Artyom quickly looked over at the others. They were all moving rhythmically and silently. The commander had stopped talking to Kirill, Zhenya was thinking about something, and the man at the back was calmly looking forward, having stopped his nervous backward glancing. They didn't hear anything. Nothing! Artyom became scared. The calm and silence of the group became even more noticeable against the background of this whispering, which was getting louder and louder - and it was incomprehensible and frightening. Artyom stopped working the lever and stood up to his full height. Zhenya looked at him in surprise. Zhenya's eyes were clear with no trace of the drugs that Artyom was afraid he might find there.

'What are you doing?' Zhenya asked, annoyed. 'Are you tired or something? You should have said so and not just stopped like that.'

'You don't hear anything?' Artyom asked in bewilderment, and something in his voice made Zhenya's face change expression.

Zhenya listened harder without ceasing to work the lever. The cart, however, was going slower and slower, because Artyom was still standing there with a confused look, catching the echoes of the mysterious noise.

The commander noticed this and turned around.: 'What's wrong with you? Have your batteries run out?'

'You don't hear anything?' Artyom asked him.

And at that moment a foul sensation crept into his soul, that maybe there was no noise and that's why no one heard it. He was just going mad, he was imagining it out of fear . . .

The commander gave the signal to stop so that the squeaking of the cart wouldn't interfere and the grumble of boots would die away. His hands crept up onto his machine gun and he stood motionless and tense, listening, and turning one ear to the tunnel.

The strange noise was right there now, Artyom could hear it distinctly, and the clearer the sound became the more attentively Artyom peered at the commander's face, trying to make out if he could also hear what was filling Artyom's consciousness with ever-strengthening agitation. But the features of the commander's face gradually smoothed out, and Artyom was overcome with a sense of shame. Moreover, he had stopped the group for nothing and had freaked out and alarmed the others as well.

Zhenya, clearly, couldn't hear anything either even though he was trying. Having given up his work at last, he looked at Artyom with spiteful mockery, looking him in the eye, and asked: 'Hallucinations?'

'f.u.c.k off!' Artyom unexpectedly shouted with irritation. 'What, are you all deaf or something?'

'Hallucinations!' Zhenya concluded.

'Quiet. There's nothing. You just thought you heard it probably. Don't worry, it happens, don't get tense, Artyom. Go ahead and start up again and we'll go on,' the commander said softly, calming the situation, and walking ahead himself.

Artyom had no other option but to return to his work. He earnestly tried to convince himself that the whisper was only in his imagination, that it was just tension. He tried to relax and not to think about anything, hoping he could throw the sound out of his head along with his disturbing and rushing thoughts. He managed to stop the thoughts for a time but, in his empty head, the sound grew more resonant, louder and clearer. He gained strength from the fact that they were all moving further to the south, and when the noise had become so great that it seemed to fill the whole metro, Artyom suddenly noticed that Zhenya was working with just one hand, and that, without noticing it, he was rubbing his ears with the other.

'What are you doing?' Artyom whispered to him.

'I don't know . . . they're blocked . . . they're itching . . .' Zhenya mumbled.

'And you don't hear anything?' Artyom asked.

'No, I don't hear a thing - but I feel pressure,' Zhenya whispered in response, and there wasn't a trace of the former irony in his voice.

The sound had reached an apogee and then Artyom understood where it was coming from. It was emanating from one of the pipes that lay along the tunnel walls. It had been used as a communication line and who knows what else. The pipe was burst and the torn black muzzle was emitting this strange noise. It was coming from the depths of the pipe and. as Artyom tried to figure out why there were no wires, nothing, just complete emptiness and blackness, the commander stopped suddenly and said slowly and laboriously, 'Guys, let's . . . here . . . Let's have a break. I don't feel so well. Something in my head.'

He approached the cart with uncertain steps so he could sit on its edge but he hadn't gone a step before he dropped like a bag to the ground. Zhenya looked at him in confusion, rubbing his ears with both hands and not moving from his place. Kirill for some reason had continued walking alone, as though nothing had happened, not reacting to their shouts. The man at the back sat down on the rails and started to cry helplessly like a baby. The light of the flashlight beamed at the tunnel's ceiling and, lit from below, the scene looked even more sinister.

Artyom panicked. Clearly he was the only one whose mind hadn't been dulled by the sound, but the noise was becoming completely intolerable, preventing any concrete thoughts from developing.

Artyom covered his ears in despair and that helped a little. Then with all his might he slapped Zhenya who was rubbing his ears with a silly expression on his face and yelled at him, trying to overcome the noise, forgetting that he was the only one to hear it: 'Pick up the commander! Put the commander in the cart! We can't stay here, no way! We have to get out of here!' And he picked up the fallen flashlight and went after Kirill who was marching like a sleepwalker into the pitch darkness ahead.

Luckily, Kirill was walking rather slowly. In a few bounds, Artyom managed to chase him down and tap him on the shoulder. But Kirill continued walking and they were getting further and further away from the others. Artyom ran ahead of him and, not knowing what to do, he directed the flashlight into Kirill's eyes. They were closed but Kirill suddenly frowned and broke his stride. Then Artyom, holding him with one hand, used the other to lift Kirill's eyelid and shine the light into his pupil. Kirill screamed, began to blink, shook his head and regained consciousness in a fraction of a second and opened his eyes, looking at Artyom in bewilderment. Blinded by the flashlight, he could almost see nothing, and Artyom had to lead him by the hand back to the cart.

The unconscious body of the commander was lying on the cart, and Zhenya sat next to him, with the same stupid expression on his face. Leaving Kirill at the cart, Artyom went to the man at the back who was still sitting there on the rails, crying. Having looked him in the eye, Artyom met a look of total suffering, and the feeling was so sharp that he stepped backwards in fear that he himself might also start crying in the face of this pain.

'They were all killed. . . . And it was so painful!' Artyom made out the words between sobs.

Artyom tried to get the man to stand up but he pulled away and unexpectedly cried out angrily, 'Pigs! Bad people! I won't go anywhere with you, I want to stay here! They are so lonely, and are in so much pain here - and you want to take me away from here? It's all your fault! I won't go anywhere! Anywhere! Let me go, you hear!'

At first Artyom wanted to slap him thinking that that might bring him back to his senses - but then he was afraid that the guy was so excited that he might just retaliate instead. So, Artyom got down on his knees in front of the man and, even though it was difficult since the noise was so loud, he spoke softly: 'Now, you want to help them though, right? You want to stop their suffering?'

Through his tears, the man looked at Artyom and whispered with a frightened smile: 'Of course . . . Of course, I want to help them.'

'Then you have to help me. They want you to help me. Go to the cart and stand at the lever. You have to help me get to the station.'

'They told you so?' the man looked at Artyom disbelievingly.

'Yes,' Artyom replied confidently.

'And then you'll let me go back to them?'

'I give you my word that if you want to go back to them, then I will send you back,' Artyom confirmed and, without giving the man time to think anymore, he pulled him up into the cart.

He left the man on the cart, mechanically obeying Zhenya, and he and Kirill worked the levers, while the unconscious commander lay there in the middle. Meanwhile, Artyom took the forward position and aimed his machine gun into the darkness, and walked forward with quick steps. He was surprised himself that he could hear the cart following him. Artyom felt that he was doing the unacceptable, having an unprotected rear, but he understood that now the most important thing was to get out of this terrible place as fast as they could.

There were now three of them working the levers and the group was moving faster than before. Artyom felt with some relief that the vicious noise was getting quieter and his sense of being in danger was diminishing. He shouted at the others, telling them to keep up the pace, and suddenly he heard the sober and surprised voice of Zhenya behind him: 'What are you, the commander now?'

Artyom signalled to stop, having understood that they had gone past the dangerous zone, and returned to the group and fell to the ground weakly, leaning his back on the cart. The others slowly came to their senses. The man from the back stopped sobbing and was wiping his face with his hands, looking around in perplexity. The commander started to move and rose with a dull groan, complaining of a headache.

Half an hour later, it was possible to go on. Apart from Artyom, no one remembered anything.

'You know, a heaviness pulled me down so quickly and my head was so fogged up - and then suddenly I was out. I've had it happen once before from a gas attack in another tunnel, far from here. But if it had been gas then it would have had a different effect - on everybody at once, without discriminating . . . And you really heard that sound? Yes, this is all strange . . .' The commander was thinking aloud. 'And Nikita was roaring . . . So, Nikita, who were you crying about?' he asked the rearguard.

'The devil knows . . . I don't remember. That is, I did remember about a minute ago but it's flown out of my head . . . It was like a dream: as soon as you wake up, you remember everything and the picture is so clear in your mind. But after a few minutes you regain consciousness a little - and it's all gone, empty. Just fragments remain . . . Well, it's the same now. I remember that I was really, really sorry for someone . . . but who, and why - no clue.'

'And you wanted to stay in the tunnel. Forever. With them. I promised you that if you wanted I would let you go back,' said Artyom, with a sidelong glance at Nikita. 'So, there you go, I'll let you go back,' he added and chuckled.

'No thank you,' Nikita responded gloomily, 'I've reconsidered . . .'

'OK, guys. That's enough hanging about. There's nothing here in this tunnel to stick around for. Let's get there first and then we'll talk about it all. We still have to get back home at some point too . . .' Though why plan ahead on a day like this - G.o.d willing they'd just make it to their first destination. 'Let's go!' the commander concluded. 'Listen, Artyom, come and walk with me. You're our hero today,' he added unexpectedly.

Kirill took his place behind the cart, Zhenya despite his protests stayed on the cart with Nikita and they moved forward.

'There was a broken pipe there you say? And your noise was coming from it? You know, Artyom, maybe we blockheads are all deaf and didn't hear a thing. You probably have a special sense for that c.r.a.p. You were lucky on this one, boy!' the commander said. 'Very strange, that it came from a pipe. An empty pipe you say? Who the h.e.l.l knows what goes through them anymore,' he continued, cautiously glancing at the snake-like interlacing pipes along the tunnel walls.

There wasn't much further to go before they'd get to Rizhskaya. A quarter of an hour later, they could see the light of the patrol fire, and the commander slowed his pace and gave the correct signal with his flashlight. They let them through the cordon quickly, without delay, and the cart rolled into the station.

Rizhskaya was in better condition than Alekseevskaya. Sometime a long time ago, there was a big market above ground at this station. Among those who managed to run to the metro and save themselves were a lot of traders from that market. The people at the station ever since the beginning had been enterprising people and its proximity to Prospect Mir and thereby to the Hansa and its main trade routes also gave it a certain prosperity. They had electric light, emergency lights like at VDNKh. VDNKh. Their patrols were dressed in old camouflage, which looked more impressive than the decorated quilted jackets at Alekseevskaya. Their patrols were dressed in old camouflage, which looked more impressive than the decorated quilted jackets at Alekseevskaya.

The inhabitants led the guests to their tent. Now a swift return home was not likely, since it was unclear what this new danger was in the tunnel and how to deal with it. The administration of the station and the commander of the small group from VDNKh VDNKh came together for a meeting, and the rest of them were given some time off. Artyom, tired and overwrought, fell face down onto his cot immediately. He didn't want to sleep but he was out of strength. After a couple of hours, the station had promised to have a feast for their guests and, judging from the winking and whispering of their hosts, it seemed there would probably be some meat to eat. But now there was time to lie down and think about nothing. came together for a meeting, and the rest of them were given some time off. Artyom, tired and overwrought, fell face down onto his cot immediately. He didn't want to sleep but he was out of strength. After a couple of hours, the station had promised to have a feast for their guests and, judging from the winking and whispering of their hosts, it seemed there would probably be some meat to eat. But now there was time to lie down and think about nothing.

Noise started up beyond the walls of the tent. The feast was being prepared right in the middle of the platform, where the main campfire was. Artyom couldn't resist and looked outside. Several people were cleaning the floor and laying out a tarpaulin, and a little further away they were carving up a pig, cutting it into pieces and sliding them onto steel wire to string them over the fire. The walls of the station were unusual: not marble like at VDNKh VDNKh and Alekseevskaya but lined with yellow and red tile. This combination must have looked pretty cheerful at one time. Now, the glazed tile and plastering were covered with a layer of soot and grease - but some of the old feeling of it was preserved. But the most important thing was that at the other end of the station, half buried in the tunnel, was a real train - though its windows were blown in and its doors were open. and Alekseevskaya but lined with yellow and red tile. This combination must have looked pretty cheerful at one time. Now, the glazed tile and plastering were covered with a layer of soot and grease - but some of the old feeling of it was preserved. But the most important thing was that at the other end of the station, half buried in the tunnel, was a real train - though its windows were blown in and its doors were open.

You didn't find trains in every pa.s.sage or station by any means. Over the last two decades many of them, especially the ones that had got stuck in the tunnels and were unsuitable for living inside, were gradually pulled apart by people who used the wheels, the gla.s.s and the outer material of the train to make things at their own stations. Artyom's stepfather told him that at Hansa one of the pa.s.sages was cleared of trains so that pa.s.senger trolleys could move between points easily. Also, according to rumour, they were pushed into the Red Line. And in the tunnel that went from VDNKh VDNKh to Prospect Mir, there wasn't a wagon left, but that was probably just accidental. to Prospect Mir, there wasn't a wagon left, but that was probably just accidental.

Locals were slowly gathering, and a sleepy-faced Zhenya crawled out of the tent. Half an hour later the local leadership came out with Artyom's commander, and the first pieces of meat were put on the fire. The commander and the station's government were smiling and joking around a lot, seemingly satisfied with the results of their discussions. They brought a bottle of some kind of home-made liquor, there were toasts and everyone was very merry. Artyom gnawed on his meat and licked the dripping hot grease off his hands, looking at the glowing coals, the heat of which brought on an inexplicable feeling of cosiness and peace.

'Was it you that dragged them out of the trap?' said an unfamiliar guy who was sitting nearby and had been looking at Artyom for the last several minutes.

'Who told you that?' Artyom replied to his question with a question, looking at the man. He had a short hair cut, he was unshaven, and under his rough and tough leather coat you could see a soft vest. Artyom could see nothing suspicious about him: his interlocutor looked like a normal trader, the kind that you find at Rizhskaya, a dime a dozen.

'Who? Yeah, it was your brigadier said something.' He nodded at someone sitting a little way away and talking animatedly with the commander's new companions.

'Well, yeah it was me,' Artyom reluctantly admitted. And even though he'd been planning to make a couple of useful acquaintances at Rizhskaya, now that he was faced with an excellent opportunity, he suddenly didn't feel much like it.

'I'm Bourbon. What's your name?' the guy said.

'Bourbon?' Artyom was surprised. 'Why is that? Wasn't there a king of that name?'

'No, my boy. There was a kind of drink called bourbon. A fiery spirit, you see. It would put you in a good mood, so they say. So what IS your name anyway?' The guy was still interested to know.

'Artyom.'

'Listen, Artyom, and when are you going back?' Bourbon seemed insistent, and it made Artyom suspicious.

'I don't know. Now no one will say when we're going back exactly. If you heard what happened to us, sir, then you should understand why,' Artyom answered coolly.

'Listen, I'm not all that much older than you so you can speak with me without the formality . . . Basically, I'm asking you . . . I have something to propose to you, boy. Not for your whole group but for you personally. Me, well, I need your help. You get it? It won't take long . . .'

Artyom didn't get it at all. The guy was talking haltingly, and something in the way he p.r.o.nounced his words made Artyom wince inside. He wanted nothing in the world more than to end this incomprehensible conversation.

'Listen, boy, don't you . . . don't get tense.' Bourbon sensed his feelings of mistrust and sought quickly to disperse them. 'Nothing dodgy, it's all above board . . . Well, almost all. Basically, this is it: the day before yesterday some of our guys went along to Sukharevskaya, and well, you know, they went straight along the line and they never got there. Only one of them came back. And he doesn't remember anything, came running back covered in snot, howling like your brigadier was telling us. The rest didn't come back. Maybe they got out at Sukharevskaya. . . . But maybe they didn't get out at all, because no one has come from Prospect for three days now, and no one wants to go to Prospect either anymore. And well, basically, I think that there's the same c.r.a.p there as what you had. As I was listening to your brigadier, I just . . . I got the idea that it might be the same thing. The line is just the same. And the pipes are the same too.' Then Bourbon quickly looked over his shoulder, to check, probably, that no one was listening to him. 'And that c.r.a.p didn't affect you,' he continued quietly, 'you get it?'

'I'm starting to,' Artyom replied uncertainly.

'Basically, I need to get over there now. I really need to, you see? Really. I don't exactly know what the chances are that I'll lose it, like our boys did, probably like all your guys did. Except you.'

'You . . .' Artyom muttered, 'You want me to take you through the tunnel? To lead you to Sukharevskaya?' Sukharevskaya?'

'Yeah, something like that.' Bourbon nodded in relief. 'I don't know if you heard about it or not but there's a tunnel beyond Sukharevskaya, which, like, is even worse than this one, full of c.r.a.p, and I need to get through that one too. Bad s.h.i.t has happened there to the boys. Everything will be fine, don't worry. If you take me, I'll make it worth your while. I'll need to get further, of course, to the south, but I have there, at Sukharevskaya, some people, who will dust you off and set you on your road back home and all the rest of it.'

Artyom who had wanted to send Bourbon and his proposals to h.e.l.l, understood suddenly that this was his chance to get past the southern gates of Rizhskaya without a fight and without any other problems. And to go even further . . . Bourbon didn't say much about his next moves, but still he'd said he was going through the accursed tunnel between Sukharevskaya and Turgenevskaya. And that was exactly where Artyom needed to get. Turgenevskaya - Trubnaya - Tsvetnoi Bulvap - Chekhovskaya . . . And then it was only a stone's throw to Arbatskaya . . . Polis . . . Polis.

'What're you paying?' Artyom decided to add for the sake of acting normal.

'Whatever you want. Currency, basically,' Bourbon doubtfully looked at Artyom, trying to make out if the guy understood his meaning. 'I mean, like, Kalashnikov cartridges. But if you want, I can get some food, some spirits or weed.' He winked. 'I can also get you that.'

'No, cartridges are fine. Two magazines. And, well, enough food to get there and back. I won't negotiate.' Artyom named his price as confidently as he could, trying to meet the Bourbon's challenging gaze.

'You drive a hard bargain,' Bourbon responded. 'OK. Two horns for the Kalashnikov. And something to eat. OK, fine,' he mumbled, apparently to himself. 'OK, my boy, so how're you doing there anyway? You should go and sleep, and I'll come and get you soon, when all this ruckus calms down. Pack your stuff, you can leave a note if you can write so that they don't arrange a search. . . . So be ready when I come. Got it?'

CHAPTER 5.

In Exchange for Cartridges

He didn't really need to pack his stuff since he hadn't unpacked - there'd been no special reason to do so. The only thing he couldn't work out was how to get his machine gun out of the station so it wouldn't be noticed, so it wouldn't attract attention. They were given bulky military 7.62 calibre machine guns with wooden b.u.t.ts. VDNKh VDNKh always sent their caravans to the nearer stations with these bulky guns. always sent their caravans to the nearer stations with these bulky guns.

Artyom lay there, his head buried in the blanket, not answering Zhenya's puzzled questions: why was he snoozing here when everything was so great at the feast, was he sick or something? It was hot and humid in the tent, and it was worse under the covers. Sleep was a long time coming and, when he finally went out, his dreams were unsettling and muddled, as though he was seeing them through clouded gla.s.s. He was running somewhere, he was talking to some faceless person, and then he was running again . . .

Zhenya woke him up, shaking him by the shoulder and told him in a whisper: 'Listen, Artyom, there's some guy here for you . . . Are you having some trouble?' he asked carefully. 'Why don't I get all the guys up and we'll . . .'

'No, it's fine, he just needs to talk to me. Go to sleep, Zhen. I'll be back in a sec,' Artyom said quietly, pulling on his boots and waiting for Zhenya to go back to sleep. He was carefully dragging his rucksack out of the tent and gathering up his machine gun, when suddenly Zhenya, having heard a metallic clattering, asked again, 'Now what's happening? Are you sure that everything's OK?'

Artyom had to get him off his back by making up a story that he wanted to show the guy a thing or two because they'd argued, but everything would be fine.

'Liar!' Zhenya said pointedly. 'OK, when should I be worried?'

'In a year,' Artyom mumbled, hoping that this was inaudible enough, and he moved the tent flap aside and went out onto the platform.

'Boy, you're slowing us down,' Bourbon said through his teeth. He was dressed as before, only he had a long rucksack on his back. 'f.u.c.k you! Are you planning to drag that big lump across every cordon with you?' he asked disgustedly, pointing at the machine gun. As far as Artyom could tell, Bourbon didn't have a weapon himself.

The light at the station was fading. There was no one on the platform, everyone had gone to sleep, exhausted from the feast. Artyom tried to walk faster, worried all the time that he would b.u.mp into someone from his group, but at the entrance to the tunnel Bourbon trapped him and told him to slow his pace. The patrolmen in the pa.s.sage noticed them and asked them from afar where they were planning to go in the middle of the night, but Bourbon addressed one of them by name and explained that they had some business to attend to.

'Listen, carefully,' he said to Artyom and turning on his flashlight. 'Now, there'll be guards at the hundredth- and two-hundredth metre lines. So you just keep quiet, above all. I will figure it out with them. Shame that you have a Kalash that's as old as my grandma - you won't hide that thing . . . Where'd you dig up such a piece of c.r.a.p?'

Everything went smoothly at the hundredth-metre. There was a small fire dying out, and two people were sitting next to it, dressed in camouflage. One of them was snoozing and the second one shook Bourbon's hand like a friend.

'Business? I seeee . . .' he said with a mischievous smile.

Bourbon didn't say a word before the two hundred and fiftieth metre. He just sullenly marched forward. He seemed sort of angry, and unpleasant, and Artyom was starting to regret that he'd come with him. He stepped away from Bourbon and checked to see that his machine gun was in order, and he put his finger on the trigger.

There was some delay at the last guard post. Bourbon either didn't know them well, or they knew him too well. The main guy took him off to the side, putting his rucksack by the fire, and asked him a lot of questions. Artyom, feeling pretty foolish, stayed by the fire and sparingly answered the questions of the duty officer. They were obviously bored and had nothing better to do. Artyom knew for himself that if the duty officer was chatty then everything was fine at the post. If something strange had happened there recently, if something had crawled out of the depths, or someone had tried to break through from the south, or they'd heard a suspicious sound, then they would be crowding around the fire silently, saying nothing, tense, and they wouldn't take their eyes off the tunnel. It looked as though everything had been quiet, and that they could get at least to Prospect Mir without worrying.

'You're not from around here I guess. From Alekseevskaya or what?' The duty officer was trying to elicit information from Artyom and looking at him right in the face.

Artyom, remembering that Bourbon had ordered him to stay quiet and to talk to no one, muttered something that could have been interpreted in several ways, leaving the guy to his own interpretation. The duty officer, having given up on getting an answer from him, turned to his mate and started discussing a story told by some guy called Mikhail who had been trading at Prospect Mir a few days ago and had had some trouble with the station's administration.

Satisfied that they'd given up on him, Artyom sat at the fire and looked at the southern tunnel through the flames. It looked like the same wide and endless tunnel as they had in the northerly direction at VDNKh VDNKh where Artyom had, not so long ago, sat by a fire at the four hundred and fiftieth metre. where Artyom had, not so long ago, sat by a fire at the four hundred and fiftieth metre.

By the looks of it, it wasn't different at all. But there was something about it - a particular smell, brought up by the tunnel vents, or was it a particular mood, an aura, that belonged only to this tunnel and gave it an individuality, made it dissimilar to all the rest. Artyom remembered his stepfather saying that there weren't two tunnels alike in the metro. Such supersensitivity had developed over many years of trips and not many had it. His stepfather called it 'listening to the tunnel' and he had such a 'sense of hearing' that he was proud of it and often admitted to Artyom that he had survived many adventures thanks to this sense. Many others, despite their many travels in the metro, had no such thing. Some people developed inexplicable fear, some heard sounds, voices, and slowly lost their minds, but everybody agreed on one thing: even when there wasn't a soul in a tunnel, it was still not empty. Something invisible and almost intangible slowly and viscously dripped onto them, filling them with its being, almost like it was the heavy cold blood in the veins of a stone leviathan.

And now the duty officers' conversation was fading into the background as he tried in vain to see something in the darkness that was swiftly thickening about ten paces from the fire. Artyom started to understand what his stepfather meant when he would tell him about the 'feeling of the tunnel.' Artyom knew that beyond that indistinct boundary, marked by the flames of the fire, where crimson light mixed with shivering shadows, there were more people, other people - but in that moment he couldn't quite believe it. It seemed that life stopped ten paces beyond the firelight, and that there was nothing in front of them, only dead, black emptiness, that answered a shout with the deception of a dull echo.

But if you sit for a while, if you plug your ears, if you don't look into the depths of the tunnel like you're looking for something but instead you try to dissolve your gaze in the darkness, and to merge with the tunnel, to become a part of this leviathan, a cell in the organism, then through your fingers, that are closing off the sounds of the external world, past your auditory organs, a thin melody will flow directly into your brain - an unearthly sound from the depths, indistinct and incomprehensible . . . It's nothing like that disturbing, urging noise, spilling out of the broken pipe in the tunnel between Alekseevskaya and Rizhskaya. No, it's something different, something clean and deep . . .

It seemed to him that he could dip into the quiet river of this melody for short spells, and suddenly he would understand the essence of this phenomenon - not using reason but using an intuition that was probably awakened by that noise from the broken pipe. The flowing sounds from that pipe seemed to him the same as ether, slowly extending along the tunnel, but they had been rotting inside the pipe, infected by something, seething nervously, and they broke out where tension in the pipe became too much, and the rotting matter pushed itself out into the world, taking its sorrow with it, imparting nausea and madness to all living beings . . .

Suddenly it seemed to Artyom that he was standing on the threshold of an understanding of something important, as though the last hour he had spent wandering in the pitch-black darkness of the tunnels and in the twilight of his own consciousness had pulled the curtain of this great mystery slightly to the side, separating all rational beings from a knowledge of the true nature of this new world which was gnawed into the earth's bowels by previous generations.