook his head. 'G.o.d forbid you bring that c.r.a.p into the station. I've been telling you not to go near the houses! Consider yourself really lucky that it didn't decide to drop in on you when you were making your visit . . .'

Melnik stood up, went to the entrance where Artyom's boots had been left and meticulously examined the soles of each of them. Not having found anything suspicious, he put them back.

'As I've also said, the road to Polis is prohibited to you for the time being. I have not been able to tell the Brahmins the truth; therefore, they think that you both disappeared during the trip to the Library, and I was sent out to search for you. So what happened there to your partner?'

Artyom told him the whole story once more from beginning to end, this time honestly explaining just exactly how Daniel had died. The stalker winced.

'It's better you keep this to yourself. To be honest, I liked the first version a lot more. The second will cause too many questions from the Brahmins. Their man was killed by you, you didn't find the books, so the reward remained yours. And, by the way,' he added, looking sullenly at Artyom, 'what was in that envelope?'

Raising himself on his elbow, Artyom took from his pocket a bag covered with dried blood, looked at Melnik attentively and opened it.

CHAPTER 15.

The Map

There was a sheet of paper, taken from a school notebook and folded four times, and a leaf of thick drafting paper with rough pencilled drawings of the tunnels. This was exactly what Artyom had expected to see inside the envelope - a map and the keys to it. While he was running toward Smolenskaya across Kalininskiy Prospect, he hadn't had time to think about what may have been inside the bag that Daniel had pa.s.sed to him. The miraculous resolution of a seemingly insoluble problem, something capable of taking from the VDNKh VDNKh and the whole of the metro an incomprehensible and inexorable threat. and the whole of the metro an incomprehensible and inexorable threat.

A reddish-brown spot had spread in the middle of the sheet of explanations. The paper, glued fast with the Brahmin's blood, would have to be dampened a bit to reveal its message and great care would have to be taken not to damage the finely written instructions on it.

'Part Number . . . tunnel . . . D6 . . . intact installations . . . up to 400,000 square metres . . . a water fountain . . . not in good working order . . . unforeseen . . .' The words sprang at Artyom. Trying to jump from the horizontal lines, they merged into one whole, and their sense remained absolutely incomprehensible to him. Having despaired of shaping them into something sensible, he handed the message to Melnik. The latter took the sheet into his hand with care and fastened his covetous eyes onto the letters. For some time he didn't say anything, and then Artyom saw how his eyebrows crept upwards with suspicion.

'This can't be,' the stalker whispered. 'It's just all nonsense! They couldn't have overlooked something like this . . .'

He turned the sheet over, looked at it from the other side, and then began to read it again from the very beginning.

'They kept it for themselves . . . They didn't tell the military. Not a surprise, really . . . Show them something like this and they'll immediately take it as something old,' Melnik mumbled indistinctly while Artyom patiently awaited some explanations. 'But did they really overlook it? It's faulty . . . Well, let's a.s.sume it is OK . . . That means they must have checked it!'

'Can it really help?': Artyom finally couldn't stand it.

'If everything written here is true, then there's hope,' the stalker nodded.