Metro 2033 Part 17

Artyom rubbed the back of his neck, which was still marred by a red welt, and coughed. He couldn't agree with that last comment.

'Some people are convinced that political organizations will get rid of mankind's problems. People who believe that deny the Kingdom of G.o.d. But only the Kingdom of Jehovah will solve the problems of mankind. And now I shall tell you, o my brothers, why you must resist the Devil. In order to make you repudiate Jehovah, Satan may resort to persecutions and actions against you. Some of your near and dear ones may become angry with you for studying the Bible. Others might start mocking you. But to whom do you owe your life?!' asked the elder, and notes of iron rang out in his voice. 'Satan wants to frighten you! So that you'll stop finding out about Jehovah! Don't let him do it! Get! The upper hand! Against Satan!' John's voice crashed like rumbling thunder. 'By resisting the Devil, you will prove to Jehovah that you are in favour of his dominion!'

The crowd roared in ecstasy.

With a wave of his hand, Elder John quelled the general hysteria, in order to end the meeting with a final, fifth lesson.

'What did G.o.d intend for the earth?' He turned to the audience, spreading his arms. 'Jehovah created the earth, so that people would live there happily, forever. He wanted a righteous and joyful mankind to inhabit the earth. The earth shall never be destroyed. It shall exist for all eternity!'

Unable to contain himself, Artyom snorted. Angry looks shot in his direction, and Brother Timothy raised a threatening finger.

'The first human beings, Adam and Eve, sinned, deliberately violating G.o.d's law,' continued the orator. 'Therefore Jehovah expelled them from paradise, and paradise was lost. But Jehovah did not forget the purpose for which he had created the earth. He promised to transform it into a paradise, in which people would live forever. How did G.o.d fulfil his plan?' The elder posed the question to himself.

A lengthy pause indicated that the key moment of the sermon was about to arrive. Artyom was all ears.

'Before the earth could become a paradise, the evil people would have to be eliminated.' John p.r.o.nounced the words forebodingly. 'It was promised to our forefathers that a cleansing would take place through Armageddon - a divine war for the annihilation of evil. And then Satan would be enfettered for a thousand years. There would be n.o.body left to harm the earth. Only G.o.d's people would remain alive! And King Jesus Christ will rule the earth for a thousand years!' The elder turned his burning gaze to the front ranks of the people who were taking in his words. 'Do you understand what this means? The divine war for the annihilation of evil has already ended! What happened to this sinful earth was Armageddon! Evil was incinerated! According to what was prophesied, only G.o.d's people would survive. We who live in the metro are the people of G.o.d! We survived Armageddon! The Kingdom of G.o.d is at hand! Soon there will be neither old age, nor illness, nor death! The sick shall be freed of their ailments, and the old shall become young again! In the thousand-year reign of Jesus, the people who are faithful to G.o.d shall turn the earth into a paradise, and G.o.d shall resurrect millions of the dead!'

Artyom recalled Sukhoi's conversation with Hunter about how the level of radiation on the surface would not drop for at least fifty years, and that mankind was doomed, and other biological species were on the rise . . . The elder did not explain exactly how the surface of the earth would turn into a flowering paradise.

Artyom wanted to ask him what weird kind of plants were going to bloom in that burned-out paradise, and what kind of people would dare to go up above and settle it, and if his parents had been children of Satan, and if that were why they had perished in the war to annihilate evil. But he didn't say anything. He was filled with such bitterness and such mistrust, that his eyes burned, and he was ashamed to feel a tear run down his cheek. Mustering his strength, he said just one thing: 'Tell me, what does Jehovah, our true G.o.d, say about headless mutants?' The question hung in the air. Elder John did not deign even to glance at Artyom, but those standing next to him looked around with fright and repulsion, and they moved away from him, as if he had let out a foul smell. Brother Timothy tried to take him by the hand, but Artyom tore away and, pushing aside the brethren who were crowded around, began to make his way to the exit.

He made it out of the Hall of the Kingdom and went through the dining carriage. There were a lot of people at the tables now, with empty aluminium bowls in front of them. Something interesting was going on in the middle of the room, and all eyes were turned in that direction.

'Before we partake of this repast, my brethren,' a skinny, homely fellow with a crooked nose was saying, 'let us listen to little David and his story. This will fill out the sermon we heard today about violence.'

He moved aside, his place being taken by a chubby, snub-nosed boy with carefully combed, whitish hair.

'He was mad at me and wanted to give me a drubbing,' David began, speaking with the intonation children use when reciting verses they have learned by heart. 'Probably only because I was short. I backed away from him and cried out: "Stop! Wait! Don't beat me! I haven't done anything to you. What did I do to offend you? You'd better tell me what happened!" ' A well-rehea.r.s.ed expression of exaltation came over David's face.

'And what did that awful bully say to you?' the skinny fellow jumped in excitedly.

'It turned out that somebody had stolen his breakfast, and he was only taking out his annoyance on the first person he ran into,' David explained, but something in his voice made it seem doubtful that he himself understood very well what he had just said.

'And what did you do?' asked the thin man, stoking the tension.

'I just said to him, "If you beat me, it won't bring your breakfast back," and I suggested to him instead, to go to Brother Chef and tell him what had happened. We asked for another breakfast for him. After that he shook my hand and was always friendly to me.'

'Is the man who offended little David present in this room?' asked the skinny fellow in the voice of a prosecutor.

A hand shot up, and a strapping twenty-year-old with a doltish and malevolent-looking face began to make his way toward the improvised stage, to tell about the miraculous effect of little David's words upon him. It wasn't easy. The boy was obviously more adept at memorizing words whose meaning he didn't understand. When the presentation was over, and little David and the repentant thug left the stage to the approving sound of applause, the stringy fellow took their place again and addressed the seated audience in an impa.s.sioned voice: 'Yes, the words of the meek possess enormous power! As it says in Proverbs, the words of the meek break bones. Softness and meekness are not weakness, o my beloved brethren, for softness conceals an enormous strength of will! And examples from the Holy Bible give us proof . . .' Flipping through the well-thumbed book for the page he wanted, he began to read aloud some story, in tones of rapture.

Artyom moved ahead, followed by surprised looks, and finally made it into the lead car. n.o.body stopped him there, and he was about to go out onto the tracks, but Bashni the senior guard, that amiable and unflappable hulk of a man, greeted him cordially at the door, now blocking the way with his torso and, knitting his thick brows, sternly asked if Artyom had permission to exit. There was no way to get around him.

Waiting half a minute for an explanation, the guard kneaded his enormous fists with a dry crackle, and moved towards Artyom. Looking around in all directions, trapped, Artyom remembered little David's story. Maybe, instead of hurling himself against the elephantine guard, it would be worth finding out if maybe somebody stole his breakfast.

Fortunately, just then Brother Timothy caught up with him. Looking at the security man tenderly, he said, 'This young man may pa.s.s. We don't hold anybody here against their will.' The guard, looking at him in surprise, obediently stepped aside.

'But allow me to accompany you even just a little way, o my beloved Brother Artyom,' Brother Timothy sang out, and Artyom, unable to resist the magic of his voice, nodded. 'Perhaps the way we live here was something unaccustomed for you, the first time,' Timothy said in soothing tones, 'but now the divine seed has been implanted in you as well, and it is clear to my eyes, that it has fallen into favoured soil. I only want to tell you how you should not act, now that the Kingdom of G.o.d is near as never before, lest you be turned away. You must learn to hate evil and to avoid the things which G.o.d abhors: fornication, which means infidelity, sodomy, incest and h.o.m.os.e.xuality, gambling, lying, thievery, fits of rage, violence, sorcery, spiritualism, drunkenness.' Brother Timothy reeled them off in a rush of words, nervously looking Artyom in the eye. 'If you love G.o.d and wish to please Him, free yourself from those sins! Your more mature friends will be able to help you,' he added, evidently alluding to himself. 'Honour the name of G.o.d, preach the Kingdom of G.o.d, take no part in the affairs of this evil world, abjure people who tell you otherwise, for Satan speaks through their mouths,' he muttered, but Artyom didn't hear anything. He was walking faster and faster, and Brother Timothy couldn't keep up. 'Tell me, where shall I be able to find you next time?' he called out from quite a distance, panting, and almost lost in the semi-darkness.

Artyom remained silent, and broke into a run. From behind, out of the darkness, a desperate cry reached him: 'Give the ca.s.sock back . . . !'

Artyom ran on ahead, stumbling, unable to see anything in front of him. Several times he fell down, sc.r.a.ping his palms on the concrete floor and skinning his knees, but there was no stopping. He had too clear an image of the black pedestal-mounted machine gun, and now he didn't much believe that the brethren would prefer a meek word to violence, if they could catch up to him.

He was a step nearer to his goal, being not far away at all from Polis. It was on the same line, and only two stations away. The main thing was to go forward, not deviating one step from his route, and then . . .

Artyom entered Serp.h.u.khovskaya Serp.h.u.khovskaya. He didn't pause for a second, only checked his direction, and then dived back into the black hole of the tunnel leading ahead.

But, at this point, something unexpected happened to him.

The feeling of terror of the tunnel, which he had already forgotten, came crashing back down upon him, pressing him to the ground, making it difficult for him to walk, or think, or even breathe. It had seemed to him that, by now, he had formed some habits, and that, after all his wanderings, the horror would leave him and would not dare to bother him again. He had felt neither fear nor alarm when moving from Kitai Gorod to Pushkinskaya, nor when riding from Tverskaya to Paveletskaya, nor even as he trudged, completely alone, from Paveletskaya to Dobryninskaya. But now it had returned.

With each step forward, the feeling a.s.sailed him more and more. He wanted to turn around immediately and plunge headlong back to the station, where there was at least a little bit of light, and some people, and where his back would not be constantly tickled by the sensation of an intent and malevolent gaze.

He had been interacting with people so much, that he had stopped feeling what had rushed over him when he first left Alekseevskaya. But now, once again, he was engulfed by the understanding that the metro was not merely a transportation facility, built at a certain point in time, that it was not merely an atomic bomb shelter, or home to some tens of thousands of people . . . Rather, somebody had breathed into it their own, mysterious, incomparable life, and it possessed a certain extraordinary kind of reason, which a human being could not fathom, and a consciousness that was alien to him.

This sensation was so precise and clear, that it seemed to Artyom as if the terror of the tunnel, which people wrongly took to be their ultimate place of refuge, were simply the hostility of this huge being towards the petty creatures who were burrowing into its body. And now, it did not want Artyom to go forward. Against his drive to reach the end of his path, to reach his goal, it was pitting its ancient, powerful will. And its resistance was growing, with every metre Artyom advanced.

Now he was walking through impenetrable darkness, unable to see his own hands, even if he lifted them right up to his face. It was as if he had fallen out of s.p.a.ce and out of the currents of time, and it seemed to him as if his body had ceased to exist. It was as if he were not stepping his way through the tunnel, but soaring as a substance of pure reason in an unknown dimension.

Artyom could not see the walls receding behind him, so it appeared as if he were standing still, not moving forward a single step, and that the goal of his journey were just as unattainable as it had been five or ten minutes earlier. Yes, his feet were picking their way through the cross-ties, which could have told him that he was changing his spatial position. On the other hand, the signal which advised his brain of each new cross-tie, onto which his foot stepped, was absolutely uniform. Recorded once and for all, now it was repeating to infinity. That also made him doubt the reality of his motion. Was he nearing his goal by moving? Suddenly he remembered his vision, which provided an answer to the question tormenting him.

And then, whether from terror of the unknown, evil, hostile thing that was bearing down on him from behind, or in order to prove to himself that he really was still moving, Artyom rushed ahead with triple the force. And he barely managed to stop, guessing by some sixth sense that an obstacle lay ahead, and miraculously he avoided crashing into it.

Carefully probing with his hands along the cold, rusted metal, and then fragments of gla.s.s sticking out from rubber gaskets, and steel pancakes which were wheels, he recognized that the mysterious obstacle was a train. This train had been abandoned, apparently. In any case, there was only silence around it. Remembering Mikhail Porfiryevich's horrible story, Artyom made no attempt to climb into it, but rather skirted the chain of subway cars, keeping close to the tunnel wall. Getting past the train at last, he breathed a sigh of relief and hurried onward, again breaking into a run.

In the darkness this was really difficult, but his legs caught on, and he ran, until there appeared ahead, and slightly to one side, the reddish glow of a bonfire.

It brought indescribable relief to know that he was in the real world, and that there were real people nearby. It didn't matter how they would relate to him. They could be murderers or thieves, sectarians or revolutionaries - it didn't matter. The main thing was that they were creatures of flesh and blood, like him. He did not doubt for one second that he would be able to find refuge with these people and to hide from that invisible, huge being which wanted to suffocate him. Or, was he seeking refuge from his own deranged mind?

Such a strange picture came into view that he could not say for certain if he had returned to the real world, or was still roaming the nooks and crannies of his own subconscious.

At Polyanka station, only a single small bonfire was burning, but the absence of any other source of light here made it seem brighter than all the electric lights of Paveletskaya. Two people were sitting by the bonfire, one with his back turned toward Artyom and one facing him, but neither of them noticed or heard him. It was as if they were separated from him by an invisible wall that cut them off from the outside world.

The entire station, insofar as it could be seen by the light of the bonfire, was piled high with an unimaginable variety of junk. The shapes of broken bicycles, automobile tyres, and pieces of furniture and equipment could be made out. There was a mountain of rubbish, out of which the people seated by the fire from time to time pulled a stack of newspapers or books, and threw them into the flames. There was a plaster bust of somebody or other standing right in front of the fire, on the underflooring, and next to it a cat was curled up most comfortably. Not another soul was present.

One of the people seated by the fire was telling the other something, unhurriedly. Drawing close, Artyom began to pick up what was being said.

'There are rumors going around about the University . . . Absolutely false, by the way. These are just echoes of the ancient myth of an Underground City in the Ramenki District. Which was part of Metro-2. But, of course, you can't refute anything with one hundred percent certainty. Here, in general, you can't say anything with one hundred percent certainty. It's an empire of myths and legend. Metro-2 would have been, of course, the chief myth, the golden one, if more people had known about it. Take, for example, even just the belief in the Unseen Watchers!'

Artyom had approached very close, when the person with his back towards him said: 'There's somebody there.'

'Of course there is,' nodded the other.

'You may join us,' said the first, addressing Artyom, but without turning his head towards him. 'In any event, you can't go any farther.'

'Why not?' objected Artyom in some agitation. 'What? Is there somebody there, in that tunnel?'

'No one, of course,' the man patiently explained. 'Who's going to mess around in there? You can't go there now, anyway, I'm telling you. So, sit down.'

'Thank you.' Artyom took a tentative step forward and sank to the floor across from the bust. They were over forty. One was grey-haired, with square gla.s.ses, and the other was thin, with fair hair and a small beard. Both of them were wearing old quilted jackets. They were inhaling smoke through a thin tube rigged up to something like a calabash, from which there issued a head-spinning fragrance.

'What's your name?' asked the fair-haired one.

'Artyom,' the young man replied mechanically, busy with studying these strange people.

'His name is Artyom,' the fair-haired man said to the other.

'Well, that's understood,' he replied.

'I am Yevgeny Dmitrievich. And this is Sergei Andreyevich,' said the fair-haired man.

'We don't have to be so formal, do we?' Sergei Andreyevich said 'Sergei, as you and I have reached this age, we might as well take advantage of it. It's a question of status and all that.'

'OK, and what else?' Sergei Andreyevich then asked Artyom.

The question sounded very odd, as if he were insisting that they continue something that had not ever started, and Artyom was quite perplexed.

'So you're Artyom, but so what? Where do you live, where are you going, what do you believe in, what do you not believe in, who is to blame and what is to be done?' Sergei Andreyevich explained.

'Like it used to be, remember?' Sergei Andreyevich said suddenly, for no apparent reason.

'Oh, yes!' laughed Yevgeny Dmitrievich.

'I live at VDNKh ... VDNKh ... or at least I did live there,' Artyom began reluctantly. or at least I did live there,' Artyom began reluctantly.

'Just like . . . Who put their jackboot on the control panel?' the fair-haired man grinned.

'Yes! Nothing left of America!' Sergei Andreyevich smirked, taking off his gla.s.ses and examining them in the light.

Artyom looked warily at them again. Maybe he should just get out of here, while the going was good. But what they had been talking about before they noticed him, kept him there by the fire.

'And what's this about Metro-2? If you'll excuse me, I overheard a little,' he admitted.

'So, you want to find out the main legend of the metro?' Sergei Andreyevich smiled patronizingly. 'Just what is it you want to know?'

'You were talking about an underground city and about some kind of observers . . .'

'Well, Metro-2 was generally a refuge for the G.o.ds of the Soviet Pantheon during the time of Ragnarok, if the forces of evil were to prevail,' began Yevgeny Dmitrievich, gazing at the ceiling and blowing smoke rings. 'According to the legends, under the city whose dead body lies there, above us, another metro had been built, for the elite. What you see around you is the metro for the common herd. The other one, according to the legends, that's for the shepherds and their dogs. At the very beginning, when the shepherds had not yet lost their power over the herd, they ruled from there; but then their strength gave out, and the sheep ran off. Gates alone were what connected these two worlds, and, if you believe the legends, these were located right where the map is now sliced in two as if by a blood-red scar - on the Sokolinskaya branch, somewhere behind the Sportivnaya. Later something occurred that closed the entrance to Metro-2 forever. Those who lived here lost any knowledge of what had taken place, and the very existence of Metro-2 became somehow mythical and unreal. But,' he pointed upwards, 'despite the fact that the entrance to Metro-2 no longer exists, that does not at all mean that it has ceased to exist. On the contrary, it is all around us. Its tunnels wind around our stations, and its stations could be just a few steps behind our stations' walls. These two structures are inseparable; they are like the circulatory system and lymphatic vessels of one organism. And those who believe that the shepherds could not have abandoned their herd to the mercy of fate, say that they are present, imperceptibly, in our lives, direct us, follow our every step, but do not reveal themselves and do not let their existence be known. And that is the belief in Unseen Watchers.'

The cat, curling up next to the soot-covered bust, raised her head and, opening her enormous, l.u.s.trous green eyes, looked at Artyom with a startlingly clear and intelligent expression. Her stare was nothing like that of an animal, and Artyom could not immediately be sure that someone else was not studying him carefully him through her eyes. But the cat yawned, stretching out her sharp pink tongue, and, burying her muzzle in her bedding, dropped back to sleep, like an illusion that had vanished.

'But why don't they want people to know about them?' Artyom remembered his question.

'There are two reasons for that. First of all, the sheep are guilty of having rejected their shepherds at their moment of weakness. Second, since the Metro-2 was cut off from our world, the shepherds have developed differently from us, and are no longer human, but beings of a higher order, whose logic is incomprehensible to us and whose thoughts are inaccessible. No one knows what they think of our metro, but they could change everything, even return us to our wonderful, lost world, because they have regained their former power. Because we rebelled against them once and betrayed them, they no longer have anything to do with our fate. However the shepherds are everywhere, and our every breath is known to them, every step, every blow - everything that happens in the metro. They only observe for the present. And only when we atone for our dreadful sin will they turn to us with a gracious gaze and extend a hand to us. And then a renaissance will begin. That is those who believe in the Unseen Watchers say.' He fell silent, inhaling the aromatic smoke.

'But how can people atone for their guilt?' Artyom asked.

'n.o.body knows except the Unseen Watchers themselves. Humans don't understand it, because they do not know the dispensation of the Watchers.'

'Then people might never be able to atone for their sin against them?' Artyom was baffled.

'Does that bother you?' Yevgeny Dmitrievich shrugged his shoulders and blew two more big, beautiful smoke rings, one slipping through the second.

There was silence for a time - at first light and limpid, but gradually getting thicker and louder and more palpable. Artyom felt a growing need to break it any way he could, with any senseless phrase, even a meaningless sound. 'And where are you from?' he asked.

'Before, I lived at Smolenskaya, not far from the metro, about five minutes' walk,' Yevgeny Dmitrievich replied and Artyom stared at him in surprise: how could he have lived not far from the metro? He must have meant that he lived not far from a metro station, in a tunnel - right? 'You had to walk past food stalls, we sometimes bought beer there, and there were always prost.i.tutes standing around near the stalls, and the police had . . . uh . . . a headquarters there,' Yevgeny Dmitrievich continued and Artyom had started to realize that he was talking about the old times, about what had gone on before.

'Yeah . . . Me too, I also lived not far from there, at Kalinsky, in a high-rise,' said Sergei Andreyevich. 'Someone told me about five years ago that he'd heard from a stalker that they had crumbled to dust . . . The House of Books is still there and all the cheap paper-backs were sitting on the tables untouched, can you believe it? And all that was left of the high-rise was a pile of dust and blocks of cement. Strange.'

'So what was life like back then?' Artyom was curious. He loved to ask old men this question and they would stop whatever they were doing and describe the old days with such pleasure. Their eyes would a.s.sume a dreamy, distant look; their voices would sound totally different; and their faces looked ten years younger. Images of the past, which were brought to life before their minds' eyes, were nothing like the pictures that Artyom conjured up while they told their stories, but it was nonetheless very enjoyable for all. It was sort of sweet and sort of torturous at the same time and it made the heart ache . . .

'Well, you see, it was a wonderful time. Back then . . . ah . . . we were on fire,' Yevgeny Dmitrievich replied, drawing out his answer.

Here, Artyom definitely did not imagine what the grey-haired man had in mind, and when the other old man realized that, he quickly elucidated.

'We were very lively, we had good times.'

'Yes, that's exactly what I mean. We were on fire,' Yevgeny Dmitrievich confirmed.

'I had a green Moskvich-2141 and I'd spent my whole salary to buy it, to give it a sound system, to change the oil. Once, like a fool, I even had the carburettor replaced with a sports car model and then I used nitrous oxide.' He had clearly transported himself to those good old days, when you could so easily get an old sports car carburettor to put in your car. And his face took on that same dreamy expression that Artyom so loved. It was a shame that Artyom understood little of what he was saying though.

'Artyom probably doesn't even know what a Moskvich is, never mind what a carburettor is.' Sergei Andreyevich interrupted his friend's sweet reminiscences.

'What do you mean he doesn't know?' The thin man threw Artyom an angry look. Artyom took to studying the ceiling, gathering his thoughts.

'So why are you burning books?' He changed the subject as a counteroffensive tactic.

'We've already read 'em,' Yevgeny Dmitrievich responded.

'There's no truth in books!' Sergei Andreyevich added in explanation.

'Anyway, perhaps you should tell us something about how you're dressed - are you a member of a cult or what?' Yevgeny Dmitrievich delivered a decisive blow.

'No, no, of course not,' Artyom hurried to explain. 'But they did pick me up and help me when I was in trouble.' He explained in broad strokes in what poor shape he'd been but didn't go as far as explaining quite how bad it was.

'Yes, yes, that's exactly how they work. I recognize the tactics. Orphaned and wretched . . . ah . . . or something in that vein,' nodded Yevgeny Dmitrievich.

'You know, I was at one of their meetings, and they say very strange things,' said Artyom. 'I stood around for a while and listened, but couldn't stand it very long. For example, that Satan's princ.i.p.al wickedness was that he wanted glory and adoration for himself, too . . . Before, I thought it had been a lot more serious, but it just turned out to be jealousy. Is the world really so simple, and does everything revolve around the fact that someone didn't want to share glory and worshippers?'

'The world is not that simple,' Sergei Andreyevich a.s.sured him, taking the hookah from the fair-haired smoker and inhaling.

'And one more thing . . . They say that G.o.d's princ.i.p.al qualities are his mercy, kindness, and willingness to forgive, and that he's a G.o.d of love, and that he's all-powerful. At the same time, the first time man disobeyed Him, he was kicked out of paradise and made mortal. So then a whole lot of people die - not scary - and in the end, G.o.d sends His son to save everyone. And then His son dies a horrible death, and calls out to G.o.d before he dies, asking why G.o.d had forsaken him. And all this is for what? To purge, with his blood, the sin of the first human, who G.o.d had Himself provoked and punished, and so that people could return to paradise and again discover immortality. It's some kind of pointless baloney, because He could have just not punished everyone so severely to begin with for stuff they didn't do. Or he could have discontinued the punishment because the offence had taken place so long ago. But why sacrifice your beloved son, and even betray him? What kind of love is that? What kind of willingness to forgive? Where's the omnipotence?'

'Roughly and bluntly stated, but correct, in general terms,' said Sergei Andreyevich approvingly, pa.s.sing the hookah to his companion.

'Here's what I can say on the subject,' said Yevgeny Dmitrievich, filling his lungs with smoke and smiling blithely. He paused for a minute, and then continued, 'So, if their G.o.d indeed has some qualities or distinguishing aspects, they certainly don't include love, or justice, or forgiveness. Judging from what's happened on earth from the time it was . . . uh . . . created, only one kind of love has been unique to G.o.d: He loves interesting stories. First He sets up an interesting situation and then He stands back to see what happens. If the result is a little flat, He adds a little pepper. So old man Shakespeare was right, all the world's a stage. Just not the one he was hinting at,' he concluded.

'This morning alone, you've talked your way into several centuries in h.e.l.l,' observed Sergei Andreyevich.