Here there was a criminal code, by which the VDNKh VDNKh judged criminals in swift trials, and it was always being applied to extraordinary situations which were resolved and then new rules were established. Any actions against strategic objects brought about the most severe punishments. For smoking and the setting of fires on platforms, as well as the careless handling of weapons and explosives, you would be immediately expelled from the station and your property confiscated. judged criminals in swift trials, and it was always being applied to extraordinary situations which were resolved and then new rules were established. Any actions against strategic objects brought about the most severe punishments. For smoking and the setting of fires on platforms, as well as the careless handling of weapons and explosives, you would be immediately expelled from the station and your property confiscated.

These draconian measures can be explained by the fact that several stations had already been burnt to nothing. Fire spread instantly through the small tent cities, devouring everything, and the wild screams of awful pain would echo in the ears of the neighbouring stations for months afterwards. Charred bodies stuck to the melted plastic and canvas, and sets of teeth, cracked from the inconceivable heat of the flames, gnashed in the light of the lanterns held by frightened traders who had accidentally come upon this traveller's h.e.l.l.

In order to avoid the repet.i.tion of such a grim fate in the rest of the stations, the careless setting of fires became a serious criminal offence. Theft, sabotage and the deliberate avoidance of labour were also punished with exile. But, considering that almost everyone was always visible to each other and that there were only two hundred or so people at the station, these kinds of crimes were rare and usually perpetrated by strangers.

Labour was compulsory, and everyone, young and old, had to fulfil a daily quota. The pig farm, the mushroom plantation, the tea-factory, the meat-packing plant, the fire and engineer services, the weapon shop - every inhabitant worked in one or two of these places. Men were also required to go on military duty in one of the tunnels once every forty-eight hours. And when some kind of conflict arose, or some new danger appeared from the depths of the metro, the patrols were strengthened and they put a reserve force on the pathways, at the ready.

Life was so meticulously arranged here, and VDNKh VDNKh had established such a reputation for it that there were many wishing to live there. But it was very rare for outsiders to be taken into the settlement. had established such a reputation for it that there were many wishing to live there. But it was very rare for outsiders to be taken into the settlement.

There was a few more hours until his night shift at the tea-factory and Artyom, not knowing what to do with himself, trudged over to see his friend Zhenya, the same one with whom he undertook the headspinning adventure to the surface. Zhenya was his age, but unlike Artyom, he lived with his own real family: his father, mother, and younger sister. There were only a handful of incidents where a whole family had been saved, and Artyom secretly envied his friend. Of course, he loved his stepfather very much and respected him even now that the man's nerves had got the better of him. But nonetheless, he knew that Sukhoi wasn't his father, and wasn't his kin altogether - and he never called him 'Dad'.'

At the beginning Sukhoi asked Artyom to call him 'Uncle Sasha' but later regretted it. Years had gone by and the old tunnel wolf hadn't managed to start a family of his own, he didn't even have a woman who would wait for him to return from expeditions. His heart would beat harder when he saw a mother and child, and he dreamed about the possibility that one day he wouldn't have to go out into the darkness, disappearing from the life of the station for days and weeks, and maybe forever. And then, he hoped that he would find a woman who would be prepared to be his wife, and to bear him children, which, when they learnt to speak would not call him 'Uncle Sasha' but 'Father.'

Old age and feebleness were getting ever closer, and there was less and less time remaining, and he needed to hurry, but all the same it would be hard to pull off. Task followed task and he couldn't find anyone to take over his work, no one to trust with his connections and his professional secrets, in order to finally start doing some non-manual work at the station. He had already long considered doing work that was a bit more peaceful, and he even knew that he could fall back on a supervisory role at the station thanks to his authority, his stellar record and his friendly relations with the administration. But for now, there was no one capable of replacing him, not even on the horizon, so he entertained himself with thoughts of a happy future and he lived for today, postponing his final return and continuing to spend his sweat and blood for the sake of the granite of other stations and the concrete of far-off tunnels.

Artyom knew that his stepfather, despite showing fatherly love towards him, didn't think of him as his successor in professional matters and mostly thought of Artyom as a nitwit, and completely undeserving of such responsibility. He didn't take Artyom on long expeditions, ignoring the fact that Artyom had grown up and could no longer be persuaded that he was still too young and that zombies would drag him off or rats would eat him. He didn't understand expressing a lack of confidence in Artyom had pushed the boy into desperate escapades for which Sukhoi had to punish him afterwards. He had probably wanted not to subject Artyom to the senseless mortal danger of wandering the metro but allow the boy to live the way Sukhoi wanted to live himself: in peace and safety, working and raising children, not wasting his youth unnecessarily. But in wanting such a life for Artyom, he was forgetting to strive for such a life himself, and had pa.s.sed through fire and water, had succeeded in surviving hundreds of adventures and was satisfied with them. And the wisdom acquired with years wasn't speaking to him anymore, all that spoke to him were the years themselves and the fatigue they brought. Artyom had energy boiling inside him. He had only just started living, and the prospect of drudging through the vegetative existence of crumbling and drying mushrooms, and changing diapers, and never going beyond the five-hundredth metre seemed absolutely inconceivable. The desire to get away from the station grew in him every day, as he understood more and more clearly what life his stepfather was moulding for him. A career as a tea-factory worker and the role of a father with many children was less appealing than anything on earth.

He was drawn to adventure, wanted to be carried along like tumbleweed in the tunnel draughts, and to follow these draughts into uncertainty, to meet his fate - and that's what Hunter probably saw in him, asking him to take part in a venture of such enormous risk. This Hunter fellow had a subtle sense of smell when it came to people, and after an hour of conversation he understood that he could propose the plan to Artyom. Even if Artyom didn't ever get to the designated place, at least there was the prospect of leaving the station, in accordance with his orders in the event that something should happen to Hunter at the Botanical Gardens.

And the hunter wasn't mistaken in his choice.

Luckily, Zhenya was at home and now Artyom could pa.s.s the evening discussing the latest gossip and having conversations about the future over strong tea.

'Great!' his friend exclaimed in response to Artyom's greeting. 'You're also on night duty at the factory today? They put me there too. I'm so sick of it that I wanted to ask the boss to switch me. But if they put you with me then that's fine, I can handle it. You were on patrol today, right? Well, tell me! I heard that you had a state of emergency there. What happened?'

Artyom cast a sidelong look at Zhenya's younger sister with great emphasis as she had become so interested in the conversation that she had stopped stuffing mushroom waste into the ragdoll that her mother had sewn for her, and was watching them with bated breath and round eyes from the corner of the tent.

'Listen, little one!' Zhenya said strictly, having understood what Artyom meant. 'You, now, go on, get out of here with your little thing and go and play at the neighbours'. I think Katya invited you over. We have to be nice to the neighbours. So, go on, and take your dollies with you.'

The little girl squeaked indignantly and started to gather her things with a gloomy look on her face, meanwhile making suggestions to her doll, who was blankly looking up at the ceiling with her semi-erased eyes. 'You think you're so important! I know everything anyway! You're going to talk about your mushrooms!' she said contemptuously as she left.

'You, Lenka, are still too small to discuss mushrooms. The milk on your lips hasn't even dried yet!' Artyom put her in her place.

'What's milk?' the girl asked, puzzled, touching her lips.

But neither of them bothered to explain and the question hung in the air.

When she left, Zhenya fastened the flaps of the tent and asked, 'Well, what happened? Go on, spill it! I've heard quite a lot about it already. One guy says that a huge rat crawled out of the tunnel. Another guy says that you scared off a spy for the dark ones and that you even wounded him. Who should I believe?'

'Don't believe anyone!' Artyom advised. 'They're all lying. It was a dog. A little puppy. Andrei the marine picked it up. He said that it was a German Shepherd.' Artyom smiled.

'Yeah but I heard from Andrei that it was a rat!' Zhenya said, perplexed. 'Did he lie on purpose or what?'

'You don't know? That's his favourite catchphrase - the one about the rats the size of pigs. He's a comedian, you see,' Artyom responded. 'So what's new with you? What have you heard from the boys?'

Zhenya's friends were traders, delivering teas and pork to the market at Prospect Mir. They brought back multivitamins, cloth, all sorts of junk, sometimes they even got hold of oil; sometimes they'd bring dirt-stained books, often with pages missing, which had mysteriously ended up at Prospect Mir, having travelled through half the metro system, pa.s.sing from one trunk to the next, from one pocket to the next, from one merchant to another, before finally finding their rightful owners.

At VDNKh, VDNKh, they were proud of the fact that, despite their distance from the centre and the main trade routes, the settlers there were able not just to survive conditions that worsened every day, but to maintain, at least within the station, human culture, which was quickly dying out underground. they were proud of the fact that, despite their distance from the centre and the main trade routes, the settlers there were able not just to survive conditions that worsened every day, but to maintain, at least within the station, human culture, which was quickly dying out underground.

The administration of the station had strived to give this issue as much attention as possible. It was mandatory to teach children to read, and the station even had its own small library, to which all the books that they managed to acquire at markets were added. The problem was that the traders didn't really choose the books, they just brought what they were given and they collected it as though it was sc.r.a.p paper.

But the att.i.tude of the people at the station towards books was such that they wouldn't rip even one page out of the silliest pulp fiction. People revered books as though they were relics, as a final reminder of the wonderful world that had sunk into oblivion. Adults, who held sacred every second of a memoir they read, transferred this love of books to their children, who had nothing to remember of the other world and only knew the endlessly intersecting and gloomy tunnels, corridors and pa.s.sages.

In the metro there were just a few places where the written word was idolized like this, and the inhabitants of VDNKh VDNKh considered themselves to be one of the last strongholds of culture, the northern-most post of civilization on the Kaluzhsko-Rizhskoi line. Artyom also read books and Zhenya did too. Zhenya awaited the return of his friends from the market and when they arrived he would rush up to them to ask if they'd brought anything new. And so, books almost always got into Zhenya's hands first, and then they went to the library. considered themselves to be one of the last strongholds of culture, the northern-most post of civilization on the Kaluzhsko-Rizhskoi line. Artyom also read books and Zhenya did too. Zhenya awaited the return of his friends from the market and when they arrived he would rush up to them to ask if they'd brought anything new. And so, books almost always got into Zhenya's hands first, and then they went to the library.

Artyom's stepfather brought him books from his expeditions and they had almost a whole bookshelf of books in their tent. The books lay on the shelf, yellowing and sometimes a little gnawed by mould and rats, sometimes sprinkled with brown specks of blood. They had things that no one else had, at the station and perhaps in the whole metro system: Marquez, Kafka, Borges, Vian, and some Russian cla.s.sics.

'The guys didn't bring anything this time,' said Zhenya. 'Lekha says that there will be a load of books coming soon from a guy in Polis. He promised to bring a couple here.'

'I'm not talking about books!' Artyom waved Zhenya away. 'But what have you heard? What's the situation?'

'The situation? Nothing it seems. There are all sorts of rumours, of course, but that's no different than usual - you know yourself that the traders can't survive without their gossip and stories. They'd wither straight away if you didn't feed them a few rumours. But whether you should believe their rubbish is another question. It looks as though all's quiet. If you compare it with the times when the Hansa was at war with the Reds, that is. But wait!' He remembered something. 'On Prospect Mir they have forbidden the sale of weed. Now, if they find any weed on a trader, they will confiscate it all and will chuck him out of the station and put it on his record too. If they find any on you a second time, Lekha says that they won't let you into Hansa for a few years. And that's death to a trader.'

'Come on! What - they've just forbidden it? What are they thinking?'

'They say that they decided that it's a drug since it affects the way you see things. And that your brain starts to corrode if you take it too often. They're, like, doing it for health reasons.'

'They should take care of their own health! Why are they worrying about ours all of a sudden?'

'You know what?' Zhenya said in a low voice. 'Lekha says that they're putting out all sorts of misinfo about things that are bad for your health.'

'What misinfo?' Artyom asked, surprised.

'Misinformation. Here, listen. Lekha once went along the line, past Prospect Mir. He made it to Sukharevskaya. He was doing some dark business - wouldn't even say what it was. And there he met an interesting old guy. A magician.'

'Who?' Artyom couldn't hold back and burst out laughing. 'A magician? At Sukharevskaya? Come on, he's having you on, your Lekha! And what, the magician gave him a magic wand? Or a stick that turns into a flower?'

'You're an idiot.' Zhenya was offended. 'You think you know it all? Just because you haven't met a magician doesn't mean there aren't any. Do you believe in the mutants at Filevki?' Filevki?'

'Who needs to believe? They're there, and that's pretty clear. My stepfather told me about them. But I've never heard anything about magicians.'

'Even though I have a lot of respect for Sukhoi, I don't think he knows everything in the whole world either. And maybe he wanted just to scare you. Basically, if you don't want to hear about it then screw you.'

'OK, OK, Zhenya, go ahead. It's interesting anyway. Even if it sounds like . . .'

Artyom grinned.

'OK. They were spending the night by the fire. No one, you know, lives permanently at Sukharevskaya. So the traders from other stations stop there because the Hansa authorities see them off from Prospect Mir after lights-out. And, well, the whole crowd hangs around there, various charlatans and thieves - they all stick to the traders. And various wanderers rest there too, before heading south. So, in the tunnels beyond Sukharevskaya, some kind of ruckus begins. n.o.body lives there - not rats, not mutants, and the people that try to pa.s.s through those tunnels mostly disappear. Just disappear without a trace. Beyond Sukharevskaya, the next station is Turgenevskaya. It's next to the Red Line: there was a pa.s.sage to Chistye Prudi there, but the Reds have named it Kirov again. Some communist was called that they say . . . People were too afraid to live near that station. They walled up the pa.s.sage. And now Turgenevskaya is there, empty. Abandoned. So the tunnel there - from Sukharevskaya to the nearest human settlement is a long way. And it's there that people disappear. If people go one by one, then they almost certainly don't make it through. But if they go in a caravan of more than ten people, then they get through. And it's nothing, they say, just a normal tunnel, clean, quiet, empty, and there aren't any side pa.s.sages, and there doesn't seem to be anywhere to disappear to . . . Not a soul, not a sound, not a beast to be seen . . . And then, the next day, someone will hear about it, that it's clean and easy, and they'll spit on the superst.i.tion and go into the tunnel alone - and then, peek-a-boo. Now you see him, now you don't.'

'You were saying something about a magician,' Artyom quietly reminded him.

'I'm getting to the magician. Wait a minute,' Zhenya said. 'So, here you have it, people are afraid to go alone through this tunnel to the south. And they look for companions at Sukharevskaya so they can go through together. And if there's not a market day then there aren't many people and sometimes they have to wait days and weeks until there're enough people to set off. So: the more people, the safer. Lekha says that you sometimes meet really interesting people there. There are plenty of wastrels there too, and you have to know how to differentiate between them. But sometimes you're lucky. So, Lekha meets this magician there. It's not what you think, not some Hottabych that comes out of a lamp . . .'

'Hottabych was a djinn, not a magician.' Artyom carefully corrected him, but Zhenya ignored his comment and continued: 'The guy is an occultist. He'd spent half his life studying all kinds of mystical literature. He told Lekha mostly about this Castaneda chap . . . So the guy, basically, reads a lot, and looks into the future, finds missing things, and knows about future dangers. He says that he sees spirits. Can you imagine, he even . . .' Zhenya paused dramatically. 'He even goes through the metro without a weapon! I mean completely unarmed. He only has a penknife - to cut up food, and he has a plastic staff too. See? So, he says that everyone who takes weed and the people who drink it too - they're all madmen. Because it is not what we think it is at all. It's not any kind of real weed, and those mushrooms, they aren't mushrooms either. Such toadstools have never grown in the central region before. Basically, one day I looked in a mushroom book, and it's true, there's not a word about the kinds of mushroom we have here. And there's nothing even remotely like them . . . Those that eat it thinking that it is just a hallucinogen and they can watch cartoons on it, are totally mistaken, says this magician. And if you cook these toadstools in a slightly different way then you can enter a state where it is possible to regulate events in the real world.'

'That's quite a magician you have there - more like a drug addict!' Artyom declared with conviction. 'A lot of people here play around with weed to relax but, as you know, no one has ever taken it to that degree. The guy is addicted, one hundred percent. And he hasn't got long, I'd say. Listen, Uncle Sasha told me this story . . . There's some station - I don't remember which - where this old man he didn't know came up to him, and starts telling him that he has a powerful extra-sense and that he is waging an ongoing war with similar powerful psychics and aliens, only they are malicious. And they are almost defeating him, and he might not be able to fight them any longer, and all his strength was going into the fight. And the station - it was like Sukharevskaya, a kind of half-station where people sit around campfires in the centre of the platform, a ways off from the tunnel mouth, so they can get some sleep before they move on. And there, let's say, there were three guys that walked past my stepfather and the old man, and the old man said to him in horror: "You see, there, that one, in the middle, that is one of the main evil psychics, a disciple of darkness. And on either side of him are aliens. They're helping him. And their leader lives at the deepest point in the metro. And he says, basically, that they don't want to come up to me because you're sitting with me. They don't want regular people to know about our fight. But they're attacking me with their energy right now and I'm putting up a shield. And he says, "I will continue to fight!" You think it's funny, but my stepfather didn't think it was so funny at the time. Imagine: in some G.o.dforsaken corner of the metro, who knows what might happen . . . It sounds like rubbish, I know, but all the same. And there's Uncle Sasha telling himself that this old man is crazy, but then the guy who is walking with the two aliens on either side, is looking at him meanly, and there's something flashing in his eyes . . .'

'What c.r.a.p,' Zhenya said, disbelievingly.

'c.r.a.p it may be, but you well know that you should be prepared for anything at the distant stations. And the old man says to him that soon he (the old man, that is) will face the final battle with the evil psychics. And if he loses - and his forces are less than theirs - then it's the end for everyone. Before, he says, there were more positive psychics, and the battleground was even, but now the negatives had started to conquer and this old man was one of the last standing. Maybe even THE last one standing. And if he is killed then the evil ones will win, and that will be it. Checkmate!'

'We're already at checkmate in my opinion,' Zhenya observed.

'Well, let's say not total checkmate. There's still possibilities,' Artyom replied. 'So, in parting, the old man says to him: "My son! Give me something to eat please. I have little strength left. And the final battle is coming nearer . . . And everyone's future depends on its outcome. Yours too!" You get it? The old man was begging for food. That's your magician, I'd say. Also, lost some marbles, I'd say. But for another reason.'

'You're a total fool! You didn't even listen to the ending . . . and anyway, who told you that the old guy was lying? What was his name, by the way? Did your stepfather tell you?'

'He told me, but I don't remember it exactly. Some kind of funny name. Starts with a "Chu." Could it be Chum - or Chump? . . . b.u.ms often have some kind of funny nickname instead of a real name. And what - what was the name of your magician?'

'He told Lekha that they call him Carlos now. Because of the similarity. I don't know what he meant but that's how he explained it. But you should listen to the end of the story. At the end of their conversation, he told Lekha that it's best not to go through the northern tunnel - though Lekha was preparing to go back the next day. Lekha listened to him and didn't go. And he was right. That day some thugs attacked a caravan in the tunnel between Sukharevskaya and Prospect Mir even though it had been considered safe. Half of the traders were killed. The rest barely managed to fight them off. So there!'

Artyom went quiet and sank into thought.

'Well, generally speaking, it's impossible to know. Anything can happen. Things like that used to happen, that's what my stepfather said. And he also said that at the most distant stations, where people have gone wild and have become primitive, they've forgotten that man is a rational being, and the strangest things happen - things that our logical minds wouldn't be able to explain. He didn't go into it, though. And he wasn't even telling it to me - I just overheard by accident.'

'Ha! I'm telling you: sometimes they describe things that normal people just wouldn't believe. Last time, Lekha shared another story with me . . . Want to hear it? You won't have heard this one from your stepfather, I tell you. A trader from the Serpukhovskaya line told it to Lekha . . . So, do you believe in ghosts?'

'Well . . . every time I talk to you I start to wonder if I believe in them or not. But then when I'm on my own or with other people I come back to my senses,' Artyom replied, barely managing to hold back a smile.

'Are you serious?'

'Well, I've read some things, of course. And Uncle Sasha has told me a lot of stories. But, if I'm honest, then I don't really believe in all these stories. In general, Zhenya, I don't really understand you. Here at the station, we're living an unending nightmare with these dark ones - something you don't find in any other part of the metro, I bet. Somewhere in the centre of the metro system there are kids talking about our life here, telling scary stories and asking each other: "Do you believe the tales about the dark ones or not?" And to you that means nothing. You want to scare yourself with yet more things?'

'Yeah but don't tell me that you're only interested in things you can see and feel? You don't really think that the world is organized into things you can see and hear? Take a mole, for example. It doesn't see. It's blind from birth. But that doesn't mean that all the things that the mole doesn't see don't actually exist. That's what you're saying . . .'> 'OK, so what's the story you wanted to tell me? About the trader up at the Serpukhovskaya line?'

'About the trader? Well . . . Somehow Lekha met this one guy at the market there. He, I guess, was definitely not from Serpukhovskaya. He's from the Ring. He's a citizen of the Hansa, but he lives at Dobryninskaya. Over there, they have a pa.s.sage to Serpukhovskaya. On the line, I don't know if your stepfather told you, but there's no one living beyond the Ring - that is, until the next station which is Tulskaya - where there's a Hansa patrol. They take measures to protect it - they basically think that since the line is uninhabited, you never know what will crawl out of it, and so they made a buffer zone there. And no one goes beyond Tulskaya. They say that there's nothing to find there. The stations are all empty, the equipment there is broken - and life is impossible. A dead zone: not an animal, not any kind of vermin, there's not even rats there. Empty. But the trader had one acquaintance, a wanderer type, who once went beyond Tulskaya. I don't know what he was looking for there. And he told the trader, that things are not so simple on the Serp.h.u.khvskaya line. And that it's not empty for no reason. He was saying that you can't even imagine what's going on out there. And there's a reason why the Hansa aren't colonizing the area, even though you might think it would be a fine place for a plantation or a pigsty.'

Zhenya went silent, feeling that Artyom had finally forgotten his robust cynicism and was listening with an open mouth. Then he settled more comfortably on the ground, with an inner feeling of triumph: 'Yeah, well, you're probably not interested in all this c.r.a.p. Old wives' tales. Want some tea?'

'Wait a second with the tea! Instead tell me why the Hansa didn't colonize the area? You're right, it's strange. My stepfather says that there's a general over-population problem anyway - there isn't room for everyone anymore. So why would they give up the chance of taking a little more s.p.a.ce? It's not like them!'

'Ah, so you are interested!? OK, so this stranger went pretty far into it. He was saying that you walk and walk and there isn't a soul. There's nothing and no one, like in that tunnel beyond Sukharevskaya. Can you imagine? There's not even a rat! You just hear water dripping. Abandoned stations just sit there in darkness and no one has ever lived there. And you always have a sense of being in danger. And it's oppressive . . . He was walking quickly, and he went through four stations in almost half a day. A desperate person, no doubt. I mean, really, to get into a game like that alone! So, he gets to Sebastopolskaya Sebastopolskaya. There's a pa.s.sage to Kakhovskaya. And you know the Kakhovskaya line, there's only three stations on it. It's not a line but an unfinished thought. Sort of like an appendix . . . And he decides to spend the night at Sebastopolskaya Sebastopolskaya. Having worn out his wits, he's tired . . . He found some wood chips, laid a fire so it wouldn't be all so awful, and crawled into his sleeping bag and went to sleep in the middle of the platform. And during the night . . .'

At this point, Zhenya stood up, stretching, and said with a s.a.d.i.s.tic smile, 'OK, I don't know about you, but I myself really want some tea!' And, not waiting for an answer, he took the kettle out of the tent, leaving Artyom alone with his impressions from the story.

Artyom, of course, was angry at Zhenya for leaving him there, but he decided to patiently await the end of the story and then he'd give Zhenya a piece of his mind. Suddenly he was reminded of Hunter and his request. It was more like an order, really. But then his thoughts went back to Zhenya's story.

Having returned with tea, he poured some into a tea-gla.s.s which had a rare metal outer-casing, the kind they used to have in trains for tea, and he continued, 'So he went to sleep next to the fire and there was silence all around - a heavy silence as though his ears were full of cotton. And in the middle of the night there's a strange sound . . . a totally sanity-challenging and impossible sound. He was immediately covered in cold sweat, and jumped right up. He heard children's laughter. Coming from the tunnel. This is four stations from the nearest people! Rats don't even live there, can you imagine? There was reason to be alarmed . . . So he jumps up and runs under the arches to the tunnel . . . And he sees . . . There's a train coming into the station. A real train. Its headlights are shining, and blinding him - the wanderer could have been blinded by them so it's good he covered his eyes with his hand in time. The windows were lit in yellow and there were people inside and this was all going on in total silence! Not a sound! There wasn't a hum from the engine, not a clatter of wheels. The train glides into the station in total silence . . . You see? The guy sits down, something's wrong with his heart. And there's people in the train windows, like real people who are chatting away inaudibly . . . The train, wagon by wagon, is going past him, and he sees in the last window of the last wagon, there's a seven-year-old child looking at him. Looking at him, pointing at him, and laughing . . . And the laughter was audible. There was such silence that the guy could hear his own heart beating along with this child's laughter . . . The train dives into the tunnel, and the laughter gets quieter and quieter . . . and goes silent in the distance. And again - emptiness. And an absolute and horrifying silence.' 'And then he woke up?' Artyom asked maliciously but with a certain hope in his voice.

'If only! He rushed back, towards the extinguished fire, quickly gathered up his belongings and ran back to Tulskaya without stopping. He ran the whole way in one hour. It was so scary. You have to think . . .'

Artyom had gone quiet, frozen by what he'd heard. Silence descended in the tent. Finally, having gathered his wits and coughed, making sure that his voice wouldn't give him away and crack, Artyom asked Zhenya as indifferently as he could: 'And what, you believe all that?'

'Well, it's not the first time I've heard this kind of story about the Serpukhovskaya line,' Zhenya replied. 'Only I don't always tell you them. It's not possible to talk about these things with you in a normal way. You start interrupting straight away . . . OK, we've sat here for a while you and me, and it's almost time to go to work. Let's get ready. We can talk more when we get there.'

Artyom got up reluctantly, dragged himself home - he needed to get a snack to take to work. His stepfather was still sleeping, it was totally quiet at the station: most people had probably been let off work and there was a little time left until the night shift began. He should hurry up. Going past the guest tent, in which Hunter was staying, Artyom saw that the tent flaps were pulled aside and the tent was empty. His heart skipped a beat. Finally he understood that everything he'd discussed with Hunter hadn't been a dream, that it had actually taken place, and that the development of events could have a direct impact on him. He knew what fate lay before him.

The tea-factory was located in a dead-end, at a blocked exit from the underground, where there were escalators leading upwards. All the work in the factory was done by hand. It was too extravagant to waste precious electric energy on production.

Behind the iron screens that separated the territory of the factory from the rest of the station, there was a metal wire drawn from wall to wall, on which cleaned mushrooms were drying. When it was particularly humid, they made little fires underneath the mushrooms so that they would dry more quickly and wouldn't get covered in mould. Under the wire there were tables where the workers first cut and then crushed the dried mushrooms. The prepared tea was packed into paper or polyethylene packages - depending on what was available at the station - and they added some extracts and powders to it, the recipe of which was only known to the head of the factory. That was the straightforward process of producing tea. Without the much-needed conversation while you worked your eight-hour shift of cutting and crushing mushroom caps, then it would probably be the most exhausting business.

Artyom worked this shift with Zhenya and a new, s.h.a.ggy-haired guy called Kirill with whom he'd been on patrol too. Kirill became very animated at the sight of Zhenya - obviously they had met and spoken before - and he quickly took to telling him some story that had apparently been interrupted the last time they spoke. Artyom sat in the middle and wasn't interested enough to listen so he plunged into his thoughts. The story about the Serpukhovskaya line, that Zhenya had just told him had started to fade in his memory, and his conversation with Hunter surfaced.

What could be done? The orders given to him by Hunter were too serious not to think them over. What if Hunter would not be able to do whatever it was that he intended? He had committed to a completely senseless act, having dared to venture into the enemy's lair, right into the heat of the fire. The danger he was subjecting himself to was enormous, and he himself didn't even know its true parameters. He could only guess at what awaited him at the five-hundredth metre where the light of the last fire at the border post grows dim - the last man-made flames to the north of VDNKh. VDNKh. All he knew about the dark ones was what everyone else knew - but no one else was thinking of going out there. In fact, it wasn't even a known fact that there was a real pa.s.sageway at the Botanical Gardens where beasts could enter the metro from above. All he knew about the dark ones was what everyone else knew - but no one else was thinking of going out there. In fact, it wasn't even a known fact that there was a real pa.s.sageway at the Botanical Gardens where beasts could enter the metro from above.

The likelihood was too great that Hunter wouldn't be able to complete the mission he'd taken upon himself. Obviously, the danger from the north seemed to be so great and was increasing so quickly that any delay was inadmissible. Hunter probably knew something about its nature that he hadn't revealed in his meeting with Sukhoi or his conversation with Artyom.

Therefore he probably was aware of the degree of the risk and understood that he would probably not be up to his task, otherwise why would he prepare Artyom for a turn of events? Hunter didn't resemble an overcautious person, so that meant that the probability that he wouldn't return to VDNKh VDNKh existed and was rather significant. existed and was rather significant.

But how could Artyom give up everything and leave the station without saying anything to anyone? Hunter himself was afraid of warning anyone else, afraid of the 'worm-eaten brains' here . . . How would it be possible to get to Polis, to the legendary Polis, all alone, through all the evident and mysterious dangers that awaited travellers in the dark and mute tunnels? Artyom suddenly regretted that he had succ.u.mbed to Hunter's strong charms and hypnotizing gaze, that he had told him his secret, and agreed to such a dangerous mission.

'Hey Artyom! Artyom! You sleeping there or what? Why aren't you saying anything?' Zhenya shook his shoulder. 'Did you hear what Kirill was saying? Tomorrow night they're organizing a caravan to Rizhskaya. They say that our administration has decided to make a pact with them, but meanwhile it looks like we're sending them humanitarian aid, with a view to becoming brothers. Seems they have found some kind of warehouse containing cables. The leaders want to lay them down: they say they're going to make a telephone system between the stations. In any case, a telegraph system. Kirill says that whoever isn't working tomorrow can go. Want to?'

Artyom thought right there and then that fate itself was giving him an opportunity to fulfil his mission - if it came to that. He nodded silently.

'Great!' Zhenya was glad. 'I'll also go. Kirill! Sign us up, OK? What time are they going to set off tomorrow - at nine?'

Until the end of the shift, Artyom didn't say a word, he wasn't in the mood to extract himself from his distracting, gloomy thoughts. Zhenya was left to deal with the dishevelled Kirill by himself and he obviously felt hurt. Artyom continued to chop mushrooms with mechanical movements, and to crumble them into dust, taking the little caps down from the wire, and again chopping them, and so on, indefinitely.

Hunter's face hovered in front of his eyes - frozen at the moment when he was saying that he might not make it back - the calm face of a person who is used to risking his life. And an ink stain marred his heart with the presentiment of trouble.

After work, Artyom went back to his tent. His stepfather wasn't there anymore - he had clearly gone out to take care of business. Artyom fell onto the bed, and buried his face in the pillow, and went to sleep straight away, even though he had planned to think over his situation again in the peace and quiet.

His sleep was delirious after all the conversations, thoughts and worries of the preceding day, and it enveloped him and carried him away into an abyss. Artyom saw himself sitting next to the fire at Sukharevskaya station, next to Zhenya and the wandering magician with the unusual Spanish name of Carlos. Carlos is teaching Zhenya how to make weed out of mushrooms and he is explaining that you have to use it just like they use it at VDNKh - VDNKh - a clean crime, because these mushrooms aren't mushrooms at all but a new type of rational life on earth, which may with time replace humans. That these mushrooms aren't independent beings, but just elements connected by neurons to the whole unit, spread across a whole metro of a gigantic fungus. And that, in reality, the person who consumes the weed isn't just using a psychotropic material, but is making contact with this new form of rational life. And if you do it right, then you can make friends with it, and then it will help the person that makes contact with it through the weed. But then Sukhoi appears and, threatening Artyom with his forefinger, he says that you absolutely mustn't take weed because if you use it for an extended amount of time then your brain becomes worm-eaten. But Artyom decides to test it and see if it's really true: and he tells everyone that he's going out to get some air but he carefully goes behind the back of the magician with the Spanish name, and he sees that the magician doesn't have a back to his head but his brains are visible, full of wormholes. Long whitish worms curling in circles are chewing into the fabric of his brains and are making new tunnels, and the magician just carries on talking as though nothing is happening . . . Then Artyom gets scared and decides to run away from him, he begins to tug at Zhenya's sleeve, so that he would come with him but Zhenya just waves him away and asks Carlos to go on, and Artyom sees that the worms are crawling down from the magician's head and towards Zhenya, and crawling up Zhenya's back. They are trying to get into his ears . . . a clean crime, because these mushrooms aren't mushrooms at all but a new type of rational life on earth, which may with time replace humans. That these mushrooms aren't independent beings, but just elements connected by neurons to the whole unit, spread across a whole metro of a gigantic fungus. And that, in reality, the person who consumes the weed isn't just using a psychotropic material, but is making contact with this new form of rational life. And if you do it right, then you can make friends with it, and then it will help the person that makes contact with it through the weed. But then Sukhoi appears and, threatening Artyom with his forefinger, he says that you absolutely mustn't take weed because if you use it for an extended amount of time then your brain becomes worm-eaten. But Artyom decides to test it and see if it's really true: and he tells everyone that he's going out to get some air but he carefully goes behind the back of the magician with the Spanish name, and he sees that the magician doesn't have a back to his head but his brains are visible, full of wormholes. Long whitish worms curling in circles are chewing into the fabric of his brains and are making new tunnels, and the magician just carries on talking as though nothing is happening . . . Then Artyom gets scared and decides to run away from him, he begins to tug at Zhenya's sleeve, so that he would come with him but Zhenya just waves him away and asks Carlos to go on, and Artyom sees that the worms are crawling down from the magician's head and towards Zhenya, and crawling up Zhenya's back. They are trying to get into his ears . . .

Then Artyom jumps up and takes to his heels and runs from the station with all his might, but then remembers that this was the tunnel you're not supposed to go through alone, and only in groups, so he turns around and runs back to the station but for some reason he can't get to it.

Behind him, suddenly there is a light, and with a clarity and logic that is unusual for dreams, Artyom sees his own shadow on the floor of the tunnel. He turns around and from the bowels of the metro, a train is heading towards him without stopping, gnashing and rattling its wheels with deafening sound and blinding him with its headlights . . .

And his legs refuse to budge, they've lost all power, and they aren't even legs anymore but empty trousers stuffed with rags. And when the train has almost reached Artyom, the visions suddenly lose their colour and disappear.

Instead, something new appears, something totally different: Artyom sees Hunter, dressed in snow-white, in an unfurnished room with blindingly white walls. He stands there, his head hanging down, his gaze drilling into the floor. Then he raises his eyes and looks straight at Artyom. The feeling is very strange, because in this dream Artyom can't feel his own body, but it is as if he is looking at what is going on from all angles at once. When Artyom looks into Hunter's eyes, he is filled with an incomprehensible uneasiness, an expectation of something very significant, something that might happen any second . . .

Hunter starts talking to him, and Artyom has the feeling that what has just happened was real. When he'd had nightmares before, he had told himself simply that he was sleeping, and that everything that was happening was only the fruit of an excited imagination. But in this vision, the knowledge that he could wake up at any moment if he wanted, was totally absent.

Trying to meet Artyom's gaze - even though he had the impression that Hunter couldn't actually see him and was blindly undertaking his task, the hunter slowly and gravely says, 'The time has come. You have to do what you promised me. You have to do it. Remember - this is not a dream! This is not a dream!'

Artyom opened his eyes wide. And again in his head, he heard with horrifying clarity the gruff voice saying, 'This is not a dream!'

'This is not a dream,' Artyom repeated. The details of the nightmare about the worms and the train were quickly wiped from his memory, but Artyom could remember the second vision perfectly in all its detail. Hunter's strange clothes, the mysterious empty white room and the words: 'You have to do what you promised me!' He couldn't get them out of his mind.

His stepfather came in and worriedly asked Artyom, 'Tell me, did you see Hunter after our meeting together? It's becoming evening already and he has gone missing, and his tent is empty. Did he leave? Did he tell you anything yesterday about his plans?'

'No, Uncle Sasha, he was just asking about the conditions at the station and about what was going on,' Artyom lied conscientiously.

'I'm afraid for him. That he's done something silly at his own expense and to our general harm.' Sukhoi was clearly upset. 'He doesn't know who he's been dealing with . . . Eh! What, you're not working today?

'Me and Zhenya signed up to join the caravan to Rizhskaya today, to help them get across, and we'll start unwinding the cable from there,' Artyom replied, suddenly realizing that he'd just decided to go. At that thought something broke inside him, he felt a strange lightening and also some kind of inner emptiness, like someone had taken a tumour out of his chest, which had been burdening his heart and interfering with his breathing.